by Alyssa Cole
Wait. That voice is familiar. And the language . . .
A light suddenly flicked on, and Nya blinked several times, and then kept on blinking even after her eyes had adjusted. Her ears hadn’t lied.
Oh! It’s him.
“Oh. It’s you.” Johan Maximillian von Braustein’s thick auburn hair was tousled and unruly, his cheeks slightly flushed as if he’d been dreaming of something naughty. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and rolled up to his elbows, revealing the reddish hair on his chest and dusting his forearms. The shocking blue eyes that routinely stared out from the covers of tabloids? Those were bright and clear, even if the rest of him was still half-asleep.
For a second, she was hit with the same ridiculous certainty she’d had the first time she’d met him—that he was appraising her like a man tallying the pleasure of making her his, and willing to trade them all.
Then he looked away, his features the very picture of boredom. It had been her imagination running away with her again, fooling her into hoping for wide vistas when her actual view was blinkered at best.
He gathered a lump of tangled bedsheet close to him.
“Ledi’s cousin. Naya, is it? I thought you were a pillow,” he said before yawning hugely. Then he glanced at her, as if he’d thoroughly forgotten her presence in the time it had taken him to yawn and was now mildly surprised to find her there. “Well? Do you have biscuits?”
“No.” She realized she was still holding her phone out defensively and lowered her arm. His gaze on her intensified, and Nya felt the English being knocked from her head by the impact of it. “The bed. I want to be in it.”
“I see.” That shocking blue gaze warmed beneath long lashes that drooped as if they’d suddenly grown heavy. “Are you here to seduce me, Naya?”
Nya almost dropped her phone at his audacity. He was so calm, so sure that if she was there it must be to fulfill his needs. Her vocabulary returned, reloaded by her anger. “Seduce you? No! I didn’t even know you were in here!”
He rolled over onto his side, resting his head on the mound of bedding he’d gathered, the better to see her. “I know this trick. ‘Oh, I’m just a timid little thing who wandered into the lair of the big bad wolf.’” He chuckled and patted the mattress. “Very well, then, Naya. Come to bed and I’ll eat you up.”
Goddess. He’d gone from ignoring her at every encounter, to not remembering her name, to accusing her of seduction, to offering . . . THAT as easily as the priestesses handed out garlands at the flower festival. She wasn’t sure what was more intolerable, his assumption or the amusement in his tone. He was wrong about her intentions but, like everyone else, thought the mere idea of Nya taking what she wanted was laughable.
Even the most docile Jerami wouldn’t tolerate this disrespect. She gripped the phone and pointed it at him. “I am pulling no tricks. And my name is Nya. You might remember that before inviting me to lower myself with a man like you.”
“My mistake,” he said lightly, seemingly resistant to shaming, then scooted over. “Well, the bed is big enough to fit two, and I wouldn’t mind some company right now.”
Nya paused, dropping her hand to her side again. There was something in his tone . . . but before she could identify it, he glanced at her sidelong.
“I didn’t ask before because I was asleep, I suppose, but do you prefer big spoon or little spoon?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively, underlining the fact that to him this was a joke. But to her . . .
Nya had never been held by a man before Johan had, apparently, mistaken her for a pillow. His arms around her had felt good in that moment before reality had set in, when he might have been a figment of her imagination and not a world-famous fuckboy. And now this jerk who had never bothered to learn her name and would likely forget her existence again as soon as the plane landed, thought to make light of the most intimate experience she’d had thus far?
Of course. Self-indulgent, spoiled . . . he doesn’t know what it’s like to be alone. For him, spooning a random woman on a plane is just another Tuesday.
“You can be big spoon if you want,” he offered when she didn’t respond, and Nya sucked her teeth. He really was as appalling as the tabloids made him out to be.
“I will be the only spoon. Get out.” Her voice trembled and she swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. She could still feel his arms around her, holding her close. The heat of his body and his scent surrounding her. For the first time, she’d known what it felt like to be . . . cared for. And it had been this ridiculous man, who cared for no one but himself. This greedy, wanton playboy with his good looks and smooth words, who expected her to bend to his wishes.
