by Frankie Love
I can’t help but wonder if Lucas will be what I’m looking for, be what I need. And I wonder if I’m going to be enough for Lucas.
He could have anyone in the world. What’s more, he’s the only son of a king who’s on his deathbed.
I don’t want to disappoint him.
As Lucas’s wife, I could be Queen—soon. Often the crown passes a generation, but that won’t be the case for the country of Rochester.
My stomach rolls and I feel a headache growing behind my eyes. I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a queen. A wife? Yes. But Prince Lucas of Rochester’s bride and future queen? Lord oh Lord, that’s more than I ever wanted, more than I ever imagined. I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around it all.
Imagine me, Dahlia of Elexia, a crowned queen? Especially in a country as robust and grand as Rochester. The castle is exquisite, white and gold, resting upon a mountain. Buckingham Palace has nothing on this majestic structure. I’ve seen the pictures, drooled over the photographs of the interior.
Iris is the princess of Alpinweiss, a small Bavarian country. It’s historic and well-off, but it isn’t full of gilded gold crowns and thrones.
And Violet, Crown Princess of Cressia, is in a more rural country than Rochester.
Rochester is fur capes and diamond encrusted crowns. Rochester is luxury and fanfare; red carpets and trumpets and white horses and sleigh rides.
Rochester is everything that Elexia is not.
I’m not ashamed of where I come from. It’ a meager country but a beautiful land—a land I gaze at through the darkness, at peace with leaving but unable to grapple with the reality of being a future queen.
Walking away from the balcony, I go to the bathroom and try to calm my nerves by splashing water on my face. All these thoughts about becoming a queen overwhelm me.
Beyond that, if I’m living in a marble-floored palace, I won’t be the one washing its floors. And if I’m not doing that, will there be a place for me at all?
It feels as if I’ve been staring at myself in the mirror for hours. The sun is beginning to dawn, creeping through my bedroom window, and I realize I’m a blurry eyed mess.
A shower will wake me up. I turn on the hot water and step in the shower, still trying to collect my thoughts.
The hot water runs in rivulets down my back and between my breasts. I raise my chin, letting the water pour over me. I breathe in; I breathe out.
I lather soap on my body; the suds coat my skin and I inhale the coconut-scented shampoo. It’s always the familiar scents that relax me the most.
I think of Lucas—his chiseled face, his angular cheekbones, and his piercing blue eyes. His lips, pink and full and so completely kissable.
I think about him and part my legs, letting my foot rest on the shower’s ledge. I dip my finger into my pussy, rolling over my clit, closing my eyes, and exhaling deeply. I move my finger in tight circles over my wet folds, moving faster, faster—knowing a release is the only way I’ll be able to get through the day. I need to release this tension; I need to release my worry.
And so I do. One hand pinches my nipple tightly, the other hand presses at my entrance until I come. I love touching myself. It always makes me feel better, centered. Grounded.
And maybe that’s why I’m such a romantic. I always imagine my one true love touching me, caressing me. I just want a man who loves me, wants me ... a man who can pick me up in his arms and carry me into the sunset.
If that man were my husband—well, that would be an added bonus. But it’s one I don’t think will happen.
I know I must marry out of duty, but as I get myself off, touching my pussy until it pulses with pleasure, I imagine a man who claims me, who undresses me with unbridled desire, who lets his mouth roam freely over my body.
That’s what I want most in this world: a fairy tale sort of passion. And it wouldn’t have to last forever; one night could be enough.
I come; my fingers are coated in my release. I let the water run over my skin as I clean myself up, wondering if there’s a man out there in this big wide world who touches himself when he dreams of me.
4
It feels so strange, changing out of my traditional clothing and donning the uniform my bodyguard Thomas wears.
After leaving my father’s bedchamber a month ago—on strict orders to keep my betrothal under wraps, since the marriage won’t be announced until she arrives, per the arranged marriage customs of Rochester—I hatched a scheme that will keep my fears of this wedding at bay.
