by Madeline Ash
“Good night?” Tommy asked quietly, skewering into his potato hash.
“Yeah.” He glanced up, but Tommy wasn’t looking at him.
It was never a good sign when Tommy avoided eye contact with his own family.
“Just went to the Bearded Bunting.”
“You like that place.”
Kris reached for more toast. “They don’t make a big deal about me being there.”
Back home, he and his brothers had never made a habit of eating breakfast together, instead weaving through each other’s morning routines with silent companionship. But he’d grown used to it since arriving in Kiraly. Now three had become two, and it was like the whole meal was spent waiting for Mark to arrive.
“You?” he asked.
Tommy raised a shoulder. His attention stayed on his plate. “Fine.”
“Reading?”
He nodded. “I’m going through our family history.”
“Cool,” he said, in that way that betrayed he wouldn’t personally find it cool to spend his nights like that, but appreciated that his brother did. Reading and researching was safe.
They kept eating.
Guilt niggled at him in the brittle-edged silence.
Tommy had been distant since Kris had declared he’d replace Mark as king. At first, Kris had pretended not to know why. It was a good thing, wasn’t it? Mark could be with Ava and Tommy didn’t have to face new, high-level social situations every day. No pressure meant no panic attacks. Really, Tommy should be thanking him.
But he knew.
Of course he knew.
“Skip Tommy,” he’d said to Mark that night, and Tommy had flinched beside him. “Skip him and go straight to me.”
Every time he thought of it, that flinch was a lash down Kris’s side.
He didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t take it back. Would make the same call over again, just with more tact. He’d shamed his brother by disregarding his birthright as the second-born son, and the wound wasn’t healing.
“Any other triplets in our family history?” he asked.
Tommy shook his head.
“Any other asshole brothers who jumped the queue to the throne without asking?”
Tommy stilled. His gaze was a mix of caution and censure when he looked up. “Yes. But their version of jumping the queue usually involved murdering the heir.”
Not sure how to respond, Kris pulled a face. “Brutal. So I’m not as big of an asshole as I thought.”
“Yes, you are,” his brother said with quiet conviction.
And there it is. Running a hand over his mouth, Kris lowered his head.
Their silence stretched out uncomfortably, but he didn’t break it. In the tension, he could sense Tommy’s internal struggle, challenging himself to speak his mind, and finally his brother murmured, “You’ve never made me feel useless before.”
Kris snapped his head up. “You’re not useless.”
“I am.” The admission held too much certainty. “I couldn’t do what you’re doing for Mark. I hate myself for that. But you didn’t even pretend I was capable. You’ve always at least pretended.”
Insulted, he said, “I never pretend.”
Tommy angled his head almost mockingly. “Then why did you skip me?”
“Because I wasn’t thinking.”
“No. You were thinking so fast and clearly, that you forgot to humor me.”
Goddamn it. “Tommy . . .”
He knew he was overprotective—and that Tommy resented it—but Kris couldn’t bear to watch him get hurt. Not again. Being a king with severe social anxiety would hurt like hell, so instinct had been to shield his brother from the weight of the crown. And in doing so . . .
Kris had hurt him.
Round of applause for good intentions and shit execution, ladies and gentleman.
“I’m sorry.” Kris leaned toward him, forearms on the tablecloth. “Do you want to swap back?”
Tommy huffed a humorless laugh as the doors to the parlor opened and Philip entered with a newspaper in his hand and a scowl on his thin face.
Kris winced. No guesses what this was about.
Actually. Come to think of it—there were a few things . . .
“Prince Kristof,” the advisor said coolly, halting a respectable distance from the table. “Prince Tomas.”
Tommy inclined his head, while Kris said, “Morning, Phil.”
The man opened his mouth to continue, then hesitated with an irritated look. “Why do you do that? I’ve expressly asked you to call me Philip.”
“Philip is so proper.” Kris gestured around the room vaguely with his fork. “I don’t want to be stuck in formality every second of the day, so I’m trying to make our working relationship more relaxed. You know, to differentiate it from when I meet stuffy dignitaries with poles up their asses. You do want me to be able to differentiate between you and—”
“Kris,” Tommy murmured, face down.
“Don’t you?” Kris jumped to the finish.
“Fine.” Philip’s sigh was long-suffering. “But training to be king doesn’t mean you can do anything you want.”
“Trust me,” Tommy said, “his attitude has nothing to do with that.”
Kris smirked.
“Regardless, it’s poor form to repeatedly shirk your own guard. Particularly after repeatedly being asked not to.”
“Again?” Tommy angled a narrowed stare at him.
“It’s fine.” Kris glanced at them both. “I don’t need guards. I wouldn’t have to shirk them if we just gave them the night off. They work hard.”
Philip looked aghast.
“Why not?” Kris’s heartbeat grew louder in his ears. Anticipation coiled in him as he casually eyed his advisor. “What exactly do you think might happen to me?”
He’d waited for the right moment to ask, because unless this palace was populated by ignorant fools, someone else must share his suspicions about the deaths of his uncles and cousin. And they were keeping it from him.
“Is there a threat we don’t know about, Phil?” he asked, angling his head.
