About the Authors

RILEY PINE is the combined forces of two contemporary romance writers as you’ve never seen them before. Expect delicious, dirty and scandalous swoons. To stay up to date with all things Riley Pine head on over to rileypine.com, for newsletters, book details and more!

JACKIE ASHENDEN writes dark, emotional stories with alpha heroes who’ve just got the world to their liking only to have it blown wide apart by their kick-ass heroines. She lives in Auckland, New Zealand, with her husband, the inimitable Dr Jax, two kids and two rats. When she’s not torturing alpha males and their gutsy heroines she can be found drinking chocolate martinis, reading anything she can lay her hands on, wasting time on social media, or being forced to go mountain biking with her husband. To keep up to date with Jackie’s new releases and other news sign up to her newsletter at jackieashenden.com.

Also By Riley Pine

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Also By Jackie Ashenden

If you liked Ruined, why not try

Sweet Thing by Nicola MarshMy Royal Temptation by Riley PineMake Me Want by Katee Robert

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My Royal Temptation

Riley Pine

Ruined

Jackie Ashenden

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09580-8

MY ROYAL TEMPTATION & RUINED

My Royal Temptation © 2018 Riley Pine Ruined © 2018 Jackie Ashenden

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Authors

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

My Royal Temptation

Back Cover Text

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Ruined

Back Cover Text

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

My Royal Temptation

Riley Pine

Some princes play nice...

This one plays very, very naughty...

Being the Crown Prince means extravagant luxury for Nikolai. Fast cars and faster women. Matchmaker Kate Winter’s job is to chain him down to one woman. Only, Kate’s way too tempting—igniting his blood and something far deeper. But Nikolai’s a prince...and his heart is the one crown jewel she can’t have!

“DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author

CHAPTER ONE

Nikolai

IT’S NEVER IDEAL to wake up after a one-night stand to find a European boxing champion glaring at your bare ass. It’s worse if the pissed-off guy in question happens to be a childhood best friend.

Scratch that...former best friend.

“Top of the morning.” I wryly yank the hotel’s satin sheet over my waist. A red thong is bunched on top of the unmade covers, right where I removed it with my teeth around midnight.

If looks could kill, Christian Wurtzer, Baron of Rosegate, would smite me faster than a lightning bolt hurled by an avenging god.

“You really are a first-rate bastard, aren’t you, Nikolai?” He balled his hands into meaty fists, a useless gesture, because here in the Kingdom of Edenvale, it’s illegal to strike a member of the royal family.

And as Prince Nikolai, third of his name, Duke of Westcraven, heir to the throne of Edenvale and our country’s eminent blue-blooded bad boy, I fall square into the “no hitting allowed” category. Rules are often a nuisance in my world, but that particular clause has proved beneficial since reaching my maturity, especially in predicaments regarding the opposite sex.

“Bastard?” I scrub the morning scruff prickling my jaw with a yawn. “But I’m the mirror image of my dear sovereign father, and don’t forget that my poor queen mother was forced to squeeze me out in front of an official court representative to ensure my legitimacy.” There is a sharp localized pain in the vicinity of my heart; the twinge always accompanies a mention of my long-dead mother. She died bringing my youngest brother, Damien, into the world, the first life that banished asshole ever took.

“You’ve gone too far this time.” Christian’s warning growl yanks my attention back to the present moment. “This was my sister. You compromised her virtue.”

Not the optimal moment to observe that he could give the ferocious bear stamped on his family crest a run for its money. Once our people were great hunters, the best swordsmen in Europe, as feared as the Vikings of old. Edenvale might be a small, landlocked kingdom, but we harbored a reputation as ruthless, lethal warriors. These days we’re better known for luxury casinos, discreet banks and glamorous mountain hideaways. Edenvale is a high-altitude playground for the rich, the famous and those aspiring to the same.

“What will I tell my parents?” He rakes a hand through his blond hair, pacing the plush carpet. “Catriona is ruined. Her prospects for a marriage alliance are now nonexistent.”

“Come, come. Ask any trust-fund baby in Ibiza. It’s common knowledge that your precious little sister gave up her virtue well before I sunk my flag.” If his family schemed to marry Cat off as a virgin, they lost that chance years ago. Typical Rosegate sentiment to attach significance to such an inconsequential thing as a hymen. But they are an old-fashioned people. The regional characteristic might be charming if their morals weren’t so fucking medieval.

Catriona Wurtzer stirs, snoring lightly, her pink lips crooked into a satiated half smile. A hot pulse of lust spreads through my sac. That luscious mouth pouts from the cover of three different high-fashion magazines this month alone, and last night it worked over my cock with such deep-throated skill that the interlude nearly distracted me from this morning’s royal duty.

I roll out of bed and slip on my tuxedo pants—commando—and shrug into my dress shirt, not bothering with the twenty-four-karat-gold cuff links on the nightstand. Catriona likes it rough, and the room was trashed during our sleepover. Those expensive baubles will serve as a more-than-adequate housekeeping tip. It’s time for me to return to the castle.

My father, the king, and my hag of a stepmother, the current queen, have summoned me for a private audience this morning at nine thirty sharp. This rare audience doesn’t mean anything good, which is why I guzzled three-thousand-dollar-a-bottle champagne at a gala benefit before burying myself balls deep into the supermodel who happens to be my best friend’s little sister.

“Your family have been loyal subjects for over two centuries. Based on this valued relationship, I shall issue a royal decree. Huzzah, huzzah. All hail Catriona, the realm’s newest countess.” I can’t resist a smirk as I tack on, “A new title for her trouble.” As if bedding me was a hardship. Which it wasn’t. But what the hell? Let her add a castle to her four orgasms. I’m in a generous mood.

“Too kind, Highness.” Christian nearly chokes on his words. He wants to beat my ass into Luxembourg, but the microstate of Rosegate has long been a disputed territory with Nightgardin, the country to the north and our ancient foe. The powerful Wurtzer family has been allied to mine for generations, and he knows—without reminder—three salient facts:

I’m an asshole, a leopard can’t change his spots, and Edenvale’s small but lethal military is the only thing protecting Rosegate against a Nightgardin power grab.

Revenge is a bitch.

Christian and I attended Swiss boarding school together and shared a dormitory room for five years. I love the guy like family, but he recently racked up too many gambling debts playing high-stakes blackjack. My sources say he decided to pay for them by selling titillating gossip about me to the tabloids. I’m not saying banging his hot sister is payback for his betrayal.

But I’m not saying it isn’t, either.

A muscle twitches deep in his jaw, the same tic that would act up back when he’d pour over his calculus lessons during late-night study sessions. I’m sure he’d love to order me to “do the right thing” and stick a ring on his sister’s finger. But alas, only one of us carries an invitation-only Black Amex card with no preset limits.

Limits are for those who need them. I am no such man.

People can think I’m an arrogant ass all they want. They’re right. But at least I’m a consistent asshole. Fuck with me and I fuck back. No hard feelings. It’s how the people on top stay on top. And I can make it good.

Or I can make it hurt.

For those who beg nicely—I can make it both.

Got to say, being a prince is full of perks in all ways but one—I still answer to the king. It’s not my throne...yet.

I glance in the gilded mirror on my way out the door. Yep, still me. Bed-rumpled jet-black hair, a roguish mouth and gunmetal gray eyes. I clock in at six foot four and possess stamina for days. Last year I came in number one on a list of the world’s sexiest royals. The only thing surprising was that it was the first year it happened. Way I see it, Prince Harry over in jolly old England can eat his ginger heart out.

“For Christ’s sake. Wake up, Catriona,” Christian orders his sister as I exit the room. I outpace the unfolding drama and stride down the hotel hallway, hitting the button on the penthouse’s private elevator. My bodyguard, X, waits in the Rolls. He’s been idling there all night. He’s used to it.

I slide into the back seat without a word.

A language lesson plays on the sound system—Mandarin Chinese. X collects languages like he does medieval knives. Not my first choice for fun, but to each his own.

“To the castle, Sire?” he asks over the intercom, turning off the stereo. I remove my sunglasses from my pocket. Daylight reflects from the snow on the high mountain peaks. My growing headache isn’t in the mood for good weather.

“Home sweet home.” I slather sarcasm on my affirmative and slide on the shades to avoid the summer sun.

As X starts the engine, I reach into the minibar and pluck out a handful of miniature cognac bottles. By the time we cross the moat, I toss the fifth empty on the pile by my feet. But the liquor does jack shit to dull the sharp pain in my gut.

Fine. It was an unforgivable move to fuck my best friend’s little sister—revenge or no—but I’m sure as shit no Prince Charming.

Kate

I spread my hands across my pleated skirt, then think better of it and rest them atop the leather folder that sits on the table. If I wanted to, I could relax, even luxuriate in the high-backed, cushioned chair, no doubt made of the same buttery leather as the folder in front of me. But it’s not exactly easy when you’re sitting at a twenty-foot-long mahogany table in one of many rooms at the Palace Edenvale.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t been here before, but I don’t think a prep-school tour counts the same as an invitation that came hand-delivered by a royal herald. The envelope was even closed with one of those fancy wax seals.

Dear Miss Katherine Winter,

Your presence is requested at Palace Edenvale at 9:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. Please come unattended and plan on clearing your schedule for the remainder of the day. Your audience with the king and queen must be kept private. Tell no one where you are going, and after you’ve been, tell no one what transpires within the palace walls until—should they request your services further—the king, queen and yourself enter into contract.

The royal family appreciates you honoring your duty and complying with the above requests.

I huff out a laugh, which echoes in the empty room. Requests. As if I had any choice once I broke the royal seal. Sure, Your Highnesses, I’ll clear my day. Of course, my illustrious rulers, I’ll keep my visit to the palace a secret. Not because of any damned duty, though. If there is one thing I value, it’s my business and my independence. I am determined to keep the former and as much of the latter as possible, and if that means zipping my lips about my royal audience, fine by me.

There better at least be some sort of monetary compensation for this—this—request. God knows my sister and I need it. Our savings account has dipped into the red with Gran’s mounting medical bills, which has sent my internal stress thermometer in the exact opposite direction.

I glance at the thin gold bracelet on my wrist, an eighteenth-birthday gift from my beloved grandmother, back in happier times. Back when she still remembered my name.

I swallow the threat of tears. This is hardly the time or the place to wallow in my personal woes.

“We won’t lose the apartment.” The words are a mantra. “And we’ll still be able to take care of Gran.”

I figure if I say the words enough, they’ll be true. So I open my mouth once more to repeat the statements, but the conference-room doors part with a whoosh, and my worry fades into the distance as the same formal-looking man who delivered my invitation steps over the threshold and announces my small country’s rulers in a booming voice.

“All rise for His Highness, King Nikolai of Edenvale, and Her Eminence, Queen Adele.”

The herald proclaims the royal couple as if they are entering an arena, and I, of course, shoot to my feet. My first instinct is to bow or curtsy, but neither one of them spares me so much as a passing glance. Yet I’m the only one in the room. I’ve been requested for a private audience with the monarchy, and they don’t even deign to look at me.

Still, I wait for the attendants who trail behind the pair to pull out two chairs at the head of the table. I wait some more as they lower themselves into the plush leather seats. And as I’m about to do the same, a man wearing half a tuxedo bursts through the doors still tucking in his wrinkled dress shirt.

He winks in my direction, flashing a knavish grin before turning his attention to the king and queen.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, checking a nonexistent watch on his wrist. Then he kisses the queen on the cheek while the king, a salt-and-pepper version of the young man, simply gives his son—Prince Nikolai—a pointed look.

While his parents—make that father and stepmother—take residence at the far head of the table, the prince sits across from me and flips open the embossed folder in front of him.

“So,” he says, sprawling in his chair and thumbing through the folder’s contents, “what fire are we putting out this morning?”

He runs a hand through his black hair, and I squirm involuntarily in my seat. Sure, I’ve seen photos of him before. Prince Nikolai’s image has graced the front page of the tabloids almost weekly since he came of age. But that sort of sensationalism has never been my thing. I wasn’t the preteen with pictures of the teen heartthrob prince on my wall. I didn’t wallpaper my computer’s desktop with his devil-may-care smile, no matter how gorgeous he was.

And he was. Even then.

But he was also a grade-A asshole. Even then.

And from the looks of things—from the colorful headlines that always seem to feature Prince Nikolai’s name—it doesn’t seem like anything is changing soon.

Still, when those slate-colored eyes look up from the folder and meet mine, I squirm again. He was handsome in photos and the few times I’ve seen him on television. Not that I watch much of that celebrity crap that’s thrown in the public’s face on a daily basis. But I’m not prepared for my reaction to the prince in the flesh.

He is nothing short of dazzling.

My lungs revolt, unable to take a deep breath even though I need air badly.

And as if it isn’t enough that he has some sort of superpower effect between my legs, I feel my nipples stand at attention against the lace of my bra. Thank God I’d had the forethought to keep my suit jacket buttoned.

“Nikolai—” the queen begins, but the prince holds up a finger as he returns to scanning the contents of the folder—the one I have been waiting for permission to examine myself. Apparently, the rumors are true—stepmother and stepson do not get on as they should. That explains the blatant disrespect.

His shuttered gaze roams the first page, then the second, and several more after that. I watch as his father crosses his arms and humors his son with a look that says no matter what antics the prince displays, the king will have the final word.

Prince Nikolai slams the folder closed and lets out a raucous laugh.

“Please, Nikolai,” the king says, steepling his fingers in front of him. “Do tell us what you find so amusing.”

