Page 123 of Scarred Crown

I breathe out a sigh of contentment and relief. Tomorrow Nick will know, and everything will be okay.

“Lunch?” Nick asks. “I’m starving.”

Jules

Twelve years ago

My roommate, Dru, has dragged me out to the bar with a bunch of the other girls from our dorm. I have an essay due on Monday, so I’m not drinking, but I did agree to come out.

Already, I’m regretting it.

At the bar in the center of the building, Prince Nicholas is holding court, surrounded by a bus of crown bunnies, and my roommate is angling to become one of them.

“I’m not introducing you,” I say for the hundredth time. “Just walk over and join the crowd. I guarantee he won’t mind.”

“Come on, Julia. Why are you so resistant to hooking me up? You went to high school with him. Your mom is the king’s secretary. You must know him well enough to walk over and introduce me.” Dru flicks her long dark hair over her shoulder.

“I don’t know him well enough,” I say with a shrug. Not anymore, anyway. So far Dru and I have gotten along, but if she keeps trying to wrangle an introduction to Prince Nicholas, we’ll develop a rift. In high school, I didn’t tolerate anyone using me to get to Nick, and I won’t tolerate anyone using me to get to Prince Nicholas either.

Sometimes being fame adjacent sucks.

Dru releases a huff of annoyance, but then she flags down some guys she recognizes from the soccer team, and all is forgiven. We dance, and they drink, and by the end of the night, I’m probably the only sober person in the whole place.

Prince Nicholas has stuck his tongue down at least three girls’ throats. Is that how you get oral herpes? I’ll have to look it up later. Really, I’m doing Dru a favor by keeping him away from her.

“Dance?” A tall, broad soccer player I’ve caught giving me the once over a few times has his hand extended to me. He sways slightly on his feet.

He’s cute. I’m bored. The night is drawing to a close, and the dance tracks have switched to slow songs to encourage people to hook up here before hooking up elsewhere. We won’t be hooking up—one-night-stands with drunk guys have yet to satisfy me—but I’m not opposed to an end-of-the-night make-out session on the dance floor if he plays his cards right.

On the dance floor, he draws me into his arms, and when I try to keep a little distance between our bodies, he tightens his grip. I shift uncomfortably, but I don’t say anything. I’ve learned drunk guys are better to appease than to fight most of the time.

“You look so fucking hot in that tiny skirt.” His bitter breath stirs my hair, and the stench of beer swirls around me.

One of his hands snakes up my leg, and I bat him away with a laugh. Some guys have a sense of humor, and they’ll laugh with me, make a joke about trying their luck. Not this guy. It appears I’ve fallen down a hot, humorless hole.

The next time his hand comes back, it’s firmer, more insistent. I stall his hand and try to make eye contact with him so he’ll know I’m serious. But he doesn’t allow any space between our bodies, and I’m as rigid as a board, much like the boner in his pants.

“You cannot wear a skirt like that and be a frigid bitch,” he mutters. “Should be illegal.”

“My clothing isn’t illegal.” My voice is tight. “You trying to touch me when I don’t want you to, is.”

A hand lands on my dancing partner’s shoulder. “Go fuck off somewhere else, Cam.”

I raise startled eyes to Nick, and I can’t decide if I’m breathing a sigh of relief or trepidation. We haven’t spoken in months.

“Come on, Prince Nicholas. You can’t get all the hot chicks,” Cam says.

“Julia is not some hot chick. Her mother works for my father. Get your hands off her or I’ll gladly remove them. And learn to read some fucking body language.” Nick yanks him off me. “When a girl is uncomfortable, you leave them the hell alone.”

Rather than squaring up to Cam when he stumbles back, Nick nods over his shoulder to the two plainclothes security people who follow him everywhere. One of the men leads a drunk Cam toward the exit.

“Must be handy to have your own bouncers,” I say.

Without a word, Nick tugs me into his arms so we’re dancing. “No need to thank me, Jensen. It’s nothing. Don’t mention it.”

I’m not sure I could mention anything else even if I wanted to. At the close contact, my heart thuds an unsteady beat in my ears. He still smells the same—a tangy freshness that takes me back to starry nights, and dark movie theaters.

Why wouldn’t he smell the same? It only feels like we haven’t been friends for decades.