My Forbidden Royal Fling by Clare Connelly

CHAPTER SEVEN

MYPARENTSWERE close to my uncle Richard. They adored him. My father’s younger brother, he’d had all the advantages of royal life and none of the pressure and expectations that had weighed down my father and which had ensured he was sensible in his life choices.

My uncle had been free to do as he wished, largely left alone by the media. My father told me, when I was only small that at one time he’d envied his brother that freedom. He’d wished he’d been born second, able to live without the scrutiny and watchfulness of the world. And, while I can understand that sentiment, it was not borne out by history.

Uncle Richard had grown up without expectations and therefore he’d never striven to meet them. And, worse, he had everything he could ever want in life, so even the basic pleasure of aspiring to achievement had been denied him. What could he do that would make a difference to anyone?

His gambling addiction had grabbed hold of him before anyone had known—the amount of money he’d lost eye-watering. I wake with my uncle in my mind and the sting of tears in my eyes, a sense of betrayal tightening around my chest.

How can I be making this deal? How can I be sleeping with the man who wants to bring a casino to my country?

It takes me a second to realise that I didn’t wake up by chance. There is knocking at the door. I push the covers back, my heart racing in the hope it’s Santiago. I wrap a silken robe around my body—yes, I slept naked—and pull the door inward.

A hotel staff member stands there, one of my guards at his side.

‘Room service,’ he offers in accented Spanish.

‘Oh.’ I take a step back, gesturing towards the marble-topped dining table. ‘Thank you.’

It takes him a moment to wheel the trolley into position, placing it beside the table, then unstacking plate after plate of food, each covered in a golden lid. My attention drifts to the sunlit vista beyond the window, the sheer size of Barcelona fascinating me and giving me a desire to explore. In the distance, the sea glistens with shades of turquoise and aqua, so beautiful, particularly on a clear, sunny day like this. Impatience bursts through me. Impatience to be alone and free.

It’s the first time in my life I’ve felt like this.

I nod as the waiter leaves, waiting until the door is closed to begin lifting lids off the platters. Fruit, Danish pastries, and an omelette filled with smoked salmon and drizzled with hollandaise sauce, as well as hash browns and sausages. It’s too much food. There are two plates left to uncover. I pull the lid off one, frowning as I reach for what’s beneath. Definitely not food. My fingers run over something soft and brown. Closer inspection reveals a chic wig. Beneath it is a brightly coloured scrap of fabric—a bikini.

Heat flushes my cheeks as I open the final lid to find a note from Santiago.

Meet me at the marina at midday. Wear the disguise. Bring the swimmers.

I stare at the bikini with a thudding heart. It’s turquoise in colour and, so far as bikinis go, not too revealing. But the idea of wearing something like this...

I quickly shove it back onto the plate and replace the lid. I’m ravenous after last night—we ate only oysters and expended a lot of energy—and eat my way through the fruit and omelette, sipping orange juice and coffee, before tackling a Danish for good measure.

When I travel on official trips, my schedule is usually packed from morning to night. What a strange and pleasurable change this makes. I have nothing on the horizon, the day is my own. Or perhaps it’s Santiago’s...

Once more my eyes find the sea and something like excitement lifts my heart. For three days, I’ve escaped my normal life—no press, no intrusions, no pressure. I can do what I want, so long as no one finds out...

The car brings me to the biggest boat in the marina—naturally—a white yacht the size of several houses with tinted windows and several decks. I stare up at it from the back seat of the limousine, conscious of the wig hanging tight around my ears and the Lycra of the bikini against my skin. Naturally I’m wearing more than just the bikini—in fact, to the outside world, I look demure and business-like in a pair of cream trousers and a simple lime-green shirt tucked in at the waist. My shoes are flat, but definitely not boat shoes: in my defence, I didn’t anticipate yachting as part of the trip.

My security agents scan the boat from the nearby dock and a moment later are met by members of Santiago’s staff. I watch in amusement as they enter into discussion. For a moment it looks a little heated, so I step out of the car while they’re distracted, approaching from behind.

‘Is there a problem?’

One of my guards turns to face me, his features showing consternation. ‘No, ma’am. It’s just a matter of logistics.’

Santiago’s staff member speaks over the top of him. ‘Mr del Almodovár values his privacy and has requested your company. Alone.’