The queen rests a hand on her husband’s forearm, but the man’s icy gaze remains directed at his son. All I do is stare, my head bobbing like I’m watching a tennis match in slow motion.

The prince narrows his eyes, pinning them on me, and my core tightens in disobedient response.

He takes his sweet time scrutinizing me, the corner of his mouth quirked in a crooked grin. Then he splays his hands on the table, leaning forward so that he’s close enough for me to smell the tang of alcohol on his breath.

“I find it hilarious,” the prince says with an edge to his words, “that you not only expect me to marry but that you think Little Miss Matchmaker-Dot-Com is the one to take care of the job. I mean, why not open me a royal Tinder account and be done with it?”

He has the nerve to sneer at me and my career? Oh, hell no.

Red-hot anger replaces that sensual tightening in my core.

The prince pushes from the table and smooths out his wrinkled shirt. “Father. Stepmother. As always, it’s a pleasure to see you both.” He doesn’t hide his sarcasm.

On instinct, I stand as he rounds the table, my cheeks blazing with repressed fury.

“I—I am not some dot-com organization. My matches are personal, well thought out...” I sputter as it sinks in not only what I’ve been called here to do but that my client is anything but willing.

“Save it, sweetheart,” he says. “I’d sooner fuck you than let you arrange my nuptials.”

The queen gasps, and King Nikolai slams his fist on the table.

“Enough,” the older man says, the finality of his authority dripping from the word. “Benedict is entering the priesthood. Damien is banished. If you do not marry with the intent to produce an heir, the throne falls out of the immediate family and to your cousin Ingrid. You will not fault on your duty.”

The muscle in the prince’s jaw pulses. “That’s right, Father. I’ve had enough.” His penetrating stare, though, stays on me the whole time. That’s when he leans in, hot breath on my cheek. “And you’d enjoy every goddamn second of it,” he whispers. “The word enough won’t even exist in your vocabulary.”

He bows toward his visibly shaken parents before making his dramatic exit.

I give myself a mental pat on the back for at least believing the stories.

The prince is a grade-A asshole.

My soaked panties, on the other hand, apparently did not receive the memo.

Perhaps they’re waiting for one with the royal seal.

CHAPTER TWO

Nikolai

“MARRIAGE? THAT’S IT, Father has lost his goddamn mind,” I mutter, ducking into the unobtrusive staircase, the quickest escape route out of the palace. Two floors down a young servant in a black dress and white apron takes one look at me and nearly drops the silver tray she carries, one laden with teapots, fine china and six different cakes. My mood is so foul that I ignore her alarmed squeal and don’t even smooth the situation over with a flirtatious wink.

She must have been assigned catering duty for the ambush upstairs, the one where my father invoked the ancient laws of our realm.

Sweat breaks out on my hairline. A sour taste fills my mouth.

My twenty-ninth birthday is just around the corner.

I am the heir to the crown.

The Royal Marriage Decree of 1674 declared that the Edenvale heir must wed before sundown on his or her twenty-ninth birthday or their claim is null and void. Plus, an Edenvale heir had to marry someone of aristocratic blood. My future bride doesn’t have to be a citizen of my country, but she does need to be nobility. Other than that, the requirements are simple: free consent.

Sounds easy enough. Except for the part where I’m not the marrying kind.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and draw a lung-searing breath before pushing through the exit that leads to the castle grounds.

Of course I know about the marriage decree. I memorized Edenvale proclamations and laws alongside my ABCs. But this is the twenty-first century. I never dared believe that Father would enforce that arcane law any more than he would the one about how no high ministers could enter the palace wearing purple, or how hunting on royal lands was a hangable offense.

Don’t even get me started on the decree prohibiting anal sex.

Hell, I tapped the back door of a hotel heiress in the castle’s highest tower last week. Not something I normally do, but she offered, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to turn it down. Not my favorite position, but sex is like pizza in Naples. Even if it’s not great, it’s still damn good.

The castle grounds are perfectly manicured with hedges cut into topiaries of rabbits and swans. Father enjoys indulging his whimsical side.

The morning sun scalds my neck.

“Sire, Sire, please, wait!” a woman cries behind me. Then she mutters under her breath how hard it is to run in heels.

My molars grind with enough force that it’s a miracle they don’t shatter. I’ve heard that lilting voice before—the auburn-haired woman from the matchmaking service that my father hired.

Marriage decree aside, this situation—them hiring a matchmaking service—is the biggest insult of all. As if I need any goddamn help finding a willing woman.

“Sire!”

I should wait. Chivalry and all that. But remember the part about how I’m no Prince Charming?

I veer into the maze, kicking at stones in the gravel path. Fuck being a gentleman. I turn left, then right, then left again. The walls surrounding me are twelve feet high and covered in leaves. This maze might be the largest in Europe, but it was my childhood playground. I always know the way out. Time to ditch this tenacious matchmaker and figure out a plan to avoid getting tied in unholy matrimony.

That’s when I hear it.

A snap, quickly followed by a sound like someone trying not to cry out.

Shit.

She’s fallen over.

Not a surprise. I caught a glimpse of her precarious five-inch stilettos when she crossed her legs upstairs in the castle hall and this path is rocky and uneven.

I also caught an eyeful of a toned calf that connected to a perfectly curving thigh. That was the best part of the meeting. Before I glanced at the folder on the table and read the gold-embossed title: Happy Endings Matchmaking Services: Making Dreams a Reality.

A cool mountain breeze brushes my face. I pause. Debating. I want to keep going. I even take a step. It’s not like I asked her to give chase. She saw that I didn’t need her advice. That I didn’t want her professional services. Yet she insisted on pursuing me of her own free will. This is her own fault. I owe the woman—a total stranger—nothing.

The image of that exquisite creamy thigh flashes behind my eyes, this time draped over my shoulder.

Okay. Correction. I don’t want her in a professional capacity.

My shoulders slump. No matter what my instincts demand, I can’t abandon an injured woman alone in the maze.

Before I know it, I’m backtracking. It takes less than thirty seconds to find her.

She’s kicked off that lethal-looking shoe and sits rubbing a swelling ankle. Her toes are painted a glossy classic red.

Okay, damn. I like that.

Her lips are flawless, painted in exactly the same shade.

I like that even better.

I’d like it best streaking my shaft.

My cock twitches in agreement.

Fuck. This matchmaker—and maddeningly sexy woman—is the enemy. But try telling that to my asshole dick. Sometimes an overactive libido comes with serious drawbacks.

Then her gaze fixes on my face, and with one look at those tear-filled baby blues, my brain fucking flatlines.

Kate

It takes everything for me to hold my prince’s fixed stare, not to wince at the white-hot pain in my ankle. But there is no way I’m letting this guy—prince or otherwise—get the best of me.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Of course not.” I glance at my ivory skirt, the side slit ripped even higher. I’m also sure my ass is one big grass stain. And let’s not even discuss the hair. I’d gone for professional with the French twist, but now my auburn waves hang in my face, which is probably for the best. His steely gaze is too close.

“Just—show me the way out,” I say, attempting to push myself up, but as soon as I put pressure on my bare foot, my knees buckle and I almost hit the ground again.

Almost. Because Nikolai Lorentz, Prince of Edenvale and heir to the throne, catches me.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You are hurt.”

“And you smell like you hit a limousine minibar,” I say, trying to cover my reaction to his hands on me with disdain.

But my breath still quickens. He carries me with a concern I can feel in every nerve of my body.

“It was a Rolls, but you’re very perceptive, Miss—”

“Winter,” I say, having no choice but to throw my arms around his neck for purchase, my broken shoe still dangling from my fingers.

“Aha,” he says, that devilish grin taking over his features. “Have you read Romeo and Juliet? Doesn’t Juliet ask what’s in a name?” He begins to walk.

My cheeks grow hot, and the tips of his fingers—his palm where it touches the bare skin of my thigh—sends sparks right through me.

I clear my throat. “You read Shakespeare?” I ask, though it’s obvious.

“You’re as icy as your name implies.”

I huff out a breath and push as far from him as I can while the rogue still has me in his arms.

“I’m no such thing! You—you’re the one who likened my services to a dating website. My work is nuanced and relies on personal metrics and psychology, thank you very much. You’re also the one who just cost me a day’s work. So pardon me if I’m not exactly warming to your famous charm.”

He stops dead in his tracks. We’re still in the maze, and I can’t tell if we’re any closer to making it out of here or if he’s taken us deeper.

His eyes dart in every direction, as if he’s checking for intruders, before they land on mine. Stone gray and burning with intent, I can’t look away if I try.

“I will not marry,” he says, his voice cool and even. “Is that understood?”

I nod. “And I will not walk away from this job.”

“Then I guess we’re at an impasse.”

The air between us is warm, charged with the mingling of our breaths. His skin against mine sizzles. My head tells me that everything I’m feeling is wrong, but the physical need brewing inside me throbs at my core.

I haven’t been with a man since my fiancé, Jean-Luc, died BASE jumping in Alaska. He was the love of my life, but he loved the thrill of adrenaline more than me. Afterward, I joined my big sister Madeline’s business to devote my life to what I was denied: a happy ending.

It had been two long, careful years of self-denial and occasionally my own hand. Before that it had only ever been Jean-Luc.

But the hand against me now is big, strong and unfamiliar. All it would take is his fingers sliding an inch more, and he’d feel that need, wet and pulsing.

He swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob. That’s all it takes to let me know that whatever this is, it’s not only me.

Maybe this is what it feels like to live in the moment, take a risk, something I never let myself do because I had to be careful for both of us. I had to move in with Madeline to save on rent. Never have I let myself simply want.

But this stranger’s hands on me are warm. Strong. And for a second I imagine what they could do. It’s intoxicating, this growing need and the possibility of satisfying it right here and now. I feel drunk and squirm in his grasp, hoping he’ll simply think I’m readjusting myself in his arms, but I miscalculate and my lips brush against his.

He sucks in a breath, and this makes me grin.

“I don’t like you,” I say. Truer words have never been spoken.

“Likewise,” he answers, his voice low and rough.

All my life I’ve played it safe, and where did it get me? Lost and alone. But this man exudes raw power, a power that draws me into his orbit, a pull stronger than gravity. I feel myself inching toward some sort of internal cliff, and the woman I thought I was relinquishes control.

“You said you’d sooner fuck me than let me arrange your nuptials.”

He nods. “I certainly did.”

I lean close to his ear, nip at his lobe, and step across the line of comfort I’ve hidden behind for far too long and whisper, “It’s sooner.”

I expect a savage response, but instead I feel him adjust his hands, and then I gasp as his thumb hits the crease of my panties.

That’s all it takes. I leap off the cliff with a whimper of need and straight into pure pleasure.

He growls.

“You’re fucking soaked.” He drops to his knees, still holding me like I’m precious cargo, and lays me gently on the grass. “And I want to drink every last sweet drop.”

Without another word, he hikes my skirt up and slides my panties down my thighs, over my knees and then off. I feel them snag on the heel of my remaining shoe but don’t care. He shoves them in the pocket of his pants, and I know I’m not getting them back. The thought makes me giddy, and I writhe under his gaze.

“Now, Nikolai,” I say, and he levels me with his grin.

The next thing I know, my hands are tangled in that jet-black hair as he licks the length of my folds from bottom to top until his tongue swirls around my swollen clit.

I moan and buck against him as he sucks me between his lips. I relish the feel of his stubble against my thighs, the slight pain only heightening my pleasure.

“Use fingers,” I command, and he obeys immediately.

One finger plunges deep while he continues to take his fill with his mouth. Then a second joins the first, and my vision clouds with stars. My body bucks with shivers of reaction.

“God, I wish you could fuck me,” I say, daring to voice what I long for—what I’ve gone without for what seems like an eternity. I try and fail not to whimper as he reaches a spot inside me that almost makes me black out.

Two years. It’s been two freaking years since a man has touched me. The thought—coupled with his hands on me, in me—threatens to unleash something more than just the adrenaline rush, but I swallow the impending wave of emotion. Because that’s not what this is about. These feelings aren’t for the prince.

He peeks from between my legs and slides his fingers from my aching pussy. He takes care in licking each one clean.

“You said it was sooner, sweetheart, and I’m always prepared for sooner.” From the pocket that does not hold my ruined panties, he pulls a foil packet and holds it up for me to see. “Your wish is my command.”

CHAPTER THREE

Nikolai

HER TASTE IS ADDICTIVE—honey, salt and rainwater. I hate the idea of matchmaking. But matchmakers? I take my time drinking in the woman panting on the grass, her conservative blouse opened a button too far, exposing delicate white lace, creamy skin and lush, womanly curves.

Yes. I believe I could learn to like matchmakers.

“Sire. Hurry.” She stares through a fringe of dark, thick lashes. Her red lipstick is smudging off her plump lower lip. I’m responsible for that, and the fact draws my balls tight against my engorged cock, clearly outlined through the panel of my tux pants. My muscles ripple with suppressed need.

I fold my arms, making an elaborate show of regarding the condom foil, and set my face into my trademark arrogant sneer. It’s my mask. The one the public expects a prince to wear, especially a prince with the world at his feet. It comes easy as instinct, which is good because I am not used to being unsettled. And this woman is—unsettling.

“Interesting business you run.” I lower my voice to a sensual drawl.

“No, not mine. I mean... I am not... It’s not mine...um... It’s my sister’s...her business,” she babbles, skimming one hand over the ragged tear in her prim skirt, the one currently offering me an eyeful of the thighs I’d feasted on. Her eyes darken, pupils dilating at my blatant appraisal.

“And do you provide these services—” I clear my throat and raise an insinuating eyebrow “—to every client?”

