The Wicked Prince

by Wood, Vivian

  That and the fact that being interviewed by a nosy reporter is the very last thing I want to be doing right now. the reporter from the New York Times is named Mark; he and I have been working together for several hours today and yet we’re still stiff and disjointed whenever we speak.

  My head aches dully from too much partying last night. I take a sip of the coffee laid out on the low table that separates us, a silent sigh on my lips. “It’s the only life I have ever known. I couldn’t begin to guess at what it is like to live any other way.” I crook a brow. “Please tell me that you intend to ask me something better than that?”

  He looks up from his pad of paper, pushing his glasses up his nose. His cheeks stain just a bit with embarrassment. “Of course. I have a whole list of more in depth questions.”

  I study him. He’s perhaps fifteen years older than my twenty six years, his gray hairs just beginning to overtake his blond ones. He’s a little scruffy and dressed moderately hip in a dark gray button up and black jeans.

  It’s not that I’m usually a jerk to reporters. I don’t mean to put this man on his back foot, although that’s not out of the ordinary for a first meeting between me and a commoner.

  Rather, it is more that I have my guard up as high as possible with anybody that is outside the royal family. Not just now, but always. And especially with the press.

  My existence — how I live my life — is a source of curiosity for the rest of the world.

  “The reason I agreed to this interview with the New York Times is simple. I am growing into my majority; that is to say, I am ready to take the crown in a few years. It will benefit Denmark to have a ruler that is well known to the American people, as my father King Göran has proven.”

  It’s one of the answers that was provided to me in a nice packet of papers that was left on the royal family’s private plane. Just one glance at the words, typed on royal stationery, gives off a whiff of my grandmother, the Queen Mother.

  It was her idea to set this all up in the first place.

  He nods. “Ja, King Göran and Queen Thora’s love story is quite well known here. They still seem to be very much in love every time they come visit.”

  A corner of my mouth tips up. “They are quite the pair.”

  Mark takes a moment to consider his next question. “Your life is one of opulence and luxury. The finest schools, flashy cars, so many castles owned by your family to even name.”

  I bob my head, sipping my coffee. He licks his lips and continues.

  “I think what people would like to know is how growing up in the spotlight with so much wealth and notoriety influenced you. How does it feel to have your life already laid out for you? Does it feel… mmm… restrictive?”

  I want to roll my eyes at the question. It seems obvious that being the Royal Prince of Denmark is, in fact, beyond stifling. This golden mantle is heavy, and it only grows more weighted the older I get. But I’ve been trained since birth to repress and hide my emotions.

  So I just blink a few times. “It can be. But I choose to look beyond my duties and responsibilities and see it instead as an honor and a privilege.”

  Another quote that sounds false, mainly because I’m being puppeted by the Queen Mother. Mark narrows his eyes on my face, but I just stare back at him. I am not easy to embarrass and I’ve spent years learning how to control that response.

  My phone vibrates on the table. I sit up, glancing at Mark as I reach forward. “This could be important.”

  No, it couldn’t. Anything that’s important passes through my best friend Erik, who is hovering just out of my eye line inside the glass doors that lead into our suite. There is a hierarchy of what information I need to receive.

  Judging by the fact that his enormous shoulder isn’t busting the door down, I don’t think an affair of state is in question. Flipping over my phone, I see a text from an unknown number.

  Tonight. After 9. 5930 Palmetto St. See you there?

  It’s unsigned, but I have no doubt that it’s from her.

  Margot.

  Pink hair, a leather jacket, and Converse. So fucking sexy, so vibrant, so exactly the type of girl my grandmother would hate.

  I almost took her home with me for the night, but Erik came and forced me to come back to the hotel. He’s a bastard, but he was right.

  I bite my lip and turn my phone over. I can’t text her back right away, because then she will know that I’ve been waiting to hear from her.

  I raise my eyes to the reporter once more. “Can we do the rest of this over email? I have a pressing engagement.”

