by Madeline Ash
“Would you rather go to jail for a year,” he’d asked, playing their go-to game as he guided his truck down main street. “Or lose ten years off your life?”
“Ten years,” she’d said without hesitation.
He had been incredulous. “A decade instead of one year? Come on.”
“Two decades, same answer. I’m not going to jail.” She’d twisted her lips, thinking. “Would you rather move to a new town every month or never leave the place you were born?”
“Easy,” he’d said, pulling over in front of the diner. “Never leave. You?”
“Every month,” she’d said. “No risk of seeing my prick dad ever again.”
“Or your friends,” he’d pointed out, his glance tipped with challenge.
“Don’t get sour; I wasn’t born here. If I go with the first option, I’d never have met you at all,” she’d said, and quickly hurled herself out of the truck and away from his grin.
He’d held open the door to the diner for her, no harm done, until she’d passed him and he’d asked a bit too quietly, “Would you rather muck out the stables every time you see your best friend—or make out with them every Christmas?”
Yeah. Kris really didn’t have his head around subtlety.
“Stables,” she’d said. “Nothing wrong with getting dirty.”
He’d made a swift choking sound. In denying her preference to make out with him, she’d thrown his imagination something way more suggestive.
Face flaming, she’d asked, “Would you rather never see Mark or Tommy again?”
“Hey!” He’d knocked her with his elbow as the door closed behind them. “Unfair question.”
Hideously unfair, but she’d panicked. “Choose one or it’s the water jug, my friend.”
Their punishment for refusing to pick an option had sprung from the first time they’d played the game. Frankie had asked, “Would you rather have wet socks on your feet for a year or dry socks on your hands for a year?” They’d both opted for dry socks on hands because they truly hated wet socks—which quickly set up wet socks as the consequence for avoiding an answer.
Sighing, Kris had walked over to the diner counter, toed off his boots, and trickled water from the jug over the tops of his socks. She’d watched, pretending she didn’t have a strange addiction to seeing this man down a layer, even if it was just the cowboy boots.
“Squelchy,” she’d said with a smirk when he returned with boots in hand.
He’d had every right to be irritated, but his eyes had held a soft sparkle. “That was ruthless.”
“Yeah, sorry,” she’d said, turning toward the staircase beside the counter. “Imagine if you’d answered.”
“There is no answer. I don’t like talking about this,” he’d said, walking up the stairs behind her. He’d always driven her home from trivia and walked her right to her door. Faultless small-town manners. “Even as a joke.”
She’d fished the key out of her pocket a moment before she’d sensed him come all the way onto the small landing behind her instead of waiting several steps down. There was scarcely room for two people up here, but the broad shape of him had radiated against her back.
Her hand was unsteady as she’d tried to unlock her door. She hadn’t been able to get the key in—he was right there—the lock had changed shape or something—was he planning on making a move?—shit—she couldn’t think with him this close—she was trembling too much—
“Let me,” he’d murmured, and reached around her. The coarse pads of his fingers brushed against hers as he’d taken the key. Dizzy with his scent, his heat, she’d barely kept her balance. With his forearm braced against the wall at her other side, his chest skimming her back and his bicep just not touching her arm as he’d leaned around her toward the door handle, he had her surrounded.
“How long are we going to keep this up, Frankie?” His question had been a hot, dark breath at her ear. It had made her instantly, mortifyingly, wet.
Oh, God.
He was like a firework strapped to her back, already sparking, ready to erupt and ensure she burst with him. She wanted that—wanted everything with him.
But he was her prince. Not Kris.
Her prince.
He’d waited for her answer, holding her key loosely between thumb and forefinger, hesitating at the lock.
“I don’t like talking about this,” she’d managed to say, clinging to his earlier words, but it had come out unfamiliar, throaty and thick and breathless. A fantastic time to learn she had an aroused voice.
He’d responded to it, his own dropping to a growl. “I think we should.”
“I don’t like it,” she’d repeated. Not moving, not looking at him.
“You don’t like the thought of being with me?” he’d asked, holding still, his powerful body practically thrumming around her. “Being like this?”
Her breath had caught, a faint squeak. Denial was brutal; it made her tear herself apart just to hold still.
“I don’t like talking about this,” she’d said, stuck on those words. They weren’t lies. The less she talked, the less likely she was to give in. She couldn’t surrender to him. Even if he never ascended within the royal line, this man was still a prince and she was worse than nobody. He was also a prince who didn’t trust her enough to keep his secret, and she knew—knew—that he’d have no issues getting her into bed without sharing his heritage. Bitterness had dug into her pride.
“We don’t have to talk—”
“Don’t make me,” she’d cut him off.
Accusing him of force, small as it was, had worked instantly. He’d withdrawn like a gasp of air, shifting as far as he could to one side. Key in the lock, door open, he’d swooped down to grab his boots and started down the stairs.
“Sorry,” he’d said, his voice a different kind of quiet. Confused, shamed. “I didn’t mean to—fuck,” he’d cursed under his breath and was gone.
That night, she’d cried herself to sleep.
She should have chosen to never leave the place she was born.
