by Kari Gregg
Nick clenched his teeth in annoyance. “Very much.” His attention returned to the wild wonder of the Urals. “If storms prevent an exploration and hunt in the high reaches, I’ll be sorely disappointed. I realize we are late in the season, but I’d hoped—”
“The suite…” Arit lifted his palms, waving at the luxury around them. A confused line grooved his forehead. “It isn’t to your liking?”
“We were raised in a three-bedroom Colonial,” Rolan called from the door.
Arit scowled over his shoulder at Nick’s brother. “He was raised in a palace.”
Releasing the lace sheers with regret, Nick pivoted. “That boy is long dead, and contrary to popular belief, we didn’t enjoy the palaces’ finery much.” He curved his mouth to ease the sting of his rebuke. “The art and antiques belonged to the tribes, my family only caretakers of the peoples’ cultural legacy. We children didn’t often stray from our personal quarters, which were outfitted with our own things that were more plain and serviceable.” He glanced at Rolan. “Lydia is settling in all right?”
“Already in the shower.” Rolan grunted. “She sent me to check on you.”
Nick nodded at Arit. “As you can see, he’s still fully clothed.”
Rolan scowled. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s likely what Lyd meant by sending you.” Nick smiled at a porter hauling his trunk into the suite. “Ah, my stuff.” He plucked at his t-shirt with his fingers, mouth pinching with his distaste. “If you both would excuse me, I’d like to follow Lydia’s example by showering before dinner.”
Arit walked to a door and, upon reaching it, swung it open. “The master bedroom,” he said. “Bathroom is through there.” His gaze narrowed on Nick as he nodded to another door on the opposite side of the den area. “If you’d be more comfortable with your friends near you, the suite is equipped with a second bedroom and bathroom.”
“Listen to the two of them going at it?” Nick chuckled. “No, thanks.”
Rolan glared from the door. “Like watching you two posturing would be a pleasure cruise.”
“Posture?” Arit frowned. “He’s an omega—” He abruptly paled. He faced Nick. “You aren’t,” he said, voice warming with interest.
Nick shuddered at the wanton heat in Arit’s response. “Aren’t what?”
“An omega. You should be,” Arit said, lines bracketing his mouth in his puzzlement. “You were, I believe, the youngest of the emperor’s sons and you chose a career in knitting, which is a nurturing skill important for omegas in their preferred supportive roles in the tribes.”
“He’s a business manager,” Rolan objected.
“No, let him speak.” Smirking, Nick raised his palm to quiet his brother. “Mom and I run a yarn shop. That’s true.” He shrugged. “I’m a fair knitter and I’m better than average at crochet. I also weave and can macramé.”
“To teach humans.” Rolan growled. “Mom leads most classes because she’s better at charming customers, but we both learned so we could fill in for her when necessary.” He jabbed an accusatory finger at Nick. “You spend most of your day behind a computer in the office or working the phones to organize events funneling traffic into local small businesses. You lead. Always have.”
Nick dipped his head in acknowledgment because that was also correct. He glanced at Arit but spoke to his brother. “As I’ve said, they see what they want to see.”
Arit’s mouth formed a predatory grin. “Does my sire know?”
Rolan’s shoulders tightened. “You said Benjic wasn’t your sire.”
“Does he know?” Arit asked, attention focused on Nick rather than Nick’s brother.
Though Nick suspected the elder entertained doubts about the omega nature the tribes had assumed of their lost emperor, Nick reached for the hem of his shirt rather than answer him. Let Arit stew on the possibility or ask his sire himself. Repairing Benjic’s relationship with his son wasn’t in Nick’s job description. Seducing a potential mate, however, might be. Nick yanked the shirt over his head, satisfaction filling him when Arit’s eyes focused first on the locket glittering at his throat and then darkened at Nick’s bare shoulders and the broad expanse of his chest, hardly dotted with spirals of blond hair. Another characteristic of the imperial bloodline—most in the tribes were almost as furry walking on two legs as they were on four. Nick’s fingers itched to discover the pelt of chest hair that must be hidden under Arit’s lodge polo. “I have no idea what Benjic believes. I imagine few do.” He shrugged, smugly gratified when Arit’s breath caught at the ripple of Nick’s muscles. “I must get dressed for dinner. Unless you’d like to join me in the shower?”
