Striking (Red Lips & White Lies Book 7)

Thousands of people will come in and out of your life and mean nothing.

But it’s the one you never saw coming who changes everything.

—Bellamy’s Secret Thoughts

My head jerks up at the knock on my bedroom door. Although I should use the term bedroom loosely. I’m in what should more accurately be described as a suite of rooms.

The bedroom is pretty and feminine, with a four-poster canopy bed draped in gauzy white fabric tied at each post. Beautiful paintings line the walls, and a thick, woven carpet in pale greens and creams anchors the room. A vanity is on one side, a writing desk on the other, and stained-glass French doors open to a balustraded balcony overlooking a snow-covered garden that I’m sure would be even more beautiful in the spring.

Not that I’ll be here to see it.

The walk-in closet is massive, with far too many clothes lining the walls, as well as drawers upon drawers stacked with lingerie and accessories, like Rhys thought he was clothing me for a year instead of a few days. And the shoes . . . there are so many shoes. Each with a more expensive designer label than the last, which would even have my sister-in-law, the fashion designer, drooling into her coffee.

I pad through the double doors of the bedroom into the sitting room, bypassing both the sofas and the dining set, then rest my shaking hand against the outer door, suddenly nervous to open it.

I’ve stayed out of sight all day, as much for Rhys’s peace of mind as for my own. With more self-control than I thought I had, I managed to avoid calling Caitlin or my brothers and don’t plan on pulling that particular trigger until I’ve had a chance to speak to Rhys. There’s no reason to have a conversation when I’m not even positive our marriage is legal, and I need to know that before I say anything to anyone. Especially my brothers. Hockey season be damned, I wouldn’t put it past Cross and Ares to fly across the Atlantic Ocean to get me the hell out of here at the first mention of me being married to—well hell—the king.

My heart sinks again.

I don’t know how this happened.

I mean, I do . . . but⁠—

“Ms. Wilder, Ms. Armstrong is here to see you.”

“Joss?” I murmur and crack open the door. A man twice the size of a tank stands in another black suit on the other side, blocking my view of Joss. Pretty sure this guy would block out the sun. He’s massive. “Thank you,” I manage before I yank Joss into the room and slam the door shut behind her, careful to stay out of sight. “Umm . . . who was that?”

Joss crosses one leg behind the other and dips slowly down before straightening. Was that—? Did she⁠—?

“Did you just curtsey?” I gasp, horrified.

“Am I the first one?” she asks, almost giddy, leaving me wondering what alternate reality I’m actually in because in no possible world should anyone ever curtsey to me.

“Yes, you freak. You’re the first one, and you’d better be the only. Why would you do that?” My heart hammers in my chest as I reach back for the couch with a shaky hand and drop my ass down before my knees give out.

Joss sits on the coffee table in front of me and holds my hands between hers, resting them on my knees. “You’ve got to understand this is my world, Bellamy. Curtseying to the queen is as natural as breathing for me.”

The color drains from my face. “I’m not . . .”

“Oh, sweetie . . .” She squeezes my hands, and my blood pressure skyrockets. “I was there. Atticus and I both signed on the dotted line as your witnesses. The minute Rhys became king, you became queen.”

“But I . . .” I’m not sure what’s worse, the fear or the reality. “I can’t be queen.”

She slides next to me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “You can and you will, and I’m going to help you. Consider me your fairy godmother with much better fashion sense and far fewer woodland creatures at her disposal.”

“Josselyn . . .” My words die in my throat as the door opens again, only this time it isn’t a tank blocking the light, it’s Rhys. And for some reason I’m too overwhelmed to think about, seeing him allows me to take my first deep breath in hours.

He immediately moves in front of me, and I realize Joss has stood and dipped back down into another well-practiced curtsey.

“I don’t even know if I have the balance to do that,” I murmur, and Rhys smiles.

“We can work on it,” Joss offers with a sympathetic smile. “Although, I’m not sure it will be needed.”

She and Rhys exchange a look that sets what little nerves I have left on edge. “I think that’s a great idea. Joss can help get you acquainted with all things Mornea.”

“What?” I question as my head spins. “I was just here to consider a change of career,” I murmur, and the two of them share another silent glance. “Stop doing that. Please don’t talk in front of me unless I can hear it.”

“Sorry.” Rhys’s hand cups my face, and there goes that damn spark that got me into this mess in the first place. “I could get you color-coordinated note cards, love.”

I’m not sure whether I should laugh or cry at this point. But something about the look on Rhys’s face worries me.

