by Alyssa Cole
“Fuck,” Johan muttered, guilt hunching his back. He should know better. He was supposed to know what people wanted.
“Sometimes children go through things, and it can be hard for the people who care for them to go along with them. But please . . .”
“What?” he asked, glancing at her.
Her expression was pensive and she worried her bottom lip with her teeth.
“Remember that he is your brother, but he’s also his own person. You should not try to bend him to your idea of who he should be.”
Johan recalled what she had said to her grandmother in the gazebo.
“Is that what your father did to you?” he asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said. “Whenever I tried to express myself in any way he would tell me ‘You don’t want to do that. A good girl wouldn’t want that.’ And then I would get ill, or he would, and that would solve that problem of my wanting.”
Her hand stopped moving in his hair and Johan turned his head toward her, pressing a kiss against her wrist. She was staring off into the distance, but she smiled faintly at the pressure of his mouth.
“My offer still stands,” he said. “If you want to talk or—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, confidant,” she said.
“What do you want?” he asked. A sudden desperate desire to ease her burden, to free her from the sadness that her memories had opened up for her, seized him.
“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s a question I was never allowed to answer and now when people ask, I come up blank.”
She sounded so lost—a woman who’d come to the end of the breadcrumb trail and didn’t know where to go next. The needy, selfish part of Johan thought it wouldn’t hurt to guide her toward him in the meantime. “Will a kiss do until you figure it out?”
That coaxed a smile from her, and chipped away at some of the pain from the argument with Lukas.
“Yes. I would like that. Thank you.”
Politeness was suddenly so damn sexy. His gaze traced her profile and the curve of her sweet mouth as something twisted hard in his chest. It was painful, what he felt just looking at her.
He froze, the ache in him both familiar and something entirely new. He was scared of what could happen if he kissed her again because in doing so he’d be biting into the poisoned apple, selling his soul to the sea witch—and he’d gladly take on whatever cursed despair came of it for just another taste of her.
“Johan? Kiss me,” she urged, and though her voice was gentle, it was a command, which was even sexier than her politeness.
He leaned over in his seat and pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her as thoroughly as he could manage in the awkward position. Her soft lips molded to his, slick with gloss that tasted of strawberry.
She made a soft sound of surprise, but then her grip in his hair tightened, holding him as she met the stroke of his tongue with her own. A tremor ran down Johan’s spine as she tugged at his strands, her eagerness nourishing some insatiable part of him.
He licked into her mouth, greedy for the delicacy of her exhalations. He would give her anything, but he would take, too. Take the sweetness of her mouth, and the rare happiness that settled over him because she was near. Take the illusion of love and belonging that flared in him like the heat and light of the last match in an ice storm.
A cold wind whirled around him, waiting for that light to burn out, as all flames did. He ignored it as she moaned into his mouth. He ran his hand over the textured delineations of her braids, then the silky smooth of her skin. His hand cradled the back of her neck and he kissed her, slow and luxuriantly, like he was awakening from a cursed slumber.
Control? What was that? Something that existed in some other faraway kingdom, maybe. But not the one he was building with Nya.
His hands slid down around her pliant curves, and he tugged her into his lap, holding her as he kissed her without thought of ever stopping.
She gasped and sighed, teasing his desire to give her pleasure because that was what gave him pleasure. And while Johan enjoyed pleasing others in general, the insatiable need that fed on her moans and her writhing was très, très spezifisch.
He unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt, slipping a hand inside to palm her breast through the thin silk of her bra. He brushed the heel of his hand over her nipple and she curved away from his touch, giggling.
“That tickles.”
He was glad she trusted him enough to tell him what felt good and what didn’t. He grew harder against her bottom and felt her gasp as he pressed into her. He pulled his hand out of her shirt, then lowered it, circling his fingertips around her stockinged knee, then her inner thigh, the circles growing concentrically as his hand moved up beneath her skirt.
