by Madeline Ash
She rolled her lips together.
“I’m going to figure this out,” he said, his thrumming body so close that her own ached to open to him. “I’m made of gunpowder around you, Frankie. One look and my blood sparks and my heart flares and my whole body braces for combustion.” His chest was pressed against her knee, and instinctively, she slid her leg outward to give him space, only for it to position him squarely between her spread thighs. “This restlessness, this frustration, it’s all you. It’s finally caught up with me. Knowing you want it too—I’ve got no way to calm it down. I need you. Frankie.” His voice dropped to a growl. “I’m on fire for you.”
She couldn’t move; she didn’t want to move beneath the heat of his breath. He smelled like morning-after sheets on a bed she’d never want to leave, and his steady gaze betrayed he had no intention of pulling away without being asked.
The silence was his question—and slowly became her answer.
Features harsh with desire, his attention slid down to her neck. Her blood beat harder at her throat, flurrying, a hand impatiently ushering him closer. She shouldn’t do this—shouldn’t open herself up to him like a purse with a broken latch. In one deft movement he’d take everything inside, right down to the gold coin caught in the lining. She’d have nothing left when he moved on—just emptiness and the fading memory of the way he’d brushed up against her. But she knew. Despite a friendship of caution and constant evasion, she knew.
That coin had always been his to take.
Breathless, she angled her chin up just a fraction. An invitation, an opening.
He took it, lashes dropping as he leaned in to her neck.
It was a clean touch of his lips, yet still she gasped, spine arching as if he’d bore his full weight down on her. Kris. He stilled, before inhaling deeply, his back expanding as he breathed her in, his nose pressed to her skin, his untamed hair at her jaw. Then his lips found her again and it was the searing heat of his open mouth, the wet thrill of his tongue against her throat. Her hand tangled in his hair, soft as flowing water, and he groaned, opening wider, tasting her, his shoulders shifting as he brought himself closer, his hands moving to grasp her hips.
“Frankie,” he said on a strained whisper. Buried in her neck, he spoke her name as a question, a request, a desperate plea.
Hot and aching all over, she closed her eyes. She wanted to give in, take the step that thrummed like a rope beneath her feet, almost too taut for her to maintain her balance. He’d steady her, hold her up for just long enough to feel the weightlessness of his embrace. But then—then she’d fall, hollowed out right down to her very lining.
And his duty wouldn’t permit him to catch her.
“No more,” she whispered.
His body grew rigid with restraint; he didn’t move.
She forced herself to speak. “You said you didn’t expect anything from me.”
Another moment passed before he groaned, very different than the last, and drew back out of the frame of her thighs. He dropped beside her, fist pressed to his forehead. “I don’t. But I want it.”
Something frail splintered inside her. “I’ve told you I can’t.”
“I’m not expecting you to bear me children,” he said, practically hoarse with restraint. “I’m working on it.”
She pressed her knees together, uneasy. “Working on what?”
“There must be a way.”
“There isn’t.”
“Don’t expect me not to fight for you.” He crackled like a live wire beside her.
She’d failed spectacularly at calming him down.
“There are ways,” he said. “We can be a modern royal family. Or Tommy, he might—”
“Do not put pressure on Tommy to produce heirs.”
“There are ways,” he said again, firmly.
No. Nothing could erase her upbringing; nothing would stop their children being referred to as royal juvies or the state’s own delinquents. Illegitimate heirs would be preferable to those borne by a criminal. They wouldn’t be trusted; their every decision would be raked over hot coals. If Kris’s uncle Vinci were alive today, he would refuse the very notion in an indignant, horrified rage.
Kris would be cast out of the royal family before he’d be allowed to court a woman like Frankie.
“You don’t know everything about me,” she said, voice shaking.
“Then tell me.”
She felt a pressure in her chest, the cold of a metal clasp snapping closed. “I can’t.”
He swore under his breath, grasping the side of his head.