Tommy froze beside him, then looked up to watch Philip.
“Only if your head’s been stuck in the hay, Your Highness,” the man answered. “Royal-obsessed public. Paparazzi. The usual concerns that are no less valid just because you haven’t yet learned to take them seriously.”
Kris gave a hum. Tommy glanced out the window.
“Do you disrespect your team so much?” Philip gestured behind him to where Peter and Hanna were stationed just outside the closed doors.
“I don’t disrespect them.” He didn’t know them. Despite his efforts, the pair rarely spoke, never smiled, and their expressions always lay somewhere between mildly disapproving and dull-minded.
“You must,” Philip said, “since you risk their jobs every time you run off.”
Kris turned his mouth down at the corners, impressed. “Breaking out the emotional manipulation, I see.”
“This is serious.”
“So is what I’m doing,” he said, telling the absolute truth.
“Look, this is the last time I’ll bring it up,” Philip said. “But be warned, security has tightened after last night. I’ve been told you won’t get away again.”
Kris almost groaned. Tighter security. Great.
Instead, he cocked a challenging brow. “Tell them to tackle me.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” Philip’s lips thinned. Then he tossed the folded newspaper onto the table. “Care to explain this?”
Curious, Kris and Tommy both tipped their heads to see the headline. Cowboy Prince Shouts Round at Foreign Embassy. Beneath was a photo of Kris standing at the entrance to the embassy of the neighboring minister for agriculture, flanked by his guards, holding a six-pack of the palace’s own microbrew.
“I told you I’d sort it out.” Kris gestured to the newspaper with his toast. “Publicly.”
Philip’s face flushed. “With beer?”
“Why not?” He bit into the sourdough. “We shared a few drinks. I apologized for walking out of his presentation. He gave me a few pointers on political extrication, as he called it. He’s an alright guy. No hard feelings.”
There was a room-wide silence in which even the serving staff seemed to hold their breath for Philip’s response. But he just said faintly, “I’m not built for this. I’ll see you in your study in twenty minutes.” With that, the advisor left, the grand double doors closing in his wake.
Twisting his lips, Kris returned his attention to Tommy.
His brother was watching him steadily. “Are we really sure Mark loves Ava?”
“Why does everyone keep asking that? I can handle this.” Kris leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Want to come out with me tonight?”
The corner of Tommy’s mouth quirked. He gestured to where Philip had been standing. “Did we just experience two different conversations?”
“I didn’t say we’re going to slip security.”
Tommy raised a wry brow. “You know I’m not coming. And we both know what you’re going to do.” He paused. “And that it’s a bad idea.”
“I have no choice.” Kris shoveled the last of his toast in his mouth. “Didn’t you hear that challenge?”
His brother muttered, “Oh, dear God,” as he scratched between his brows. “Just bring her back here, will you? She can even have breakfast with us.”
What?
For a few seconds, Kris blinked at him. Then it hit. Tommy assumed, like everyone else, that he slipped his guards in order to get laid.
“Nah,” he answered. “That’d be weird.”
Tommy glanced at the huge table. “It’s not as if we don’t have a spare seat.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“No, you won’t.” Pouring a second serve of coffee, his brother added, “But you should think about the risks of being the ascending member of our family alone on the city streets at night.”
“What’s that word you call me sometimes?” Kris stood, running a hand through his hair. It was getting long, but he kind of liked it. “Encourageable?”
Tommy gave a soft snort. “Incorrigible.”
“Yeah.” Kris picked up his cowboy hat from the corner of the table and set it on his head with a grin. “Same thing.”
2
Frankie made no sound as she stuck to the shadows.
It wasn’t the first time she’d tailed her best friend. Four years ago, she’d finally tracked Kristof Jaroka—living under the name Kris Jacobs—to his college campus, days before his graduation. She’d believed then, sliding into the student bar behind him, that he was the only child of the outcast Prince Erik. She’d had no reason to think otherwise—Philip certainly hadn’t made her quest easier by confiding that there were three of them. Whispered gossip in Kiraly about the far-flung royal had only ever mentioned a single son, and she’d been sure Kris was it, lounging on a bar stool with rippling sexuality and wild blue eyes.
Silly, laughable past-Frankie.
“Your breathing is off.” Peter spoke quietly in her earpiece. “Everything okay, Cowan?”
“Fine,” she whispered, lying to avoid the treacherous cliff edge of those three words. Everything wasn’t okay. Her heart was pounding viciously and nervousness made her insides itchy.
In this dark street, she was alone with Kris for the first time in months.
It was almost midnight. He’d done another quick change earlier, disguised by the crowded bar and a new woman with her arms around his neck. Frankie had watched the security stream on her phone from a block down the street, trying to ignore the reluctance yanking in her gut. She couldn’t do this.
Yet all day her weakened heart had yanked back. No more hiding. I can’t bear it.
So she’d given the guards strict instructions. Let the prince escape. Leave him to her and follow at a distance. Only close in once she had him secured.
Unexpectedly, he’d parted ways with his date within minutes. For a man whose nocturnal brain was located squarely between his legs, his behavior was a real head-scratcher.