6
Frankie spent the following afternoon working in the map room. She set up her laptop on the otherwise bare table, surrounded by world maps pasted on the walls. Old and not-so-old, the efforts of cartographers from centuries past. Hand-painted illustrations adorned the wallpaper beside the maps, and she supposed it would be interesting for people who had time to care about history—which she didn’t.
She cared about the heat. The room was in a non-air-conditioned part of the palace, and would have been intolerable if it weren’t for the cool air wafting out of the hole in the wall. She shifted her chair over a little, trying to catch the stale breeze. The bookcase in the corner had been moved to one side, exposing the stone staircase concealed within that connected to a network of secret passageways. It led to the palace basement and beyond, and, every so often, she looked up and frowned at it impatiently.
It was late afternoon by the time Tommy emerged.
He ducked into the room, one guard in the lead, the other bringing up the rear. Smart formation. The attention of all three shot to her, startled, and she inclined her head in Tommy’s direction with a neutral, “Your Highness.”
Then she jerked her head toward the door. Without turning, the guard in front extended a hand behind him and Tommy gave him the book he’d been carrying. The guards filed out.
Tommy offered Frankie no greeting in return. He stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, his hard expression far from welcoming.
“About time,” she said, leaning back in the chair. “I’ve been waiting hours.”
“I’d have made it days if I’d known you were here.”
She arched a brow. “Your avoidance is somehow gratifying.”
He didn’t react.
The most enigmatic of the three brothers, Tommy was naturally quiet, keen-eyed, and still. Like a thought that woke her in the night and slipped away before she could catch it, leaving her unsettled, graspin
g warily, unsure whether it had been good or bad. He was a shadow and she had no idea what cast him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Kris spoke to me last night and despite your glowing suggestion, it doesn’t seem like he’s going to send me on my way.”
His eyes narrowed as he processed that information, so she asked, “I want to know if it weren’t for him, would you fire me? Reassign me? I lied to you as much as I lied to him. It’s not only his call. I can leave now, and he can think it was my decision.”
Tommy considered her. “You’d leave and pretend it was what you wanted?”
“If it’s what you want.” She wasn’t stupid. Kris valued his brother’s opinion as highly as his own. If Tommy resented her, Kris would never be settled with her in the palace.
“A friend should never do what you’ve done.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgement.
“Lie for years about something so significant.” His words were bitter, an accusation aimed at her poor excuse at friendship. Then, as she caught the hooded look in his blue eyes, it hit her in a moment of clarity that Tommy was a target for his own bitterness.
“Oh, Tommy.” She ran a hand over her eyes. Damn it. This conversation was not going to end the way she’d planned.
He said nothing. Just stood watching her coldly.
“This is about Jonah.”
He flinched at his best friend’s name, raising one arm to half-cover his chest. A second later, he hurled it back to his side. “What is about him?”
“You’re angry at me for hurting Kris—just like you’re angry at yourself for lying to Jonah. You don’t think you deserve to be forgiven, so you don’t intend to forgive me either.”
His fingers started tapping a fast beat against his leg. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”
“Haven’t you been friends for like, twenty years?”
His jaw slid. His fingers kept tapping.
When she’d first moved to Sage Haven, she’d met Tommy with Jonah by his side. Kris had later explained that Jonah had moved next door as a boy and gravitated to Tommy immediately out of the three brothers. Strange, since Jonah was literally the sweetest person in existence—and Tommy had always been on the cold side of reserved. Despite their differences, the friendship went both ways.
At least, it had until recently.
“Have you contacted him?” she asked, despite knowing that he hadn’t. “He’ll be worried sick.”
Tommy made a sound of derisive disbelief.
“He would’ve been worried sick within an hour of you leaving the Haven,” she snapped. “Unlike me, he didn’t secretly know the truth this whole time. Discovering his oldest friend is a prince won’t have been easy to get his head around—but you’ve left him to process it on his own without even calling?”
“He doesn’t want to hear from me. He told me to fuck off.” Tommy’s expression was haunted. “He’s never said that to anyone—despite far too many people who’ve deserved it.”
“He was hurt and confused. That’s what people say. Here’s some news. In order to apologize, you have to actually talk to him.”
His lip curled. “Says you.”
“I actively didn’t want Kris to know I was here. I still behaved like an asshole, but I did it on purpose.”
“You think you know what’s best for me?” His tone was scathing.
“No,” she answered. “But I have some thoughts on what isn’t—and from recent experience, I can tell you that blocking out a friend is never for the best.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
“That’s funny.” Absently, she adjusted her phone on the table beside her. Slid it a little closer in Tommy’s direction. “Because I know he’s not.”
A trap, those words, that bound his interest completely. Eyes flickering, he moved closer. “You’ve spoken to him.”
“It’s Jonah.” She pulled a face. “He’s an angel in a cowboy’s body. When he rings, I answer.”
“How often does he ring?” Tommy’s voice caught.
She pretended not to notice. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He took a step closer, laying his palms flat on the table. His fingers rapped against the grain as he asked, “How is he?”
“Worried sick. I told you.”