A dusky rose color flushes the skin of her throat as she catches my insinuation. She’s pissed. Angry and turned on, my favorite combination in a woman. Hate fucking has all of the fun and none of the responsibility.

“Of course not,” she snaps.

I dip a finger between my lips and give it a long lazy suck. The muscles in my neck cord. It still tastes like her. My mouth waters. “Mmm-hmm. Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Damn it.” A tear spills from the corner of one gorgeous eye, trickles along her high cheekbone. “I don’t know what came over me.”

My hands twitch to comfort her. Christ. I did not see that response coming. I should regroup, charm her thighs open and plunge into her from behind, working her fancy hairdo and composure loose in brutal doggy-style strokes. Bet it would make her bum ankle feel a lot better than two ibuprofens and an ice pack.

So why am I pocketing the condom? Or brushing a wayward lock of hair on her forehead.

“Look. It’s been...” She flinches from my touch with a bitter laugh. “A while. And you...well, you’re royal sex on a stick. It’s a lot for a normal person to take in.” She closes the gaping button on her shirt. “An error in judgment that won’t happen again.”

Looks like I’m not the only one who slaps on a mask when the going gets tough. In a blink of an eye my feisty sex kitten has retracted her claws and is now back to Miss Prim and Proper.

“Pity,” I rumble, trying not to appear disconcerted. “Errors in judgment happen to be my specialty.” I take my time adjusting my cock, the proud, hard length straining inside my pants.

The point of her pink tongue makes a quick appearance, dabs her lower lip. The kitten reemerges for a second. “You do seem quite...specialized.”

“And you have once again proven my long-tested theory correct.”

“Which is?”

I tap the tip of her nose with my index finger. “Inside every good girl is a bad girl waiting to get out.”

She fingers her pearl choker. “I’m not going to argue with you there.” Her laugh is high-pitched—nervous. “I’ve always been the good girl. Oral in a royal maze is a first and so, so not me.”

I believe her. She looks like an angel. I might have sucked her sweet clit, but those doe-like eyes speak to nothing but innocence. That’s when I’m slammed by a vision of a woman naked in my bed, long legs spread wide, hiding nothing, each pink honeyed fold exposed for my pleasure. Her delicate wrists and ankles bound by thick ropes of pearl.

I blink. My shoulders go rigid. I’ve never invited a woman into my royal bed. The west wing of the palace is my personal sanctuary. No one is welcome there save for my brother Benedict. Not my dalliances. And not my father or stepmother. It’s the only place that is just for me. Where I can be—me.

The world gets my dick. No one has a right to my soul.

“This was obviously a mistake,” she murmurs to herself before rising unsteadily. “We got off on the wrong foot.”

“You got off on the wrong foot.” I nod at her bare right foot, the one on which she can barely place any weight, and I offer her my arm. She takes it, but not before rolling her eyes. “We got off on more than that,” I add. My cock jumps like a dog hungry for a treat. “At least you did.”

She sniffs. Who’d imagine this ice queen could melt into such a passionate, bright, fiery lover?

Interesting.

She limps but is able to hold her own now. I like to think it has something to do with my talent between her legs, that my skillful tongue has a healing effect. I guide her out of the maze. Grass stains mar her perfectly tailored ivory skirt, a visible reminder of what we just did, and just like that, I’m hard as a rock again.

“From the tabloids,” she says, “it sounds like you won’t suffer for long. Tell me, how long has it been since you were inside a woman?”

I shrug with studied nonchalance. “Mouth or pussy?”

She gasps as my words sink in.

I pretend to count my fingers. “Six hours for pussy. Seven for her mouth. Give or take fifteen minutes. And if her brother hadn’t barged in on us this morning, I’m guessing those numbers would be significantly smaller.”

“You’re a pig.” Her brows slam together. “A rutting, depraved boar.”

“No. I’m a prince.” I draw myself to full height. “Your prince.”

“And I’m here in service to my king.” She juts out her jaw, gaze unbowed, refusing to cave at my power play. “Sire, you are my client. It’s been royally commanded by your father and my liege lord, which means we need to get to work. I will return tomorrow to do your personality profile.”

“My what?”

“It’s protocol for all our clients.” There is a note of finality in her clipped tone. She means business.

I click my tongue, half annoyed and half impressed. “You’ll never marry me off, sweetheart.”

“Tell that to my matchmaking success rate of 100%.” She offers a smug smile. “See you tomorrow, Highness.”

Once out of the maze, she releases my arm and continues alone. But she’s still injured, so her haughty exit falls flat, even as she takes off her other shoe. I bite back a laugh before realizing the joke is on me. Because guess who still has a hard-on the size of the Matterhorn?

Still, I should follow her to the castle lest she goes to the tabloids with some trumped-up story about how poorly she was treated on palace property.

“I am fine to proceed alone,” she says, reading my thoughts. An unsettling experience.

“I’m afraid I must insist,” I say, taking the few steps needed to catch up to her.

“Please.” Her composure slips a notch. The mask not fully secure. “I—I need a moment alone.” A sign this unexpected dalliance affected her, as well.

She turns and makes her way toward the palace gates, clutching her heels, only the slightest limp still evident. Miss Winter has spunk. I’ll give her that.

A woman like this could bring a less controlled man to his knees. Good thing that I’m no such man. This angel is more dangerous than any devil.

Kate

I don’t care if it hurts to walk. Nothing is more important than distance. And by distance I mean space between me and Nikolai Lorentz.

The only problem? When I slip through the gates onto the main grounds, I can’t get to the front of the castle without swimming the moat.

Good Lord. He lives in a palace. With a moat. And I almost slept with him in a freaking maze. I begged the prince of our realm to fuck me as I lay in the grass with my skirt hiked up over my hips. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t fuck anybody. I have lovely, meaningful sex with men who love and care for me—and who put a ring on it. At least, I did have that once.

As I contemplate my next move, an older man—probably in his late thirties—approaches me from a nearby garden.

“Pardon me, Miss Winter, but I have been instructed to take you home.”

I shake my head. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. If you could point me toward the most direct route to the main road, I’m sure I can get a taxi.”

I look behind me, expecting to see Nikolai approaching, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“Miss, there is no direct route to the main road other than through the palace.” He looks me up and down. “And I am assuming you’d like to make a discreet exit?”

I sigh and cling to the last shred of my dignity, holding my head high even as my just-been-finger-fucked hair falls into my face.

“I’m quite content walking through the palace...” But I trail off as I note myself gesturing with my shoes in my hands—as threads from my torn skirt tickle my thigh—and I immediately deflate.

“So...you were instructed to take me home?”

The man nods, the hints of silver in his dark hair glinting in the sun, and it’s only now that I realize his impeccably tailored suit, his straightened spine and hands clasped in front of his hips. His jaw is chiseled and his brown eyes are dark and knowing. He is not royalty. I can tell that much. But he exudes an undisputable authority nonetheless.

“Yes, Miss. His Royal Highness the Prince texted me with the order to see you home safely. I can lead you through the kitchen and out the servants’ exit to avoid any unpleasant encounters upon your departure.”

I hold out my arms, shoes dangling from my index fingers. “I guess I’m not in any shape to run into the king and queen again, especially if I want to keep this job.”

The man doesn’t even crack a smile but instead offers me a single nod.

“This way, Miss.” He motions toward the garden from which he came.

I limp in his direction, trying not to read into the prince’s gesture of making sure I get home safely. There is no way Nikolai Lorentz cares what happens between us from here on out other than him opposing my very being here.

“You can call me Kate,” I say, once I reach his side and he holds out an arm. I grab both of my shoes with my right hand and take his arm with my left—not because I need to but because it would seem rude to decline.

I breathe in sharply as my hand grips muscle so tight and corded that I can feel it through his suit.

“As you wish, Miss Kate,” he says, and I roll my eyes.

“Maybe you could drop the Miss altogether? Makes me sound like a prim-and-proper governess.” I let out a nervous laugh. What just transpired between me and the heir apparent was not behavior becoming of a governess. Or the me I thought I knew, for that matter.

“As you wish, Kate,” he says, his voice devoid of any hint of emotion.

“You got a name?” I ask as he pushes open a door hidden in the brick of the palace’s side wall.

“His Highness calls me X,” he says, ushering me inside a small corridor. The servants’ quarters, no doubt.

“What do your friends and family call you?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “I have neither, Miss—my apologies—Kate.”

My stomach sinks at the thought as he leads me through a white six-panel door. But I forget the heartbreaking answer just as quickly as we enter an enormous kitchen and my senses are assaulted in the best possible way. The aroma of garlic wafts in our direction, and my mouth immediately waters. I skipped breakfast this morning because—hello—I was ordered to the palace. Who can eat with that kind of pressure? And now that I’d been satiated in a whole other way entirely, I was famished. There’s also something sweet in the air, a richness I can almost taste.

“Would you like one for the road, Miss?” A woman covered in a white apron spins from where she’s plating macarons from a baking pan onto a three-tiered plate.

I swallow before I start to drool. “Please,” I say, and she grabs a small saucer from beneath the island where she works and serves me five of the delicious-looking confections.

“Our secret,” she says with a wink and a smile, handing my bounty to X. The man simply nods and continues piloting me toward the exit.

The next thing I know, I’m sitting in the luxury of a Rolls-Royce, a plate of macarons in my lap, and an ice pack on my ankle—also, according to X, ordered by the prince. But the older man speaks no more as he pulls free of the palace gates, out onto the main thoroughfare and toward the apartment I share with my sister in the heart of town.

As I sit here, the breeze of the car’s open windows hits me right up the bottom of my skirt, and I’m reminded of the fact that not only am I going commando, but also my underwear is bunched in the Prince of Edenvale’s pocket.

Just swallow me up, world, because I am too much of a cliché to exist. I can see the tabloid headline now:

Royal Touch Wakes Celibate Woman’s Libido

It isn’t that I’ve ignored the whole libido thing. I have an active imagination and a pretty stellar showerhead. It’s not like I’ve gone completely without. But the first time I go with is not supposed to be with my future king, and it certainly isn’t supposed to unleash a torrent of pent-up emotion, not when a pint of chocolate gelato is nowhere in sight.

I close my eyes and try to erase the image of him grinning before he went down on me, but it turns out that eyes open, closed, crossed or whatever still draw the same picture—Nikolai Lorentz pleasuring me and taking pleasure in doing so.

And then when I’d called our little maze dalliance a mistake, he’d ordered his driver to take care of me—right down to a ride in his private car and the cool pack soothing the throb in my twisted ankle.

Maybe I am a cliché, something I never thought I’d be. But then again, maybe Prince Nikolai, Duke of Westcraven, isn’t what I’d had in mind, either.

I pop a golden lemon macaron into my mouth and moan with pleasure.

Nope. Not what I had in mind at all.

CHAPTER FOUR

Nikolai

NOTHING LIKE A scalding hot shower after a night of rough sex with your former best friend’s little sister, followed by impromptu cunnilingus in the palace maze with the matchmaker bankrolled by your father to find your future queen.

It’s been a strange twenty-four hours.

I rock my head back. Forget a standard showerhead. I custom designed my own personal waterfall. My groan bounces off the slate tiles as my tense muscles relax in the spray. Shit yeah. This feels good. Almost as good as it did to be on my knees between Miss Winter’s sweet thighs. I chuckle to myself. Me. On my knees before a woman. Can’t remember the last time that happened.

A visceral memory flies in from the outer reaches of my subconscious and slams my gut with the intensity of an earth-ending meteor.

There once had been a woman who brought me to my knees. But I wasn’t much past a boy then. Now I’m all man with a kingdom that’s mine for the taking.

I grab a bottle of my favorite Tom Ford body wash and pour a generous dollop in my palm. There’s one thing that will relax me. Using the wash as lube, I thrust my cock into my hand in slow, lazy strokes before upgrading to my tried-and-true fist-over-fist technique, my length enough that one hand can never do the job. My ass clenches as I give over to the build.

Here’s a fact. No woman, no matter how expert a lover, can touch a guy better than he touches himself. I’m captain of my own fucking ship. Yet here I am, imagining innocent, angel-faced Kate and her beautiful hands—small, delicate, manicured. I picture her grabbing me at the root, and I let out a guttural groan. What is it about this stranger that drives me crazy enough for her to invade my thoughts like this? Every nerve ending in my shaft is ready to burst into flames.

That’s when I remember.

I still have her panties in my pocket. I step out of the shower, not giving two shits about getting the floor wet, and yank them from my tuxedo pants. The delicate ivory is pale in my tanned hand. On instinct, I lift them to my face and inhale the elegant French lace. My eyes roll. Beguiling. I’m a goddam pussy connoisseur, and this is the equivalent to uncorking a bottle of Château Mouton Rothschild 1945. I keep a case in my wine cellar, each bottle valued at twenty-five thousand euros.

I clutch the matchmaker’s panties in one hand and step back in the shower, working over my cock with increased urgency as her scent overpowers my senses. Sweat breaks out across my chest and is washed away in a torrent of steamy water.

There are those who get intimidated by winery tasting rooms, but it’s simple. A good vintage is composed of four things: fruits, acids, tannins and sugars. Young tannins can make the mouth pucker, leave your tongue dry. Left over time it increases in complexity, covering your palate with a signature silkiness. My palate is exceptional, able to identify a vintage by the subtle yet complex notes of coffee, chocolate, blackberry and spice.

Women are much the same. Each with her own nuances. And Kate Winter is in a class all her own. Fruity, with a hint of cherry, but also darker, more intriguing notes, such as to be found in a rich forest floor. She is the fruit of the earth, and I’m starving for the harvest.

