Royal Pain - Tracy Wolff(ang.)

Royal Pain is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. A Loveswept Ebook Original Copyright © 2017 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney Excerpt from Royal Treatment by Tracy Wolff copyright © 2017 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC. This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Royal Treatment by Tracy Wolff. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

Ebook ISBN 9780425285893 Cover design: Makeready Designs Cover photograph: conrado/Shutterstock randomhousebooks.com v4.1 ep

Contents Cover Title Page Copyright

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Dedication Acknowledgments By Tracy Wolff About the Author Excerpt from Royal Treatment

Prologue Kian The weather’s hot, the drinks are cold and the music is hopping—and there’s no place I’d rather be. Then again, who doesn’t want to be on a yacht off the coast of Ibiza, playground to the rich and the raunchy? It’s the perfect spot, especially for someone like me who’s quite proud of taking both of the above to extremes—along with the third r in my trifecta of bad behavior: royal. That’s right. I’m rich, raunchy and royal, and while I don’t usually brag about any of it, I don’t apologize for it, either. Why should I, when there’s not much in life that being His Royal Hotness Prince Kian of Wildemar won’t get me? And since I get the title without any of the responsibility—thanks to my older brother, Garrett—I figure it’d be a shame to squander my luck. A lot of people think I should be bitter about being the spare to Garrett’s heir—we were

born only seven minutes apart, after all. But those people don’t get it. They see only the power that comes with being the man who will be king and none of the shit that it entails. I, however, have had an up-close-andpersonal look at all of the shit, and I’ve got to say—I really, really like being the spare. It’s why I’m on this yacht, after all, while Garrett’s back at the castle playing Crown Prince of Wildemar with delegates from several South American governments. Why I currently have a Brazilian supermodel on my lap and a Victoria’s Secret Angel snuggled up against my side while Garrett’s been tied to the same boring, titled little snob for years now. Most important, it’s why I get to say and be and do what (or who) I want while Garrett… Garrett definitely doesn’t. Fuck yeah, I love being the spare. What’s not to love about getting all the privileges of royalty with none of the responsibilities? The music changes to some old school Avicii, and the model on my lap—Sofia, I think her name is—squeals even as she squirms against me. “I love this song,” she says, her voice all low and breathless and sex-drunk from the orgasm I just gave her. “Let’s dance,

baby.” “You sure that’s what you want?” I flex the fingers of my left hand, which are still buried inside of her. “Because I was thinking we’d go for round two, see how long it takes me to get you off again.” “You can get me off again,” Brandy, the Angel on my right side, says as she rocks against my thumb. She moans a little as I give her what she wants, stroking my thumb over her clit once, twice, a third time. Like so many things in life, third time’s the charm and she comes, gasping my name and clutching at my back with her long, designerpolished fingernails. Sofia moans a little as she watches, her body clenching hot and wet around my fingers as she, too, comes for a second time. And then she’s slipping off my lap, sliding a hand down the six-pack ten years in the Wildemar Royal Navy has given me and settling onto the floor between my thighs. Brandy moves to help her out, her fingers tugging at the drawstring on my Gucci board shorts. I lean back against the couch in an effort to give her more room—never let it be said that I’m not a gentleman. It obviously works, because just that easily her hand is

inside my shorts, her fingers wrapped around my dick as she pumps me a few times. It’s my turn to groan as I stretch one of my arms out along the back of the sofa. I use the other to reach for Sofia. I pull her closer, tangle my fingers in her hair. Then slowly, slowly, slowly guide her very red, very talented mouth down to my eagerly waiting cock. But she’s barely sucked me down when the sound of a helicopter’s rotors gets annoyingly close. So close, in fact, that I can’t help glancing up at it. And that’s when I know I’m fucked, because it’s not just any helicopter. It’s one from the Wildemar Royal Air Corps—I can tell from the insignia on the side. Before I can even fathom what they’re doing here, Niall and Lucas are by my side. In seconds, I’m disengaged from Sofia and the angel and in less than a minute, I’m standing in the center of the deck beneath a ladder dangling from the hovering helicopter. “What the fuck is going on?” I demand of my bodyguards who are, even now—in the middle of a yacht party—dressed in the slate gray suits that are their standard uniform. “The king has ordered you home,” Niall tells me, face more serious than I’ve ever seen it.

“The king can suck—” “It’s an emergency, Kian.” Lucas cuts me off before I can say something unflattering about my father in front of all the rich and useless avidly watching this go down. “What kind of emergency?” For the first time a frisson of concern works its way down my spine. “The country—” “Is fine,” Niall interrupts. “Then what?” “It’s Prince Garrett,” he tells me as he steadies the ladder. The trepidation grows, starts to become panic. “What’s wrong with my brother?” “I don’t know.” The fuck? “What do you know?” I demand, frustrated. “That something has happened to Prince Garrett and the king fears for your safety as well,” Lucas growls. “Now, get on the—” But I’m already climbing, racing up the ladder and into the helicopter as fear churns sickly in my stomach. I may be the spare, but I’m still a member of the Wildemar royal family. And right now all I care about is making sure my brother—and my country—are safe.

Chapter 1 My skin itches like it’s too small. Like I’ve got a really bad sunburn. Like it’s the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever worn. Which, let’s face it, at the moment is totally true. Well, that or I’ve got a raging case of the chicken pox. Or maybe it’s just that the monkey suit I’m currently stuck in is a fucking disaster. Or it could be…Jesus, the possibilities are fucking limitless right now, aren’t they? Surreptitiously, I slide a finger between the too stiff, too starched collar and my too dry throat. Then take my first deep breath of the night. Yeah, it’s definitely the monkey suit. Or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. So much better than the alternative… After years of wearing my dress uniform to formal events, it feels strange as fuck to suddenly be stuck in a goddamn tuxedo. Sure, it’s Tom Ford, but the perfect cut doesn’t make the psychology of the suit—or this night—any

easier to accept. I flex my shoulders, adjust my jacket, covertly pull at my cuffs a little. And try to look like I’m not strangling on my perfectly knotted black silk bow tie. It’s easier said than done, considering everything about this night is strange as fuck. Then again, everything in my life has felt uncomfortable—and so much worse—since that royal helicopter swooped down onto that damn yacht thirteen weeks ago. Uncomfortable and upside down and wrong. So fucking wrong. But how can it be anything but wrong when I’m the one standing at this stupid gala, keeping a stiff upper lip while my brother—my twin—is missing? Maybe locked in some hellhole somewhere. Maybe injured. Maybe dead. Just the word makes my stomach churn and my hands shake. I shove them into my pockets so none of the vultures currently studying my every movement can see. They’re determined to find some sign of weakness in me tonight, and I’m just as determined not to let them. “Your Highness. It’s so lovely to see you here!” a voice trills behind me.

Jesus. Any higher and she’d be breaking the sound barrier. Why the fuck is it that rich women—especially older, rich women—think talking in that ridiculous trill makes them attractive? All it does is turn people off. Well, that and get every dog in the neighborhood on high alert. I make sure none of my annoyance shows as I turn around and come face-to-face with a woman who looks vaguely familiar. A little voice in the back of my head tells me I should know her, but I gave up listening to that voice a long time ago and not even stepping into Garrett’s shoes is going to change that. “Hello, ma chérie,” I tell her, taking the hand she extends and bringing it to my lips. She giggles like a twelve-year-old. “It’s so good to see you again. William and I were hoping you’d be here.” It’s the mention of her husband that triggers my memory. She’s Florence Thackeray, wife of the British ambassador to Wildemar. Her husband is an old school friend and a frequent golfing buddy of my father’s. I force a little more sincerity onto my face because of the family connection. But to be honest, any friend of my father’s is automatically suspicious in my mind. “I was

