How fondly I remembered the first cast meeting. Most of us had been fresh-faced nobodies, so eager and excited to be there. Our director, Jess, had looked around, her eyes serious but also holding a glimmer of, well, I didn’t want to call it pride, because she didn’t know us from Adam at that point, but warm understanding, maybe, and she warned us.
“Take this time before we air and use it to go out. Do all the things you enjoy. Because after the world sees this show, your lives won’t be the same. Privacy will be a thing of the past. Every time you set foot in public, someone will notice.”
My costar, Macon Saint, snorted at that. “Good thing I’m a hermit.”
The man was utterly gorgeous in a barbaric sort of way—which was likely why he’d been cast as the Warrior King, Arasmus—but the remote coldness in his eyes made me believe him.
Then he’d fallen in love. And the great grump Macon Saint had transformed. He smiled at everyone now and laughed regularly, as though he just couldn’t contain his happiness. It was both endearing and annoying.
Annoying because I had no idea what that sort of giddy “I’m over the moon for my partner who gives it to me on the regular, and it is spectacular” kind of relationship felt like. I wanted to know. Believe me; I did. But thus far, it had eluded me.
Jess had been right: our lives changed dramatically. Privacy was fleeting, something I achieved with a bit of preplanning and a bit of luck. I could still go out occasionally, but there was no guarantee that I’d be left alone or someone wouldn’t take my picture.
On the flip side, I was adored by fans, and cute kids often asked for my picture, which was a little weird given the content of Dark Castle, but I had to assume they were more into the whole Princess Anya aspect of my role than the sex and beheadings.
Not so cute were the creepers who liked to stand a hair too close while asking for a nice selfie. I’d learned to put my hand on shoulders first, effectively positioning the fan far enough away to prevent “accidental” groping.
My life changed in other ways. I met Greg, a superhot and easygoing football player who also happened to adore me—his words. Greg was supportive but didn’t hover or complain about my grueling work schedule. His schedule was as bad as mine, with him on the road fairly often during the season. But we made it work.
By the end of my third year on Dark Castle, I felt content, comfortable in my role. Princess Anya was incredibly popular. People would always ask either Saint or me when his character, Arasmus, and Anya would marry. We hoped to give them the answer during the season finale. Chances looked good. They’d reached the citadel, and he’d finally proposed.
All that was left was for Anya to accept and for the wedding to happen. The somewhat unnerving thing about working on Dark Castle was the fact that the producers and writers hid both the premiere and final episodes from their actors out of some ultraparanoid need for secrecy, despite the fact that we all had signed nondisclosure agreements.
“You ready for this?” Saint asked me as we settled around the table with scripts in hand.
“As I’ll ever be, lover boy.”
He snorted with good humor. Despite Saint’s gruff nature, I truly enjoyed working with him. He was never selfish and never tried to take over a scene. All my costars were great. The work was challenging, but we all rose to it and got along like family. Well, a family that did their best to destroy each other on-screen.
Once everyone was ready, we started to read through our parts. It wasn’t until we neared the end that the blood began to drain from my face, and my fingers grew ice cold. Because it was becoming increasingly clear that Anya was about to die.
I sat there, numbly saying my lines, all too aware of my costars’ looks of pity, letting the script wind down to the final moment where Anya got her head chopped off with an ax by her and Arasmus’s greatest enemy.
But it wasn’t until I left the room to sit alone in a trailer that I would no longer occupy next season that it fully hit me. I was out of a job. My happy space was no more. My dream role was gone.
Heartsick and struggling to keep fear of the unknown at bay, I went home. I kept a temporary rental apartment in the small Icelandic town where we filmed. Greg was with me since his season had ended, and training camp had not yet begun.
I looked forward to a long soak in the apartment’s tiny sitting tub and then a good snuggle with Greg, who would let me cry on his shoulder and tell me everything was going to be okay.
Only that wasn’t meant to be. So lost in my own sorrow was I that the noises from within the apartment didn’t truly register until I was practically on top of them. And by them, I meant Greg and the young waitress who’d served us dinner two nights ago.
It was a strange thing, really, seeing my boyfriend’s naked ass thrusting between widespread thighs. Was that what he looked like when he was on top of me? Because I had to say he appeared rather ridiculous, pumping away like an unhinged bunny. Then again, I’d never liked that particular method of his; I’d rarely orgasmed when pounded like a piece of meat. His partner, however, didn’t seem to have that problem. Either she was faking it, or she loved it. But her rather enthusiastic squeaks of delight cut short as she caught sight of me, and all the color drained from her face.
Sadly, it took Greg a bit longer to realize she’d frozen beneath him; Greg always was a bit of a selfish lover. When he finally noticed, he was as smooth as ever, observing me from over his sweaty shoulder without making a move to get off the woman.
Silence fell like a hammer. Or maybe an ax. Why not? An ax could sever more than one thing today. Greg swallowed twice, his gaze darting over me, like he couldn’t quite believe I was there. In my own home.
His voice was somewhat shaky when he finally spoke. “You’re early.”
So many things to say. Scream, maybe? Cry? But I was numb. Completely numb. So I said the only thing I could. “Funny, I think I arrived just in time.”
And like that, the carefully constructed life I was so proud of crumbled to dust.
CHAPTER ONE
Lucian
One truth I’d learned in life: the tender care of a woman who loved you was the best refuge when your soul was broken. Of course, I hadn’t thought the woman I’d run to would be my grandmother. Yes, she loved me. And yes, her place, Rosemont, was an excellent refuge. But the sad truth was there was nothing left for me anywhere else. My fiancée was gone, my career was gone, and I was broken.
Which meant I was at Rosemont. And, apparently, at my grandmother’s beck and call. There was no such thing as privacy when you lived with her. Meddling wasn’t her middle name, but it should have been.
Her droll, musical voice managed to rise above the sound of my hammering. “They have this wonderful new invention called a nail gun, Titou. Or so I’m told.”
Suppressing a sigh, I set my hammer down and turned to find her standing at the base of my ladder, hands on wide hips, a fond but slightly reproachful smile on her thin red lips.
“I like my hammer.”
A glint lit up her glass-green eyes. “A man should not grow so fond of his tool that he closes out the rest of the world.”
I swear to God. This was my life now—having to grit my teeth through sexual quips told by my unrepentant grandmother.
“Did you need something, Mamie?”