My lips twitch in amusement, even when I know I should be annoyed. After all, I’ve told him I don’t want to draw attention to what we’re doing, and that includes amongst my staff. Nonetheless, you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs and, given the level of intrusion in my life, I was probably living in a fantasy world to think I could keep things completely secret.

‘I trust Mr del Almodovár,’ I say firmly, surprised to realise that it’s true. I do trust him. ‘Go back to the hotel and wait for me there.’

‘But—’

‘I mean it,’ I say, but gently now, smiling to soften my command. After all, I rarely give such edicts. ‘I’ll be fine.’

It clearly doesn’t satisfy either of them, but they take a step back, signalling tacit agreement, and I expel the breath I was holding.

A moment later, I’m walking up the gang plank of the yacht, with no idea if that’s actually what it’s called, my pulse running away with me at the prospect of seeing Santiago again. Excitement bursts through me.

His own staff stays on the marina.

‘Hello?’ I call, smiling despite the fact he hasn’t appeared.

The boat begins to move and I reach out, putting my hand on the railing to steady myself, my smile growing wider as I step away from the edge look for the steering wheel. Is that even what it’s called on a yacht?

Santiago is standing at the front of the boat, wearing only a pair of shorts, low-slung to reveal his toned, tanned waist, his shapely legs and strong shoulders.

Desire rushed through me.

‘Is this a kidnapping?’ I ask as I approach him from behind.

He casts a glance over his shoulder, his eyes locking to mine so my smile drops, the sheer heat in his look almost knocking me sideways. ‘Definitely.’

A frisson of need runs through me. The idea of being this man’s captive is unexpectedly appealing.

He deftly manoeuvres the yacht from the marina with the ease of a man who does this regularly and, once through the barrier, he sets the control in position and turns to me properly. His fingers lift, catching a hint of my dark wig, brushing it between his forefinger and thumb.

‘Do you like it?’

‘I thought I would.’ He lifts it from my head, nodding approval at the reappearance of my blonde hair. ‘But this is better.’

My heart skips a beat.

‘How did you sleep?’

‘Like a log.’

‘And naked?’

Heat bursts through me. I don’t answer.

‘I imagined you naked.’ He turns back to the controls, steering the boat, with no idea what his throwaway comment does to my equilibrium. I’m knocked completely sideways.

‘How was your meeting?’ My voice is gravelled and uneven. I come to stand to his right, staring ahead rather than looking directly at him.

‘Last night?’ I prompt when he doesn’t answer.

‘Fine.’

Out of nowhere, a blade of jealousy assails me, as the unpleasant thought occurs to me that he’d left me to meet another woman. Memories of the phone call where a woman’s voice had been audible in the background make my breath feel hot in my lungs. My envy is based on nothing but fear—I don’t know Santiago that well but I somehow trust that he’s not the kind of man who would go from making love to me to being with another woman all in the same night.

I move away from him on the pretence of exploring, moving across the deck and then along a railing, ducking into the main cabin and marvelling at the space—it looks like a state-of-the-art hotel, all glossy white with plush décor, sofas and an enormous television.

I’m aware that we’ve stopped moving and a glance through the windows shows only ocean and, in the distance, a stunning view of the city. There are no other boats that I can see, and we’re far from the land—far enough to render the buildings miniature.

‘There you are.’ He pulls me into his arms, kissing me hard and fast, as though he’s been aching to do this all his life.

My head spins. ‘Hi.’ The word is just a breath in my mouth.

‘I’m glad you came.’

‘Well, as it turns out, I didn’t have anything else to do,’ I tease.

His laugh is a rumble. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘After that breakfast? I don’t know if I’ll ever eat again.’

‘I’m glad you have energy.’ His eyes spark with mine, his meaning clear, and I laugh—but there’s an undercurrent of need pulling at me, drawing me to him, so I ache for him to kiss me again.

‘Where are we?’

‘Drifting in the Balearic sea.’

I breathe in the salty air, letting it touch my throat. That sense of freedom is back, taunting and tempting me. Freedom is an illusion for me, but for the next little while I can pretend.

‘This boat is something else.’

‘Surely you’re used to such things?’

‘On the contrary, I could never have something so decadent. With taxpayer money? Absolutely not.’

‘Says the woman who lives in a palace?’

