Page 52 of American Royals
“You think I don’t want this too?” Connor’s voice was ragged. “God, Bee, it’s all I’ve thought about for the better part of a year! So many times I’ve marched up to my commanding officer, to tell him that I need to be reassigned, because I care about my charge too much. Because it’s a torment, being around you when I can’t be with you. But then, every single time, I turned away at the last minute.”
He was still so close, his mouth dangerously near hers. “Apparently I would rather be around you like this, would rather chaperone your dates with Lord Theodore Eaton, than say goodbye to you forever.” He gave his head a bitter shake. “Clearly I have a bit of a weak spot when it comes to you.”
Beatrice’s heart seized and skittered in her chest. “You think this has been any easier on me?”
“Easy enough, given that you’ve been going out with Teddy Eaton!”
“I told you, there are no real feelings between us! I’m only dating him because my parents asked me to!”
This time, Connor finally seemed to register her words. His blue-gray eyes were veiled.
“This is still impossible,” he insisted, his fists clenched at his sides. “Beatrice, you are completely off-limits to someone like me. I work for your father. I’m your Guard. I swore a sacred, unbreakable oath that I would protect and serve the Crown to my dying breath.”
“I know.” She, too, was bound by a sacred oath.
“Your family would never allow it,” he added. As if she needed another reminder.
It struck Beatrice that none of them were the masters of their own fates. Not Connor or Teddy and especially not her. Any decisions she had made in her life were an illusion—the choice of what gown to wear, what charity to sponsor—a selection between two equally limited options.
She had never, ever chosen for herself before. Not when it came to anything that mattered.
“Let’s just put all this behind us,” Connor said, very formally. “As soon as we get back to the capital, I’ll request my reassignment.”
“No.”
Beatrice was surprised by the vehemence of her own response.
“You can’t leave,” she said hoarsely. “Please, Connor. You have no idea how important you are to me. You’re the only one in my life who makes me feel like a real person.”
At his confused look, she fumbled for the words to explain. “Until I met you, I never knew what it felt like, for someone to look at me because of who I am, not what I am. I can’t bear to lose you,” she said baldly.
Connor swallowed. “I would never do anything to hurt you. But, Beatrice, I can’t promise that you won’t come to any harm. That you won’t get hurt, if you get involved with me.”
“I’m already hurt.” She felt tears pricking at her eyes. “I never get to make my own choices. I have always put my family first—my country first—and it costs me, every single day of my life. But losing you … that’s not a cost I’m willing to pay.”
Connor brushed back a loose strand of her hair. Before he could lower his hand, Beatrice had reached up to cover it, cupping his fingers around her cheek. His skin felt rough and callused.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said again.
“We aren’t doing anything yet.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “If you’re going to break the rules, Connor, then go ahead and break them.”
He gave a familiar half smile at her words, then bent down to claim her mouth with his own.
Beatrice rose on tiptoe, her lips parted. Connor’s hands slid from her face to settle gently around her waist. She tipped back against the stone island in the center of the kitchen, and Connor leaned forward in response, the warmth of him settling against her. He kissed her slowly, with a hushed sense of wonder that bordered on awe. As if he didn’t fully believe this was happening either.
Kissing Connor felt terrifying and familiar all at once, like returning home after a lifetime of being lost.
At some point the stone counter was digging into her hips, and Beatrice shifted. Connor seemed to take that as a signal to pause. “We should probably … um …,” he said, in a questioning tone.
Beatrice’s eyes darted instinctively toward the couch. No way was she ready to take this into the bedroom.
Seeing that look, and knowing what it meant, Connor turned off the stovetop—at least one of them was remembering not to burn this place down—and scooped Beatrice into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all. He carried her toward the couch and set her delicately back on the cushions, never breaking the kiss the entire time.
Outside, the snow tumbled ever faster toward the ground; a fringe of icicles hung along the top of the windowsill. Beatrice felt like she had stepped inside a snow globe that someone had shaken. She prayed that the little white flakes never settled, that she could stay here forever, outside time itself.
“I’m scared.” Connor whispered it so softly that she thought she’d misheard.
“You? I thought you were too arrogant to be scared.”