Arit gulped.
Familiar with Nick’s cagey ploys, Rolan snorted. “I’ll leave when he does,” he said, tone grieved but stoic.
Nick let his hands dip to the fly of his jeans. “Following Lydia’s orders to keep me in line to the bitter end, are we?”
Rolan scowled. “Go on. Pretend you aren’t scared of her, too.”
Arit licked his lips, stare concentrating on Nick’s groin, where Nick toyed with him by flicking open the first button. “For a human, your friend is…formidable. Very.” Sharp white teeth caught Arit’s plump lower lip, spiking lust through Nick. “No one has ever questioned me as an alpha, and I wouldn’t cross her without good reason, either.”
Swamped with his arousal, Nick blinked at him. “What?”
Snickering, Rolan nudged Arit’s shoulders with his own. “Come on. Leave his royal pain in the ass to his bath and show me where I can find tea for Lyd. She’ll want a cup while she’s dressing for dinner, and I make keeping that woman happy a policy as much as possible.”
Shaking off his brain-deadening desire, Nick nodded. “Earl Gray with a generous dollop of cream and a teaspoon of honey.” He smiled. “Not sugar. Not a sugar substitute. Honey, preferably honey collected locally.” He dipped his head at Arit. “Lydia is a fervent believer local honey tamps down her allergies.”
This time, Arit was the one to blink in befuddled confusion. “What?”
Chuckling, Rolan grabbed Arit by the biceps. “Never mind. Just…c’mon.”
Interestingly, Arit shrugged off Rolan’s grasp but nevertheless joined Nick’s brother in the gaping maw of the suite’s door. Arit glanced over his shoulder. “Dinner is ready whenever you are.” His lush mouth bowed. “Venison stew. I took down the deer myself.”
Heat coiled in the pit of Nick’s stomach at his potential mate providing for him. As Arit probably intended. He might fight his mating instincts, but Arit was as susceptible to the draw as any in the tribes—including Nick. “I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.”
The corners of Arit’s eyes crinkled with his amusement. “Thanks for the warning.”
Chapter Six
The crown prince reappeared for dinner in the hall in full imperial regalia suitable for any la-di-dah capitol fete. Wool breeches hugged his muscled thighs while his stockings showcased trim calves. Arit’s mouth watered. Stitched in gold thread, artistic treatments of the Marisek crest lined the cuffs, his high neckline, and the hem of his loose tunic, hardly hidden by a matching vest that could only be described as fussy. Someone had invested countless hours in creating an interlinking beadwork pattern of each of the tribe’s sigils lining both front panels of the vest. A ring of contrasting gems circled ostentatious jewel buttons. Even his boots were absurd, black suede that had zero chance of surviving a single snowflake, forget the showering snow that had begun falling while Arit’s guests had freshened up. If the wet weather didn’t make the boots impractical, the raised heel guaranteed anyone wearing such frippery would break his fool neck on any hint of ice.
And who the fuck had given the prince the Founder’s Diadem?
Arit wasn’t an idiot. He’d been schooled as thoroughly as any other shifter in the history of their peoples, including pictures of the imperial family throughout the centuries. While the diadem wasn’t a crown, Arit recognized th
e piece as one gifted to the first emperor from the Urals upon that royal’s ascension to power over four hundred years ago. Sapphires glittered like blue-black stars in the band of chain mail ringing Nick’s head, a perfect counterpoint to the thick honeyed gold of this emperor’s hair.
He should’ve looked ridiculous.
Instead, Arit clenched his hands into fists to resist the urge to reach for Nick.
Nick had eschewed the upholstered couches and sofas lining the walls of the room and sprawled with his adopted brother, the human woman, and several others from his party on the floor. Nick leaned on an elbow propped on the fireplace hearth, which shouldn’t have reminded Arit of a throne but somehow did. He ate heartily from a ceramic bowl one of Arit’s staff had served to their guests, and although the fare was necessarily simple because train delays were common as autumn bled into cruel winter, Nick consumed the meat Arit had hunted with an eager abandon that hardened Arit’s dick.
