Hathor and the Prince (The Dubells #3) Read Online J.J. McAvoy

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Historical Fiction Tags Authors: Series: The Dubells Series by J.J. McAvoy
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Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
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Shit.

I could feel it…that quiver in my heart.

But this did not happen to me.

I did not become enamored by women’s smiles and giggles…their breasts, yes. The sensuality of their beauty, of course, but it was always because I desired to see them in my bed. A woman was merely for personal pleasure. Yet here I was, more content than I ever thought possible…due to her silly, loud laugh.

Was this what other men were thinking when they brought women out onto the water, or shared a picnic in the park? If so I finally understood them, but I understood myself less. It was unsettling how fast these feelings came without warning. She was right. I would have left if I did not like her.

But I liked her. I liked how she showed me no pity; it made me more comfortable by her side. I had not a clue what I was supposed to do now.

By the time we finally reached the dock, a servant was already waiting to assist us. When he reached out for her, I quickly stood to help her first. Again, she looked at me. Those amber eyes of hers were worse than Medusa’s, for I did not turn to stone, but water.

“Thank you,” she said gently, and I wanted to hold on to her longer…closer.

I wanted her not just for a night or a season, but for—forever? Was that truly it? Forever? So, marriage? But marriage was so…permanent. How did I know these feelings would not pass? What if one day, years from now, I woke up and realized I did not wish to be married to her any longer? Or worse…what if she realized her whole life had been ruined because she was married to me? What if all I could ever give her were sad stories?

I did not desire that, and I did not wish her to suffer it.

“Are you coming?” she called back to me, waiting.

“Yes,” I said, stepping out myself, feeling the need to stretch my arms. But since she watched me, unflinching, I could not bring myself to do so. I placed my hands behind my back.

She looked me over carefully and grinned. “Your arms hurt, don’t they?”

“No, why would they?” I lied. She just shook her head at me. “They really do not hurt. I am fine.”

“Thou doth protest too much, methinks,” she chuckled as we walked back.

“O, but she’ll keep her word.”

She looked at me strangely. “What?”

“I thought we were reciting Hamlet now. That is the next line, is it not?”

“You’ve memorized all the lines of Hamlet?”

“You’ve memorized only one line? Is it not normal to know plays?”

“You know all the plays?”

“Not all of them, but a good many of the popular ones. Why?”

She paused and looked me in the eye. “I was born to join in love, not hate—that is my nature.”

I thought for a moment, then recited the next words. “Then go down to the dead. If you must love, love them. No woman’s going to govern me. Antigone, yes?”

She grinned. “You shall come in handy…August.”

“Don’t.” I shook my head. “I’ve gotten used to you calling me Wilhelm. Changing that now will make you seem—like everyone else.”

“And I am not like everyone else?” she asked gently.

I inhaled and quickly thought past that. “Why will my knowledge of plays come in handy?”

“Fine, I’ll let you change the subject this time.” She smiled. “You will come in handy as my shield.”

“A shield from what?”

“All my family teases me because I am not very good at remembering plays or books. I only ever recall my favorite lines. So they always best me in recitation.”

“And you mean to use me to beat your family in petty arguments?”

“Precisely,” she said without shame.

“Is that not juvenile?”

“Yes, it is, but silliness is what makes a family happy. When my aunt, my mother’s older sister, would come to visit us, she and my mother would sneak into the kitchen cellar to take wine and a few cakes after we had all gone to bed. They’d get so drunk they’d start singing, and because they are both very competitive, they would argue about who was to sing the melody.” She spoke loudly and quickly, waving her hands frantically before herself as she tried to explain. “Their efforts to be discreet failed terribly, as all the castle could hear them. Can you imagine, the great Marchioness of Monthermer and the Viscountess of Armmore, screeching like madwomen? Papa said all mothers need a moment to be childish, so we were all ordered to pretend as if we knew nothing about their antics. He was right, like always, and Mama was much happier afterward.”

Just as she opened her mouth to add something more, she stopped abruptly, as if some revelation had come to her. She looked at me and clamped her lips shut.


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