But she didn't take him away. She glared at Harald, but then she said to Magnus, her voice firm, "You mustn't cry, Ruben."
His face crumpled and the tears returned. "No! No Ruben! My name is Magnus!"
"Shush," she said briskly. "Stop that. Be a big boy. Now, listen: one of your names is Magnus, but that's Daddy's name. We can't call you Daddy's name, now, can we?"
The tears slowed slightly as Magnus thought on this. He looked at Harald. Harald was staring up at the ceiling, his expression bored, like it was when Daddy used to talk to him about school work and things. His grip was still hard, but he wasn't shaking Magnus or shouting anymore.
Warily, Magnus turned his eyes back to Sophy. "Why not?" He asked. "Daddy said—”
"Never mind what Daddy said. Harald is in charge now, and he has decided that you are called Ruben. Ruben is your second name. It would make me very happy if you used it. Alright?"
Magnus nodded slowly. "Okay," he whispered. "I will try."
"Good." She turned away, sweeping from the room in her long dress like a fairy princess. But wait—why was she leaving him?
"Sophy," he called. "Come back. My head hurts."
She paused in the doorway, looking over her shoulder at him. And she said, "Grow up, Ruben."
Then she was gone.
"His Royal Highness Prince Ruben and his fiancée, Miss Cherry Neita."
Ruben didn't recognise the head butler, the tall, gaunt man who introduced them. But that didn't mean he hadn't met the man. It was just, his vision felt slightly blurry and his head ached just a bit.
He hesitated on the threshold of the receiving room, suddenly disorientated. But then he felt a soft hand clasp his. He looked down to see Cherry's sparkly pink nails standing out brightly against the back of his hand. Felt the cool band of his mother’s ring on her finger. Then he looked up and locked eyes with the most formidable woman in the world.
His vision cleared. The ringing in his ears faded away. He clutched her hand and set his jaw and walked into the fucking room.
The door shut behind them with a hollow thud, echoing in Ruben's mind like an omen. The room was quiet, its walnut furniture and ice blue walls creating an impression of calmness that Ruben couldn't buy into. In front of the window, through which bright, winter sunlight streamed, the family sat like something out of an old-fashioned photograph.
The children sat on the floor, their skirts arranged around them. Girls, both. And didn't Harald hate it. They betrayed a flash of excitement at Ruben’s appearance before schooling their expressions, bowing their golden heads over some sort of board game.
Above them, settled into various plush sofas, were the adults. Sophronia, dressed as if ready for a debutante's ball in pink silk, a ransom's worth of diamonds glittering over her chest. Harald, his bored gaze on the ceiling, attired in only a velvet smoking jacket and slippers.
A mark of disrespect, of course. Ruben had expected it, but not the sharp fury that cut through him at the sight. He was used to this sort of thing.
But he didn't like the idea that Cherry was being disrespected too.
Lydia sat on Harald's right, the only adult of the bunch who was appropriately dressed. Her airy, navy-blue skirts fluffed out about her knees, her hair in a neat bun. Ruben resisted the urge to smile at her, or at either of his nieces. It would only cause trouble.
"Harald," he said, his tone dancing on the edge of respect, as always.
Harald tore his eyes from the ceiling and flicked them over Ruben as dismissively as he would a dust mote beneath the bed. Then Ruben waited, holding his breath, to see what treatment Cherry would receive. He realised in an instant that if it was anything less than she deserved, he might do something ill-advised.
But Harald made an attempt to look enthused as he came to Cherry. He stood, as a gentleman ought, and held out his hands in a gesture that belied the pinched, disdainful look on his face.
Ruben wouldn't hold that against him. It was his natural expression.
"Miss Cherry Neita," he said, his voice somewhere between surprise and fascination. “Taler du dansk?”
"I'm sorry," Cherry said. "English is my only language, I'm afraid." And then she smiled. It was so fucking beautiful, Ruben thought for a second that he might pass out. Her were dimples deep, her ruby lips were lush and full, and her eyes held that indefinable sparkle that said, I know. I really am something. The sparkle that drew people to her like flies.