‘That belongs to the people of Marlsdoven,’ I point out.

His lips quirk as though he doesn’t believe me. ‘And the land I’m going to buy from you?’

The remark is jarring. I pull away from him a little, a sense of heaviness in my heart assailing me out of nowhere.

‘It also belongs to my people,’ I murmur. ‘I’m simply the legal custodian. Which is why I must be very careful with what happens to it.’

To my relief, he lets the subject drop. ‘Hungry or not, I want to show you something.’

Curious, I allow his fingers to weave through mine so he can draw me through the yacht into a living area that also has a large kitchen, all gleaming white with high ceilings. He pulls a tray from the bench and walks towards me, gesturing towards it.

Rows of little chocolates sit waiting for attention.

‘What are they?’

‘A delicacy. Truffles flavoured with saffron and pistachio.’

I run my eyes over the pretty platter and, after a moment of hesitation, Santiago lifts one, bringing it to hover at my lips. ‘Allow me.’

I open my mouth so he can slip the chocolate inside, the flavour exploding in my mouth dwarfed only by the sensual awareness of the man opposite, who keeps his finger pressed to my lip as I finish the confectionery.

‘Well?’ His eyes probe mine.

‘Delicious. Savoury and sweet at the same time.’

He nods his approval. ‘They are my favourite.’

He replaces the tray on the kitchen bench then nods to the deck. ‘Shall we?’

I blink. ‘Shall we what?’ My temperature is already sky-high.

His smile shows he understands the direction of my thoughts. ‘Sunbathe, of course.’ His wink is that of the bad boy I know him to be, and yet I fall into step behind him. When he gestures to a row of four sunbeds lined up at the front of the yacht, I take a middle one, relaxing as the sun wraps me in warmth.

‘I don’t remember the last time I did this. If ever.’

‘Holidayed?’

I nod. ‘Most of my trips are official, and there’s barely a free moment to relax. I don’t mind—if I’m going to be away from home, I’d rather use the time productively. But I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to simply...exist.’

He reaches out and laces our fingers together. ‘You’re working now too. Sort of.’

‘But let’s not, today.’ I decide on the spur of the moment, looking at him directly. ‘Let’s not talk about the casino or the land. I know we have to, at some point, but it will just ruin things to do so now.’

His eyes narrow and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to argue but then he shrugs indolently. ‘Very well, querida. If you wish.’

The sun lances across him, a golden blade that invites my fingers to reach out and touch. Instead, I simply stare, my eyes drinking in the sight of him.

‘You must travel often for work?’ he prompts, either unaware of my shameless lusting or choosing not to acknowledge it.

I swallow past a constricted throat. ‘Not that often, actually.’ My eyes flick to his. ‘Mainly in neighbouring Scandinavian countries, occasionally further afield. I went to Australia two years ago.’

‘Did you like it?’

I nod. ‘Oh, very much. I don’t know if I’ve ever been to a country with such dramatic differences. One day I was in the tropics and the next in wineries shrouded in mist. There’s snow and deserts, beaches filled with white sand and turquoise water—they put me in mind of the Mediterranean. And the people are so friendly.’

‘Was it a work trip?’

‘Of course.’ I nod. ‘And it was quick. I saw a lot, but my schedule was crammed full, so most of the “seeing” was done through the windows of my limousine.’

His lips twist for a moment, and again I have a sense that there’s something he’s not saying, but the look is gone again almost immediately.

‘What work were you doing?’

‘Studying their tourism industry. Marlsdoven is very small but very beautiful. We want more people to come and see it for themselves. Sadly, we’re overshadowed by our more well-known neighbours.’

He nods thoughtfully, his eyes sparking with mine for a moment.

I sigh, his point, though not spoken, well taken. ‘I suppose you think your casino will attract tourists.’

‘Undoubtedly, but we aren’t talking about that today.’

I turn my attention to the view, the beautiful glistening sea beyond the yacht, the warmth of the sun, the drama of the city in the distance. The famous spires of the Sagrada Familia,Gaudi’s vision, reach towards the sky surrounded by a glow of terracotta, all golden and red. The contrast with the aqua colour of the ocean is almost too beautiful to bear.

‘My government is focussing on transport infrastructure,’ I say after a moment. ‘We want to make it easy and cheap to come to Marlsdoven. A high-speed rail line is being designed at the moment, with the hope of bringing visitors directly from Amsterdam.’

