Broken Prince: A New Adult Romance Novel Read online

  "I don't sleep here often," Eliot said in response to my quizzical look.

  "You must be a night demon," I teased. "You walk the night, putting terrible theorems into people's dreams."

  "The horror," Eliot said, clasping one hand to his heart. "To place untrue theorems in the minds of poor mathematicians."

  "Worse than that," I said. "The theorems are true, but completely unprovable."

  Eliot's eyes crinkled in laughter.

  "What's this?" I said, picking up the book from the end table.

  "Oh, that," Eliot said. "The Little Prince. Have you ever read it?"

  "No," I said. "I think I've heard of it, though."

  "Everybody here reads this book when they are a child," Eliot said. He picked up the old book and turned it over in his hands, then handed it to me. The cover showed a boy standing on an asteroid or moon, a beautiful colored illustration.

  "What's it about?" I asked.

  "It's about a prince—"

  "Like you," I said. "Is there a princess?"

  "No. This prince is just a little boy, and he lives on a tiny planet that you can walk around in no time at all. It's as big as a house, maybe, no bigger."

  "That's how it is on the cover," I said. I looked again at the illustration. "The gravity wouldn't be enough to keep him on there."

  "Hush. It's a fairy tale."

  "Oh. Well, if it's a fairy tale," I said, smiling. I tucked my feet under the blanket and lay back against the pillows. "So he's the only one on the planet?"

  "He has a rose," Eliot said. "He loves her and waters her and keeps her under a glass globe at night to protect her."

  "What happens to him? The little prince?" I asked.

  "He leaves one day," Eliot said.

  "He leaves the rose?"

  "Yes. She tells him that she doesn't need the glass globe anymore and he leaves her. He leaves his home altogether, and visits a bunch of other planets, and eventually he comes to Earth. You'll have to read it, of course. I'm not doing it justice."

  "It sounds like a nice book. Does he stay on Earth or go back to his rose?"

  Eliot got a sad look in his eye, and he took the book out of my hands.

  "I can't tell you," he said. "That would spoil the ending."

  "Are you coming to bed?" I asked. I couldn't keep the note of pleading out of my voice, and I hated myself for being so needy.

  "Yes," Eliot said. "Of course."

  I watched him as he peeled off his shirt. The white scars crisscrossing his chest seemed to glow in the dim light. He saw me watching him and turned the light off. I heard him finish undressing while my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. By the time he came into bed I could make out his profile, nothing else. His dark hair tumbled over his face.

  "You need a haircut," I said timidly. I was scared to touch him, now that he was nearly naked and so close to me. Foolish—we had slept together, after all, but only the one time. Since then he had given me space. More space than I needed, really. As much as I felt myself drawn toward him, the more I felt myself pull back. I could not trust anyone, not even him, or something bad would happen. A black cloud seemed to be hovering just above me, ready to strike me down at any sign of happiness.

  "I'll get it cut tomorrow," Eliot said. He paused for a second, then shifted in bed.

  "Goodnight," I said. I turned away to face the window. The moon outside was thin, waning. This bed felt different than my bed in the other room.

  "Goodnight, princess," Eliot said. One of his arms curled around me and pulled me backwards into his embrace. He spooned me, kissed my shoulder, and lay his head down close to mine on the pillow. His breath was warm and tickled my back. His chest rose and fell, pressing against my back. The skin was seamed with scars. I nestled into him and kissed the arm closest to me. His hand reached out and stroked my hair back behind my ear.

  I loved it when Eliot told me stories, when he shared books with me that he loved. Although it made me feel like a little girl, I longed to have him cradle me in his arms and tell me all of the stories of his childhood.

  One time I was reading a newspaper and landed on the advice column. A guilty pleasure of mine, the advice column always made me think that there was no question in this world that did not have an answer. A man had written in about a woman he'd just started dating.