Harald blinked as if he'd been hit over the head. Sophronia stiffened, sitting up a little straighter. And Lydia, bless her, smiled back, as unaffected as ever.
The children ignored everyone.
Cherry started forward, tugging on Ruben's hand subtly, leading him into the room.
Pull yourself together, man. Good lord.
He kept his eyes on her, as if her brilliance could protect him from the ugliness of this situation. This place.
Her outfit was modest, simple—a dress with a low, sweetheart neckline and a skirt shaped like a bell, the ivory bright against her brown skin. And yet, she looked as decadent, as sinful as ever.
She reached the cluster of family and furniture and executed a perfect curtsy, nowhere near low enough to seem outdated, but a little more than the modern head nod. With that same, sunny smile she air-kissed Sophronia's proffered cheek, then Lydia's, then took Harald's hand and lowered her head over it, ever so slightly.
Ruben stood and watched, something close to awe-struck. The rambling, pathetic advice he'd been capable of giving in the car was atrocious. And yet, she had everything right.
"What delightful girls," she trilled, looking down at the golden heads still focused on the floor. "How very beautiful." She sounded utterly convincing, as if she could actually see their faces.
"Thank you," Lydia smiled. Sophronia gave a graceless snort. Clearly, his sister was uncomfortable.
Usually, the title of most beautiful woman in the room went to her.
"Please, sit," Harald said grandly.
Cherry did, sinking into a free sofa with the kind of grace usually found on the stage. Then she looked up at him with the sweetest smile, the kind of smile that old, married couples share, and said, "Sit, love."
He swallowed, and sat.
"How wonderful to meet you," Harald said, turning on the charm as always. "Tea?"
"Yes, please," Cherry said, just as charming. So much pleasantness in one room, and all of it false.
Harald didn't ask his wife aloud, or even look at her; Lydia poured the tea automatically, with practiced efficiency. None for Ruben, though. She knew he wouldn't want any.
But then Harald said, "Serve my brother, Lydia."
Ruben frowned. "You know I don't—"
"Lydia," Harald said again, his voice iron. "Pour Ruben some tea."
Ruben could feel Cherry's eyes on him, probably confused, but no doubt hiding it well. He could hardly turn and explain that his brother liked to watch his hands shake. That the older man fed off of any sign of discomfort like a parasite. Ruben had dropped his cup once, scalded himself and stained his trousers, firmly embarrassed himself in polite company after one biting word from Harald, the significance of which no-one else had even understood. Harald rather shamelessly lived for the day that the occurrence might repeat itself.
It wouldn't, of course. Ruben had been a young man then, still under his brother’s thumb.
And yet, he’d allowed the mental scars his brother had inflicted to push Cherry away. Harald still had the power to destroy everything Ruben held dear. So things hadn't changed much at all, had they?
"We're very pleased to be introduced," Lydia said, pouring Ruben's tea. She took care not to fill it too high, because she was kind to a fault, and she knew exactly what her husband wanted.
How Lydia had ended up trapped with a man like Harald, Ruben still wasn't entirely sure.
"How did the two of you meet?" She asked as Cherry sipped her tea.
Ruben cut in. "Cherry works in the educational sector," he sai
d. Hoping that would be enough.
"Still rescuing urchins, brother?" Harald murmured. "It's good to stay in touch with one's roots."
"Yes," Cherry said brightly, lowering her cup. "I agree. Charity is so noble. It’s the perfect occupation for the son of a king." Her words stained the air like red wine across white silk. With barely a breath, she moved on. "I met Ruben in a professional capacity, but he pursued me outside of work, of course." She gave him a warm, teasing look, as if they were sharing a secret joke.
With a jolt, he realised that they were. The memory of marching into her staffroom and dragging her off for lunch brought a smile to his face. And then, somehow, even with the weight of his brother's presence crushing his lungs, Ruben managed to laugh.
"Something like that," he said, and she grinned, and he felt like himself. He felt like himself. What a fucking gift.
