I don’t know if it’s the emptiness of being emotionally drained.I don’t know if it’s Loch’s maddening combination of pushing me away and supporting me.
But I find myself walking directly up to the paparazzi.
“Kris?” Loch realizes I haven’t followed him and pivots after me. “What are you—”
“Hey. You’re from24 Hour Fête?” I stop in front of one reporter I recognize. Not enough to know or care about the guy’s name. Coal probably knows, but they’re one reason our lives sucked so much. Now here they are, ruining Loch’s life the same way, making it easier for Malachy to keep control of his Holiday and feed Loch lies about who he is until hebelievesthem, he sits there and thinks he’s a screw-up, thinks he can’t do anything right—
My eyes burn, but I hold my ground.
The reporter’s surprise shifts to interest almost immediately. His gaze cuts around before he goes, “Kristopher,” no title, no weirdness to give anything away in public. The fiddle music helps drown us out too.
“Asshole,” I say back.
The guy’s brows go up.
The other reporters, three of them, have recording devices out now.
Yeah,Prince Kristopherdoesn’t act like this.Prince Kristopherfades into the background andPrince Kristopheris a nonexistent, anxiety-riddled pushover.
Well, maybe I’m sick as fuck of beingPrince Kristopher.
Loch leans close to me from behind. “What are you—”
“I’ve learned a lot from my short time in Ireland,” I say to the reporter. “Mostly that first impressions are hardly ever right and often conceal a far more complex story. We do ourselves a disservice by only seeing things through one narrow lens. Loch taught me that, how St. Patrick’s Day is generally dismissed as a Holiday of drinking and green beer, but it’s a Holiday of Irish cultural heritage and unification. We never get to see that part because we’re taught to focus on the headline-grabbing bits—like you’ve done with Loch. He’s loyal and dedicated, and he does more for this Holiday thananyone knowsbecause no one ever reports on that.You’ve been following us around these past few days and you’ve been obsessing over him for even longer, but have you paid attention to what he does? To who heis? Stop being so lazy and try reporting thetruthfor once.”
I spin away, leaving them slack-jawed.
That did nothing to vent any of my shit and only made me feelmore,feelstupid—
Loch grabs my arm. I fight him off, but he keeps ahold and hauls me into the tent.
The music slams into us, what was muffled by canvas now roaring. He drags me over to the side, towards a group of tables that are empty because everyone is dancing, the tent packed with people centered around a stage up front. No one looks at us, no one bats an eye; the reporters don’t even follow us in. I’m still unused to Holiday events not somewhat centering around the ruling family, and the anonymity is jarring.
We weave through the tables until we’re in the farthest corner, then Loch rounds on me.
He’s still holding my arm, and despite the layers of clothes, the skin there goes to froth.
But he doesn’t say anything. He wants to, his mouth bobbing, and him being on the back foot brings him into focus, the man behind his facade.
Suddenly, seeing him like this isn’t upsetting. It’s a privilege.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says quickly. A toppled rush.
Heat crawls up my face and I drop my eyes to the floor. “Probably made things worse.” I relive everything I said and wince. “Shit. I shouldn’t have—”
Loch tightens his hold on my arm and I look back up at him.
His eyes coast over my brows and dip down, to the space between my parted lips. That awareness zaps through me, brings my body to attention in an involuntary lurch.
The fiddle music rises and rises, then crashes in a slam of percussion.
“Do you dance?” he asks.
My head tics in confusion. “What?”
Without taking his eyes off me, he nods at the crowd, the noise of the tent, the cadence of celebrating, and repeats, “Do you dance?”
That’swhat he’s asking? That’s what he wants to talk about?
