Princess from the Shadows Maisey Yates Page 15

  She put her arms around him then and he realized he’d never shared his sadness with anyone before. Had never been held while he cried, or while he felt like crying. Not for as long as he could remember.

  He’d never had anyone to listen to him.

  He’d invited countless women into his bed, but not into him. He’d never shown anyone who he was. And now she knew. She knew how broken he was. That his own mother had left him, that his father had beaten him.

  That his parents had never loved him. His own parents.

  A violent pain stabbed at his heart. His own parents hadn’t loved him. What must be wrong with him? No wonder he’d ignored feeling for so many years. Damn his father for making him feel again. And Carlotta too.

  He pulled away from her, standing, his breath coming hard and fast, his entire body heavy, on fire, as though it were filled with hot lead. Burning him. Weighing him down.

  “Rodriguez …”

  “No,” he said sharply. “You can’t make this better. We’re not going to have a … a phone call reconciliation like you were able to do with your sister. It’s not fixable. It’s done.”

  He turned and walked off the beach. Cursing and kicking his shoes off when they filled with sand, walking the rest of the way to the car in his bare feet, the rocks biting into his flesh, his shoes abandoned.

  He got into the car and slammed the door. He waited until Carlotta slid in beside him. He started the engine and pulled out of the hospital lot, his entire body tight, on the verge of breaking.

  Neither of them spoke on the ride back to the palace. He wished she would. He wanted to draw strength from her and he hated himself for it. Hated the dependence.

  Hated that, somehow, he’d let his emotions start functioning again. And they were eating him alive now.

  He didn’t care that when he pulled into the palace courtyard he sprayed gravel on the lawn by turning too sharply. He didn’t care that the servants stared at him, openmouthed, when he walked through the halls, without shoes.

  He went into his room and closed the door firmly behind him. Never looking back. Hardly seeing anything.

  He wanted Carlotta. For all he knew she was still sitting down in the car. He wanted her with a ferocity that denied everything he believed about himself.

  But tonight, everything he’d tried to make himself was coming unraveled.

  No, not just tonight. From the first moment he’d seen Carlotta. Everything, the carefully laid plans, the vague concept of a wife he hardly noticed, one who didn’t interfere … it had all started to erode. And right now, he needed her so badly he couldn’t regret it.

  He tore open the door to his room and stalked down the hall, taking his shirt off and letting it fall to the marble floor as he did. He pushed open the door to Carlotta’s room without knocking.

  She whirled around, her eyes wide. She was wearing a cotton nightgown. One she’d probably just put on. He wanted it off.

  “I need you,” he said, the admission torn from him.

  She nodded slowly and moved across the room and into his arms, kissing him with just the right amount of pressure. Somehow she knew what he needed. She always knew.

  Her fingers skated over the skin on his back, teasing him, tantalizing him, getting him hot. Pushing away the conflicting knot of emotions with a fire of need that started to burn in his gut and spread through him, cleansing him. Making things seem clearer. Simpler.

  She kissed his neck, his collarbone, hands moving to his bare chest, skimming his nipples.

  He looked down at her lovely face, stoic with concentration. The burning in his stomach intensified.

  “Do you want me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes meeting his.

  “Not, do you want to fix me? Do you want me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  He held her away from his body, the desperation in him real, overtaking everything else. “I don’t want pity sex, dammit. I want you. I want you to want me. Like I want you. Not because you’re supposed to be my wife, or because you feel sorry me.”

  “From the moment I met you, I wanted you. You steal my control, Rodriguez. Wholly and completely,” she said, her voice steady. “And I want you now, just like I have every time. Not because anyone’s forcing me. As much as you need me right now, I need you just as much. If you told me I could walk away from this, from us, our marriage, right now, I wouldn’t. I’m in this with you. For life. I promised it, and I will keep that promise,” she vowed.

  “Make me forget.” He buried his face in her hair, breathing in heavily.