As the meeting went on, stilted and awkward and dogged by Harald’s jabs, Ruben held that blessing to his chest, and it became his shield.
After a, painful half-hour, they were finally released. Cherry smiled politely as they excused themselves, and she left clinging to his arm as if they were joined at the hip. She stayed that way as an assistant led them through the halls to their private quarters, as they were shown their suite and informed of the dinner hour—like Ruben didn’t know it.
But as soon as the door to their quarters swung shut, hiding the outside world, Cherry let go. She stepped away from him. And the laughing intimacy she’d shown him moments before, the smile on her lips and the warmth in her voice, disappeared.
“Fuck,” she muttered. “I didn’t think we’d have to share.”
Ruben tried to hide the way those words hit him, like fists to the gut. They were right back where they’d started. She didn’t want to be alone with him.
“We’re engaged,” he said. “Of course they’d put us together.” Then he realised that he’d said precisely the wrong thing.
The glare she gave him could’ve felled a fucking tree. “How could I forget?” She drawled. “And where the hell is Demi? Or Hans, for that matter?”
Ruben shrugged. “I try to keep my brother unaware of my personal connections.”
For a minute, her gaze softened, and she nodded. But then, as if remembering herself, she set her jaw and turned away from him. “I’m taking the bedroom.”
He watched her storm off through the suffocatingly luxurious parlour, heading towards the huge bedroom they were supposed to share.
He had a feeling that wouldn’t go so well this time around.
Chapter 26
“Neita.” Ruben’s sister dragged out the name, her accent softening the t. Cherry smiled politely and sliced her sautéed chicken breast into tiny fucking pieces, waiting for the punchline.
Beside her, she felt Ruben stiffen. He heard that predatory quality in his sister’s voice, a shark sniffing out blood.
“What an interesting name,” Sophronia continued, her voice dripping with mockery. She was one to fucking talk. “Where does it come from?”
“Sophy,” Ruben said, his tone warning.
“Calm yourself, little brother. I am speaking with my future sister-in-law.”
Sophronia’s real sister-in-law, the pale and birdlike Lydia, had spent the first half of this strained dinner doing everything she could to avoid Sophronia’s attention. And her husband’s. Cherry rather thought that said it all.
Still, she forced herself to smile at Ruben’s painfully beautiful sister. She faced off the porcelain skin, the ice-blue eyes and the golden hair, so unassuming on Lydia and so very devastating on Sophronia. “The Caribbean,” she said.
“Ah! You’re from the West Indies.”
Cherry’s jaw set. How strange; the colonial name sounded fine coming from the lips of her migrant grandparents, but corrosive from Sophronia.
“I am a British Jamaican,” she said slowly. “Third generation.”
“Is that what they call it? Fascinating.”
“Sophronia,” Ruben said calmly. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
At the head of the table—which put him a good two metres away from Cherry—the king slammed a hand against the smooth, dark wood.
Silence fell. Sophronia rolled her eyes. Lydia gazed firmly down at her plate, looking even paler than usual.
“I will not have cursing at my table,” Harald said.
Ruben sighed, leaning back in his seat. He laced his hands behind his head as if he were lying around in the sun rather than dining with a king. He looked at his brother and said, “Fuck. You.”
Cherry tried very hard not to smile.
But then Harald leant forward with a look on his face that erased all humour. His pale eyes shone with manic fury for a second—just a second—before the disturbing flash of anger was hidden behind a benevolent smile. A smile that looked more like a mask. The monster beneath flickered in and out of view, a twisted merging of the real and the false that sent shivers down her spine.
Harald stared at Ruben for one, long moment. But then his gaze slid to Lydia.
“Get up,” he said.
Lydia stood.
So did Ruben. “Harald. What are you doing?”
Sophronia sat back in her chair, surveying the scene with obvious satisfaction. She really was beautiful. Cherry wouldn’t mind if she died.
Harald smiled blandly at Ruben, as if they were discussing the weather. “You appear to have forgotten how things work here, little brother. Allow me to remind you. Lydia, come here.”
