“I’ll swim back to shore.”
“I thought you said it was a strong current.”
“I can do it.”
“No way. Liam—that seems like a bad idea.”
“Fuck. I’ve got to get you off the island.”
“Maybe we should try to take the boat,” I suggest.
Liam wraps me tightly in his arms and holds me against him. “Lucy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“No… It’s not your fault.” I stroke his arms and touch his bleeding lip. “It’s not your fault, Liam. None of this is your fault.”
“You don’t know.”
“I do know. I had to listen to those idiots for hours.”
Liam is shaking. “I was so scared…”
“Me too.”
“That I’d lost you,” he rasps. “So scared. Lucy…let’s sit down. I’ll leave in just a minute. I can find a place to hide you here.”
I think he’s still talking, but I can’t hear his words. Not over the roar of a helicopter. White and navy blue—just like Liam’s private jet.
Liam jumps up so fast my eyes can’t track him, picking up the broken boat and rushing toward the shore. He pushes it into the water, and the helicopter flies over it.
Trying to get their attention, I realize.
I hurry down the beach behind him. When the helicopter drops a rope, Liam shakes his head and waves his arms.
“I can hold on,” I shout.
“Can’t risk it! Hang on, okay?” He kisses my cheek. “Just hold on, Lucy.”
The ladder is drawn up. A minute later, a stretcher is lowered.
“I’m not lying down and dangling from a helicopter!”
“What if I lie down with you?”
“Can we do that?” I’m crying now, from sheer exhaustion.
“Yeah, Lucy.” He holds me close to his chest. “We can. Here, I’ll show you how.”
I see the bottom of the helicopter, with its Gael insignia, in my dreams, and hear its loud blades. I feel Liam’s arms wrapped around me, and I never know if that’s the dream or real life.
EPILOGUE
Lucy
“When you’re about to give birth to a little prince, you need a lot of clothes!”
“We’re living in a cabin, Am, beside a remote lake. We almost never leave unless it’s going sailing. I don’t think he needs four versions of the same gown. Even though it’s very beautiful and thoughtful,” I add gently.
Amelia hmphs over the phone line. “Well, I’m getting two, because the BOGO sale. So there. One blue, one white.”
I can’t help laughing at my BFF. She’s gone shopping crazy, ever since we found out at twenty weeks that Ollie is a boy.
“Are you still going with Oliver Willahelm?”
“Sadly for poor Ollie, yes.” I smile. “I want to name him after Liam.”
“Last name Clary?”
“You know it is.”
“I just feel like it should be Gael.”
I laugh. “I’ll let Liam know that. Maybe when he takes over what duties he’s going to take over, he can put in a petition to change the royal surname.” Then I snort, because of course not.
Amelia sighs. “When are y’all coming back across the pond? I want to see you with my eyes and not a picture.”
“We’re thinking of flying over one last time when I’m thirty-two weeks.”
“So—in two weeks?”
I grin. “Yep.”
“You better send a new bump picture!”
“If you send me more storyboard for the movie, it’s a deal.”
“Deal,” Amelia says.
I push the table beside my rocking chair in front of me, and put my feet up, looking out at the lake where Liam’s kayaking. I’d been going with him every day until this week. I’m just so tired—and huge.
“So how are things?” Amelia asks.
“Still really good. Which you would know if you ever emerged from that studio of yours at a time we’re both awake.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m just kidding.”
“Not entirely.”
“That’s true,” I admit. “I do miss you.”
Three weeks after news about the Sheep Island shooting got out—it broke Twitter and set off a worldwide obsession with Liam and me—Liam and I said a temporary “goodbye” and he moved into the largest tree house on Pirate Island. He brought a small staff with him—rehab nurses, a therapist, and a mindfulness guru—and he stayed there with them for three weeks while I visited my family in Concord and appeared as a guest on The Rhodes of Concord, spilling all the beans I could, from Bryce to baby Clary to my new romance with Liam.
