His Princess (A Royal Romance)

by Abigail Graham

  The old woman looks me over.

  “Better. Not good. Better.”

  I scowl at her.

  “Follow.”

  Shrugging, I step into a pair of slippers and follow her out of the room. It’s not hot in the castle but not cold. I feel small as my thin slippers scuff the carpets and the sounds echo in the enormous corridors. Every now and then I pass a huge window that opens onto an overlook and the open air beyond, reminding me how far up in the air I am.

  The air itself is a little thin, and I’m puffing by the time we stop. The old woman gestures for me to stop and keeps walking. Two guards swing open a set of heavy oak doors, and I walk inside.

  I’m not sure what I’m expecting. I guess I thought I’d be confronting the same giant plodding suit of armor as last night, but standing before me in an unadorned black uniform and white gloves, the prince is a tall, lean man with broad shoulders. His eyes lock on me and he smirks a little, and despite the voluminous dress, I feel a little exposed and start wringing my hands.

  I flinch when the doors boom shut behind me.

  “I am I supposed to curtsy or something?”

  “Yes,” he says in a deep voice, shocking me a little with the volume. “On account of your injury and your ignorance, I will excuse your lack of decorum. You should address me as my prince, as well. Do you need assistance?”

  “With what? Oh, walking. No, I’m fine.”

  I remember at the last second to add my prince.

  Then I don’t, fuck that. I’m an American, he’s not my prince.

  I try to walk gracefully to the table but end up limping. I almost expect him to offer me an arm but he just pulls out my chair instead. It’s a big chair, the top of the back reaching six feet in the air, the whole thing carved from mahogany.

  The chair slides in behind me as I sit. He looms over my shoulder, and I catch a whiff of a musky cologne with a hint of berries. He touches my bare shoulder lightly and I flinch, looking up at him. He offers me a hint of a smile and a lingering look. I squirm beneath my elaborate dress, tingling at the idea of him undressing me with his eyes.

  He’s already seen it all, I realize. I was almost naked the first time he saw me. I shrink into the chair.

  After I sit he walks to the far end of the enormous table and sits down. He draws the white gloves off his hands as a pair of servants enter carrying trays covered in silver domes. The servant who delivers mine lifts the lid off before I get the chance to touch it, while a third man pours water into a heavy pewter chalice.

  I stare down at my plate and feel my stomach rumble. On the plate are two deviled eggs, but the whites are purple, like they’ve been pickled. Along with that is a steaming sausage on a bed of fried onions, some kind of hard black bread, and three small fish, grilled whole. On a separate plate, cut in half, is a pomegranate.

  The Prince is eating the same thing.

  “Um, do I have to wait for you or something?”

  “I know you’re hungry.”

  One of his servants gives him an iPad.

  A fucking iPad. He twirls his fork in his left hand while he peruses whatever he’s looking at on the tablet.

  Are you serious?

  “Um,” I say.

  “Eat, Persephone.”

  “My name is Penny.”

  “Eat.”

  I stare at the pomegranate and swallow, hard.

  “Are you trying to tell me something? With the fruit.”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Tell you something?”

  “I know the story.”

  He looks up. “Story?”

  “Of Persephone. In Greek mythology, Persephone is the queen of Hell. Hades, the brother of Zeus, ruled in the Underworld.”

  “Correct, but the Greek Underworld is not Hell only. A common misconception. Tartarus is Hell, but the Underworld also contained Elysium, a realm of beauty and solace. Do you know the rest of the story?”

  He’s not a year older than I am, but I feel like I’m staring down a professor, testing me with questions he already knows the answers to. For some reason my bare shoulders make me feel naked. Possibly because his eyes rake over my skin. It’s a shivery feeling, and oddly pleasant. I shift in my seat.

  “Yes. Hades was a melancholy god, and kept himself from the affairs of the mortal world. He wasn’t lusty like his brothers Zeus and Poseidon. He didn’t abduct nymphs or father heroes on mortal women, like Hercules and Perseus. He remained in his kingdom, judging the dead.”

  “Some say Minos, father of the Minotaur, judged the dead.”

  “Yes, there’s different versions. Anyway, Hades saw Persephone and was smitten with her, so he kidnapped her away and took her back to Hell, but Persephone was the daughter of Demeter, the goddess of agriculture and the harvest.”

  “Go on,” he says.

  I poke the pomegranate with my fork.

  “Demeter’s wrath was terrible, and she made the whole of nature die. People began to starve and they begged Zeus to intervene, but he couldn’t, because by ancient agreement he had no power in Hades’ realm.”

  The prince nods. “Do you know how it ends?”

  “Sometimes with a treaty, but sometimes with a trick. Some say another god interceded and convinced Hades to let Persephone spend half the year with her mother and half in Hell with him. During the time of year when Persephone stayed with Demeter, the world bloomed and spring and summer came. Then when Persephone went to join Hades in Hell for six months, Demeter’s sorrow brought fall and winter, and then her return gave the world spring again.”

  “What about the pomegranate?”