Nya was both embarrassed and furious.
Worse, behind her fury, a small lonely voice in the deepest part of her whispered, Go to him. Isn’t this what you dreamed of?
Johan sat there looking at her with his confident grin, as if he was in cahoots with her traitorous hidden desires.
Nya was lonely, but she had suffered enough humiliation for one lifetime.
She gestured toward the door. “Get. Out.”
“I’m quite comfortable,” he said, settling in. “And let’s not forget that I was here first, Mademoiselle I Want to Be in Bed.”
This teasing was so much worse than all those times he had ignored her in New York City because she’d imagined situations just like this, despite her distaste for him. Situations where he couldn’t pretend she didn’t exist and was hit with the realization that she did and she mattered—and perhaps even that he wanted no one but her.
Your dreams are too big, girl.
Now he was finally looking right at her and all he saw was a woman to be treated like a joke. That was all anyone would ever see.
Her father had been right.
“I said get out!” Nya had never yelled before. It was strange, how the angry words scraped her throat. How did people do this all the time? No matter. She would shout him to the threshold of Ingoka’s abyss if necessary. “You rude, inconsiderate, selfish, arrogant—”
Her words caught on an ugly choking sound and tears spilled down her cheeks, a sudden graceless torrent. She raised her hands to her face.
Apparently, I haven’t been humiliated enough.
“Ah, scheisse.”
She could see the white of Johan’s dress shirt and the gray of his pressed slacks through the spaces between her fingers as he moved from the bed and stood before her, but she refused to look up into his face.
“Nya.” His voice was gentle now. So, so gentle, wrapping around her like his arms had, which somehow made everything worse.
She shook her head and sniffled against her palm. “I want to be alone.” Her voice broke like that of a reedy youth, and she squeezed her eyes shut even harder. She had spent so much of her life never breaking, pretending that everything was all right, and of course it would happen now, in front of him.
“Here,” he said, and then there was the feel of silky soft material against the back of her hand. “Take it, along with my apology. I’ve behaved . . . I won’t say it was quite out of character, but I know better and shouldn’t have spoken to you in that way. I took my bad mood out on you.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to that,” she said miserably as she snatched the handkerchief he offered. If her father had prepared her for anything it was that her happiness was always to be at the whim of some man.
She wiped at her face, inhaling the scent of lemon and lavender that had wrapped around her so comfortingly before.
“Used to it?” Johan’s voice was a little sharper now, the lazy, inviting drawl a little more firm. “That doesn’t make it right. I was an ass.”
She blew her nose, barely listening. She knew that men only apologized when you made them question their own idea of themselves. She would assuage him, so he could feel like a good man again and leave her alone. “It’s fine. I accept your apology.”
“Don’t pardon me so easily.” She glanced at h
im to see that he had one hand on his hip, the other behind his back as he leaned a bit closer to her. “Or pardon me if you want, I suppose, but don’t do it because you’re used to dealing with asses.”
“Sorry,” she said automatically. With her father, sorry had been a magic word to make unpleasant conversations stop.
“For what?” Johan pressed, and the brazen man had the nerve to sound annoyed with her.
Nya didn’t respond. She was annoyed herself—and confused. Johan had insulted her, then comforted her, and now was defending her from himself? Men were exhausting, truly.
She sniffled.
He made a sound of consternation. “I don’t have any more handkerchiefs, but my shirt is quite absorbent if you need a shoulder to cry on. It’s made of the finest cotton.”
“I have my own shoulders, thank you very much,” she said, aware her words didn’t quite make sense. “I’m not going to cry all over some disrespectful man.”
He rolled his eyes. “Come now. You’ve read the tabloids, I’m sure. I’ve been linked to worse bodily fluids than tears.”
