by Madeline Ash
Her team passed around the folder, taking long looks at the profiles. Once the folder returned to her, she braced herself—and made a move completely against her nature.
“One last thing,” she said.
The room fell silent. Everyone looked at her. Panic prickled down her spine, and she fought the urge to turn and flee down the spiral staircase.
Her hands curled into fists. “It’s—not related.”
Curiosity flickered across their faces.
“I just wanted you all to know that Prince Kristof and I are . . .” Alarm fuzzed her brain. They were what? What the hell was the end of that sentence? No longer in denial? Still shaky from sex in her office? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Shit. She forbade herself from shifting or swallowing nervously as she met Kris’s widening stare.
His blue gaze hung onto hers, intense, waiting.
She could do this. Just spit it out. They all damn well knew anyway.
Running a hand over her face, she muttered, “Together.”
Kris actually laughed. A sound of disbelieving wonder that made her want to bury her face in his chest so she wouldn’t have to look at anyone.
Her team exchanged grins and offered a round of congratulations.
“Thanks.” Her cheeks flamed as she opened the door and positioned herself to one side. “But it’s not common news, so if I catch any of you gossiping about it, you’re going to wish genital regeneration was a thing.” That didn’t dim their grins, though Philip had turned away. “Alright, alright, get back to your posts and beds, and stay vigilant.”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” came the single answer from a dozen mouths.
She stood firm as they departed, accepting waggling brows and whacks on the arm with reluctant good humor. Hanna lingered in front of a mountain-view window with the look of someone who wanted to talk privately. So once the study had otherwise emptied out, Frankie pressed the folders against her forehead, closed her eyes, and willed her embarrassment to back the eff off.
Then she crossed to where Philip was standing, patting down his hair to no effect.
“Hey,” she said, prodding him lightly in the ribs. “Thanks for getting out of bed.”
“Thank you for singling me out,” he said with mild indignation. “I’ll have you know Peter wasn’t wearing any shoes.”
“Snitch. Peter was smart enough to stand behind the armchair so I couldn’t see.” She reached out and tweaked the curved collar of his pajama top, aware of Kris watching and waiting behind the desk. “And it made you feel like part of the group. Don’t deny it.”
Philip sniffed, but she caught his smile.
She angled her back to Kris and whispered, “Are you upset with me?”
The advisor regarded her steadily for a few beats. “No.”
She tilted her head, not buying it. While Kris’s opinion of her mattered more than anything, the thought of Philip disapproving of her relationship turned her stomach. “He’s going to be king and you know my background. You can’t possibly approve.”
“Actually, I don’t know your background.” His brow furrowed. “You don’t have a digital footprint from before you were sixteen.”
Her gut churned as she murmured, “That tells you enough.”
“I’m not upset with you.” His quiet words were firm. “I want to see you happy.”
God. It was weird how much she liked this stuffy, stiff-spined man. “And I want to give you closure,” she said. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
The balcony collapse. The royal deaths.
“Yes.” He cast her a look of suppressed grief. “Call me if you get an update? No matter the time?”
“You’ll be the first person I call. Promise.”
“Good.” His chest filled on a swift breath in. Then he flicked nonexistent dust from his jacket sleeve and strode from the study.
And then there were three.
“Johansson.” Stifling a yawn, she turned her attention to where Hanna still waited by the window. This was the night that never ended and weariness was closing in on her fast. “To what pleasure do we owe your loitering?”
Hanna grinned. “Friendly chat?”
“That’s funny.” Frankie looked to the ceiling with a frown. “I know both those words, but they make no sense together.”
Kris gave a soft laugh behind her.
“How did the dress go?” Hanna raised a pointed brow. “Get any . . . compliments?”
“I didn’t wear it for compliments.”
“Yet I gave them to her anyway,” Kris murmured. “You can really sew, Hanna. I’m sure you can imagine how sexy she looked.”
“I don’t find anyone sexy, Your Highness,” she answered. “But I’m sure she looked gorgeous.”