“I feel like I can’t,” she said again, small and painful. “Because I’m ashamed.” Her insides were ice as she said, “I—I’ll explain why. Let me build up to it.”
“You have no reason to be ashamed.” He was so serious, believing everything and understanding nothing. “I left you behind once. I’m never doing it again.”
“Kris . . .”
His jaw flexed. “I asked you to say my name—not use it as another word for no.” His shoulders expanded with warning. “Don’t do that. Use it to mean yes.”
God. On those orders, she wouldn’t speak his name at all. She rolled her lips tight on bitter acceptance. She had to do it. Resort to her backup plan—and reveal her past. She had to do it right, in a way he couldn’t deny.
“Stand up,” she said, and rose to her feet.
He did, his frown as puzzled as it was irritated.
“Since you won’t hook up with a stranger like a good randy prince,” she said, and caught the flash of humor in his eyes. “We have limited options for working that temper out of you.” Lifting to the balls of her feet, she pulsed her heels a few times. “To the base of The Scepter and back. Five reps.”
She set off without waiting for his response. His bark of startled laughter echoed across the city. She heard the scuff of his takeoff, the impact of his feet on the steps, and realized too late that this was just another form of giving him chase. And even though she was faster on this wickedly steep decline, skilled at staying out of his reach, a flutter of panic rose beneath her breastbone.
She’d never wanted him to catch her so badly.
8
Kris wanted to go home.
Not forever—unless that was an option—but to clear his head. Life in Kiraly cluttered his days, his thoughts, his vision. Something always needed doing, needed thinking about. And despite the palace’s endless halls and towers and grand open rooms, those high ceilings and echoing chambers felt like lungs filled with stale air, showing off its power by trapping space rather than granting it freedom.
What he wouldn’t give to stare out at a vast, empty landscape for a few hours and let his mind quieten. He swore his heart beat faster here. If he were back in Montana, he’d get in his truck and drive without destination—just him and the lonesome stretches of roadway and wide eternal scenery. The only signs of civilization would be the occasional passing car or old cabin tucked in the margins of nature. That kind of full-body unwind would help him haul his restlessness into line.
The closest he could manage was spending time with his brothers.
After a morning of meetings, Kris dropped onto the sofa in the tower study and swiped an oatmeal cookie from the platter. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it had come fresh from Rose’s Diner. He had to give the palace chefs credit—they sought to provide touches of Montana flavor to the otherwise fine food served to the royal family. Chewing, Kris sank deep into the cushions, fatigue from his sleepless nights weighing him down even as undirected energy continued to surge through him. Without the grounding effects of his homeland, he was living on the edge, and sooner or later, he was going to slip right off.
“You okay over there?”
He opened his eyes to find Mark watching him from where he sat opposite the grand monarch’s desk, looking over paperwork.
“Philip called me King Markus in this morning’s meeting,” Kris answered. “Gotta tell you, it�
�s strange to be addressed by that man without reprimand. His tone was respectful.” Kris shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “Gave me the creeps.”
“Don’t worry,” Mark said. “Once he doesn’t have to pretend that you’re me, he’ll never address you with respect again.”
Kris laughed and tossed a cookie at him. Mark snatched it from the air one-handed and looked back down at the paperwork.
“You’re doing well,” Mark said as he flipped a page. “Philip agrees. It seems like this plan will work.”
Kris’s gut cramped. “Yeah?”
Mark looked up, features pained, and asked, “Are you really sure, Kris?”
Was he sure he wanted his brother to be happy? “Yes.”
The study door opened and Tommy stepped in, the carpet muting the heels of his leather boots. Door shut behind him, he glanced between his brothers.
“I was summoned?” He sounded amused.
“Take a seat.” Kris gestured toward his desk as he sprawled wider on the couch.
Tommy hesitated, tugging on his bunched shirtsleeve and angling his face down to the right as if he was trying to discreetly look behind him. Kris had long suspected the movement accompanied heated internal debate—which clearly ended in a win against his anxiety, because he moved to take the unoccupied monarch’s chair.