  "She's a wonderful person," he wrote, "but she keeps giving me books to read. I have a pile of books now on my night stand, and a to-read list that's a mile long. Have you ever heard of a relationship that came with a reading list attached?"

  The advice columnist wrote back: "I have never heard of a relationship that didn't."

  Sharing books is one of the most personal, most frightening things you can do, after all. When you give somebody else a story that you have loved, you are risking so much. Will they like the story as much as you? Will they take the same meaning from it? And yet, the reward if they understand the book you love, if they love it as much as you!

  There are studies that say that reading fiction makes you a better person. More empathetic. When you read a novel, you become the main character, if only for a while. Living in someone else's shoes makes people more generous with each other. And when you read the same book as another person, you are becoming the same character. When your lover reads a book you have read, you are sharing another experience, in a way, one that you might never get to share in real life.

  I bugged Eliot to tell me stories because I wanted to understand him. But there was one story he didn't tell me until much later, and now I know why. It would have given up too much of his heart to me, and he was not ready to do that. Not yet.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Eliot

  Eliot woke up earlier than the sun, but when he rolled over he found the other side of his bed empty.

  "Brynn?" He wiped at his eyes and looked around. The thin light of dawn filtered through the curtains of his windows, illuminating the dust that hung in the quiet air of morning.

  He quickly pulled on a robe and went across the hallway, but she was not in her bedroom either. He wasn't about to scream her name from the rooftops, but a small ringing of panic sent its way through his body. His feet padded down the stairs one at a time, but with some measure of quickness that was not normal for him so early in the morning.

  The kitchen light was on, and when he passed through the entryway Lucky jumped down from the counter where he had been licking at the saucer of cream to rub against his ankles. Eliot's mind was still fuzzy with sleep, but he saw the kettle on the stove still steaming and recognized that Brynn must be close.

  Out in the backyard, the air was still cool from the night. Brynn sat alone at the patio table, sipping a cup of tea and reading a book. She looked up when he opened the door and smiled sweetly.

  "Good morning," she said.

  "Good morning," Eliot said, walking over and leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips. "It's early, isn't it?"

  "A little early," Brynn admitted. "I slept well, though."

  "I'm glad," Eliot said, pressing his hand on top of hers as he sat down next to her. They sat there for a minute in silence, enjoying the morning. The forest was bright and alive with birdcall, and two sparrows bathed themselves on the step of the pool, splashing water with ruffled feathers and tumbling over each other in play. The rose garden was in full bloom, and stripes of red and yellow and white lined the edges of the garden. From so far away the colors blended together in an impressionist muddle.

  "What's the book?" he asked, leaning over.

  "It's a book of legends," Brynn said. "My mom used to tell me the stories when I was a little girl, just before bedtime. I thought about it when you were talking about the other book. The Little Prince." Brynn held out the book of legends, waving it in the air. "But this book of legends—this was my favorite book when I was a kid."

  "What legend are you reading now?" he asked.

  "Orpheus and Eurydice. Do you know the story?"

  "No," Eliot sa
id, leaning back in his chair. "Will you tell it to me?"

  "Sure!"

  Brynn's half-smile made him ache to reach out and take her into his arms. She was so young, so innocent, and yet whenever she smiled he saw behind her beautiful face the intelligence that had made him first fall in love with her. She settled back and her voice took on a deeper tone.

  "Orpheus was half-man, half-god."

  "Isn't this supposed to start out with 'Once upon a time?'" Eliot asked.

  "This isn't a fairy tale," Brynn said. "It's a legend. Now don't interrupt the story."

  Eliot grinned.

  "Sorry."

  Brynn continued, her face becoming more animated as she went on.

  "Orpheus could play music like no other, and animals would flock around him whenever he played his lyre. He enchanted Eurydice with his playing, and she fell in love with him. Remind you of anyone?" The teasing look on Brynn's face twisted his heart. It was so good to see her in a joking mood.

  "Are you saying I enchanted you?" he asked.

  "Maybe. But this story doesn't end happily. Just after their wedding, Eurydice was bitten by a snake, and died instantly," she said.