  He pauses like I’m actually asking him whether or not it’s possible. “I have a few questions that are more delicate in nature— “

  I rise from my seat while he fumbles for an answer. The words we’re done here might not have passed my lips, but I smile and act as though they did.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you.” Plastering a vague smile on my face, I hold out a hand for him to shake. Mark’s brow pulls down but he shakes my hand.

  At the same time, Erik steps onto the balcony. “Mark? I’ll show you out…”

  I keep that same expression until Mark hurries off, then collapse with a groan of aggravation. Throwing my arm over my eyes, I lay on the outdoor sofa until Erik returns from seeing the reporter to the front door.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” Erik says, taking Mark’s seat. His voice is low-pitched, almost a rumble. “I told you not to drink too much last night, did I not?”

  I glance at him. He’s a distant cousin of mine and you can tell by the way we are similarly built broad, tall, hair cropped close to our scalps. You could easily imagine Erik as a Viking warrior; he even has the light hair to pull it off.

  “Aren’t you supposed to make me more comfortable?” I grouse.

  He rolls his eyes and sits back, kicking up his big booted feet. “Rend mig i røven.”

  My lips curl upward. “Telling your crown prince to go fuck himself is not very nice, Erik.”

  He looks at me blankly. I think I’m pretty hardened and hard to read, but I’ve got nothing on Erik.

  “We should have left that club earlier.” His eyes narrow on my face. “But you wouldn’t leave Pippa’s friend…”

  I grin at him. It’s nice to be able to actually express myself, even if it’s just between us two. “Her name was Margot. And you’ll never guess where they’ve invited us to go tonight…”

  The way his face tightens would be imperceptible to most people. But Erik and I have been friends since birth. I know that he is displeased… I just don’t care.

  After all, he’s my keeper, not the other way around.

  “Hey, you agreed to this,” I say with a grin. “I said I didn’t want to come to New York. You were the one who wanted me to comply with my grandmother’s insane demand to come here and do a little positive publicity.”

  “The Queen Mother was not wrong.”

  I sit up and lean over the table, pouring myself a glass of sparkling water. “She thinks she can run everything for everyone infinitely. I can’t wait until I’m not under her thumb anymore.”

  Erik pours himself a glass of water too, sipping it. “Be glad for these last years of freedom, Stel.”

  I snort. “Ja. I feel super free. Especially since the Queen Mother celebrated my birthday by giving me a list of the girls she considers marriageable.” I pull a face. “Like I need to review. The same girls have been paraded in front of me for my whole entire life.”

  He lifts his shoulders. “You’ve dated about two thirds of them, too. You already know what they’ll be like. If I were you— “

  “Which you’re not.”

  He gives me a look. “I would just pick a girl and settle down.”

  “Ah. If you were in my place, my grandmother would adore that. She’d get the rule follower that she always wanted. And I would be free of the royal curse.”

  Erik steeples his fingers. “Don’t call it that.”

  “Wh
at should I call it, then?” I rise, heading to the balcony’s edge. Far below, a small crowd of protestors are gathered. “The Red-Green Party people have followed me here again. Look.”

  He doesn’t move. “I’ve seen them.”

  I turn, dangling my glass between two fingers. “They say that I am representative of the old world order and the patriarchy. Do you know that? If I were only allowed to express my true feelings once in a while…”

  His expression smooths out and he looks off at the horizon. “You are ready for the crown. I get that. But you haven’t done any of the steps that a prince traditionally does to show he’s ready…”

  “Like marry a good girl and produce a few heirs,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Ja, I know.”

  For just a second, an angry expression crosses his face. “Don’t be in such a hurry for something to happen to your father.”

  For a second, his rebuke actually takes me aback. Erik usually doesn’t like to talk about his father’s death. My brows rise in surprise. “I’m sorry, Erik. I didn’t mean that. My father doesn’t actually have to die for me to ascend to the throne. He just has to relinquish the crown. You know that.”

