Climbing behind the wheel, I heard the familiar crack of a cap when I snagged the nip and tossed it out the window. He was drunk enough without the possibility of alcohol poisoning.
“Bitch,” he muttered the words under his breath.
“Drunk.”
It didn’t take long for Bowen’s head to fall and his breathing to sound too smooth for him to be awake when I glanced to my side. He was asleep against his hand and couldn’t have looked more
broken under all his circumstances. His exterior was beautiful, stoic and designer, but I saw right through all the filters down to the trauma sitting inside his heart.
My happiness wasn’t sinking past his cloudy skies.
The word Romeo kept floating around in my head. It wasn’t a popular name outside of Shakespeare yet my stepbrother, the one torturing me daily in Denmark, was oddly nicknamed the same thing.
I used to fantasize about his mom, who had passed away, choosing that nickname because of the love she had for his father. Maybe she wanted him to be an icon of love.
He wasn’t.
He was a spawn of the underworld, but thankfully my soon-to-be husband was the king of hell. Elias was going to have to kiss his ring if he ever showed up in my life again.
Shaking him from my happy ending, I tried to focus on the road ahead when a memory tore through the present.
Denmark.
Fourteen.
I had been in Denmark the entire year, pretending I was happy for my mom who was marrying some king.
Not my king.
Breakfast was mandatory every morning even though I had permanently lost my appetite. I had been on a liquid diet for pretty much the entire year, shedding weight I didn’t need to lose. Baby fat that would have disappeared when my hormones evened out.
Now my arms and legs matched in size, and people kept telling me how wonderful I looked for starved.
“You’ll be able to meet your stepbrother tonight when he’s back. He’ll be thrilled to meet his new sister,” the false king spoke at the head of the table instead of my mother. My mother barely spoke now, her small smiles and gentle touches said enough.
I cringed on the inside. I didn’t want to meet anyone new, especially anyone that came from the guy at the head of the table.
I didn’t have any choices here.
Denmark was all demands, all the time.
I strategized how I would run away, go back home and beg the Astors to take me in. It was the fantasy that got me through my days now besides painting in the sunroom that overlooked mountains, covering the city behind them.
I spent the entire day painting until I could barely see the difference in the shades of blues ahead of me when one of the various maids found me to tell me that dinner was ready. Wiping off my hands, I followed her lead and walked into the dining room set for four instead of three.
Stepbrother must have arrived.
With an eye roll, I took the furthest seat on purpose when his dad and my mom sat down. They always greeted each other like strangers even though they dated in LA before he demanded we pick up our life in exchange for his royal one.
Crossing my arms across my chest, a body dropped down beside me and a hand brushed my upper thigh when trying to lay the cloth napkin over his leg. My entire body shook into an awareness I had turned off since being here. “Must be Eve, my new sister. Elias, but call me Romeo,” his voice was shrill and penetrating.
I shifted my eyes, barely, not offering anything in return when my mom directed me to not be rude.
“Eve, hostage, and apparently your new stepsister.”
He offered his one hand above the table for me to shake, and the other hand hiding under the table reached for my thigh again, giving it a lingering squeeze. His fingertips gripped the inside of my thigh, too high up to just be friendly. No, this was enemy territory, and Bowen wasn’t here to fight off the trespassers.
Nothing he did was on accident and his smile proved it. “Nice to meet you, Eve. Can’t wait to get to know you.”
His fingers nearly slipped under the hem of my overall shorts when I pushed myself back into the chair, trying to place all the displaced features on him.
Elias was a nightmare just like Denmark was.
BOWEN
They always tell you to look for the signs—the warning signs, but there rarely are any. Not when you’re comfortable being this sad.
Being sad was my profession, and I was nothing but professional.
I could tell I didn't put my own sorry ass to bed because I was still fully clothed, and the curtains weren’t pulled in a way that blocked out the sun how I liked. There was a drool stain on my pillow that had the back of my hand rubbing against the corner of my mouth.
It’s a special feeling when you are constantly waking up still intoxicated. It’s unlike anything else to be this close to death and not actually be dead. Having your body seem heavy and your head feel so light at the same time felt like a privilege more than a pain.
Last night wasn’t lost to a black out or hangover, I didn’t do those. Alcohol was a flirtation that I danced with often enough to know the limits. None of those limits changed the reality