  "That is a tragedy. He must have been heartbroken."

  "More than that. He traveled to the underworld, the land of the dead, to get her back." Brynn's voice dropped into a lower register as she spoke.

  "To bring her back from the dead?"

  "Yes. He played a song lamenting her death and Hades, the god of the underworld, was moved by his music so much that he let Eurydice go. On one condition."

  "There's always a catch," Eliot said.

  "This one wasn't so bad. He told Orpheus that he must lead Eurydice back up to the world of the living, but that he could not look back at her until they were both out of the underworld. If he looked back, she would be gone forever."

  "I can imagine what comes next," Eliot said.

  "Can you?" Brynn asked, her eyes wide, lost in the story. "Can you imagine walking through a dark tunnel for hours, tormented souls wailing at every turn? Your lover is supposed to be following you, but is she really there? Has she really come back with you? He would have done the impossible, brought the dead back to life, if he had only walked bravely out of the underworld into the light without looking back."

  "But he didn't," Eliot said

  "He didn't." Brynn's voice swelled into the tone of a storyteller, her hands moving in the air dramatically to demonstrate the action. "At the last moment, as he stepped out of the underworld into the light of day, he spun around to see his beloved. But she was just inside the tunnel. He reached out to grasp her hand, and she vanished in his arms. He heard the ghost of a voice calling Farewell and nothing else. Hades would not let him return to the underworld a second time."

  "The end?" Eliot asked.

  "The end," Brynn said.

  "It was his own fault," Eliot said, crossing his arms.

  "You think so?"

  "If he had trusted her, if he hadn't been so impatient, it might have been a happy ending. Wouldn't it?"

  "Would you have been able to keep yourself from looking back?" Brynn asked.

  Instantly Eliot saw Clare's face in his mind, and he winced in pain. Brynn saw and the realization on her face made him wish that he was better at hiding his emotion. She should not have to think about his dead wife, no matter how much it clouded his own mind.

  "I'm sorry," Brynn said.

  "No, don't. It's not—"

  "It's just a story," Brynn said, closing the book.

  "A legend," Eliot corrected solemnly. Brynn smiled at his didactic tone, and he squeezed her hand, trying to fix the connection between them that had strained at the mention of Clare.

  "It's beautiful here," Brynn said, looking out at the forest.

  "Do you want to stay?" Eliot asked before thinking.

  "With you?" Brynn asked. Her eyebrow lifted in a slight question.

  "In Hungary. Would you want to stay here?"

  "Yes! It's so pretty, and I'm really happy I have the chance to study at the Academy."

  "It's an excellent program," Eliot said, trying to hide the disappointment that had suddenly sprung into his thoughts. "It's a different country, though. I know it can be hard to acclimate."

  Brynn sipped her tea before answering.

  "It's a great opportunity," she said finally. "I wouldn't want to miss out on that. And being in a different country isn't so bad. I'm learning more of the language."

  "That's wonderful," Eliot said. He sat back and looked out into the greenery of the forest. He knew it was a fantastic opportunity for Brynn. He would not ask her again. It was enough that she was not upset with him any more, that she had come to him and slept in his arms. He would not push her into anything.

  "You do need a haircut," Brynn said, reaching forward and tousling his hair, then smoothing it back.

  He leaned toward her and kissed her as he stood, sweeping her up out of the chair and into his arms.

  "Ohh!" She cried out softly as he pulled her into a tight embrace, his lips pressing against hers. Such sweet lips, such a sweet face that masked a keen intelligence. He loved her, he loved her, and at that moment he would do anything for her. As he broke the kiss his lips lingered on her cheek.

  "Come to dinner with me tonight," Eliot whispered. He could feel her smiling against his face, and his heart swelled.

  "Yes, of course," Brynn said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Brynn

  “Myths are the stories we tell ourselves to explain the world around us and within us.”

