Pippa Roscoe - Virgin Princess's Marriage Debt

She had begged and pleaded with her parents to allow her to speak to Theo. To find him where he waited for her. To tell him what was happening. But her father had been uncompromising—no one could know of his diagnosis. No one. And then they had bundled her into a car, and then a private jet, and the whole time she had felt as if she had left her heart behind.

So, no. She hadn’t thought of what had happened to him after that night, because she couldn’t. She just couldn’t allow herself to go there. Because every time she did, what little remained of her heart fractured and shattered just a little bit more.

But she couldn’t explain that to Theo. Not now. Because her father’s diagnosis still had the power to rock the already shaky foundations of her precious country. Because this? This moment between them wasn’t about her or what she could say to justify what had happened that night. This was about him, and God help her, but she deserved every single word, every single feeling he expressed. She needed to honour that, because it was the only thing she would ever be able to give him.

‘Tell me, Sofia, did you mean any of it? The pleas you made, the plans…the future you fabricated, all the while knowing it was impossible? Punctuating lies with kisses? Untruths with touches and caresses? When did you know that you would ruin me, Sofia? Before you first spoke to me, or when you realised how easily manipulated I would be?’

‘That is enough,’ Sofia commanded, digging through the hurt to find some kind of strength to ward off the harshness of his words.

‘Enough? I’ve barely even begun. “Please take me away, Theo, I cannot return to Iondorra, Theo. Help me. Theo.” ’ The cruel mockery his voice made of her childhood words stung as much as the memory of her desperation to escape the confines of a royal life she had been forced to accept.

Theo knew that he had gone too far. He had said too much. Revealed too much of his own pain and heartbreak. And he hated himself for that. He saw the moment that his words hit home, the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes more bright than any star that night. He cursed, the breeze carrying it away from them. He steeled himself against the innate sympathy welling within him, knowing better this time than to fall for her games.

‘ Christós, I didn’t know you at all, did I?’

Suddenly the cord that had bound them in the past snapped, pinging away under the pressure of a decade of hurt and distance between them. And he watched, half fascinated as that royal mantle settled once more around her shoulders, leaving no trace of the young girl he had once loved. Instead, a fury stood before him, iron will steeling her spine and her body as if no soft movement had ever settled beneath her skin.

‘You are right. You did not know me. You knew a child. A girl who was reckless, pulled pranks and gave no heed to the people or things about her. A pampered young woman, who knew nothing of real life, or consequences. I am sorry if that girl hurt you, caused you pain. Truly. But she is gone, living only in your memories and imagination.’

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough, her half apology. Pain reared its ugly head. Not for the loss of her, he assured himself, but the years he endured after her. The years his mother endured. They did not live solely in his imagination. They were etched across his heart and hands as he had clawed his way to where he stood today.

‘Now, if you don’t mind—’

‘Off to find your next husband?’

She stilled her entire body. It was unusual for her, because everything about her contained a restless energy, its sudden and shocking absence such a stark contrast, and for a moment he could have been forgiven for thinking she’d turned to stone.

‘How do you…?’

He huffed out a cynical laugh. ‘Still keeping your secrets and lies close to your chest? Well, this time I’ve made sure that I will not fall for either. Unlike whatever poor bastard you’ve chosen for your next target.’

‘Target?’ she sighed, a scoffing sound that grated on his ears. It was too similar to the dismissive gestures of people who had thought themselves better than him. ‘You know nothing, Theo. Nothing of duty, of sacrifice. Nothing of what needs to be done as a royal.’

‘You think your concerns above those of mine?’ he demanded.

‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘Yes, I do. I have to.’

‘You once begged to wear my ring,’ he said, cursing the moment of weakness that allowed his inner thought to escape his lips. ‘And instead you married that insipid—’

‘Do not speak of him like that,’ she commanded.

‘Why not? I saw the pictures. Hell, the world saw the pictures of you together. You might as well have been siblings for all the connection you seemed to share. And after his death? You were the Widow Princess who never cried, for all you may try to profess your love for him.’ If it had not been so dark, Theo might have seen how Sofia paled beneath the moonlight, might have seen how much his barb had hit home. ‘Tell me, Sofia, did he ever make your pulse race, your body throb with desire? Did you ever crave his touch as you professed to crave mine?’

Theo caught the gasp that fell from Sofia’s lips, proving the truth of his words and enflaming the sensual web weaving between them, as if he had conjured the very reaction from her body by his words.

Anger, frustration and desire burned heavily on the air between them, and his eyes caught the rise and fall of her perfect breasts against the curve of the corseted dress she wore. Their argument had drawn them closer together, and he could have sworn he felt the press of her chest against his through the mere inches of air that separated them, thickening his blood and his arousal instantly.

‘Do you remember, Sofia? What is was like between us? Or were you faking everything?’ he demanded. Because somewhere, deep down, he needed to know. He needed to know if it had all been lies. Before him, Sofia swayed, caught within the same tide of desire that he felt pulling at his entire being.

Her lips parted, shining slightly as if recently slicked with her tongue, and he was desperate to taste, to touch, to consume. He needed to know if this time, with all the knowledge he now had, he would be able to taste the lies on her tongue.

His mind roared against it, but his body closed the distance between them, unable to resist the feel of her, the siren’s call she seemed to pull him in with. Surely his memory had exaggerated the way she had made him feel. Surely it could never have been that incredible.

He watched her closely, the way her eyes had widened as he’d moved closer, the way she too struggled with the thick, heavy want wrapping around them both. And he saw the moment she gave in to it. Gave in to the silent demand he hated his body for making.

He gave her the space of one breath, to turn, to flee, to refuse him. He gave himself that time, to turn back, to walk away. But when her pupils widened, that breath she took a sharp inhale, all but begging him to press the advantage, to make good on his unspoken promise, he was lost to the need pulsing in his chest. Lost to the insanity of what had been, what now was, between them.

‘Tell me you don’t want me, don’t want my kiss. Tell me, Sofia, and I’ll walk away. Lie to me again, Sofia,’ he challenged.

‘I can’t,’ she whispered, as if hating herself for the confession.

His arm swept around her small frame, drawing her to him and him into madness as his lips descended on hers with ten years of pent-up frustration, anger and a raging need that even the sweep of her tongue against his could not appease.