My family’s press advisers correctly theorized that the more the public knew in the wake of Sheep Island, the less they’d want to know. They’d feel in the loop. Thank God for Liam and me, they turned out to be right.
I was able to say just a little about Bryce because it turns out Bryce himself made our NDA null and void; he released the pictures of me. A friendly reporter at TMZ—okay, maybe more greedy than friendly, given what Liam paid the guy—squealed the email address the images were sent from.
It wasn’t hard for my lawyers’ private eye to trace it back to Bryce. Apparently, he thought I “didn’t look that bad” in the images, and was betting that if people saw me looking roughed up, they’d assume we’d had a fight—a fight in which I’d struck him, too.
And this is why Bryce has been in a psychiatric facility the last few months.
After Liam’s at-home rehab, he and I stuck to Gael until about mid-pregnancy, welcoming my parents over to Haugr Castle, then Frank and Frieda from the ranch in Estes, followed by Amelia, and then Mags and Charley. Then we spent a few weeks back in Georgia.
During all this time, the parliament in Gael was organizing royal reform—and coming to grips with Liam’s company. After what happened, Liam had lots of processing to do, and one thing his new therapist advised was being as honest as was logical and possible about his life and wants.
Needless to say, since the day Liam publically claimed his company, the apps have been selling like crazy. Just last week, they released a new one that utilizes satellite signal to track cell phones, even after they’ve been broken or submerged in water.
It’s a simple spin on the type of technology Heath used to track Liam’s phone to Sheep Island after he got the sketchy text. Apparently something about the punctuation threw him off and made him think the text was sent by hand, and not the voice-to-text Liam uses. The masked man Ronald and Drucilla Gibson hired to jump Liam in the beachside parking lot ignored directions they had also given him to use the voice-to-text feature. And thank God he did.
Turns out, Ronald Gibson was a bastard son of King Gregory’s father, the first Gregory. He’d been harboring his royal ambitions since childhood. The saddest thing? King Gregory knew all about the lunatic, but he and Liam are so not close, Liam himself was left wide open for the blackmail setup. He didn’t feel like he could approach his father and ask about his birth.
Even now, after several months of therapy, their relationship is strained. But Liam is working on it. Working on his end of things if nothing else. After Liam’s mom’s death and before King Gregory married his new wife, he had an alcohol problem. And then a drug problem. And apparently, he’s had issues with both during his entire royal tenure. They’ve been hidden by the press, but yeah…
That he treated little Liam the way he did is not surprising, objectively at least. But it still makes me really, really sad.
I give Am the Liam update without spilling too many private details. It’s true he’s doing really well, just like it’s also true he has his moments where he’s really sad—or angry—about his early years.
“Mostly, he’s just moving on, you know?”
“That’s good. That’s really good.”
I think it’s easier with Oliver and me. “Also, living on Pirate Island for a little while. I think it keeps
both of us focused on the basics.”
“Do you think you guys will stay there after Ollie comes?” she asks.
“No. I still think we’ll move into Haugr Castle. Maybe hit this place up on weekends.”
“But no America?” Amelia asks me in a woeful tone.
“Not until the parliament decides for sure when Gregory’s term will end and Liam’s will start. But when they do, we’ve talked about coming over to the States for half a year or so. So everyone can bond with Ollie.”
“Good. That makes me happy.”
I watch Liam get out of his bright green canoe and pull his shirt over his head. Damn, and now I’m happy too.
“Are you listening, girlie?”
“No,” I admit.
“You’re distracted.”
“Yes.”
Liam is walking up the path from the lake water to our cabin. Swathed in fog and dripping sweat, he looks delicious enough to lick.
“Is he finished with canoeing?” Amelia asks me.
“Kayaking. And…maybe. I think he is.”
“What a hussy.”
“Catch you later?”
Am sighs. “Sure. Enjoy yourself. And call me soon.”
“Always.”
