by Madeline Ash
His lips lifted into a pissed-off-and-superbly-sexy curl.
“You once threw yourself into a bar fight in fear for my safety because we were friends,” she continued, remembering how she’d lost sight of him in that brawl—the prince she’d been hired to protect. Remembered how she’d turned her iced-gut fear into anger in the hours after. “It’s too easy to imagine you doing the same for your guards. They’ll act when your safety is threatened—and you’ll put yourself in harm’s way to help them.”
His sneer had faded into a frown.
“And I knew you’d want them to be your friends,” she said. “You’d want to draw them into your circle. Chat and get to know them. But they aren’t your friends. They aren’t supposed to be. They work for you. A future king can’t be friends with the help.”
His eyes were burning. When he spoke, his voice was so rough it seemed to catch on her skin. “Who are we really talking about here, Frankie?”
She stared him down.
They both knew she didn’t have to answer that.
Cursing, he turned his face aside—and finally seemed to notice her room. His gaze tracked across her unremarkable, unmade bed to her old backpack hanging from a hook beside the closet, then jumped to his other side, where he quickly ran out of things to look at.
Nothing labeled her as lower class as markedly as a room built in a time of the invisible servant.
She supposed she owed her gratitude to the old royal family that the staff quarters weren’t literally underground, but still, Hanna would have led Kris through the lower courtyard to get here, an architectural division between the grander areas of the palace and this sparse servants’ wing.
His mouth pulled down at the corners as he stared at her damp towel, flung over the desk. Then he looked back at her and said, “Explain why I’m deluded to think I’m innocent.”
She shouldn’t have brought that up. “It’s nothing.”
His jaw slid. “Explain it.”
“Is that an order, Your Highness?”
Her cheap attempt to throw him off almost worked. He pulled back. Swallowed. Ran his tongue along his back teeth.
Then he said with a chilled calm, “Sure.”
She stiffened. “You’re a hypocrite.”
“Really?” He gave a weak snicker. “I wormed my way into your life with lies and hid under your nose for months on end?”
“You lied to me since the day I met you.” She gestured jerkily toward the door and the better part of the palace beyond. “I waited years. Years for you to trust me enough with this secret. How important could I have been to you if you never told me you were royalty?”
His frown was slow, but serious.
“You talk about friendship and betrayal, but what trust did you show me?” She tried to raise her voice, but it just cracked. “You never let me in.”
He mirrored her gesture toward the door. “None of this mattered.”
“It’s always mattered.” A flush ran up her neck as she exposed the hurt she’d kept buried. “You’re a prince. And you didn’t tell me. How can that not matter?”
“I tried to tell—”
“Don’t,” she said, raising a hand. “Don’t pretend that day was significant. You were only going to tell me because you had no other choice. You didn’t want me to know. You didn’t trust me to keep it secret. You can’t pretend that it was meant to be special to tell me hours before the rest of the world found out. It would have meant nothing, so I didn’t want to hear it.”
His steady gaze was troubled by realization. “You’re right.”
She blinked.
“I’m sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I should have told you. As a sign of trust. Because I did trust you. My lineage didn’t mean anything to me, but I shouldn’t have assumed it would mean nothing to you.”
She pressed her lips together to stop herself from answering.
It means everything to me. It rules me as tightly as it rules you.
Then he moved.
Not to the door, as he should have, but to the armchair. For a moment, he stood in front of it, digging a hand into his back pocket—then, withdrawing a crumpled paper bag, he sat down with a sigh. Knees wide, elbows on his thighs, he unrolled it and dug his hand in.
In a subdued kind of silence, he started eating cashews.
She frowned. The palace kitchen offered any snack he could crave, and he’d chosen cashews? Whenever they’d shared mixed nuts, he always fished them out for her, because he didn’t particularly like them, and he knew she—
Oh. He knew she loved them.
Frankie swallowed. “Comfortable, are you?”
He glanced at her. Cocking his brow, he held out the bag and gave it a little shake.
Woah, no. She didn’t budge. “I’ll escort you back to your suite.”
His expression seemed to say suit yourself as he tucked back into the bag. “I’m not ready yet.”
Exhaustion slumped down her spine, rapidly replacing the fight in her. “You should be.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” She raised a shoulder, almost helplessly. Because he’d threatened ‘an end’ when he’d arrived, and this wasn’t it. “You’re supposed to hate me.”
His hand stilled, and for a few moments, he watched her. “How am I supposed to do that, Frankie?” he asked quietly. “I can’t stand being angry with you. This week, I’ve felt . . . wrong—like the earth’s rotating backward or something and just existing makes me sick. If that’s anger, I can’t imagine how I could possibly hate you and keep living.”
Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Jesus, Kris.”
And there, she’d gone and said his name.
There was the rustle of the bag shaking again and when she looked at him, his lips were twisted sadly. He said, “Sit with me.”
She absolutely would not sit with her prince.
