I freeze. "I can't."
"Would it help if we close the door?"
My eyes narrow. "Why?"
He puts up his hand. "I swear I won't touch you unless you invite me to. You have my sworn oath. I swear on my love of Rice Krispies Treats."
"You're joking," I snap. "I'm done."
"I mean it, Ana. I want to help."
I sit back a tiny bit, and look at him. Hard. "Why?"
"I saw a damsel in distress. I'm a Knight. It's what I do."
"I am not a damsel."
"You're pretty much the definition."
I groan in annoyance. Then I stand up and swing the door shut, closing out not just my bodyguards, but the rest of the world too.
Hesitantly, I sit down next to him. When I breathe in, his scent fills my nostrils. I can feel the heat of his body pulling me in, like the heat of a fire on a freezing day.
Quietly, I start to read aloud, then with more confidence. When I stumble over a sentence, he breaks it down for me, reading it aloud. I am a fluent speaker, so it goes that much easier for me. When I have questions he always knows the answer. What should be a reading of about forty pages, perhaps an hour, turns into three.
By the end of it, my head is resting on his shoulder. He takes what should be boring, dusty, old American history that even Americans don't care about and brings it alive. He does voices, he gestures, he sweeps me up in stories of battles and triumphs and defeats, of life and loss.
I enjoy listening to him talk. He becomes so animated, so engrossed in the telling of it that he doesn't notice that I'm pressed against him, or that my hand rests on his arm.
Finally he realizes what's happening and sits back.
"I think that about covers it. You should have an easier time with the next assignment. Bring me your review questions before you turn them in and I'll help you proof them. Grandolf docks points for grammar."
"She would," I huff.
He starts to pack up.
"I need help with something else," I say quickly.
"I have practice in the morning. It's seven o'clock already."
"Please?"
He sighs, and the look in his eyes begins to melt something inside me. I can feel the heat of it spreading through my chest.
"Well, since you asked like that. What is it?"
I draw out The Great Gatsby and show it to him, holding it in both hands.
"Sit down," he sighs.
I join him by his side again. He opens to the first page.
"What are you doing?"
"Ana, if you have that much trouble with a history book, you're not ready to read this. There's nothing wrong with that, but we need to accept it. You're going to have to take a hard exam on this book and you need to know it. We can help you with your reading another time. I'm going to read it to you. Just listen, then we'll talk about it. Okay?"
He begins to read.
I listen.
I fall into the words as they leave his mouth. He reads neither slow, nor fast, but his voice breathes life into the words in a way I never could by reading them on my own. My eyes drift halfway closed, and I let his voice carry me off, lift me up and bear me into the world of the story. Again he never says a word as I lean on his shoulder, or slip my arms around his great, thick bicep. I don't even know why I do it, except that I enjoy the warmth of him, the way his body shifts when he takes massive breaths. After two hours we have only read the first two weeks' assignments, and he stops.
We talk about the book. He asks me about the characters, but not what I expect—who they are, where they came from, facts. He asks how I feel about them, how I feel about Gatsby, whether I think he is good or bad or something in between. I have not made up my mind yet. I don't like Daisy. I think she is vapid and superficial, and I do not know what to make of Nick at all, except it seems pathetic to me that he clings to these people who clearly look down upon him. Jason points out that Gatsby is not one of them either, and I think on that.
"You don't have royalty in America," I observe. "No princesses."
"No, not unless we borrow them from remote Scandinavian islands full of warrior women."
I sit up and jab his arm with my fist. He grins at me, and I start to say something, but my mouth closes. I feel warm all over. My hand has taken on a life of its own and is stroking Jason's arm. I yank it back like I was touching a hot stove and feel myself turn even redder. My clothes suddenly feel too hot and tight around my neck.
"It's late. Almost nine. Can I walk you back?"
"I have armed guards."
"Her Grace's royal person should have the finest protection. Let me walk with you."