He ran a business. Hearty venison stew on the first night in the Urals had become a standard mainstay for groups registered for the adventure tours Arit led. That Arit personally, instead of a member of his staff, had killed the deer that provided the foundation of this inaugural meal wasn’t unusual this late in the tourist season when he divided his trail guides between building projects. Arit leading the hunt for fresh venison was easier than reassigning a senior staff member, which would mean losing the man or woman’s precious management skills for remodeling and improvements before heavy snows began.
The roguish curve of Nick’s lips indicated the crown prince was as aware as Arit that gifts of wild game represented traditional offerings by lovers during mating heats, though. The flickering yellows and oranges in the fire in the hall’s hearth stood as another mating overture—fuel for warmth during the harsh cold season. Arit’s gaze rose to a high ledge circling the hall. Shifter Frontiers used the space to display stones sculpted over many long winters into prey animals and their predators. Ermines, arctic foxes, and badgers abounded. Roe deer, bears, and mountain cats had also been fashioned into various poses. The stone icons embodied the third category of conventional mating gifts and were generally the most prized. Game was eaten, wood consumed in fires, but these stone treasures remained, passed down in families over generations. Many of the icons lining the hall were heirlooms from Arit’s dad. Arit had only to reach up to retrieve the granite elk Emyn had created to present to his mate. Benjic’s gaze repeatedly flitting to that particular icon in the collection enraged Arit, but weighed down his shoulders with sadness, too. His sire had lost any rights to the elk when he’d abandoned them for the capitol.
Arit was free to gift it to Nick alongside the lynx he’d carved from sandstone in his teens. If he wanted.
The welcome sparkle in the crown prince’s gaze as Arit scooped stew from the bowl to his mouth invited him to do it. The loose sprawl of Nick’s body beckoned him, taunting Arit with the compulsion to declare his interest by tempting Nick with proof of his devotion…and warn rivals away from the shifter his wolf had judged should be his alone. Perhaps not the elk his dad had crafted. Too big. Arit’s lynx, however, would be perfect fastened with a length of black ribbon at the base of the crown prince’s throat alongside the gold locket Arit had spied Nick wearing earlier. Arit’s longing to claim Nick as his flooded him and almost brought him to his knees.
He didn’t stretch for his lynx icon, though. Instead, he stiffened his spine. Ate his dinner.
He wasn’t sure he liked Nick yet and truthfully, liking him might not be enough to persuade Arit to deal with what Nick was—a political animal every bit as devious and dangerous as Arit’s sire. Benjic recognized the core of intelligence and strength in the crown prince, if none of the morons in the capitol did. His sire wouldn’t have worked to arrange this meeting if he’d believed Nick malleable. Benjic sought an alliance and—staying true to form—the elder was willing to sacrifice one of his children to obtain it.
Pity Arit was not as eager or as compliant as his half-brother and -sisters in buckling under their sire’s power-hungry intrigues.
Arit did not reach for the lynx icon he’d sculpted, but not even distrust of his sire could pry his stare from Nick as they both finished their meals.
The human female set her empty bowl aside and drank instead from the tankard of locally brewed ale Arit stocked. “What now?” Her head dipped to the windows where snowflakes drifted from the darkening sky. “I assume the weather would preclude a tour of the grounds.”
Beside her, Roman chuckled. “For you maybe.”
“Our bodies run at higher temperatures than humans because we adapted to the brutal conditions in the territories the tribes claimed as theirs, Lyd.” Nick, too, put down his bowl. He stretched his arms, emphasizing the broad expanse of his chest under the layers of finery as well as a flat abdomen Arit desperately wanted to caress. “You should wait for daylight, yes. Your eyes aren’t as sharp, either, but for us, a few flurries and the dark are no bother.”
“Especially if we’ve taken our animal forms.” Benjic’s smirk at the crown prince set Arit’s teeth on edge. “The grounds are best viewed on four paws, Your Highness.”