  “In some versions of the story, Persephone is tricked. Hades promises her that she can go home, but there was a law in hell that anyone who ate the food there would have to stay. Even Hades himself could not break that law. Persephone knew about it, but she became so hungry while Zeus and Hades argued that she ate a single seed from a pomegranate, like this one,” I lift it in my hand, “so she was bound by the law of Hell to remain there with Hades forever. But Zeus convinced Hades to let her return for part of the year, or else Demeter would starve the world and there would be no one to worship the gods.”

  The prince nods.

  “Yes. That is the story. There is no magic in the fruit, Persephone. It’s just breakfast.”

  I eye it. “I think I’ll skip it anyway.”

  The rest of it is good. I was expecting beet-pickled eggs but these taste completely different, kind of tart, and the yolk filling is rich and spicy, so much that I have to take a drink of water after I eat them. The sausage is delicious.

  “It’s wild boar,” the prince says, watching me eat. “There is more if you like.”

  I set my fork down.

  “My friend Melissa. What have you done with her?”

  “As I said, she was taken to the hospital.”

  “She wasn’t hurt. Why did you send her to the hospital and bring me here?”

  “A little twist of your ankle will heal itself. Your friend…Melissa? Her body was not hurt but her mind is unwell. She will be treated kindly. You have my word.”

  “What about the other woman, Danielle?”

  He gives me a grim frown. “What is the expression you use? It is touch and go. The bullets missed her heart but shredded her lung and one hit her spine. She may not walk again.”

  I feel a cold ball form in my stomach.

  “Melissa needs to go home.”

  “That is not possible now.”

  “She needs to see her family.”

  “She will not leave. It is not safe. Nor will you.”

  “Can I call my parents? Please? I need them to know I’m alive.”

  “No.”

  I grip the fork hard and slam the blunt end down on the table.

  “You can’t just keep me here like this. Who do you think you are?”

  “I am the crown prince,” he says, shrugging. He looks at me like that’s adequate explanation.

  “I don’t
care if you’re king shit of fuck mountain, you can’t just hold me prisoner like this. I’m an American citizen. I have rights.”

  “I can if I wish. Or I can throw you in the dungeon.”

  I stare at him.

  “Seriously? Like an actual dungeon?”

  He blinks a few times. “Yes. What do you propose that I call it?”

  “Um, jail? I don’t know. You’re not going to throw me in a dungeon.”

  “You presume to tell me what I can and cannot do?”

  I swallow, hard.

  “Yeah, I do. You can abuse your own people all you want but I’m an American. Once they know I’m here they’ll send the Marines to get me or something. That’s why you’re so afraid somebody will find out about us.”

  He stands.

  “You have a strange idea of gratitude, Persephone. I saved your life and in return, you berate me at my own table after eating my bread and salt?”

  I flinch back, blinking.

  “I, um… Okay, look, I know it’s bad manners, but I know who you are. I’ve been an aid worker in Solkovia for six months. I heard stories about your regime, my prince. I know what you do to your people.”

  “What is that?”

  “Oppress them. You throw people in prison for speaking out against you, you censor the media, you enforce curfews. Everything in the country belongs to you, nobody has any rights or any chance to live life their own way… and, Jesus Christ, you kill people. You killed people last night. I saw what you did to those men in the pass.”

  “Did you? Did you know what they were going to do to you? When I found you naked and covered in blood?”

  “That doesn’t mean you can just kill them.”

  He looks at me hard. “Why not? They broke the law.”

  “They have rights. To a trial and stuff.”

  “I gave them a trial. I heard the evidence. Was it not conclusive? Do you doubt the man I beheaded threatened you with…” He stops, as if he doesn’t want to say it.

  “Well, no, but he has a right to a jury of his peers.”

  The prince laughs. “Should I have set the other murderers up and let them decide whether he should have lived or died? The CIA man is still alive. Should I release him? He is American, a government man. Perhaps I should entrust you to him. He can take you home safely. I am sure he would be happy to hear about your rights.”

  My teeth click shut.

  “Let me tell you what I think. I think you are a silly little girl. You think because you are American you own the world by birthright and go where you please, meddling as you like in affairs that you do not understand. You have never set foot in my country and yet you presume to speak to me of it as if you have lived here all your life. You think because you were born in some great country you can tell me about mine, about my land that my family has ruled for five hundred years.”

  “You can’t own land like that.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I mean you can own land, but you can’t own a whole country.”

  “Why not?”

  I blink a few times. “Okay, fine. You can own the land but you can’t own the people.”

  “Did I say I do?”

  “You implied it.”

  He rests his hand on the table and leans down over me.

  Holy shit, he’s gorgeous. I never thought I would use the word beautiful to describe a man, but he’s amazing, and the effect is magnified as he looms over me, so close I can smell him. He smells like leather and blackberries.

  My heart flutters when he glances down at the modest cleavage the dress blesses me with. It’s just a fraction of a second look but I know it was there, I saw it. He was checking me out.

  I fold my hands in my lap and shift away from him on the seat as he stares intently at my face.

  “Where do you come from?”

  “New Jersey.”

  He sighs. “Before that.”