Liam is wearing black basketball shorts and Keen kayaking shoes. His hair, still short, is sticking up a little in the front, damp from where he probably pushed it off his forehead. His lips curve as his hazel eyes meet mine. When he smiles fully for me, his bearded cheeks round out.
I smile back, as much at the face I’ve come to love as at his amazing chest and shoulders.
For a prince, he looks an awful lot like a woodsman.
When he reaches the porch, he gives me a cocky smile and leans down, kissing my hair. I want a kiss on the lips, so I grab the back of his neck. Liam knows what I want and crouches down in front of me.
“I’m sweaty,” he warns, leaning in. His lips brush the corner of my mouth.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Mr. Clary…”
“Shouldn’t that be prince?” he teases. His scruff tickles my cheek, making my body tingle.
“Prince Liam.” I press my lips gently to his, and Liam pulls me out of my chair, so I’m standing in front of him. He’s crouched and holding both my hands.
“You’ve got a prince down on his knees, Lucille…”
“Right where I want him.” As his mouth covers me through the fabric of my skirt, I grip his short hair, grab his shoulder.
“Liam… Oh God.”
“I’m just a prince, Luce. Not a god.” He lifts my skirt, pushes my panties aside, and challenges his own assertion, worshipping my body with his lips and tongue, scratching my soft thighs with his beard.
I can’t stand up—my knees buckle. Liam picks me up and carries me, lamb-style, to our modest, queen-sized bed, the one he says he loves because I have to sleep so close to him.
He spreads me out atop the duvet like a meal over a table, climbing in between my legs, where he takes his time peeling off my clothing, one item by one. Then he eases me onto my side, props a pillow behind me, and licks my pussy like a starving man.
I come twice—hard and loud—and leave him grinning, with a giant boner. I reach for it, petting through the fabric of his basketball shorts.
“What have we here?” I murmur.
I take my time teasing him through his pants, reaching up along his bare thigh so I can brush up against him with the side of my hand. By the time I pull his pants down and his boxer-briefs off, Liam is rock-hard, his head pointed toward his navel and his balls drawn slightly up.
“Crown jewels,” I tease him, cupping them.
“All yours,” he breathes.
Over the next two months, he shows me that it’s true. Liam picks me flowers, cooks my favorite foods, even cleans our little cabin—or tries to—when I’m feeling extra tired.
We move into a home in Clary for the last month of my pregnancy, so we can be near the royal OBGYN. March in costal Gael is sunnier than I expected, cold but not too cold. Liam spoils me with designer gowns and jackets tailored just for me and baby Ollie.
The month passes in a steady stream of visitors, from Amelia to my sisters. A week before I’m due, Liam and I drive up toward the mountains on a mystery excursion, which ends with me picking out a foal from the royal stables near his father’s castle.
As we’re getting in the car, we’re startled by a knock on Liam’s window. I know in the span of a heartbeat that it’s Liam’s father, King Gregory. He looks a lot like Liam, except with gray-blue eyes and darker, salt and pepper hair.
Liam mutters something, but he rolls his window down. “Father.”
“Liam—and Lucille. How are both of you?”
I think the king is keen on making up with Liam before the baby comes. I know he invited us to share in the Christmas festivities, which is why we went to the states instead.
“No bad,” Liam says. “Just picking out that foal for Lucy.”
“Which one did you like?” he asks me.
My cheeks heat up with my nerves. “The brown one. The Arabian.”
“Good choice.” He looks from me to Liam. “That will be Oliver’s?”
Liam nods. “It’s like I told you. Lucy wants to keep Eeyore.” He smiles at me.
“What? He’s a good horse.”
I realize slowly, as we talk, that Liam has been in touch with his father. When we leave, two hours later, having had tea in a beautifully appointed parlor with Liam’s stepmother, Liam gives me a sheepish smile.
“You didn’t tell me you’d been talking to him.”
