Was it even there? Maybe the change was a play of my imagination because of the trigger I just experienced.
My ears still ring from the effect of it, so it can’t be far off.
Still, my chest rises and falls so heavily it’s like a war has already started in my heart and is now about to take me over.
Ronan lowers his hand as if he didn’t just muffle my scream and trigger my damn episode.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap.
“Shh.” He places his forefinger in front of his mouth, motioning at Mrs Abbot, the librarian. “We’re at the library.”
“And what are you doing here?” I whisper.
“Told you.” He gives me back my personal space as if he didn’t confiscate it a second ago. “I want a word with you.”
“And I told you no.” I turn on my heels, breathing heavily and trying to subdue the shadow on my shoulder, trying to keep it from pouncing at me.
I need to get the fuck out of here and take a pill to calm down. Otherwise, I’ll be jittery all damn day.
My episodes have that effect on me.
An arm shoots out in front of my face, and I push back, jolting as it clutches a shelf, blocking my exit.
Damn him.
I can already feel the usual shortness of breath and trembling of my toes. If he keeps doing this, I’ll really have no way to stop whatever’s brewing in the distance.
Might as well get this over with.
“Fine.” I breathe out, meeting his gaze. “What do you want?”
“I’m happy you changed your mind.” He tilts his head with a smile.
Changed my mind? More like was coerced into it.
The fucker.
I still can’t pinpoint if he did it on purpose or if it was a lucky hit. Please let it be the latter, because if it’s the former, I’m in trouble.
The best thing about laying plans is to follow through with them. Everything is a domino; once one falls, the others soon follow.
I’m the only one who can push that first domino. No one will do it for me.
I tap my foot on the ground and whisper due to the library’s strict policies. “I’m waiting, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Oh, I did notice. Doesn’t mean I care. This is about me, not you, ma belle, remember?”
Arrogant prick.
“If there’s a point, you should have reached it by now.” I pretend to stare at my watch. The numbers are there, but for some reason, I can’t seem to read the time. Shit. This one is worse than any of my recent episodes.
“Here’s the thing, ma belle. My father told me I’m getting a fiancée. At first, I was fine since it was Elsa, but apparently, there’s been an internal sister swap as if we’re in medieval times. I know I’m part of old-school aristocracy, but this behaviour is insolent — imagine that in the queen’s tone. Anyway, point is, I don’t want a fiancée. I just turned eighteen and I have this brilliant plan that starts with me staying single for the next fifteen years and shagging exotic girls all around the world. It’s not me, it’s you. Now, do me a favour and fucking disappear, mmkay?” He grins.
“Why would I do that?” I don’t even pause.
“What?”
“Why would I do you any favours? Last time I checked, I owe you nothing.”
He chuckles, the sound low and discreet in the silence of the library. “Is that what you want? To owe me something?”
“That’s beside the point. What I meant is that I have no obligation to do something for you. Not now, not ever.”
“Ma belle, ma belle…” He’s still smiling as he muses. “I call you ma belle, but you keep missing the point entirely.”
His words give me pause. What is that supposed to mean? I resist the urge to ask him just that, and I have a problem with not being direct. It’s as if the words will suffocate me if I don’t speak them. If he meant to rattle me, he’s going to be disappointed, because he won’t be getting a reaction.
He reaches a hand to my lips, the touch soft, almost like a feather. Just when I’m about to push free, he presses on the tender skin and smears my purple lipstick onto my cheek, making my jaw move with the motion. “I think you missed the memo about makeup. It’s supposed to make you prettier, not uglier.”
I’m caught off guard by his brutal touch, and I barely register the softly spoken words. There are so many contradictions in his touch, how he started gently then ended it brutally, how he spoke softly yet lined it with a mean edge.
I snap my head away from his immediate vicinity. His lips curve in a smirk before he quickly masks it with his usual easy-going smile.
What. The. Fuck.
“So, here’s the thing. During tomorrow’s dinner, I want you to sit down like a good little girl and tell everyone you don’t accept this engagement, and then I’ll gift you a new set of purple makeup shit. Deal? Glad to do business with you.”
“If you’re so against marrying me, why don’t you speak up yourself?” I know why, but me getting on his nerves is only fair after the way he not only triggered my anxiety attack, but also gave me the foreboding sensation he’s able to ruin my domino castle.
Ronan Astor is the sole heir of an earl, and he has no way to refuse his father’s wishes. He’s the perfect puppet, someone used for his symmetrical face and playful nature.