I take in a deep breath. It's like sucking ice into my lungs. I hate what I have to say.
"Listen to me, please." I grip his arm in both hands. "I can't date you. I can't be involved with you."
"You want to."
"No. I don't," I lie.
"You're lying to me, Princess. That's not very nice. I thought I was helpful tonight."
"You were, but you have to understand—"
"I know. I'm not good enough. I should have figured."
"No," I blurt out. "No that's not true."
"Then what is true, Princess?"
I swallow, hard. "I have to marry someone else."
"Who?"
I think of Mortimer and my stomach sours.
He blinks. "What, like… arranged?"
The way he says it makes its sounds so barbaric and primitive.
"Yes," I say in a very tiny voice. "Don't you know who I am?"
He looks at me warmly and rests his hand on my shoulder. It curves along to rest on my neck, and his other hand grips mine, lightly squeezing my fingers.
"The prettiest girl in the world."
"I'm a princess. Someday I'm going to be queen. I'm the heir."
"So?"
"So there are laws…."
"I get it," he says, coldly. "Some shitkicker isn't good enough to be king."
I swallow, hard. I feel sick, like I ate something rotten.
"No, please listen. You are not a… shitkicker," I don't know what that word means. "You are a very fine man but…."
"But what? I'm not talking about marriage anyway. I'd rather go on a real date before I propose to you."
"I'd like that, but you have to understand that I can't."
He seizes me by the shoulders.
"Look at me. Look at me. Now."
I swallow to try and wet my dry throat, but I can't. I look him in the eye.
"Don't take your eyes off me. Look me right in the eye and tell me straight up. Tell me if you want me to leave you alone. I will. I'll never bother you again."
My mouth works. I want to tell him, I need to tell him. If he chases me it will only break him. He can't catch me.
I can't. The words won't come out. They stick in my throat and die there, and other words scream at me to be said.
"If you want to be with me and some goddamn rule is the only thing stopping it, then I'm not going to give up. I want you."
"Me?" I squeak.
"You. Not the princess. You. Anastasia."
I shake loose of his hands. "You don't know me."
"I want to. Don't you want to know me?"
I look at him. Study him. He's the most handsome man I've ever seen, and so strong, such power in his arms and hands and yet so gentle. I liked it when I lay on his shoulder and he told me stories. I'd like to know more. I've never felt what I feel now about anyone.
My eyes burn.
"I can't. I have to go."
"Ana."
I gather my things quickly, without thinking, making a mess of my carefully organized bag.
"Ana!"
I throw the door open and hurry out. Thorlief and Bjorn let me get halfway to the elevator before they notice and run to catch up with me.
"Your Grace?" Bjorn asks.
"I do not wish to speak."
He goes silent. Bjorn never says anything anyway. The two of the
m flank me in the elevator, and I feel their presence like stones about to crash down on my head. I need air. I almost run outside, and drink the cool night in deep gasps, shaking.
I shoulder my bag, and I run. Hard. I make it back to the house in under seven minutes of nonstop, all-out running, slowing only when I reach the front steps. I twist the key in the lock and run upstairs. I neither know nor care if the guards kept up with me. I don't stop until I'm curled on my bed.
A solid five minutes later, there is a knock on the door.
"Princess?" Thorlief asks.
"Go away."
He swings the door open and steps inside anyway. I sit up as he closes it behind him, walks over, and sits on my bed.
Through tear-blurred vision, I look at my longest-serving bodyguard. He's followed me everywhere since I was five. I'm so used to him, I barely notice him. When Mother took him into our service, he was already a grizzled veteran of wars. Now he is older. There is more silver in his hair than blond, and even more in his beard. His stomach has softened, but his massive shoulders have grown no narrower.
"Princess, what hurts you so? Was it the boy? Tell me."
I ignore his impertinence. I try to answer but can only snuff and sniff.
"Tell me when you are ready."
