Read Ebook {PDF EPUB} Hers To Hold by Serena Akeroyd Audiobooks by Serena Akeroyd. TELL ME YOUR SECRETS… ‘Tense and compulsive’ Louise Candlish, bestselling author of The Other Passenger ‘Suspicion, betrayal and dark secrets abound’ TM Logan, bestselling author of The Catch ‘A delicious web of lies’ Jane Corry, bestselling author of I Made a Mistake When Alice and Leo move into a newly renovated house in The Circle, a gated community of exclusive houses, it is everything they’ve dreamed of. But appearances can be deceptive… As Alice is getting to know her neighbours, she discovers a devastating, grisly secret about her new home, and begins to feel a strong connection with Nina, the therapist who lived there before. Alice becomes obsessed with trying to piece together what happened two years before. But no one wants to talk about it. Her neighbours are keeping secrets and things are not as perfect as they seem… The million-copy Sunday Times bestselling author B A Paris returns to her heartland of gripping psychological suspense in this powerful tale of a house that holds a shocking secret. Praise for The Therapist: ‘Alice’s smart new home in The Circle comes with a nightmarish secret in B A Paris’s tense and compulsive new thriller – I gobbled it up in two sittings’ Louise Candlish ‘Suspicion, betrayal and dark secrets abound in this tense story – all hidden just beneath the surface of a seemingly perfect suburban life’ TM Logan ‘A delicious web of lies. Be prepared for your head to spin and your fingers to fly!’ Jane Corry ‘B A Paris is the queen of psychological thrillers and her latest does not disappoint’ My Weekly ‘This spooky thriller with excellent twists and a really fast-paced shock finale’ Heat ‘Totally hooked. Completely gripping’ Mel McGrath ‘A propulsive and deliciously dark page-turner. Perfectly paced and tightly plotted’ Lucy Clarke ‘Domestic suspense at its very best. An aspirational setting, an unsolved crime, a plethora of suspects and twisted allegiances at every turn … I loved it’ Caz Frear ‘Tense and suspenseful … a delicious slice of suburban noir shot through with secrets, lies, paranoia and the unsettling claustrophobia of a staunchly closed community’ Kia Abdullah. The brand-new, gripping historical novel from the Sunday Times bestselling author of Lady of Hay! ‘Warmth, depth, mystery, magic and the supernatural … such a beautiful book!’ bestselling author Santa Montefiore ‘A dazzling roller-coaster of a book that will thrill, enchant and intrigue those who love history and the supernatural’ bestselling author Alison Weir Mercia, 788 AD In the grand Saxon halls of Mercia, King Offa rules with cold ambition. His youngest daughter Eadburh is destined for an arranged marriage, but with reckless spirit her heart is taken by a Welsh prince, a man she can never be matched with and who is quickly and cruelly taken from her. Eadburh inherited her father’s ruthless ways but it’s the gifts passed down from her mother that are far more dangerous. She is determined to carve her own place in the world, yet her path could cause war. Offa’s Dyke, 2021 In a cottage hidden amongst the misty Welsh hills of Offa’s Dyke, Bea Dalloway is called to help Simon Armstrong, who is searching for peace. Instead he finds himself disturbed by unsettling noises and visions. It isn’t long before Bea is also swept up by haunting dreams. The past is whispering to them, calling out for the truth to be told at last. And as dreams and reality weave closer together, Bea and Simon must be strong to resist the pull of the past – and its desire for revenge… The Sunday Times bestselling author returns with a thrilling tale of lost love, betrayal and secrets that have lain buried over a thousand years… ‘So atmospheric and suspenseful, full of myth and magic and hauntings’ bestselling author Rachel Hore ‘Mysterious and haunting – a richly woven tapestry of history and intrigue’ bestselling author Fiona Valpy ‘If you like brilliantly written history tinged with magic and ghosts, you'll love this’ bestselling author Peter James Barbara Erskine is Sunday Times bestselling author many times over. Her latest book, The Ghost Tree, was a No. 2 Sunday Times bestseller (on week ending 25th August 2018). Brought to you by Penguin. We all know the pressure of feeling like we should be grinding 24/7 while simultaneously being told that we should 'just relax' and take care of ourselves, like we somehow have to decide between success and sanity. But in today's complex working world, where every hobby can be a hustle and social media is the lens through which we view not only others but also ourselves, this seemingly impossible choice couldn't be further from our reality. In Working Hard, Hardly Working, entrepreneur and self-proclaimed 'lazy workaholic' Grace Beverley challenges this unrealistic and unnecessary split, and offers a fresh take on how to create your own balance, be more productive and feel fulfilled. Includes practical advice on: · The life-changing art of the to-do table: perfect your productivity method and do more of what you love · Making your routine work for you: optimise your habits and reap the benefits · Getting into and managing your flow: boost your creativity and enjoy your everyday · Engaging in effective self-care: how stepping back will help you move forwards Insightful, curious and refreshingly honest, Working Hard, Hardly Working will make you reflect on what you want from your life and work - and then help you chart your path to get there. © Grace Beverley 2021 (P) Penguin Audio 2021. Brought to you by Penguin. Have you ever imagined running away from your life? Well Birdy Finch didn't just imagine it. She did it. Which might've been an error. And the life she's run into? Her best friend, Heather's. The only problem is, she hasn't told Heather. Actually there are a few other problems. Can Birdy carry off a summer at a luxury Scottish hotel pretending to be her best friend (who incidentally is a world-class wine expert)? And can she stop herself from falling for the first man she's ever actually liked (but who thinks she's someone else)? If you're looking to replace that Fleabag or Bridesmaids sized hole in your life, look no further: Birdy Finch is here. A snort-out-loud romcom with a heart of gold, The Summer Job is THE debut to lose yourself in this year. WHAT EVERYONE IS SAYING ABOUT THE SUMMER JOB 'Witty and funny and packs an emotional punch. it's marvellous' JOSIE SILVER 'Loved it, I'm in the queue for more Lizzy' Josie Silver, author of ONE DAY IN DECEMBER 'Fresh, funny and oh so relatable - the perfect tonic' Abbie Greaves, author of THE SILENT TREATMENT © Lizzy Dent 2021 (P) Penguin Audio 2021. For fans of Children of Men, Years and Years & Station Eleven, a postcard from a future Britain that's closer than we think. 