  “Don’t forget who you’re with.”

  “I want your face to be the only thing I can remember. Your touch. Your face. You, Carlotta, nothing else,” he said, lowering his head, pressing a kiss to her cleavage. “Please.”

  She stepped back and tugged the nightgown over her head, consigning it to the floor while he did the same with the rest of his clothes.

  He got into bed with her, sliding beneath the covers, the sheets soft on his skin, her bare body even softer.

  He ran his hands over her curves, inhaled her scent, so unique, so Carlotta. “I want you, Carlotta Santina,” he said. “Only you.”

  “I want you, Rodriguez Anguiano.” She pressed a kiss to his lips, her tongue sliding along the seam of his mouth.

  He put his hand beneath her bottom and she parted her thighs, granting him access. He slid into her hot, wet body, pleasure, emotion, crashing over him. He shuddered as she enveloped him, her arms, her legs, trapping him against her.

  They moved in rhythm, their breath blending, hearts pounding in time. She met each of his thrusts, her hands linked with his, fingers laced together.

  They reached the peak together, their sounds of pleasure mingling in the quiet room.

  And then he held her to him, his breathing fractured, harsh. His heart pounding, the fire in him burning even hotter now than before, edging everything out. Everything but the need for Carlotta, not for sex, that desire was satisfied for now. But for her. To be in her arms. In her bed. Just with her.

  Her legs tangled with his, her heavy, satisfied sigh bringing him even more pleasure than his climax had.

  For now, at least, things seemed good.

  And hopefully, by morning, he could have his walls rebuilt. Could turn off the emotion, the need, the deep, heavy desire for more than a man like him could ever hope to have.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I’M SORRY.”

  Carlotta opened her eyes and looked up into Rodriguez’s handsome, tormented face. Everything from the night before came flooding back.

  “Why?” she asked, rolling to her side, not caring that the sheets had fallen to her waist.

  “I was. not myself last night.”

  “You were in pain,” she said. “Your father …”

  “It’s still no excuse for how I spoke to you.”

  “Rodriguez, I’m not mad at you for that. I…. We hadn’t slept together in a week. I get that the timing looked a little bit suspect. But I did want you. I do. I don’t regret this part of our relationship at all.”

  “What about it do you regret?”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head, biting back the admission that was hovering on the edge of her lips. I regret that I love you, and you will never love me back.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you. If I did …”

  “Rodriguez, I’m not going to break,” she said. It was like speaking in code. She wondered if he knew she was talking about feelings, not her body. She wondered if he was talking about feelings.

  “That’s comforting to know,” he said, giving her a look that made her feel hot all the way down to her toes.

  “You should get ready,” she said.

  He nodded once and got out of bed, dragging his pants on and walking out of the door. He had to go back to his room so he could find a suit for the press conference. Get showered and presentable.

  Carlotta flung herself backward onto the
pillows and threw her arm over her face. “I’m such an idiot.” Even still, she smiled.

  Her phone vibrated from her purse on the floor and she rummaged around until she found it. “Hello?”

  “Carlotta, is that you?”

  Carlotta sat up again. “Mother? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know if you heard the news about Anna?”

  Her brother’s ex-intended, the woman he had ditched for his new fiancée, Allegra. “What about Anna?”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  Carlotta’s mouth dropped open. “No! She is?

  What is Alex going to do? Is he still going to marry Allegra or is he …?”

  “It’s not Alessandro’s baby,” Zoe said crisply.

  “Oh.” That truly shocked Carlotta since Anna was about as demure and predictable as they came. Not that that was a bad thing, truly. Carlotta had spent a long time wishing she’d stayed as buttoned up and predictable as sweet Anna. “So … who is …?”

  “Leo. Leo Jackson.”

  Carlotta snorted a laugh in spite of herself. “Those Jacksons.” Alex’s fiancée’s brother had now hooked up with Alex’s ex-fiancée. It was like a soap opera. And for the first time, she wasn’t the star. And yet, at the moment she didn’t really care.

