32. Christian

Niko didn't even bother lockingthe door to my apartments after we returned home. He hadn't spoken a word to me since he tucked me into the back seat of the town car in front of Kale's house. Short of offering me a tissue after I well and truly broke down about the road ahead, he didn't acknowledge me at all.

"Will you let Parrish know I made it back?" I asked while Niko was still in the doorway.

"Yes, sir." He hesitated, then asked, "Anyone else?"

I had a very dead cell phone in my suitcase with a burner email account that was my only real way to get in touch with Kale. I knew I needed to get my act together, go to my father and demand some basic liberties, like a cell phone with an actual phone number and a data plan. Let them read my text messages—I didn't care. I couldn't keep living the way I had been, but before that…

"No," I muttered, throwing myself face-first onto my bed.

I wanted to wallow awhile.

Parrish was already in cahoots with Kale, so I knew he'd hear through the grapevine I'd made it home all right. And even though we'd tearfully talked about me calling him for a wank upon my return, I didn't have it in me to touch my dick or hear his voice just yet.

"Very good," Niko said, sounding like it wasn't very good at all.

He closed the door and the room lapsed into a silence as miserable and overwhelming as the feelings unfurling in my stomach. Flopping onto my back, I kicked off my shoes and covered my eyes with my forearm. My skin still smelled like Kale's soap, his sweat. I wondered if I licked the backs of my teeth, could I taste him there? I didn't bother to try, tired of crying and content enough to save that little sliver of anguish for later in the day. Instead, after what felt like a lifetime of staring at my ceiling, I fell asleep.

I woke later to the creaking of my mattress and a weight settling somewhere near my hip. My brain was foggy with love and sadness and sleep, and I stretched my fingers out, reaching for Kale to drag him back to bed.

"You're here," I murmured, eyes still heavy from my unplanned nap. I didn't know what time it was, what day it was. Didn't even know which way was up, but Phillip's quiet voice was as shocking as a bucket of ice water on my face.

"Of course I'm here," he said, prim as ever. "Unlike you, I enjoy living here."

I rolled over, scooting up and resting my back against the headboard and folding my arms protectively in front of my chest. I'd been dreaming about Kale. Bits and pieces of the fantasy still floated in the front of my head, even now that I was awake. His skin and his mouth and the things he said to me, the way he sounded when he called me princess. Shifting away from my brother and crossing my legs, my jeans abraded the very real bruises on the backs of my thighs, and I winced.

"There's the reaction I love when people see me come into a room," Phillip said, rolling his eyes.

"What do you want?" I grumbled. "Here to tell me to fall back into line and pull my weight?"

The argument was old and tired, and I wasn't sure I had it in me to hear it one more time.

"Yes, but?—"

I cut him off, lifting a hand. "I know it by heart, Pip."

My brother's mouth contorted into something sad at the use of his old childhood nickname.

"You don't need to tell me again."

"I think I do."

"It's not going to stick," I told him, climbing off the bed and walking a few steps toward the window to try and shake off some of the sleep and jetlag that was weighing me down. I wasn't going to roll over and take his and my father's control anymore. I wanted to find a way back to Kale, and for that to happen, things needed to change. "But I'm glad you're here because there is something I need to talk to you about."

Phillip watched me with an amused expression, but didn't interrupt me. I'd expected further protest and every nerve in my body was ready to fight and argue. Conflict, I could do. Civil conversation, not as much. But he wasn't going to give me an inch, only adjusting his position on my bed so he could still see me as I paced around the room.

"I don't want to live like this anymore," I said.

He raised a brow. "Your life is of your own doing, Christian."

I barked out a sharp laugh, running a trembling hand through my hair. "My life is orchestrated how you and father think it should go."

"Father," he said.

"What about him?"

Phillip cocked his head to the side like we were kids again and he'd explained something rudimentary to me and I still wasn't grasping the concept. "How Father thinks it should go."

"And who are you, if not a tiny father?"

"I'm taller than him."

"And twice as insufferable."

Phillip huffed out what sounded like half a laugh, and I turned my stare toward my feet to try and hide the smile that had started to pull at the corners of my mouth. I rested my ass against the windowsill, fingers curled around the wood frame for support. Phillip rotated around my bed, sitting cross-legged at the foot and resting his hands primly on the footboard. Something about seeing my brother in that pose was laughable, but all it got out of me was a rough chuckle that tore out of my throat like barbed wire.

How had my life gotten so out of hand? Had my decisions ever truly been my own or had this always been the expectation? Christian Davenport-Spencer, youngest son of King Arnault, perfectly content to be the headline maker and one to watch out for. I had no chance at shaking up the monarchy, so I would just make everyone around me miserable in the process.

"Father's way of ruling is not sustainable," Phillip finally said, which caused my head to snap up. He studied me from across the room with a cool and unflappable expression on his face.

"Then why do you go along with it?"

"Because it's my job, Christian." The answer earned me another eye roll, which looked so much more than out of place on his face. "Because he's far more stubborn and stuck in his ways than either of us will ever be, but unlike you, I have the slightest sense of self-preservation."

"What do you think my entire life has been, Phillip?" I shoved off the window and stalked toward him, coming to a stop on the other side of my footboard. It was the first time in as long as I could remember when I looked down at my brother, because he was taller than my father, taller than all of us. "Everything I do is just me trying to hold on to the smallest shred of my sanity. Of myself."