'A beautiful book: thought-provoking, eerily prescient and very witty.' Brit Bennett, author of The Vanishing Half 'Water courses through its pages, as rising sea levels heighten inequalities, buoy populist politicians and wash away every certainty of civilisation. But there's also the novel's prose - its liquid grace and glinting sparkle - and the sheer irresistibility of a narrative that sweeps along with a force that feels tidal in its pull.' The Observer ''You said that you would come back. You looked me in the eye and said that. Well, if you had, this is what you would have seen: soft wood, black cracks, fridges in the road. The broken spines of old rides at Dreamland.' In the coastal resort of Margate, hotels lie empty and sun-faded 'For Sale' signs line the streets. The sea is higher - it's higher everywhere - and those who can are moving inland. A young girl called Chance, however, is just arriving. Chance's family is one of many offered a cash grant to move out of London - and so she, her mother Jas and brother JD relocate to the seaside, just as the country edges towards vertiginous change. In their new home, they find space and wide skies, a world away from the cramped bedsits they've lived in up until now. But challenges swiftly mount. JD's business partner, Kole, has a violent, charismatic energy that whirlpools around him and threatens to draw in the whole family. And when Chance comes across Franky, a girl her age she has never seen before - well-spoken and wearing sunscreen - something catches in the air between them. Their fates are bound: a connection that is immediate, unshakeable, and, in a time when social divides have never cut sharper, dangerous. Set in a future unsettlingly close to home, against a backdrop of soaring inequality and creeping political extremism, Rankin-Gee demonstrates, with cinematic pace and deep humanity, the enduring power of love and hope in a world spinning out of control. Sold by her mother. Enslaved in Pompeii's brothel. Determined to survive. Her name is Amara. Welcome to the Wolf Den. Amara was once a beloved daughter, until her father's death plunged her family into penury. Now she is a slave in Pompeii's infamous brothel, owned by a man she despises. Sharp, clever and resourceful, Amara is forced to hide her talents. For as a she-wolf, her only value lies in the desire she can stir in others. But Amara's spirit is far from broken. By day, she walks the streets with her fellow she-wolves, finding comfort in the laughter and dreams they share. For the streets of Pompeii are alive with opportunity. Out here, even the lowest slave can secure a reversal in fortune. Amara has learnt that everything in this city has its price. But how much is her freedom going to cost her? Set in Pompeii's lupanar, The Wolf Den reimagines the lives of women who have long been overlooked. 2021 Head of Zeus. Brought to you by Penguin. From the bestselling author of Homegoing comes a searing novel of love and loss, addiction and redemption, straight from the heart of contemporary America. As a child Gifty would ask her parents to tell the story of their journey from Ghana to Alabama, seeking escape in myths of heroism and romance. When her father and brother succumb to the hard reality of immigrant life in the American South, their family of four becomes two - and the life Gifty dreamed of slips away. Years later, desperate to understand the opioid addiction that destroyed her brother's life, she turns to science for answers. But when her mother comes to stay, Gifty soon learns that the roots of their tangled traumas reach farther than she ever thought. Tracing her family's story through continents and generations will take her deep into the dark heart of modern America. 'I would say that Transcendent Kingdom is a novel for our time (and it is) but it is so much more than that. It is a novel for all times. The splendor and heart and insight and brilliance contained in the pages holds up a light the rest of us can follow' Ann Patchett 'Absolutely transcendent. A gorgeously woven narrative . . . not a word or idea out of place. THE RANGE. I am quite angry this is so good' Roxane Gay 'A stirringly gifted writer' New York Times © Yaa Gyasi 2020 (P) Penguin Audio 2020. Narrated by Charlie Mackesy. Brought to you by Penguin. Discover the universal tale of four unlikely friends that has captured the hearts of readers of all ages, now available in audio. Charlie Mackesy's mesmerizing debut combines the simplicity of 'The Giving Tree', magic of 'The Velveteen Rabbit' and the curiosity of 'Paddington' - Elisabeth Egan, New York Times Experience the world of a curious boy, a greedy mole, a wary fox and a wise horse who find themselves together in sometimes difficult terrain, sharing their greatest fears and biggest discoveries about vulnerability, kindness, hope, friendship and love. Charlie's words and illustrations have brought comfort to many and have been shared online by readers around the world, as well as on t-shirts for Comic Relief, on magazine covers, on street lampposts in lockdown, in school classrooms, local cafés, and hospital ward walls. They've even been used as screensavers for NHS hospital computers in difficult times. The shared