Nick arched an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“We designed the landscape near the lodge to best appeal to our wolves and at night, the grounds are as spectacular as any palace garden. Better than some, I’d wager. We generally end a group’s first night with a jaunt outdoors.” Arit’s dad pointed at an alcove of cubbies beneath the massive staircase, a convenience for guests to store their clothing rather than returning to their rooms to disrobe when the urge to shift called to them. “If you’d prefer not to shift, the views are still lovely, of course, but you can leave your things in there if you’d care to try.”
“Tempting.” Nick biting his lip stirred Arit’s arousal anew. “Several reporters followed us into the Urals, though. You barred them from the resort, but they’ll take rooms at hotels in the valley. I won’t bet against their long-distance lenses. The promised payment for pictures of me in my wolf form have reached the hundreds of thousands.”
When Arit snorted, Dad glared at him. “Shifter Frontiers offers complete privacy.” Dad lifted a palm. “I won’t say the media won’t get pictures. The mountains are too extensive to police every vantage point, but this land is also rugged and difficult to navigate without a guide.”
Arit nodded. “No one in town will help foreigners.”
Benjic scowled into his bowl of stew. “We didn’t allow the human media across the border. These are all tribe reporters—not foreigners.”
“Anyone born outside the Urals is a foreigner, and as a big contributor to the local economy, Shifter Frontiers is a highly valued business. Most locals will protect our interests and the interests of our customers against intrusion from strangers.” Irritation flared inside Arit as he stared at his sire. “Even some who were born here lose their local shine and will find scant support here now.”
His dad growled Arit’s name in exasperated warning.
“No, leave him alone. I deserve his contempt and worse.” Sighing, Benjic set his food aside. He focused on the crown prince. “What’s important is reporters will need a few days to find a local greedy enough for coin to lead them to prime photography spots. Shifting tonight should be relatively safe, Your Highness.”
A red haze clouded Arit’s vision at his sire’s continued and flagrant disrespect of his mate’s wishes. “His name is Nick.” He squared his shoulders, ruthlessly beating down the urge to shift and teach his sire a thing or two about the deference due a crown prince. “He wants to be called Nick.”
Nick already shrugged off his fancy vest. Setting it aside, his hands moved to the hem of his tunic. “He’s had weeks in the capitol to ingrain formal address into habit. You won’t break him of it no matter how ferocious your scowl,” he said to Arit. He stripped the shirt over his head, revealing a breathtaking expanse of fair skin typical of the imperial family, lightly sprin
kled with soft blond hair.
Arit’s heart stopped. Just stopped.
“I accept pictures are inevitable unless I choose not to shift at all, which is a sacrifice I won’t make now that we’re away from the cities. Exploring the outer territories again is a temptation I can’t resist.” Nick neatly folded his tunic and his vest. He dipped his head to remove the diadem, but the cursed locket that drew Arit’s attention to the alluring hollow of his throat, he left in place. He discarded the priceless diadem atop his clothing. The mass-produced locket, a gold-plated trinket, he patted as though to reassure himself he retained possession of the cheap jewelry. “I prefer to make getting pictures as difficult as possible, though.”
“With the moon hidden behind storm clouds, pictures taken at night will be effectively useless, especially shots from long distances. Our tour photographer is working with a crew at our upper camp at the moment, but she assured us photo editing software doesn’t improve pictures under these conditions by much.” Arit’s dad smiled. “Client privacy is important to Shifter Frontiers.”
“Fortunately, our wolves are nocturnal,” Benjic said. “You need only limit attempts at shifting to the night hours if showing your wolf to the tribes still troubles you.”
Nick’s adopted brother snickered. “Attempts,” he echoed, tone ripe with disgust.
“Rolan, stop.” When the crown prince pushed to his feet, Arit also stood. The roar of his pulse filled his ears as Nick toed out of his absurd boots. “They’ll see for themselves in minutes.”
The prince’s brother kicked off his shoes, too. “Can’t wait.”
“If you wouldn’t mind company for a short walk, I’d love to join you,” Arit’s dad told Lydia. He offered her a hand to help her from the floor. “We keep a small inventory of cloaks more suitable for the weather than any available in the cities for the ski season. Human or tribe, you’ll be cozy despite the snow and wind for a while. Views of storms rolling into the valley are often breathtaking.”