He was always meant to have an arranged marriage, and he has no way to refuse it. That would mean disgracing the great Edric Astor’s name, which is something that man will never allow.
Instead of the anger, or at least annoyance, I expected, his grin widens further. “Why would I speak up when I have you to do the dirty work, ma belle?”
I’ll be doing more than your dirty work.
Instead of saying so, I give him a smile that mimics his, but I’m bad at faking this, so I doubt it comes out as anything but a grimace. “And if I say no, your lordship?”
“I’ll give you one piece of advice, just because you’re Elsa and Knox’s sister.”
I don’t get a warning before he grabs me by my nape. His hand covers the tiny space, shocking my skin as it wraps around my neck from behind.
The scent of something spicy fills my nostrils as he leans in to whisper against the lobe of my ear. “Run, ma belle.”
3
Ronan
Being me is easy.
There are a few recipes for success.
One, always smile.
And that’s it. You don’t need anything else. There’s some philosopher who said that people lose their fight, their anger, and even feel humiliated when you counter their maliciousness with a smile.
Though I suspect he meant it as in, Try to be good people, kids. I must’ve missed that part somehow in my philosophical journey, which is basically listening to Cole spout nonsense about the latest book he’s read.
Why waste your life reading books when you can live it? When you can breathe it into your lungs and exhale it back to the world?
While nerds like Cole drown in books, I’m giving authors inspiration and writing material. My life is the best form of storytelling to ever exist.
Don’t thank me yet.
I yawn as I stumble from the bed and to a robotic standing position. The first weird thing I notice is the absence of meat. I mean, girls. You know, their limbs are usually draped around me in pairs of three or four — I don’t have a limit.
Today, no one is in my bed.
Surely I didn’t smoke enough weed to imagine an entire fun night, right? Fuck, if I did, I need more of that shit the Liverpudlian sold me.
I stagger to the bathroom and have a quick shower. That’s not enough to wake me up, so I stand at the sink and splash water on my face. When I lift my head, my expression greets me in the mirror.
They say you know how you feel about yourself by the way you react to the reflection of your face. If you scowl, you’re not happy. If you grimace, you have confidence issues.
My face moves into an automatic smile. Fucking liars. There are other types of people, like me. Try finding a category for me, fuckers.
I brush my teeth and pay a morning tribute to Ron Astor the Second. Yes, that’s my dick’s name, and yes, I always need to give him the morning routine. Usually, there’s a girl’s mouth willing to ease him into the day, but today he had to restart his affair with my hand.
Seriously, though. Was last night real, or do I need more weed?
I step back into my room to find Lars smoothing my pressed uniform on the made-up bed. I swear he has supersonic speed. When the hell did he even make the bed?
The room is all bright and shiny and smells of some lavender shit. We’re only missing unicorns for the picture-perfect period drama.
“Morning, Lars.” I head to my closet. “Today, we have dinner. No uniform.”
“You said to remind you to wear the uniform so his lordship and her ladyship don’t suspect you skipped school.” He speaks in a professional old BBC-like tone. He watches Downton Abbey a lot and takes this whole thing way too seriously. I even suspect he has a little black book with notes tucked somewhere.
Lars is in his late forties with a tall, slim build. He’s wearing a black butler’s tux with the bowtie and the white gloves. Since he’s the head butler, he makes everyone dress like him, and he’s a Nazi about it.
His blue eyes might appear polite, but he’ll judge you with them all the way to infinity if you don’t stick out your pinkie while drinking the tea he brings.
I snap my fingers at him. “Thank you for reminding me of my genius thoughts, Lars.”
“Any time, sir.”
“Father and Mother aren’t here — forget the sir.”
“Yes, young lord.”
“You’re not funny, Lars.”
His face remains stoic — snobbish, actually, which is his default. You never know if he’s judging or teasing, like he did just now.
I pull the trousers up my legs then my memory filters back in.
Fuck.
Mum and Dad are returning today. That’s why the girls disappeared and…
The party.
“Is everything in order?” I ask Lars, looking at him out of the corner of my eye.
“Just like this room.”
“Perfect. You’re the best, Lars.” Not only because he covers up for me, but because he does a brilliant job at it too.
He doesn’t want my parents to be disappointed in me, so he and I struck a deal as soon as I took a special interest in partying.
“I know I am,” he says with a cool expression.
“I’m taking it back.”