A few more strokes and I’m poised on the edge, and then I pitch over, shattering into the most mind-numbing orgasm in a decade. For a moment, I wonder if I’m struck blind. Then the world returns, and I wash my hands, turn off the spray and grab a towel for my waist.

It takes me five minutes to regain my breath. After an intense, almost holy, experience like that, there is only one place to go—my brother, the saint.

* * *

Benedict will enter the priesthood. As a virgin.

Fucking crazy, right? My father bursts with pride at the fact he has a son destined for the priesthood and St. Egbert Abbey. To me, it’s a fate worse than hell, and besides, it’s more pressure. Benedict’s put our bloodline at risk given that I’m the heir and he’s the spare. My youngest brother, Damien, doesn’t factor into the equation as he is banished and thereby removed from the line of succession. If I screw up here, the kingdom could pass from my family to my cousin Ingrid. She is a nice enough girl, and I don’t mean that dismissively. She is ten years old.

I shove on a pair of sweatpants, lace up my running shoes and catch my reflection in the window. I look like a debauched lord of the underworld.

Reflections on my banished brother Damien spiral me into a brooding darkness. The latest rumors claim that he resides half-time in London and the rest over in America. He could build a hermetically sealed tower in Madagascar for all I care, and it would still be too goddamn close. My family is like the setup to a bad joke: a commitment-phobic heir to the throne, a virgin almost-priest, and a black sheep all walk into a bar...

I jog through the quiet palace, past row after row of ancient ancestors appraising me from gilded frames. Do they wonder if I’ll ever measure up? If I’ll fulfill my legacy? Damn these black thoughts to hell. I get outside and run until my lungs are near bursting. On the edge of the grounds, near the Royal River, is the tower where my brother lives. He calls it his sanctuary, and he’s not wrong. Poor bastard might not use his cock, but he has peace. And he deserves it because I don’t say bastard lightly.

There isn’t conclusive proof, but there are many rumors that my mother took a brief liking to the head of her secret-service detail while my father was at a UN summit. The only evidence? My brother’s piercing green eyes—neither my mother’s nor my father’s.

I try the door.

“It’s locked, Sir,” a formal male voice calls out.

I turn to find X there, watching me with his usual impenetrable expression. One would think that after years of him appearing by my side without setting off so much as a floorboard creak, I would be used to his stealth. But it still unnerves me every time.

“I’m afraid Mr. Benedict was called away on urgent business.”

“Where to?” I ask.

“Vatican City.”

I laugh without humor. “Of course.”

Benedict is the only person that I count a true friend, one I can trust without question unlike recent experiences with Christian. And as far as I’m concerned, Benedict is my only brother. If I ever were to cross paths with Damien again, I know Benedict would pass me the knife to gut him.

One happy family.

Looks like I’m not going to be able to get any advice tonight. The only thing I can do is pop an Ambien and hope for a dreamless sleep.

Because tomorrow morning, I’ll be facing Kate Winter again. And this time she won’t be spreading her legs and offering me a sample of her nectar. She’ll be presenting me with a dossier of potential wives.

Kate

It’s déjà vu the next morning when I look out my apartment window to find X and the Rolls-Royce waiting against the curb. Maddie peers over my shoulder.

“I still don’t get it,” she says, and I can hear the disappointment lacing her tone. “Why did they specifically ask for you rather than me? It’s my agency, after all.”

Now that the contract has been signed, I can tell my sister everything. Which is good because that whole secrecy thing won’t fly when I’m getting picked up by a Rolls with a license plate that reads Royal. Besides, I’d accepted the job—after the king and queen agreed to double my fee for working with such a reluctant client. Well, it was the queen’s suggestion. Turns out that despite the business being Maddie’s baby, my recent success at facilitating what I thought had been a few discreet celebrity matches had not flown under the radar of the royal family.

“Come on, Mads,” I say. “It’s a gold star for the business regardless of whether it’s you or me facilitating the matches. Plus, you’re my partner in crime, so it’s not like we can’t work on Nikolai’s profile together.” In fact, the only thing I cannot disclose to anyone other than Maddie is the list of potential candidates.

She is obviously still pouting, but as much as I love my big sister and her flair for business, I am the one with the perfect match record—fifteen happy couples in just the past six months alone. It’s all in the interviews. One face-to-face conversation with each potential partner—separately, of course—and I can either feel their chemistry...or not. That, coupled with my limited celebrity experience, I’m sure is why they asked for me, but I don’t rub it in. While I’m proud I’ve taken so well to the business these past two years, what does it say that I can find happy endings for everyone—except myself?

Then I’m reminded that I risked my heart once, and the payoff was total devastation. No, thank you. I’m good with focusing on everything and anything other than that.

I wave to X and hold up a finger, letting him know I’ll be right there. Then I turn to face my sister, staring into icy blue eyes that mirror my own.

“Remember, Maddie, we need this fee. We are almost due for another quarterly payment at Silver Maples.” Gran’s been deteriorating, her Alzheimer’s getting worse almost by the week. We’re her sole financial support. Actually, we’re her sole everything. As much as it kills us not to have her at home, caring for her like she did raising us, her condition has declined too much. Silver Maples is a top-rated facility, one of the best in Europe. And it’s priced accordingly. It’s just out of our financial means at the moment, but I intend to change that.

I don’t mention the part about receiving no fee at all if I don’t get Nikolai down the aisle—if he is my first and only fail. I also may have omitted that despite my vow to find him a suitable queen, I already know what it feels like for his stubble to chafe my thighs, for his tongue to swirl around my swollen clit. Or to know that despite the matches that are perfect for Nikolai Lorentz on paper, the only chemistry I’m sure of at this point is whatever happened in that garden maze between myself and our future king.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath and slip past her. I need to stop thinking myself into climax before I’ve even had my first sip of espresso. “I’m late.” I grab my dossier off our small kitchen table and reach for the small cup that should have three shots of my morning wake-up medicine when I realize the espresso machine is unplugged. I never forget my morning shot. Ugh. I am way off my game, which is not an auspicious beginning to day one with my most important client. “Shit,” I say louder and then groan my acceptance at another morning with an empty belly. I kiss my sister on the cheek. “Love you!” And then I dart out the door before she has a chance to respond.

Not that I’m expecting a repeat performance of what happened yesterday, but I wear my auburn waves loose today—in case of any mishaps. Better to have my hair down and unfettered than to attempt the whole conservative look only to wind up disheveled and unkempt. Because I much prefer kempt.

X holds open the car door, and I enter to find a veritable feast waiting for me on a small table attached to the wall that separates the rear of the vehicle from the front. There’s a bowl of the reddest strawberries I’ve ever seen, a small basket of scones and a stainless-steel travel mug of what I assume is coffee.

My eyes widen as I lower myself into my seat, and I glance at X before he closes the door. He offers me a small bow, and I blush, embarrassed at the royal treatment when my upbringing is probably more common than he can imagine.

“Compliments of His Royal Highness, Prince Nikolai.”

While I’m sure my fresh breakfast probably cost him no more than a few seconds of his time, a quick royal order via text, I can’t fight the warmth spreading through my veins that he thought of me at all.

“Thank you, X,” I say with a smile I’m unable to suppress, and he nods before closing the door.

I settle into the plush leather of my seat, pulling a napkin that’s folded in the shape of a swan from the table before me. A pang of guilt rests in my chest for whoever created this small masterpiece only to have me stain it with berry juice or dripped coffee. Yet I shake it out, a swan no more, and lay it across my lap as X pulls smoothly from the curb.

I opted for pants today—a cropped black pair with a green silk blouse. And flats. I’d pretty much taken every precaution to avoid a repeat performance with the prince, and I smile smugly to myself at how easy it will be to keep my panties on today.

I unlock the lid to the mug and breathe in the rich aroma, biting back a moan as I do. Whatever brand of coffee is in there, it’s miles above the quality of the espresso I buy on sale at the corner market.

I knock on the window that separates me from X, and instead of him lowering it, his voice pipes through a speaker to my left.

“Can I help you, Miss Kate?”

I roll my eyes at his insistence on formality but decide not to give him a hard time.

“It’s kind of lonely here,” I tell him. “Can we talk without the intercom?”

I hear him clear his throat. “As you wish, Miss Kate.”

The window lowers, and I pop a strawberry into my mouth before leaning toward the open space between us. But the expanse is too wide for my torso, and I end up falling to my knees, a dribble of berry juice on my chin. I wipe it clean and scoot the rest of the way to the window frame, leaning through it so X’s strong profile is in view.

“Did you make the swan?” I ask.

His eyes remain on the road as he replies. “No, Miss.”

“Did you make the coffee?”

“No, Miss.”

“Would you like a strawberry?”

At this I see the faintest tug on the corner of his mouth, and I decide that along with making sure I send Nikolai Lorentz down the aisle, I’m going to make X smile.

“No, Miss,” he says, and my shoulders sag.

I follow his eyes to the road ahead and realize we’re not headed in the direction of the palace. For a second my heart stutters in my chest.

“Okay, you’re not going to ply me with strawberries and scones only to dump me in the river with a backpack full of stones, right?”

Again that twitch of his lip, but it doesn’t go beyond that.

“We are heading to the river,” he says. “But His Highness said nothing about a backpack.”

I narrow my eyes even though he won’t look in my direction. Despite heading toward the body of water I’ve avoided most of my living years, I decide to trust my life is not in danger and slide back to my seat, this time bringing a warm blueberry scone with me. Seriously? How is it still warm?

Just as I relax and bring the pastry to my lips, we roll to a stop. X, however, does not leave his seat. Before I can ask him if we’ve reached our destination, my door opens, and I see the prince—not in a rumpled dress shirt and tuxedo pants but in a fitted black T-shirt and dark washed jeans. I know what I said about not being a preteen fangirl, but holy hell. This man in the flesh is a vision to behold.

He extends his arms wide as if he’s brought the world to my doorstep, and based on the breakfast alone, it feels like he has.

“We can’t possibly be expected to work indoors on a day like today,” he says, his gray eyes shimmering silver in the sun.

He offers me a hand, and I take it, grabbing the dossier with my other as he pulls me into the fresh morning air.

“No,” I say, trying to convince myself that the smoldering heat in my core is from the coffee I leave behind in the car. “I guess we can’t.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Nikolai

“THANKS FOR BREAKFAST.” Kate regards me uncertainly.

“Seems only fair, Miss Winter. Especially after the delicious feast you offered me yesterday.” Here’s hoping that my wolfish smile covers any sincerity that might poke through my veneer. “Nice pants, by the way.” They fit slim against her shape, hugging the soft swell of her thighs, tapering at her small waist. I take my time drinking her in for two reasons. One: she looks even better than she did in my dreams last night. Two: it’s time to scare her off.

I don’t care a whit about ancient marriage requirements. But my father is the king, and Edenvale is a strict monarchy. No constitution. No parliament. His word is absolute law.

But despite his decree, I cannot marry. I will not. My heart hasn’t been whole for years. To subject a woman to a lifetime of darkness—to a love I cannot give—is anything but fair. I may not play by the rules in my day-to-day—or night-by-night—affairs, but I am straightforward. Each beauty I bed knows full well I have nothing to offer the morning after other than burying my cock in her one more time.

I do like a proper goodbye, after all.

And I also like to be clear that I will not share my future crown.

Father has to be bluffing about this twenty-ninth birthday bullshit. He can’t take the throne from me. He wouldn’t. What are his other options? Benedict would yield our sovereign power to the Roman Pope. Damien? My cousin Ingrid, who is still a child? Nightgardin would be licking its chops if that happened.

A hot copper taste fills my mouth. The inside of my cheek hurts from the involuntary bite.

Damien destroyed my world. His scandal nearly brought down our entire lineage. Now he is banished. Not even allowed to claim Edenvale citizenship. No, that bottom-feeder will never be permitted to call himself more than “King of Traitors.”

Father has no other choice, if he wants to avoid passing the crown from his bloodline. He will have to relent, to compromise, come around and see things from my point of view. It is that or let the kingdom fall to ruin, and that—he knows—is not an option.

My shoulders relax. I’ll indulge in Miss Winter’s little game for the time being, but she doesn’t know that I’m the one writing the rules, and that I only play to win.

“Ahem, Highness?” Her exaggerated throat clearing breaks my thoughts. “My eyes are up here.”

I allow my gaze to slowly rake over the swell of her perfect breasts. “I know exactly where your eyes are, Miss Winter, and might I say that’s a fetching color of shadow. Makes your eyes appear deeper than the Bottomless Lake.”

Kate sucks in a ragged breath, one evidenced by the rapid rise and fall of her chest rather than heard.

“Can we get down to business?” Pleading fills her voice.

“That all depends. Would getting down to...business bring you pleasure?” I dribble innuendo over every sentence. My mask is perfect. I’m every inch the rakish rogue everyone has come to expect. Kate Winter has no idea that my heart accelerates in her vicinity, kicks into fifth faster than my Ferrari 250 Testa Rossa.

And she never will.

She balls her free hand into a fist while the other clutches a portfolio, her fingertips white from her grip. Bet Little Miss Ice Queen would love nothing better than landing a punch right in my arrogant smirk. She can take a number. There are many in the line before her.

Plus she’s safer wanting nothing more to do with me than our business dealings.

“X,” I call, not breaking my gaze. “The poles.”

“Very good, Highness.” He clicks his heels and strides to the trunk of the Rolls. Good old X. Familiar as my shadow.

