by Alyssa Cole
“What’s that?” Johan asked, already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer. Linus was using his “cool dad” tone.
“This woman you are flirting with. Nya Jerami?”
Johan had been pacing back and forth in the alcove, but he stopped and pressed his phone closer to his ear.
“Nya is the cousin to the Princess of Thesolo, who is the wife of my best friend,” he said carefully. “I have not been flirting.”
Not really. Offering to debauch someone was a three at most on his ten-point flirtation scale.
“There’s a story in the Looking Glass about the Duke of Edinburgh attending the wedding, and a group photo in which you are most definitely giving this Nya woman a look. The article mentioned that you’ve been turning your charms on her and found yourselves in some . . . situations.”
The cool dad tone had leveled up to “totally cool dad” tone, which was more than anyone should have to tolerate.
“Do you believe everything you read in these rags? You know most of the stories aren’t true.”
“I don’t believe it, but the public apparently does. After that story ran, the royal PR team noticed that our approval rating in the referendum jumped up and talk on social media was more favorable.”
A dull anger throbbed in Johan’s jaw from clenching his teeth so hard. “Forshett. Don’t,” he warned.
“This is your brother’s future at stake, Jo-Jo. He has been raised to be a king. What will he do without a kingdom?”
“Get a job?” Johan wasn’t thrilled about the referendum, or the people who were pushing for the end of the monarchy—those like this Arschlocher guy who were tired of having their greed leashed by rules that prevented Liechtienbourg from becoming a tax haven like other small countries. But it was a constitutional monarchy; the people would vote, and what the people wanted mattered more than even his brother. If the worst came to pass, Johan would be there for Lukas as he always had been.
“I have not asked anything from you in a long time,” the king said, his voice no longer jovial. “You do what you want, when you want, and we deal with the bad press. But the referendum is in a couple of weeks. Can you not manage to date this woman until then?”
“She’s not some plaything for me to parade around for points,” Johan said. “She’s kind and intelligent, and I will not—”
“Oh!” Linus said. “You like her. Gutt, gutt. I thought I would have to persuade you, but I see I was worried for nothing. Have fun at the wedding. Talk to your brother. Date this woman you like. Bring her back home with you. See you soon, son.”
The line disconnected; his stepfather had hung up.
Johan stood in the alcove, furious—at what King Linus had asked of him, and at what the man had so easily discerned. Linus thought that Johan liking Nya made everything easier, when in fact it made it harder. So much harder. Panic welled in him at the possibility of what would happen if he didn’t crush this attraction he’d been harboring immediately, but he calmed himself with the fact that he’d be leaving in two days’ time. Depending on what she decided to do with her life, he might never see her again.
Reassurance had never felt so shitty.
“You all right, mate?” Tavish strode up in a fine kilt, two plates of food in hand. “You look ready to smash that phone, which I obviously endorse.”
“I’m fine,” he said.
Tav raised his brows. “Want to talk? You’re into that talking-about-your-feelings shite. And it helps, I’ll give you that.”
Tav had it all wrong. Johan was into talking about other people’s feelings. Talking about his own was about as fun as licking sandpaper.
Johan shook his head and plastered on his most convincing smile. “Just my brother acting out. You know how it is.”
Tav had a younger brother, and indeed knew how it was, which is why Johan had purposely focused on that aspect of his troubles. Besides, he couldn’t exactly share the crude suggestion his stepfather had made. Crude, and much too tempting.
Date this woman you like. Bring her back home with you.
Tav shook his head. “He’s what, seventeen? Pfft, good luck with that, mate.”
“Thanks,” Johan said. He followed Tav to the VIP table on the stage, where their friend group had been seated, though he hadn’t been there for most of the night. He’d been schmoozing and doing ambassadorial stuff and avoiding Nya.
She was talking intently with Portia, who was describing something excitedly, waving her hands around. Portia reached out and linked arms with Tavish as he sat, using her free hand to continue gesticulating. Nya laughed and nodded, but her gaze kept flitting to her phone.
Johan narrowed his eyes, wondering what kind of games this boyfriend of hers was playing this time to have her so anxiously awaiting his message. Or maybe they’d already made up, and she was hovering over her phone because she was awaiting something sweet from him. He shouldn’t be upset; if anything, he should be glad that she was proving the men he’d eavesdropped on wrong. Someone was obviously very interested in a traitor’s daughter. Someone besides him.
Control.
He approached the table, and the empty seat beside Nya, and sat down. Her phone lit up with a message.
My mission is a lonely one, Nya. I wish I could be with you right now. Do you want to be with me, too?
Johan grimaced as she glanced at her phone and smiled with what seemed like relief.
He cleared his throat.
“Ça geet et, Sugar Bubble?” he asked with deliberate lazy ease. He did not feel at ease at all. The bodice of the white linen gown she wore had a deep V, revealing the curved mounds of her breasts and the shadowed valley between them. Her makeup had been touched up since her crying during the wedding, and her eyes were lined in kohl and sparkling teal. Her lips had a natural look again, just the lightest sheen of gloss to accentuate their fullness.