adventures and important conversations between the four friends are full of life lessons that have connected with readers of all ages. Enjoy the journey of The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse brought to life in audio by its author and illustrator Charlie Mackesy, with a beautiful music score and the real wildlife sounds of rural England. © Charlie Mackesy 2019 (P) Penguin Audio 2020. From the award-winning author of Ma’am Darling: 99 Glimpses of Princess Margaret comes a fascinating, hilarious, kaleidoscopic biography of the Fab Four. John Updike compared them to ‘the sun coming out on an Easter morning’. Bob Dylan introduced them to drugs. The Duchess of Windsor adored them. Noel Coward despised them. JRR Tolkien snubbed them. The Rolling Stones copied them. Loenard Bernstein admired them. Muhammad Ali called them ‘little sissies’. Successive Prime Ministers sucked up to them. No one has remained unaffected by the music of The Beatles. As Queen Elizabeth II observed on her golden wedding anniversary, ‘Think what we would have missed if we had never heard The Beatles.’ One Two Three Four traces the chance fusion of the four key elements that made up The Beatles: fire (John), water (Paul), air (George) and earth (Ringo). It also tells the bizarre and often unfortunate tales of the disparate and colourful people within their orbit, among them Fred Lennon, Yoko Ono, the Maharishi, Aunt Mimi, Helen Shapiro, the con artist Magic Alex, Phil Spector, their psychedelic dentist John Riley and their failed nemesis, Det Sgt Norman Pilcher. From the bestselling author of Ma’am Darling comes a kaleidoscopic mixture of history, etymology, diaries, autobiography, fan letters, essays, parallel lives, party lists, charts, interviews, announcements and stories. One Two Three Four joyfully echoes the frenetic hurly-burly of an era. Outlander, Diana Gabaldon's landmark novel of Scottish lore has captured the hearts of millions of readers around the world and catapulted her to the top of the New York Times best-seller list. Intrigue, danger and desire merge in this lush novel of loyalty and time travel. In 1945, Claire Randall, a former combat nurse, is back from the war and reunited with her husband on a second honeymoon. Their blissful reunion is shattered when she touches a boulder in one of the ancient stone ruins and is instantly transported to a Scotland torn by war and raiding border clans . in 1743. Will Claire find her way back to her own time, or is her destiny forever linked with Clan MacKenzie and the gallant James Fraser? Davina Porter's lyrical narration will launch listeners into an exhilarating world of heroism, pulse-pounding adventure, and breathtaking romance as one woman is torn between past and present, passion and love. Hers To Hold by Serena Akeroyd. “Being happy is better than being King.” Yorke Abbey, although she’d been married there, was no less daunting than it had been a mere three weeks ago. In fact, though the wedding had been the largest spectacle of her life, it was nothing in comparison to what was about to happen. To put it frankly, Perry DeSauvier was shitting herself. Actually, “shitting herself” in no way described the terror she was feeling at this moment. The worst thing was, that terror had two faces. Three weeks ago, she’d been on honeymoon, after having married the Crown Prince of this great land. She’d been happy. Still slightly bewildered to find herself the bride of a Royal, but gradually adapting to her new status in life. A status that involved her being the crown princess of Veronia, as well as the secret girlfriend/lover/partner of her husband’s younger brother and cousin. She’d been in Dubai. On a luxurious honeymoon in a wonderful palace where a Bedouin tent had been set up in the Arab-style courtyard, overlooking a twinkling fountain and a pool so shiny that it made mirrors seem like non-reflective surfaces. Those early days of her marriage were supposed to have been her chance to catch her breath. A moment in time for her to adapt, to transition from the environmental scientist of old, to the Crown Princess of new. Then, her mother-in-law had been assassinated. The King, fractions of an inch away from death himself, had been terribly wounded in the assassination attempt on his life. The bullet had spared vital organs, thank God, but it had nicked his spinal cord. Philippe DeSauvier, on the brink of surgery that he might never wake up from, had made the decision to abdicate i.e. to renounce the throne in favor of his son—meaning that her husband was no longer the Crown Prince of Veronia, but the King. Which made her the Queen. The fucking Queen. “You look perfect, Perry,” Cassie Whitings, her new friend, whispered. The older woman’s throat was definitely clogged, but the whole country had been in a state of mourning since Marianne’s death and Philippe’s abdication. If the people behind the assassination, a group called the UnReals, had intended to create dissent among the people, they had failed. If anything, the public had rallied in their grief. Any anti-royalist sentiment was looked upon with outright hatred. The rebels were being vilified in the press, anything against the Royal family was viewed with not only scorn, but distrust and disdain. But that was too late for Marianne. Too late for Philippe as well. He’d been right to abdicate—he still lived, but he’d yet to awaken from his surgery, and they had no idea if he ever would wake up either. “Thank you, Cassie,” she whispered, her voice as weak as Cassie’s own. Nerves made her jittery. Her hands were trembling, and her throat was aching with suppressed emotion. Her stomach was in a state of terror. The butterflies were slowly being overtaken by a nausea so powerful, Perry was petrified she’d puke in front of the millions around the world who were watching the coronation. For the tenth time, she settled her skirts about her legs, and peered down at her feet. It was wrong, oh, so wrong, but under the terrifying gown she was wearing—a silk gown