Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
There was something to be said for breathing the air he’d known since he was born, though.
For seeing people smiling, happy to see him, even if he was just a concept to them, an idea they adhered to.
Maybe he should just be happy he had a solid future waiting for him, and stop complaining over his childish daydreams.
He made it back and through the main gates just as the central courtyard was clearing out—equipment being shuttled on dollies toward the wing of the mostly-empty castle set aside for filming, people being shuffled in Maxwell’s wake toward the wing reserved for the sudden influx of guests. Cillian caught the tail end of Brendan’s scarf disappearing through an archway, and then he was gone, and Cillian wished he hadn’t just stood there when he could have run to him, followed him, held on tight and at least not hurt alone.
Instead he stood on the snow-dotted slate, these massive walls rising all around him and making him feel so very small, insignificant.
“I’m home,” he whispered.
And nothing had ever tasted more bitter.
l
BRENDAN LAY IN A COLD stone chamber while the winds of night whipped against the windows and rattled them in their frames. He stared up at the ceiling, distant and made of shadows in the faint firelight from the hearth. The bed was too large, too much space, and Brendan…
Brendan wondered when he’d lost the knack for sleeping alone.
And wondered just where Cillian might be, in this strange place that had swallowed them whole until Brendan didn’t even know where to look to find him.
l
WHEN CILLIAN DIDN’T SHOW FOR rehearsal the next morning, though—
Brendan’s imagination was not particularly kind.
He straggled down in the gray dawn-lit morning to the banquet hall that had been set aside as a meeting place, service tables laid out and piled with food, people milling among them and talking to each other. Newcomb was nowhere in sight.
Neither was Cillian.
And Brendan sought out Sophie, catching her at the coffee dispenser. “Sophie. Cillian’s not with you?”
She blinked up at him, pausing in dipping a oversized chocolate chip cookie into her coffee cup. “No—I wasn’t worried because I thought he’d be with you, but I haven’t seen him since last night.”
Fuck.
Brendan flashed her a quick, tight smile. “Thank you,” he said, and broke free, scanning for Drake. He was probably being paranoid; just because both Newcomb and Cillian were unaccounted for didn’t mean anything had happened. He wouldn’t—not here, not right in front of Cillian’s family.
No sign of Drake…but he caught Maxwell emerging from the arched doorway at the end of the chamber, hands folded stiffly behind his back. Brendan twisted through clusters of people to catch up with Maxwell.
“Where’s Cillian?” he demanded.
Maxwell gave him a long, disapproving look. “I had just come to inform everyone His Highness is not feeling well. You’re welcome to relax and enjoy the amenities while he recovers.”
Brendan only half heard the last sentence, as he brushed past Maxwell and thrust himself through the door.
He had no idea where he was going in this maze; he strode quickly through stone corridors, searching for anything that hinted at residential suites, more lived-in areas.
“Cillian…?” he called softly. Maybe if Cillian heard him, called back… “Cillian!”
Maxwell materialized at his shoulder like a ghost. A thin-lipped, slit-eyed look slid over Brendan, before Maxwell sighed deeply.
“His quarters are this way,” he said, and brushed past Brendan and down the hall.
Brendan tried not to bristle—and pulled his composure into place as he turned to follow Maxwell through the dim-lit halls of stone.
Why had he gotten so worked up, anyway?
They walked in stiff silence for some time. Brendan glanced at Maxwell. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
“Whether I like you or dislike you is irrelevant,” Maxwell said thinly. “I only worry about your influence on His Highness. That you will tempt him away from his responsibilities.”
“I’m not trying to tempt him away from anything,” Brendan said. “It’s just a fling, Maxwell. It’ll be over by the time we finish filming.”
So why did saying that out loud feel like a dull spike had been driven into his chest?
They’d entered better-lit, more modernized areas of the castle interior by now, and Maxwell stopped outside an unmarked door, turning to face Brendan.
“See that it is,” he clipped out. “I’ve been in service to the Tell family for some time, Mr. Lau. And I could not abide the heartbreak their Majesties the Queen and King might endure were their youngest to be a disappointment.”
Something about the almost proprietary way Maxwell spoke made Brendan’s blood burn. “A disappointment to whom?” he asked. “Because maybe they should be more worried about disappointing him.”
Maxwell only twitched his moustache at him disdainfully with a long, insistent stare, before sniffing and turning to rap his knuckles on the door. “Your Highness? Are you awake? Mr. Lau is here for you.”