Johan fidgeted in his seat and then wrapped his hands around his sweating water glass. She turned to him, somehow curling in shyly even as she swayed in his direction.
“Hi, Phoko,” she said, and his body had the most ridiculous reaction. He leaned closer to her, almost a lurch it was so abrupt, and he suddenly understood the “moth to a flame” cliché. This attraction was absurd, and dangerous. She was dangerous, there in her beautiful bright warmth. Flying closer would surely lead to his demise. Moths who flew into flames weren’t exactly role model material, but then again, constant fiery death hadn’t stopped them after millennia of existence.
Johan leaned even closer.
“Phoko?” Portia asked from across the table. His gaze jumped to hers with a quelling look and she pinned him with a speculative glare. “Now you both have pet names for each other? That’s cute. Cute and interesting.”
He rolled his eyes at Portia’s relentless curiosity, aka nosiness, sure she was scheming how to get information out of one or both of them, and turned his attention back to Nya.
“Is your evening going well?”
It might go slightly less well when he told her she’d been linked to him in the tabloids, especially with the fertile gossip fodder that was her father. Maybe Nya’s text buddy wouldn’t like it either—maybe he’d be jealous. Johan tried not to take pleasure in that, and failed.
There was the slightest hesitation before she nodded, the briefest delay before she forced her lips up into a smile. Now that he was really looking at her, he could see that the joy radiating from her earlier in the night had been tempered. There was an uneasiness in her wide eyes and nerves in the way her hand reflexively sought out her phone.
“Is he giving you trouble again?” he asked.
“He?”
Johan glanced at her phone, somewhat smug in the fact that she had forgotten the existence of whoever this mystery man was, at least for the moment.
“Oh! No. It’s not that. Some people are not happy that I am here,” she said quietly. Her gaze darted out to the crowd near the stage, and he understood how this was working even before h
e saw the cluster of people glancing up at her with cruel smiles—in sitting at a table of honor, she was also being put on display for those who had not forgiven her father, like the men he’d eavesdropped on.
Rage mingled with a sudden intense desire to shield her from their blatant insults. They were trying to make her feel unwanted, at the wedding of her cousin, at an event meant to celebrate love. He was used to this aspect of life among the rich and wealthy, which was magnified in small kingdoms like Liechtienbourg and Thesolo. Some people enjoyed looking down on others and making them feel less than—he knew that truth in his bones.
“Hey,” Portia said, snapping to get his attention. He understood then why they were eating with linked arms—they were blocking Nya from the gossips’ line of sight. “Are you trying to murder those people with your brain? Please tell me you can. I’ve been trying with no success and Tav won’t let me use the sword I made as a wedding present.”
“It’s okay,” Nya said. Her hands dropped into her lap and her gaze followed them. “It is to be expected after my father’s crimes.”
“It’s not okay, Nya,” Johan said. “You did nothing wrong. You’re not your father.”
“The man knows what he’s talking about,” Tavish said, waving his fork.
Nya sighed. “Thank you, everyone. I’m not feeling well, though. I’m going to lie down for a bit, but I’ll be back.”
“The reception will probably go on until morning, there’s plenty of time for a power nap,” Portia said reassuringly. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. Stay and enjoy yourself.” She was trying to keep her voice light and cheerful, but it rang false to Johan, as did the way she wouldn’t meet anyone’s eye. He remembered then, why he had first started watching Nya—because she had done something wrong in trying to counter Ledi’s poisoning instead of stopping it.
What must she feel like now, at this wedding of people she loved but had hurt by her inaction, where half the guests thought her evil and the other half thought her foolish? Thabiso and Ledi had forgiven Nya, but she’d sat and taken the abuse of strangers because she thought she deserved it.
I’m used to it.
“Text if you need me,” Portia called out. “It might take me eighty-four years to get to the guest wing, with these long-ass hallways, but I’ll be there.”
Nya nodded and turned to leave the dais. Johan’s gaze trailed after her as he searched for an excuse to follow, catching on something that was a more-than-valid reason. He’d wanted to shield her, and now he would.
He stood smoothly from his seat and sidled up behind her, so close that he was almost touching. It was the practiced move of a playboy on the prowl, which was at least somewhat less attention grabbing than him wildly flailing up to her. She made to turn and face him, but he placed his hand on her waist, holding her in place while trying not to touch her any more than necessary before explaining.
“What are you doing, Phoko?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder, brows knit in annoyance.
“You have something on the back of your dress,” he said. She shook her head and turned to walk away, so he decided to be more direct. “It’s a monthly something, tied to the moons and tides? I’ll walk behind you so no one sees.”
People were already being cruel to her; he wouldn’t allow them anything else to hold over her.
“Oh no.” She stiffened beneath his light hold, her shoulders hunching. She shook her head. “I haven’t had . . . I can’t remember the last time I . . .”
“It’s fine,” he said, in his best carefree-prince tone, even though the shame in her voice made him want to hold her close—closer, rather.
“You don’t have to . . .” Her voice faded into a humiliated whisper and she tried to step away from him. “Your suit might be ruined if you come too close.”
He tightened his hold on her waist with one hand, then took her hand delicately in his other one, something he’d learned in the dance lessons required at his boarding school.
