Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)

by Abigail Graham

He looks up and nods ever so slightly.

  “I was in the library.”

  “I see.”

  I shift in my seat. “The books on the top shelf. Way up at the top of the tower. What are they bound in?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  I swallow, hard.

  “They look like they’re bound in skin. People skin. I mean human skin.”

  “They are.”

  My stomach drops and I grab the arms of my chair. Oh my God. He’s going to turn me into a book.

  Very funny. That’s about the most ironic way for an English teacher to die.

  “When the crown prince of Kosztyla dies, his deeds are recorded in a book, which is in turn bound in his own skin. The practice is called anthropodermic bibliopegy.”

  I relax. A little. Not much.

  “Are you going to kill me and turn me into a book?”

  “Not unless you ask nicely.”

  I swallow, hard. “I have to tell you something.”

  “Go on.”

  “That is incredibly fucking creepy.”

  He looks at me blankly for a second, as if he’s trying to parse what the word fucking means in that context, and then bursts out laughing. Real laughing that echoes through the hall. I just sit there wide eyed.

  “You think it’s creepy? I have to look at that shelf knowing one day I’ll be added to the collection.”

  “It’s just weird. Do you think you can, like, not do that?”

  I laugh. Nervously. I sort of force it.

  “I know it seems strange to you. At times it seems strange to me. My ancestors were odd men. My father once told me…” He trails off.

  “Told you what?”

  “He told me my forebears didn’t build a castle to keep the world out. They built it to keep us in.”

  I shift in my seat.

  Dinner!

  It’s fowl, whatever it is. I think it’s goose. It’s not chicken or turkey. Maybe duck. There’s a thick slab on my plate with some kind of plum relish, I think? It tastes like prune juice, but sweeter. Also a little pile of pearl onions, carrots, and peas, which I kind of push around the plate. There are hot crusty rolls and butter, too, and a bowl of barley in cream sauce with chopped up broccoli.

  The prince is quiet while we eat.

  “What happened to you this afternoon?” I finally ask.

  “I was dealing with the resistance,” he says, twisting the word into a curse.

  “You looked really torn up when you got back. Or your armor did.”

  “This is not a suitable dinner topic. You are a teacher?”

  “I am. I was. I don’t know.”

  “Please don’t start berating me.”

  “I won’t. I’m tired of it. For now, anyway. Yeah, I went to school to teach. I majored in history and after that I was working on a certification and a master’s so I could teach, but I quit to come out here and work with the church teaching English in Solkovia.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to get away from home.”

  “You were trying to sell it to me earlier.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to fight about whose country is better.”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “True, I have had enough of fighting for one day. Why did you want to leave?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Is it because of the man you were to marry?”

  I bite my lip, not wanting to slip any information about that subject at all, and yet I say, “Yes, that’s why.”

  “Did he reject you?”

  “No.”

  “Then you, him.”

  “No.”

  “I see.”

  “You really don’t. What about you? I saw a painting when I was walking the castle. Was she important to you?”

  He bites his lip. It’s a weirdly cute gesture.

  “Yes, she was.”

  “Was.”

  “Was,” he agrees.

  “The final kind of was.”

  He nods. “That kind, yes.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She died. Most people do. As yours did.”

  I flinch. “I don’t like talking about that. It hurt me a lot.”

  “Enough to flee your democratic paradise and run halfway around the world. I can only imagine. Did it ease your pain? Fleeing?”

  I stare at my plate. I don’t feel especially hungry.

  “No. It didn’t make it hurt any less, but I could forget about it. The missionary work is very demanding. Long hours, not a lot of down time, and there were always people around.”

  “I will make you another deal.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you tell me about yours, I will tell you about mine.”

  He has that unreadable expression again, like a statue. I can’t meet his gaze, and my eyes fall away.

  I sigh and stare down at my lap.

  “We met in my junior year. Third year of schooling. We knew each other briefly in high school, flirted a bit, nothing came of it. We started dating in college. It was serious. Very serious.”

  “Tell me about when he proposed to you.”

  I blink a few times, trying to stop the burning in my eyes.

  “We didn’t have a lot of money and our parents didn’t really support us getting together. My parents are hippies.”

  “What?”

  “Liberals?”

  “I understand. Go on.”

  I roll my shoulders and suddenly feel very exposed by this damn dress. Why did I pick this one?

  “Anyway my mother didn’t think I should get married at all.”

  “Why is that?”

  I shrug again. “I’d have to give up my last name. Well, I mean, I wouldn’t, there’s no rule that says I have to, lots of people don’t. It’s just the principle of the thing, I guess. I thought it was really hypocritical since she’s married and she seems happy enough with my dad. I think.”

  “You do not know?”

  “They’re not super affectionate with each other. I don’t know. They’re weird. I’ve never seen them kiss. Sometimes I think I was an accident and my dad stays on to take care of me. Or did. They’re still together. I don’t know. It was just a loveless marriage, he doesn’t care.”