Mark set the papers on his lap and shot a look at Kris. “What’s up?”
“I miss you guys,” he said with a sigh. “And the ranch.”
The heaviness of his brothers’ silence betrayed homesickness was only ever half a thought away for them, too.
“The quarter horses are due to arrive any day now,” Mark said, about the horses they’d secured for the royal stables. “And I was just describing chokecherry cider to Ava last night. I’m going to get some shipped over.”
Tommy quirked a brow. “We’d have to hide it from Frankie.”
“She’s a menace for it.” Kris grinned. “I’ll leave the last empty bottle somewhere for her to find.”
“She’ll claw you to pieces,” Mark warned.
Kris’s smile faded. “She’d have to get close enough.”
His brothers exchanged a glance before Mark leaned back in his chair, crossing his feet at the ankle. “How are things going with her?”
Kris tried to think of an appropriate word. “Strained,” he said, and after a pause, added, “As in, sexually.”
Tommy picked up a pen, spinning it between his fingers as he murmured, “Story of your friendship.”
“Is it—would it really be so bad if I ended up with a commoner?”
Tommy looked out the city-view window, pen still twirling. “Depends on the commoner.”
“She’s convinced we’re incompatible. She’s killing me.”
Mark smiled faintly. “The opposite of her job description.”
“Oh.” Kris shifted, remembering, and cast them a serious look. “Something happened while I was out last night,” he said, and told them about the incident at the bar. He noted Tommy’s tension—the stiffening of his shoulders, the way his eyes glazed as he stopped blinking. “The guy’s been charged with some offence called lèse-majesté.”
“To do wrong to majesty,” Tommy translated quietly.
“That’s the end of it.” Kris spread his knees, draping an arm along the back cushions of the sofa, widening his sprawl to counter his tension. “Frankie mentioned she’ll assign you both with a bodyguard of your very own for when you’re in public.” He wouldn’t tell his brothers of the possible link between Tommy and Jonah’s attack and the deaths of their family. They both had enough to handle right now, and as cowardly as it was, he would avoid admitting his guilt in Tommy’s attack for as long as possible. “As a precaution.”
“Right.” Mark was frowning. “You’re okay, though?”
Kris slid his bruised hand behind his head. “Fine.”
“Good.” His brother gave a nod. “I spoke to Mom and Dad yesterday on a videocall and introduced them to Ava. It was awkward. We got stuck on small talk. I think we spoke about the Sage Haven bakery for about twenty minutes. None of us seemed to know how to get away from it. And the peanut butter bars are still there . . . and the bagel melts . . . oh, and Mark, you’ll be happy to know they’re still baking cinnamon scrolls fresh every morning—Ava you must come and try the cinnamon scrolls . . .” He trailed off with a grimace.
“But she must Mark,” Kris said with a grin. “I sent Mom some photos from your engagement party. Apparently that made her cry.”
Mark sighed. “Dad’s not well enough to fly over for the wedding, and Mom doesn’t want to leave him. They’re both upset about it. Ava and I will visit them afterward.”
“They’ll love that.”
“In other news,” Mark said. “Ava held the press conference this morning.”
Kris nodded. It was Ava’s attempt to control the story surrounding her life with Mark and Darius. Protecting her son from the media spotlight and the often damaging curiosity of the public had always been her priority—and she’d sacrificed her best chance of that in order to be with Mark. All she could hope for now was that Kiraly would find her and Darius less interesting than its cowboy royals.
Tommy leaned forward, forearms on the desk. “How did she go?”
Mark raised a shoulder, looking a little helpless. “She’s stressed and upset. It was a public statement, so the journalists weren’t given the opportunity to hound her with questions, but they were so stunned by her reappearance that she couldn’t get a read on them. She’s worried about the story morphing in the media and the impact it’ll have on Darius.”