I snatch a tissue from the box by the bed and tear it into shreds blowing my nose and swiping at my eyes. My whole body quivers with effort. I will myself not to weep but tears leak out anyway, burning hot as they slide down my cheeks and itch along my chin.
"He didn't hurt me. That's the problem, Thorlief."
"You have feelings for him."
"I don't know," I whimper. "I want to try. I want…."
I don't know what I want. I can't finish that sentence.
"Princess. I would only wish to see you spared this pain. You should let him go."
I sniff into the tissue. "I can't. I can't stop thinking about him."
"Your mother will never allow it."
I nod and dry my tears on another tissue. "You are right."
"Your mother, also, is not here."
I look up.
"The boy reminds me of myself at that age. That is why I want him to stay away from you."
I smile, but sadly.
"It would only hurt," I sigh. "What if I fell in love with him, but I can never keep him?"
"Surrendering love is a very great pain. Yet there is another, with a deeper sting."
"What is that?"
"Never knowing what might have been."
He looks at something far distant, across the room, beyond the wall. Perhaps beyond the sea, beyond the stars. There is more emotion on his face now than I have ever seen.
"What was her name?"
"It is better that I do not tell you."
"Is she still…?"
"Yes."
"She married someone else?"
"Yes. She has many children. It does not matter. Princess…."
"I have to do my duty. I belong to my people, not myself. A queen never belongs to herself."
"You will not be queen for many years."
"So I hope, but queen I will be, in the end. No matter what. I must think of my home and my people. I must…."
The words die, and I fold my arms around myself.
"I need to rest. I have an early day tomorrow."
"I will see that you are not disturbed, Your Grace. Good night."
"Thorlief. Thank you."
He nods before he pulls the door shut. I fall back on the bed, curl up, and lie on my side. Jason's sweatshirt is still laid out on the bed. I reach out to grab it and throw it away.
Instead I grasp the soft, threadbare fabric in my fingers. I pull it close and breathe in. His scent is familiar now. This morning comes flooding back to my mind, and I can feel him under me, his muscles under my hands, his hips between my legs, his hands on my chest. Only, it is naked flesh I feel under my hands, and there is nothing between his palms and my breasts, and his hardness fills the gripping, throbbing need between my legs.
Stop it, stop it, stop it, I tell myself, but I can't.
I have to.
I can't.
When I finally fall asleep, in my clothes, it seems I have my eyes closed for mere minutes before I hear my phone bleating. Thinking it's the alarm, I press the button to silence it, but it continues to vibrate in my hand.
I sit up and glance at the clock. It's seven thirty in the morning, fifteen minutes ahead of my alarm. I'll never get back to sleep now, and I have a class at nine.
It's a video call from Mother.
When the app opens, her face fills the screen. She sits back and angrily holds up a Royal Exposé.
This time I am not confined to the upper corner of the page. The front page is dominated by my picture—more precisely, our picture. Someone was standing at just the right angle to capture the image of Jason as I straddled him, just as we fell and he tried to catch me. In the picture I'm still gripping his shoulders with my hands and he's still cupping my breasts in his hands.
From this angle the photographer didn't capture the look of shock on my face, only the grin on his. Nor did they capture me slapping him a moment later.
The headline screams, ICE CREAM? PRINCESS ANA'S SHOCKING PUBLIC MAKEOUT SESSION.
I groan. Loudly.
"Ana!" Mother snarls.
Oh. Lovely.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"Mother—"
"Don't 'mother' me, young lady. What possessed you to act like some drunken tart in public with a… a football player?" Her voice drips with contempt.
My mouth works silently. I should make some excuse. Instead I sit up straighter.
"I tripped and he caught me. It's not my fault some perverted photographer made it into something it is not."
She scowls. "I will not have you dating some American manslut, do you hear me? You will not ruin yourself."
"I have to go to class soon."
"This is not over, Anastasia. Stay away from that boy."