“Yes, this is better,” she said. “You can move your hand higher toward my . . . peach emoji. If you want to do that.”
Her expression was somewhere between brazen and bewildered, with a heavy dose of plain embarrassment, and it was the sexiest thing Johan had ever seen. It wasn’t her inexperience; it was how she was figuring out what she wanted, despite it. How hard she worked to say what she wanted even though she had been taught to feel ashamed for just that. Still . . .
“Peach emoji? That is advanced debauchery.”
“Isn’t it, um, you know? A vagina?” She whispered the last word.
Johan tried so hard not to laugh, but he had to a little. “Maybe in your circles, but in mine, it’s a . . . derriere. I’m perfectly happy to debauch you in that way, but it requires a bit more preparation and—”
“Oh goddess!” Nya covered her eyes with one hand. “This is what I get for being unclear.”
She pulled her hand away from her face and placed it atop his through the fabric of her skirt, determination in her eyes.
“I want you to touch me. There.” She pulled his hand up. “Now. Please.”
The silky slide of her stockings under his palm as she guided his hand was nice, but he wished it was her soft skin instead. He cupped his hand over her mound, kissing away her gasp as he pressed two firm fingers into her clit.
“Comme tu willst,” he murmured against her lips.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice thready. “Your hands are so strong. Do you play piano? Because they are—”
Johan switched up his pace from fast and shallow to slow and deep, and she stopped her ridiculous yet arousing dirty talk then, arching in his lap. Her eyes and mouth and everything in her expression were squeezed hard, but her hips moved in his lap, teasing him.
“Mmph.” Her shoe fell off as one of her legs kicked up seemingly of its own accord, and then she turned her head into the lapel of his jacket, letting out a moan that vibrated through him at the same frequency she shuddered against him. Then she was suddenly limp, curled up in his lap with her face still pressed into her chest. Her warm breath passed through his jacket and shirt as she calmed herself.
“Um. Good work. Thank you.” She tilted her head up and kissed him on his chin.
He heard the door opening, somewhere behind the roar of his own want.
“Hallo, Jo— Oh! Pardon me, pardon me,” Greta said, pink rising beneath the golden apples of her cheeks. She raised her tablet to block her view of them. “I assume this is your ‘fiancée’? Congratulations to you both, and I must say that you’re really going the extra mile to keep up appearances.”
Nya’s hands pressed against his chest as she jumped out of his lap, and Johan held on to her fingertips as she toddled to her feet, reluctant to let her go.
“Greta, you know if I’m going to play a role, I play it well,” he said, straightening his collar and then standing up beside Nya.
“Yes, a regular Daniel Day-Lewis,” she said, clapping her hands together. “I’ve come to discuss the Njaza organization?”
Nya didn’t look at him, but nodded toward Greta. “I’m Nya Jerami. It is a pleasure to meet you, though I would’ve preferred less embarrassing circumstances.”
�
�No worries. I work very closely with Johan, so it would take a lot to shock me,” Greta said.
“I see,” Nya said. “Yes, I imagine you’re used to this kind of behavior.”
She let go of his hand, and clasped her own.
“I actually have to go check my phone, I’m expecting a message,” she said. “I’ll leave you to your business.”
“Nya,” Johan said, and she stopped mid-rush to the door. He wanted to ask if the message she was expecting was from her mystery man, but that would be absurd. It would make it seem like she owed him the information, when she didn’t owe him anything.
“Do you know how to get to my room?” he asked instead.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s next door to mine. Which is where I’ll be. Have a good meeting.”
“Do you like the opera, Ms. Jerami?” Greta asked, and Nya paused again. “The last showing of Rusalka at the Royal Liechtienbourg Theater is in two weeks. It’s a lovely performance, and it would make an excellent official engagement outing, just before the referendum.”
Johan grimaced against the sudden jet of anxiety at the idea of watching Rusalka with Nya. “I’d rather not.”