‘The story’ she’d provided was a modified version of actual events. The world would believe that after falling in love with King Markus some months ago, Ava had confessed her illegitimate son to him, whom the royal family of Kelehar had helped her to keep safe and secret. Markus then helped her slip away to visit him and she’d brought her boy back to Kiraly where the king was continuing to court her. The public would only learn of their marriage once wedding photos were released to the press.
Still a juicy story, but nothing compared to how it had really unfolded.
“I hope she doesn’t think she’s made a mistake.” Mark rested his head against the back of his chair and pressed his eyes shut. “She was finally living undetected, like she’d always wanted. I’ve ruined that.”
“Seriously?” Kris hurled another cookie at him. Mark jolted, eyes springing open as it hit him in the chest. “She came back for you, man. She climbed a mountain just to see you again. You didn’t drag her here.”
“It’s just—” Mark hesitated, eyeing Kris. “This whole plan feels loose.”
“So was calling in three cowboys to replace a royal family,” Kris said, “but it’s kind of working.”
“Kind of,” Tommy said, angling his head. “How’s Darius settling in?”
Mark’s smile was genuine. That was the right question to ask. “He’s got a lot of his mother in him. Confident. Clever. A sweet kid, but he’s got a sassy little mouth when he’s comfortable.”
Kris chuckled, looking forward to when the boy was comfortable around him. Three-year-old sass would be hysterical.
“He asked about my boots and said he wanted to do gardening like a real cowboy,” Mark said, still smiling. “I’ve ordered a pair in his size.”
There. That look of soft joy on his brother’s face was exactly why Kris was taking over as king.
Then he pulled a face and said, “Gardening?”
“It’s something he does with Ava. One step at a time. The horses will follow.” Then his brows shot up. “Oh. And my bachelor party. I thought we could clear out a venue, maybe the Bearded Bunting, and just eat, drink and play cards. You guys, Adam, Philip—”
“Philip?” Kris interrupted.
“And my guards,” Mark finished, ignoring him. “Small and simple.”
“Sounds good.” Tommy gave a nod, his hands busy tearing strips of
f the top sheet of a notepad on the desk. His face looked pale and tacky, and his hands leapt at the sudden knock on the door.
“Come in,” Mark called.
Kris straightened up his sprawl when Frankie strode into the room. The memory of her taste was lush in his mouth, and for a moment, he was back on The Scepter—night wrapping a shadowed screen around them as he pressed his face against her neck and used his tongue to raze their past to the ground. He swallowed, taut with wanting as he watched her. She held a thin folder and didn’t seem remotely surprised to find all three brothers in the room.
“Your Majesty.” She bowed to Mark, then inclined her head to Tommy. “Your Highness.” Lastly, she sent a sideways watch yourself look at Kris, said, “Your Highness,” and inclined her head again.
“I told them about last night,” he said, thrilled when her cheeks stained pink. The kiss was hot on her mind too. “And the bodyguards.”
“There goes my prepared speech.” She lowered the folder to her side. “It appears to be an isolated incident, but it pays to be safe.”
“You’re bruised.” Tommy’s attention was steady on her face.
Concern pushed Kris to his feet. “Where?”
Sighing, she faced him properly, revealing the tinge of purple on her cheek not quite concealed by her makeup. She raised a shoulder. “He must have got me.”
“You must have felt it,” he countered.
“Adrenaline is a great pain blocker.”
Kris opened his mouth to argue, but Mark cut him off with a swift, “Frankie.”
Standing, his brother drew something from his pocket. A square of pearlescent card, with a silver ribbon woven along one edge. “Ava asked me to give this to you.”
“That’s pretty.” She took it as if it might try to steal her fingerprints and frowned as she read it. “I still don’t get why she wants me at her bridal shower.”
“You’re one of her heroes. It would mean a lot if you were there.”
Frankie scoffed, glancing out the window, and it occurred to Kris that Frankie didn’t only deny his attempts to draw her close, but that of anyone she classed as her superior. “I’m not a hero,” she muttered.