Royal Marriage Market

by Heather Lyons

  “Why should I be?” he says. “I’m not the one shouting about dicks, am I?”

  My fingers trace the bumpy ridges on the concrete walls as humor wells within my gut. “Honestly, Christian, I promise that, despite how I present myself, I wasn’t raised in the wild.” The corners of my lips creep upward. “Or a brothel.”

  He pushes off the wall, chuckling. And then, before I know it, his body leans into mine, one hand bracing against the wall to my right.

  Oh my.

  Little fairies sprint laps within my chest as his head ducks toward me, dark hair spilling across his forehead.

  Time stands still as I stare into his amber eyes. Desperate thoughts and wishes consume me. Kiss me. For the love of all that’s good in the world, kiss me.

  Instead, he tsks. “How very judgmental of you, Els.”

  Ah. No kissing, then. Why does that disappoint? It’s the smart move, after all.

  He continues, “Do you know for certain that all . . .” He pauses, no doubt to choose the right word. Or at least, the most respectful version of what I think he is to say.

  I offer helpfully. “Ladies of the night?”

  He chuckles again, shaking his head. His mouth is a mere five inches away. It is a beautiful mouth, one I dreamed about quite vividly this morning.

  “Fine. Prostitutes?”

  “My point is,” he continues, “do you know for certain that all such ladies would go around shouting about dicks in stairwells?”

  My fingers itch to pull him closer, to brush the hair from his eyes. “You make a valid point. They are probably so exhausted by male genitalia that they refuse to discuss such matters outside of business hours.”

  A pause fills the scant space between us, one so charged bumps sprout across my arms.

  He murmurs, “I think if I were to reach my life span’s century mark, I would never be able to guess what all goes on in here.” One of his fingers taps gently against the side of my head. “Or what you’ll say next.”

  I am unable to repress the delicious shiver that overtakes me at his touch. “Sweet talker. I bet you say that to all the women you find yourself in stairwells with.”

  “I don’t find myself in such situations often.” He pauses once more, eyes intent as they bore into me. “Actually, I’ve never found myself in this situation.”

  My mouth opens, a snarky comeback on the tip of my tongue, when he traces my lower lip with the same finger that traced my temple. Another shiver ripples through my body, one a thousand times stronger than before.

  When Christian says, “Els,” my name is softer than the bird songs outside.

  His head dips lowers still, attention focused on where his finger rests on my lip, and I think to myself, could this moment be real? Because I very much wish it to be.

  Tradition be damned.

  Our breaths mingle, warm and unsteady in the silence of the stairwell. My hands move forward with a mind of their own, fingers curling around the cotton of his shirt.

  His heart hammers just as strongly as my own, and it steels my resolve. I want him. To hell with logistics. I. Want. This. Man.

  Our mouths are so close I think his lips graze the finger still held against the delicate skin of mine. My grip on his shirt tightens as I urge his body closer. A soft groan spills out of him, one I yearn to eat up. His other hand clasps my waist, and it’s my turn to moan.

  To hell with my father, his mother, and the RMM.

  I’m about to throw caution to the wind when my name is uttered again, louder and from the floor above, and by someone else.

  Bloody hell. It’s Mat of all people.

  Christian’s hand drops and he pulls himself away until his back collides with the wall. Wrinkles mar his shirt from where I clutched him, ones I feel rather possessive toward.

  I made those. I’d like to make more.

  Mat materializes, his retro tennis shoes squeaking on the stone steps. A quick glance at Christian, who is running a hand through his hair, precedes, “What are you two doing here?”

  Almost kissing, I think stupidly.

  Christian’s more tactful than I, as he says, “Hiding again. How about you?”

  If Mat notices how tight his friend’s voice is, he doesn’t show it. He drops to the step right above us, a hand I do not want touching me coming to rest on my shoulder. “They’ve opened up the outdoor pool for the afternoon, and Prince Gustav . . .” He swallows, obviously uncomfortable. “Suggested I find you so we might enjoy a swim together.”

