Royally Endowed (Royally 3)

“How’s he doin’?”

Janey cocks her head. “My brother’s always been hard-headed—this time it came in handy. The doctor says he’ll be fine . . .”

Beside Tommy’s bed Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan chat away, having a whole conversation with their son without him saying a word.

“. . . as long as my mum and da don’t talk him to death.”

I snort, but just can’t muster a smile. Then Janey’s face sobers and her voice goes softer. “They’re sayin’ Duchess Olivia’s sister is missin’.”

Heat rises in my throat, sealing it up.

I nod.

“Tommy said you two were close?”

A thousand memories rush me at once and I shut my eyes to focus on pushing them back.

“Oh, Logan. I’m so sorry.”

I shake my head, rub my stinging eyes. “They’re still looking. Nothing’s official.”

Janey puts her hand on my shoulder, squeezing. “If you need anything, we’re here. You’re family too. Most times we like you even better than Tommy.”

That gets a tug from my lips—not quite a grin, but a bit better than a frown. It’s like Tommy said—Janey’s badass.

I point towards the door to his room. “Can I see him?”

“Yeah, sure. Come on—I’ll drag my parents downstairs to get something to eat so you can sit with him a bit. It’ll give his ears a rest.”

After the Sullivans leave the room, I sit in the chair next to Tommy, taking note of his terrible coloring—he’s almost as white as the sheets. There’s a bandage on the back of his head, covering a couple dozen staples and stitches they said he needed to close the gash.

I look at him hard, willing my best friend to open his eyes.

“I’m losin’ my fuckin’ mind, here, Tommy. I need you to wake up, mate.” I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. “I need you to tell me you know where she is. You dropped her off somewhere . . . or she left with some bloke—I don’t even care. As long as she’s safe. As long as she’s all right.”

There’s a pressure on the back of my eyes that blurs my vision. And my voice cracks. “I really fuckin’ need you to do that. You’re the only hope I’ve got left.”

Regret is the sharpest blade. It stabs, slices off pieces of my insides as I drive home. It’s dark now and raining. A cold, steady downpour that saturates your clothes and numbs your skin.

But I’m not numb.

Because my wall has crumbled. Collapsed in great, heaving chunks. I don’t fight the pain when it rushes me, consumes me. Sitting in the car in the driveway outside my house, I sink down into it, letting it swallow me whole, a thousand blades cutting at once.

When I step out, the rain soaks me. I brace my hand on the roof of the car, groaning from the grief. The agony.

I like your tie.

She was here. She was beautiful and precious and so very alive.

One of these days . . . I’m going to save you back.

And I had all those years, all those moments when I knew—I knew what I felt for her, but I was just too fucking cautious to do something about it.

I like you, Logan.

Men aren’t supposed to be hesitant. Not men like me. And not about women like her. But she wasn’t just some girl. She never was. Not from the very first moment.

Do you ever think of me?

Her words drift through my mind, repeating in whispers like a taunting song, as I walk up the path to the front steps of my house.

It’s always been you. Always.

So many mistakes and missed chances.

Do you feel it too?

And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.

I sink down to my knees, because my legs refuse to hold me up anymore. My back bows and I lift my face to the sky, letting the rain mix with the regret and sorrow leaking from my eyes.

Because I should have told her. I should have given her those words. And I would give anything . . . I would die for the chance to go back and tell her now. Tell her the truth.

I feel it too, Ellie. I always have.

A WHITE LIGHT.

That’s the first thing I see when I open my eyes. I squint, then blink against its brightness. And the sound of rushing water fills my ears. No . . . rain. Raindrops on rooftops. Where are the whiskers on kittens?

If I’m quoting The Sound of Music, I must really be out of it—one too many glasses of liquid courage at The Goat. It takes me a minute to wake up and realize where I am. Whose rooftop the rain is pounding on and how the heck I got here.

And then I remember. I cover my eyes with my hand, to shield them from the porch light.

At Logan’s house.

I wanted to see him, talk to him, and I knew I couldn’t do that under Tommy’s watchful gaze. So, a few hours after Logan ghosted me I shimmied out the bathroom window—and thank God, God made me like I am, because it was a tight freaking fit. Then I skipped down the alley, caught a cab and came here.

But, of course—no Logan. And like an idiot, I’d left my phone on the bar, and I couldn’t even call him. His porch swing was looking mighty comfy and I can now confirm it’s amazeballs.

I sit up, rubbing my eyes and patting down my hair, in case I’ve got swing head. And then a noise comes from over by the steps. It’s a whimper—like the sound a wounded animal would make. Slowly, I walk over, and that’s when I see him.

Logan, out in the rain, kneeling on the walkway, bent over and pressing his forehead to the last step, groaning words I can’t understand. And I know something awful has happened.

“Logan?”

He rears up, leaning back on his calves, his eyes wide and wilder than I’ve ever seen them. Out of control. There’s a cut on his cheek and black streaks on his clothes. His mouth opens, then closes. He stares at me, breathing hard.

“Are you . . . are you real?”

He reaches out his hand toward me. And it’s trembling.

I come down the steps, into the rain. “Of course I’m real, Logan.”

I feel tears rise in my eyes. Because he looks so devastated. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? What happened?”

I kneel down on the sopping path, take his hand and press it against my cheek. As soon as he touches me, he inhales a deep, scraping breath and yanks me forward. Clasping me to him. He engulfs me in his arms. Wholly. Fully. Like he’s trying to absorb me. Squeezing so tight, it’s hard to breathe.

And it’s not just his hand that’s trembling—he’s shaking everywhere.

So I stroke his back and whisper, “It’s okay—it’s okay, Logan. I’m here. Shhh . . . I’ve got you.”

A shudder tears through him. “You weren’t there.” He moans against my neck. “You weren’t there and no one knew . . . I couldn’t find you.”

He pulls back, his face heartbroken and furious at the same time. He holds me by the arms, shaking me a little. “Don’t do that again. Ever!”

“Okay,” I soothe, stroking his face, feeling his rain-soaked cheeks. “I won’t ever do it again. You’ll always be able to find me—I promise.”

“Always,” he insists, dragging me against him, pressing our bodies together.

“Yes. Always.”

I barely get the words out before Logan’s mouth is on mine. Covering me, possessing me. His hands slide into my hair, gripping almost desperately, holding me immobile as he presses his lips hard against mine, moving and tasting, groaning roughly.

It’s not a gentle, joyful kiss—it’s urgent and demanding. Frantic. Whatever happened, it’s shaken him badly, and I know deep down, he needs this—to just feel me. Logan’s lips move to the corner of my mouth, across my cheek and my closed eyes, trailing harsh kisses up to my forehead. He lingers there, his lips shuddering against my skin.

And the rain comes down on us, weighting our clothes, dripping from the ends of our hair, running in rivulets over our hands. Logan presses his forehead against mine but keeps his eyes closed tight.

His words sound lifeless. Vacant. “There was a fire at The Goat. It’s gone.” He flinches then. “I thought you were gone too. I thought I’d lost you.”