X: Command Me through Alexander's Eyes - Geneva Lee Page 0,26

her go back to her life then, but for now—for however long we have—I’ll make her mine. My fingers slip inside her and work until her breath comes fast and heavy, her forehead pressing to my shoulder, and as she unravels me, I almost convince myself this can be enough.

Chapter Eight

The royal family’s motto should be: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. It seems I have to endure a cadre of back-stabbing acquaintances at every social event—my life in London is a string of one demanded appearance after another.

“You don’t look excited to be here,” Edward says under his breath before kneeling to speak to a small child waving to him behind the cordoned-off entrance to the theatre.

That’s an understatement. There’s one place I’d much rather be, and it’s wedged between Clara’s thighs.

“Does anyone enjoy the opera?” I mutter to him as we continue down the ragged red carpet. It’s seen as much action as I have, but of an entirely other variety.

Edward guffaws and shoots me a look. “Of course, I do.”

“You have your reasons,” I say dryly.

“My kind does love the theatre,” he agrees, his mouth pinching slightly when he catches sight of our father ahead of us.

Another reason to dread this evening.

“It’s a wonder he lets me attend,” Edward says. “It’s so gay of me.”

My brother’s carefully concealed homosexuality was no secret amongst the family, but our father has made it clear it will never be public knowledge. As if he’s thinking the same thing, Edward peeks over his shoulder to the parasitic group of young aristocrats that’s always at these goddamn events. Judging from the frown that momentarily eclipses his smile, David is among them.

He’s made the mistake of falling in love. I wasn’t around to teach him that this life and commitment are mutually opposed concepts. He never saw our parents together. Our mother died when he was born, so he doesn’t have the memories of the screaming matches and ultimatums. I know the picture my father paints of his marriage. I also know the truth. It’s why I won’t make the same mistake. Nothing—not even love—can survive this life.

“You haven’t told me how you met,” I said.

“You want to discuss this now?” he whispers, glancing around as though someone can hear us in the crowd of onlookers. Considering that Norris won’t allow anyone within a few yards, I think we’re safe.

“What else is there to talk about?” I shrug. My brother, who wasn’t exiled to the desert, has an active social life, which means we haven’t spent much quality time together. “Maybe we should save this conversation for inside. I’ll need something to keep me awake during the performance.”

Edward rolls his eyes. “It’s not terribly interesting.”

“Neither is the opera.”

“David was in the same circles at St. Andrew’s. We danced around things for a while until one of us made a move.”

“He made a move,” I guess.

“Is it that obvious?” Edward shoves his hands into his pockets, doing his best to look like we aren’t discussing his most closely-guarded secret.

We share a number of characteristics: our mother’s coloring, dark hair, blue eyes. But nothing about Edward screams domination.

“Good for David,” I say with a low chuckle. It must have taken guts to gamble that he was right about Edward’s interest.

“Just don’t say anything,” he says in a rush.

“I know it’s a secret.” I look toward our father, feeling the familiar bubble of hatred in my chest. “But why should it be? It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“The monarchy isn’t exactly progressive. Dad needs time to get used to the idea and—”

A woman falls against me, and I catch her instinctively, wrapping my arms around her. My palms slide against black silk, and there’s a flash of tumbling blonde curls as she presses herself closer. Before I can process the sudden turn, two sinuous limbs hook around my neck.

“Smile,” she demands.

I do it, posing for the next picture that will appease her—and my father. Then, I extricate myself as politely as possible. I’d rather push her away and find the nearest shower. It feels wrong to touch another woman when I’ve spent most of today fantasizing about Clara. But it’s not just any other woman. It’s Pepper.

To me, she’s still my kid sister’s best friend—far too young and off-limits. Even if I could process that she’s a woman now, I wouldn’t be interested. Maybe it’s the way she manages a photo op every time we’re within a mile of one another. Maybe it’s that