Sighing again, his gaze shifted to her pile of belongings on the table. Keys, swipe cards, phone, wallet. He frowned and leaned forward, picking up the final item and holding it up. “Still carry this around?”
Her oldest possession, those brass knuckles.
“Some people feel naked without their phones.” Yet Frankie felt starkly vulnerable without the weight of those metal rings in her pocket. “I don’t carry them to be used. I just . . .”
Needed the reminder. Of where she’d come from; how determined she’d been to fight her way out.
Putting the bag down, he tried sliding his fingers through the four loops. It jammed before it reached his middle knuckles.
“Man hands,” she muttered.
He slanted a look at her that in a different time and place would have held a grin. “Looks like they’ve seen better days.”
“They’ve seen plenty of days,” she said about the scratched and nicked metal. “Not sure I’d call them better.”
His attention fixed on her. “These even legal here?”
Eyes on the weapon, she gave a small shake of her head. Brass knuckles had been illegal in Kiraly her entire life—but the law couldn’t keep a young woman safe in the fierce reality of a violent moment. That, she’d had to do herself.
Kris’s frown was loaded with questions.
“Laws are cultural myths.” She raised a shoulder. “To work, they require enough people around you to believe in them.”
Concern bloomed in his blue gaze. He drew the knuckles off his fingers and set them back on the table with a light clunk. “What was life like for you here, Frankie?”
“I—”
It was with a sudden and sharp puncture high in her heart that she feared honesty, not lies, might be the only way out of this mess.
“I might tell you one day,” she muttered.
“Sit with me,” he said again, more firmly.
Giving in, she moved to sit on the coffee table opposite him. If he brought his spread legs together, they’d press against the outside of her knees, trapping her inside his borders. Physical awar
eness of him snaked through her, a faded shadow of itself, too tired and battered to tie her in knots, but there just the same.
He extended the bag. Silently, she reached in and took a handful.
“Nice room.” He spoke without taking his eyes off her. “Better than the dump over Rose’s Diner.”
“Hey.” She piled several nuts into her mouth. Roasted and salted. Delicious. “I liked it there. The mold in the bathroom was sentient. We had conversations.”
“It was disgusting.”
“It was as close to you as I could afford,” she said.
He frowned a little. “Don’t royal guards get paid enough?”
She winced, but didn’t answer.
“You can’t even answer that honestly?” he asked in insulted disbelief.
“No, it’s just—” She sighed. “King Vinci didn’t want any resources spent on your dad or his family, okay? No allowance. No staff. Not even basic security or monitoring. As far as your uncle was concerned, the day Erik left Kiraly, he was on his own. Philip couldn’t have me on the books as a royal guard in Sage Haven, so he found a way to pay me to gather information on political figures instead.”
“That’s what you did when you left on private investigations?”
She nodded. “And the bouncer work helped cover the rest.”
“So.” Kris was still frowning at her. “You stayed to watch over us even though you weren’t properly paid for it?”
“I guess.” She hesitated, skin prickling at what she’d given away. “Philip promised me a role in the palace when I got back, but I wanted some experience. And I figured if I could track you boys down, someone else could, too. So it wasn’t, you know, just because of . . .”
You.
Shit.
He didn’t answer. Just scanned her face, expression serious. She braced for a comment she wouldn’t be able to handle.
But all he said was, “Your mascara’s smudged.”
“I had a shower—”
In a single, fluid movement, he’d licked his thumb and placed it beneath her right eye, the contact as gentle as it was startling.
With a delicious thrum, her body tightened.
He adjusted, leaning forward, his careful attention set just beneath her gaze. Scared to breathe, to do anything that would remind him of who she really was, she held still, her cheek tingling, aching as the rest of his hand hovered just out of range. Another moment for her collection—alone with him, but unable to enjoy the wonder of his intimacy for fear of losing her head.
“You been crying over me?” he murmured as he smoothed the makeup away. If he intended it as a joke, his tone completely missed the mark.
Always.
His touch ruined her—for something so light, brushing against the outskirts of her body, it felt like playing out a thousand heartbreaking moments at once. It was the kind of contact that broke the sky and put a stutter in the pulse of the earth. Then with another soft swipe, put it all back together again.
He stilled the instant he collected her tear on his thumb.
“Frankie,” he breathed.
She blinked, refusing to meet his shocked gaze. She was too tired to miss him this much and have him this close.
“You were lying,” he said, and shifted his thumb to her left side. Used the damp of her tear to clear the stain from her skin. “When you said our friendship was never real.”
Focus pinned on his knee, she nodded.
“When you said I was just your job.”
Her silence didn’t deny it.
“When you said you’ve never wanted my hands near you.” His voice had lowered.
“It doesn’t matter what I want.” She ducked her face away from his touch, even as her attention shifted up his leg to the hard strength of his thigh.
Under her gaze, his legs moved, inching inward. Not quite trapping her but setting her thoughts racing over what she’d do if he did.
“My guards overheard me asking to kiss you.” Energy hummed in the air between them.