  As he says this, the prospect of doing so sounds as welcome as bashing his skull into the roughened walls around us.

  “It’s sixty degrees outside,” Christian scoffs. “And both pools are unheated.”

  We nearly kissed. Worse, I wanted it, which is colossally suicidal. He made it crystal clear he is completely uninterested in giving his mother the satisfaction of sweeping any girl off her feet at the RMM—not my beautiful sister, not any of the others girls on the Grand Duchess’ list (if there is such), and most certainly not myself.

  He and I are friends. Allies.

  I hate that I am so utterly attracted to my friendly ally.

  “They brought heat lamps out after several monarchs complained,” Mat says. If he is trying to sweep me off my feet with charm, he fails miserably.

  Which is fine by me. “I’m afraid I must decline my father’s suggestion as I did not bring my swimsuit.”

  Predictably, Mat is not heartbroken in the least by my refusal. To Christian, he says, “Did Lukas let you know there are plans for the heirs and spares to skinny-dip at midnight?” His attention reverts to me. “No bathing suits needed for that extracurricular activity.”

  Uh . . .

  “There you all are.”

  And now, Isabelle is in the stairwell with us, ascending from the floor below. Fantastic. Perhaps we ought to invite all our parents, too.

  When she reaches the step below us, she says, more than a bit irritably, “Elsa, I thought we were to meet for luncheon.”

  Well, shite. That clearly slipped my mind whilst nearly kissing her intended, didn’t it?

  Rather than waiting for an answer, Isabelle asks, “What are all you doing in a stairwell?” A sweeping glance precedes, “It’s cramped in here.”

  Mat is the one to answer. “I was informing them about the midnight plans for skinny dipping in the Neptune pool currently making the rounds.”

  “Uh—” I say at the same time Christian mutters, “We—”

  Isabelle overrides us both. “How delightful. A whole horde of naked, royal bums all in one place. Wouldn’t the paps have a field day with that?”

  Princess Isabelle of Vattenguldia, staying true to form.

  “That said,” she adds in an oddly determined yet steely voice, “I’m in. Because heaven knows we need some entertainment around here.”

  Now I have heard everything. My reserved sister wants skinny-dip with strangers and acquaintances? What in the hell?

  “One of the Danes sent their man to fetch some decent liquor for the gathering. Oh, and any cell phones or cameras brought are promised to be promptly sunk into the deep end.” Mat leans his hand against the wall, right where Christian’s was just minutes before, leaning next me as if we are officially a couple.

  I attempt to picture Mat naked. While there is no doubt he is beautiful, all lean, sculpted muscles, no tingles accompany such a vision.

  The heat emanating from his body even feels different than Christian’s.

  “Who came up with this idea?” Christian asks.

  I am a masochist, because once more, images of this man naked flit throughout my mind, prompting far too many tingles to account for. I fear I am blushing, but it cannot be helped. Witnessing a naked Christian must be a religious experience. Pun intended.

  Jesus, I am going to hell for that one.

  Mat rattles off names of the instigators, and it solidifies my resolve that
there is no possible way my naked self will join any of them in that pool at midnight.

  I assume my sister’s typical role as I visualize the headlines covering such a soirée: Naked Royals From Across The Globe Drown In Famous Neptune Pool. Followed by the subheading: Toxicology reports indicate extreme inebriation.

  Isabelle edges up a step near Christian. I watch how discomfort tightens his muscles, but he is much too polite to move away from her as I know he wishes to. Much like how I yearn to with Mat leaning in to me. And then she startles me, as she grimly reaches up to brush the dark hair out of his eyes I’d wished minutes before to touch.

  I have never wanted to slap at my sister’s hand before like I do now.

  While Mat and Isabelle hash out the known details for the skinny dipping expedition, I force myself to remember my sister is clearly still reeling from whatever happened with Alfons. She normally would never partake in such an activity like skinny-dipping or even willingly stand so close to a man chosen by our parents rather than her heart.