  “Uh, I was born there.”

  “I mean your ancestors.”

  “Well, my mom’s side of the family are Hungarian, and my dad’s side are Irish. So, uh, Ireland I guess.”

  “Where in Ireland? Cork? Kent? Dublin? Ulster?”

  “Maybe?”

  He snorts and stands up. “You don’t even know where you came from, yet here you are acting as if you are the great expert in world affairs.”

  “I am. I majored in history in college.”

  “History according to America. Your arrogance is stunning.”

  “Arrogance?” I snap. “You have a lot of balls calling me arrogant, my prince. Where I come from we don’t have princes. We treat people equally.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Of course we do.”

  He sits on the corner of the table and studies me, and I feel my pulse quicken. He has nice lips. I’ve never looked at a man before and said, “He has nice lips,” but he has nice lips. Also hair, really thick hair. I have a weird urge to play with it.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “You have freckles. I like freckles. You tell me people are equal in your country.”

  “Yes.”

  I fold my arms over my chest.

  He does the same, and I feel like I’m being mocked.

  He’s more muscular than I first thought. I can see it under his jacket. He’s well built in that sleek, athletic way of swimmers and models, like he’s built for speed.

  “Can you walk up to your president and shake his hand?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “The Secret Service will not mind if you walk up to the president. Can you go to his house? Can you knock on his door?”

  “Well, no…”

  “You would be shot, yes?”

  “Well, probably, but the president is important. He has to be protected.”

  “I’m not?”

  “Do you need protection? My president doesn’t go around chopping off people’s heads with swords. Besides, stop calling him my president. I didn’t vote for him.”

  “Which one did you vote for?”

  “Um, I didn’t. I don’t vote.”

  He frowns, but his lips twitch and he suppresses a laugh. “I see.”

  “Democracy is important.”

  “Not important enough for you to go to the polls and cast a vote every two years, one day in November.”

  I blink a few times. “How do you know when voting day is?”

  “I am a foreigner, not a moron. That is the other half of the coin. You assume because you are American that you know everything and because I am Kosztylan I know nothing.”

  “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

  He looks at me with a flat expression.

  “You also assume we do not have television. Do you really think I do not have HBO? I have streaming. Cable is too expensive and I do not want the home decorating channel.”

  I stare at him.

  “Are you messing with me?”

  His lips twitch and he breaks into a tight-lipped grin. “I find you amusing.”

  “Amusing. You find me amusing.”

  “Yes. You are too high-strung. I think you spent too long in your camp. You need a man.”

  Then I’m standing up, and my hand is stinging, and there is a look of absolute shock on my face. It doesn’t dawn on me that I slapped him full-on in the face until it’s already happened, my hand is throbbing, and there’s a red handprint on his cheek. Wide eyed, he turns to me slowly.

  His hand shoots out and he seizes my wrist in an iron grip, so hard it cuts off the circulation in my hand and his knuckles go white. I grab at his fingers, trying to pry them loose.

  “You are the ones who stomp around where you do not belong, ignorant of where you step. In my country the law is clear. To strike the blood royal is a capital crime. The penalty is to have the offending limb struck off.”

  “S-s-struck off? Like cut off?”

  He squeezes harder, somehow, and plucks the knife from the table.

  Oh m
y God.

  “No don’t please don’t, I—”

  He rams the knife into the table, where it stands, quivering as he releases both it and my wrist.

  “You are a woman, and in my house we hold hospitality sacred still, even if the meaning of the word eludes you enlightened Americans. I will forgive this indiscretion once. Once. Am I clear?”

  “Yes,” I squeak, trying to keep my hands at my sides. My wrist is throbbing.

  “You will not treat me this way in sight of anyone, is that understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will address me respectfully and you will behave yourself.”

  “Okay. Uh, my prince.”

  “Better.”

  I flinch as he takes my arm, holding his palm under my forearm. He looks at my wrist and touches it with the first two fingers of his other hand.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You hurt me.”

  “Oh, you poor boy,” I groan.

  He glares at me.

  “Perhaps we can forgive each other. Did you think I was going to cut off your hand?”

  I nod.

  “I would prefer not to. It is a lovely hand. It is my pleasure to meet you, Persephone.”

  Then he kisses my fucking hand. Lightly, on the knuckles.

  Somehow it doesn’t look completely stupid. I feel a hot flush in my chest and dip into the world’s most awkward curtsy. I think it’s a curtsy.

  “You will join me for lunch and hawking this afternoon.”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “That wasn’t a request, it was an instruction. Go back to your room now.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t say ‘my prince.’”

  I snatch my hand away. “I don’t have a prince.”

  I can’t read his expression. I’m not sure if he’s amused or frustrated, maybe both. I turn around, not caring if it’s appropriate to turn my back to him or not, and stomp toward the door. It must be good enough, because his guards open it and escort me, slowly and tediously, back to my room.

  The old woman meets me halfway.

  “He likes you,” she says, nodding her approval.

  I groan.

  4

  As I sit on the bed waiting to see what’s going to happen to me next, a pressing question nags at my mind.