A scheme that allows me to find some humor in this otherwise depressing situation: my father dying and a stranger arriving to be my wife.
Of course I haven’t mentioned it to my father; he’d hate what I am planning. But I’m not some boy who needs to run things by his parents. I’m twenty-nine, for God’s sake.
Thomas seems to think I’m making a terrible decision. And he has no problem telling me as much. “You may have grown out your beard in the last month, but do you truly think she won’t know you’re the prince?”
“Let me finish dressing, and then we can decide.”
Thomas shakes his head, handing me the jacket to his uniform. He’s my bodyguard, but also one of my closest friends. I can trust him to keep my little secret.
I look in the mirror. I’ve transformed from a prince into a working man. And considering that Dahlia and I have never met, I don’t think she’ll be any the wiser that I’m not who I say I am.
“It isn’t like I’m trying to trick her forever. Just one afternoon. Pick her up from the airport, take her on a leisurely drive, and then come home. Nothing more than a little joke. Certainly I can have a little fun before I tie the knot?”
“You’re the Prince, you can do whatever the hell you want,” Thomas says, knowing it really isn’t his place to give me advice. Then, as if he can’t hold his tongue, he adds, “But don’t make her too mad. You want her to come to bed with you, after all.”
“Father promised me she’s agreeable. Innocent and naïve is what he said, to be precise.”
“Has she been with a man before?”
I scoff. “This isn’t the 16th century—we’re not pretending to be Alpinweiss. Whether or not she’s a virgin is of no consequence to me.”
“What is of consequence? Because she might be royally pissed off to find out you tricked her.”
“Well, damn, Thomas, I’d like a woman who actually enjoys my company, who would marry me without a royal title. But that isn’t a possibility, is it?”
“Suppose not.” Thomas shrugs. “Just get back here before nightfall. I don’t want Meredith to think I’m off with some other woman. She’s working at the castle tomorrow for the ceremony, doing Dahlia’s hair or something.”
I laugh, thinking of Thomas’s girlfriend possibly getting pissed about the switch. “Yeah, that would fuck things up, all right. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in just a few hours. Just make sure my father doesn’t come looking for me in my wing of the castle.”
“Got it.”
“I’m off, then,” I say, clapping him on the back. “Dahlia’s plane is set to arrive within the hour.”
I bid Thomas goodbye and get in my Land Rover. Looking up at the clouds, I notice the blue sky has changed to a crisper, more frigid temperature, and small snowflakes have begun to fall. I inhale the mountain air as I drive away from the palace, my window open even though it’s cold.
I smile, genuinely excited at the prospect of meeting my arranged bride.
Of course, she’ll think she’s in the car with a bodyguard. I smile, liking the chance to play a bit. I’ll be able to get to know her in a different light.
The drive from the palace to the airstrip is about an hour down the mountain. The actual palace is built on terrain much too difficult for a plane to land on, but a helicopter can make the landing.
Once I get to the airstrip, I jump out of the Land Rover, and stand waiting with my arms crossed, trying to look as bodyguard-like as possible.<
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My broad shoulders are straight, and the uniform strains at the seams. I should have ordered a uniform for me. Thomas and I are built similarly, but my biceps are substantially larger.
I don’t work out, per se; going to the gym is for boys who want to be men. I work outside. That’s what keeps a real man strong. Until I become king, I’m an officer in the Rochester Royal Guard and I train with my unit. Being a military man is important to me; serving my country is my greatest pride.
But now, my wife will be of the greatest importance to me. I hope my father picked a woman who can take a joke, who likes to be spanked and taken—daily.
A woman who can handle a mountain prince like me.
5
As I pull my purse over my shoulder and stand up from my seat on the plane, I’m a jittery mess.
Everything from takeoff to landing made me uneasy, and the only way I made it through the in-between was by chatting with the crew, asking questions about Rochester and telling them about my island country.