Tears burned in the back of my throat, and I swung away from him, swiping madly at my eyes like I could preemptively stop them from falling if my fingers worked fast enough. Behind me, the bed creaked and Phillip came to stand beside me.

"I don't think I can imagine what life for you has been like, Christian, nor do I want to, but my days are overflowing with duty and responsibility and tactical decision-making."

I cut him off with a snort, but the scathing look he shot me silenced any further protest or sass.

"I cannot get him to ease up on you if you insist on continuing to act like a child who needs constant supervision," he said softly.

I scoffed. "Like you've even tried."

"Christian." He sounded tired, beaten down, and I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, maybe seeing him for the very first time as the man he was, not the man he'd been in my head.

Phillip was my oldest brother, but he was also a husband, a father, and next in line to the throne. That came with more burdens that I'd ever understand, but he'd also been groomed for that from the second he was born. While our names were the same, our upbringings couldn't have been more different.

"Pip."

"Do you think you would have made it to America last week without some sort of intervention?" he asked carefully, like he was picking every word with the utmost care and consideration. "Do you think that you would have been able to stay?"

I swallowed.

"You sent Niko after me," I reminded him.

"I brought Niko," Phillip corrected. "Or, rather, he offered, but…"

"I don't understand what you're saying," I said.

"What I'm saying is we are on the same team, and I need you to start acting like it," he snapped. Phillip's hands flexed and relaxed, and then the cool and composed mask was back on his face like he was ready to engage with Parrish's father about some foreign conflict or whatever they did behind closed doors.

"I'm going to need you to explain this to me like I'm five," I said.

"I'm heir to the goddamn throne, Christian. I don't need to explain myself to anyone." Phillip tugged on the cuffs of his shirt and shook his head, sidestepping away from me to take his leave.

There wasn't any air in the room and I still didn't have a phone that worked, and I should have told Niko to get in touch with Kale and let him know I was dying back home without him. It didn't matter what we'd talked about before I left because I couldn't do any of it without him. My brother and father terrified me, they always had, and I worried one day I would push too far and lose it all.

Maybe today was that day.

Without warning, my legs gave out and I slid down to the floor with a disgruntled and very un-royal noise. It was enough to catch Phillip's attention, and he stopped, turning back to glare at me over his shoulder. But when he saw me on the floor, something in his face softened, if just for a second, and then he approached me and dropped down into a squat.

"Come on, Pisstian." He pressed the side of his finger against the underside of my chin, thinking that use of his childhood nickname for me was going to somehow be enough to soften me to the reality of what I'd walked back into.

"That's not as cute as you think it is," I grumbled, letting him coax my stare up to meet his.

"It's perfect for you."

"It's cruel," I said, jerking my chin against his finger, but he held steady. "Pip is adorable and culturally recognized."

"Pip is appropriate for an heir to the throne," he agreed, "Pisstian is better suited for a man who's going to do so much more than his older brother ever could."

"Like running off to America for a booty call?"

"That man is far more than a booty call," he said, sliding down onto the rug and again crossing his legs. He let his hands fall loose into his lap, and in unison, we both sighed under the weight of it all.

"I love him," I whispered. "I want to be with him."

"Then you should."

Snorting at the absurdity, I gestured around the room. "I tried. You brought me back."

"Your American sent you back," he corrected, "because he promised me that he would. Because he understands that love isn't everything, Christian."

"I think I liked Pisstian better."

"Duty comes first for me," he said, ignoring me.

"I know."

"So I have to maintain tradition until I don't have to maintain tradition. Do you hear what I'm saying to you?"

Phillip tilted his chin until I looked at him, finding a sudden and unexpected truth on his face that I'd never seen before. I replayed the conversation we'd just shared, even though I'd tried my best to ignore most of it while it was happening. I'd tuned my brother out so long ago, that I never even noticed when the words coming out of his mouth had shifted away from being a mimicry of our father's and into being something of his own.

"Phillip."

"Do you hear me?" He pushed himself into a standing position, knee cracking as he righted himself. Phillip adjusted all his cuffs and his hems, then smoothed his hair back as if it had dared to come out of place during our little emotionally stunted heart to heart.

"Why didn't you just tell me that before?" I asked, mouth falling slack as realization dawned.

"I thought we covered this already. I'm heir to the throne. I don't need to explain myself to anyone." He spun on his heel and strode toward the door, back straight and shoulders squared.

"I want a cell phone, Pip!" I shouted after him.

He stopped, hand on the doorknob. Years of repetition had conditioned me to expect a biting denial to my demand, but instead he answered me with one quick nod of his head. Phillip let himself out without another word.

We'd never been an I love you kind of family, but I'd seen as much of the confession in his concession than I ever had before. With the door closed between us, the air finally returned to the room and I sucked in a breath so deep it made me dizzy. My spine crumbled and my arms went tingly, and I fell onto my back, spreading out like a starfish on the floor. Staring up at the ceiling, I breathed easily because, for the first time in years, I felt like I had the tiniest semblance of control over my own life and that meant everything was going to turn out okay in the end.

Even if it turned out to not be true, I had no choice but to believe it.