He doesn’t reply, and silence clouds around us, but it’s a content silence, the gentle lapping of waves against the boat lulling me until my breathing slows and my eyes feel heavy.

‘Why did you buy into casinos?’

The question is slumberous, and I don’t look at him.

‘You mean the dens of iniquity that make me my fortune?’ he asks with a hint of mockery. I flick my gaze to him and my heart twists painfully in my chest. He is way too handsome. It’s not fair.

‘Potayto...potahtoe...’ I say with a lift of my lips.

‘You forget, querida. I made my fortune on the stock market. What is that if not a form of gambling?’

‘It’s not the same thing.’ Though already I’m aware of my weakness here. I don’t know enough about share trading to speak with authority.

‘It is close to it. While there is a little more knowledge at play, mostly it’s about spotting trends, often about following intuition. It’s risky and fortunes can be lost in the blink of an eye. Sound familiar?’

‘It’s still different.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say honestly. ‘But it is.’ Thinking about it a little more, I sit up straighter, no longer relaxed enough to drift away on a cloud of sleep. ‘People don’t generally wander into the stock market and throw away their life savings. For one thing, it’s not easy to do—you have to have an account or a trader who places...bids...or whatever it’s called...on your behalf. When casinos are on every street corner, then every man and his dog can wander into the lobby and spin a roulette wheel.’

‘Roulette wheels are not in the lobby, and we are a strictly no-animal establishment,’ he drawls.

I roll my eyes and, despite the heavy direction of our conversation, find myself smiling at his quick rejoinder. ‘I’m serious. The stock market is intimidating and there are barriers to people partaking. Those barriers mean most people have a level of knowledge before they open an account. A casino has no such barriers.’

‘Age isn’t a barrier?’

‘So you have to be eighteen to gamble. Big deal.’

‘It is my turn to ask a question,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Why do you hate casinos so much?’

My eyes fill with light. I swallow quickly, looking away, my family’s secret like a hole in my chest. ‘We’ve discussed that.’

‘You’ve told me you disapprove of gambling. But why?’

‘Because people lose their savings. It’s damaging.’ My heart is racing. ‘And we said we wouldn’t talk about this.’ I reach out, putting a hand on his knee. ‘Not today.’

His eyes war with mine, the part of Santiago that wants to win, the ruthless businessman who sniffs out the advantage and mercilessly pushes it home, finding it hard to let the matter drop. But, to my surprise and relief, he does exactly that. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but he offers one anyway.

‘We will not talk about it,’ he says with a clipped nod. ‘But promise me this.’

I wait, my breath held.

‘Come to the casino floor with me tonight. Let me show you what it’s really like.’

I stiffen at the very idea. ‘I toured your casino yesterday, remember?’

My voice is unintentionally icy; I hear the tone and inwardly wince.

His expression is relaxed but I feel the intensity reverberating off him in waves. ‘Did you play any of the games?’

‘Games?’ I respond sharply, thinking only of my uncle. ‘You do realise that’s part of the problem? People think it’s all fun and harmless but it’s not. “Games” is a misnomer, if ever I heard one.’

A muscle jerks in his jaw. ‘And because of your personal animosity towards gambling you are determined to keep it from your society for ever?’

‘That’s not possible,’ I say quietly.

‘No.’ We’re in agreement and yet I feel like the air between us is sparking with tension. Electricity fills my fingertips. ‘Perhaps at some point, but not in the twenty-first century. People travel easily, play online.’

‘“Play”,’ I say with a shake of my head.

‘What would you prefer I say? Dice with danger?’

‘It would be more accurate.’

‘Your hatred makes no sense.’

‘Not to you perhaps.’

‘So explain it to me.’

I bristle, swallowing to bring back moisture to my dry mouth. ‘There’s no point. It hardly seems to matter. My personal feelings on the casino are by the by. I’ve accepted that your development will go ahead. All I care about now is making sure my country gets the utmost financial reward from the endeavour.’ Again, I hear the words, and they are laced with condemnation. I wish I could control my emotions but a hatred for gambling—and an awareness of its evils—has been drummed into me for a very long time. I cannot think of my uncle or my parents without being conscious of the enormity of this betrayal.

My breath burns in my throat.