Kris paused, and Frankie and Hanna met eyes as if to say, here we go.
Three, two, one . . .
“What do you mean, you don’t find anyone sexy?” he asked.
Hanna’s features tightened, but she kept her gaze level. “I’m asexual, Your Highness,” she said. “I know you’re highly charged—but not feeling sexual attraction is as much a part of me as desire is a part of you. I find people aesthetically beautiful, sure, but I don’t think wow, they’re hot, I want to bang them, you know?”
Frankie eyed Kris over her shoulder. No. He didn’t know. He was frowning at Hanna like she’d told him her grandmother had died.
“Stop looking at her like that,” Frankie muttered sharply.
“Sorry.” His features leapt from concern to confusion. “I’ve just—never met someone who’s asexual before. Or, uh, ever heard of it.”
“You’ve probably heard us called other names.” Hanna cleared her throat, running her hand over her collarbones. “Frigid. Unfuckable. Being ace is often viewed as a failing, instead of an orientation. Which kind of sucks.”
“That does suck.” Then he smiled at her. “Thanks for telling me.”
Hanna raised a shoulder. “It’s not a secret.”
“I’ve known next to nothing about you for over three months,” he said. “Everything about you is a secret.”
“Hey, I kind of like that.” She moved her shoulders a little, as if trying on the title of woman of mystery. “Speaking of secrets . . .” Her attention shifted to Frankie. “It’s late, and your eyes are glazing over, but tomorrow, I’m going to charm you into giving me details of your night out. You borrowed my dress. It’s my price.”
Frankie rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue as the guard turned to leave.
Then an uncomfortable fear lurched up her throat.
“Hanna,” she said abruptly. The woman turned back to her, smiling curiously at the use of her first name. “Do you think the others will stop respecting me?”
Hanna looked baffled. Then she arched a brow at Kris. “You offended by that question, Your Highness?”
“The implication that being in a relationship with me makes her less respectable?” Kris sounded amused. “Not particularly.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Frankie eyed them both in exasperation. “Will they think I only got this position because of my relationship with Kris? Everyone’s figured out that we knew each other in Montana—that there’s been something going on between us. Will they cry favoritism?”
“Ma’am,” Hanna said, quite frankly. “You’re intimidating—flat-out terrifying if we have to deal with you before breakfast—and the closest any of us will ever get to an actual badass. Your time up and down The Scepter thrashes anyone on the team, I can’t beat you at anything and you took down that psycho misogynist like a boss. Everyone’s seen the footage. You deserve your position. Favoritism will never cross anyone’s mind.”
“Oh.” Frankie looked down, twisting the pearl necklace that she’d forgotten to take off. “Good.”
“It’s criminal how fast she takes those steps,” Kris said.
“I know, right?” Hanna answered in mock scandal. “And the way she elbows you as she passes you on her way b
ack up?”
Kris’s chuckle tingled down Frankie’s spine as he walked around the desk to lounge against it beside her. “I think she thinks it’s cute.”
Frankie barely held back a laugh. Then she yawned. “Sounds like me.”
Hanna grinned. “See you tomorrow, sleepyhead.”
Frankie offered a small wave as she yawned again and the guard closed the study door behind her.
Then Kris’s hand was sliding around her waist, drawing her in, and she turned to press her cheek against his chest. She shivered at the feel of him even as exhaustion dragged her eyelids closed. She could do this now—lean against him, bury into his strength. Marveling, she buried harder.
“She knows what we did, doesn’t she?” Kris kissed the top of her head, his hand slipping to the rear of her jeans.
“One hundred percent.” Frankie pressed her ass into his palm, a challenge he accepted when he shoved back, pushing her firmly against him. Her lips parted on a light, hot breath, before her mind played a distracted game of hopscotch.