  “He has a sense of honor, at least.”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t want to be alone. Anyway, in America it’s kind of expected that the bride’s parents pay for the wedding.”

  “A dowry?”

  “Dude, it’s not a dowry. It’s just a dumb tradition.”

  “Did you just call me ‘dude’?”

  “Yes, dude. My prince.”

  He laughs again, softly. “I can genuinely say I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  I go quiet for a minute. Goddamn him to hell, I’m blushing.

  “They wouldn’t pay for it and neither of us could afford it. We finally decided we’d elope. Sort of. We announced it. So it wasn’t really eloping. My brother liked my fiancé, though. He was my best friend, my brother.”

  The prince tenses. “Was?”

  “Let me finish. Please. He… He and my fiancé went out, they called it a bachelor party but it was just the two of them. It was December and it had been raining and the rain froze. Black ice on the road and they didn’t see it. The car…”

  My hands are shaking like leaves. I clench them into fists and it makes it worse. Trying to finish my sentence is like trying to pull loose a fishhook that’s caught in my throat. I can’t do it. I can feel my throat closing.

  “Persephone…”

  “My name is Penny. I hate that stupid name. It’s my fault. They’re dead because of me. Don’t you understand? I ruined everyone’s lives. My parents, my brother’s. I’m cursed. Look what happened to Melissa, and she just shared a tent with me. That woman in the camp even got shot because I was there.”

  “That is not true.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. I’ve talked to therapists an
d priests, it doesn’t help. No amount of talking or counseling is going to bring them back.”

  “You want them back.”

  “Of course I do! Every miserable day of my miserable life. I just want to curl up into a ball and disappear.”

  The prince stands up and walks to my end of the table. He offers me a handkerchief.

  “Dry your tears.”

  I didn’t even realize I was crying. I snatch it from him and wipe at my cheeks, trying to stifle my sobs.

  “I told you mine. Now tell me yours.”

  “No.”

  I look up, scowling.

  “You have enough pain of your own. You don’t need to keep mine, as well.”

  “We had a deal. That’s not fair.”

  “What is fair?”

  I’m not sure if he’s asking me to explain the concept, or asking me if anything is really fair.

  I can’t answer either question anyway.

  “You didn’t eat much of your dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry. I’ve been well fed, thank you. You’re a generous host, no matter what else you are.”

  “That is a high compliment. I thank you.”

  He offers me a hand.

  “What do you want now?”

  He frowns slightly.

  “Always right to the quick with you. I want you to walk and talk with me. No more, no less. Then you have freedom of the castle again, but I’d ask you to return to your rooms before eleven.”

  I sigh. “Fine.”

  I take his hand. It’s warm, and very strong. I lean on it as I stand, still shaking a bit. He releases mine and I walk with my hands folded in front of me.

  He takes a more direct route to the armory.

  “I though you didn’t want me in here,” I say as we step inside.

  “You speak with a certain familiarity. You’ve been here before.”

  “I was exploring. The doors were open.”

  He sighs. “You are an unruly child. I wanted to bring you here myself.”

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “What is this stuff?”

  “Armor,” he says, gesturing toward the display cases. “The oldest belonged to my ancestor, the first to cement our family’s rule over these lands. Lacquered steel.”

  I walk beside him, really looking at the armor this time. Each set is more intricate than the last, until we reach one that’s breathtakingly beautiful. The surface has been carefully shaped and beaten to the contours of the coat of arms across the chest, and the helmet is equally elaborate. It gleams like it’s brand new.

  It’s the big one that catches my interest, though.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “It’s the only one left,” the prince says, staring up at it. “This was my great grandfather’s. He built the first six suits when Hitler took power in Germany and refined them until they were needed. It’s diesel powered, a feat of miniaturization. The diesel engine actually drives a tiny dynamo that supplies electrical power to the limbs and body, allowing it to move.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say. I start to reach out to touch it, but stop myself.

  “Go ahead.”

  I rest my hand on the steel. It’s chipped and dented, markings from old bullet impacts. It’s cold, though. Unliving.

  “The whole of our country was turned into a fortress in preparation, and even then it was a close thing. We threw back the Nazis, then the Soviets. We could defend ourselves, but held no hope of retaliating. My grandfather told me when I was a child that he dreamed of liberating Solkovia.”

  “Liberating,” I say wryly.

  “Please,” he sighs, “not here.”

  “What about the rest of them?”

  “This one is was the first. My father and grandfather refined the design, converting from the diesel generator to increasingly compact and efficient batteries. My suits can run for three days on a single charge.”

  “This is incredible,” I sigh, staring at one of the newer ones. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  He blinks. “What?”

  “You and your family made these things. They’re amazing. No one in the world can do this. What do you do with this? Use it to kill people.”

  “We should have let the Nazis win? There is a sizable Jewish minority in this country, Persephone.”

  “I hate that name.”

  “Would you have had them feed the ovens, too? You have a strange sense of morality.”