“I’m not really a nature girl.” She casts a baleful look at the long grass, swatting away a hovering insect. “But I am excited to get to work. Here is the dossier.” She brandishes the portfolio. “I spent last night reviewing suitable prospects and have winnowed your choices to five viable candidates.” She clears her throat. “Your parents offered some input as well, wishing the choice to be someone who would buoy your image and thereby the image of the throne. Your stepmother in particular took a keen interest. The queen is a woman of many opinions.”

I arch a brow. My hag of a stepmother has many feelings about my existence, none of them good. “I thought we were to do some sort of personality profile.”

She breaks eye contact. “Your stepmother didn’t think it was necessary to invest too much in compatibility since—well—since you don’t intend this to be much of an emotional connection. You’ve made that point crystal clear. So I’ve been instructed to provide you with appropriate choices.”

“Fascinating.” A cold front blows over my chest, transforming my tone to sheer ice. I spent last night milking my cock, dreaming of her sweet, soaked pussy, and all the while she’d been reviewing appropriate brides. Not once in five years have I given a single fuck what a woman thinks about after I’ve been with her.

Not once until today.

How much is Father paying her for this trouble? My stepmother would bankrupt the royal coffers if it meant having her revenge. She won’t play me the fool the way her daughter did. Victoria made me believe that a kiss meant love, not a fast track to sink her claws into my wealth—or my future throne.

These days the only crown jewels I’m prepared to offer the opposite sex rest between my legs. It’s likely she is conspiring with my stepmother. No doubt yesterday’s unexpected encounter was part of her carefully constructed ruse designed to disarm me. Being heir to the Edenvale throne means living with an invisible target on my back. The thing is, though, that I already know there’s a sniper in my midst, and she sleeps in my father’s bed.

My smile is as cool as her name. If Kate Winter hopes to lie in wait to stab a proverbial blade between my shoulder blades, then I hope she has the patience of a saint, because I aim to give her no such satisfaction.

X returns, and her expression morphs from confused to horrified.

“Fishing poles?” She gasps. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“Fishing is one of my many hobbies,” I lie smoothly. “And it seems an apt metaphor given our current situation.” I take a pole from X and hand it to her.

She grips it without complaint, understanding the gesture isn’t a request, but an order from her prince.

I grab the dossier from her other hand, not bothering to look inside, and hand it to X. “We won’t be needing that just yet,” I say, then turn my attention to Kate. “After all, there are many fish in the sea, correct? Or should I say...river?” I pivot and stride toward the old Roman bridge. “And how can I be sure of your skills in catching one for me until I see you in action?”

Kate

It’s a stone bridge, I remind myself. A sturdy, stone, won’t-crumble-beneath-your-feet bridge. There’s no need to tell him I can’t swim.

Though the swelling in my ankle has gone down, the lingering ache still slows my gait. He walks a few paces ahead of me, not bothering to wait. Decidedly different behavior from yesterday when he carried me after my fall—saw to it that I made it home safe. Hell, he even sent me breakfast this morning. I knew I was stupid to think it meant anything more than feeding the help, that Nikolai Lorentz was anything other than what the media portrayed.

I catch up to him at the center of the bridge where nothing else waits for us other than two buckets, one of which must be bait, the other to hold what we catch. I swallow hard when I note the height—or lack thereof—of the stone wall separating us from the river below. Nikolai perches casually on the low barrier, reaches into the bucket and pulls from it what looks like a small slice of sausage.

“What is that?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

He shrugs. “X prepared it. Says it’s his best recipe for catching trout. You met Beatrice in the kitchen yesterday, yes? Our head cook? Tonight’s royal meal depends on what you catch for us today.”

His tone is more cold than playful, yet I decide to humor him.

“Well, then,” I say. “I’ve got plenty of suggestions for takeout when this goes royally amiss.”

He buries the hint of a smile, but I see it nonetheless and take it as a sign that I do have the power to break through whatever wall he’s hiding behind today. I remind myself that my livelihood depends on it and let out a breath before reaching into the small bucket and pinching a slimy piece of bait between my thumb and forefinger.

I shudder at the feel of the foreign substance against my skin but do not dare complain. I watch as Nikolai fixes his bait to his hook and mimic his movements precisely. Maybe this won’t be so difficult after all.

He raises a brow. “You’ve fished before?”

I shake my head. “I’m a quick learner,” I say, realizing I’ve nowhere to wipe my hand and opt for the ledge of the wall I don’t dare sit on myself.

He casts his line into the river, and again I follow suit.

Piece of disgusting, slimy cake.

He finally grins. “May the best fisherman win,” he says. “Not that it’s a competition.”

I smile. “You’re on, Your Highness.”

We fish in silence, him still sitting on the wall while I stand a pace behind it. In less than three minutes his line tugs at the pole, and Nikolai whoops in response, standing to reel in his catch.

I can’t help but marvel at the ease of his movements, the flex of his biceps as he rotates the crank on the pole. And it’s this lapse in my attention, this gravitational pull he seems to have on me despite every bit of logic saying it shouldn’t, that causes the tug on my own line to catch me off guard.

My body yanks forward, and I stumble. It all happens in the space of a few seconds. I don’t even have time to scream before I knock into the wall and pitch right over it.

The water is cool, yet it burns my lungs and throat as I panic and breathe it in. I cough, but it only makes me take in more water. In this strange, suspended panic, I note the clarity of the river, that I can see through the surface and to the bridge to where it looks like something is falling toward me as I sink.

As quickly as I was yanked off the bridge, strong hands wrap around me and tug me toward the surface. When I break through, I cough up the water I couldn’t release seconds ago and gasp for air. Instinct has me thrashing in his arms, but he doesn’t let go.

“Kate!” he yells, his voice hoarse. “Christ, Kate! Stop fighting me and put your feet down. It’s only five feet deep!”

His words register, and I cease movement, letting my legs straighten below me while I still cling to his arm with my own.

My shoes touch the riverbed, and I stand on my tiptoes, my five-foot-five height keeping my face well above water.

We reach the bank, and I collapse onto my ass, humiliation seeping in as I cough up another mouthful of water.

Nikolai falls onto his back, panting, his T-shirt and jeans plastered to his muscled frame.

“Christ almighty,” he says, catching his breath. “Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t swim?”

I try to convince myself that this job is worth it, that no matter what other disasters befall throughout the length of this contract, it will be worth it in the end. Because if I fail, it’s Maddie and Gran who will pay the price.

“You’re my prince,” I say dully. “You said we were fishing, so I obeyed.”

He bolts upright, brows pulled together. “Is that really—?” he sputters. “You think I would endanger—?” But he trails off again. He reaches for my face, resting a palm gingerly against my cheek, and it’s almost as hard to breathe as being underwater. “Are you okay?”

Genuine concern laces his words. This is a Nikolai I’ve never seen in the pages of a magazine. This man did not exist in the maze yesterday.

“Yes,” I whisper, the heat in his palm making me forget I’m soaking wet.

“I told you,” he says, his gray eyes darkening to black, “I will not marry.”

I nod slowly. “And your father will keep the throne from you if you do not. Nikolai, when you stormed out yesterday, he mentioned Damien...”

A soft, guttural sound emanates from his throat.

“If you want the throne,” I continue, “then finding a bride is the only way.” And the only way to keep my grandmother getting the best care that our country has to offer. But I don’t tell him that. As much as I am drawn to him, I can’t get close to another man. Especially not another bad boy who doesn’t seem to care about anything other than his next thrill. My heart can only take so much.

He lets out a long breath. “So it is,” he says, and my heart tightens at the sound of defeat in those words. “Then we find someone who will play by my rules, who knows she is queen in name only, and that I will govern Edenvale as I see fit when it’s my time.”

I nod again. “If that is your choice.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Choice,” he says through gritted teeth. “Wouldn’t that be a luxury?”

I shiver, the cold setting in and seeping into my bones. He drops his hand to my neck, my collarbone and then to breast, my nipple hard against the cold, wet fabric of my blouse, a trail of heat in its wake.

“What if I choose to touch you like this?” he asks, his lips a fraction of an inch from mine. “Would you choose that, too?” He glances toward the river. Then his gaze burns into mine again. “Because you have a choice, Kate. You should have told me that you live along a river yet have never bathed in it.”

I feel the prick of tears and try to will them away.

“Maddie and I—my sister—lost our parents when they drove off the road that winds along the mountain’s edge. The river was deeper than five feet where their car plunged in.” A single tear escapes, and he brushes it away, the gesture too sweet. Too intimate. “I was too young to remember them but not too young to develop a fear of the water. The funny thing is, Maddie says I was an excellent swimmer from a young age, but it’s like my mind has blocked that part out. So...here we are.”

He runs a hand through his soaked black hair. “You should have told me,” he says again, and I startle to see the intensity in his eyes. “You have choice, Kate. With me. Nothing is an order. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

He places a hand behind my neck and lowers me to the ground, my body a willing accomplice.

“You will find me a royal bride,” he says, hovering over me. A bead of water drips off his skin and splashes near the corner of my lips. It takes all my self-restraint not to lick it.

“Yes.”

“I will not love her,” he adds.

“I know,” I whisper.

“I cannot love anyone.” His voice is a low vibration, one I feel in his chest against mine.

“I know,” I say again, cursing the beating of my heart that seems to speed up the nearer he gets. We might be from two different worlds, but we have that much in common. I can love, but I won’t. Not when I’ve known so much loss.

“But I want you,” he says, his breath warm against my lips.

“I want you, too,” I admit.

He flicks out his tongue, running it along my bottom lip, and I grind my pelvis into his.

“Do you choose this, Kate? Do you choose what I’m offering?”

My body has already complied. All that’s left is my voice.

“I do, Your Highness.”

“Call me Nikolai.”

I let out a trembling breath. “I do—Nikolai.” His name tastes as delicious as his hungry mouth.

He kisses me, long and slow and deep until my toes curl and my core is on fire.

“Say my name again,” he growls, his erection firm against my aching clit.

“Nikolai,” I whisper, and his tongue plunges into my mouth again.

I may have the freedom of choice, but I also have the wisdom to know this is a foolish one to make. I’ll have to add a note in my planner to regret this sometime tomorrow.

CHAPTER SIX

Nikolai

I BURY MY fingers into her thick coil of auburn hair and pull, not hard, but enough to deepen our kiss. Kate’s tears place me on unfamiliar ground. The story of her loss threatens to undo my expertly built defenses. I don’t know how to tell her this, but in some ways, I understand her pain. Once upon a time, many years ago, a car accident changed my own world. She and I share an unexpected connection, both forever marked by a tragedy that changed the course of our lives.

Damn it. My pulse thunders in my ears. I don’t want to be curious about Kate, to be interested in her as a person and not another notch in my belt. I channel my frustration into tangling my tongue with hers, demanding more, demanding everything, and she moans into my open mouth, offering herself freely.

My chest tightens like a vise. I gasp a mumbled curse. This kiss is taking over, filling my veins, replacing the blood. Slow the fuck down. Keep it physical. Remember that’s my MO—making women cry out my name and wanting nothing more in return than my own physical release. I reach down to circle my thumbs over her peaked nipples, hard nubs against her wet, silky top. She moans again. Louder.

I tear away, one foot in heaven and one in hell. It’s time to get a grip, to calm myself and focus. After all, getting a woman off is what I do best. My uncertainty fades as I take charge, increasing the pressure. Not much, just enough to turn that moan into a gasp, followed by a soft squeak. I break our kiss and nip her plump lower lip, tasting the hint of cherry lip balm. Then I continue my leisurely torment down her jaw to the sensitive place on her neck, relishing her rapid pulse and trace of perfume that wasn’t washed away in the river. Chanel No. 5.

She is killing me in the best of ways.

“God, you smell brilliant.” I give her a soft bite. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough that I’ve got her full attention. She moans. All women enjoy a little domination in the bedroom. “Like that?”

“Mmmmm,” she purrs.

I bite again, wiping away the sting with the flat of my tongue. “I asked you a question. I am your prince. I expect you to respond.” My tone is authoritative, yet teasing. I want control, but I also want her to know she’s safe—safe from the river, from the painful memories she buries. I’ll erase it all with a swipe of my tongue. Another nip of teeth.

She presses her hips against me. “Feels so good,” she murmurs. “If X wasn’t close, I’d be on my knees filling my mouth with your cock.”

So my prim-and-proper ice queen likes to talk dirty. Blood sings through my veins, a pounding chorus, as I thicken in an instant. “Good thing X took a drive.”

She stills. “He’s gone?”

“I heard him leave while we walked toward the bridge.”

She frowns. “He knew you’d seduce me?”

I shrug. “Maybe he wanted a croissant?”

She slides away. My body aches at the gap, and for a moment, I falter. Who is really in control here?

“You seduce many women, don’t you, Sire?”

No point lying. “Nikolai,” I remind her, my voice firm. I want my name dripping off her lips in a torrent of pleasure. “Call me by my name.” Might as well admit there is more to wanting to hear her say it than a simple, sexual ego booster. Every cell in my being craves her closer, wanting to rub against her and smooth away my ragged edges, to see if she is the one who possesses whatever the fuck I need to be made whole.

Good God. I’m pussy drunk.

“You seduce many women, don’t you, Nikolai?” She bites her bottom lip, and my cock strains against my jeans, but I force my voice to remain steady.

“Yes,” I say simply. I’m Mr. Right Now. Not Mr. Right.

“A bad boy.”

I crook my lips into an arrogant smile, the mask that she expects her future ruler to wear. I have a rakehell reputation to uphold. “That seems to be the general opinion.”

She shakes her head. “Why not give in?” she murmurs, more to herself than me. “Live dangerously for once in my life.” She refocuses her gaze on me. “We can do whatever it is we are about to do and still remain professional.”