Tommy didn’t move, but his presence seemed to snarl in warning. “You know what I’m asking,” he said, deathly quiet.
“He’s safe,” she said. “Just working.”
Tommy stared her down. A silent command for more without the indignity of begging.
She stared back, pulse spiking just a little.
“How often do you talk to him?” he ground out.
“He calls me every Friday morning while he makes breakfast,” she said, and at the flash in his eyes, added, “Don’t look at me like it’s another of my secrets. It’s not just me. Mark and Kris have called him. He’s our friend, too.”
He turned his face away. “He calls you every . . .” He trailed off, whipping back around to stare at her. “Today’s Friday.”
Late afternoon in Kiraly meant in Mountain Daylight Time—
Frankie’s phone started to ring. Tommy recoiled as if it had breathed fire.
“Always so punctual.” She gestured to it. “You want to answer?”
He ran a hand up his throat and backed toward the door.
“I’ll take that as a no,” she said, reaching for the phone. Then she hesitated. “Loudspeaker?”
The look he gave her would have withered a weaker spine.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She answered the call and put it on loudspeaker. “Morning, Jones.”
“Hey, Frankie!”
Tommy’s cheeks flooded red—and an instant later, the map-room door slammed shut behind him.
Swiping up her phone, she switched off the speaker and brought it to her ear. Okay, so she’d ambushed Tommy, but he needed the support of his oldest friend and it seemed a guilt trip might be the only way to make him act. His brothers were too wary to push him. It was always careful with Tommy or make sure he doesn’t stress. Well, she wasn’t blinded by protectiveness. She cared about Tommy—more than she or Tommy would be comfortable with her letting on—and she could see his steel in those shadows.
She wouldn’t be careful, and she’d make him stress.
Then he might remember he could protect himself.
Kris stood at the window of the small green sitting room, one hand gripping the curtain tie-back, the other in his front pocket. He’d spent the afternoon posing as Mark, maintaining positive relations with industry. He’d eaten butter-soft biscuits with a billionaire entrepreneur and discussed the future of assistive technology; he’d drunk tea with a robotics engineer and discussed the future of AI and job automation; and he’d shared a sneaky scotch with a biotechnician and discussed cellular agriculture and the future of sustainable food.
He’d squinted through most of it. The scrunched-up look of a man trying to spot something familiar in a wave of blinding light.
Now, he gazed down at Frankie in the rear courtyard and his future had never looked clearer.
Staff were bustling, stacking packs and bagged tents in a neat row, while Frankie addressed a small group of assembled guards. She appeared sharp-shouldered and in control in her purple jeans and green tank, and her team’s attention on her didn’t waver.
She was the woman who’d lied while protecting him—who’d denied him, then cried over him. He’d never—like, an actual Frankie tear . . . right on his thumb. One look at the devastation on her face and he’d known there was no going back to friendship, not from here.
His breathing grew strange as he watched her, like there was a latch in his throat that kept slipping in and out of position, nudged by something inside him that was figuring out how to get loose.
She’d suppressed her desire because he was her prince. We’re incompatibility’s greatest achievement, she’d told him. You’re litera
lly going to be king.
Not without her, he wasn’t.
The laces on her black boots were half-undone. A typical, insignificant detail, but every time she moved, he winced a little, fearing she’d trip. It was stupid. She’d lived a carelessly laced life without him and managed to keep herself upright, but that didn’t stop him wanting to march down there, kneel at her feet, and tie her into safety.
Philip appeared beside him at the window.
For several minutes, they stood in silence as the camping preparations continued below. It was excessive—needless items that just kept coming—and when Frankie rolled her eyes and turned away what appeared to be a portable hot-water heater for showers, Kris laughed and said, “Attagirl,” under his breath.
Then his advisor spoke. “You be careful there, Your Highness.”
Philip’s tone was serious, stern, yet unlike any he’d used on Kris before. There was no thread of outrage, no quaver of indignation.
Just a hard, bleak warning.
Kris faced him with a frown, and the man’s scrupulous gaze seemed to press a hand to his airway, seeking to hold that latch closed. Philip’s role was to uphold the centuries-old traditions of the monarchy—to protect the legacy and respect the hierarchy that advantaged the throne.
His caution against Frankie was unmistakable.
Kris went back to watching her, figuring the older man could live without his retort.
Kris didn’t do careful.
Frankie climbed the steep mountain track, her thumbs tucked around the pack straps at her shoulders to stop it from rubbing against her gun in its holster. With a soft groan, she paused in the shade of a silver fir, welcome relief from the not-quite setting sun—then kept moving at a nudge to her hand from Buck.
When Kris had claimed they were going camping, she knew this wasn’t what he’d had in mind. He’d been thinking of simple nights spent up in the Rockies, just the two of them, free of the attendants and half-dozen guard escort that trailed him as he hiked across the mountain. He’d have wanted a no-fuss meal, something plain straight out of his bag, not the lavish, chef-prepared food being carried in cold-packs, and he wouldn’t even have known it was possible to end up with glamping-style tents and bed rolls as thick as overgrown cotton fields.