“What?” She shouldn’t have asked—she wanted to be rid of him—but this was all so bizarre that she couldn’t suppress her shocked laughter. “Is that gross oversharing supposed to make me feel better?”
“Does it make you feel worse?” He grinned at her, then brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes.
She looked at him. “I suppose not.”
“Gutt.” His gaze flicked to the door and then back to her. “Do you still want me to leave?”
Nya was aware that he was no longer being flippant—that if she wanted him to stay, he would do that, too. Her head spun a bit at how quickly Johan could change the tone of the conversation, like a car shifting gears, but then she shook it. This wasn’t a game. He wasn’t her one true prince. In the end, he was just another tiresome man who wanted something from her.
“No,” she said. “You should go.”
“Comme tu willst,” he said softly. “The light switch is on the console on the bedside table, next to the USB port.”
With that he let himself out, taking the bundled-up top sheet with him. She wouldn’t conjecture why, given his whole bodily fluids thing. Instead, she flopped down onto the bed, still somewhat in shock.
Maybe it was for the best she was returning home. She would go back to work at the orphanage school, where the children needed her. She would resume visiting her grandparents, who loved her. She would once again be boring, timid Nya, because that’s who she was anywhere she went and she might as well stop trying to be someone she wasn’t.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
ONE TRUE PRINCE, MESSAGE FROM: HANJO
I like a girl with spirit! I’ll be in the library tomorrow afternoon, and we can pretend it’s a coincidence when you show up and sit beside me.
“Shut up, Hanjo,” she muttered.
She was about to put the phone down when she remembered the camera flash she’d used to figure out who the snuggly stowaway was—she had taken photos of him. She shouldn’t have felt a gnawing curiosity as she navigated to the camera roll—it was kind of creepy having the photos, even if she hadn’t taken them intentionally.
There were several pictures. All were dark with blurry patches of light, except for one that was as clear as if he’d posed for her. She expected his expression to be sly playboy boredom, but his expression was somber as he looked toward the camera. He looked . . . sad?
No, he looks like a man about to bother you for no reason, because that’s what he did, she reminded herself. Then she looked closer.
Was that?
No, it couldn’t be.
But it was.
There, poking out from underneath the playboy prince of Liechtienbourg, was the face of a small, ratty, oddly disgruntled-looking teddy bear.
“Oh goddess,” she whispered, not quite sure what to feel. He was a very weird man—not because he slept with a teddy bear, but because from everything she knew about him, he was the last man who would. He slept with models, and drove fancy cars, and . . .
Well, it didn’t matter. She doubted she’d see him, or his angry bear, much after the plane landed anyway. He was the loud, in-the-middle-of-the-action type. She was usually safely holding up a wall, looking at those types in admiring scorn. She’d keep his teddy bear secret safe. She would not think about how it was rather cute.
She put her phone down and opened the drawer the flight attendant had told her about, where she found a box of luxurious, aloe-infused tissues—along with condoms, lubricant, and a pair of fuzzy handcuffs.
She remembered the flight attendant’s smirk when Nya had insisted on going into the bedroom.
Nya slammed the drawer shut, curled up on the bed, and pulled the pillow over her head. It smelled of eng, but faintly, very faintly, of lemon and lavender.
She sighed.
If Mariha was a gossip, the Nya of the fantasy world would once again be much more interesting than the real one.
Chapter 2
Where is Jo-Jo? In the days leading up to the darkest day in Liechtienbourgian history, the infamous prince is nowhere to be found! Crown Prince Lukas has been seen out and about more than usual, though. With the upcoming referendum dividing the country, is the reserved young prince ready to step into the spotlight?
—The Liechtienbourg Bugle
Despite what the tabloids said about his reckless behavior, Johan, aka the Tabloid Prince of Liechtienbourg, aka Bad Boy Jo-Jo, had a rigid sense of control. That no one was aware of this was evidence of that. He showed people what he wanted them to see—what they wanted to see, really—because that was what worked best for him. For his family. For everyone.