Still, my nerves are wrecked.
This was my first plane ride, and I’d be perfectly happy if it were my last—but if I thought riding the plane was nerve-wrecking, that has nothing on the disembarking of it.
As soon as I step through the door and make my way down the stairs, my Prince will be waiting for me.
At least I’m hoping he is. I haven’t had any interaction with the kingdom of Rochester; my father has been the one doing all of the coordination.
However, I do know that the wedding isn’t until tomorrow night, so I’ll have time to get to know my husband and learn my way around the castle a bit before I walk down the aisle.
I’m grateful there aren’t any language barriers, and even more grateful that I went through my mother’s old trunk of clothing that I saved.
In the trunk, I found a fitted fur coat and a wool dress that she wore on a trip north when I was a baby. I managed to procure an affordable pair of tights for a good price from Amazon, and some heels. Wearing the whole ensemble, I look a bit more like a princess than I usually do.
Usually, I’m rocking the apron-and-kerchief look, but for some reason I didn’t think that would fly here in Rochester. Everything I’ve read about this country tells me it’s draped in diamonds and velvet. My tropical-island roots are planted firmly in linen and seashells.
And I sincerely want to make a good impression on Lucas. He chose me as his bride; I don’t want him to regret it.
So I’m in a dress that’s dated by twenty years, and I’m hoping it looks vintage. It fits like a glove, and I find it to be quite beautiful; the fact that it was my mother’s adds to the nostalgia.
I couldn’t help but add embroidery around the neckline. I looked up Rochester’s country flower, and found that it was holly. So berries and dark green boughs edge my dress.
My long blonde hair is parted on the side. With my hair tucked behind my ears, my pearl earrings are on display. They’re the only jewelry I own, and they are a true treasure to me.
Growing up on a tropical island, my sisters and I spent hours as children attempting to see a mermaid. Of course we never really did, but how we loved to pretend they rested on the rocks in the distance, bathing in the sun the same way we did.
Whenever we found a shell with a pearl deep within its crevices, we held it to the light, marveling at its beauty, imagining a mermaid put it there just for us. We believed in magic, undoubtedly.
When I wear these earrings now, I feel as if I’m carrying that childhood magic with me.
Yes, I believe in fairytales and dreams come true—which isn’t a bad thing considering I flew halfway around the world to meet my husband.
I bite my bottom lip out of habit. I’ve made such an effort to look put-together, wanting so badly to make a good impression.
I step from the plane down the stairs. Wishing my jitters away, I focus on the things that are true, not on the unknowns before me.
Easier said than done.
Forgetting to breathe, I grip the banister tightly, the frigid mountain air whipping across my face. I gasp, shocked at the snow. Of course I knew it was going to be cold, but this? This is arctic.
I blink, trying to focus on my surroundings. Everything is so bright; the mountains are white and blinding. I look up at the sky, and while it’s a beautiful blue, I notice clouds shifting quickly. Snowflakes are falling at a steady clip.
I’ve never seen snow before.
It’s magical.
I keep my eyes on the stairs, not wanting to miss a step. I can do this; I can walk down a flight of stairs. I wish I were a little bit braver, brave enough to look up and see if my prince is at the end of the stairwell waiting for me.
Of course I can do no such thing. Instead, I focus so diligently on one foot in front of the other that my heel gets caught. I try to regain my composure, but it’s too late. Before I can regain my balance, I tumble.
I roll down the stairs and fall in someone’s arms.
I blink.
I open my eyes and see bright blue eyes staring straight at me.
“Princess, are you okay?” a rough voice asks. The man who spoke has a scruffy beard, and he holds me tight, and I like the way I feel in his hands. I look up at him, so grateful that he caught me.
“You saved me.”
“I got you, that’s all.”
“I fell into your arms.”
“Right time, right place.” He smiles, and I remember to breathe.
