X: Command Me through Alexander's Eyes - Geneva Lee Page 0,48
one person I care about, and she’s out in the night—alone and unprotected. I have no idea when she left, but when I slip out into the night, the steps are empty. There’s no trace of her. There’s only darkness, along with a few lingering paparazzi, who snap to attention and begin taking photos. Maybe she didn’t come this way. Maybe she’s still inside. But I can’t sense her presence. It’s as though she’s fled the ball, rushing home to her safe, ordinary life without leaving so much as a glass slipper behind.
Chapter Eighteen
This is why I don’t do relationships. The first reason is my wretched family. The second is the goddamn paparazzi. The third is that, apparently, having a girlfriend also means having a nauseating pit in my stomach all the time. A photographer dares to get too close, and I snarl, snatching his camera and tossing it on the pavement. “Get a sodding life!”
“You owe me two thousand pounds.” He shakes his fist at me as he stands up with the remains of his equipment. He takes one look at me and blanches white.
“You know where to send the bill,” I spit back. I wonder how they’d feel to have every second of their life captured and dissected on a global scale.
The others back away, too shy to get close, but don’t stop taking photos. Tomorrow there will be pictures in the tabloids—pictures of me without Clara. I can only imagine what fun they’ll have with that after we arrived here together. The leeches probably saw her, but there’s no way I’m going to ask them about it. The last thing I need is a story for them to sell along with their candid shots.
I yank down the cuff of my tuxedo, which scares the closest paparazzi back a few more steps. What little men with sad lives. I’m about to tell them this very thing when a firm hand closes over my shoulder.
“Your Highness,” Norris says evenly. “I’ve been looking for you. I found what you’re looking for.”
Relief floods through me, but I’m not about to show weakness, not while I’m being photographed. I round, shrugging off his grip, and stalk back inside the lobby.
“Where is she?” I ask as soon as we’re safely inside. I keep my voice low. Knowing my father has spies stationed everywhere, reporting my every move back to him.
“One of my men is following her,” he says, tacking on “at a distance” when my eyes go wild.
“Following her where? Take me to her.”
“She’s on her way home.”
“Home?” I repeat. “How? Why didn’t you take her?”
“Miss Bishop left in a…hurry.” Norris looks slightly embarrassed to reveal this fact. “Naturally, I had someone keeping an eye on her, so he followed and alerted me.”
“How is she getting home then?” I don’t understand how we can be here calmly discussing this while Clara is somewhere in the city. Perhaps in a nondescript taxi or, even worse, on the tube.
Norris draws a deep breath. “She’s walking.”
“Walking!” I explode. I’m halfway back at the door before he steps in front of me.
“Many Londoners walk home,” he reminds me.
“Many Londoners aren’t sleeping with the heir to the fucking throne.” I’m getting tired of his zen routine.
“She’s being protected, but it seems she needed some space.”
“Take me to her,” I order him.
“I’m not certain—”
“Now.” I don’t leave room for further discussion.
I spend the ride to Clara’s flat fuming at my family for driving her away and at Clara for being so reckless. She needs to understand that her life isn’t her own anymore.
Because of me.
I’m not sure that’s something I can undo. I dragged her into the spotlight this evening. I’m the reason her face keeps showing up on trashy magazines. They’re not going to leave her alone until I move on. The trouble is that the only thing I’m more certain I can’t change than the media frenzy is my feelings about her.
Feelings. Fuck.
That wasn’t part of the arrangement.
What will have to change is her lax attitude toward her own safety. Without warning, a vision of her naked from the waist down, bare ass in the air, bent over my knee, swims to the front of my mind. There are ways I could drive the point home. If she won’t listen to reason…
But that’s not part of the arrangement, either.
Honestly, what am I getting out of this, anyway?
I can’t even entertain the thought. I know exactly what I’m getting out of it: her.