embroidered with crystals and other embroidery that was so heavy her shoulders and back were already aching—she sported flipflops. Fancy ones, ones that cost an eye-twitching amount of money, but flipflops nonetheless. They had been George’s solution. She’d been so terrified of tripping or falling over her skirts as she walked down the aisle of the Abbey, that he’d suggested she wear the simple coverings on her feet. It would have been a wonderful solution if she wasn’t horrified by the idea that the world would see them peeking out from underneath the hems… That was the last thing they needed. She could see—and dread—the headlines in her mind’s eye. A flipflop-wearing future queen walking toward the man who was now king in more than just name. For Edward had already been crowned, and was the ruler of this grand country. She’d watched the majestic procession from the antechamber at the head of the Abbey. Petrified over what was about to happen—the ceremony that would proclaim her his Queen—she’d found little comfort in her husband’s stoic reaction to being King. To Perry, he’d looked so at ease, so comfortable with how things were proceeding, it made her own nerves jitter all the more. Sure, since his birth, he’d known this day would come. Whereas she totally hadn’t. But he was so calm, so fearless. Even though twice in the space of a handful of months his name had been declared to the world at large—because how her gorgeous husband could have Gottfried, Berthold and Donatus as names, she wasn’t sure. Maximilian and Christoph made up for some of the others a bit, but not that much. In the face of those crimes against humanity being revealed, yet again, she wasn’t sure whether it made her love him more or made her be envious of his serenity—enough to hate him just a smidgen. A teensy weeny bit. Before God and his country, Edward had knelt on the cold stone slabs of the Abbey’s floor, had laid himself prostrate before the altar, while three of Veronia’s highest clerics circled him, chanting words in Latin, before sprinkling holy water on his back. She was surprised at how religious the ceremony was, considering that Edward himself had told her that Veronia didn’t have a national religion. But the overtones were definitely here, and she supposed it made sense considering how old the ceremony was. Just because the nation didn’t have one now, didn’t mean it hadn’t been religious in the past. And here was proof of that. Her part in the ritual was approaching, and watching Edward’s wasn’t helping ease the fear. With her anxiety levels shooting through the roof, she watched as two of the clerics helped him stand. Holding out their hands, Edward grabbed a hold of them and used them for support. George had explained this tiny action was a metaphor—a part of the ceremony that showed the people that Edward would always seek a helping hand, that he wouldn’t turn his back on support in times of need. Be it from the government or another country. The King, in Veronia’s eyes, should be humble. And considering that, to become King, Edward had to kneel on the cold floor, she didn’t think he could lower himself much further. Still, he was now on his feet, and a page appeared from the side of the nave to grab the train of his cloak. The boy was only eight, if that, but he seemed to have more confidence than Perry herself. He wore a black suit coat with tails, knee-length black breeches that tucked into black stockings. The shirt he wore was plain, but around his neck, he had a waterfall cravat. On his feet, he wore polished black shoes with silver buckles. The child, a son of some courtier or other, managed to look both precocious and cute as hell as he gathered the ermine train that fell in great swathes about Edward’s feet. The fur was pure white with black dashes dotted here and there. It lined the cloak, which on the outer part, was a royal, rich burgundy velvet. The cloak seemed to fall off Edward’s shoulders. She wasn’t sure how it stayed on, because it seemed impossible to her that it remained in place. But magic or secret fastenings kept it in line, and the deep red highlighted Edward’s swarthiness in a way that made everything south of Perry’s waist flare to life. With the page holding his train, Edward turned to face the congregation. For a second, she was taken aback at how handsome he was. Edward was one of the world’s youngest kings, and at that moment, Perry knew she had probably broken a billion women’s hopes because she had taken him. And he was hers. Crazy though it was, her nerves disappeared at the thought. This incredibly beautiful, smart, wonderful, charming, empathetic king was hers. He stood there, facing the abbey’s entrance for countless seconds. Giving her and the rest of the world time to take in just how powerful he was at that moment, and he seemed to wear that power with the same ease with which he wore his gravity-defying cloak. He was dressed similarly to the page, with a black fitted suit coat that was cut short at the front and graduated into tails at the back. Edward, however, wore full-length trousers, and a white silk bow tie instead of a cravat. His right breast was dotted with the myriad medals and rank insignia he’d earned during his time in the Veronian Armed Forces. His left breast was home to a large brooch that only the King of Veronia wore on state occasions—the royal lion and unicorn fighting one another in pure gold so bright, and so yellow, that in the right light, it hurt the eyes to look upon. Across his chest, he wore a sash. It was in Veronia’s national color, a royal blue that was almost cerulean in hue; it spoke of Veronia’s rich trading history with the Orient, back when such a color would have cost the earth to produce. Her dress was that same royal blue, but unfortunately for her, blue was not her color. Still, nothing was her color at that moment. Her skin, usually creamy, was pasty with her fear. A fear Edward didn’t seem to be feeling. In the grand opulence of his ceremonial wear, it was hard to recognize