He’d ditched his cowboy hat and checkered shirt at the bar, leaving only the black tank he’d worn beneath. Paired with his jeans and a hand in his back pocket, he looked like any other local wandering home on a warm summer night. That was, if any other local had shoulders made for carrying saddles, arms for throwing hay bales, and an ass so tight it shouldn’t reasonably expect anyone to ever look away.
At the next backstreet intersection, he veered right. The road levelled out, running horizontally across the mountainside. He occasionally checked over his shoulder—a casual, just-because-he-should kind of glance. As if a threat would stick to the middle of the road behind him. Unnoticed after his fifth head check, Frankie almost fell for it. Her anger sparked. He was being careless. Foolish. This was dangerous. She knew the area, the direction he was headed. The bars speckled on street corners would become seedier. The alleys and side streets that ran unlit and steep off this road would start to conceal the scum of society.
Then she cursed herself.
He knew he was being followed.
The first time he’d driven her to the middle of freaking nowhere to watch the stars from the tray of his truck, an animal had slunk out of the trees beside her. In the darkness, all she’d been able to make out was a canine form and stealthy gait. Kris hadn’t noticed; he’d just lounged there, hand propped under his head, gazing up at the sky. Unwilling to overreact, she hadn’t commented as it approached, until finally Kris had cast her a soft half-smile. “It’s okay,” he’d said. “It’s just a fox.”
The man had faultless peripheral vision—and he’d been using it on her every time he looked around.
“Sure you’re okay?” This time the voice in her ear was Hanna.
In answer, she tapped the concealed mic at her earlobe once. It meant yes, but she hoped her perceptive little guard picked up on the order to let a woman breathe, already.
“Anytime you feel like reeling him in, Cowan,” Peter said.
Yeah, yeah.
Kris halted. Frankie instantly mirrored the movement, pressing herself into the recess of a residential door front and frowning when he unfolded a piece of paper and glanced from it to the nearest street sign. Oh, he had to be kidding. He was—he was going to walk down that unlit lane, knowing he was being followed. Probably in anticipation of a confrontation.
With a final glance behind him, Kris set off into the dark.
“For the love of God,” she muttered.
“Just give the word.” Peter spoke quietly.
“He’s an idiot,” she replied as she darted across the street. “A blue-blooded idiot.”
“We’re at the top of Hillcrest,” Hanna said. “Twenty seconds away at your order.”
Frankie tapped the mic again and slipped into the lane.
She could call out and have it over with, but a scare could help him learn the risk of wandering off alone. The lane was uphill, steep like so much of this city. Her soft boots made no sound on the cobblestones. Ahead of her, Kris strolled casually, back turned like a well-disguised trap. Or an easy target. Idiot. The lane cut behind two rows of honey-stoned houses, so nothing but latched back gates would witness their encounter.
Dread rising, she calculated a plan. He was expecting her. He was larger, stronger—and her prince. Under no circumstances could she accidentally harm him. Dismay clutched the length of her windpipe at her obvious move.
Then she ran.
No time to lose her nerve or call in his security team to take her place. She sprinted at him, her once-best friend, and he stiffened at the light scuff of her footfalls. She sprinted even as he whipped his head around, his body spinning to face her a second later.
Surprise flashed across his face—surprise, she assumed, at registering a woman’s silhouette in the filtered moonlight. She kept her chin tucked low and hands open to show she held no weapon.
<
br /> He uncoiled slightly, frowning as she neared. “What exactly do you intend to—”
She tackled him.
The incline lessened the fall. He grunted as she landed on top of him, but his hands swiftly found her upper arms and he rolled with her, covering her torso with his chest, splaying a bent knee out to lock over her thighs. Not painful pressure, but not underestimating her either. He had her pinned. Her breath came hard.
There was no escaping this truth.
To her horror, she started trembling.
“That was cute.” His voice was rough, the words hot on her cheek.
She closed her eyes, aching at the end-of-day smell of him, and shifted beneath his weight. He was as intense and unyielding above her as she’d always imagined. If only time would stop—let her stay in this liminal moment between friendship and condemnation where she could imagine his body was a shield from the rest of the world.
“Now why are you following me?”
She didn’t answer.
With a huff, he pulled back to scowl down at her. It was everything she could do to hold still, not thrash in his arms and fight her own unmasking. Not breathing, she watched his expression slowly clear. Reset. Then his whole body jolted in shock.
“Frankie?” Her name sounded numb on his tongue.
Panic rose in her. She was powerless. Trapped.
Instinct got her out. Squirming, she used his moment of shock to her advantage and levered him onto his back until she straddled him, her palms firm on his bare shoulders. His hard, broad, otherwise untouchable shoulders. She shifted her grip, savoring the ten tiny slides of her fingertips against his skin. God. She did it again, quickly, her thumbs tracing a full crescent of marble-smooth skin, and locked her elbows to keep from yielding completely.
Bracing, she met his stare as his features opened in such delicate disbelief, such wonder, her heart pitched like a bird that had suddenly forgotten how to fly.
“Frankie,” he said in a voice so gentle, it turned her whole body to tissue paper. One caress away from tearing. “You found me.”