  “Well, I hope she’s very happy with him.”

  “How can you say that?” Her mother sniffed. “Now we have no hope! If Alessandro is going to come to his senses—and he must—we needed all the help we could get. But now Anna is …”

  “Mother, he doesn’t love Anna.”

  “What does love have to do with anything?”

  Carlotta blew out a breath. Her mother, who had never shared a room with her husband, who would never dream of putting her own needs before duty, didn’t really shock her with the statement. And a month ago, Carlotta would have agreed. She’d agreed to marry Rodriguez without love after all.

  But now, now she knew differently.

  “Love has everything to do with it. Everything to do with life.”

  “You sound strange. Chipper.”

  “I am. I’m in love.” The admission freed her, made her feel light.

  “Please tell me it’s with Prince Rodriguez or I really will be apoplectic.”

  “It is, Mama,” she said, using the name she hadn’t called her mother by in years. “He’s wonderful. And I hope Alex and Allegra, and Anna and Leo, are as happy with each other as I am with him. Tell Anna congratulations if you see her.”

  “I will,” her mother said, clearly still not happy, but mollified. “Give Luca a kiss for me.”

  Carlotta’s heart suddenly felt too large for her chest. “I will. Promise.”

  She was tempted to tell her mother about Rodriguez’s father. But she didn’t really want to add to the burden.

  “Ciao.”

  “Ciao, Mama,” she said, hanging up the phone.

  Carlotta laughed into the empty room. Her mother had called her. About someone else’s scandal. She ranked as a confidante again.

  And she didn’t care. She was glad to speak to her mother, so happy not to feel the icy reserve anymore. To hear warmth, as much as her mother was capable of.

  But she didn’t care whether her mother approved of her. Whether her father approved of her. It didn’t matter. She was happy. Content. Luca was taken care of. She had balance in her life. She wasn’t hiding, wasn’t pretending to be someone she just couldn’t be. She wasn’t forgetting she was a woman, she was being both mother and wife. Well, eventual wife.

  And it was her life. No one else’s.

  She didn’t know why it had taken so long to figure that out. Why half of the guilt and baggage she carried around with her had to do with other people. The way they saw her. Whether or not they were happy with how she was living. For some reason, she’d bought into the idea that she somehow didn’t deserve love. That she couldn’t have it.

  But she did. She could.

  She rolled out of bed and went to her closet, hunting for what to wear. It was strange, the kind of freedom being in love with Rodriguez brought.

  Her supposed love for Gabriel had felt oppressive, secret and shameful even before she’d found out about his wife. But her love for Rodriguez had come spilling out of her. She hadn’t wanted to hide it.

  And he needed love. Even if he didn’t think he could ever give it back, he needed to feel some.

  She couldn’t grieve his father. Not knowing what he’d done to Rodriguez. Not knowing how he’d hurt him. How he’d taken a little boy’s world and filled it with fear and pain. She couldn’t erase the past, but she could help make a better future. For all of them.

  That started with supporting him while he gave the hardest speech he would ever have to give.

  Carlotta sat in the front row at the press conference, her heart in her throat, as she waited for Rodriguez to come and stand before them. Before her and the army of press who had assembled themselves at Santa Christobel’s palace for the second time that week.

  She wished she had some way to relieve the nervous tension in her body, but she didn’t want to fidget like a child in a room full of reporters with cameras.

  When Rodriguez strode in, she felt everyone in the room draw breath. She did too. He was wearing a black suit, less unruly than normal, but nowhere near respectable.

  He moved to the front of the room and held up a hand to silence the chatter. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Off his bearing, the authority he brought with him. Sometime in the past weeks, he’d changed.