  That’s the thing, though. This isn’t just some man. This is someone our father wants her to marry. A very handsome, funny, lovely man I would really rather she didn’t put her hands on because I am selfish enough to be the one who wishes to do all the groping. I mean touching. No—hell, who am I kidding? I mean full-on groping.

  I surreptitiously glance at Christian; his eyes are unfocused as he stares off at one of the walls. He is listening to them as much as I am.

  I attempt to imagine what life would be like with Christian as my brother-in-law. And then I imagine where to find whatever Dane located those good, stiff drinks to ask for some, because it is a terrible thing to envision Christian and Isabelle together.

  Before I glance away, his attention shifts to me. Our eyes meet in this tiny stairwell, as we’re trapped between our supposed intendeds, and . . . he is looking at me again, as if we are the only two people in the entire castle, a pinpoint focus of time and place that charges the molecules and atoms within my body.

  It is a look I cannot deny I crave. And that is a shame, because he is not mine to love.

  chapter 25

  Christian

  I almost kissed her. Just moments before Mat found us, I almost caved in to my rapidly growing, nearly insatiable desire, and kissed Elsa. And now, these interlopers are discussing skinny-dipping in the middle of the night, and I’m trying to keep my dick from growing any larger, because shite. Elsa naked?

  Like far too often lately when I’m around her, I stuff my hands in my pockets. Try to think about less pleasant things, like the meeting we’re to go to in a few minutes, the one we’ll share with our parents. I’ll be sitting next to the She-Wolf for nearly two hours; if that’s not able to kill a hard-on, then I don’t know what could.

  But then, like a moth to flame, I refocus on Els, and I have to subtly shift to hide just how fucking attracted to her I am.

  And I am. Almost obsessively so.

  I push off the concrete wall and pray that none present will notice the bulge in my trousers. “We’ll be late to our meeting if we don’t go now.”

  I don’t need to tell Elsa twice. She slips away from Mat’s arm so swiftly he nearly trips on the stairs.

  “See you at tea?” Isabelle says to me. At least, I think it’s to me, as there’s no enthusiasm at all in her voice.

  I’ve never been more grateful for assigned seating at dinner in my life.

  chapter 26

  Elsa

  The meeting for Nordic countries held in the library is fairly productive, especially in light that there were no discussions relating to the RMM, so that right there makes it the best meeting I’d been to in California. Furthermore, we heirs are finally allowed to speak, and it does my ego good to be able to bring to light my causes.

  While the King of Sweden discusses key economic issues facing Scandinavia, as well as the influx of migrants crossing our borders, my attention drifts back to the stairwell. His Majesty encourages us to locate land and housing to offer to the migrants, and a heated debate arises. I am heated, too, but for entirely different reasons. I know what I want tonight’s first to be. I simply must work up the courage to admit it to Christian.

  chapter 27

  Christian

  The stairwell is blessedly empty, so Elsa drops down onto one of the steps. “I refuse to go skinny-dipping with the others.”

  I ease myself down on the step right below her, trying not to remember that, just a little over two hours ago, we were nearly kissing in this same spot. “Then we won’t.”

  She looks astonished, then relieved, then guilty that she’s so terribly pleased I say this. “You are free to go, of course.”

  Has she lost her senses? Isabelle will be there. A naked Isabelle. So, hell no. Unless there is a direct order alongside a sincere threat issued from the Grand Duchess, there is no way I will be at that pool tonight. “Why, thank you. I’m delighted to know I’ve been a good enough lad to earn such an outing.”

  I wish she’d gift me with her laughter already. It’s dancing in her eyes, seducing me in ways I never would have imaged. “No offense,” she says, “but I don’t fancy the idea of getting buck naked in front of a bunch of virtual strangers.”

  I can’t help but tease, “We’re Europeans, Els. We’re famous for our topless beaches,” even though the thought of her stripping down in front of the others makes me want to smash my fist into the concrete wall next to us.