hoping to see you here, as well. How is”—I rack my brain for several seconds—“Betsy?” She draws back in surprise. “Betsy?” Fuck. Okay. “I meant to say Betty. How is Betty?” Her face pinches in obvious annoyance. For fuck’s sake. How the hell am I supposed to remember the name of every daughter of every fucking ambassador in the fucking country? Just because not-Betsy-or-Betty and I fucked in the garden during a long state dinner one summer night a few years ago doesn’t mean we’ve kept in touch. God save me from meddling mothers. Still, I’m supposed to be trying, so…“Your daughter. How is she? The last time we spoke she was on summer break from Cambridge.” “Bootsy has finished up her degree and is now working in the embassy. Here. In Wildemar.” And that’s my cue to bug the hell out of Dodge. “Well, please, give Bootsy my love. We’ll have to have you all over to the palace soon.” I drop another kiss on her hand, then slide into the crowd swirling around us. I make a mental note to ask Roland—the family’s social secretary and general master of all things that

make me miserable—what it would take for me to get a pair of earplugs and a lobotomy before that happens. Why the fuck am I doing this? I fume as I make my way through the crowd. Why the fuck am I even here? I should be at home researching the information from our daily briefing on Garrett’s disappearance or badgering our security or intelligence forces about what else they can do to find him. I sure as shit shouldn’t be here pretending to give a fuck about all this. So why the hell am I? Oh, right. I’m supposed to show the people that Wildemar is as strong as ever, even if their crown prince has disappeared in an incident where everything points to foul play. The only problem? It’s not true. We’re not strong. But fake it till you make it has always been my motto—or, at least, the fake it part. I’m here to show everyone that things are fine, that Garrett’s kidnapping, while alarming and being treated with the utmost urgency, hasn’t shaken the integrity or the spirit of the royal family. Even though it really, really has. It’s harder to fake than it should be, considering I was raised in this world and have known many of the people in this room for

most of my life. But familiarity doesn’t mean intimacy—especially when you’re royal—and I’m determined not to break. Not here and definitely not now. Even though every day that Garrett’s missing, every day that goes by without a phone call or a ransom demand or a video using him as propaganda for some crazy cause, it becomes more and more likely that my brother—my twin—is already dead. The recurring thought chills me to the bone, has more than my hands shaking as I start to slowly wind my way toward the bar on the other side of the room. Distance wise, it’s not that far. But as I can only move about six inches at a time before having to exchange more pleasantries, it takes forever. My dry throat gets even drier. Still, I smile at the Duchess of Something or Other, doing my best to ignore the way she presses herself against me. The fact that she’s old enough to be my mother doesn’t seem to bother her as she leans forward and whispers something utterly lewd—and utterly unarousing—in my ear. And then Arnoux Durand catches my attention. “Your Highness, how are you?” He’s all sad eyes and concerned voice. “We are so,

so sorry about Prince Garrett. But we want you to know how thrilled we are to have your leadership in this difficult time and into the future.” Like my brother’s already dead. Like the outcome is already guaranteed and now all we have to do is find and bury the body. I want to tell the fussy old asshole to back off, but he’s the majority leader of the Upper House. As my father had Roland remind me when he was briefing me—we’ve got a lot of legislation we need to get through the Houses right now and I’m supposed to smooth the way as much as possible. Sympathy will only get us so far, after all…yeah, dear old dad’s a cold one, all right. Very deliberately, I take a breath—lately I’ve been forgetting to do that—and count back from five before I answer. “Thank you for your concern, Minister Durand. My father and I appreciate your—” “Minister Gerincoult,” he interrupts, sounding a little like his bow tie is strangling him. I feel his pain. “I definitely plan on speaking to Gerincoult,” I tell him. “I just haven’t—” “No, I’m Gerincoult.” His words are clipped, his tone ice cold and I am completely screwed.

“Durand is over by the balcony.” “Of course. I’m sorry.” With no other recourse, I go for the pity vote. “With everything going on right now, I’m a little discombobulated. Of course I know who you are. You were always one of Garrett’s favorites.” He doesn’t look impressed, but at least he doesn’t look offended anymore. Probably because he thinks I’m a moron…and right now, I’m tempted to agree with him. Fuck. My. Life. Garrett has to be alive. He has to be—and not because I can’t spend the next fifty years doing this. Everyone, from the people to my father to parliament (except for maybe Lower House Minority Leader Gerincoult), seems to think I should take his place, glad-handing the peerage even as I show Wildemar’s citizens just how serious I can be. If these last three months have shown me nothing else, it’s that to all of them, one crown prince is as good as another. As if it’s so easy. As if I can just slide into Garrett’s place. As if anyone could. Garrett is the best of Wildemar, certainly the better of the two of us. The idea that I could

ever, in any way, replace him is more than just insulting. It’s a goddamn joke. One with a really, really bad punch line. And yet here I am, trying—and failing—to do just that. The people of Wildemar deserve better. Too bad they haven’t figured that out yet. But they will. And then there will be hell to pay. For all of us. Sure, I can work a ballroom with the best of them. Shake a few hands. Tell a couple of welltimed stories designed to get a laugh. Dance with all the parliament wives and charm their high heels—and low-rise panties—right off of them. Twenty-eight years of being the spare has taught me a thing or two, after all. But that doesn’t mean I can run a country. Hell, most days I can barely remember the head of parliament’s name, let alone his party politics. Or how I want him to vote on pressing issues. I’ve spent my whole life burning bridges instead of building them. Expecting me to change that now is crazy. Besides, can you really blame me? Who wouldn’t rather spend the evening in bed with a couple of supermodels instead of lying their ass off at some boring charity gala?

But that’s not how it works when you’re next in line for the throne. The crown prince doesn’t get to hang out with supermodels. He doesn’t get to have wild parties in Monte Carlo or Vegas. And he sure as hell doesn’t get to do what he wants. Instead, he does what the king wants. What the people expect. And what the title demands. Right now, the title is demanding that I work the room, holding court with the privileged masses but never actually mingling with them. Never lowering myself to their level. A prince is to appear interested but not too interested, accessible but not too accessible. Concerned, but—you guessed it—not too concerned. It’s a rule I learned at an early age, but for me, it’s always been harder to follow than it should be. Then again, for me, most rules are. I make it a few steps closer to the bar when Roland—who might be ancient but is also quite sneaky and spry—intercepts me. He delicately clears his throat, nervously glances left and right. And though he avoids eye contact, I don’t have to look him in the eyes to know what he wants. Namely, to remind me that I’m

not here to get drunk, no matter how good that sounds right now. And it sounds really, really good. But that’s what the spare would do. He’d charm the bartender into giving him a bottle of the best scotch in the place, grab a couple of beautiful—and unattached—women and head out to the gardens or up to a hotel suite, depending on how many fucks he had to give. Which, more often than not, was absolutely none. I’ve screwed women in every corner of this hotel’s very extensive gardens, in the elaborate restrooms, in any number of suites and, one memorable night, in the coat-check room. I nod to Roland to let him know I understand, then take a few more steps toward the drink that’s calling my name. Not getting drunk does not mean not drinking. Or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Too bad Madame Aguillard has a different plan as she latches onto me. She’s an older woman, fifty-five or so, with ruby red talons for nails and a tower of fake blond hair. She’s also got the instincts of a shark and it’s obvious she scents blood in the water tonight… This is far from my first run-in with her. Her

husband used to be minister of finance, and when I was fifteen, she cornered me in the family wing of the castle and tried to talk me out of my very rebellious ripped jeans. The fact that I almost let her makes this meeting— and every other one we’ve had through the years—exceedingly uncomfortable for me. But when she grabs on to my biceps—her long, pointed fingernails digging in a little as she holds tight—I realize this meeting is going to be even more awkward than the others. Because this meeting isn’t about getting me into her bed; it’s about currying favor with the crown prince. More, it’s about trying to attract my interest—not in her, but in the woman standing next to her. Her youngest daughter, Marigold. Or Mariana. Or Merriweather… Whatever her name is, this whole ambush is all kinds of fucked up. Thirteen years ago, she wanted to fuck me as her dirty little secret. Now she wants me to fuck her daughter in front of the whole world. Within the boundaries of matrimony, of course, but still… totally fucked up. Besides, it’s not going to happen. The daughter may be hot, but no one is hot enough to make getting tangled up with this family a good idea.

