by SE Reign
“There’s nothing between you and the world but me. No one else who can take care of you like I can. You have to trust me, Natalie. Completely. Starting now.”
I swallow hard. My mouth is dry. I can’t speak, even if I wanted to. This time, there’s no small voice in my head telling me it’s okay to hide myself from him, to hold out as long as I can.
This time, there’s nothing that stands between me and my terror but him, the man who has become the center of my world in the week I’ve spent with him.
“I’m scared,” I tell him, not even trying to hide the raw note in my voice.
“I know.” He rests his forehead against mine.
For a moment, we breathe the same air, and I shake in his arms. His solid, muscular body is my pillar, his heat all that’s keeping the chill off my shoulders.
“No one will hurt you. Trust me,” he says, the tender note in his voice catching me off guard.
“I trust you,” I respond tightly.
“With everything?” He lifts his head to gaze down at me, his penetrating eyes boring through me.
“Yes.”
“Good, farasha, good.” His trace of a smile lasts a split second. “I will take care of you.”
For some reason, his words help me relax. I’m not sure how. No single man stands a chance against a mob, if the press goes crazy like it did last week.
Except this one. I realize it’s more than his insistence that I trust him that’s melted my resistance. It’s also knowing that tonight, I close the door on my own life and fully enter his world – my new world – the one built with his absolute control of my life.
The one I’ll only survive, if I trust him and let him possess me. All of me.
But how do I learn to let go of everything, even if I ache to?
He’s studying me intently. “You’re not quite there yet,” he observes. “Soon, though, you’ll get it.”
I almost forget about the rest of the world and focus on him, convinced yet again that he is somehow reading my mind.
“Easy, isn’t it?” he whispers.
I nod.
“Let’s go.” He takes my hand securely and moves away.
I notice the loss of his body heat and suddenly, the rest of the world is there again. No sooner have I set foot on the red carpet than the blinding flashes of cameras start. It’s overwhelming to the point I start to panic once more, and I wrap both arms around his.
“Breathe. Relax. Smile,” Elijah instructs me, unaffected by the attention.
He pauses on the carpet. Elijah’s arm slides around my body, and I take a look around.
All this. Over me. I’m the center of the world’s attention, and he’s the center of mine.
I manage a smile, and I’m hoping I don’t look as scared as I feel. I gaze up at Elijah for a moment. He appears to be the perfect statesman with a cool smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, a relaxed stance and a look that says that he not only knows he’s the center of attention, but that he’s aware that he owns the world, the same way he does me.
“Ms. Hanover! Can we get a shot of you alone?” someone shouts above the rest of the noise.
I glance up at Elijah again.
“You okay with that?” he asks.
If you can do it, so can I. I nod quickly.
He releases me, and I step away from him, recalling what the team that put me together told me about how to stand. I begin to realize I’m not going to suffer a repeat of last week. In addition to event security, Elijah’s security detail is present as well.
No one is going to hurt me or attack me again, especially with Elijah at my side. My smile feels more natural at my realization.
People object when Elijah holds out his hand in silent command once more. I go to him, my fear replaced by something that feels close to giddiness. Some small part of me is starting to realize I’m one of those people I’ve watched enviously on TV walking the red carpets.
Even if it’s temporary. Even if it still terrifies me.
Elijah squeezes my hand. I give him a big smile, and we walk into the double doors of the art museum. Bypassing the crowd mingling in the coat check area, I see how many people are milling around the exhibits and the stage that’s been placed in the center of the museum and feel a familiar stir of panic. We’re getting a lot of looks and attention.
Guiding me to a corner that’s unoccupied, Elijah stops.
I look from the crowd up at him.
His penetrating gaze is on my face, his chiseled features stoic and expression unreadable. He’s like a stranger. After a week of being alone with him in our own private world, it makes me uneasy to see the mask he wears in public.
“Small note,” he starts. “You feel how hard you’re squeezing my hand?”
I glance down and notice that my knuckles are white. I release my death grip on him, embarrassed that I can’t control my reaction to this strange new world the way he can. I’m expecting a lecture about how un-princess-like I’m acting and wait for it.
“That’s how hard I want you to squeeze my dick tonight,” he continues in a whisper. “A little tug here and there will hurt just right.”
I stare at him for a moment. A flicker of amusement crosses his gaze, and I realize he’s trying to put me at ease in his own twisted way.
This man has issues. But right now, I don’t care. I need the encouragement and appreciate what he’s trying to do.
Not caring what he thinks, I lean in and wrap my arms around him. My body relaxes in contact with the heated strength I feel through his clothing, and I breathe in his comforting scent.
Elijah’s arms circle me, and he tucks me against him, resting his chin on my head. I love how easily he hugs me.
“Piece of cake,” he murmurs in his husky voice. “The press loves you, which fares well for me.” The mocking note is there.
I hate that tone, because I have no idea what he’s thinking when he uses it. Usually, it ends in a plan where I sign away control of my life.
His arms shift, and he takes my shoulders, tugging me free enough to turn me to face the room. His grip tightens again, and I rest my hands on the arms crossed around my midsection. His athletic body is strong and hard at my back, comforting me.
