Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row 3)

“It’s not your fault,” I say, because it’s what people always say to me, even though it’s never true and it never helps. I say it again and again. “It’s not your fault.”

A glass breaks.

The prince and I pull apart as if we’ve been caught, and when I look up I see Alexei. He must have stepped on one of the fallen glasses, but nothing is as sharp as his gaze before he turns and walks away.

“Alexei!” I yell. I start to stand, to run after him, but then I remember the boy whose life I’m basically destroying.

“Go,” Thomas tells me. “Go to him.”

So I do.

It’s hard chasing after Alexei. Sometimes it feels like his legs are twice as long as mine, so I pick up the full skirt of my fancy dress and run as fast as my delicate shoes will let me.

Out the doors and through the gates, he doesn’t look back. And I keep running. My heels try to catch between the cobblestones, but I don’t care. I can’t stop running.

I do not dare stop running.

Some might think I look like Cinderella, fleeing from the ball, but I can’t shake the memory of another night and another party. I know in my gut that, once again, something bad is about to catch up with me.

So I run faster.

“Alexei!” I yell, but he doesn’t slow down. His long legs stride over the cobblestones, and I have to hold my dress higher. The stones are damp and the hill is steep, but I’m not afraid of falling.

“Alexei, stop!” I yell when I finally reach him. I grab his hand and pull him to a stop, and he spins on me.

“Go back to your prince, Gracie.”

“He’s not my prince!” I snap. “I never wanted him to be my prince.”

Alexei gives a huff. “I thought this was your birthright. I thought you were born to be a princess.”

I slip closer, grab the lapels of his tuxedo with both hands. “I lied. I do that.”

“Yeah. You do.”

For a second we just stand together. No doubt all of Adria—all of the world—is huddled around their TVs and computers right now, listening to the news from the palace. The king is dead. The succession is happening. The nation will be in mourning. I should be in mourning. The hope I had two hours ago is dead, gone. And it will never be alive again. Now there is only moonlight and gaslight and the look in Alexei’s blue eyes.

“So the prince seems … nice,” he tells me.

“He is nice,” I say.

“You don’t sound happy about it,” he says.

I look up at him. “Nice guys are overrated.”

And then Alexei’s arms are around me, and he’s pulling me close, holding me tight. But my hands are still between us—there is still so much between us—and I push against his chest, holding myself apart.

“I have to marry him,” I blurt out. I can’t look in his eyes, so I stay focused on his perfect white tie. I want to straighten it even though it isn’t crooked. I want a legitimate excuse to touch him. I want to find a reason to make this last.

But there isn’t one.

“I thought that I could stop it. The king knew. That’s what I was trying to tell you guys. He was going to stop it. So they killed him. No. I’m not sure the Society knew in time, but Ann did. Ann knew. So she killed him. She’ll kill anyone. She will. She’d kill you.”

Suddenly, I force myself to look at him. I need to see those blue eyes just one more time as fear grips me.

“She would kill you,” I say, and I know that it’s true.

But the look that Alexei gives me isn’t one that I’m expecting. “She’s welcome to try.” He smiles and pulls me closer. My hands slide to his shoulders. I’m pressed tight against his chest.

“I have to marry him,” I repeat before Alexei and I can get any closer. In a lot of ways. “This was a warning as much as anything. If they can kill the king … I have to marry him.”

Alexei pulls me tighter. “You’re not married yet.”

And then his lips are on mine and my fingers are in his hair and everything fades away, the streets and the darkness and the prince who is a few blocks and an entire world away.

Nothing matters except this and here and now. Nothing matters except us.

But there never can be an us, I know now. Not ever again.

And so instead of sinking into Alexei, I make myself pull away. Someday soon I know I’ll regret it, regret not making the most of these brief moments while they lasted. But what’s going to haunt me more in the future—memories or regrets? I honestly do not know.

“Gracie …” Alexei starts. He pushes a piece of hair out of my face.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

“No. No more talking,” he says, then kisses me again, so hard that I almost forget my fears and my guilt and the dread that has been simmering inside of me for ages.

But, eventually, the kiss ends and I ask, “Is your mom really lucid?” for reasons I don’t know.

“Gracie, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I ask.

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

And that makes me break away. It’s like I’m being held by a stranger.

“Do you honestly think I’m capable of that? Well, I’m not.” My voice is dry and joyless. “Don’t worry. I will never get my hopes up ever again.”

“Shh, Grace.” Alexei tries to hold me again, but this is a completely different kind of embrace. He knows I’m on the verge of running—not toward but away.