Which leaves me at something of a disadvantage, considering the whole room is watching and I have absolutely no idea what to do right now. It’s not that I can’t handle situations like this normally (it’s hard to be a prince and not know how to deal with scheming mothers and their scheming daughters) but that’s when I’m the spare. It’s easy to extricate myself from sticky situations when everyone is looking at Garrett. But now that they’re looking at me it becomes exponentially harder…especially since the fate of government alliances often rests with the crown prince. Whatever I do, I have to do it quickly. Because the longer we stand here, the more people begin to notice what’s going on. And the more people begin to notice, the more likely my name is to be linked with Mariely… Maria…Mariella—yes, that’s her name, Mariella Aguillard. And that is definitely not something I want to happen. Some fucked-up version of Royal Wedding Watch here in Wildemar would pretty much be the icing on the cake of the shitty last three months. Panic whips through me at the thought of having to lay those rumors to rest. Then again, panic has been my default mode since Garrett disappeared. Panicked, pissed off and abjectly,

violently, overwhelmingly terrified. It’s not a good look—for me or the country. Then again, neither is having the crown prince vanish from a public appearance. Especially when the only traces left of him are a royal limousine shot full of holes—and three dead bodyguards. I shove the thought—and the rage it engenders—down deep and concentrate instead on the situation at hand. Goddamn it. I need a drink, not another conversation with a predatory mama and her vapid daughter. Still, I work up a smile—praying that it doesn’t look as much like a grimace as I think it does—when Mariella lays a familiar hand on my forearm. “Kian, how are you?” she asks, batting her eyes so hard I can feel a breeze from her fake lashes. “I’m good.” I subtly twist so that her hand slips off my arm. Then, to cover the movement, I brush our palms together in a brief handshake. “How are you?” “Excellent now that I get to see you again.” It’s practically a purr, the sound of a cat who thinks she’s finally cornered her prey. But I’m no mouse and I never will be. She’s too self-absorbed to realize that,

though. Too caught up in the game of her own making to figure out that I have no interest in playing along. She steps closer, brushes her breasts against my arm—all in clear view of her mother and everyone else in the ballroom. “How are you really doing, darling? I know losing Garrett has been so hard for you and I’ve been worried. We all have been.” “I didn’t lose him,” I tell her through teeth locked tightly together. “He’s not my keys or my wallet.” “Oh, of course not,” she trills, and now her hand is resting against my chest. I want to put her in her place, but I’ve never been one to use my position to savage a woman, even verbally. No matter how much of a predator she might be. But dozens of people are straining to hear what we’re speaking about and hundreds more are watching us like hawks. I need to say something, need to do something, or the rumor mill will explode. But before I can come up with anything that isn’t rude or inflammatory, a waitress swoops by with a tray full of champagne glasses. “Would you like a drink, Your Highness?” she asks, her voice low and husky. The sound

draws my attention despite myself and I turn to grab a champagne flute—tequila’s more my drink of choice, but right now beggars can’t be choosers—and I find myself staring into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen. The glance—and the awareness it sparks— only lasts a moment, though, because suddenly she’s jerking forward…and dumping the entire tray of drinks straight down the front of this damn Tom Ford tuxedo.

Chapter 2 All around me, people gasp. Madame Aguillard—and her daughter—jump back like they’ve been burned. Or worse, like a little clumsiness is a contagious disease. Over the waitress’s head, I see Lucas and Niall poised to swoop in. I stop them with a sharp shake of my head— spilled champagne isn’t exactly a national security crisis—then reach out and take hold of the waitress’s hand, which is currently dabbing a napkin up and down my stomach as she apologizes profusely. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” she says for what has to be the fifth time in as many seconds. “I’m so—” “Please,” I say, divesting her of the napkin before she starts swiping it across my crotch in full view of Wildemar’s upper crust. Talk about a whole different kind of spectacle…The fact that my dick perks up a little at the thought makes this whole thing even more disastrous. And intriguing. But that’s the old Kian, I remind myself. The one who isn’t first in line to govern an entire

country. The new Kian is supposed to be kingly, circumspect and definitely not a pervert who can’t help thinking about what’s going on under this waitress’s sheer blouse. Even if it looks like a lot is going on under there, in the best possible way. “Please, stop apologizing,” I tell her as I use the napkin to sop up the worst of the champagne. “Accidents happen.” I turn to Madame Aguillard and her daughter. “I’m sorry, but I need to go take care of this.” I gesture to the giant wet spot on the front of my tuxedo. “Of course,” they both coo as one, even as they send venomous looks toward the waitress. “Maybe we can have a dance later?” Mariella asks, running a hand down the lapel of my tuxedo that didn’t get doused in champagne. “I’ll look forward to it,” I answer, even as I promise myself to stay far, far away from this less than dynamic duo for the rest of the night. A fly only has so many chances to escape a spider’s web, after all, and I feel like I’ve already used mine up. “Maybe we could—” “I have some club soda for that,” the waitress interrupts just in time. Then she’s

grabbing my hand in her free hand and starts all but dragging me through the ballroom. “Thank you, but that’s not—” She shoots me a look that has the words freezing in my throat. Half-amused, halfwicked, it’s sexy as fuck. And suddenly, gala or no, I find myself more than willing to be dragged wherever she wants to take me. I glance behind me, and sure enough Lucas is winding his way through the crowd to follow us. I shake my head, but he just glares at me and keeps coming. Another difference between being the heir and being the spare. What little part of my life once belonged to me no longer exists. I don’t stop, though. There’s something quite refreshing about being manhandled by a woman who doesn’t seem all that impressed with my title. We wind our way down a small hallway, where she drops the tray she’s still carrying on a large banquet server. Then she picks up a few more cloth napkins and continues pulling me along. “I usually make a habit of learning a woman’s name before I let her abscond with me,” I say, as we make our way down a second hallway.

“No, you don’t.” She shoots another amused look over her shoulder, this one complete with a little eyebrow raise that has my cock all kinds of interested. And can you blame it—or me? The woman is hot with a capital H-O-T. Long black hair that looks like any second it’s going to tumble down from the updo she’s got it twisted into. Big brown eyes framed with dark lashes that put Mariella’s fake ones to shame. Add full pink lips, that husky voice and a body that’s all lush curves and smooth olive skin, and what’s not to love? The old Kian would already be trying to talk her out of her black work pants and onto his dick. Hell, who am I kidding? Once we get somewhere private, the new Kian is going to be doing the same damn thing. We finally come to a door and she stops just long enough to swipe her badge through the reader. Then she pushes the door open and we’re on a small, half moon–shaped balcony— one that has a cooler on one side and a small table with two chairs on the other. “Breakroom?” I ask as I turn to shut the door in Lucas’s face. He looks furious, but he’s just going to have to suck it up. Normally I

don’t mind audiences when I fuck, but there’s something about this woman that makes me want to keep whatever happens next just between us. “Something like that.” She drops my hand and I try not to miss the warmth of her palm against mine. Then she walks over to the cooler and lifts the lid. Pulls out a small bottle of club soda and brandishes it triumphantly. “You keep club soda out here on the off chance you might drop a drink on someone?” I ask, a little incredulous. “Or is this a nightly thing for you?” I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed. I thought the club soda thing was just a ruse. She laughs then, a rich, warm sound that shoots straight through my bloodstream to my dick. I shift a little, trying to disguise the fact that I’m suddenly rock-hard and raring to go. “I keep the club soda out here because this is where the scotch is.” She pulls out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and sets it on the table. Then takes two red plastic cups from a sleeve sitting next to the cooler. “Want a drink?” “You brought me out here for a drink?” I ask, relaxing a little as all the pieces fall into

place. She’s not the first star-fucker I’ve run across at one of these things, and she won’t be the last. Suddenly the night is looking waaaaay up. At least my cock will be happy for the rest of the night, even if the rest of me dies of boredom. “I brought you out here because that barracuda looked like she was going to eat you for a midnight snack—and not in a good way.” “Mariella?” That surprises a laugh out of me. “I could have handled her.” “You looked like a virgin sacrifice about to be tossed into a volcano,” she says with a snort. “I figured it was my patriotic duty to rescue you.” “Oh, yeah? And what else do you consider your patriotic duty?” As soon as the words are out, I want to kick my own ass. Shit. Three months as crown prince and apparently I’ve lost every ounce of my game. Goddamn it. But she just laughs as she pours a healthy amount of scotch into both cups and then tops it off with club soda. “Not sucking your cock, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She holds one of the cups out to me, waits for me to take it. Then clinks the plastic glasses together and says “Cheers.” I start to take a sip, but she barks out,

“Wait!” at the last second. “What’s wrong?” “Aren’t you afraid I poisoned it? Shouldn’t you wait for me to drink first?” I settle a shoulder against the stone wall, surprised at just how much I’m enjoying myself. Normally, sex is the only thing that feels this good—or gets me this relaxed. “Did you poison it?” “No.” She takes a long, deliberate sip of her drink. “But you didn’t know that.” I follow suit, draining the cup in one long swallow. “Sure, I did.” “Oh, yeah? How?” “Because that shit only happens in James Bond movies and Shakespearean tragedies.” Even as I say it, I try not to think about my brother. Or about how his three bodyguards were found lying in pools of their own blood. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.” When I look at her blankly, a little shocked at how easily she can tell how I feel, she shrugs. “It’s one of the few Shakespearean quotes I know.” Relief sweeps through me. “Uneasy.” “What?” “ ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.’