My brows rise. “Your mouth sheathing my cock is professional?” I swallow hard, and she notices, grinning, no doubt, at the effect she has on me.

She narrows her gaze as if to size me up. “Yes. Once I know what you like, I’ll be that much better positioned to find it for you.”

“I can think of many positions I’d like to find you in.”

She purses her lips. Then a flicker of uncertainty passes over her face. “Tell me how you like it.”

“Pardon?” My own eyes widen. “How I like getting sucked off?” She wants a lesson?

“Yes, tell me in thorough detail. If you teach me well, perhaps you’ll get a handsome reward.” She palms me over the wet denim of my jeans. “I’m a quick study and also quite good at taking direction.”

I decide right then and there that despite what she’s been hired to do—and how much I detest the thought of finding a bride—I love being around this most surprising woman.

Wait...love? The word doesn’t belong anywhere in my vocabulary. This is no good. My heart better go sit its ass in a corner. I clear my throat. “You want to know how to suck a dick? Very well. First, the woman in question needs to crave it. I want her to approach my cock like it’s a chocolate fucking fudge sundae and she hasn’t eaten in a week.”

Her lids flutter. “Go on.”

Shit. I can talk dirty in five languages, but I’ve never given an explicit lesson in the art of performing a blow job. And believe me—it is a goddamn art. “I need some encouragement,” I tell her, my voice growing hoarse with need. “A little inspiration.”

She arches a brow. “And how can I do that?”

I pretend to think it over. “Are you wearing a matching set?”

She nods with a shy smile. “I do own the bra to match my pink lace panties,” she says, then licks her lips. “But I didn’t wear it today.”

My throat thickens. And if it’s at all possible, my cock grows even harder, and I want nothing more than for her to rip my jeans from my legs. Mission accomplished, Miss Winter. The image of what lies beneath her drenched clothing will inspire me for days and nights to come.

What can I say? Kate Winter is my fucking muse. Literally.

“Shall we continue with the lesson?” I ask.

“Please,” she says. “It’s been a while since—well, I think I mentioned yesterday that it’s been a while. Period.”

I bury the surge of jealousy at the thought of her mouth on any other man and decide to give her exactly what she’s asking for—so that she may give it to me.

“Outside of a sixty-nine, I prefer to stand,” I tell her, already imagining her kneeling before me. “Gives me good control and a great view. Hands are important. Use them. I love a mouth on me, but touch is a must. Stroke my shaft. Massage my sac. Gradually increase the tempo. That’s when I’ll need some tongue on the tip, swirling and sucking like I’m your favorite flavor of Popsicle.”

She rolls her eyes. “Cool it with the food references. You’re making me hungry.” Her tone is teasing, but I can tell from the way her pupils dilate that she is soaked.

“Never use your teeth. Simply lick and swirl until you’re ready.”

“For what?” She sounds drugged.

“To take me as deep as you can go. A gentleman never crams his cock into a lady’s throat. He waits, patiently, but what he wants is for her to suck him down. And all the while, hold eye contact. Trust me on this. A guy loves it when you take it all and let him see how much you love every inch.”

She runs a hand over her hair. “And for the end?”

“Swallow,” I say bluntly and shrug. She asked, so I might as well give her the truth.

“I’ve never done that,” she whispers. “I’ve always been too intimidated.”

“Well, you don’t have to,” I tell her quickly. Again it comes, that inexplicable need to make her feel safe. “It’s just...you asked what’s the best. That is the best, Pet. Nothing like it.”

She stays quiet for a long moment. Long enough that I start to wonder if I’ve pissed her off—or even worse, scared her from even wanting to try.

“Stand, Sire,” she finally says, and I obey without question. She stands too, stepping forward to close the narrow distance between us, all the while keeping her gaze locked to my face.

Then she sinks to her goddamn knees.

“I’ve never mixed business and pleasure.” She reaches to undo my fly. “But this is my most important job yet, so perhaps I should ensure you get the royal treatment.”

My hands fist in her hair, and I know from the determined look in her eyes that I’m about to be destroyed.

Kate

His jeans are snug against his hard, muscled thighs, and despite them being soaked in the river, it only takes me seconds to pull them to his ankles.

My nipples peak against my cold, wet top, and I wonder if he knows how close to the edge I already am. Just from his words. It was never like this with Jean-Luc, and as soon as the thought enters my mind, I’m awash in a wave of guilt. How dare I compare what I’m about to do to a man I met yesterday to a man I’d planned to be with for the rest of my life?

And yet it’s the truth.

I loved my fiancé, but I can’t recall wanting him with this sort of hunger. I’d always felt performing oral sex to be more of an obligation than anything else. And he had always finished so quickly that I never knew what he really liked.

But I want to taste Nikolai so badly that my pulse throbs between my legs.

I start by placing a soft kiss on his inner thigh, then shift my heavy gaze to his.

“More,” he says, and my core tightens at the command.

I kiss his other thigh, this time a little higher up, and I have to grab his backside to steady myself.

He lets out a groan.

“Hands,” he says, his voice tight, and I do believe I’ve made it difficult for my prince to speak.

I look up at him and grin, releasing his ass with my right hand so I can cup his balls. Then, without warning, I swirl my tongue over his tip, the precum salty on my taste buds. We both moan.

His hands tug at my hair, and I move my own to join my mouth, taking him deeper as he slides slick through my palm.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Yes, Pet. More. Goddamn, I need more.”

My clit swells at the sound of his need, a delicious, aching pulse between my thighs, and I can’t hold back a whimper as he sinks deeper into my mouth, as I let the taste of him fill me.

Deeper and faster, my hand grips his throbbing shaft, and I feel his thighs begin to shake. I hold his gaze as I bury him to the hilt, and for the brief moment when he begins to teeter over the edge, I see past the facade to a brokenness that draws me further into his orbit.

He shudders and growls. I swallow his release, an intimate connection I never knew was possible. I back away, ready to force my trembling limbs to stand, but he collapses to his knees in front of me.

His hands cup my cheeks, and he stares into my eyes. Without a word he kisses me so hard and deep I can barely catch my breath. He lowers me to the ground, wordless still, his lips never leaving mine. His hand slides beneath my blouse, and I buck against him as he pinches my sensitive peak.

We are animals, communicating with nothing other than our shared savage need, and I need this. I need his hands on me, in me—I need Nikolai Lorentz everywhere. And because we speak the same language, he knows, and I find him wrenching my pants from my hips, down to my knees, all the while his tongue tangling with mine.

Finally, when two fingers plunge inside me, immediately hitting the right spot, I call out his name in an overwhelming torrent of sensation.

“Nikolai!”

And then I finally close my eyes and see nothing but stars.

* * *

I’m nothing short of a mess when we make our way to the road and find X waiting outside the Rolls. Nikolai, despite his dip in the river as well, looks nothing short of spectacular. Or maybe that’s all I can see after what he’s done to me.

What has he done? I feel satiated yet hungry. Remade but ruined.

X opens the door as we approach, not once letting his impassive gaze give away that he knew Nikolai had planned to seduce me. But when I look inside the car and see my scones and fruit replaced by a small platter of croissants, I can’t help but burst into a fit of laughter.

Nikolai’s brows pull together, and it takes every ounce of control for me to simply motion toward the open door and say, “Look.”

He does, and as soon as he sees the pastries, he’s laughing too, and I am surprised the way my heart surges to hear such a sound—a genuine emotion from Prince Nikolai, and I get to bear witness.

X clears his throat and raises a brow.

“Your Highness. Miss Winter—I thought you might have worked up an appetite.”

I decide not to deny it because damn—I am starving. So I reach inside the car and grab a chocolate croissant, tearing off a piece and shoving it into a surprised Nikolai’s mouth before tearing into the rest of it with my teeth.

“You’re right,” I say, mouth full, hair tangled and probably full of sand, clothes still wet and plastered to my body. “I’m famished.”

X nods. “Your Highness, I take it there are supplies to collect from the bridge?”

Nikolai swallows his bite of croissant. “Yes, thank you. One fishing pole, the bucket of bait and Miss Winter’s dossier. You can throw the trout I caught back into the river.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” he says, not questioning why we are short one fishing pole.

Once X is out of earshot, I point at Nikolai with my half-eaten croissant.

“Hey, I thought you said tonight’s royal meal depended on what I caught on our little fishing expedition.”

He shrugs and gives me a sheepish grin, another expression I don’t expect, and it disarms me completely.

“I despise seafood, actually,” he says. “But I was hoping to enjoy putting you through the wringer.”

I open my mouth at an attempt to unleash my fury on him, but he silences me with a kiss, and I’m caught so off guard that I simply melt into it.

“How about a truce?” he says against me, and I squeak out my answer, the momentary fury dissolving into dust.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Okay,” he says.

“But this cannot happen again, Your Highness. We have—I mean I have a job to do.”

He nods. “Of course. Never again, Miss Winter. You have my word.”

I sigh. I know he’s soon to be my king, that my job is to find him a queen, but right now I don’t believe his word for one tiny second. And that impish grin on his face tells me that neither does he.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Nikolai

“MY, MY, ISN’T His Highness in quite the chipper mood?” My wicked stepmother, Queen Adele, sizes me up from across the mahogany table. Even when it is just she, my father and I in residence at the palace, she insists on using the formal dining room that can accommodate up to fifty guests. Overhead hang three large crystal chandeliers, and lining the wood-paneled room are suits of armor interspersed with the images of frowning black-haired men, my ancestors, the kings of old.

From the looks of their faces, dark and brooding is a family tradition.

“As a matter of fact, Majesty, I am in good spirits.” I wipe my lips with a linen napkin before crooking them into a smile as fake as her own. The queen’s gaze narrows as she tries to see through my mocking mask.

Lots of luck, love.

My father cuts his roast, oblivious as always to the private war that I carry out with the hag. “I understand you met with the matchmaker this afternoon. She seems a competent woman.” He spears the beef with his fork. “Most enthusiastic.”

“Quite.” An image of Kate Winter flashes, one where she is on her knees, hair wet and wild, sucking my cock like some sort of mythic water goddess, and I suppress a satisfied grin.

“Rather common, if you ask me.” My stepmother gives an audible sniff.

“Good thing no one did,” I growl, my mouth flat-lining.

She ignores the warning in my voice. “I do admit to having second thoughts on Miss Winter. After all, how can a commoner have the proper breeding necessary to discern fine taste? Edenvale is the second-oldest throne in all of Europe. The realm expects certain standards.”

White-hot fury builds behind my eyes. This snobby shrew isn’t fit to lick the sole of one of Kate’s heels, let alone dare to speak her name with such disdain. True, my favorite matchmaker isn’t blue-blooded, but she has more natural grace and elegance in one of her little fingers than Adele has in her entire Botoxed body.

Who knows what prompted Father to marry her? I barely remember my real mother, but from all accounts, it was a love match. Queen Cordelia remains well-beloved by her people to this day, no thanks to Adele, who likes to pretend she never existed.

I study the fine lines that groove my stepmother’s frown. She has always been a sourpuss, but since her only daughter Victoria’s death she’s turned downright wicked.

The last vestiges of my good mood vanish. When Adele married my lonely father the only bright spot to the arrangement came in the form of her beautiful and vivacious nineteen-year-old daughter, my stepsister and first love. I was a foolish twenty-three-year-old boy determined to make Victoria my queen. While Father disapproved of the relationship, Adele could not hide her ambition. She might not have liked the idea of me making love to her daughter but persuaded Father to allow the engagement to proceed because it would make Victoria a queen. She even argued that it would strengthen Edenvale’s royal ties to have not one but two generations of our royal bloodlines matched. Their aristocratic family has always been one of the wealthiest and most influential in our kingdom. But they’ve always had a reputation for being ambitious.

Too ambitious for my liking.

Over the years, whenever I indulged in a whiskey too many and allowed my thoughts to wander, it had seemed conceivable that Adele might have masterminded the whole affair, put her only child in my path, advising her on how to best seduce her way into a lonely prince’s heart. If Victoria had survived the accident, perhaps she’d have grown to be as calculating and bloodless as the woman sneering down her aristocratic nose at me. The question, though, will never be answered. My youngest brother, Damien, saw to that, ending her life with his usual recklessness, earning his banishment and my everlasting hatred.

“Well, do try to retain your good mood for Saturday evening,” Adele says, dipping her spoon into the lobster bisque.

“What’s Saturday?” I crook my finger, signaling the butler to bring me more wine. I am tempted to grab the whole damn bottle, get too drunk to dream. I don’t want nightmares of Victoria disturbing my sleep tonight.

“Didn’t Miss Winter tell you?” My stepmother’s lifeless smile is stiff and doesn’t reach her cruel eyes. “She has arranged your first date.”

Kate

“No,” I say, when I open my apartment door to find X standing there. “Absolutely not.” Before I can close the door in the man’s face—and I would feel horrid doing so, but this crosses the line—Maddie sidles up behind me.

“Who’s your friend?” she asks, though I’m sure she can tell by his immaculate suit that he is not one who dwells on Market Street. I glance at my own attire, a freaking Fall Out Boy T-shirt and skinny jeans. I look like an American teenager.

“Maddie, this is X. He works for the royal family.”

My sister pulls the door the rest of the way open. She, of course, is in a perfectly beautiful sundress, because she has a date. Which is fine because I was very much looking forward to Netflix, and ice cream, and not thinking about the strange events that have transpired this week. But no, the prince has to butt into my plans, my thoughts, my whatever—simply because he can.