  Or maybe he hadn’t changed. Maybe he was simply free to show the man beneath the layers of protection he had wrapped himself in.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he said. Then he looked at her, met her gaze. And he didn’t look away. “I know it has been in the news already, but I can confirm that my father, King Carlos Anguiano, passed away last night. It is the end of an era for Santa Christobel, and yet I hope we can look to the future. I pledge to rule our country with honor, with integrity and with all the strength I possess.”

  A murmur of agreement and a sweeping click of camera shutters went through the room.

  “And while this is a sad day,” Rodriguez continued, “I hope the sadness can be tempered by happy news. I recently learned that I have a son. An heir.”

  The wave of shocked noise that went through the crowd was short and sharp, and she realized she had gasped too. He didn’t mean. Had he fathered a child out of wedlock? Had he just found out? Her heart pounded so fast she was afraid it was going to drain the blood from her head. Afraid she might pass out cold.

  Rodriguez waited for everyone to quiet again and she clasped her hands together, squeezing them tight, trying hard to keep her vision from tunneling.

  “Luca Santina is my son, with Princess Carlotta Santina, my fiancée, who I know you’ve already met. He is heir to the throne of Santa Christobel. And he is now to be called Prince Luca Santina Anguiano. He has my name. My protection.”

  It was hard to breathe. And it was hot. So hot in this tiny, blasted room. The roar of the press was deafening and she could feel them pressing in closer. Nearer to Rodriguez. To her. She couldn’t force her thoughts into order.

  Finally, a woman in the back was able to make herself heard over the din. “He is … your son?”

  “Yes,” Rodriguez said, his voice clipped. “I am Luca’s father. I think that’s fairly clear based on my previous statements. Are there any other questions?”

  The room exploded with noise and Carlotta could only sit and listen to it all happening around her.

  “How long have you known?”

  “When did your affair with the princess begin?”

  “Why didn’t you claim him years ago?”

  A reporter rushed over to her where she was sitting. “Princess, how did you bring yourself to forgive Prince Rodriguez for leaving you pregnant and alone?”

  “I … I didn’t need to …”

  The man pressed. “Or wer
e you simply not certain if he was the father, or if it was another man?”

  She felt her cheeks get hot, her entire body shivering from the inside out. Anger, fear and the intense desire to hide from the intensity of the scrutiny. She hated this. More than almost anything else, she hated being at the center of the frenzy.

  A reporter on her other side grabbed her arm, turning her to face him. “Does this mean the only Santina bastard is no longer a bastard?”

  There was no air. There was just a teeming throng of suit jackets crushing in on her. Elbows in her face as all the reporters jockeyed for position, as they tried to be the first one to ask the questions, to come up with the most lurid, insulting, vile comments imaginable.

  She was pinned in her chair, bodies in front of her and behind her, pressing in. She just wanted to cover her head and hide until they went away, but she couldn’t move even that much.

  “Everyone move back,” she said. The roar of questions was deafening, a sound wall that defeated her.

  “Move back.” Rodriguez’s voice cut through the noise and the reporters began to move away as he physically pushed them away from her.

  His dark eyes were on fire with intensity as he grabbed one man, the first one to put his hands on her, and pulled him back forcibly. The other man started to move back in but Rodriguez took hold of him again, his upper lip curled into a snarl. “I said move back, or you may not ever move again.”

  This time the reporter didn’t challenge him. The entire crowd seemed to shrink beneath Rodriguez’s rage, moving away from her. She could breathe again.

  “You have all forgotten that Princess Carlotta Santina is royalty. She is my future wife, your future queen. You will all hand in your press badges as you leave. What happens with them later, whether or not you will see them returned, will be decided at my convenience. For now, all you need to know is that Luca is my son. Carlotta is my fiancée. There is no salacious story beneath that. You will give them both the respect they are due.”

  He was lying. For her. For Luca. He was doing so much more than giving Luca his name. He was claiming him in the most unbreakable, unquestionable way. Taking the birthright from his future biological children and bestowing it onto her son.