Vicious Prince (Royal Elite #5) by Rina Kent

When I was a kid and couldn’t defend myself, I hid behind Lars. I was always with Lars whenever he came to visit. Lars, who already suspected something, never ever left me alone. He made sure to have me in his sight all the time.

When I grew up, Uncle Eduard kept his hands to himself, as he should’ve, because I told him in no certain terms that I’d beat him the fuck up if he as much as puts his hands on me.

He always brought up my weakness for Mum. Whenever he felt like I would slip and tell Dad about his paedophile activities, Eduard reminded me of how much it would shatter my mum. How much it would make her already fragile mental state worse.

That was and is the only reason Eduard Astor still exists in my life.

I’ve borne the memory all this time. I can carry it until the very end. Mum doesn’t need to know about this, and Dad certainly doesn’t.

He abandoned me that night, and deep down, I never forgave him for it.





I pause after telling Teal the story. I left out the fact that the man who did that to me is my uncle and the part about the bunnies because I don’t want her to be disgusted with me. I don’t want her to think I’m sick for having a fantasy about bunnies when they’re associated with the darkest night of my life.

“That’s why I’m always with people,” I say. “People allow me to think less about myself. When I was a child, I had this idea that having so many people around meant nothing like that would happen to me again, but in order to be with people, I had to be liked by people. That’s the reason behind that image and the parties and the sex. I didn’t shag girls because I wanted to, but because I needed the company. I needed to not sleep alone. I needed to wake up in the morning and find many people in my house because that meant I wasn’t alone and nothing bad would happen to me.”

Two streams of tears fall down Teal’s cheeks. She’s been holding them in for so long while I’ve been telling her that memory, but now, it’s like she has reached the saturation level and can’t keep it in anymore.

“Here’s the thing, belle.” My voice drops. “Since you came into my life, I don’t need people anymore. I just need you.”

I sound like a sappy fuck, but I don’t care. I’m not allowing her to walk away from this. It might have started wrong, but she’s grown to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“How can you make me cry when I can’t cry for myself?” More tears soak her cheeks, but she doesn’t attempt to wipe them, as if it’s freeing in some way.

“We’re so alike.” She sniffles. “It’s scary.”

I smile tentatively. “Does that mean you’ve changed your mind?”

“No, Ronan. It means I need to stay away from you so I don’t destroy us both.”





29





Teal





People say actual craziness isn’t noticeable.

It seeps under the surface and eats at you piece by bloody piece. It creeps up on you like a vampire to blood or a predator to prey.

But I do. I feel it.

I wouldn’t call it craziness, but it’s something abnormal.

It’s what stops me from laughing out of courtesy when everyone else does. They recognise the societal norms; I don’t. Even Knox does. He’s way better at blending in than me, and it’s probably why the therapist liked working with him, but never with me.

I heard her tell Agnus I’m a well. She said there’s a lot of digging that needs to be done, and I’m not allowing her to do that.

I’m an anomaly even with the people who treat crazy, and I’ve always taken pride in that.

I looked in the mirror and liked my scowling face. People react differently to trauma. There are those who lean on their closest family and friends. There are those who fight so they can smile again. And there are those who close in on themselves and eventually spiral out of control.

Then there’s me.

I never spiralled out of control; I didn’t drink, do drugs, or even try weed or smoking. I was always a good girl, but with the worst facial expression.

I didn’t allow myself to smile, and eventually, I didn’t know how to smile. What right did I have to laugh when I never made peace with myself?

What right do I have to exist as if nothing happened?

There’s a girl I left behind, a small child no older than seven who screamed for help and I didn’t hear her — or rather, I couldn’t. That girl, the seven-year-old me, wants retribution.

No — she demands it. And I have to give it to her, even if a sacrifice has to be made.

I walk down the hall to Dad’s office, determination bubbling in my veins.

When Ronan confessed his trauma to me a few days ago, I couldn’t breathe properly.

I still can’t.

Every time I think about him, I have this ball the size of my head clogging my breathing. I can’t stop dreaming about a small child running alone in the streets with no place to go and no one to ask for help.

And then, the face of that child wasn’t Ronan’s. It was mine. It was the girl who stopped smiling because someone confiscated that smile and refused to give it back.

I unlock my phone and stare at the texts he’s sent since that night at the Meet Up.

Ronan: When someone pours their heart out to you, the least you can do is not leave.