X offers my sister a slight bow, and she backhands me on the shoulder.

“This is the prince’s driver—the guy who picked you up the other morning? You didn’t say he was a silver fox!” she whisper-shouts, but the man is standing right in front of us.

X’s brows rise, the slightest hint of his amusement. “Miss Kate,” he says. “His Highness says it is part of your professional obligation.”

I roll my eyes.

“What obligation?” Maddie asks.

“Tell him no,” I say to X, ignoring my sister.

He pulls a phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and glances at the screen.

“Miss Kate declines your invitation,” he says, and my stomach drops. The prince has been listening to our entire interaction.

When I hear his voice, my body tingles in response, and I silently curse Nikolai Lorentz.

“Kate,” he says. X points the phone toward me and my sister. “I’m going to be late for the date that you set up if you don’t get down here in the next three minutes.”

I huff out a breath and try to ignore my sister’s wide eyes and mouth open in a surprised O.

“Your Highness—” I start, but he clears his throat, interrupting me.

“Nikolai,” he corrects me, and I repress an exasperated scream.

“Nikolai. I think you are confused. This is your date. I set it up, but believe me when I say that both you and the Countess of Wynberry will be most put out by me joining you for dinner.”

Maddie backhands me again, this time harder, but she still says nothing.

Nikolai’s raucous laugh rings out from the phone in X’s hand.

“You won’t actually join us,” he says. “You’ll be in the car with X. Beatrice has prepared a veritable feast for you to dine on while you wait for my cue.”

My fists clench at my sides, and I don’t bother stifling my groan.

“You have some nerve,” I say.

“I need a wingman.”

“No.”

“I need to be called to an urgent meeting, an out if things go south. Because if the countess doesn’t go for my proposed arrangement, I promise things will go—southerly,” he adds, his words laced with amusement.

“No,” I maintain.

There is silence for a few long beats, and I hold my breath until he speaks again.

“If I behave badly,” he says, slowly drawing out each word, “which I’ve been known to do, I could scare off a potential prospect. But if someone is there to give me a more respectable exit should I need one, well, then, we all win. Don’t we?” He pauses to let his words sink in before he puts the final nail in the coffin that is my fate for this evening. “You don’t want to chance me not making it to the altar. Do you, Kate?”

White-hot fury pulses through me. Does he know the king and queen will refuse my fee—no matter how tireless I work—if he does not marry? How dare he use such leverage against me? But because I cannot let Maddie carry our grandmother’s financial burden alone, I say what I need to say to shut him up before he reveals too much.

“Fine,” I relent through gritted teeth. “I’ll be right down.”

X sighs and ends the call as I spin into my apartment. My sister follows.

“You’re accompanying the prince on his date. Oh. My. God, Katie. Why didn’t I get this freaking job?”

I grab my bag from the foot of my bed and sling it over my shoulder. “Right now, Maddie, I wish you had.”

I don’t even bother looking in the mirror. I storm toward the door where X waits patiently.

“You’re not even going to change?” my sister asks from behind me, and I shake my head, answering her over my shoulder.

“You heard the man. He’s going to be late, and I sure as hell don’t want to keep the prince and the countess waiting.”

“Have fun!” she calls, unable to mask her own giddy excitement.

Not likely.

“You too!” I offer, sincerely hoping her night goes better than mine is about to.

“If you succeed then we will have clients pouring in.”

I fake a smile. “Yay!” My enthusiasm rings false, but my sister doesn’t notice. She is too good to speak the language of sarcasm.

Maddie deserves all the happiness and success. She built our little company from nothing, and when my life fell apart two years ago, she gave me a place to stay and a job to dive into so I wouldn’t waste away in my grief.

This is why, despite his behavior, I head downstairs and out to the Rolls-Royce parked at the curb. I’m doing this for her. For years I’ve depended on my sister, and now more than ever she’s depending on me. I won’t mess this up. She deserves for her business to succeed, and that means lessening the burden of paying for Gran’s mounting medical bills. Every day it seems a new one arrives. She tries to hide her worry from me, but I see the dark shadows under her eyes.

X opens the door for me, and I slide into the seat opposite Nikolai. I cross my arms and try to level him with my glare.

“You look—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“Don’t, Nikolai. Just don’t.”

He raises his brows. “I was only going to say beautiful. You look beautiful, Kate.”

Don’t, I tell myself in silence. Don’t let his words have any effect on you.

“X,” he says when the man appears behind the wheel. When did he even get there? I swear he just shut my door. “Do you know what a Fall Out Boy is?”

I snort. “Tell me you’re joking.” Then I see it again, the ghost of a smile on X’s face. We’re silently sharing a joke at Nikolai’s expense.

Nikolai shrugs. “I’m assuming it is some sort of popular rock band. The music I listen to does not come with a T-shirt.”

I laugh again and thrust my phone through the open partition to X.

“It’s my top playlist,” I say. “Can you put it on?”

The man nods, and seconds later my phone is hooked up to the car’s speaker system.

The tightness in my throat loosens as “Immortals” wafts from the speakers, and I’m shocked once again when Nikolai’s shoulders relax, and he cocks his head to the side and smiles.

“It’s no Amadeus,” he says, “but I quite like it. I suppose I’m learning I like a lot of new things these days, Miss Winter.”

A chill runs along my spine, but I will it away.

Do not for one second think that he is charming. You know full well that Prince Charming he is not.

But as the anger subsides I see him clearly, his jet-black hair slicked back from his face, charcoal gray suit to match his eyes, and a royal blue tie for a pop of color. He looks so—princely. And gorgeous. And when his smile reaches his eyes, I have to push away the surge of emotion that rises to the surface because I’ve suddenly lost my grip on the anger.

I shake my head and remind myself why I’m here—to make sure this date goes smoothly. To ensure that Prince Nikolai Lorentz is one step closer to marriage—and becoming my king.

“Thank you for coming,” he says softly, and I force a smile.

“Of course,” I say, regaining my composure. “Nikolai?”

“Kate?”

“Have you read the entire contract between Happy Endings and your family?”

He laughs. “What’s to read? You were hired to find me a wife. You’re finding me a wife. I’m not interested in the fine print.”

I let out a breath. So he doesn’t know the consequences for me—for my family—if I fail. My anger ebbs completely as I realize Nikolai’s behavior this evening is simply him being Nikolai.

“Well, then,” I say. “Tell me what I need to do to make this date a success.”

At this, X pulls away from the curb, and we set off for Nikolai to meet his first potential match.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nikolai

I MUST GIVE credit to Kate’s skillful matchmaker profiling. The Countess of Wynberry fits my usual physical type to a T. Platinum blond hair, come-hither bedroom eyes and ripe breasts that she proudly displays in a low-cut black silk dress offset by a necklace of glittering rubies. Hell, I don’t know a guy who wouldn’t describe the countess as his type. She could be a sister to that American actress Scarlett Johansson.

We meet in my private room at La Coeur, a three-star Michelin restaurant set in an eighteenth-century manor. The view of the Alps through the wide windows is unparalleled, and the gorgeous woman lounging across the table looks like she’d rather take a bite out of me than the raspberry-and-chocolate confection on her gilded plate. Yet I feel nothing but faint boredom.

Dinner went well enough. The filet was perfectly cooked and the cabernet an excellent vintage. She chattered on and on about her family’s approval of our union and then of all the filthy things she planned on doing to me once we left the restaurant. I should have been hard just from her depraved words. Instead all I want is to be in my Rolls beside an auburn-haired woman in jeans who makes me feel like something I haven’t felt in years.

Myself.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” the countess purrs, taking her time licking her spoon clean. Her bare foot caresses my shin under the table, and I curse my unresponsive cock. The countess could douse the fire inside, the embers burning for a woman who arranged this date, but she’d fail at snuffing out the blaze.

“I do if I have something to say,” I answer blandly. Her dessert does look delightful. Too bad I ordered nothing to eat for our final course, just a scotch neat. She needs to stop playing seductive games and enjoy it. But then, I’ve made my decision, which means she won’t have time to finish, so perhaps it is for the best.

She looks curious, missing the warning in my voice. “And do you have something to say?” she asks.

Enough time wasting. “I do.” I crumple my napkin on my lap and get down to business.

I say what I must in short, clipped sentences. Her eyes grow slowly wider until the whites are perfectly visible around her nearly violet irises.

Within a minute she throws a glass of champagne in my face. She has more restraint than I credited her with. I expected her to last thirty seconds max.

“You are as they say.” She gathers her fur stole and rises in a huff. “A twisted monster of a man.”

I blow her a kiss, and she squeals with outrage before storming for the exit.

Kate arrives in less than a minute, exactly as I expected, disheveled from sprinting to my table.

“What happened?” She gasps for air. “I thought I was here to help you to not cause a scene!”

I wave my hand in the air. “Trust me when I tell you that what just transpired was not a scene. You have read the tabloids, yes? I’m capable of so much worse. Don’t you think?”

She must have run the whole way and not bothered using the restaurant’s elevator. Her cheeks are flushed to a rosy red, and her chest rises and falls, heaving her breasts against the thin cotton of her T-shirt. The sight captivates me more than all the silk in Spain.

“The countess left in a rage,” Kate continues. “She threatened to kick X in the parking lot if he didn’t get out of her way. I’m pretty sure that counts as a scene.”

I chuckle at the thought of anyone accosting X. I’ve seen him pin a paparazzo against a wall with one hand while dismantling his camera with the other, the action as simple as flossing his teeth. I have no idea who the hell X was before he came to the palace, but one thing is for certain: he’s survived worse than the Countess of Wynberry.

“We weren’t a good fit,” I say lazily, sitting back in my chair. “And because no photographers are allowed inside—”

Kate lets out a breathy laugh. “Oh, there were photographers outside. I can attest to that.” She shakes her head. “I have to admit my surprise... On paper you and the countess were a perfect match.” Her tone is disappointed even as the relief is plain on her face. Strange how I am in tune to the subtleties of her emotion when we’ve barely been acquainted for the span of a week.

“She had a hard time hearing key truths,” I say.

“Truths?” She crosses her arms and lowers her chin. A wayward auburn strand falls across her forehead. “Nikolai, what on earth did you tell that poor woman?”

Poor woman? Perhaps that was the perfect term for her. While the countess was rich in material wealth, she lacked human qualities like warmth, companionship and kindness, characteristics I can usually dismiss. But for some reason, tonight I cannot.

“Take a seat, Kate.” I gesture to the chair opposite me. “I’ll tell you exactly what I said if you allow me to feed you bite by bite.”

Kate

I cross my arms. “I’m quite stuffed,” I say, not daring to glance at the dessert on the table. Even out of the corner of my eye it looks heavenly. “Beatrice fed me well with yet another back-seat feast, and I will under no circumstances let you be seen in public feeding a palace employee.” Never mind that we are in a private room.

He reaches over and takes a bite of the rich-looking confection, his tongue slowly stroking the spoon, and I swallow. Then I narrow my eyes at him.

“Oh, fine,” he says. “Have it your way. I simply told her what we both already know, that whoever my bride will be, it will be nothing more than a business arrangement. There will be no physical obligation other than her providing me with my own heir—however long that may take. And I will be free to satisfy my needs with whomever suits my fancy. Oh, I may have also mentioned that she will under no circumstances have any say in how I rule this country.”

I throw my hand over my mouth, but it doesn’t stifle my gasp. “Nikolai!” I shout, not caring that his private room is not exactly soundproof.

He shrugs. “Oh, come now,” he says. “I explained she’d want for nothing—that she’d be free to dally with anyone she pleased, so long as she was discreet.”

I clench my teeth. “I know you don’t plan on taking your marriage seriously, but no woman deserves to be spoken to like that. You could have been more—more delicate, and you know it. But you care nothing for anyone other than yourself, so you did it the Nikolai way. I should have known this job would be impossible. That you’d be impossible. You didn’t want me here to help. Did you? You wanted me here so I’d have a front-row seat to the Nikolai Lorentz show.”

My cheeks burn as I bunch my fists at my sides. One minute I’m taken aback by how beautiful he is—how he can level me with his gaze. The next I am reminded all too clearly of who he is. He is my prince—and soon, my king. He has the power to behave as he does, and I am nothing more than a subject.

I push back my chair. “I’ll call for a taxi,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. Anger will get me nowhere. It won’t get the countess the respect he should have paid her, and it certainly won’t earn any for me. He owes me nothing.

He lets me get as far as the door before he speaks.

“Kate,” he says, all pretense gone from his voice. “Wait.” Then I hear him let out a breath. “Please.”

I turn to face him, and he’s standing, too. But I don’t dare move any closer. Even across the table he feels too near now. Because if there’s one word I never expected to hear directed at me from him, it is that last one. Please.

“What?” I ask, the fight draining from me as he holds me with his steely, intent stare.

He runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, loosening it so he looks more as he did on the bridge—or after he’d dived into the river to save me.

“You’re right,” he says. “About most of it, but you’re missing one important detail.”

I cross my arms and raise my brows but say nothing.

“Of course I didn’t need any help,” he says, palms resting on his chair. “I care nothing for my reputation. I leave that to my father, my stepmother, to all those paid to give a fuck. I suppose I’ll have to clean up my act a bit once I’m king, though.”

He flashes that irresistible grin, but I don’t let myself fall prey to it, not this time.

“I know you don’t care what others think of you,” I say. “But you put my reputation on the line tonight, too, Your Highness.” He winces, and the sight is something so wholly unexpected, my heart tugs involuntarily. “You may have nothing to lose, but I do. My sister does. Her business supports our family. We have responsibilities. This whole marriage thing that you see as a joke is how we put a roof over our heads. It’s how we—”

He steps around from the chair and nearer to where I stand, the movement stealing the words from my mouth. I suck in a breath as he takes a step closer and then hold it as he rests a palm on my cheek.