With him behind me, I almost feel like I can handle the overwhelming scene before me.
“You’ll get used to it. The attention becomes second nature,” he assures me. “You’re already confident and elegant. The more comfortable you become, the more those traits will come out. You will wow them easily.”
Why is he being nice? Because he wants me to make him look good? I’m not used to hearing any sort of compliment from him, aside from comments about my body.
I’m staring around me without seeing, and I force myself to focus on the people and exhibits rather than the overwhelming sense of not belonging that hangs off me like a coat.
I start to recognize people: the attorneys from Mr. Jenkins firm, celebrities, politicians and others I’ve seen only on the television or in magazines. That Elijah not only regularly consorts with such people, but elicits looks of envy and awe from them …
He’s a freakin’ god.
“Omigod!” I exclaim quietly, one muscular figure catching my eyes. “Is that really the Anchor?”
“The wrestler?” Elijah asks with a small amount of disdain.
“I have to get his autograph. I’ve been half in love with him since I was fifteen!”
Elijah’s grip tightens around me, and I realize too late what I’ve said. He says nothing for a moment, and I hold my breath, hoping I haven’t pissed him off. He scares me without him being angry.
“Just remember who you’re going home with,” he finally says.
I twist in his grip to gaze up at him. “You’re not mad?”
He eyes me. “You can look. God help you if you touch someone else, or if someone else touches you. I’m not about to get some disease from a two-bit meathead who made his living wearing tight pants.”
I hide a
smile. He’s trying to pretend like he doesn’t care. I’m not sure why that makes me want to laugh.
“He probably won’t want to talk to me anyway,” I say.
“You’re about to marry into one of the wealthiest families on the planet, not to mention a noble one. I can guarantee that no one here will refuse to talk to you. They’re all dying of curiosity, same as the press,” Elijah replies. “If you want to get his autograph, go ahead. But future queens don’t fangirl, Natalie.”
His mask is on, his tone even and calm. For some reason, that scares me more than knowing he’s angry. Right now, I suspect he’s super-pissed.
Not that this will stop me from getting the Anchor’s autograph. In three months, when I’m broke and jobless, maybe I can sell it for money.
“Don’t be angry,” I whisper. “I don’t want anyone here but you.”
He holds my gaze. I can’t read him at all right now to know if my words are well received or instantly disregarded by his arrogance.
“Good,” he says in the same soft voice. “You’re mine, farasha. Don’t ever forget that.”
I smile.
“Excuse me. Could I trouble you for a picture?”
I glance over at the speaker then back, realizing she’s talking to me. Even more amazing – I recognize her. She’s a pop music singer, one I’ve seen but never really listened to. I listen mainly to classic rock and folk music, so I can’t recall her name.
“Sure,” I say, not quite believing a celebrity is asking me something like this.
Elijah releases me, nudging me towards her when I hesitate, convinced the woman is talking to someone else. She’s dressed in a tight fuchsia gown with black hosiery and rainbow-colored hair. When I step towards her, she takes my arm and beams a smile at me.
“Always wanted to be a princess,” she whispers with a dazzling grin.
I smile back, unable to wrap my head around the fact I’m having a photo taken with someone like her.
She scrolls through her phone apps and taps the camera icon then holds up the picture.
“I’m a fan of selfies,” she admits. “Squish close!”
She’s got a vibrant, cheerful vibe and a soft voice I’m not expecting, considering what little I know of her comes from magazines in the checkout lane that declare her a crazy drug addict.
This is just amazing!
“Smile!” she says happily and presses her cheek to mine.
I can’t help giggling at her enthusiasm and grin big. She clicks a few pics then lowers the camera and hugs me.
“Here’s my card. My real name is Megan, and please don’t give out my number to the paparazzi!” She pulls a business card from the black purse slung across her chest. “If you’re ever bored, call me. I’m in town for like, way too long, filming.” She rolls her eyes. “I so want to hear what it’s like being with a real, life prince.” She sighs.
“Thank you,” I say, uncertain what else there is to say.
“Thank you! Ta!” She bounces away.
I turn to Elijah, grinning, and study his handsome features. “She wanted a pic with me!”
He smiles. “Get used to it. Just … don’t hang out with that kind of girl. She’s into shit you don’t want to be associated with.”
“She seems nice.”
He cocks an eyebrow and draws me back into his arms. He cups my cheek with one hand and places a light kiss on my forehead.
“Trust me,” he murmurs. “This is my scene. She’s trouble.”
Disappointed, I sense he’s telling me the truth. I feel bad for Megan, if she’s involved in what the tabloids and Elijah seem to think she is. She’s such a nice girl, and young, barely twenty-one, I think.
“People would probably say the same about you,” I point out.
“They’d be right.”
“Don’t people deserve a chance to show who they really are?”
“This is not the time for a philosophical conversation, Natalie. One of the challenges of being who we are: we need to know for sure why people want to be with us. If you really want to talk to her, I’ll have George clear her, but you can’t associate with her until then.”
I gaze at him, troubled for a different reason. What would it be like to spend your life this way? Forced to have security checks run before you can consider someone a friend?