  “Okay, fine, you needed the weapons, but the batteries in these things belong in cars.”

  “They are in cars. The ones you attacked me for forcing on my people, remember?”

  “You can’t just make people do the right thing, my prince. They have to choose it.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters. I don’t know why it matters, but it matters. Look at me.”

  I’m caught off guard when he does actually look at me. God his eyes are beautiful.

  I was going to say something but I forgot what it was.

  “I am looking at you.”

  “I…” I look away. “I’m trying to make a point and I’m not doing a very good job, I admit it, but you’re wrong about people. They have to be able to choose. The have to be able to be the people they want to be, even if there’s a chance they’ll fail, even if there’s a chance they’ll hurt themselves.”

  “Why?”

  I look at the floor. “I don’t know. I’m not that smart. I’m not going to convince you. I should just give up.”

  “You’re doing better than you seem to think.”

  I look up, confused.

  The prince steps close to me, quick and light on his feet, cups my chin in his hand, and kisses me.

  I pull back, shocked, and his fingers grip my chin harder. They don’t have to.

  I kiss him back.

  His lips are warm. He tastes like juniper berries, and his hand is rough and callous, not soft like you would think a prince’s hand would be. He kisses me like he doesn’t know how, with an earnest intensity that makes my knees shake. He’s so much taller than I am that he has to step close and I have to tilt my chin up. His hand falls away, and the backs of his knuckles brush my chest, his palm coming to rest on my hip.

  I step away from him quickly.

  “What is this? What are you doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is that what this is about? Are you trying to make me a replacement for your dead girlfriend?”

  “I—”

  “I’m not going to let you play dress up with me and make me some kind of a doll. You’re not going to mold me into somebody else. I’m not one of your subjects, my prince.”

  I turn and bolt, running through the armory. I can find my way back, I have to.

  “Penny, wait,” he says, but I don’t.

  Chapter Six

  I slam the heavy oak door closed, and scowl because I can’t lock it. It doesn’t even have a proper doorknob. It relies on its own weight to stay closed. I thump it against the frame in frustration and yank at my dress, popping buttons and tearing seams as I harshly reject it from covering my body. Like an angry teenager, I grab a nightgown from the wardrobe and crawl into the bed, yanking the covers up to my chin as if the blankets will keep the harsh reality around me at bay, like warding off a monster from the closet.

  It’s a dumb, silly, immature little gesture but it gives me some comfort, comfort I quickly begin to hate as I realize how helpless I am. I’m completely at this man’s mercy. I don’t even have clothes to wear, other than what he provides. This bed is his, the roof over my head is his. The air is his. He could probably order one of his minions not to breathe, and they’d suffocate themselves through sheer willpower.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  When I close my eyes all I can see is myself, standing in the armory with him as he touches me. His bare hand was different from being carried as he wore that suit of armor. He has hard, rough hands, the hands of s
omeone who does work, not soft and perfumed like I would expect. I don’t know why I keep thinking about that, but I can’t stop myself.

  I snort. How silly. I’m a modern, liberated American woman and here I am with my head spinning because a man touched me with his hand, over my clothes. Maybe it’s the dry spell.

  Or maybe it was the kiss, the way he tasted and smelled, the way I fear him and feel safe in his presence at the same time. Thoughts that aren’t mine creep into my head, like the nonsensical urge to jump when looking down from a great height, and the harder I push them away, the harder they push back until they throb in my head.

  It’s the little things. The way I had to tilt my head back when he kissed me and he bent over me, overwhelming me with his height. The electric sensation I felt when his hands brushed my shoulder, the way he kept staring at my neck and collarbone all night. The pangs of sympathy I felt when he pried himself out of that damaged armor beat at my head like drums, jabbing me in time with the beating of my heart.

  A breeze blows in from the balcony. How does it get so cold here when it’s hot down below the slopes of the mountain? I could get up and close the glass doors but I pull the blankets tighter instead, shivering to banish the cold.

  I keep looking back at the door, expecting him to barge through any moment. I keep swinging back and forth, thinking about his lips and touch and his accent and the things he does. I can’t separate the handsome man who gave me sweet wine from the iron giant who struck off a man’s head in front of me…and Melissa.

  Oh God, what are they doing to her?

  I haven’t even been here a full day and my phone call isn’t for another week. After that, people back home will realize I’m gone and start asking after me. I have this sinking feeling, almost a certainty, that the church hasn’t reported my absence, or they’ve made up some excuse to keep everyone quiet.

  Brad pops back into my head and I wonder how tied up the church was with whatever he’s doing, whether it’s all just a sham or he just uses it as a cover and they’re genuine. To me they all seemed fake-y and saccharine, but there’s an obvious reason for that.

  I know why I came here. I can still see it in my mind’s eye. I see myself sitting on the couch in my home, holding a telephone in my hands, sobbing and staring, wondering why neither my brother nor my lover will answer me. I scrolled through the list of calls to make sure I wasn’t dreaming it. I called them both over thirty times.