“Are you okay?” I run my thumb over the tight lines tugging at his eyes, and he relaxes into my hand.

“Okay.” Joss clasps her hands and takes a step back. “Well, that’s my cue to leave. I’ll just let myself out.”

“Joss—” Rhys stops her. “I’m serious. She’s going to need your help.”

“Anything . . .” Joss offers with a warm smile. “My king.”

Rhys shakes his head as he watches her leave before pulling me against his chest and resting his chin on my head. “I have to be back at the palace in two hours. Have you eaten anything?”

“Not really,” I admit quietly. “I haven’t wanted to leave the rooms. Mrs. Smythe offered to bring me something, but I wasn’t hungry.”

Rhys opens the door and speaks with someone before closing it again, then shrugs out of his suit coat and loosens his tie. He shoves his sleeves up his forearms and sits down, pulling me with him. “Dinner will be brought up soon.”

“Rhys . . .” I start, not sure what I’m supposed to say.

“I know,” he reassures me. “I know how much I’m asking of you right now, and I know you don’t owe me anything, but please, Bellamy, give me a few days.”noveldrama

“I have to go home.” The words are quiet as I fit myself into the corner of the couch and face him. I want to be able to look at him while we have this conversation. “I know none of this is great timing, considering . . . well everything you’re dealing with. But Rhys, I can’t stay here. You have a grandfather to mourn and a country to worry about. I’ll only be in your way. Maybe in six months when everything calms down, you could show me the foundation, and I could help you structure something. I could maybe even help you find the right person⁠—”

“And what if I’ve found the right person, love?” The breath he takes is palpable, and frustrating because when he says things like that, he looks at me like he might just believe it.

And worse, he makes me want to believe it too.

“You can’t seriously be saying you want to stay married?” And why does that question twist something in my gut? It makes no sense. None of this does.

“Bellamy . . .” He grabs my fuzzy-sock-covered feet and pulls them into his lap. His thumb works my arch, and damn, that feels good. “I’m telling you that as of about thirteen hours ago, I became head of the Church of Mornea, and it doesn’t recognize divorce.”

I yank my feet away and jump off the couch, then spin on him. “This is a joke, right? The one and only time I’ve ever done something impulsive cannot really have this kind of catastrophic consequences.” I pace in front of the couch, trying to wrap my head around the past forty-eight hours. My spiraling thoughts grow with each second. “I’m going to kill your brother.”

“Atticus?”

“Yes,” I snap. “Atticus. He just had to insist we play darts.”

Rhys stands and gets in my way. “You remember darts?”

I stop and spin, narrowing my eyes. “Yes, I remember darts. I remember everything. I didn’t have amnesia. I had a hangover and then sex-induced brain fog without the payoff of sex.”

Okay, that may not have been the nicest way to say any of that.

“I remember the whole night. I just needed to wake up and shake off the shock of seeing wedding rings on our fingers,” I snap. “Drunk. Not concussed. Though concussed would have been a way better excuse than drunk, horny, and impulsive.”

Rhys laughs, and his eyes go wide, like he didn’t expect that to happen.

Like maybe he thought it would be a long time before he laughed again, and the anger mixing with my hysteria lessens.

He reaches for me, but I step out of reach. “No. You touch me with your stupidly sexy hands, and I do dumb things.”

His lips tilt just a touch on one side, and his eyes crinkle. “My hands are sexy?”

That voice . . . After everything today, that voice shouldn’t sound like that. It shouldn’t affect me that way. But damn it, it does.

“You’re missing the point,” I argue, but I’m already losing my steam.

“What’s the point, love?”

“We’re married,” I half whisper, half cry. “We’re married, and we’ve only known each other for a few days. We’re married . . . and we barely know each other.”

I don’t bother saying we’re married and we’re not in love.

We both know that.

“We’re married, and you’re telling me we can’t get divorced, but can we get an annulment?” I stay safely on the other side of the room, where I’m not in touching distance because I swear one touch from him is all it takes for my brain to shut down and my body to say yes please, and we haven’t even had sex.

“No. Annulments aren’t recognized by the church, and we were married in the church.” Rhys stands his ground but looks two seconds away from closing the distance between us.

“Why then? Why marry me? I know neither of us were thinking straight last night, but you’ve got to give me something here, Rhys.” I wrap my fingers around the ladder-back chair at the small dining table and force my feet not to move, even if the pull is strong. “Because it sounds like you knew there was no out.”