Greta looked perplexed. “It’s your favorite. Don’t you think it would be odd if you missed the performance? Everyone already expects you to attend. Is there some reason you don’t want to go?”
He glanced at Nya. She was standing stiffly and looking at the ground, her demeanor drastically different from moments ago. “It’s fine, if you do not want to fuel any more gossip.”
“No, it’s not that.” He couldn’t very well tell her what his problem was.
“Jah, Johan loves fueling gossip, so it must be something else.”
Johan glared at Greta.
“It’s nothing,” he said, straightening the lapels of his jacket. Besides, I’ll be giving Nya a tour of the city later today and we’ll be making the rounds before next week. Plenty of gossip will be fueled.”
Nya tried to smile, but her eyes held a wariness that Johan hated.
“Jo-Jo. As your assistant I have to tell you that it will reflect badly on the family if you skip this pre-referendum event.”
“You’re right.” Johan grimaced. “Save the Royal Box for us then.”
“Excellent,” Greta said.
“Great,” Nya added, and now she was the one using the Phokojoe voice she’d teased him over. She didn’t sound enthused at all.
“Perfect,” Greta said, oblivious. “You will need a dress for the opera, so I’ll make an appointment with the modiste for tomorrow. There hasn’t been a woman in the palace for some time, so I know she’ll be quite excited to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Nya said, and rushed out the door before they could stop her again.
“Not your usual type,” Greta remarked as soon as the door shut.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Johan asked irritably.
“You actually seem to like her. That’s gutt, ja?”
“Not at all,” Johan said, rubbing his temples. “Not in the slightest.”
Greta looked at him for a moment then shrugged. “Right. Okay, I’m going to need some more information about the land mine detection systems you linked me to.”
Johan could deal with that. Helping to get rid of a legacy of tragedy would take his mind off of Nya, and the fact that she would be gone soon, which would be a different kind of tragedy but only for him.
“Let’s get to work,” he said.
Chapter 13
ONE TRUE PRINCE, MESSAGE FROM: HANJO
I can’t stop thinking of you, even while plotting the downfall of the monarchy. I have to be careful, so as not to raise suspicions, or else I would come to you right now. Are you thinking of me, too? Give me a sign!
Nya sighed and closed out of the game without responding. Hanjo was annoying her with his neediness, in part because Johan was annoying her with his Johan-ness.
They were faking this engagement. They’d told the people most important to them that they were faking it, and that was part of the fun for her—it was a virtual dating game come to life. That was what she had wanted! But did he have to be so cavalier about it?
It hadn’t felt fake, the way he’d kissed her, touched her . . . she was inexperienced, not insensible. The way he’d leaned into her caress, the desire to please her in his eyes before he’d pulled her into his lap—that had been real. But so had his talk of playing roles, and his dismay at the idea of appearing at the opera with her. The truth was she’d only had one bad kiss before him. Maybe Johan kissed everyone like that.
Johan lies all the time and doesn’t care about anything but appearances, Lukas had warned her. Johan had admitted as much to her himself. Still, her inner compass that had always pointed away from Thesolo and toward a place that would make her happy had stopped spinning wildly and was pointed at an annoying playboy prince. Because she was a dreamer, and a fool.
Why did being foolish feel so good?
She dropped back onto her bed in the guest room attached to Johan’s suite, which was as hard as the bed in Njaza had been soft, probably something to do with the country’s obsession with toughing things out. She unlocked her phone to check the messages from her friends.
INTERNATIONAL FRIEND EMPORIUM CHAT
Portia: Nya! Welcome to Europe! How is Liechtienbourg?!
Nya: It’s cold. The king said I have knife legs and the crown prince dyed his hair pink.
Portia: O . . . kay? Sounds legit. Anything else?
Nya: Johan is a good kisser.
Ledi:
Portia:
Nya: I may have fallen victim to one of the classic blunders.
Ledi: I’m assuming you didn’t start a land war in Asia or cross a Sicilian. Nya, are you catching real feels? It’s only been a few days!
