Torque, Gillian Archer [top ten books of all time TXT] 📗

I barely resisted the urge to punch my arrogant, hard-nosed brother in the middle of his face. Enough time had passed? Was that really how he referred to the most horrific moment of my life? By skimming over it? More than anything, I wished that Julien was here in my seat, which would have meant that I could be back at my post in France—flying planes and running exercises with my men. Drinking and horsing around while on leave. Living the good life. I clenched my jaw and fought my baser urges like I’d been taught. Mostly because my prick of a brother would throw me in the gaol—perks of being the reigning monarch and not the spare.

A butler appeared at my elbow and soundlessly poured wine into my almost empty glass. That was another part of palace living that was still hard to readjust to. The past ten years in France, living without servants constantly underfoot, had been oddly liberating. I’d never realized how much of my life in Monaco had been spent under constant surveillance. At least tonight I’d get to escape the formality of the palace and return to my home down the coastline at Villa Clos Saint-Martin . . . where I lived with my own pack of servants. Fuck, that was depressing. And made my skin itch.

Bastien set his wineglass down and stared stoically at me from across the table. “Next week I will be announcing my engagement to Princess Helene. The wedding will be in the spring.”

I blinked. Princess Helene? When did this happen? I think I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen my brother in the same room with the third in line to the Belgian throne—at the Belgian Grand Prix, the Royal Ascot, and two Rose Balls. Hell, at the last Rose Ball I don’t think I’d seen them within ten meters of each other. And now they were engaged? “You’ve proposed?”

“Yes. We’ve officially agreed to terms through our representatives, and the contracts have been signed. We’ll hold a press conference next week to announce the union.”

“Congratulations?” It came out sounding like a question because I was still having a hard time processing my brother’s news. He’d described it like a damn business arrangement. This was how Bastien wanted to spend the rest of his life? Shackled to a woman he’d met a handful of times, in a loveless union? Hadn’t he learned anything from our parents’ disastrous marriage?

“Thank you. Our national grieving has gone on long enough. I hope my wedding will give our people the hope they’ve been needing.” Bastien sat back in his chair and gave me an ominous look. “And brings me to the point of our dinner tonight.”

Fantastic. Here it comes.

“It’s time you started considering your future as well.”

C’est pas possible. I couldn’t believe this. Was he channeling mon Père? The intonation, timbre, and expression were on point. It was spooky. But for the thirty-year age difference and the fact that mon Père was dead, it might as well have been him sitting at the table lecturing me on royal duty. Scratch that. Considering what Bastien was saying, the resemblance was terrifying.

I masked my rattled thoughts with an indifferent expression. “You can stop right there. I’m not doing it.”

“Luc, you must think of what’s best for our country. For our people. They need hope right now, and that means we—”

“It means we sacrifice our lives. It means we breathe for the citizens of Monaco.” I repeated the lecture verbatim without a thought; I could probably do it in my sleep. “Do you think I wasn’t paying attention every night at dinner when notre Père was lecturing us? I heard him then, just as I’m hearing you now. And I’m still not doing it.”

Bastien tilted his head like he’d heard me, but that was soon evidently not the case, given what he said next. “I’ll have Zara draw up a list of names, and we can start from there. I think you’ll change your tune as soon as you see who we are talking about.”

“Your assistant could write down the name of that Norwegian princess with her twin sister. I’m still not doing it.” My jaw clenched as my frustration boiled.

“Luc, this is our duty. We must—”

“I must nothing!” I pushed away from the table, and my chair landed somewhere behind me with a violent crash. But I didn’t care. I leaned forward and drove my pointed finger into the table. “I am not sacrificing every shred of myself and my dignity to marry a fucking stranger on your say-so. I will not be a miserable mess like Mum or a lecherous bastard like notre Père was. I’m not participating in a dynastic marriage. End of story.”

My chest heaved with my panting breaths. He got me so angry. I was tired of the “you must’s” and the lectures on duty that I’d been getting my entire life. There was no way I was consigning my life to the same miserable existence that our parents had suffered, all for the sake of duty and country. It was ridiculous. Why did he think I moved to France ten years ago and joined the Air Force the second I was able?

Bastien stared narrowed-eyed at me. After a moment, he broke eye contact and nodded to the servants who had scattered when the furniture started flying. “If you would please excuse us? Thank you.”

Bastien watched as the silent staff scurried through the door at the end of the room, hidden in the stucco wall and camouflaged amid the gilded paneling. Not that I gave a shit. I didn’t take my eyes off my brother.

When the door closed behind the last servant, Bastien sat back into his chair with a sigh. “I don’t know what I’m to do with you, Luc.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I left the Air Force and came back. I’m here. I’m toeing the line, playing the dutiful spare to Your Sovereign