Makeup dotted her dresser, some touched, some not—had she been forced here too?
More questions flickered in his head as he took in her jewelry and accessories and books.
Who was Genevieve Ruffin? And would she ever let him find out?
Would she—could she?—ever choose him willingly, or would he be yet another thing forced upon her?
As a prince, he knew all too well that choice was sometimes a privilege. He’d seen his father do so many things he hadn’t wanted to, simply because he was forced to. He’d certainly done plenty of those himself, and was in for a lifetime of more.
It suddenly occurred to him that whomever he married would be living that life too, moving from a life of some freedom to a more restricted one. Perhaps that was why Genevieve didn’t like him and had no interest in him.
And why did that thought make him so fucking sad?
He shook his head, then walked over to the closet door. He didn’t knock in case her mother were nearby and heard it, so instead he whispered, “Genevieve? Are you well?”
It was a stupid question; of course, she wasn’t well.
When she didn’t answer, he continued. “May I bring you anything? Help in some way?”
He heard sniffling behind the door, then coughing again. He glanced at her bedside table but the glass of water was almost empty. He’d scoped the house out a bit before coming to her room, so he knew where the bathroom was. Should he risk it to bring her more water?
Immediately, he thought yes. But thinking on the consequences some more gave him pause.
If he was caught, there would be a scandal. Her mother wasn’t the type to let things go, and she wouldn’t stop until they were forced to become engaged. His father, meanwhile, could push against the match and force him to deny any involvement with Genevieve, which meant that she’d be labeled as someone who had schemed for the throne (even though it wouldn’t be true) and that would ruin Genevieve’s life in the process.
Yet, as he listened to her in pain behind that door, he couldn’t help but think he should help her in any way he could.
So he grabbed the glass and listened at the door to her bedroom. Hearing nothing in the hall, he opened it slightly and heard a television on downstairs and sensed no movement upstairs. He quickly made his way next door to the bathroom, wincing as the floor creaked under his weight, filled the glass, and made it back to her bedroom without incident.
At the closet door, he whispered again. “Would you like some water? I refilled your glass for you in case you were thirsty.”
A moment later, he rushed back as the door flew open, some of the water spilling over the side onto his hand.
Her face was furious, one cheek redder than the other, and her voice was whispered yelling. “What were you thinking? What if my mother had seen you?”
She’d seemed defeated after the visit from her mother, but now he felt relief at her anger. He realized he liked her fighting, even if it was with him.
“I was thinking I could help you. Here.” He held out the glass to her.
For a moment he thought she wouldn’t accept it, as she walked around him to grab something from her dresser, but she returned with a handkerchief, handing it to him as she took the glass with her other hand.
“Thank you,” she whispered before she gulped down half the glass before pressing it to her redder cheek.
He dried his hands then, for a reason he couldn’t fathom, he slipped her handkerchief into his pocket. He had his own, of course, so he didn’t need hers at all, but this was the first thing she’d given him and he didn’t want to let it go.
In the blink of an eye, he’d become a thief. He hoped she didn’t notice.
She sighed as she removed the cool glass from her skin.
He stepped forward, making his intentions clear as he slowly raised his hand to cup her face, his thumb brushing gently over her cheek. “Does she often get violent with you?”
“Does it matter?”
He locked eyes with her. “It does to me.”
She merely shrugged.
“She was cruel to you.”