Nya: I know. But Johan is so . . . nice.
Ledi: Nice?! Are we talking about the same Johan?
Nya: It’s hard to explain. I can feel that he is, even when he tells me he isn’t.
Portia: I warned you. Fuckboy with a heart of gold. She didn’t stand a chance, really.
Ledi: Look, I like Johan a lot. He’s great, he’s funny, and he helped me when I was setting up my STEM nonprofit. But he doesn’t exactly have a sterling track record when it comes to dating.
Nya: Right. I have to remember that this situation is like my games. I’ve been training for this! We’re just playing through a romance. It will end, and that will be fine.
Ledi: Nya, it’s okay to feel something. This isn’t a game.
Portia: I don’t want to stick my nose into your business
Ledi: BUT
Portia: but
Ledi: hahaha
Portia: BUT it’s possible that Johan likes you, too. I saw him sneaking peeks at you all through the ceremony. Even Tav noticed, and that takes a lot.
Nya: Oh, I don’t know. I think Johan is like that with everyone.
Portia: That’s why he’s had so many fake engagements before? Nya, do you know how many PR people have begged and pleaded for the same thing he offered you? He turned them all down.
Ledi: She has a point. And my dungeon is still available in case he does anything out of pocket.
Portia: Just be yourself, don’t put up with nonsense, and don’t hide what you feel. And don’t forget you can leave at any point. Or if you need me I can come to you. We’re on the same continent!
Nya: Thanks guys.
Nya: Has there been any word from my father?
Ledi: There have been a few, actually.
Nya: Does he know about the engagement?
Ledi: Oh yeah.
Nya: Is he mad?
Ledi: BIG MAD
Nya: Good.
Nya flopped onto her bed and stared at the high ceiling, with its ornate molding, so very different from the palace at Thesolo. The Moshoeshoe Palace was warm somehow, while this place felt . . . cool. She really did feel like she was living a One True Prince fantasy. She sighed, pickin
g up her phone again and opening the game. A chibi version of Johan with round cheeks and wide eyes stared expectantly at her from the screen, and her responses hovered below.
Of course, I miss you. Have fun destroying the monarchy!
I have a life of my own, Hanjo, but maybe I miss you a little.
I’m reporting you to the authorities for treason.
There was a knock at her door, and she stumbled from the bed and opened the front door to the room before realizing it was coming from the door connecting her room to Johan’s, since she was staying in his suite.
She marched over and cracked it open, willing herself to be cool and confident—willing herself not to care too much. Not to remember his mouth so hot against hers and how she’d shuddered in his lap.
“Hi.” Johan often had a carefully casual, easygoing way about him, but he looked tense. His hair was disheveled, and the knot of his tie was loosened. And in his wide, deep blue eyes there was that uncertainty and need again, the need that made her want to reach out to him.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her skirt.
“Hello,” she said.
He took a step closer to her, but he didn’t reach out either. Instead, he began adjusting his tie. Nya’s gaze tracked how his long fingers tugged at the length of silky black and pushed up at the knot. His hands slowed and stopped, and when she looked at him he was staring at her, the faintest flush spreading over his sharp cheekbones to match his full, rosy lips.
Her skin prickled along the path his mouth had traced, from her fingertips up to her neck.
“Hrim,” Johan said.
Was this some kind of Liechtienbourger greeting?
“Hrim,” she mimicked, inclining her head toward him.
Johan seemed confused, then shook his head.
“I wondered if you wanted to go for that walk. I can show you around Sommetstaad.”
“Is it time to pretend?” she asked. She tried to sound excited—pretending was all she should expect with a man like him.
“Pretend?” Johan leaned against the door frame. Behind him she could see his room: white walls, dark wood furniture, and no trace of the Phoko she knew. You could draw no conclusion about the occupant of that room . . . perhaps it did match the Phoko she knew, after all.