“I could ask you the same thing. Do you have an answer, little bee?” The way he runs his hand through his hair looks practiced. Like he’s done it all day, and maybe he has. Maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Maybe this is already one of the worst days of his life, and demanding answers neither of us has isn’t fair.

Shit.

“Not a good one. Not one that makes sense.” Apparently not one that gets me out of this marriage. “So what do we do?”

“Make the best of it. Some of the longest marriages have been built on less.” Rhys loses whatever internal battle he’s fighting and stalks across the room, and I’m not sure what annoys me more. That he couldn’t give me space, or that my body relaxes as he gets closer. “Give me some time, Bellamy. Let’s figure this out. Think of all the good you could do as my queen.”

I recoil with that word.

“I don’t know⁠—”

“We don’t need to know yet, bee. I’ll be locked in meetings at the palace most of this week. The funeral will be on Friday, and we can figure everything out after that.” He speaks with an air of authority that makes you want to follow. A natural leader. It’s incredibly sexy, and even more annoying. “You came here to look into the foundation. You came here to help. Well, help me. Spend this week getting familiar with everything we’re doing and everything you’d want to implement. And maybe you could spend some time with Joss. I’m sure she’d love to help you understand some of the intricacies of this world.”

He reaches for me, and I give in and let him.

I step into him, utterly frustrated.

With my inability to stay away.

With the situation.

With Rhys for his part in it.

With my less than responsible judgment for allowing it to happen.

But mostly, I’m annoyed with myself—because a tiny piece of me doesn’t hate this idea as much as I should. A tiny little delusional piece of me is clinging to the way my father always insisted everything happens for a reason, and sometimes you just have to lean into it and follow where the wave takes you.

Well, I might not be on his fishing boat right now, but I’ve got a funny feeling there are stormy seas ahead, and I’m not sure they make life vests big enough for this.

“Fine,” I give in and offer up a silent prayer that this isn’t the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. And considering what I did last night, that’s saying something. “But I have one condition.”

He takes my face in his hands and tilts it up. “Name it.”

“I don’t want to tell anyone. If my brothers find out, they’ll blow off whatever games they have on the schedule and fly over here to drag me back home. They take overprotective to a nuclear level.”

“I can handle your brothers, love.”

“But I can’t. More accurately, I don’t want to. That’s my condition. Take it or leave it.” Surprisingly, my voice doesn’t waver.

“My sister and Maddox will be here in a few hours,” Rhys warns.

“Don’t you think Lennon will have enough to deal with already?” I counter.

He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, and that buzz that always seems to be there whenever he touches me ignites. “I hate the idea of hiding you.”

“I don’t love the idea of being hidden, but I don’t see another way.” I look around the room. “There are worse places to hide.”

“Yes, love, there are. Which reminds me . . .” He takes my hand and walks into the bedroom and over to a corner with a stunning pale green chair with tiny white butterflies embroidered all over it. Rhys slides the chair aside and presses his palm against the wall and pushes.

“Oh my God. It’s a door.” I peek inside and smile. “Is that a secret passage . . . ?”

Rhys steps inside the narrow hall, barely wide enough to fit him, and pulls me behind, then closes the door. A dull light hums to life overhead, apparently activated by our movement.

“Where does this lead?” I reach up onto my toes to see over his shoulder as we round a corner.

Rhys pushes open another door, and we step into a room twice the size of mine.

In one smooth motion, he slides the door closed and plants his hands on either side of my head, caging me in. “It leads to my room.”

“Oh. Well, that seems . . . conveniently placed.” I lick my lips, wondering what it is that keeps drawing us back to each other.

“I’m sure some old, fat prince or duke had it installed hundreds of years ago for a mistress, but Atticus and I made plenty of late-night escapes through these tunnels.” Rhys ghosts his mouth over mine, and my heart races. “You have your condition, are you ready to hear mine?”

“Probably not,” I whisper against his lips. “But I’m not good at waiting.”

“I want you in my bed every night.”

“Is that a good idea, Your Royal Highness?”

“Pretty sure it’s the best damn one I’ve ever had, love.” His tongue runs along my bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. “I’ll barely be here this week, and I want to spend as much time with you as possible.”

Rhys leans into me, and my hips grind desperately against him.

Needing the pressure.

Hoping for some relief that isn’t coming.

“You have to get back to the palace,” I moan as I throw my arms around his shoulders, wanting to get closer.

My skin heats with awareness as his erection presses against me. “Say yes, Bellamy.”

His words hold promise.

A promise I want.

I’m going to be here anyway . . . right?

“Yes.”