the man she’d slept with last night. Hard to see the husband, who had shaved this morning beside her in the bathroom, as the king standing before his people. While Edward stood at the altar, his gaze focused on a point visible to only him, three men strode sedately down the aisle. Just like the young page in breeches and tails, these were somber-faced and dour with the seriousness of the task ahead of them. For, in their arms, they held burgundy velvet cushions which supported the Crown Jewels. Like a dance, when the first page was two-thirds of the way down the aisle, Edward turned and retreated to the throne behind him. He ascended the three small steps, turned once more to face the crowd, and took a seat on the ornate gold throne. To his right, there was a smaller but equally detailed and bejeweled seat: Perry’s. As nerves once again bubbled in her veins, making her lightheaded, she watched as the same three clerics approached the pages, each one taking the ancient pieces in hand. The first cleric retrieved a scepter. The gem-encrusted ball was topped with a solid gold, engraved cross. Edward held out his hand and the cleric placed it in his open palm. The second cleric retrieved a chain. Even with the distance between her and the altar, a good fifty or more feet, she heard the echoing sounds of the heavy chain clanking as the cleric stepped toward the throne. Edward sat straighter as the man placed the chain over his head, settling it over his cloaked shoulders, where the centerpiece, the royal seal, sat over the sash crossing his chest. Finally, the Reverend who had officiated her wedding, the highest cleric in the land, clasped the crown in his hands as he, too, approached the throne. With little ceremony, he placed it atop Edward’s bowed head. It wasn’t as grand as the British Imperial State Crown. At least, not from what she’d seen in pictures. This was…kind of short. It didn’t cover his head, but settled on his temples, so his leonine hair was fully visible. It was crenellated, but with sharp points, and each point was tipped with a gemstone so large she could see it from here. The clerics circled Edward once more, more Latin was chanted, and out of nowhere, the choir at the back of the abbey began to sing. She closed her eyes, terror whirling through her as she realized the end of the song was her cue. Perry spun around, and whispered to Cassie, “I’m not sure if I can do this, Cass.” Cass’s bright blue eyes widened in dismay but she reached for Perry’s hands and squeezed them. “Of course you can.” She shook her head. “If I didn’t have to walk down the aisle by myself, I don’t think I’d feel as terrified. What if I fall?” Cassie sighed. “I swear, you spend half your time petrified you’re going to fall. But you never do.” “Is that a challenge? I don’t fall because somebody is always there to catch me,” she said grimly. “Edward, George, my father… nobody will be out there to save me, Cass.” “You’re wearing flipflops. For God’s sake, Perry. How much trouble can you get into wearing those?” She worried her bottom lip nervously with her fingers. “Do you think I should go barefoot?” Cassie rolled her lips inward, and though Perry knew Cassie was stemming her laughter, she didn’t take offense. “I think you’d regret it. The floor is freezing.” Perry slipped off her shoe, pressed her sole to the floor, and winced. Fall was almost over, and with it, winter approached. She’d been feeling the chill of the stone through her flipflops, but hadn’t noticed it because of her nerves. There was no way she’d be able to walk down the long aisle, then stand around throughout her part of the ceremony, not without her feet going numb, anyway. She lifted a hand to her brow, but as she began to rub at her temple, Cassie’s fingers came out to slap her wrist. “Stop that. You’ll ruin your makeup.” Perry sucked in a deep breath when she heard the soprano soloist in the choir reach the crescendo of the song. “Do I look okay?” she asked hurriedly, her head swiveling around to face the abbey and her immediate future. “I already told you. You look perfect.” Cassie’s earnestness eased her nerves some, and she wished like hell her fri end could follow her down the aisle, but Cassie would stay here until Perry reached the altar. After, she would slip into the congregation where she would watch the rest of the service with her husband and children who were watching the coronation in the pews. Perry peered down at herself, and not for the first time, questioned her judgment. Judgment that had brought her to this petrifying moment in her life. She knew a lot of women would have killed to be in her position, but at that moment, she’d kill to be anywhere else. She knew she was being selfish: her husband’s mother Marianne was dead. A good woman, a loving mother, and a caring Queen had been slaughtered, all because an angry political group wanted to make a stand. Wanted to send a message. And yet, all Perry could think of was herself. This situation was fair on no one. Perry should be in Dubai still. Her husband should be chilling out at the side of the pool. Her lovers should be relaxing and eating as they enjoyed their honeymoon. Instead, Xavier and George were part of the congregation, watching as she and Edward became the leaders of Veronia. She wanted them at her side—needed them. Cassie was lovely, but Xavier and George were hers. They’d buoy her confidence, tease her out of her anxiety. Kiss her, hug her, remind her that she could do this. She needed them more than she’d ever needed anyone. A haunting melody suddenly whispered along the sound waves. Recognizing it, she clenched her eyes closed as the song finally came to a halt. The piercing notes ceased echoing around the abbey’s domed ceilings, her cue for the next part of this ritual. Cassie grabbed her shoulders, gently shook her, and in a half-whisper and half-snarl, hissed, “You’ve got this. Dammit. You own this, Perry. You hear me? You’re the strongest woman I know. Rock this shit.” Hers To Hold by Serena Akeroyd. From