‘It is not by the by to me.’ His nostrils flare with the statement and for a moment my stomach swoops with something like pleasure. His interest is flattering and dangerously addictive. I quickly remind myself that it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with Santiago: he has to understand people, things, problems. It’s in his nature to know everything he can about a person.

‘Tell me,’ I murmur. ‘When you first began trading in the phantom stock-market scenario, how did you do it?’

The conversation change annoys him. I wonder if he’ll brush the question aside to return to interrogating me but he doesn’t. ‘I researched trends. I watched carefully. I immersed myself in everything I could on the matter. Why?’

It’s just as I suspected. He has to understand everything and, right now, he’s trying to understand me––but only so he can turn me to his advantage. It has nothing to do with wanting to know me, or caring about me as a person.

As a child, I was winded once when I fell off a horse. I landed on my back and all the air was drummed from my body, so I lay staring up at the clear blue sky, stars dancing on the lids of my eyes. My nanny’s terrified face had hovered on the periphery of my view with me unable to offer any form of reassurance for many minutes, until slowly my lungs remembered their purpose and accepted air once more. I feel that again now, without the provocation of a fall. Several realisations slam into me at once, each on their own with the power to knock my lungs to oblivion.

I want him to care about me.

I have had no one to care about me for a very long time.

I care about him.

I feel the colour drain from my face and quickly drop my face to look at my toes. In a rare tilt of the cap to vanity, I had them painted a pearly pink before coming to Barcelona. What was that if not an admission that I’d hoped my toes might be seen by this man?

‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,’ he murmurs. ‘Do you disapprove of my techniques? Were you hoping my answer would somehow make your argument for you?’

I’m glad for the reminder of our discussion, and even more so for the lifeline he’s thrown me. ‘In some ways, it does.’ My voice is a little hoarse. ‘You are highlighting the differences between gambling and trading, though I’m not sure it matters. I wasn’t the one who drew that comparison in the first instance.’

‘No, it was me. Risk and reward, the story of life. Here’s another expression that is bandied about––“nothing ventured, nothing gained”.’

My eyes fire to his. ‘Surely it could also be, “nothing ventured, nothing lost”,’ I point out, my uncle heavy in my heart.

‘That is a very boring way to live.’

‘What you call boring, I call safe.’

‘Safety from the privileged perspective of your palace is a very different consideration.’

I feel that judgement again, the same vein that had run through our first meeting and that has reared its head again here. ‘You dislike the fact I’m royalty.’

His sneer shouldn’t have made him more attractive, but somehow it does. ‘I dislike any form of social elitism.’

‘Says the man with the million-dollar yacht?’

‘Bought with money I earned.’

‘You don’t think I earn my money?’ And out of nowhere I feel rage and frustration boiling through my blood. I stand up, needing to throw my words not only at Santiago but into the sea, the sky, to have them heard on some elemental level.

‘I have given my life over to my people,’ I say angrily, stalking towards the yacht’s railing. ‘I have no privacy, no personal life, and until twenty-four hours ago I had never taken a lover. Did you know, Santiago, that you are the first man who’s ever so much as kissed me? You have no idea what I have given up because I am royal. You talk about the privilege of my position without having any idea of what I have sacrificed.’

His expression gives little away, but he stands and walks towards me, his eyes raking my face, his body moving closer to mine.

‘Don’t you think I live every day with a horrible resentment right here—’ I press my hands to my ribs ‘—at what is expected of me?’

‘So why do it?’

My laugh is scoffing. ‘What choice do I have? I have no siblings, no cousins. There is no one to take up the mantle I wear. I cannot abdicate—that choice is not for me. And, even if it were, that’s not the way it’s done. Not in my family, and not by me. My parents raised me to understand my responsibilities and I would never shame them, disappoint them, by turning my back on this. I am the Crown Princess of Marlsdoven and in less than a year I will become her Queen.’

‘And then you will marry the man your parents chose for you,’ he says quietly, and I wonder at that same sense of pain sliding through my abdomen.

‘Yes.’ I tilt my chin in defiant acceptance. ‘These are all the things I do because I’ve been born to this position. So do not talk to me about privilege when your life is not hemmed in at every turn by expectations and obligations.’

