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“But that’s crazy,” I say finally, laughing in an effort to break through the tension. After a few seconds, Jameson joins in, as well. “Hayes Barlow’s been presumed dead for years. And Charles Thacker looks nothing like him.”
“Precisely, Your Highness,” Silas says with a small bow before giving Jameson what appears to be a look of warning. “No need to worry.” His lips curl into something resembling a smile, but it falls short on his face. “The man responsible is dead and you’re still in one piece.”
I hold my head high, despite the unease filling me that neither Silas nor Jameson seem all too happy about that fact.
“Yes. I am.”
ChapterThirty-Three
Esme
I scanmy laptop screen as I bring my teacup to my lips, the world quiet in the predawn hours.
This has become part of my routine lately.
Crawl into bed utterly exhausted, only to be woken up a short time later after having that same dream yet again. Toss and turn for hours, then eventually get out of bed and make a tea.
Normally, I disappear into the den and watch a movie or show with lots of humor and low drama. These days, my life has enough drama.
But after Jameson Gates’ strange behavior during the medal ceremony today, I wanted to do some digging. So instead of spending a few hours watching TV in the den, I slipped into my office and opened up my laptop to run a search on Charles Thacker.
As expected, thousands of hits come back. While some are from his news site, the top results are all stories about the assassination attempt, as they’re calling his attack. It’s the first time I’ve looked into him on my own. I re-live the few seconds this man held a gun in front of me every minute of every day. I haven’t felt the need to torture myself further.
But as I click on the first article, a part of me wishes I had. Because there’s something off about the photo of Charles Thacker displayed in the article.
Sure, his features are mostly the same. Taken as a whole, it looks like him. But his eyes are lacking that sinister quality that left me frozen. That haunt my dreams every night.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell myself as I run a hand over my face. “It’s a photo, for crying out loud. Not like his eyes can be threatening in a goddamn photo.”
I return my attention to the article in the hopes of learning a bit more about Charles Thacker than I’ve been told. The column details the events that led to the assassination attempt. How I gave a speech encouraging people to give back during this difficult time of year. How I surprised everyone by volunteering at the soup kitchen.
How I took a few minutes to talk to reporters as I left.
How a man known for his vocal anti-monarchy stance pulled a gun on me.
How a brave member of my protection team was shot when he tackled me to the ground, saving me from what would have been my death.
The article goes on to talk about the Cross of Valor ceremony earlier today, complete with a photo. It stops me cold, my gaze fixated on the image in front of me.
The heat and hunger in Creed’s eyes as he admires me jumps off the screen. It’s the way all women hope a man will look at her. So much affection and devotion. As if I’m the only woman who matters to him.
“There you are.”
At the interruption, I suck in a sharp breath, darting my head up as Tristan steps into my office, hair disheveled, eyes reflecting his lack of sleep.
My chest tightens, heat crawling up my face. It’s not like he caught me doing something I shouldn’t have been. I was simply reading a few articles about my attack.
But I still feel guilty.
Probably because I was thinking about another man when Tristan walked in.
Another man I almost kissed mere days ago.
Another man who’s become the only person I feel comfortable around.
“I couldn’t sleep.” I give him a half-hearted smile.
“Again?”
