Drunkella

Up until that point, he’s already been overwhelmed with stress. Still, he attempts to crack a few jokes for her sake. It was sweet, but seeing his smiles fall flat only makes her worry about him even more.

But when she tries to do the same—she reaches out a gentle hand and says earnestly that he deserves better treatment than what Bertrand gives him—in the hopes that he’ll find some solace in her support, the sweetness shatters.

In Maxwell’s world, giving is different from taking. Today, he is too brittle to let her in.

“I appreciate the concern, but I can handle my brother on my own.” His cold voice cuts through the empty kitchen, freezes her in place.

“I think we’re done here.” He doesn’t turn away from the counter. “Can you go check if Bertrand needs help?”

It’s not a question.

She knows that the iciness, the complete diversion from his sunny demeanor, is just a cover up for the fractured relationship between him and his brother, and a past that he’s not willing to share yet.

Yet.

Sometimes, when she presses against the visage, he falters and relents. In these moments, she gains one more piece to add to her portrait of him. She almost understands him.

But most times, he glances at her like she is nothing more than a nuisance. His rejection stings, and sends her insides crumbling with blame and embarrassment.

In these moments, all she wants is to shrink herself down and hide away.

So she banishes the regret creeping into his face, curses the stubborn hope that springs up upon seeing it, and slips silently out of the kitchen.

Sitting beside Bertrand, she wrings the soapy water out of her sponge and focuses on furiously scrubbing the floor.

Maybe if she scrubs hard enough, she can wash away all remnants of the many moments gone bitter.

“Where are you going?”

He stands in the doorway to her bedroom, fidgeting with the end of his shirt.

At the ball, she did everything she could to avoid him. Every time he sidled up with a hopeful look on his face, she’d grab the hand of some attendee nearby—the noble visiting from Greece, Drake, or some local businessman—and escape to the dance floor. Or, she’d dart into a group of noble ladies, hiding herself from his view.

She knows that he feels guilty for how he treated her. If she’s being fair, her behavior was childish too. His past is a field of landmines that he’s not quite ready to breach yet, and his explosive bursts at her prodding are to be expected.

Still, she can’t hold back the prickle of annoyance at his apologetic gaze—a gesture that is has become as all too familiar as it is unwanted.

Taking off her shirt, she tosses it aside. She ignores the sudden flush on his face, and how her skin seems to catch on fire at the same time.

“Out,” she finally responds to his question.

Gosh, she feels like a teenager, hitting him with these sulking one-liners and rolled eyes. But then she remembers his cold, clipped expression, every time she steps on some invisible boundary, and the pain spurs her forward. She snatches up her slinky dress, an last-minute purchase in New York, right before she left for Cordonia.

It’s a sickening shade of yellow, with gold tassles thrown here and there, but other than that, it doesn’t look half bad. Besides, it’s better than wearing anything that the brothers barely managed to purchase for her—they’re a reminder of the disappointment that she brings to their house, far too often.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he keeps his voice measured, but it hitches as his eyes roam over her frame.

“Not particularly.” As she slips on the thin dress, she catches the mix of regret and sadness in his gaze that makes her stomach twist and uncoil.

He moves forward slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, and sits down on the edge on her bed. “But you’ll be cold…”

“I’m aware.” From her vanity, she picks up her imitation necklace and earrings, also an impulse purchase in New York.

“You don’t want to get sick before the coronation ball.”

Oh, so that’s what it’s about. Her grip on the jewelry tightens.

“Glad to know I have you looking out for me, huh?” she scowls into the mirror. In its reflection, she can see him gazing at her with something soft, something that makes her furious.

Pity. It adds to the weariness already on his features, and the stab of guilt in her chest makes her white-hot furious.

“I’m just worrie—“

“Dammit, Maxwell! Don’t you have anything better to do?!” she bursts out, and the jewelry clatters to the floor with a resounding crack.

She hates this little game of theirs. How his little hints, touches only leave her wanting more. Always, she feels like an afterthought, or some mistake. It is never enough for her—she, feels like she’s never enough.

Chest heaving, she turns around, expecting his face to be streaked with concern or surprise.

All she sees is remorse.

Gingerly, he stands and walks forward, still maintaining a healthy distance between them. Crossing her arms (suddenly conscious of the cutouts of her dress), she wills the numbness closing in to keep her untouchable from whatever he says next.

“I shouldn’t have ever brought you here,” he murmurs, staring past her at the wall.

She keeps her face as blank as possible.

“I know.” It’s all she can manage with the lump in her throat.

Pausing, he looks her in the eye. “It’s…it’s not because of whatever reason you’re thinking of right now.”

His gaze is dim, and she can’t quite read it. “Ah. Pray tell, Duke Beaumont.”

