The Prince's Cinderella Bride

His brother nodded to the nearly empty second tumbler. “Drink the rest first. Sounds like you’re going to need it. Will you be staying here tonight?”

“No,” he said first and then, after finishing his drink, shrugged. “I don’t know. Should I? I was going to go to my flat. Unless you think I should stay to see when he wakes?”

Philip shook his head. “You don’t need to stay, but you look rough, Quinn. Your room is prepared if you want to stay. Might do you good.”

Sleep would do him good. He stood again, but it took all the strength in him to follow his brother down the hallways to the King’s suite.

Before they’d even entered, he heard the soft hums and beeps of life-saving equipment and knew Philip had been trying to soften the blow.

But Quinn smelled death. He knew the scent of it by now.

* * *

Anais stood at her favorite treadmill—the one she hadn’t been on since Quinn’s terrible cry for help had shattered her will to hide and sent her running toward him for the first time in years.

Her work day had ended over an hour ago, and Quinn was still on site, still with Benjamin Nettle as far as she knew—as far as everyone knew. A prince couldn’t spend hours a day for three days straight in the building without word getting around.

What she didn’t want to get around? That she’d been waiting for him today. Was still waiting for him. That knowledge would trigger too many questions and the conclusions she needed no one to reach if she wanted to stay. And she had to stay. Her departure from Corrachlean had meant leaving Mom, and they’d spent seven years apart. Visits had been impossible before Anna Kincaid had been born.

Quinn hated her Anna look—she could tell by the way he’d looked at her, as if she’d sprouted some horrifying, self-induced deformity. But she liked it in a way. It made her feel invisible. After fitting in—which she’d never truly done anywhere—being invisible was the next best thing.

But he hated more than her new look. He hated her.

And, really, what could she expect? Aside from expecting to not see him for a long, long time—or ever, if she’d had her way.

The treadmill whirred beneath her feet, and she took one of the safety bars to steady herself as she inched up the speed and the incline. Maybe exercise could wipe her mind, help her zone out and forget she was waiting for him.

The only way she’d kept going after they’d fallen apart was to practice willful amnesia. Not letting herself wonder about him or how he was doing, never thinking about how he felt or if he ever thought of her. She couldn’t do that and keep going. Which probably made her the second person who hadn’t been thinking about how Quinn felt—he never dwelt on anything that hurt. Not for himself. Not for her. Not for anyone, at least when they’d been married. She’d spent darned near a year trying to work him out, and all she had was: he liked sex with her and hated responsibility.

Then, two days ago, she’d learned something else—something that took her breath every time it replayed in her head, hundreds of times per day: losing his fingers hurt him less than she had.

Was he still suffering in the way she never let herself wonder if he was suffering?

She didn’t want to believe it was true. His hatred was real, and he’d definitely wanted to hurt her, so it would be better if she could stop lingering over it. No matter what, her leaving had been kinder to both of them in the long run. If she’d stayed with Quinn until Wayne had followed through with his threats, Corrachlean’s people wouldn’t have been the only ones to think terribly of her; Quinn’s opinion would’ve plummeted into earth too. At least he hated her now for something that was ultimately kinder. Even if she never wanted him to know that.

Maybe that was why, despite knowing he’d been at the facility the past two days, she hadn’t been able to drag herself to Ben’s room to ask him to speak with her. Or maybe it was something more cowardly. Maybe she was afraid that Ben would know who she was now, and she couldn’t blame Quinn if he’d told him. He’d never promised to keep her secrets, and what loyalty did he owe her? Sharing something that was going on in your own life could be a kind of currency to get your friends to talk when they needed to.

“You’re leaving notes for me now?” Quinn’s voice cut across the cavernous ballroom-gymnasium, jolting her from her thoughts so that she had to grab the safety bars again to steady herself.

Would his voice always jolt her?

Heart hammering, she shut off the machine. At least she had the exercise to blame for the way her words came out, breathy and with effort. “I waited for an hour in the foyer, long past the time it started to look weird that I waited for you. Then I decided to write a note. The envelope was sealed, the front was as formal as could be.”