He helps me up and I stand, my hands running over the wrinkled fabric of my dress. I’m flustered and embarrassed that I fell, wondering if my Prince saw that entrance.
The man holding me has his hand on the small of my back, making sure I’m steady.
“I’m Thomas,” he tells me. “Prince Lucas’s bodyguard. He entrusted me to escort you to the Royal Palace of Rochester.”
“Oh, I see. So the prince isn’t here?” I look around, seeing nothing but a sports utility vehicle parked near us. The flight crew is disembarking behind me and moving toward the small airport.
We’re alone, me and the man who stopped my fall. And right now, he’s the only person that I know in this entire country.
I step toward him, finding his presence calming. He’s the prince’s royal bodyguard, and it feels comforting to know I can trust him.
“No, the prince couldn’t make it. But he’ll be waiting for you this evening at the royal banquet.”
“A royal banquet?”
“Yes, Princess. A banquet in your honor.”
“That’s so kind.” A smile stretches across my face, but it isn’t a real one. I’m disappointed that Prince Lucas wasn’t able to greet me. Perhaps my expectations of my husband-to-be are too lofty.
My lips twist, and I’m immediately annoyed at myself as I realize it was selfish of me to assume he’d come to meet me. He’s a prince of a majestic country; he certainly has better things to do then fetch the princess meant to be his wife.
“I’ll get your things,” Thomas says. “And lead you to the car.”
“Thank you, Thomas.” I reach for his arm and pat it, my eyes widening when I feel the solid muscles beneath his uniform. I pull my hand away, wanting to focus on the fact that I’m grateful that a man with a warm face and open arms—literally—was here for me. “Thank you for coming for me. I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Neither did I.”
My eyes squint in confusion, not quite understanding his words. But before I can question him, he’s off to claim my meager suitcases filled with trinkets from home. I don’t have much clothing—this dress is my only winter apparel—but I brought skeins of yarn, knitting needles, and my sewing kit. I made sure to tuck packets of seeds in my suitcase as well, thinking that perhaps in a greenhouse I could grow some flowers from home.
Once my suitcases are in his hands, he nods toward the SUV.
“This way, Princess,” he says, his voice commanding.
I follow close behind him, and
my eyes find his backside. Once again, I lose my footing and fall toward him. He doesn’t miss a beat. His arm is out, and I grab it.
“The gravel is uneven,” he says, giving me a smile as I cling to him. “So sorry, Princess,”
I nod, swallowing my embarrassment—and knowing that my misstep had nothing to do with gravel, and everything to do with his butt.
6
In the car, buckled in and with my hands firmly on the wheel, I attempt to even my breathing. To focus on the road.
But damn, that’s a near impossible request, considering the woman next to me is more than I ever expected. She’s beautiful, for starters—long legs, heart-shaped face, narrow waist … and a gorgeous rack hidden under a fur coat.
She’s also proper, but not in an uptight way. She’s proper in an I-was-born-to-be-a-princess sort of way. Her posture is impeccable, her smile full of promise, and her cheeks pink.
I’ve been around the block plenty of times, and I’ve met many women with titles—princesses, countesses, and duchesses—but seldom have I met a woman who so naturally captures the attention of everyone around her.
The thing about Dalia is that she seems to have no idea of the effect she has on me—and, I’m guessing, the effect she has on anyone. For example, she didn’t seem to notice that the entire flight crew was smiling at her as she disembarked the plane; she won them over and she didn’t even know it. I heard the pilot tell a crewmember that Princess Dahlia was the kindest person of any royal family to have ridden in the private jet.
That comment alone wouldn’t give me pause, but on the heels of everything else about Dahlia, it does.
I start driving up the mountain, and for moment I feel as if my plan was foolish. Perhaps I should have consulted my father before I decided to play the part of a bodyguard, instead of the part of a prince.
“Is the palace far from here, Thomas?” Dalia asks.