  Erik shrugs, apparently no longer interested in the topic. He is usually moody, but this is something else altogether. I drain the rest of my water, my mind wandering back to my phone.

  “So about tonight…” I say. “We should go party with Pippa.”

  His cool green gaze finds me. “And Margot?”

  A smile curls my lips. “And Margot,” I admit. “She had all the qualities that I love. She’s young, she’s wild, she’s unbelievably hot… and there is something especially sexy about a girl who is clearly attracted to you but doesn’t ask a lot of questions.”

  Tiny, with a heart shaped face and the sweetest, hottest little body I’ve ever seen. She’s like a very feisty doll in sexy fishnets and a leather jacket. And that hair… perfect, bouncy curls that just happen to be neon pink.

  There is something about her hair alone that makes me fucking hard.

  He rolls his eyes briefly. “She was all over you last night, too.”

  “She seemed like she was absorbing everything around us, like a sponge. She was…” I squint. “Hun har hovedet skruet godt på. What is the English word?”

  “Mmm…” He thinks for a moment. “Perceptive?”

  “Ja. Perceptive.”

  He pushes himself to his feet. “I think I need a shower, a headache powder, and another cup of coffee before I can even think of going out. Christ. Maybe two litres of water, too.”

  “And ibuprofen,” I add, nodding gravely. “Definitely add that to the list.”

  “Come on,” he says, heading inside. “I’ll call downstairs to room service. Then we can make a plan for the night.”

  Squinting into the sunset, I turn around and look off at the skyline once more. “You go ahead. I’ll be inside soon.”

  Erik shrugs and goes in, leaving me to wonder what Margot and Pippa are doing at this very moment.

  I pick up my phone and text Margot back.

  See you there.

  Smiling, I gaze off the rooftop once more.

  Chapter Three

  Margot

  “I swear, if Jeff shoots down one more of my articles, I’ll scream. Just scream, in front of the whole entire office.” Griping about my editor may not be the best or most helpful thing in the world, but it is satisfying.

  Pippa glances at me, reaching out to straighten my pink and black negligee that I’m wearing over a pair of ripped fishnets. “Jeff is a ghoul. Not only that, but I heard he tried to put the moves on Marie during the staff Christmas party last year.”

  I grab a fistful of her filmy white dress. “Marie quit in January!”

  Her expression turns pained. “I know. Jeff is really, really awful.”

  “Ugh!” I say. “Just ugh.”

  Pippa wrinkles her nose at the dank hallway we’re in. We’re definitely underground and the whole place smells like piss and a million stale cigarettes. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

  “Definitely. I’ve been here before. Come on.” Pulling her down the hallway, I turn the corner and stop at a thick steel vault.

  She eyes the doorway uncertainly. “If you’re sure…”

  Wrenching open the door; I slowly uncover a den of inequities. Loud pop music plays and the bass actually shakes me where I stand. There are few lights, mostly strobes here and there. As we head in, closing the door behind us, it’s obvious just how crowded the dance floor is.

  Everybody who’s anybody is here right now. Excitement hums through my veins.

  Pippa smiles at me, holding out a pill and a bottle of water. “Here.”

  Biting my lip, I giggle. I take the pill, a little MDMA mixed with a tiny bit of powdered mushrooms. Just enough to make everything pretty, shiny, and fun. Swallowing it with water, I pass the water back to her. She takes a pill too, grinning when she’s done.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “So ready.” She grips my hand and pulls me into the crush of people. The song changes and a female singer comes on, her voice like a siren’s call, pulling people onto the large dance floor. Around us, gorgeous people dance together and separately, some of them grinding on each other.

  I let go and throw my hands in the air, celebrating my freedom and my body. Pippa and I garner male attention immediately. Everything is heady and pretty from the drugs: the lights seem a little brighter, everything much funnier than usual, and the cool beers that someone hands us seem to slide right down our throats.