It is as though a small electrical storm is raging between us, arcs of lightning threatening to incinerate me. I suck in air, but it burns in my mouth, the acrid taste of electricity palpable all the way down.

‘You have been born to your position but you are the only one allowing those expectations to define you.’

I shake my head. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not your fault; how could you?’

His eyes narrow. ‘How could I? A nobody who was born in abject poverty, do you mean?’

‘Please don’t do that,’ I snap. ‘Don’t make me a snob because it suits your narrative.’

‘And what narrative is that?’

Our argument has clarified everything for me. I understand now the expression I see in his eyes sometimes, and why he arrived at the palace that day with a monumental chip on his shoulder. ‘The one where I somehow think I’m better than you and everyone else just because I was born a royal. I don’t. If I had my way, I’d abolish the whole damned idea of royalty. But to my people, it matters. The institution matters.

‘It’s dehumanising and grotesque. I am not a person to anyone in my life, Santiago, I am a figurehead. Can you even imagine? My face is on tea towels and mugs and postcards, sold at corner stores and airports for tourists to snap up. My parents’ faces are emblazoned across those same postcards and tacky souvenir pencils. We are not people to anyone; we are property of the Marlsdoven people. That is as it is. It has always been this way, but at one point there was more actual power and far less intrusion. Now the role involves smiling at commemorative events and never putting a foot out of line lest I am accused of being ungrateful and a freeloader. That is my life. That is my so-called privilege.’

Sympathy stirs in his expression but his response is tougher than nails. ‘So fight it.’

‘I can’t.’

‘What would happen if you started to live your life as you wish? If you dated and wore jeans and spoke out about the things that matter to you? Would you be fired?’

‘I can’t be fired.’ I shake my head. ‘It’s constitutionally impossible.’

‘Then you would be criticised,’ he says. ‘And you hate the idea of that.’

I jerk my gaze away in agreement.

‘But that is your choice. Risk and reward. You do not take the risk and so cannot enjoy the rewards.’

‘I’m not at liberty—’

‘You are a human being with inherent rights and the ability to choose how to live your life.’

‘You just don’t get it.’

‘Don’t I?’

‘No. Until I can forget my parents, I can never forget what they expected of me.’

His eyes lance mine. ‘And that’s for you to be miserable?’

‘I’m not miserable,’ I deny, but the words lack conviction even to my own ears.

‘It is for you to marry a man you’ve never met, who by your own admission you feel no desire for?’

‘Sex isn’t important.’

His laugh is sharp. ‘Careful, querida, or I will show you exactly how false that statement is.’

His words—and the image they evoke—make my legs feel hollowed out. I fight the tug of sensual need, though it bombards me from every direction, I’m desperately clinging to my train of thought.

‘The marriage agreement was formed a long time ago. It’s binding.’

‘And were you part of this agreement?’ he prompts, with a hint of cynicism in his tone.

‘I didn’t know anything about it until my parents died.’

His eyes flash. ‘So they never spoke of this to you?’

‘I’m sure they would have,’ I respond defensively. ‘When I was old enough.’

‘Then how do you know this is what they wanted?’

I blink at him, confused.

‘You say they made this arrangement many years ago. What if their intentions changed?’

‘Then they would have torn up the contract. It was kept in the family safe with all their most important documents.’

‘Isn’t it possible they simply forgot?’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘So you will live your life as they dictated many years ago. But this is a decision you make. You are complicit in your fate, Freja.’

‘I know that. Why do you think I’m here with you?’

His eyes pierce mine.

‘Rebellion.’ I answer my own question. ‘A taste of freedom before I return to the palace and take on all that is expected of me.’

A muscle in his jaw flexes but he says nothing. I feel his disapproval and for the first time in my life see my decisions as exactly that—decisions I’ve made.

‘What would you have done? If your parents had laid out this plan for you?’

His lips tighten into a grimace. ‘Run a mile in the opposite direction.’ He moves closer. ‘But it’s a poor comparison. I am not close to my parents and generally choose to feel the opposite to them about everything.’

‘Oh.’ It’s enough of a revelation to pull me out of my own angst. ‘Why aren’t you close to them?’

His shrug is a study in indifference, but I see beneath it the harsh resolution, the determination to push me away. ‘Many reasons, querida, all of them boring.’ He holds out a hand, his eyes sparking with mine. ‘And I’d much rather help you rebel.’