and To can't be the same language. That page is already in . Something went wrong. Check the webpage URL and try again. Sorry, that page did not respond in a timely manner. Sorry, that page doesn't exist or is preventing translations. Sorry, that page doesn't exist or is preventing translations. Sorry, that page doesn't exist or is preventing translations. Something went wrong, please try again. Try using the Translator for the Microsoft Edge extension instead. Hers To Hold by Serena Akeroyd. From and To can't be the same language. That page is already in . Something went wrong. Check the webpage URL and try again. Sorry, that page did not respond in a timely manner. Sorry, that page doesn't exist or is preventing translations. Sorry, that page doesn't exist or is preventing translations. Sorry, that page doesn't exist or is preventing translations. Something went wrong, please try again. Try using the Translator for the Microsoft Edge extension instead. SERENA AKEROYD. I’ve watched a few of these videos, seen the dramatic reduction of already beautiful stars into unrealistic pin-up girls and I can’t help but ask: Oh, I understand why the advertising companies want us to crave flawlessness. How can they peddle their wares if we don’t give a damn about how we look?! This entire beauty/photoshop thing is a guerilla warfare tactic that has gone global and turned into a war. And we need to think of it that way. Watch this video and listen to the part where it says Kate Winslet’s thighs were reduced by a third! :O I mean, what?! Why? Why are we allowing this to continue? Why are governments not putting regulations in place? Okay, women flogging their guts out as they strive for the impossible is good for the economy; women spend billions seeking what they’ll never find. But how much do eating disorders cost society? And this is a global issue and it’s cross-generational and it will bleed through our children until all women fear being a pound overweight and if they are, then they’ll hate themselves and the men will judge every woman they see for not being the epitome of what the advertising companies sell us. Phew, that was a mouthful! I don’t get on my high horse often. But to be honest, this really pissed me off. Peddling perfection is a mean and spiteful marketing choice. And the sickest thing is… we’re all so damned used to it, that nothing will change and those who talk about it, are considered weird. Or feminists. Hey, I’m just a woman. An imperfect creature with no desire to attain perfection. I’m okay. This stuff doesn’t affect me. I see it for the BS it is. But what about the women who do care? Because there are too many who do. It’s a sad state of affairs, and I can end on only one question as well as a shake of the head: why are we allowing ourselves to be brainwashed? Hers To Hold by Serena Akeroyd. HER HIGHNESS, PRINCESS PERRY. Tilting her head away from the view outside the limo’s window, Perry stared under her lashes at George DeSauvier the Third. The guy she’d met and known since college was, bizarre though it may be, a prince. An honest to God prince. And she regularly shot the shit with him, because royal or not, he was actually a cool guy and the best friend she’d ever had. “Nothing’s wrong,” she immediately denied, still looking at him in his rather royal get-up. She wasn’t used to this George. She was used to the one who wore jeans and tee shirts. Sure, they had fancy labels on them, but they were still regular. Even his work clothes didn’t look this special, and in his three-piece suit, he suddenly seemed very, very regal. As well as gorgeous. She’d never seen tailoring like the suit he was wearing. The teeny-tiny stitches were a dead giveaway that every piece of clothing was custom made by hand, and toss in the sheen of luxurious silk, the suit all but screamed money. But Jesus, the man came from Veronia. Where they literally crapped gold before breakfast. Okay, maybe not literally. Still, they were loaded. And George crapped gold at least twice a day. On top of that, he was delicious. Where did it say in royal decrees that princes had to be handsome? She wasn’t sure. But he was. Very much so. Enough that, many times in their friendship, she’d often wished they were more than just friends. Still, he’d come to mean a lot to her, and she’d never wanted to screw things up by taking things to another level. It probably wasn’t even allowed. Some law written in the annals of his country’s rule book undoubtedly said royal blood and common folk couldn’t marry. Not that that stopped her from loving him, of course. As a friend. Or so she tried to tell herself and putting that in jeopardy wasn’t worth it—that was a fact. Even if he did look like sin with his glossy black hair glinting in the Veronian sunlight, showing off chestnut and mahogany highlights that any woman would kidnap her stylist for. His stormy blue eyes could flash from gray to blue in an instant—depending on his mood. He had a beak of a nose, Roman and unashamed, topped by strong dark brows that reminded her of wings. His forehead was demarcated by a widow’s peak, his jaw strong and stubborn. He wasn’t pretty-boy-handsome. He looked like the man he was. One hundred percent. But in his suit? With his hair slicked back instead of tousled? He was more man than she could handle. Though her ability to handle him, or not, was not her current issue. “There’s definitely something wrong,” he countered, and reached for her hand. Bridging their fingers, he settled the union on his lap—exactly where she didn’t need to be caged. Moments before, when they’d climbed into the limo, she’d thought about perching on that lap and riding him until the cows came home. Hell, the buffalo and woolly mammoth too. Sucking in a breath as she tried to dispel those images, she murmured, “I’m just nervous.” “I’d never have guessed,” he said wryly, and she elbowed him in the side. “Shut up,” she chided, but her own lips were twitching at the sight of the mischievous grin curving that beautiful mouth. “And