It’s from Henry IV, Part II which—strictly speaking—is a history, not a tragedy.” She laughs then, and it’s so deep, so fullbodied, so sexy that I feel it in every cell. “I guess I should have gone with ‘Out damned spot.’ ” She gestures to my champagne-soaked tuxedo. It’s my turn to laugh, which surprises me, considering I can’t remember the last time I did. “Only if you’re actively colluding to get the throne.” “Definitely not.” Her nose crinkles adorably, and I can’t help laughing again. She looks so horrified at just the thought of being royal—something I can relate to right about now. “What’s your name?” It’s an easy question, but for long seconds she doesn’t answer. Just eyes me over the rim of her cup as she taps her fingers against the plastic in an unsteady rhythm. But then she shrugs, as if to say, what the hell. “Savvy.” “Savvy?” “It’s short for Savannah, but that never really suited me—much to my mother’s dismay.” “And Savvy does? Suit you?” She shrugs. “Better than Savannah, anyway.

Being named after a city that once held slaves doesn’t exactly do it for me.” “So you’re American. I couldn’t quite tell. Your accent is…” “Nonexistent, I know. My parents were theater gypsies. I was born in America, but I’m pretty much from everywhere.” “Even Wildemar?” “Definitely Wildemar. I was an exchange student here my second year in college. I loved it so much, I came back as soon as I could.” “Really? We’re not too formal and autocratic for you with our constitutional monarchy?” I hold out my cup for a refill. She rolls her eyes even as she pours more scotch, for both of us. “I’m sitting here drinking scotch with the prince—who had to be rescued from the evil clutches of his over amorous subjects, if you remember correctly. How formal—or autocratic—could you possibly be?” “You make a good point—and a mean scotch and soda.” She’s the first one tonight to call me a prince and not THE CROWN PRINCE. It’s a subtle difference, but I like it. Probably more than I should. “I’d better, considering my other gig is as a bartender.”

That startles a laugh out of me. “Waitress, bartender, theater gypsy, college student… you’re quite the Renaissance woman.” “Not a theater gypsy or a college student anymore.” “Oh, yeah? Why is that?” “The theater was never my thing. And I graduated from college two years ago. They tend to make you leave after you get a degree, so…” “And yet you’re not settled down in some office somewhere, using that degree?” “I’m still a gypsy, even if it’s not for the theater. And my degree’s in creative writing—I use it every day. Just not in some stuffy office.” “Oh, definitely not.” There’s a warmth flowing through me, one that has nothing to do with the scotch and everything to do with the beautiful gypsy in front of me. “You put it to use in stuffy ballrooms instead.” “Exactly.” She grins. “And look where it got me tonight. I’ll definitely have something to write about when I go home.” “You know,” I say, putting my cup on the table and closing the small distance between us. “I’ve got an idea on how to make your writing a little more interesting.”

“Do you now?” Her eyes go wide in fake surprise but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she holds my gaze with her own, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “And how exactly can we do that?” I move even closer, backing her up until she’s pressed against the stone railing and I’m pressed up against all those lush curves of hers. She’s tall—close to six feet even in her work shoes—and she fits nicely against my own six-foot-four frame. “Why don’t you let me show you?” I say, leaning in so that my breath is hot against her ear. I’m rewarded when she shivers, just a little. “I’m an action-oriented kind of guy.” “I just bet you are.” She slaps a hand on my chest, pushes until I back up a little. “But, sadly, my break is just about over. I need to go.” She slides out from between me and the railing, and reaches over to drop the scotch and club soda back into the cooler. Then she gathers up our empty cups and heads for the door back inside. I take hold of her hand, spin her around until she’s facing me again. “You’re really going back to work?” Savvy smiles, obviously amused by my

disbelief. “I really am.” “I thought we were having a moment here.” “We were having several moments.” She reaches up with her free hand and pats my cheek. “And now they’re over.” “They don’t have to be.” I place my free hand on her lower back, press her against me. Despite her words, her body is pliant and her nipples peaked as she lets me hold her close. “Trust me, Savvy. I can make you feel good.” She laughs then, and somehow it’s even sexier than before. What is it about this woman that turns me on even when she’s laughing at me? “I just bet you can.” She leans forward and brushes her lips against mine. Electricity arcs between us at the brief contact. “But not here and not tonight.” I hold her tight, go in for another, deeper kiss. One that has her moaning low in her throat and has my every nerve ending standing up and taking notice. “Where and when then?” I ask, when she finally pulls back. “You name the place.” She just shakes her head, shifts against me. I can feel it now, the way she’s poised to flee despite the need winding its way around us like a vine. The knowledge only makes me

hold on tighter, a part of me afraid she’ll disappear like Cinderella when the clock strikes midnight. Thank God it’s only ten-thirty. “I have to go,” she says again. “At least give me your number. Your last name. Something.” “And what exactly would you do with my number or my last name, Prince Kian?” This time I don’t like the emphasis she puts on my title, any more than I like the distance she puts between us when she pulls away. “I’d call you up and ask you out on a proper date.” “The prince and the pauper?” Now she sounds downright mocking. “I know how that one ends.” “I think you’ve got your fairy tales confused.” She tilts her head, studies me. “But my fairy godmother’s been on vacation for a decade or two, so there’s no taking chances. Besides, I’ve never really liked Cinderella.” “So? You’re the writer. Why don’t you change the story?” She cups her hand around the back of my neck, tugs my head down for a swift, hard kiss. Then pulls back and smiles up at me. “I

already have.” And then she’s gone, slipping through the door and out into the hallway. I follow her—of course I do—and plow straight into Lucas. “Get out of my way!” I order, in too much of a hurry to be polite. He’s blocked my way just long enough for Savvy to get a head start down the hallway. He moves, but the couple of seconds he takes are all she needs to disappear onto the open elevator at the end of the hall. I give chase, but the doors close before I get there. Damn it. “Is everything okay, Kian?” Lucas asks and for the first time I realize he’s followed me down the hallway. We’ve always been friends as much as we’ve been prince and bodyguard, which is the only reason I drop my guard enough to say, “I need to find out who she is.” He pulls out his phone. “Do you want me to do that for you?” I think of the emphasis she put on my title, think of just how unimpressed she seems with what that title stands for. She says she’s going back to work, and I could probably find her upstairs in the ballroom. But something tells me Savvy isn’t the type to take kindly to me

messing with her when she has a job to do. Besides, the last thing I want to do is draw attention to her in front of all those people—I can see the unflattering headlines about the prince’s waitress dalliance already—or cause trouble for her at work. “Kian? Do you want—” “Yes. And get me a phone number and address, too. Her name is Savvy—Savannah— and she’s a part-time waitress here. That’s all I know.” There are a lot of downsides to being the heir to the Wildemar throne. Access to the best intelligence agency in the land isn’t one of them…