“You’re lonely, aren’t you?” I guess. “You’d have to be.”
“Lonely?” he echoes, that look on his face again that says he’s never heard of gift cards or loneliness.
We gaze at each other, and I start to understand more about why he’s so … distant from the world. He floats above everything, untouched by what I know as reality, and I suspect it’s because his wealth and status isolate him.
“Your Highness. Ms. Hanover.”
Elijah releases me at the female voice, and I turn to face the speaker. She’s an older woman with dark skin and coiffed, mostly silver hair and a simple, elegant black dress that reaches her feet.
There’s no mistaking her eyes though. I know she’s a relative of Elijah’s before she introduces herself. She offers a bow of her head to Elijah then holds out her hand to me.
“I am Malika Micah, sister of the King of Nijala and His Majesty’s Ambassador here in the States,” she says.
I shake her hand, uncertain how to respond to the impressive titles.
“A pleasure aunt, as always,” Elijah replies. I’ve never heard that tone from him before: cold, flat, polite yet somehow dismissive.
“Likewise, nephew,” Malika replies. “I was gratified to hear you’d be here this evening. Both of you.” Her gaze slides to me.
I have the sense she’s evaluating me, but I’m not sure what she’s looking for. Maybe some sign I’m a gold digger, which seems to be what the pre-nup was designed to prevent.
“If it please you, Your Highness, it would be my honor to talk privately with the newest member of our family.” It wasn’t a request.
I see where he gets it from. Elijah was accustomed to control and obedience, and so is his aunt.
“Of course.”
I’m surprised he agrees.
“Ms. Hanover.” Malika smiles, but it doesn’t reach her calculating, dark gaze.
I glance up at Elijah. His hand brushes the small of my back, and he pushes me forward. I can’t read any emotion in his face, so I’m not sure if I’m being fed to the sharks or safe with a scary but loyal nanny.
With a smile at Malika, I step away from my safety blanket and walk with her into the crowd.
People stop and watch us. I grip my evening purse like it has magic powers to protect me and do my best not to fidget, instead smiling and walking with her. She offers confident smiles to everyone around her, and we pause more than once to allow official event photographers to snap our picture.
I’m starting to think she wants pics but doesn’t care about speaking to me when we reach an area of the museum with far less people. It’s then she starts talking.
“Elijah’s father is concerned about this engagement,” Malika says.
She’s blunt, like Elijah. I don’t know how to respond. When I’m quiet, she goes on.
“My understanding of your background is that you come from a rather impoverished upbringing,” she says. “Our family’s wealth must be something of a dream to you.”
Ah. I get it. “I can’t fathom it, honestly,” I reply.
“I can imagine it’s appealing to someone whose family is still poor.”
“Yes and no. I mean, I see wealth as a means to help others. But I personally don’t need it or the status or anything else that comes with this engagement.”
She stops and faces me, looking at me hard.
“Interesting,” she says. “This high profile is part of the life you’ll be living. My own fear is that you won’t have the ability to withstand the level of scrutiny you’ll experience or to learn to deal with your obligations.”
“I’ll learn,” I say, uncertain how else to re
spond. “Elijah is helping me.”
Her frown deepens. For a moment, she’s quiet.
“I’ll be candid with you, Ms. Hanover. I know him and his appetite for women and drama well. It’s splattered across the media outlets on a near-daily basis. I almost wish … I would advise you to go into this marriage for the status and wealth rather than because of any sort of emotion you may experience for him. He is marrying you to win a battle of wills with his father and to secure his place as the next Nijalan ruler. He will disappoint you, and chances are, it will all become a messy, public debacle, one the kingdom can’t afford.”
Did she just call her own nephew a piece of shit? Speechless, I simply gaze at her. I feel bad for him, if he was raised around a family that treated him like this.
“From what I know of you, and assuming you are being truthful, someone like you can do the good he never will with all his wealth. But good intentions will not comfort you at night. They will not mend a broken heart or keep the media silent, once Elijah tires of you and starts whoring around again.”
“You’re more concerned about me than him?” I ask in astonishment.
“I’m concerned about the Crown, first of all, and second …” Malika appears to be choosing her words wisely before continuing. “Second, I know his past. I know what made him who he is, and I know the dark streak that runs in his family. He can’t be salvaged, even by good intentions, and there’s no need for you to destroy your life in the process.”
Abruptly, I feel like I’m in court with the lawyers at the firm where I used to work. They’re like wolves, searching for the weak sheep among the witnesses, the one they can exploit or prevent the jurors from taking seriously.
I sense that Malika may indeed be serious, especially about parts of Elijah’s history that he alluded to on his own. But I suspect she’s also playing me, trying to uncover why exactly I’m with Elijah, what I want.
Fortunately, there’s no way she’ll ever figure that out.
“I appreciate your concern,” I reply slowly. “But there is no need for it. I know Elijah’s history, and I’m a private person. I’ll never splash my personal life to the media. My goal in life has always been to do good and help others. If that becomes the only good in a marriage to someone with shady morals, then that is all I’ll ever need. But I have to say, I don’t believe him to be beyond salvaging. Whatever happened to him, there’s a part of him that’s good still.”