He didn’t think of himself as manipulative, a word that sounded villainous; he preferred cunning—Machiavellian, maybe, but without the immorality and murder. He made sure no one was hurt by his scheming. No one but himself, but that hurt was negligible compared to others he’d suffered.
So it bothered him, as he stretched out in a plush seat in the main cabin of the private jet, that he’d let his control slip.
He’d told himself he was joking when he’d suggested to Nya that he would eat her up, like a cliché of a pervert. Scheisse, he cringed just thinking about it. He’d convinced himself the joke had served a purpose—distraction from an untimely discovery of his sleeping partner Bulgom Pamplemousse von Bearstein, who was now stowed away with Johan’s carry-on. Everyone knew “Prince” Johan cracked scandalous jokes. Everyone thought he was one.
But Johan avoided letting his jokes overlap with his desires. And Nya? He desired her.
It was a problem.
He’d only started watching her because, well, her father had almost killed his best friend’s fiancée and tried to foment a coup in his best friend’s country. Thabiso and Naledi had apparently overlooked her potential role in the matter, explaining that Nya would never hurt anyone, but Johan was a bit more cynical. When he’d traveled to New York for charity events or political summits, he’d kept an eye on her and her lovely, shy smile. Her curves, more luscious each time he’d glimpsed her during visits chez Thabiso over the past year and a half. Her quiet amusement with the small things other people didn’t pay attention to.
Somewhere along the line, discreetly watching her out of prudence had changed to discreetly lusting after her. He’d thirsted, he’d considered risking it all, and then he’d done what any intelligent person would do—he’d ignored her with a strength matched only by Europe ignoring migrants and America ignoring creeping fascism.
When she’d glance at him, as if considering starting a conversation, he’d spot someone he desperately needed to talk to across the room. When Portia tried to draw her into their jokes, he’d combat roll away. When Thabiso had told him they’d be sharing a flight, Johan snuck into the private jet’s bedroom and cowered in the dark.
Control.
But when he’d asked her to come to bed, his
joke had been a need beyond his control, and it hadn’t been funny. It had been ungentlemanly, rude, and if another man had done the same in his presence Johan would have decked him, or at least embarrassed the hell out of him. He was left feeling a bit disoriented. Bad Boy Jo-Jo was a persona that he used to protect himself and those he loved; he didn’t like how easily he had slipped on that mask with Nya, how reflexively he’d reached for crassness and ended up hurting her.
Maybe it was the stress. Or maybe he’d really needed a cuddle right then, and Bulgom Pamplemousse von Bearstein simply hadn’t been enough.
It was that day. D-day, and not the Normandy one. Death Day.
He grabbed a lock of hair and twisted, the movement a tic he’d never outgrown but had learned to mask with a seductive sweep of his fingers through his carefully tousled mane.
There were few things that upset him—or rather, there were few things he allowed himself to be upset about—but even he couldn’t fake cool detachment from something as brutal as this.
Back home, the news would be replaying snippets from his mother’s funeral, and ten years wasn’t nearly enough time to make reliving that bearable. When, at seventeen, his life had fallen apart—and the adhesive that had joined him to his blended family had been suddenly ripped away—he’d been told that it would hurt less with time. Even then he’d known it was a lie. You couldn’t love someone as much as he’d loved his mother—you couldn’t be loved by someone as much as he’d been loved by her—and ever stop hurting at their loss. He managed, but he never moved on.
He’d usually spend this day distracting his brother, Lukas, the actual heir to the Liechtienbourgian crown, who had been only seven when their mother passed away. Johan had dedicated his life to making sure that Lukas was loved as Johan had been loved and was protected how Johan hadn’t been. He’d taught Lukas all the ways to be liked and accepted by his peers, how to be the right kind of boy, one who didn’t cry and prefer books to people. He’d pushed Lukas from under the constant burden of the spotlight shone by voracious royal watchers, taking it onto himself. But Lukas was seventeen now, old enough to make his own plans, and had decided he wanted to hold a memorial for their mother.