He shrugs. “Just a few times on the phone. Nothing major.” He drums his fingers on the wheel as we head back toward Clary. “He said he was sorry.”
“Did he.”
Liam nods.
“And?”
He shrugs again. “It seemed sincere I guess.”
“Wow. That’s good. I’m really glad.”
Liam takes my hand, and we listen to music on the drive back. Late that night, when we’re spooning in bed, Liam’s lips on the back of my neck, his length against my bare thigh, he whispers, “It’s your fault.”
“What is?”
“That I talked to him. I did it for you.”
“What?”
He wraps an arm around me, settling it underneath my breasts and above my baby bump. “Lucy… You make me want to be…better. Braver.”
I turn toward him, laughing at the effort required. I cup his face and kiss his jaw. “You are brave. I don’t think that’s a problem. Or has ever been.”
Later that night, after a midnight bathroom break, I remember what I told him in the bed and hope I’m right, that both of us are brave.
Because… “My water broke.”
* * *
Liam
Lucy in labor is incredible.
Incredibly terrible.
Incredibly amazing.
We’ve got a driver on standby to take us to the hospital, just a few blocks from where we’re staying. On the way, we pass the empty flat of one Drucilla Gibson. I take comfort in knowing she’s in prison, joined not long ago by her father, finally released from rehab for the gunshot to his chest.
There was a time when I felt panicked driving by her flat. Embarrassed—that it all came out: the way I was manipulated. I find as I hold Lucy’s hands and coach her on her breathing that I don’t care anymore.
I’m not sure if I’m surprised or not…but Lucy labors fast. And loud. We’ve only been in our labor suite for five hours when the doctor agrees it’s time to push.
She squeezes my hand, and I can feel the blood drain from my face.
“Liam—it’s okay.”
“It’s going well,” the doctor tells me. “She’s doing a great job.”
Meaning there’s no chance she’s going to die pregnant, the way my mother did. I nod, and try to put away my nervousness. I shut my eyes and ask my mother, like some patron saint, to oversee my son’
s safe birth.
In an hour, I stare down at Lucy as she cradles a fat-cheeked, pink newborn on her bare chest. He’s got dark hair, just a little wavy like his mother’s, and his dad’s dimple.
Lucy laughs when she looks up at me.
“Oh my God. I had a baby!”
I lean down and kiss her cheek. “I’ve got a present for you—sometime. Maybe when we get home.”
“What? You can’t tease me like that.” She smiles down at Oliver. “Just kidding,” she murmurs. “You can. I don’t need another present.”
That night, as she dozes with our son, I hope and pray she doesn’t mean that.
In my pocket, I’ve got something heavy. Something I got from my father just a couple days before we saw him at the stables. I can’t sleep because the weight of it is crushing me. The weight of Lucy’s answer. I’ve waited a long time to ask her. But I felt like we needed time.
That night, before I manage to drift off, I take the time to write three drafts of a short letter. Using voice to text inside the tiny hospital bathroom, I get a map of what the words should look like, and have decent luck mimicking them:
I thought I’d end this the way you started it: with crown jewels. I love you Lucy. Will you marry me?
I want to ask her in the privacy of Haugr Castle.
It takes us four days to get there. The first time Lucy slips into the bathroom, leaving Ollie in my arms so she can get a shower, I pull out the folded note and also, my mom’s emerald.
She and Lucy share a birth-month. The oval-shaped ring is one I picked out for her, a gift for her last birthday.
I want to come up with a fun surprise for Luce, but I’m not good at things like that. When Ollie falls asleep, I lie him in his bassinet and tuck the note against his soft, blue gown. I hold the ring up to his hand, curious to see if it is big enough to slide over his tiny wrist.
It’s not.
But Ollie reaches out and grabs it. He falls back asleep with the ring enclosed in his fist. I can’t help laughing.
Lucy walks out in a new, red robe, a soft smile on her mouth.
“What’s funny?”
I can’t help beaming at her, then laughing again, out of nervousness.