He smiles weakly. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Frustrated, she closes the distance between them and stares him firmly in the eye. “I think I deserve to know why I’m your biggest regret, Maxwell.”

It’s not meant to be a rebuke; she’s just paraphrasing his words, after all. But he flinches like he’s been slapped. A flurry of emotions cross his face—surprise, sadness, then, a flash of anger? desire?—and he inhales deeply.

All this time, he hasn’t stepped away from her, and his breath fans across her face. She grounds her heels into the ground, resisting the urge to move an inch closer, and forces her gaze up, away from his lips.

“Well?” She glares at him, hoping that the anger will hide the temptation pooling in her stomach.

“You were never a regret.” His voice is soft, laced with desperation. “I only regret bringing you here.” As if to implore her, he takes her hands in his, holding them gently. But he offers no further explanation.

“You keep telling me that. It’d be nice to know…” his thumbs sweep across the back of her hands, and her voice goes slack.

“Um…” she’s fumbling, trying to string her words back together again, but his fingers are tracing designs across her wrist.

Visibly, he swallows. She can feel his arms trembling just slightly, and see the heady desire and doubt clash in his gaze.

Being this close to him sends electric tingles across her skin. It’s almost enough to make her forget the past five minutes, the past few months.

Almost.

Suddenly dizzy, she steps back. He drops his hands immediately, and guilt floods back onto his face.

“I’m—“

“Don’t apologize.” She rubs her temples, inhales deeply.

“Maxwell, we can’t keep doing this. You can’t lead me on and make me hope for…this.” She gestures frantically at the distance between them, as if it’ll make him understand.

“Are you ever going to give us a chance?”

Her voice wavers on the last word; it catches between them, falls into the space. The following silence, and his pained stare, presses down on her.

Tears burn at the back of her throat.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You know I…”

His sentence drifts off into another dead end.

“Can’t.” she finishes numbly for him.

It’s her turn to disturb the peace, she supposes, as wipes her eyes and hurries out of the room for the second time in a week.

He doesn’t budge at all.

A few days later, they meet up with Hana, Liam, and Drake to go out for cronuts, and she’s determined to maintain the normalcy of their trips.

It’s a little awkward, to say to the least.

The three keep shooting curious looks in their direction—they’re walking on opposite sides of the pavement, not looking at each other. Every time Maxwell catches up to her, she speeds up, and starts a random conversation with the others.

The group does their best to pretend like nothing’s wrong. At the café, they chatter away and flick crumbs at each other, and it’s enough to make the two crack a smile.

Still, her friends’ accommodating makes her guilty. She knows that their iciness—his unpredictability, her moodiness—is putting a damper on her friends, in what could very well be their last excursion.

She and Maxwell are not the only ones running out of time.

After the group disperses and they head back into palace, he stays close. He keeps a few paces behind her, all the way up to the floor with their rooms.

He has something he wants to say. Well, talk then.

Their footsteps echo across the empty hallway. As the seconds tick by and the silence drags on, she grows irritated. Finally, she gives in.

“May I help you?”

He says nothing, choosing instead to shift awkwardly from one foot to another.

Her frustration peaks.

“If you don’t want to talk to me, then it’s fine,” Her chest is so tight it feels like it’s about to break. “Don’t waste my time.”

Anymore, she wants to add. Pressing her lips together, she makes way to go inside.

But as she steps up to the door, his hands fly out and wrap around the door handle—around her hand.

Startled, she looks up to see his gritted teeth and wild eyes. Before she can let out a squeak of surprise, he dips his head down to speak into her ear

“I do want to talk to you.” His voice is low, husky, and her mind turns to mush.

“You have no idea…” She shivers, grips the handle tighter. “How much I want you.” His breath fans across her neck.

Slowly, he trails a hand down her side, stopping at her waistline exposed by her dress. At his touch, she closes her eyes, clamping her mouth down to suppress the whimper burning at the back of her throat.

“You don’t know how much I want to give in,” he continues quietly, kneading her hip, and she nods, breathless.

Without thinking, she tilts her chin back, reveling in the heat of his deftly moving fingers. She feels utterly exposed, on fire, and she craves more.

He stops, and she blinks her dazed eyes open. “But I can’t have what I want.” Turning, she takes in his weary expression, the tense line of his shoulders.

“You deserve better,” he mumbles, eyes darting all over her face. Her mouth suddenly goes dry.

She can’t muster the words for an adequate response, so she blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I think I can decide what I deserve, Duke Beaumont.”

Before he can say anything, before she can smack herself in the forehead for sounding like an idiot, she leans forward and presses her mouth to his.