Hanna—friends with Gul—would talk to Gul about her and Kris, assuming he’d have heard about it from Ava—except Ava couldn’t tell Gul because she didn’t know—because Mark didn’t know—
“Oh, God.” Horrified, she drew back and scrubbed a hand over her face. “I told the guards before you’d told Mark and Tommy.”
Kris raised a shoulder, unfazed, his eyes on her mouth. “I’ll tell them in the morning.”
“They’re your brothers. You’re not upset?”
“Upset that you announced our relationship to a room full of people? Are you kidding me?”
Well, when he put it like that.
Blushing, she leaned her forehead against his chin. “I missed touching you.”
“When?” That clever hand of his was getting lower. Sliding over and down her ass, following the center seam of her jeans like a beeline to her core. “During the meeting?”
“Yeah,” she breathed, shifting so he could reach more easily. Eyes closing, she sank against him—more completely than she’d intended. He was just so comfortable . . .
“You’re crashing.” He withdrew his hand, running it softly up her spine, and spoke the words she’d spent years yearning to hear. “I’m taking you to bed.”
Frankie didn’t get a good look at his royal suite. She’d only visited these rooms once before, but she’d been too distracted by Kris’s hurt to take it in. Now, the lights in the wall sconces were dimmed, a barely-there amber glow that cast most of the sitting room into shadow, and as Kris led her through the open double doors to his bedroom, she could hardly make her eyes focus. Not that she needed to see to sense the understated wealth of the bedroom furnishings and the enduring stately luxury weighted in these four walls. She’d have been more comfortable in his old room at the homestead in Sage Haven, with his clothes strewn over the chair and his hat on the side table. But then again, so would he. And they were here now.
By the bed, Kris let go of her hand and faced her with a frown. “Unless you’d prefer your room?”
“Obviously,” she murmured. “The ceiling fan makes a really cool clicking noise and the pillow stuffing has separated into independent states.”
“Great, let’s go there,” he said, and undressed her in smooth movements. Top over her head, bra off and over his shoulder, and then his hands were at her jeans, knuckles pressing low on her stomach as he unbuttoned her. Her body started to tighten and ache despite her exhaustion, and as he knelt to peel the jeans down her legs, she swept her fingers into his hair and star-fished her palm over the crown of his head. She pushed back with a murmur of protest when he tried to rise.
She heard him smile. “As badly as I want to stay on my knees, I intend to be thorough when I get my mouth on you, and you’re not in a position to withstand that right now.”
Hey.
Wait. She’d meant to say that out loud. Hmm. Brain lag. Then she realized she was standing with her eyes closed, swaying between the real world and a thick, hazy dream-state, and had to concede his point. She slid her hand off his head.
“We’ll get back to it,” he said, rising and brushing his lips over hers. Still aching for him, she opened her mouth to catch him in a kiss, but he drew back, murmuring, “Later.” He gave her a gentle push. “Sleep.”
Too tired to be intimidated by the oceanic bed, she crawled beneath the water-soft green covers and collapsed onto her side. “Your bed’s nice,” she spoke against the sheet, dully noting it held his woodland scent.
He slid in close beside her. His body was warm—stripped as bare as hers. “It’s nicer now.”
Hardly knowing what she intended, she reached out and ended up with her hand on his face. After a moment, she felt his cheek lift under her palm and he said, “This is slightly less nice,” and peeled it off, lacing his fingers through hers.
“Night.” She managed to say that one out loud.
“Frankie,” he said quietly, tugging at her drifting mind. “Would you give me your brass knuckles?”
The question sank in slowly. Confused, she cracked an eye open. “What?”
He was watching her, lashes heavy in the dark.
“Why?” she asked.
“Not to use on anyone.” He lifted his other hand, brushing it softly over her forehead and into her hair. Lulled, she closed her eyes.
Not to use. To dispose of, then. If she was truly to stand by his side, she couldn’t be tied to her past. This can be our secret. And the best-kept secrets left no evidence behind, symbolic or otherwise.