"Yes, Mother," I sigh.
No sooner do I hang up than my phone chirps for another video call. I answer without thinking, expecting to hear another lecture from Mother. Rarely does she let me have the last word.
It's not her, it's Mortimer.
Mortimer Andrew Karl Victor de Kupp, to be exact. Five years my senior, Mortimer is the eldest son of the de Kupp family, who descend from a brother of the royal family who started his own line some six hundred years ago. That makes him my cousin many, many times removed.
He's been trying to bed me since I was sixteen.
"Ah, my future bride!"
He is not hideous. In fact, he's quiet gorgeous. I'm sure that's helped him bed half the kingdom. Despite his strong chin and thick, dark hair and sharp, gray eyes, I simply can't stand him. It's his eyes that I can't stand. Even on a video call on my phone, they go straight to my chest and try to get a glimpse down my top.
"What do you want?"
He holds up that damned tabloid.
"I learn you are unfaithful to me, and you ask what I want. I am wounded, my lovely Ana. Perhaps I should fly to America and challenge this ape to a duel."
"I can't be unfaithful to you; there is nothing between us."
"Good, I wouldn't want anything to get in the way."
The words twist out of his lips and I shudder, thinking of the first time we met, when he groped me during a formal dance. The thought of his hand on my backside fills me with revulsion.
"If you ever lay a hand on me, you'll lose it," I warn him.
"That's no way to talk to your husband-to-be."
I sneer at him. "I'd rather marry a codfish than marry you. The codfish would be better in bed."
"Oh my princess, you have no idea. Our wedding night will be a garden of sensual delights. I'll make you—"
"Go fuck a narwhal and die."
I cut off the call and block him. He'll figure out a way around it, I'm sure. I'm not surprised he buys
that damnable tabloid rag. He probably clips out all the pictures of me and hangs them in his room. I vividly recall the ball Mother held before I came to America. Mortimer was in the upper gallery of the Great Hall, with one of the servants kneeling and sucking on him. He waved to me, the pig. My innards twist in revulsion at the thought.
Ugh. I have to go to class.
Chapter Six
Jason
After Anastasia leaves, the scent of her hangs in the air like a half-forgotten memory. I touch the spot on the couch where she was sitting curled up against me as we read. It's still warm. The sadness in her beautiful eyes burns in my chest like a knife thrust between my ribs.
Going home is like a dream. I am aware of my actions. I get up. I pack my shit. I walk. I enter the house I share with the Thunder Brothers. I sit in the living room. I stare at the fireplace. I watch day fade fully into night. I do all these things but none of them register. When Akele speaks to me, it's like I've snapped awake from a fitful sleep.
"Jason?" he says, his voice heavy with concern. "Whatsamatter, bro?"
I scowl at him and open my mouth to say something. A jab, a comment, a warning to stay out of it, a plain statement that it's not his business.
Nothing comes out. He sits down on the couch opposite me and puts his huge feet on the coffee table, slightly bowing the oaken top. He leans back, spreads his arms, and his huge wingspan puts his fingertips at either end of the couch cushions.
"Talk when you wanna."
"I don't wanna."
"Wanna, wanna."
He doesn't say a word for the next fifteen minutes.
"I talked Anastasia into studying with me. We hung out in the library until about nine. Then I came back here."
"I was born," Akele says, "and I grew up."
"Don't quote books at me."
"I'm ready to listen to the real story. Or not. Up to you."
I scrub my hands over my head and rock in the seat. Nervous energy tightens in my legs. I want to kick something, run, move, anything. Akele is the picture of Zen master calm, waiting.
So I tell him what happened. Slowly, leaving nothing out. Maybe I spend too much time describing her eyes. I don't know.
When I finish he nods and says nothing for a good fifteen minutes. Then he stands, fetches two tall cups of Hawaiian Punch, and offers me one as he resumes his seat.
Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance) Page 8