Her face heated and she snatched up the bag of cashews, pouring some into her palm. “Good for them.”
“You told me later your answer was no.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, but they both knew he was asking her to admit the lie. To turn this confrontation into a stolen moment; to mend the past week with taste and touch. But a kiss would never just be a kiss with Kris. Frankie had always sensed that. Once their mouths met, they’d have no hope of parting until their bodies had blended and brought bliss itself to its knees.
“My answer isn’t yes.” She raised her palm to her mouth, cramming it full.
He rested his hands on his thighs, seeming to wait until he had her attention before slowly sliding his palms up and down the length of his quads. How . . . how did he do that? Turn a simple movement into a sex act? It was everything she could do to keep chewing she watched.
“I don’t know the difference,” he admitted.
“For the purposes of this exercise, there’s no difference. There’s nothing left between us. You can’t be friends with someone like me. You can’t be . . .” More than friends. “I work for you. I’m not high born or even adequately born—and you’re literally going to be king.”
He raised a shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Not yeah,” she said, resisting the urge to cuff him around the head. “Yes. You are.”
“Yes, I am,” he said dutifully, coming infuriatingly close to smiling.
“For the love of God.” She sat back, pressing her fingers to her temple. “This is why I didn’t tell you I was here. I knew you’d do this. I knew you wouldn’t get it. But I get it. I live in the servants’ quarters—you own the palace. I work for the crown—you’ll wear the crown. We’re incompatibility’s greatest achievement.”
He looked unfazed. “All I’m hearing is antiquated classism.”
Frankie grasped either side of her head. “I can’t do this now. I can’t think clearly enough to argue.”
“Then don’t.” Kris leaned back, withdrawing his legs, his body. “We both need to sleep.”
Groaning, she nodded.
“A full night. Deep and proper,” he said, and paused before he said, “Camping.”
She snapped her attention to him.
“Tomorrow night.” Kris rose to his feet, dropping the paper bag on the table and brushing his hands together. “You finish those.”
“Camping?” She stood and swiftly put distance between them. “That’s hardly at the top of your priority list.”
“I don’t have a priority list. Philip does. You sleep well outdoors. You’ve told me. Fresh air and silence.” He raised a shoulder. “It’s what I’m going to do. You don’t have to come.”
She took in a slow, steadying breath. “Will you go beyond the palace grounds?”
“I said camping, didn’t I?”
As his bodyguard, she’d have to go. And the glimmer in his eyes knew it.
“I’ll walk you to your room,” she muttered, pushing herself in the direction of the freestanding closet beside the bed.
“I can walk myself. It’ll be a twenty-minute round trip for you.”
“Gosh, Your Highness, how thoughtful of you to consider that after you turned up at my door uninvited in the middle of the night,” she said, and gave the closet two quick jabs to get the right-hand door to unstick. “And don’t insult me by suggesting that I take a nap instead of do my job.”
He raised a hand, palm up.
“While I’m at it, don’t ever treat Hanna like that again.” Her burgundy jeans were on top of her clothes pile. She tugged them free, shoving the closet door shut before everything else could fall out.
“I won’t.” His gaze was on her legs. Probably wondering whether she was about to change in front of him. “I shouldn’t have made her do that. I was angry.”
“Is anger an excuse?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll apologize.”
“With beer?” She snorted, holding her jean
s up by the waist. “Here’s the part where you turn your back like a gentleman.”
Weary and wild-haired, he hesitated as his gaze grew heavy. A light furrow formed between his brows. “A what?”
“Gentleman. Honor, decency, courtesy—you’ve heard of it?”
He hummed, a gravelly sound, as he slowly turned away. “I’m afraid not.”
God. She knew him in this mood.
She changed fast.
“Let’s go,” she said, swiping up her essentials from the table and jamming them in her pockets.
He cut to the door, laying his hand on the knob. “Frankie,” he said quietly, half-turning his face to where she stood right behind him. “Did you really get Ava out?”
Her gut clenched—at the fact that he knew and his soft tone. “Don’t tell a soul.”
His eyes met hers over his shoulder. “What other secrets are you keeping?”
“If I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets.”
“A secret can be kept between two people.”
A shiver ran between her shoulder blades. We’ve proven that, she wanted to say. We’ve kept this secret between us so tightly we can’t even speak it to each other.
No, that wasn’t right. She couldn’t speak it—and her silence muted him.
He was watching her. “Promise not to lie to me again.”
“Fine.” Heart thundering, she cocked a brow and made a get on with it gesture for him to open the door. “Let us out.”
“I’m trying to,” he murmured before turning the handle.
She’d forgotten never to put Kris in charge of opening doors. That something so simple could turn into an opportunity to hold her attention. Mostly her fault—he wouldn’t resort to blocking if she’d just have an open conversation with him. She’d been in Sage Haven for almost eighteen months the first time it happened. In hindsight, she should have expected it sooner. He’d waited a long time.
She remembered him driving her home from the weekly trivia night at the local pub.