Smart man. Asking when she was too exhausted to suffer the full impact of his request. It wasn’t just loss at having to hand over the only keepsake of her childhood—it was the indignity and identity-deep humiliation of having to shed her upbringing in order to be worthy of a life with him. Her truth literally wasn’t good enough. Most of the time, she wanted nothing to do with her past, yet something inside her gave a significant tug of resistance, resenting that he was doing what had to be done. No. That part of her almost refused. Those knuckles saved me.
Then he ran his fingers over her scalp and sleep reached out, curling around her like a sun-warmed cat, and she found herself surrendering with a fuzzy, “Sure,” into the new, tender space between them.
She’d miss the reminder of what she’d overcome.
But she preferred where she was going.
11
The next morning, she woke to Kris whispering her name. Gentle, like the stroke of his calloused hand down her back; disorientating, like waking up in her best friend’s bed and not needing to freak out about it. Her lungs filled on a large breath, and with her eyes still closed, she stretched out on her stomach in the cool linen sheets. One leg straightened sideways, aiming to stick over the far side, but her toes moved through nothing but deliciously soft bedding.
Frowning, she pulled her head out from under the pillow and blinked at Kris. “You on the edge?”
He was propped up on an elbow facing her, watching her, his hair a mess. Shirtless, with the sheets pushed low over his hips, he was a sight of muscles and radiant sexual potency.
She shivered as he continued stroking her back.
“The edge of something,” he said, with a slow half-smile. “Not the bed.”
“Huh.” She looked around. The mattress was endless. “Bigger than a king.”
“Palatial?”
“Huh.” She settled down again with a groan. The drapes were still closed, but a pale predawn light was seeping around the edges. “What’s time?”
“Five-thirty.” His fingertips reached the small of her back and started tracing circles, casual and tender. “I didn’t know what time you had to be up.”
“Usually briefing six o’clock.” She wasn’t awake enough for full sentences. “Don’t today because last night.”
“So, what you’re saying is,” he said, his low voice seeming to caress between her thighs. “We have time.”
Insides twisting
, she nestled deeper onto her front. “Maybe.”
Those lashes dipped to her body, then back up. He looked surprised. “Are you hiding from me?”
“Maybe,” she said again, tucking her chin down to rest on her shoulder. She hadn’t exactly concealed her modesty the night before, but that had been a heated moment. “It’s just . . . this is new.”
“Then let’s make it familiar.” He raked his hair off his forehead, elbow at the perfect angle to show off his rounded bicep. “Would you rather go back to sleep before breakfast,” he said, “or work up an appetite together?”
Biting her lip, her gaze drifted down.
He was hard, straining against the sheet. A significant early-morning proposition.
“Yours if you want it,” he murmured, and her body melted like the thick wax of a candle.
She hummed, pretending to consider.
“Last night.” The sheets rustled as he shifted. “I’ll never forget.”
She let her gaze continue drifting over him. “You mean the part where I was raised as a con artist, the part where you got rid of my father, the part where anarchists probably want you dead, or the part against the wall in my office?”
“As far as memories go, the office wall has the most staying power.”
Her lips quirked.
“You can go back to sleep, if you want,” he said, and despite being rock hard and ready down there, he sounded like he meant it.
“You’re not fussed either way?”
His voice dropped. “That’s not what I said.”
She pretended not to hear. “You could take me or leave me?”
“Take you.” The words were rough. “Ask me to take you.”
Lust ran a finger over her abdomen and she shivered. “Kris?”
He inched closer and practically growled, “Yes?”
“Will you take me,” she said, and as desire curved like an arched spine across his lips, she finished, “to breakfast?”
He made a noise of pain, but his eyes were sparkling. “Not yet.”
Her muscles loosened, aroused, as something flitted from her chest to her belly and back again. Light, an airborne sensation that darted and tumbled, wingtips grazing her sides and gliding up her sternum. No barriers in its flight path this morning, nothing to knock it out of her skies, and it swooped low in her tummy when Kris held her stare and arrowed up to nest in her heart when he smiled just for her.