Chapter 3 I stare at my laptop screen for long seconds, scrolling through photos of a quaint cottage with good bones and pots full of cheerful flowers lining the front walk. “This is it?” I ask Lucas, glancing up at the leader of my security detail for the first time since I opened the file. “This is where Savvy lives?” “That’s the place.” “And her name is Savannah Breslin?” “Yes.” “Okay, thanks.” “No problem. I scroll through some more pictures, this time of a bar downtown called Wild Sea. “And this bar is her main place of employment?” “Yes. Her normal schedule is detailed on the next page.” “Okay, thanks. I appreciate the help.” “No problem,” he says again as he heads for the door. “Roland asked me to remind you that you have that reporter coming in an hour. The one to do—”

“The puff piece, I know,” I answer with a groan. “Why the fuck anyone thinks it’s a good idea for me to be swanning around in the middle of the biggest crisis this monarchy has ever faced, I will never know.” “Swanning around?” Lucas’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Now that’s something I would pay to see. And I’m pretty sure the rest of the country would, too.” I flip him off, but he just laughs as he lets himself out. Once he leaves, I turn back to my computer screen, scroll through the rest of the pictures there and try not to feel like a creeper. Her house is nice—not what I expected from a struggling bartender/waitress/writer. Not that she implied in any way that she was struggling when I spoke with her, but I assumed. Why else would she be working two jobs? Besides, didn’t all writers and artists struggle at the beginning of their careers? I should be getting dressed—Roland will kill me if I’m late to this stupid interview—but I can’t help scrolling through the rest of the information Lucas compiled for me. There isn’t much, which helps me feel like less of a stalker. Just her phone number and work schedule, as promised. I pull out my

phone, enter her contact information, then hightail it into my bedroom to get dressed. Normally I don’t give a shit about being late. In fact, sometimes I do it just to rattle Roland’s chain a little, just to freak him out and watch him spin himself around in agitation—here in Palais les Charmilles, more times than not you’ve got to make your own entertainment. Making Roland crazy has been mine since I was a teenager. But today I have better things to do than keep a reporter waiting. The sooner I’m done with this bullshit interview, the sooner I can call Savvy. I’ve got a dozen crown prince things to do today—the most important of which is the daily briefing about Garrett—but I’m determined to carve out a few minutes to talk to the woman I haven’t been able to get out of my mind for the last twenty-four hours. I’m not sure what it is about her that intrigues me so much. Maybe it’s the fact that she turned me down—God knows, that doesn’t happen very often. Maybe it’s the way she had no trouble speaking her mind to me. Maybe it’s that she’s gorgeous. Or maybe, just maybe it’s the fact that, when I was talking to her, I felt good for the first

time since Garrett went missing. He was still there, in the back of my mind— just like he always is. But for the first time in thirteen weeks, I felt like I could breathe. I felt like maybe, just maybe, there’s a way for me to come out the other end of this nightmare. It’s not much, but right now I’ll take whatever small glimmer of hope I can get. My phone buzzes as I open my closet doors, and a quick glance down shows me that Roland has already started his campaign to get me to the Salon des Roses, the room he likes to use for interviews like these. Along with the text nudging me is another one with wardrobe suggestions. Like I haven’t been dressing myself since I was three. Because I can’t help myself—messing with Roland is a compulsion as much as it is a stress-reliever—I fire back a text telling him that today feels like a naked day. Then I drop my phone on my dresser and ignore his answering barrage of texts for the next twenty minutes. Just because I can. I arrive at the Salon des Roses fully dressed and with five minutes to spare. Relief flashes in Roland’s eyes as it registers that I’m properly attired, in slate gray Armani dress pants and a sage green, button-up silk shirt.

Not that he’ll acknowledge my promptness or my attire—I’m not the only one who knows how to play games in this palace. Roland’s kept Garrett and me in line since we were kids and he made it obvious years ago that he had no intention of stopping just because we’re now adults. Of course, neither of us would have it any other way. Garrett pretty much always does what he’s told and even he likes to fuck with Roland just because he can. And Roland takes it from him better than he does anyone else— he always says he doesn’t play favorites, but it’s hard to miss that he’s got a soft spot for Garrett that’s a mile wide. Then again, don’t we all? My smile fades at the thought and I can’t help wondering if I’ll ever get the chance to see Garrett ruffle Roland’s very proper feathers ever again. If I’ll ever get to see Roland fussing at him like he’s a little kid, instead of the next King of Wildemar. I don’t understand why we can’t find him. It’s not like his plane crashed and he’s on some deserted island alone somewhere. He was grabbed in full daylight, outside a charity appearance he was making here in Wildemar. His guard detail—Pietro and Victor and Sean—

were murdered, found lying dead next to the still running limousine. And Garrett was gone. No ransom note, no hits at the airport or train station or from the road and sea blocks Wildemar’s Royal Guard set up. No proof of life. No dead body. Nothing but the terrifying uncertainty that haunts my every waking minute. We have briefings every day and they all say the same thing. We know that whoever shot those men also has my brother. Or did have. Every day that passes without a ransom demand or proof of life increases the odds that Garrett’s dead. Just the thought has me wishing for a shot of tequila. Well, that and the knowledge that while Garrett was being taken—and maybe even killed—I was cruising the Mediterranean, drunk and sexed up. How the fuck could I be so careless? So stupid? We’ve never had any enemies in modern times—at least none who would do something like this. Or at least, that’s what I’ve always believed. What has always been. “The journalist has arrived,” Roland says, interrupting my downward spiral with his crisp British accent and narrowed-eye glare.

“So pull yourself together and act like a prince. Sir.” The tacked on “sir”—so proper and yet so obviously undeserved in his mind—is what does it, what has me chuckling when seconds ago I was heading straight into despair. The fear and guilt and rage don’t disappear, but they retreat a little. Give me room to think. And judging from the satisfied look on Roland’s face, that is exactly what he intended. “Well, show her in,” I tell him with an expansive—and slightly indolent—wave of my arm. Two of us can play this game, after all. “Him,” he says, with a disapproving twitch of his nose. The pronoun catches me by surprise. “Him? Are you sure? They always send female journalists to interview me.” “Yes, well, maybe they thought it was time to give the Playboy Prince moniker a rest, with everything going on in Wildemar right now.” “The Playboy Prince was King Juan Carlos, over in Spain, and he’s abdicated. I’m His Royal Hotness. Keep it straight, old man.” “I do so beg your pardon, sir.” He reaches up and fixes my collar the same way he has for the last twenty years. “Try not to embarrass the monarchy, will you, sir?”

“But, Roland, you never taught me how to chew with my mouth closed.” He sighs heavily, shoots me a look that says I am his cross to bear. “I’ll show Monsieur Meadows in.”

Chapter 4 Three hours later, the interview—complete with a tour of non-public areas of the palace— is over and I’m cruising toward 269 rue de Toulouse. Toward Savvy. I thought about calling first—since that is the less stalkerish thing to do—but after the way she ran away at the gala, I don’t want to give her the chance to tell me not to come. And while I respect any woman’s right to say no, I know we connected that night. I could feel it in the way she smiled at me, the way she gave as good as she got. The way she kissed me. If she says no again today, I’ll walk away and never bother her again. But I want to see her face when she does it, want her to see mine. I wind my way down the highway that runs along Wildemar’s coast. Savvy’s cottage isn’t waterfront—the real estate is too high-end for anyone but millionaires to afford—but her neighborhood is only a few miles from the Mediterranean, a small little alcove on the southern edge of downtown. Traffic is light, so the drive only takes about

twenty minutes. As I pull over to the curb in front of her house, I do my best to ignore the SUV pulling in behind me—loaded with Lucas, Niall and my newest bodyguard, Avery. Nothing like trying to woo a woman with a gun-toting entourage in tow. While I’ve never had trouble closing the deal before, I’m pretty sure Savvy is different. She never would have walked away last night if she wasn’t. Reaching into the backseat, I grab the large bouquet of wildflowers I picked up on the way. Usually I’d go for roses, but usually I don’t pay enough attention to a woman to try to figure out what might impress her. Savvy definitely didn’t seem like the champagne and roses type, despite how we first met. Niall is on the sidewalk in front of my car before I even get the door open. “We need to go inside first, check the place out.” “On the off chance an assassin is waiting for me in the house of a woman I barely know who has no idea that I’m coming?” I brush past him. “I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen.” “We need to be sure,” he insists. “I am sure,” I tell him. And maybe I’m being a douche about this—we’re all on edge after