  “Not in Scandinavia, we aren’t. And it sounds as if tonight requires more than just a top coming off.”

  “You could keep your knickers on, you know.”

  She groans. “Oh yes, I will be the one lady who refuses to let go of her knickers. I can see how easily the others will let that slide.” She shakes her head, grinning. “No thank you.”

  Her reluctance is fine by me. I’d rather spend my time with just her, anyway. “In any case, midnight is three hours short of our witching hour. It would probably go horribly. There’s no magic to skinny-dipping at midnight.”

  She ducks her head, biting her lip as she studies me through obscenely long lashes. “What about at three a.m.?”

  I stretch one of my legs out until it brushes up against hers. It’s as if I’m woefully addicted to Elsa. “Everything’s magical during the witching hour. I thought we already established that.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but I can practically see the wheels in her mind churning. And it’s reckless and foolish, but my heart beats a new, uneven melody a bit too forcefully within my chest.

  I hold my breath. I wait.

  And she says, “The Roman Pool feels magical, does it not?”

  I clear my throat. Pray I don’t squeak like some kind of lad going through puberty. “Oh, most certainly.”

  The Valkyrie I’m with leans forward. Says, “If there is to be skinny dipping on the menu, I want it there.”

  Holy. Hell.

  “That’s my first for tonight, Christian. I want us to go skinny-dipping in the Roman Pool during our witching hour.”

  Us. Our. Two words I have no right to feel possessive over when it comes to this princess. I strain to sound amused. “Will you be wearing your knickers?”

  “I shan’t if you don’t.”

  I pretend not to notice her voice shook saying that, but then, I’m pretty sure mine wasn’t the steadiest, either.

  chapter 28

  Elsa

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “And yet,” I tell Isabelle, “I am.”

  She sets her hairbrush down. “You know how this will look once word reaches His Serene Highness. He was most insistent on you spending time in the pool with Mathieu.”

  Our father is downstairs in the Assembly room, discussing important matters, and I am in our room with my sister, explaining myself for not wanting to skinny-dip. Correction, skinny-dip with the masses. But I will not—cannot—let Isabelle know I am
more than fine swimming in my birthday suit with Christian—or at least, I hope I will be. Just the thought of him naked and me naked in the same room has my legs crossing.

  “You say that like it’s a selling point.”

  She removes the tasteful dress she wore for dinner and cocktails and tosses it onto a nearby chair. “It ought to be.”

  For all her demureness in public, my sister has been anything but shy around me, because her bra and panties are off and join the dress in her hunt for something new to wear. “There will be nothing to worry about if His Serene Highness remains ignorant of the entire situation.”

  She digs out a matching, lacy black pair of panties and bra from her suitcase and slips them on. “You would be surprised at how fast word travels around this place.”

  “I rather doubt the others will be crowing to the elders about their naked, intoxicated adventures in a pool they’ve been banned from using, let alone tattling like small children on those who did not take part. Speaking of,” I say, lightly yet meaningfully, “I am rather surprised you are so eager to join in.”

  “It is expected.” She adjusts the bra. “You really ought to be going, Elsa. Now that I’ve had time to think about it, Mathieu is quite easy on the eyes. Think how . . . helpful it might be to get sneak peek of what’s to come.”

  I nearly choke on her thinly veiled meaning, even though I have not taken a drink. Outside of her indicating that a naked Mat might tempt me more than a clothed one, I can admit that, while good looking, I am not attracted to Mat at all—and seeing him in all his naked glory will not change that. No, I am instead attracted to the one person I can’t have.

  And yet, contemplating our late night rendezvous, a tiny bit of rebellious fierceness argues I do have Christian.

  Just not in the way I think I want.

  A sweater and skintight jeans are pulled on. “This would be the perfect opportunity for you two to spend more time together,” Isabelle continues. “Get to know one another, before the inevitable axe drops.”