The pale woman kept her gaze to the floor as she walked around the table towards her husband. Ruben looked like he was going to be sick. Cherry’s heart settled in her throat, threatening to choke her.
Harald stood up and took his wife’s hand, but his gaze stayed pinned to Ruben. “You remember the fun we used to have, little brother. You’re too big for those games now, but Lydia isn’t. I think we’ll retire early this evening.”
“What the fuck? Harald, no.” Ruben shoved back his chair. “Stop it.”
“Or what?” The king smiled. “Tell me, little brother. What will happen if I don’t? What will you do?”
A muscle leapt in Ruben’s jaw as he clenched his fists, his body coiled tight as a spring. “Don’t think I’ll allow this. I will tear your head from your fucking body before I let you leave this room with her.”
Harald shrugged. “I know how your baser instincts rule you. Always so violent. Enough of my guard are stationed around this room to guarantee my safety. Your threats don’t bother me.”
Ruben closed his eyes, pain written all over his face. Cherry felt the echoes of his panic, his fury, his helplessness, as if their feelings were connected.
She stood and joined him, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. And he looked at her, first with shock, then with awe, as if she’d performed a miracle.
But Cherry couldn’t focus on that. She turned her gaze to the trembling woman on Harald’s arm and said, her voice gentle, “Come with us, Lydia. Come with us now, and we’ll leave.”
Lydia shook her head. “The girls—“
“We’ll fetch them,” Ruben said. “I’ll get them myself. We’ll all go now.”
Before she could reply, peals of tinkling laughter rent the air. Sophronia watched them all with obvious delight, swirling her wine glass in hand. “Take the king’s heirs?” She said. “Ruben, darling. Do be sensible. It pays to know when you’re beaten.”
At those words, Lydia’s face crumpled in on itself. She shook her head. “Your sister is right, Ruben. It’s not a good idea.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Say the word, Lydia.”
She shook her head. “It’s not so bad. I’m being dramatic. If you’d just…” She smiled, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “If you’d just stop provoking him… If we can all be civil, everything will be fine.”
Ruben swallowed, hard. “Lydia—“
“Please,” she whispered, the word echoing around the grand room.
&
nbsp; “Alright,” Ruben said, his voice a ghost. “I’m sorry.” Then he turned to face his brother and said it again. “I’m sorry.”
Harald cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”
Through gritted teeth, he repeated himself. “I apologise for my behaviour, Your Majesty.”
Harald nodded graciously. “I see. I accept your apology.” He returned to the table and sat down with easy grace. Across the table, Sophronia sipped at her wine. Lydia sank miserably into her seat and picked up her knife and fork, her hands shaking.
Bile rose in Cherry’s throat, but she kept her face carefully blank. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I’m not feeling well.”
She turned and headed for the door, not bothering to wait for Harald’s permission. If he spoke to her right now, she might lose her mind and stab him with a butter knife. And she was still a British citizen. It would probably cause a political incident.
As she reached the door, she realised that Ruben wasn’t following her. She turned back to find him standing there, staring after her with something hopeless in his eyes.
Clearing her throat, Cherry called, “Ruben, I need you to come with me. I don’t know how to get back.”
He nodded stiffly. Came to join her.
They left together.
They strode through the halls in silence, and every footstep reverberated through Ruben’s mind like the sound of a door slamming shut.
When they were safely in their own quarters, he held his breath, waiting for the blow. For the words, or the complete lack of words, that would tell him it really was over. That she couldn’t even look at him, never mind care for him, because what kind of man found himself in this position?
She turned to face him, her skin leached of its usual glow. And she said, “Explain.”
Where to fucking start?
“I don’t know what just happened,” he admitted, his voice shaking. “Harald never—he’s never—“
“That’s not a common occurrence, then?”
He looked up sharply. “No. I never thought… I thought he loved her. A twisted sort of love, the only kind he’s capable of, but—I thought I was the only one he’d…”
The Princess Trap Page 19