“I’m an ass,” he says, and I nod. “One royal prick,” he adds, and I don’t disagree. “Perhaps I could have been more civil to the countess. But where I truly fucked up was that I wasn’t thinking of how this would affect you.”

I clear my throat. “Wh-what important detail?” I stammer. His brows pull together. “Before, you said I was missing one important detail.” I can smell the sweet scotch in the warmth of his breath. I bite my lip to keep from reacting.

He rests his forehead against mine, the gesture far too intimate, and my breath hitches.

“I asked you to come tonight, Kate, because in the span of six days, I seem to have gone from wanting nothing to do with you and what you’ve been hired for to not wanting you out of my sight.”

He braces a palm against the door behind me, and I take a step back so I’m flush against it.

“Nikolai,” I whisper. “We can’t.” My insistence is different than the other day at the bridge. I could take his teasing—could even pretend that we might continue our encounters and leave it at just sex. But now? What he is suggesting now is beyond possibility.

“What if there was a way?” he asks, his lips dangerously close to my own. “What if I could make you truly mine?”

My throat tightens at the thought. “But I was hired to—”

“I know,” he says. “And I will continue to see the women with whom you match me. I will even be civil. But I make you this promise. I’ll marry none of them.”

As much as the idea of him touching another woman, let alone marrying one, already hurts in a way it should not be able to, I need him to do it because my family depends on it. Irony, you’re a cruel bitch.

“When do you need to be married by?” I’m playing with him because I already know. Maybe if I smile the pain will ebb. One can always hope.

“My twenty-ninth birthday.”

“Which is...” As if the heir’s birthday isn’t a national holiday.

His lids narrow as he tries to figure out what game I’m playing. “Ninety days from now.”

I close my eyes and take in a long breath. Then I press my palm to his chest. “I’ll make you a wager.”

He laughs softly. “Go on.”

“I’ll see you married by your birthday,” I say, my fingers already itching to grab at his tie.

He surprises me with a soft kiss before he answers. “I look forward to disappointing you.”

I grip his tie and pull him as close as he can get. “And what’s more, I promise you will be happy with the woman.” After all, I know exactly what His Highness likes. Who better to find him not just a queen but happiness as well?

I swallow the pang of regret, the one that has me wishing for what cannot be. I do not want for him a life of misery, but I cannot let my own family fall into ruin. I will succeed. For both of us.

“You’d have to be one hell of a matchmaker, sweetheart,” he says.

“Trust me.” I fight to keep the tremor from my voice. “I’m the best.”

CHAPTER NINE

Nikolai

IT ISN’T UNTIL nightfall that I realize that Kate never laid out the terms for our wager. I sit at my baby grand piano, my fingers flying over the keys, weaving a complex, sensual sound. Don’t believe classical music can be sexy? Listen to Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde before dismissing me. Harmony and dissonance. Brutal discord only to be thwarted by soaring passion. Music pours through me as I toy over the many ways I can extract payment from the lovely Miss Winter. Such an interesting paradox that her hair holds hints of flame even as her name promises coldness. She is both fire and ice.

I picture her lips sheathing my cock, taking me down to the root on the banks of the river. There had been a promise in her eyes, a promise that she’d be mine, if I reached out and made a claim. And so I will—at least physically, but the pleasure of the flesh is as much as I can offer. And pleasure I shall give her.

If only she had royal blood...then...perhaps she could make me overcome my vow.

“Who is the lucky lady?” a deep voice says behind me, and I strike a wrong key.

Damn it.

I turn around, ready to bite the head off whoever dares to venture into my inner sanctum, and find my brother Benedict regarding me with an arched brow.

We look so much alike save for the eye color and the goodness that emanates from him just as something wicked brews inside me. I am darkness and shadow. He is golden light. I hear the whispers. I know those that think him a bastard—Benedict himself included. I pay those words little heed. Full brother or half, he is my best and only true friend.

“Welcome home, Bastard,” I say. It’s a joke between us. We wear our vulnerabilities like armor. It’s the way we survive as the lords of the land, all eyes on us.

“That was Wagner, no?” He cocks his head. “You only play that when a woman has you tied in knots.”

His memory is keen.

“Dear brother, don’t you know? If there is a woman and knots to consider, I am the one doing the tying. Apologies if I offend your holy sensibilities.” I eye Benedict’s simple clerical garb. My brother is a seminarian, a year away from taking his holy vows and entering the priesthood, much to the eternal pride of our father. When the idea of his virginity is not causing me nightmares, the idea is amusing in the extreme. Benedict is one of the most sought-after men in Europe, and he chooses to marry the church.

I hope God keeps his bed warm.

“What good is the spare to my heir if he is celibate?” Father likes to roar after a drink too many. While he speaks in jest, there is a glimmer of truth.

Benedict takes it all in stride. All he wants to do is please the king—to prove himself worthy of his lineage no matter what the rumors say. When Benedict declared his life belonged to the church, Father was the first to commend him.

How many times have I wondered if a woman could ever tempt him from his path? But he assures me that his destiny is fixed. That the pleasures of the flesh pale in comparison to the rhapsody of the soul.

I have to say, burying my face between Kate’s thighs takes me to the gates of heaven. Imagine what burying my cock in her would do.

“I came to bid you good-night and let you know that I’ll be taking up residence in the south tower for the foreseeable future.”

Benedict long ago laid a claim to the ancient keep on the far northern border of the palace grounds. He prefers its austere environment for prayer and solitude.

“What happened to the Vatican?” I ask him. “Thought you were off to Italy for good.”

He laughs softly. “The Vatican City is its own country,” he reminds me. “As you should have learned when studying geography.”

“Ah, didn’t Mrs. Everdeen tutor us on that subject?”

He inclines his head.

“Well, I was too busy studying Mrs. Everdeen in other ways.” I smirk. “She had this trick she could do with her tongue that—”

“You are incorrigible, brother,” Benedict says. “And yet it is bloody good to see you.”

I cross the room and enfold him in a warm bear hug, slapping him on the back. “You too.”

“I hear you are to be wed. Is it your bride who has you playing Wagner?”

I shake my head. “The matchmaker.” The words are out before I can stop them.

Damn Benedict. His kind eyes make a sinner like me yearn to confess.

He nods thoughtfully. “Sounds like a dilemma.”

A flicker of hope lights in me. “You’re the scholar in the family.”

“Between you and Damien, it wasn’t hard to do.”

Benedict is also the only one not afraid to acknowledge our younger brother’s existence in my presence.

I ignore it this once. “If there’s a loophole to the Royal Marriage Decree, a way for me to make my own damned decisions without losing the kingdom, I need you to find it. I am determined not to wed. You know this.”

He appears thoughtful. “Such an action will displease our father.”

“Yes.” And by extension, that will displease my too-good brother. “And Adele,” I add. My lips curl into a grin as I know this point will make Benedict my ally.

He brightens at that thought. He and Adele have no love lost. That witch is the only person to ever make my saintly brother lose his temper.

“Very well,” he says, a muscle twitching in his jaw at the mention of our stepmother. “I’ll look into it.”

“You are truly a glorious human. You’ll be canonized yet.”

He grins at that, but his normally clear green eyes remain dark.

“What’s the reason you are back, brother?” My light tone doesn’t mask the hint of probing seriousness. “You haven’t said.”

His lips tilt in a smile that only I ever get to see, one that isn’t all that angelic. “It appears the Lord’s wish is to help prevent your sacrament of marriage.” He clicks his heels and disappears out the door.

It takes me a moment to realize that he hasn’t answered my question at all.

Kate

What the hell was I thinking, placing a wager against someone as strong-willed as Nikolai Lorentz? If there’s anything a man like him thrives on, it’s the game, and I’ve just upped the stakes of the one he’d been playing long before I came into the picture—thinking I will get him to play by his own kingdom’s rules.

I pace the length of the conference room, the same one where I first met the prince two weeks ago, and the same one where, afterward, the king and queen called me to a private meeting without their son.

Shit.

The door opens, and I freeze midpace only to find Beatrice and another member of the kitchen staff with a silver cart laden with pastries, finger sandwiches and a sterling teapot. Each woman offers me a quick nod as they begin depositing the refreshments on the table.

“Will there be more than the king and queen joining me in here?” I ask nervously, and Beatrice shakes her head.

“No, Miss. These are Queen Adele’s favorites. The king orders Her Majesty’s most requested finger foods when she’s in—” The other woman flashes Beatrice a look, but Beatrice waves her off and crosses over to where I stand. “It’s really not my place, Miss, but I think you should know today is the anniversary of Miss Victoria’s passing.”

I swallow, and my eyes widen. I am to meet with the queen on the anniversary of her daughter’s death—the daughter who was betrothed to Nikolai.

The date hadn’t registered with me. Of course I knew of Nikolai and Victoria’s relationship. The entire continent did. But it had been years since the car crash. It wasn’t the type of thing that made news anymore. Nikolai saw to that—sees to that every moment he finds himself in the spotlight. Unless the king has any diplomatic dealings that call for broadcast coverage, Nikolai is the family’s media darling.

Why, then? Why have my sovereign rulers called me here today, of all days, for a mere check-in on my list of possible brides for the prince?

A throat clears, and Beatrice and I both look up to see the other kitchen servant nodding toward the entrance of the room where Queen Adele stands in the double doorway, flanked by two guards.

She wears an exquisite black dress, long sleeved with a square neckline, the bodice hugging her womanly curves. I can see why King Nikolai was taken with her so soon after Queen Cordelia’s death. The woman is a sight to behold, her golden hair in perfect pin curls framing her face, a ruby-studded tiara atop her head. She is elegance and grace, but there is ice in her emerald stare, and I can’t help the shiver that makes my hair stand on end.

“That will be all, everyone,” she says, and the two guards, along with Beatrice and her assistant, leave the room, pulling the doors closed behind them.

I bow my head and curtsy as she walks toward the head of the table, and I wait for her to sit. I’m not sure where to seat myself, so like an idiot I ask, “May I pour you some tea, Your Highness?”

“Do sit, Miss Winter,” she says, her voice laced with amusement when I expect to hear the remnants of grief. Surely she’s come from visiting her daughter’s grave. Or perhaps she will be on her way after our meeting.

Our meeting. It’s only when I take a seat at the opposite end of the table that I realize the king is nowhere to be seen.

“Will His Highness, King Nikolai, be joining us soon?”

She laughs softly. “The king is away on matters of state business,” she says. “It’s just the two of us, I’m afraid.” She places her palms flat atop the mahogany table. “Don’t worry, Miss Winter. I shall be brief.”

I nod as the breath catches in my throat. Something about the queen—being in her presence alone—has all my senses on high alert.

“I know how important this job is to you,” she drawls, her tone like an animal toying with its prey.

“Yes, Your Highness. It is,” I say.

She steeples her fingers before her and grins, the smile not quite reaching her deep green eyes.

“And that you and your sister stand to gain a great deal of fortune if all goes according to plan.”

Double my fee is a generous offer. “Yes, Your Highness.”

She leans forward, and though the length of the table separates us, I flinch at the movement.

“And if you do not succeed, your business will be in ruins.”

I gasp. To lose the fee promised me would be a devastating blow, but Madeline and I would still be able to come back from it. We’d still—

“Stop trying to rationalize whatever it is you think you’re going to say to me, Miss Winter. I’m not in the habit of ruining others—as long as we are on the same side. And I think we both want the same thing, don’t we? To see my stepson walk down that aisle and the throne stay in the...immediate family?”

“Yes, of course,” I say. I hold her gaze, determined not to flinch again.

Her posture relaxes, but only slightly. “Good. Then all you have to do is keep up business as usual. Seek out all the lovely, appropriate, deserving women. Build up Nikolai’s image like his father hopes you will.”

My teeth grind together in my mouth. Something is off here, but so far she’s not asking anything other than what I’m already doing.

“May I ask you a question, Your Highness?”

Her brows rise. She is considering my boldness, no doubt, but then she nods her head.

“Forgive me if I’m being untoward. But are you trying to see to it that I fail or succeed? Because I can’t for the life of me figure out why you called this meeting.”

This time her eyes light up as her lips curl. “You will succeed, Miss Winter.”

“How do you know?” I add, deciding to go for broke in my impropriety of speaking my uncensored thoughts in front of my leader.

“Because,” she says, standing from her chair. I stand as well. “I’m going to find the woman most deserving of a life with my stepson, and we will present her to him when the time is right.”

“But my list—”

She shakes her head, closing her eyes as she does. When she looks at me again, I see something so cold in that stare that I shudder. “My match won’t be on any such list, but when I’ve found the one, you’ll know. All you have to do is convince Nikolai she’s the one, as well.” She narrows her eyes at me. “That boy trusts you already. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. All you have to do is maintain that trust—keep him occupied while I set everything in place. You’ll get your doubled fee and maybe even an additional bonus. I get what’s rightfully mine and Nikolai gets what he deserves.”

“Rightfully yours?” I ask, unable to stop the question even though I know I should not speak out of turn with her.

But the queen doesn’t bother to respond.

She plucks a cucumber finger sandwich from the top of a tiered plate and pops it in her mouth, smirking as she devours it. Then she saunters out of the room, not waiting for me to say another word.

Double my fee. A bonus. Or a ruined business if we’re not playing for the same side.

Maybe Nikolai does play his games, but he no longer makes the rules.

I wonder now if he ever did.

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