He tastes like coffee, and his lips feel like heaven. Tugging him closer, she loses herself in the feeling of his fingers digging into her skin and the sound of his harsh pants into her mouth. Wills the sensation to linger long after this moment passes.

When she slowly pulls away, his hands do not move from her hips.

They stand, breathing in unison, until the light outside the window grows dark.

At the dinner party, she expects him to keep his distance. But as the orchestra begins their piece, he is the first to cross the room to find her, lurking in her usual corner.

Hand outstretched, his handsome face is flushed pink and brimming with hope.

“May I have this dance?”

She accepts with a surprised smile, and he guides her onto the dance floor.

After waltzing together a few times, they’ve grown used to dancing together. Easily, his hands find their place on her hips, and hers on her shoulders. She marvels again at how strong he is—yet one of the many things she couldn’t tell just from looking at him.

As the music swells, he leads her into a spin. His arms wrap around her with ease, and they sway together, not missing a beat.

“This is nice,” she murmurs. Leaning back against his chest, she closes her eyes, letting the feeling of his hands and the soft orchestra sweep her away.

When it’s time to change partners, she makes to move away—only for Maxwell’s hands to reach out and wrap even tighter around her hips.

Confused, she turns around to look up at him. A tentative smile tugging up the corner of his lips, he slips his arms up, all the way around her waist.

She feels as if she could melt right there, in his shy grin and bright eyes.

As the others form new pairs, moving across the room and shooting them strange looks, she stays locked in his embrace. Not once do they look away from each other.

Something sweet, aching floods over her. His move is purposeful, driven by desire. It is his choice. This is his play: his way of saying that she doesn’t have to do it all. That he wants her as much as she wants him.

Still swaying to the beat, he leans down to kiss her temple. She hears several gasps from across the room, a flurry of whispers and surprise, mirrored by her own feverish cheeks.

But as he rests his head on top of hers and pulls her tighter to him, their sounds, and all other doubt, fade away into the background.

Later that night, with his weight pressing her into the bed, she finds the courage to speak.

For Maxwell, the worry is always there; it makes its home in the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and the lines stretched across his forehead. She senses it, even as his arms twine around hers and his fingers dance across her jaw, as if attempting to play it off.

But she knows him far too well to believe it.

Slowly, she lifts a hand. When he doesn’t budge, she weaves her hand through his hair—coarse to the touch, she notes with a pang.

He sighs into her touch, pressing his face into her palm. He inhales deeply, repeatedly, and she giggles quietly.

“Are you smelling me?”

“You smell nice,” he mumbles.

She returns to stroking his hair, and he props himself up on an elbow, gazing up at her with a fond expression. It makes her heart lurch, in the best way.

“Why won’t you let people love you?” she asks softly, not quite brave enough to say me just yet.

He doesn’t look away from her, deep blue gaze swallowing her whole.

“I can’t give you the future you deserve,” he murmurs after a brief sigh. He reaches for her hand and kisses the inside of her wrist. “Or my past,” she feels him mumble into her skin.

As he trails his lips along her arm, she’s the one who’s sighing. Partially at the feeling of his lips on her hands, and partially, at her own exasperation.

“What about now?”

He stills, and looks up to meet her gaze. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” She coughs, takes a breath to calm her fluttery nerves, and continues.

“I like you. A lot. So much that it scares me,” she steels herself, wills herself to surrender herself completely to whatever may come.

“I know you have things that you don’t want to tell me. Things that you can’t tell me yet. And it’s okay.” He nods slowly, recognition dawning on his face.

“I don’t need any promise of a future…Maxwell, I just want you now. For today.”

For a few seconds, he’s silent, and she fears the worst.

Then, he leans up and kisses her, hard.

“If I had known,” she manages, after they finally part for air, “that you would react that way…I would’ve said that a long time ago.”

He laughs softly. “Yeah. I’m s—” he catches himself, stops. “Thank you. For not giving up on me.”

“You’re welcome.” She feels so warm, blissful, and she clasps his hand in hers, smiling as he squeezes it back.

“Now, help me get the Prince’s hand in marriage, and we’ll be even.” At her remark, his eyes narrow playfully.

“Oh, so that’s how it is?” his hands skim up her stomach.

“Nah. I only go for…lowly dukes. I’m humble that way.”

He grins brightly, drumming his fingers against his waist. She hums in pleasure.“I know. That’s why I love you so much.”

She flushes instantly, and his eyes go wide with alarm.

“Like! I mean, that’s why I like you so much. Not that I don’t love you, because I do, but…oh God. Take me now.” He covers his face, as she dissolves into laughter.

“That went so much better in my head,” he groans into her neck, and she laughs again. Soon, he joins her.

When he looks up, his eyes are soft. “You know what I meant, right?”