what happened to Garrett. But I actually like this woman and the last thing I want is to have the small chance I’m trying to carve out with her go up in smoke because I invade her home with my cavalcade of guards. “I’m certain that you are,” Avery says, face grim and voice all business. “But we aren’t. And it’s our job to ensure your safety.” “Which you can do from right here. I promise to keep my phone on me at all times.” I point to the two open windows at the front of the house. “And I promise to yell really loudly if someone attacks me.” “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s not good enough.” “It’s going to have to be,” I tell him, with a clap on the back. I start toward the house, my faithful detail at my heels. When I’m two steps away from the front door, I turn and give Lucas a beseeching look. He’s been my guard the longest and knows—despite my reputation—that I don’t play fast and loose with my detail. He also knows that I rarely (and by rarely, I mean never) go through this much effort for a woman. “What if I promise to stay in view of the windows the whole time?” I tell them. “I’ll park myself right there in front of that one and

you can make sure I’m safe.” Lucas looks like he wants to argue, but I cut him off before he can even start. “Come on, man. You’ve got to give me something. I like this woman.” He sighs, but in the end—above the very vocal protests of the very serious Avery—he nods. “In sight the whole time,” he orders and for a moment I feel like a junior high kid on his first date. But beggars can’t be choosers and I know, better than most, what a disaster it would be if something happened to the spare three months after the heir disappeared. Wildemar would be in absolute chaos. There’s no way I’d put my country through that, girl or no girl. “I promise. And if I disappear from sight for more than five seconds, you have my permission to come crashing in after me.” “I think you’re forgetting,” Niall says with a narrow-eyed look, “we don’t need your permission.” “Geez. Way to be a killjoy.” “Yeah, well, someone in this relationship has to be.” “Aww, Niall.” I slap his ass with my free hand on my way by. “Don’t you know it’s more fun when everyone’s having a good time?”

Lucas snorts and Avery sounds like he’s strangling on his own tongue. I can’t help grinning as I make my way to Savvy’s front door. Maybe it won’t take as long to break in my new bodyguard as I was afraid of. I can hear music through the open windows, Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie,” and I can’t help thinking about the way Savvy’s hips looked in her black work pants. Can’t help wondering about what she’s wearing now—and whether or not she’ll let me get another good look at her luscious, heart-shaped ass. At least she’s home, I tell myself as I knock. While I knew she wasn’t scheduled to work, I was afraid she might be running errands or something. She’s at the front door in seconds, her big brown eyes wide and inquiring…at least until her gaze meets mine. “What are you doing here?” she demands. “Wow, way to make a guy feel welcome.” I hold the flowers out to her. “These are for you.” “Thanks, but I’m allergic.” She starts to close the door in my face, but I get a foot wedged in before she can shut it completely. “Are you seriously allergic?” I ask, still holding out the flowers. What I really want to

ask is Are you seriously going to slam the door in my face? “No.” She studies the blooms for a couple of seconds before snatching them out of my hand. Then she really does close the door and I’m so surprised I don’t do anything to stop her. Behind me Lucas, Niall and even Avery are full-on laughing now. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only thing keeping them from absolutely annihilating me is the fact that I am still their prince. That somehow only makes it worse. Gritting my teeth, I ignore them (and try not to remember the good old days when I could have had them banished to the dungeon) as I lift my hand to knock again. But before my knuckles can even meet the wood, the door flies open again and Savvy is standing there, smiling hugely at me. “I’m just messing with you,” she says as she pulls me inside. “But I have to say, your expression was priceless. Is that the first time a woman’s ever shut the door in your face?” I think about. “I’m pretty sure it is.” “I figured. But hey, now you can cross it off your bucket list. Every guy needs to have the experience at least once, don’t you think?” “I think I was good without it ever

happening, actually. Definitely didn’t feel like I was missing anything.” “Maybe not,” she concedes. But then she grins and it’s so wicked, so wild, that I can feel it all the way to my bones. “You’ve got to admit it was funny, though. God, if you could have seen your face.” “I’d rather look at yours.” The cheesy line pops out of nowhere and I’m not sure which one of us is more shocked. Shit. What the hell is happening to me? Savvy throws me off balance just by breathing, and I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do to stop it. Or even if I want to stop it. God knows, every time she opens her mouth—or closes a door in my face or spills a glass of champagne on me—it only makes me hotter. Only makes me want her more. There’s something about how she’s always doing the unexpected, always surprising me, always challenging me, that turns me on in a big fucking way. The little white shorts and tiny red camisole don’t hurt, either. And I know I’m not the only one, know the heat isn’t only on my side. I’ve been with enough women in my life to know when one’s attracted to me, and Savvy is, even if she doesn’t want to be.

Half of me wants to push on that a little bit, wants to see where it’ll take me if I get in her space right now. But the other half doesn’t want to risk it, not yet. Not with this woman who is a lot of things, but definitely not predictable. Besides, I’m pretty sure my time allotment is reaching its upper limits, and I don’t doubt that Avery will come crashing through the front door in about thirty seconds if I don’t get where he can see me. “Do you want some lemonade?” Savvy asks as she starts walking toward the kitchen. “I’d love some. But do you mind if I hang out here while you get it?” I take a few steps to the left, making sure to line myself up directly in front of the window. She turns to me, eyebrows raised, and I figure I might as well own up to the problem. “My babysitters like to keep an eye on me at all times,” I tell her as I point out the window. She glances from me to where Niall, Lucas and Avery are standing on the sidewalk in their suits, eyes trained on me—and her. I expect her to be a little annoyed—most women who aren’t crown chasers usually are— but Savvy just laughs and waves. “I’ll pour five glasses of lemonade,” she tosses over her

shoulder as she makes her way to the kitchen. “Get comfortable and I’ll be right back.” From another woman, the invitation to get comfortable would mean she’s down to fuck, but I’m pretty sure Savvy just wants me to take a seat. More’s the pity. Still, I take her suggestion, settling down on the large, oversized chair positioned directly in front of one of the windows. As I do, I glance around the room, taking in the light yellow couches with their cheery pillows in turquoise and green and red. The rest of the furniture is eclectic—a red credenza against one wall holds a small TV and an old-fashioned sewing machine table acts as an end table—with a vase already filled to the brim with wildflowers. I take a moment to pat myself on the back there, but then my attention is caught by one of the vibrant paintings on the walls. It’s obviously the Mediterranean, the water is too brilliantly turquoise blue to be anywhere else on earth. But it’s not the color of the water that catches my attention—it’s the fact that the view in the painting is strikingly similar to the view from our house in Cannes. Like arrestingly similar. I know we’re not the only people with a house on that expanse of beach, but what are

the odds that Savvy buys a painting with that same view? The coincidence is a little eerie. I make a mental note to ask her about it, then get distracted when she comes in carrying a tray loaded with five large glasses of lemonade and a huge plate of cookies. “Let me get that for you,” I say, jumping up to help. But she shakes her head. “I wouldn’t be much of a bartender—or a waitress, for that matter—if I couldn’t carry a few drinks.” “From what I remember, you aren’t much of a waitress.” I take the tray from her despite her protests, and set it down on the large turquoise trunk she’s using as a coffee table. “Hey now, that was totally on purpose.” She slaps my hand away as I reach for a cookie. “Those are for your bodyguards. They deserve a treat if they’re stuck standing out there in those suits while you’re lolling around in here.” “Lolling around?” I repeat, snatching a couple cookies while she’s setting our drinks on the trunk. “I think I’m offended.” “Oh, please. You don’t really expect me to think His Royal Hotness does any actual work, do you?” “His Royal Hotness earns his keep in other