forgive me for sounding very ‘Prince & Me’—” She’d loved that movie back in college, when binge-watching TV hadn’t really been a thing yet. “–but it’s the first time this Tennessee girl gets to meet the royal family of a country half a world away. You tell me how I can be anything other than freaked out?” His eyes were twinkling when he turned to look at her—the gray-blue gleaming almost cerulean when he was happy or amused. “You meet with a royal four to five times a week, Perry. It should be nothing to you now.” She grunted but knew she couldn’t argue. Not really. They did meet up four to five times a week. For coffee or dinner, to watch a movie or to hang out and work on their own particular shit in his or her apartment. Still… “You’re not like a normal royal person though, are you?” “A royal person?” he snickered. “Wait until I tell Edward that one.” She glowered at him. “Don’t you dare.” Edward was George’s elder brother. While George was second in line, Edward was the crown prince of Veronia. She’d only seen him on the TV and in the tabloids. Even that was pretty rare thanks to the nation’s privacy laws where the press was concerned. This was the first time she’d be meeting any of George’s family, and describing herself as nervous was the biggest understatement of the year. They were never going to be like George. He’d been educated in England and then had gone to college for his MBA in the States. He’d had to have more bodyguards than the President on campus at first, but he’d led a relatively normal student life when the brouhaha had calmed down. And since his graduation, he’d stayed in Boston. Had worked there. George was an Americanized Veronian. He drank pickle juice from the jar and yelled at her for throwing out the crumbs—basically pure sugar—from the bottom of cereal packets. They drank beer together in front of Red Sox games, yelled at the TV as they dove into pizza, and had gorged on funnel cakes at the fair. The rest of his family? They were going to have sticks up their asses, Perry just knew it. Knew it and was dreading it, because she was about to meet them, and decorum wasn’t exactly her middle name. She barely kept it together at faculty meetings never mind at receptions with monarchs! “You’re you. They’re not.” It was as simple and as terrifyi. His lips twitched at her weak reasoning. “Royal or not, they could never be me. I’m one of a kind.” “Your ego certainly is,” she retorted with a huff, tugging her hand from his and folding her arms under her boobs. As usual, they bounced. Jesus, breasts were annoying. She was saving up for a breast reduction, but every time she found another first edition, the surgery was thrown on the backburner. Her obsession with books was almost up there with her obsession on the man at her side and shrimp cocktail-flavored chips. It was a problem—of the twelve-steps variety. Glaring down at her boobs, which were always so, so there, she moved her arms and tugged at her jacket. They’d changed on the plane ride over here—private jet, of course. Only the best for royalty. She’d spent the first four hours of the nine-hour journey gawking at everything. Having only ever flown in the cattle section, this kind of luxury was beyond anything her plebian mind could have dreamed up. When they’d landed, the limo hadn’t been something to sniff at either. He sighed. “Yes. You look fine. I picked the damn outfit, didn’t I?” Though it had been mortifying giving him her sizes, she’d passed this task onto him. She was a scientist, dammit. Not some fashion blogger. She went to work in black pants and a smart-ish white blouse. She basically dressed like a nerdy waitress. In fact, waitresses had more style than she did, and there was no way in hell she was going to meet a royal freakin’ family in clothes that would put their staff to shame. A neat skirt suit had been his selection. Tucked in at the waist, the jacket was navy blue, which set off her skin tone well and matched his suit— although she wasn’t certain if that was intentional or not. She was pale by nature, too pale, but the color made her look a little less pallid. Seemed to bring out the faint rose in her cheeks as well. The tailoring cut into her waist, augmenting what little shape there was, and made her hips look trimmer. It didn’t button, but hung loosely, revealing the almost golden shirt he’d picked for her. It wasn’t shiny gold, like lamé, but it was a shocking enough shade of yellow that she’d never have picked it in a million years. Yet somehow, it suited her. Made her hair, hair almost as dark as his, seem to have more tones than it did. Hers was just dark brown. His was like a freaking advert for hair dye. The skirt was tighter than she’d have gone for herself. It clung to her ass and thighs in a way that had made her groan with mortification in the private bathroom on the jet. Still, she’d given him free dibs to do what he had to do, and boy, had he. She was also, for the first time in her life, wearing heels. Honest to God heels. “You do know you’re going to have to be my crutch, don’t you?” she grumbled again as she rocked her feet in the clunky things on her feet. How did women wear these things? “I’ll be your crutch any day of the week,” he teased. “Just stick close to me, and we’ll make sure you don’t fall on your butt and flash everyone.” Before her cheeks could burn with heat, she snapped, “Like I could flash anyone in this skirt. The damn thing’s so tight I can barely breathe.” He snorted. “Just because it fits, doesn’t mean it’s constricting.” “No. They don’t. They’re all four sizes too big. There’s a difference.” She huffed. “I hope the other clothes you bought me don’t cut off blood supply to my legs too.” He just stared her down, unapologetic as hell. “You shouldn’t have given me free reign.” She grumbled, “I see that now.” Perry prodded him in the side, and grunted back at him when he grabbed it and firmly held her hand in his. He’d always been touchy feely, and she’d always liked it, but at the moment, she was too on edge