The Prince's Stolen Virgin by Maisey Yates

Author:Maisey Yates
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarlequinUKLtd
Published: 2017-07-20T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

SHE HAD BEEN a virgin. And he had taken her against a wall—no, a window—with absolutely no finesse.

Then he had left her standing there in a tattered dress, the bright streaks of blue a shocking contrast to that smooth, brown skin. Her small, high breasts and that dark thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs exposed, her hair a dark halo around her face.

Had left her standing there with the command that she join him in his bed tonight, when the fact of the matter was no one should come anywhere near him tonight. And he shouldn’t inflict himself on anyone.

What had been in his mind? Sending everyone away as he had? He had come into the ballroom, waiting for the surge of triumph to flood his veins. Waiting for a sense of completion. Waiting for his lips to form the words to an eloquent speech.

About dark ages rolling forward into the light. But instead he had cleared the room.

Instead, he had done what he seemed compelled to do from some dark place inside him that had purchase on his soul, that he seemed to have no control over, and that was to sabotage the moment. To break. To destroy.

And he still felt no relief. No sense of completion. Nothing but an end. A dark, blank end that offered him nothing but more emptiness. Like a chasm had opened inside him, one that had always been there, but one he now had to admit might always be.

His father was dead. That was supposed to be the key.

But now he couldn’t yell at the old man. Couldn’t scream at him and demand answers. Could never shout at him about the fact it was his fault Felipe’s mother was dead. How it was all his fault.

Felipe swallowed hard, trying to get a handle on himself, on his control. This control he had long prized so much. He should not have Briar come to his room. He should deal with his demons alone.

But he would have her again. Because there was no other choice. Because the hollow feeling inside him was threatening to consume him, and the only moment of peace he’d had since his father’s aide had come and announced the old man’s death had been when he was buried in Briar’s tight, welcoming heat.

It occurred to him as he flung open the doors to his chamber that she might not come. That she might go back to her room. Might hide from him.

She should. There was no question about that.

But if she did he would go after her.

There was also no question about that.

With shaking hands, he poured himself a glass of whiskey then stared down at the amber liquid. He was dangerous enough as it was. Unsteady, unstable. Disorderly. There was no greater sin in his father’s eyes and there never had been.

The thought made a smile curve his lips. He might have wasted some opportunities tonight, but he had rebelled in a rather spectacular fashion.

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