ways, thank you very much.” “Oh, I just bet.” She picks up the tray, then heads for the front door. “If you really want to help, you can open this door for me.” “What do I get if I do?” I tease. She rolls her eyes. “How about the chance to stay dry?” She brandishes the tray like a weapon. In the end, I hold the door open for her and then watch, amused, as she charms the hell out of my entire detail. So much for breaking down the door to save me. By the time she’s done wrapping them around her finger, I’m pretty sure they’re ready to start trying to protect her from me. Not that she needs it. Savvy looks like an Amazon (in the best possible way—à la Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman), has the quick wit of a late-night talk show host and the sarcasm of a teenager. All of which means she’s pretty well covered in the protection department. She’s smiling when she comes back in the house. “I like your bodyguards,” she tells me. “I’m pretty sure they like you, too. Though I prefer to call them my security detail.” Savvy rolls her eyes. “I just bet you do.” As she crosses the room, I lean back in the

oversized chair so she’s got plenty of room to sit down with me. Instead, she settles on the sofa across the room and I’m left feeling more than a little disgruntled. I’m really not used to having to work this hard to get a woman interested in me. “Don’t pout,” she tells me after she takes a long sip of lemonade. “It’s so unbecoming.” She’s right, it is. I wipe the scowl off my face then do what I should have done all along—I move to sit on the sofa next to her. It’s still in view of the window and surely the lemonade has relaxed the guys a little bit, anyway. “You didn’t ask me how I found you,” I say once I’m settled. “Considering you’ve got a three man ‘security detail’ out there because you’re currently first in line for the throne, I’m pretty sure I know how you found me. The question is why?” “Don’t play games.” Her hair has fallen over one eye and I reach out, sweep it away. I want to see her face when she’s talking to me. “It’s so unbecoming.” “You’re right, it is.” I’m struck again by how well we fit, even before she reaches for my hand and twines our fingers together. It’s uncanny how many times she’s already given

voice to things I’ve only thought. “The truth, Kian, is that I’m not up for this right now. And I don’t think you are, either.” “Up for what?” She lifts a brow. “Now who’s playing games?” “Oh. You mean the whole dating-a-prince thing.” “I mean the whole dating-a-prince thing, especially one whose twin brother—who also happens to be heir to the crown—has gone missing under suspicion of foul play.” No matter how many times I hear them—no matter how many times I think them—the words are still a blow. I try to cover it up, but Savvy’s watching me more closely than I thought. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound flippant when I said that.” “You didn’t.” But I push off the couch, walk over to the far window—the one my detail isn’t currently staring through—and study the huge pots of flowers that decorate her front yard. “Sometimes it’s just more real than others.” “I bet.” She hesitates for a second. “Is there any word on Garrett? I mean, other than the official statement?”

“No.” I concentrate on opening my hands from where they just curled into fists of their own volition. “I mean, there’s a lot of information that hasn’t been released. But none of it is worth anything. None of it…” “Tells you where he is.” “Yeah.” “I’m sorry.” It comes out a little muffled, a little choked, and I turn to see her wiping the back of her hand across her cheek. “I’m so, so sorry.” “I’m the one who should be sorry. The last thing I wanted to do was make you cry.” Sometimes I forget how much Garrett belongs to Wildemar—and to the world. I never forget that I’m royal, never forget what my duty to the people is. But sometimes it’s so hard to remember that they feel that same connection to us, even if it manifests differently. “You didn’t.” “It feels like I did.” “Well, then, it feels wrong.” She moves to stand beside me, and though I’m not looking at her I can feel the heat of her through our clothes. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Not very surprising, I guess, for a guy who brings his bodyguards with him wherever he goes.”

She smiles, just as I intended her to. “And here I thought they were your security detail.” I laugh, and it occurs to me that, once again, Savvy’s the only one who’s been able to make me smile, let alone laugh, since Garrett disappeared. Oh, I can give a fake smile with the best of them—it’s in the royal genes, after all—but a genuine smile? A genuine laugh? Savvy’s the only one. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you, you know that?” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she answers haughtily, then ruins the effect by pursing her lips in a you-mean-this-mouth kind of way. And fuck if that simple little gesture doesn’t have the blood draining from my head straight to my dick. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” I reach out, rub my thumb back and forth across her bottom lip. And just that easily, the atmosphere in the room goes from light and flirty to dark and electric. “Kian,” she whispers against my thumb, and the soft wetness of her breath sends heat sliding along my nerve endings. “This is—” I know what she’s going to say, and I don’t want to hear it. Not here, not now, and

definitely not with her. So I do the only thing I can do. I press my lips against hers and cut her off.

Chapter 5 Savvy doesn’t respond, for one second. Two. And then she sighs, a long, shuddering breath that seems to come from deep inside of her. “Kian.” This time when she says my name, it sounds more like a plea than a protest. It’s the sound I’ve been waiting for, the one that got me hot last night and had me tossing and turning in sweat-soaked sheets until dawn. I have the same reaction to it now, my cock turning rock-hard and my whole body going on red alert. And then I’m kissing her, softly, slowly, completely. I take my time, savoring the softness of her lips and the fun little dips at the corners of her mouth. Then I trace my tongue along her full bottom lip, savoring the swell of it before sweeping around and lingering at the cupid’s bow in the center of her upper lip. “Kian,” she gasps one more time, her head tipping back on her shoulders as her eyes flutter closed. “Kiss me, again. Please. Kiss me for real.” It’s all the invitation I need. Taking advantage of her open mouth, I thrust my

tongue inside and delve deep. She’s softer than I imagined, hotter than I dreamed. And she tastes sweet, so sweet, like strawberries drizzled with sun-warmed honey. I try to be gentle, try to give her the tenderness she deserves and that I so desperately want to show her. But it’s hard when my whole body is on high alert and my brain is chanting take, take, take. It’s like I’m drowning in her, completely lost in the touch and taste and scent of her. Lust— sharp and hot and all-consuming—rises up inside me. It rakes its talons through my belly, gets in my head and demands that I take her. That I fuck her. That I claim her, again and again and again, until she can’t remember her own name, let alone anyone or anything who came before me. It’s a lot to ask for, a lot to demand, and there’s a part of me that expects her to push back, to tell me to get lost. But instead, she moans low in her throat, her fingers clutching at my chest even as she slides her arms up to wrap around my neck. And so I delve deeper, my tongue stroking against hers as I do crazy, wicked, wild things to her mouth. As I revel in each moan and whimper that escapes her lips.

I bite her lips, lick the roof of her mouth, suck her tongue deep inside my own mouth and groan aloud at her response, at the way she searches me right back. Savvy is no shrinking violet, and she gives as good as she gets, exploring my mouth the same way I explored hers. It feels so good—she feels so good—and that’s what finally gives me the strength to rip my mouth from hers. To ignore her protests and those deep inside of me as I seek to bring us back down. Because as much as I want to stand here kissing her forever, as much as I want to kiss her until our lips are slick and sore and swollen, there are three security guards standing outside watching us right now. And while I’ve never before minded them bearing witness to what I get up to, letting them see what passes between me and Savvy feels wrong. And so I trail my lips down her cheeks, pressing soft, sweet kisses to her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat as I wait for her breathing to even out and her hands to unclench from around my neck. It takes a little while—the space between one breath, two, three—for her to come back to herself. For awareness to bloom in her eyes and heat to blaze in her cheeks. And when it

does, I feel like I’ve lost something I never even realized I had. “I’m sorry—” I cut her off with a finger on her kissswollen lips. “If I had my way, we’d be in your bedroom right now, and I’d be buried balls deep inside you while you screamed my name. So please, don’t apologize.” Something new moves in her eyes at my words, something dark and deep and needy. But there’s a wariness there, too, and that— above everything else—is why I stopped. “But my security detail is right outside,” I remind her, “and I’m not okay with them seeing any more of this.” Her cheeks burn even brighter at the reminder, and I want to kick myself as she buries her face against my chest. “Hey, hey,” I whisper against her sweet-smelling hair. “None of that. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” “I shudder to think what you get up to on a regular basis, then.” She glances up at me from beneath impossibly long lashes. “I almost climbed you like a tree in full view of your security and my neighbors. I’m pretty sure that counts as something to be embarrassed about.” “Well, it’s not. I promise.”