to be held down. Still, when she tried to tug her fingers from his grasp, he clung tight. So tightly in fact that she turned to look at him to read his expression. He wasn’t glowering down at her in outrage, if anything he was looking out of the window. Seemingly ignoring her as he took in his homeland. One thing she’d noticed in her short time here, was how special Veronia was. Beautiful? Sure, but different too. Unique. Bridging cultures in a way that charmed her American soul down to the ground. On the coast between Monaco and Italy, they were currently riding down a boulevard that had the glorious Mediterranean Ocean sparkling beside them. She had that side because she’d never seen the Med—as he called it—before, but he was looking out onto the towns they passed from the airport to the royal palace in Madela, the capital city. Whenever people saw the limo with its little flags flying on the fender, they stopped, stared, and then started waving at the vehicle. It was sweet to behold, and she realized that the royal family was beloved here. Nice to see in these dark times. She was here for George, not the country. He’d said Veronia needed her, so here she was. But it was nice to see she wasn’t helping a douchebag leader, but a royal family the people loved and who cared for their nation. Now she thought about it, whenever people started waving, he tensed at her side. “When was the last time you were back here?” she asked out of curiosity. Now she thought about it, it had to be a long time. Like four years? That couldn’t be right, could it? But they’d stayed together for the last four Christmases… that was when folk usually went home, right? Well, apart from her, she thought guiltily. In this, they were both as bad as each other. He cleared his throat. “Five years ago.” She stared at him. “How did I not figure that out sooner?” He shot her a look, which combined with his wry smile, almost had her blushing. “Because you’re worse with dates than a two-year-old?” She huffed. “I’m not that bad.” “You’re chronologically challenged,” he argued. “And we both know it. If calendars with reminders didn’t exist, we both know you’d be lost.” She blew him a raspberry, uncaring that the gesture made her seem the two-year-old he’d just labeled her as. “That’s not fair. When it comes to the important stuff, I know my shit.” “It’s totally fair. You’re a scientist, Perry. It’s kind of disturbing that you can’t remember stuff for toffee.” He just cocked a brow when she flipped him the bird, but the faint amusement curving his lips disappeared as he murmured, “I’ve not considered this home for a long time.” She blinked. “Why not?” He’d spoken of Veronia before. Often. But it had always been with love and a warmth that spoke of a place that was home. He cut her another glance. “Never you mind, nosy.” She elbowed him in the side. “That’s no answer.” She was relentless with him because he was with her. Such a cop-out would only have had him peppering her with more questions. However, fate was on his side as he pointed out of the window. “That’s Masonbrook Palace.” Her mouth dropped open, all thoughts of his weird mood fading into dust at the sight of the palace. Well, it was more of a castle really. Where they waved to their public on wedding days and christenings. The portico was pillared, and cars swept through its tunnel to alight onto the entrance of the castle. But the portico’s roof was used as the terrace. She’d seen it so many times on a TV screen and in a magazine that she couldn’t deal with seeing it in the flesh. As they neared the palace, she gulped at the sight of the armed guards in traditional dress. She’d seen the kilt-like uniforms before, but in person, it had her eyes widening. Tens of armed and kilted men guarded the grand gates that soared tw. enty feet into the air and were decorated with the royal Bear and fighting Lion-stamped crests of the reigning royal family. The DeSauviers had ruled Veronia for four hundred years, and their family had helped forge the country into the rich and proud nation it was today. Either side of the neatly graveled drive, there were endless lawns. She could imagine gardeners cutting the damn thing with nail scissors and winced at the notion of how much water was wasted on maintaining the grounds which, though wasteful, were astonishing in their beauty. Huge flowerbeds with roses the size of her head decorated the manicured lawns, and at the head of the drive, where the car had to turn into the portico, there was a kind of ornamental roundabout that had a fountain spouting water a hundred feet into the air. She gaped at it all, even as her conservationist heart died a death at the sight. As the car pulled into the portico, armed guards appeared out of nowhere to line up against the two openings and ensure the Prince’s safety as he alighted from the vehicle. Her door was opened at the same time as George’s, and a white gloved hand appeared in front of her for her to use as aid in leaving the car. Aid she was relieved to have if she was being honest. These heels weren’t wise on flat floors. Never mind graveled ones. She smiled at the attendant who was dressed in a smart black suit and white shirt and gripped his arm tightly as he helped her around the car. When she could, she dove back to George’s side, clutching at him to stand tall and upright. He chuckled as they headed onto the wide bottom step that led to the palace entrance, then he ironed his face of all emotion in the blink of an eye between making sure she was standing straight and turning on his heel to face his men. George snapped a salute to the left. The armed guard replicated the sharp movement within a handful of seconds and with such precision, a clapping sound echoed through the air. George turned to the right and gave another crisp salute. He turned back to her and gripped her arm, then helped her up the stairs. They walked arm-in-arm through a grand front door the size of the giant in the Jack and the Beanstalk stories, and in to a carpeted entranceway.