Royal Package - Lili Valente Page 0,63

be protecting her. That’s a husband’s job—to protect the woman he loves.”

“And what do you know about it?” I ask, beginning to feel the scotch buzzing through my veins. “When have you been in love, Nickolas? Really in love, not one of those crushes you fall face-first into every time a nice pair of tits walks by?”

“Is that why you want to call it off?” he shoots back, ignoring my question. “Because Lizzy’s tits aren’t as big as your usual?”

I sit up straight, my feet thudding down on the floor with an ominous double boom. “Don’t talk about her like that. Ever. Do you understand me?”

Nickolas, the little bastard, just grins. “Good. If you love her too much to let me talk about her tits, I trust that you’re not going to poison her.”

“Seriously. Not another word,” I say, shooting daggers at him with my eyes.

He rolls his. “Yes, my liege and future king, your wish is my command, yadda yadda.” He pops back into the bathroom before adding in a louder voice. “You should ease up on that scotch, or you’re going to be too drunk to stay on your horse.”

“I’ll be as drunk as I want to be,” I snap back.

Drunk enough to drown out the voice of my conscience and do what I have to do to reclaim control over my life.

Even if I’ll hate myself for it later.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sabrina

The moment Felicity leaves my room, I race to get dressed, but it turns out a traditional Gallantian engagement ensemble isn’t something a girl can get into on her own.

Just as I’m wrestling with the heavily embroidered corset, a maid knocks on my door and announces that she’s here to help. And I’m grateful, I really am, even though she ties the corset so tight I can barely breathe and insists I wear the itchy white woolen knee socks instead of the cotton ones I’d secretly planned to wear instead—but by the time she’s finished, I’m down to the wire.

I’ve only got fifteen minutes before I have to be out on the lawn, ready to mount my horse next to Andrew.

But I can’t do that!

Not until he knows the truth.

Which means there isn’t going to be an engagement ceremony. Bringing him around to seeing things from my point of view in a few hours was always going to be a stretch. Convincing him in fifteen minutes that a twin swap isn’t such a big deal and the two of us should give love a shot is all but impossible.

Still, as soon as my maid sets me free, I race down the hallway, my freshly curled hair bouncing around my shoulders and my two-hundred-year-old handmade leather wedding boots soundless on the thick carpet.

I can’t help but think of how many other brides have worn these same boots, the ones that are said to magically shrink and grow to fit the current intended’s feet. It’s more likely that leather is just a naturally stretchy material and the Gallantian men have a habit of picking women with similar-size feet to marry, but there’s still something magical about the shoes. And the outfit.

As I pass the ornately framed mirror at the end of the hall, I can’t help pausing for a quick look. Dressed all in white except for the bright pink, green, and blue embroidery on my corset and the roses pinned in my hair, I look like something out of a fairy tale.

But is it the one where the princess gets the prince?

Or the one where she turns into sea foam and is never seen or heard from again?

There’s only one way to know for sure.

Jolted into motion, I race down the stairs to the doors leading out onto the patio and push out into the warm summer evening. With the late afternoon sun sinking low in the sky, bathing the castle grounds and vineyard-blanketed hills in dreamy pink light, it’s too romantic for words. If it weren’t for Andrew’s oddly ugly cousins turning to stare as I jog past—their ancestors clearly made poor breeding choices in the generations since they branched off from the royal Von Bergen family tree—this wouldn’t seem real.

But it is real, and I’m really about to make a scandalous scene in front of Andrew’s entire extended family and his brothers and mother and—

“Holy roses,” I mutter beneath my breath, skidding to a stop in the grass as I spot the press box off to one side of the great lawn.

But it isn’t a box. It’s