Grabbing a towel, she dried herself off as she walked to meet him, pretending her legs wobbled because of the running too.

* * *

“I noticed.” Quinn thrust the envelope back at her, and looked around the ballroom to make certain they were alone. The last thing he needed this week was to have to explain why he was ogling the doctor or being overly familiar. “And I’m here. What do you want?”

The nod to revenge he’d felt on leaving her there bent over the trash bin hadn’t even lasted until he’d gotten out the door—and that hadn’t even been a version of Anais who looked like his wife. While her hair and eyes remained the wrong color, her glasses were now gone and the hair pulled back from her face let him almost see her. Almost.

Her hand shook a touch when she took the envelope, and he swallowed the urge to lash out at her again, to shock her with some other brutality from the frontline—he had a thousand such story grenades to hurl.

“I just want to talk to you about something. Will you come to my office?”

“Why not here?”

“It’s private.”

Their last conversation had been on repeat in his head since it had ended. While he’d met with his brother. While he’d found out the new family secret: the King was dying. Even sitting by his grandfather’s bed, he’d had her on repeat, enough to riddle out what had set her off.

She’d paled before he’d even mentioned the cameras. She’d been sick about him, not about herself. She still felt something, no matter what she pretended.

It would’ve been so easy to tell her to go to hell, ignore her, as he’d been more or less doing since that first day. To come when she was at lunch, leave when she’d gone home, and continue driving Ben up the wall by refusing to leave him alone in his misery.

But she wanted to talk. And, God help him, he still wanted to talk to her. Maybe this was his opening. Apologies started with regret and, whether she’d admit it or not, he could see she had regrets.

Quinn waved a hand for her to lead the way, and the relief on her face notched his hope higher. He had to pick up his usual leisurely pace to keep up with her and, directly in her wake, her scent channeled to him.

Sweaty, but she still smelled fantastic. Clean, but sweet. Sexy.

Her long, heavy locks had been pulled up high on her head, and the straightening she’d inflicted on it had come undone in the dampness. Waves stretched up from the bottom, where the mass had brushed against her bare back, gathering sweat. A shiver racked his body, raising chills all over him, and Quinn had to thank fate he was walking behind her rather than in her line of sight.

Getting wrapped up in hormones wasn’t the right tack for this conversation—whatever it was going to be about. Before she’d left him, he could’ve easily made any private conversation with her about what his body wanted.

He pulled his gaze to her feet, which seemed safest. Only feet attached to slender ankles, and then his eyes tracked up over the soft skin covering the newly acquired definition in her calves. Her thighs. Her rear...

The shorts she wore clung in a fantastically distracting manner and, just below, he could see the dark little mole that always wanted to be kissed, peeking and retreating from the hem of her shorts on the right as her clothing moved with each step.

By the time they reached her office he had to keep reminding himself of the objective, but every reminder was a little quieter than the hunger for her that had him shaking.

“It’s hot in here,” he muttered, dragging his jacket off and tossing it onto the back of one of the guest chairs.

“It gets warmer in here at night. Sorry. Would you like something to drink first?”

“I’m fine.” He dragged the chair back and sat down, nodding for her to do the same. Hopefully outside of his reach. “But take out the contacts first.”

“What?” She stilled, her expression shifting to something uncomfortably close to fear. “Why?”

As if she had anything to fear from him. Aside from something he might say to upset her...

“You want to talk to me? Great. I don’t want to talk to Anna. I want to talk to Anais. When you’ve got them in, it’s like I can’t see you, but you can still see me. You want me to stay? Take them out.”

“Anna wants to talk to you.”

Anna. Right. This wasn’t about them. This was about work.

Grabbing his jacket again, he rose and headed toward the door. Only a romantic idiot would’ve gotten his hopes up. It angered him that he’d gotten them up without even realizing it. She’d been gone for seven years, now she suddenly wanted to reconnect? Sure. Dumbass.