  Pamela Jaye Smith

  Did I want to stay in Hungary? I asked myself that question over and over again as I walked to the address Mark had given me. Budapest was beautiful, old stone buildings and so much history soaked into the ground. But now that summer had come and the streets were no longer white with snow, the city seemed dirtier. The heat was sometimes oppressive. And although I loved Eliot and living with him, I could not see myself making many friends here. Everybody was polite but also standoffish when I tried to make conversation. Part of that was my halting Hungarian, but another part of it was that I was an outsider, not one of them, and I could feel it.

  Crossing the street, I looked up at the large building where Csilla's family lived. The apartment was on the top floor, and when I entered the building the doorman waved me in. Seeing my hesitation, he asked me where I was going. I responded in halting Hungarian, and he led me back to an elevator, pressing the buzzer. A woman's voice answered, and he spoke to her rapidly; I could only make out a few words: "an American girl."

  "What do you want?" the woman's voice said in clear English. I realized she was speaking to me.

  "Mrs. Deveny? I...I'm Brynn Tomlin," I said. "Mark—uh, Mark from the Academy—he told me that I should talk to you. About my mom."

  There was a brief pause and then the elevator door buzzed open. The doorman waved me in. Inside there was only a single button. I pressed it and the doors closed, leaving me alone inside the elevator. The platform jerked upwards, and my stomach was left behind as the elevator rose rapidly up toward the top floor. Toward the answer to some of my questions. I had been waiting a long time for these answers, and now that I was so close I felt queasy.

  The elevator doors opened, and I stepped into the apartment—there was no hallway, just a place to leave my shoes at the doorway next to an expansive living room. The elevator doors closed behind me and I jumped as the machinery started up and left me alone in the middle of somebody's house. The sound of a television echoed through the apartment. How strange. A private elevator to an entire floor? I had never seen anything like it.

  "Ms. Tomlin? Come in," a voice called from around the corner. I slipped off my shoes and walked through the living room. Everything was neat and tidy. Expensive-looking paintings in gilded frames adorned the walls, and the carpet was so plush my toes sank into it as I walked in my socks.

  The kitchen was around the corner,
and the lady who sat at the stool in front of the counter could have been Csilla's older sister. She had the same long blonde hair, the same delicate features. In front of her was a glass of red wine. She muted the television, swiveled around on her stool, and stood up, coming forward to greet me with kisses on both cheeks. Marta had greeted me the same way when I arrived in Hungary, but Mrs. Deveny's kisses were perfunctory, quick and efficient and over with before I could return them.

  "You're the girl whose mother died," she said, returning to her stool. She stumbled against the counter and caught herself, easing her body up onto the stool carefully.

  "Yes." I thought to myself that that was my old identity: I used to only be the girl whose mother died. At school, kids who before might have teased me for being smart and unpopular just stared and whispered. I preferred their teasing. I had grown past that, though, and when I went to college I reinvented myself as somebody new. Nobody knew about my mother except for Mark. And now Csilla. I don't know why it irritated me so much to have her know about my mother, but it did. I didn't want her pity. I didn't want anyone's pity.

  "Mark told us about you. You're friends with him, yes?" From her glance it seemed she wanted to make sure we were friends only, nothing more. Her eyes were glazed. I realized that she was drunk.

  "Yes, we go to college together." We used to go to college together, rather. I wasn't sure if I'd ever go back. Mrs. Deveny sat down on her stool and sipped at her wine. She didn't offer me a seat or a drink, but I slid onto the stool next to her anyway.

  "Your mother's case was a strange one," Mrs. Deveny said. "What do you know about it?"

  "Nothing," I said. My hands were damp with sweat.

  "Nothing?" Her voice said that she didn't believe me. She took another sip of wine and I wondered how much she had drunk already. It wasn't even noon yet.

  "I know she was killed," I said. "But I was only eight when it happened. My father just told me that she had died. He didn't—he didn't tell me anything else. It was only when I was older that he even told me she had been killed."