I was wrong. Even in jeans and a T-shirt, Sutton looked every bit the part of a king.
We passed the coffee shop where I used to sit with Mama and plot surprise birthday parties for Dad. Sutton turned to go inside, dragging me with him. The familiar warm scent and inviting feeling washed over me as soon as we stepped inside. Women chatted over tables, holding their cell phones in front of them and sharing images, I assumed. A man typed away on his laptop while sipping coffee and picking away tiny bites of a large blueberry muffin. A barista called out names over the counter while espresso machines buzzed and whirred beside her.
I looked up at Sutton as we waited at the end of a long line that he could have easily walked straight to the front of. “What are you doing?”
His grin made my heart melt. “Giving you normal.”
A woman not much younger than me stood in line in front of us. She turned at the sound of Sutton’s voice. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open. She nodded in a quick bow as though it suddenly dawned on her that she was standing before royalty. I doubted seeing a king in line at a coffee shop was an everyday occurrence. I also doubted much of the world knew about King Phillipe’s death yet. If they did, no one spoke of it. To them, Sutton was still just a prince.
Just a prince.
Sutton was never just anything.
She held up her cell phone. “Do you mind if I get a picture?”
He smiled and pulled me close. “Of course not.”
I shoved at his side. “Oh no. I’m not… I think she meant just you—”
He pinned me with that intense gaze that made it nearly impossible to challenge him, even though that was exactly what every single part of me itched to do. Before I could open my mouth, he nodded toward the woman with the camera phone. “Smile.”
Chatter buzzed around us as the woman snapped our picture. Flashes went off in the distance.
She bounced on her toes and immediately started typing into her phone. “This is so awesome.”
From behind us someone else said, “Katarina Bellizzi and Sutton Thorne. What a fucking power couple.”
Who were these people? How did they know my name?
I suddenly wanted nothing more than to be back at the castle, tucked away in Sutton’s arms. As if he read my thoughts, he circled his arm around my waist and pulled me to his chest. He brought his mouth to the top of my head, placing a gentle kiss there.
“We can leave,” he offered.
I nodded.
He took my hand and guided me to the exit. Right as we reached the door, a man stopped us, blocking the way out.
“It’s about fucking time you put a Bellizzi on the throne. Too bad your father couldn’t see it.”
Sutton tucked my head into his chest and barged straight past the man blocking the door.
So much for normal.
Twenty-Seven
The next several days seemed to drag on for an eternity. The only time I saw Sutton was at night when he slipped under my covers long after I’d fallen asleep. During the day, he was swarmed with his duties as the new sovereign. The world now knew of King Phillipe’s death. For the past two days, his body rested in St. Leo’s Cathedral surrounded by the Royal Navy so that the public could pay their respects. The lulling ebb and flow of the waves from the sea stilled. The birds outside my bedroom window ceased to sing. Sadness lingered in the air, heavy and thick. Our nation publicly mourned the loss of such a kind-hearted king. Every day, outside the castle gates, the guards kept watch as hundreds and hundreds of people brought flowers and lit candles along the outer walls. Some cried. Others prayed. Sutton was silent. Watching the outpouring of love and respect being shown to King Phillipe made it hard to believe there was an army of people who had been gleefully waiting for this day.
No one had heard a word from Keaton since the day Antonio escorted him out of the east gate then took his place as the lead House Guard. In a way, his silence calmed me. In other ways, it made my stomach churn. Keaton wasn’t the type to stay quiet.
After the day at the coffee shop, I decided going into Valetta might not be the best idea for now. No matter how much I wanted normal, I was sleeping with the king, and that was about as far away from normal as it got. I’d asked Sutton one night after he pounded my brains out with soul-shattering sex what he thought the man at the coffee shop meant when he said it was about time he put a Bellizzi on the throne. Sutton dusted his lips over my temple and whispered in my ear. “It means you’re mine. You were made for me. You were always meant to be mine.”
The picture of us that the woman took ended up on a celebrity gossip blog, which only prompted a string of text messages from Chelsea.
Chelsea: I knew you were fucking him!
Chelsea: You dirty hooker. *purple devil face emoji*
Chelsea: Is he big? *eggplant emoji*
Chelsea: Do you ride his beard and call him Daddy? *water droplet emoji*
Sutton didn’t have a beard. He had day-old stubble. And I rode it like I stole it.
Me: When was the last time you got laid? You have way too much invested in my sex life.
Chelsea: *middle finger emoji*
I invited her to the castle for a beach day next week. Of course, she happily agreed. Champagne glass and bikini emojis and all.
Without Sutton popping up every five minutes and caging me against a wall, my days in the castle were pretty boring. The library was lonely, and the mood in the kitchen was solemn. The whole castle was solemn. It was quiet before, but now it was just… sad. No wonder Sutton hated being king. There was so much grief wrapped around wearing the crown.
I pulled a batch of vanilla-flavored cupcakes from the oven and set them on the kitchen island. Madeline plucked apples from a bushel basket and cut the core out of them one at a time. “I shouldn’t have told you about the date,” she said, not looking me in the eyes.
Mrs. Fletcher walked by, wiping her hands on her apron and clearing her throat.
I reached for Madeline’s hand, but she pulled it away. I blinked away the shock and rejection. “I don’t care about the date anymore. Did I do something wrong?”
Madeline stared at the ground, silent. I grabbed the mixing bowl full of buttercream icing I made and started frosting my cupcakes.
Mrs. Fletcher turned on the faucet behind me and began washing apples. “No, dear. She’s simply apologizing for involving you in royal gossip.”
Apologizing? To me? Why? Madeline gossiped all the time. The whole kitchen did. No one ever apologized before.
I looked at Madeline, staring at her until she was compelled to meet my gaze. “I don’t need an apology.”
Madeline bent to grab another apple. “He’s very protective of you, you know,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Mrs. Fletcher shut off the faucet and glared over her shoulder. She shook the excess water from her hands then grabbed a small towel. “Madeline. That’s enough.”
Why did I feel like I should be the one apologizing?
There is no date.
Oh, so now everyone in the kitchen is a liar?
“Oh God. I’m so sorry…”
Mrs. Fletcher placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Nothing to be sorry for, dear. We all knew better.”
Right as I coated the spatula in icing, a strong arm wrapped around me, his hand covering mine as his hard body pressed against my back. His scent was unmistakable, masculine and rich. I wanted to melt into him, but I was too furious to submit.