  I don’t let anyone get too close, though. One guy in particular keeps trying his luck and putting his hands on me again and again despite the fact that I dance away each time. Finally I’ve had enough.

  I get close to his ear. His arms envelop me. I whisper to him. “I have a knife hidden in my garter. I will cut you if you touch me or my friend again.”

  His eyes go big and he takes a staggered step back, raising his hands. I make a go away gesture with one hand and twirl, my negligee spinning out like a top when I do.

  When I stop spinning, giggling and starting to feel the effects and the drugs pulsing their way through my system…

  That’s the moment that I lock eyes with Stellan. His gaze is smoldering. His eyes are light blue, but they are searingly hot. Possessive, almost.

  I shiver as he strides over to me. He doesn’t say a word. He just cups my face and pulls me close, leaning in for a kiss.

  My breath freezes in my lungs.

  My whole body tingles strangely.

  It seems as though there is an odd electric current jumping between us, sparking as his lips draw closer to mine.

  My eyes sink closed.

  I push onto my tiptoes, needing his kiss like I need air to breathe.

  Like a river running down to the sea, I rush to press my lips against his. And there is an immediate jolt of sensation. I clutch at Stellan’s shirt and his hands tighten on my jaw and hip where they hold me.

  It’s perfect. A moment in time that is free of flaws.

  Stellan crushes me against his body for a split second. I make a muffled sound, unable to speak. But if I could have, I would’ve said, yes.

  More.

  Please.

  In the next second he seems to realize that he’s a giant compared to me. He lets go and steps back, his eyes still shining with intensity. The music pounds in my ears and slides through my veins.

  “Hi,” he mouths.

  I grin at him. “Hi.”

  He nods toward a side room that Pippa’s distinctive red head is moving towards. I nod in agreement and he takes my hand, leading the way. As we sluice through the crowd, I marvel at the difference between our hands. His is a giant’s paw; mine looks petite and pretty holding his hand.

  Feeling feminine isn’t usually something I’m interested in, but there is something about his sheer size that makes me blush. Is there a correlation between his massive height
and the size of his cock?

  That’s really a dirty thing for me to think, but could it not actually be true?

  I giggle to myself as Stellan pulls me into a small side room. The first thing I notice is that music is quieter in here; the second thing is that there are a bunch of old bench-style car seats strewn around. Stellan leads me over to where Pippa, Erik, and Lars have already made themselves comfortable.

  He releases my hand and sits down. I bite my lip and sit next to him, unable to keep my blush under wraps. Pippa looks at me and flashes me a grin, then leans back against Lars.

  Only Erik seems on edge, constantly looking over his shoulder. What he expects to happen, I couldn’t say.

  When Pippa pulls out her phone to snap a selfie of herself and Lars, Erik’s eyes narrow on her. She just rolls her eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I know the rules about photos, okay?”

  That gives me pause. Why are there rules? What are they protecting, exactly?

  I’m not quick enough with my questions, though. I blame the mushrooms. I just feel too good right now to start quizzing anybody.

  Stellan clears his throat uncomfortably. “There are a lot of people in this club for a weeknight.”

  Lars speaks up. “Especially for New York City. It seems like you all live to work.”

  Bobbing my head, I lay back on the couch. My flop lands my head on his thigh. He tenses beneath me for a second, a little surprised.

  “Is this okay?” I ask, peering up at him.

  “Ja,” he says. He clears his throat again. “I thought that you Americans were all prudes, but I suppose I was wrong, eh?”

  One corner of my mouth lifts in a mischievous smile. “I suppose you were.”

  Everyone sits and talks for a little while. I just let the conversation flow around me. At some point Stellan starts stroking my arm.

  I butt my head against his chest. “Mmm. I like that. Do it more.”

  He obliges, running his hand up and down my arm and across my ribs. Somehow or other a beer appears in Stellan’s hand, then another when the first is finished.