“I’ve already told you that bodily fluids don’t scare me,” he said near the exposed shell of her ear. It was true, though not because he was a playboy as he’d led her to believe. Johan had been visiting hospital wards since he was a child, at his mother’s side and long after she was gone. “Come, Sugar Bubble. You should know by now that I don’t do anything because I have to. I do what I want, and right now, I want what you want. Do you want me to shield you?”
He couldn’t see her face but knew she stared at the ground because the column of her neck was exposed to him. Her fingertips closed more tightly around his hand and she nodded.
“Then I will,” he said and began moving them along the edge of the crowd. He followed in her footsteps carefully, trying to stay close enough to block her but also leaving enough room to prevent any . . . friction.
He hadn’t realized how far away the door was when he’d impulsively jumped behind her. And he’d thought there might be some chatter, but not the invisible spotlight that seemed to make everyone’s head swivel to look at them.
Some guests stopped to stare, others tapped the people nearest to them and pointed. It seemed that, despite his attempt at inconspicuousness, they were making a scene. That was fine with Johan—scenes were his specialty.
“Smile,” Johan said, leaning his mouth down near her ear again. “Pretend I’m whispering dirty things to you. Absolutely filthy.”
“What? Why?” she squawked, stopping abruptly so that he almost crashed into her.
“You said you wanted to shock people, remember? I think we can multitask here.” Johan glanced around the crowd. “If you don’t want excitement, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Her shoulder blades pressed into his chest as she inhaled, and he could feel her shaking from nerves. “Sure. Why not? I can’t stop people from talking about me anyway, and each day brings some new embarrassment. Let’s do this.”
“Comme tu willst,” he said in a low voice, slipping his arm fully around her waist.
She started walking again, head held high, and he followed. When they reached the dance floor, he changed the rhythm of his steps to match the thrumming drumbeat, and his hips swayed of their own accord.
“Hello! Excellent party. Yes, we love this song! This is our jam!” Johan called out to the people they passed, pumping one fist in the air as he stepped fully into his role of fun-loving prince. Then he turned his mouth toward Nya’s ear. “You’re supposed to be pretending I’m seducing you.”
“I’m trying to!” she snapped. “And besides, everyone will laugh at the idea of you. And me. Together.”
She was right—anyone with common sense would wonder why someone like Nya would even talk to Johan, let alone be within seduction range of him.
“Fine, I’ll have to actually talk dirty to you,” he warned, then cleared his throat dramatically as she stiffened in apprehension. He imbued his voice with a husky lewdness. “Three-day-old lasagna pan that has not been soaked in the kitchen sink. Welcome mat at a pig farmer’s house. Sweaty socks that have been worn for thirty consecutive days.”
Her belly undulated against his forearm before laughter burst out of her mouth in a wild, high peel that was much louder than anything he expected from her. They were so close to the door now, navigating around large gowns and dancing guests, but everyone in the vicinity looked in their direction again.
“The deep fryer at a shady schnitzel shop,” he drawled. “The last stall in a bus station bathroom.”
“Enough!” she cried through a fit of giggles, and just like that they were at the entrance to the hall. Thabiso gave him a quizzical look as he passed through the doors, and Johan raised his eyebrows mischievously because, as he’d said, he wasn’t nice. If you were going to cause drama, you had to go all the way.
As they swept into the hallway, he spotted the guard who had helped him from the sauna, whose wide-eyed expression showed just what a scene he was causing. “Excuse me, Lineo, was it? Can you have
a shuttle cart swing by the entrance to the summer garden and wait there? Thank you, merci, I will tell the prince and princess about your excellent service to the palace.”
He slowed down his pace now, though he still held Nya close to him as they left the air-conditioned coolness of the palace. They strolled past milling guests smoking out front or taking a break from dancing, until they reached the nearest garden. He released her as they stepped onto the vetiver-lined pathway, not enjoying how empty his arms felt when she moved away from him.
“Here we are,” he said, slightly out of breath. “You can wait here, and I’ll let you know when the shuttle cart arrives to take you to your room.”
Away from him, and the thoughts running wild in his head after having her so close to him.
She placed her hands on her hips and looked up at him. “Seriously, Phoko?”
He tried not to stare at the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“What?” he asked innocently, making his eyes wide.
“Why did you do that? I appreciate it, thank you, but everyone will be talking about us now!”
Her expression was somewhere between frustration and giddiness—creased forehead but bright eyes and a mouth that didn’t know whether to smile or frown. This was the perfect time to tell her that everyone, or at least certain journalists with access to printing presses and large readerships, was already talking about them.
“It was the first thing that came to mind,” he said instead. “I told you causing drama is one of the few skills I possess.”
He shucked off his suit jacket, something he should have thought of before dancing her through a room packed with the elite of Thesolo and several other nations.
“I also wasn’t a fan of the idea that you had to sit there and accept people’s cruelty as punishment for something that hurt you, too.”
Her mouth opened and closed, and there was something about how her lips pressed together with apprehension but her eyes pleaded for understanding that made Johan forget that she was a dangerous flame.