“Oh, well, if His Royal Hotness says not to be embarrassed…” “If His Royal Hotness says it, you should believe him.” “Yeah, right.” She laughs a little. “I’ve seen the tabloid pictures.” “Which is why you should believe me. I know what I’m talking about.” “More like you have no shame,” she retorts with a roll of her eyes. But her cheeks have returned to their normal bronzy color and her eyes look clear, which for now is enough for me. “I want to take you on a date.” The words come out before I even know I’m going to say them. But once they’re out there, hanging between us, I have no desire to take them back. They feel good, right. At least for me. I’m not so sure about Savvy, who is looking at me like I’ve just suggested a day trip to Mars. Or maybe Saturn. “On a date?” she repeats. “Yes. You know, to a restaurant. Where we order food, have some wine and some conversation, maybe split a gooey, decadent dessert and then take a walk on the beach. “I know this great place down the coast. It’s small, out of the way, but it makes the best coq

au vin you will ever taste.” I tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, lingering just long enough to trail my hand down her baby soft cheek. “I’d really love to take you there, if you’d let me.” I know a million women who would jump at that suggestion—hell, probably more like two or three million, if I’m being honest. But the wariness is back in Savvy’s eyes and she looks more uncertain than I’ve ever seen her. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” she says, taking a few cautious steps back from me. I follow. Of course I do—retreat and pursue seems to be the modus operandi of whatever we’ve got going on here. “Why not?” I demand as I stalk her across the room, taking one step forward for every two she takes back. “I told you the other night that I didn’t want this. And then I told you again when you got here. You’re the one who can’t seem to understand.” “Yeah, well, maybe the reason I have such a hard time understanding is because we both know that if I got on my knees right now, you’d let me do anything I want to you.” I reach for her to prove my point, but Savvy’s having none of it. “Because I’m a crown chaser?” she demands as she slaps a

hand against my chest. “No, because you’re as hot for me as I am for you. The chemistry between us is off the charts and I don’t see anything wrong with two single, unattached adults exploring that chemistry. Especially since we never run out of things to talk about and we seem pretty damn good at making each other laugh. Going on a date seems like a no-brainer to me.” “Yeah, as long as that date’s at some tiny hole in the wall where you don’t have to worry about the press catching the new crown prince with someone inappropriate.” “Wait. What?” I grab her hand, pull her close. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it.” Then she’s twisting her arm, trying to break my grip. But that only makes me more determined to hold on, because something isn’t right here. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m hell-bent on figuring it out. “I am going to worry about it—” “Why?” “Isn’t it obvious? I like you and I’m pretty sure you like me, too. Are you going to tell me that’s not true?” “It doesn’t matter if I like you—”

“Right now it’s the only thing that matters. We enjoy each other’s company and want to fuck each other’s brains out. It seems like a win-win to me.” “It’s not that simple.” “Actually, it is.” “Really?” She looks deliberately out the window at Niall, Lucas and Avery, all of whom are doing their best impression of not watching me while actually watching me. “So, let me get this straight. You don’t want to date me because I’m a prince? I’ve gotta tell you, sweetheart, it usually goes the other way around.” “Believe me, I’m aware. And if I wasn’t, you and your giant ego would be sure to remind me.” “Hey now.” I clutch a hand to my chest in fake injury. “Leave my giant ego out of this.” “How can I when it’s the biggest thing in the room?” “Oh, yeah? That’s really the story you want to stick with?” I shoot her an incredulous look. “And in case you’re wondering, I’m not the least bit offended.” “I can tell,” she answers drily. “Come on, go out with me.” I bring her hand

to my mouth, press a lingering kiss to the center of her palm. “I promise it will be fun.” She purses her lips, tries to look disapproving. “Fun isn’t what I’m worried about.” “Well, maybe it should be. In fact—” A knock on the door cuts me off midthought. I glance out the window at my detail, about to give them a what-the-hell look for letting us get interrupted. But only Lucas and Niall are standing there. Avery is nowhere in sight. Goddamn it. “Ignore it,” I start to tell Savvy, but it’s too late. She’s already calling, “Come in!” The door creaks open and Avery’s standing there, looking for all the world like a recalcitrant toddler, complete with hands shoved deep into his suit pockets. I give him a look that tells him to turn around and go back the way he came, but he’s not having it. The man is obviously more afraid of Roland than he’ll ever be of me. Sure enough, after dodging my look, he clears his throat and says, “Sorry, Kian, but Roland called. You’ve got a meeting at the palace in an hour, followed by dinner with the

American ambassador.” I want to tell him the meeting can wait, want to tell him—and Roland—that everything can wait. But that’s what the spare would do. The heir doesn’t have that luxury, not when duty calls. “Okay, thanks. I’ll be out in a few.” I obviously don’t sound convincing because Avery continues to stand there. At least until I give him the look I usually reserve for putting Roland in his place. Then the guy all but runs for the hills. “That wasn’t nice,” Savvy tells me after he’s closed the door behind himself. “I never claimed to be nice.” “C’est la vie.” She cocks her head. “You have, however, on numerous occasions claimed to be a prince. And last time I checked, princes belong in their palaces. You should go.” “Savvy—” “Go, Kian. We can talk some other time.” She gives me a light shove toward the door, but I’m not leaving until I pin her down. “Like when I take you to dinner. When’s your next night off?” “Tonight.” Fuck. Of course it is. “Tonight doesn’t work

for me.” “I heard. Those pesky Americans, always getting in the way. Tell the ambassador hello from one of his citizens, will you?” “I’ll be sure to do that, right after he kicks my ass at billiards.” “He’s a pool shark?” she asks, incredulous. “You have no idea. He annihilates me every time we play.” “So why do you still play with him?” “Diplomacy, obviously.” I grin. “And because I’m determined to beat him one day, considering I’m a pretty decent pool player myself.” She laughs then, and it lights up her whole face, makes her even more beautiful than she usually is. “Seriously, when can I take you out?” “I’m working the rest of the week.” “Every night?” “Yeah.” “How about lunch? We could—” “How about you call me in a few days and maybe we can work something out.” She arches her brows. “I assume you’ve got my number?” It’s not the answer I’m expecting or that I

want. It’s certainly not the answer I’m used to when I go through the trouble of asking a woman out. “Am I getting the brush-off here?” “You sound so shocked.” “More like disgruntled. I—” She cuts me off. “It’s not the brush-off. It’s the let-me-think-about-it.” “What’s there to think about?” Before she can answer there’s another knock at the door. I glance out the window, notice that it’s Lucas who’s missing this time. They sent in the big guns. “Really?” Savvy follows my gaze with a wry look of her own. “That’s the argument you’re going with?” I give in then, partly because I don’t have it in me to hassle an unwilling—or even uncertain—woman and partly because she’s right. Dating me is a lot, especially right now, and I owe her the chance to think about it. “I’m going to call you. Every day until you say yes.” She smiles. “You can do that.” “I am going to do that.” I lean down, drop a fast, hard kiss on her lips. “And I’ll start by texting you right now. Just in case you want to call me.”

Chapter 6 “What do you mean you still have no leads?” the king demands late the next afternoon, his closed fist hitting the thousand-year-old table that fills up most of my father’s private conference room. “It’s been thirteen weeks since the crown prince disappeared and not one of our intelligence agencies has been able to find out anything? Are you all incompetent?” The heads of our security council and main intelligence agency exchange uneasy looks. Not that I blame them—every day we sit through these damn briefings hoping, praying, that there’s a break in the case and, except for the first week when we were all still in shock— my father has never let any emotion show. This one untethered moment of fury is both unexpected and unsettling to everyone in the room. Including me. Ranting and raving and throwing out desperate, crazy ideas on how to find Garrett is usually my department. Before this happened, I’d spent years

keeping my mouth shut at daily security briefings—this stuff was always Garrett’s job— but that isn’t an option anymore. Besides, I’m as anxious as my father to get an answer about my brother’s disappearance. “I think what my father means, gentlemen, is that we’re going crazy here. My brother is missing and we don’t know if he’s injured, if he’s dead—” My voice breaks a little on the last word and I stop for a moment. Clear my throat. Take a sip of water. And pretend that I’m talking about someone—anyone—else besides my twin brother and best friend. “It’s obviously a matter of utmost security that we find out who is responsible so that we can—” “We need to know who to punish for this!” my father’s voice booms out, his fist once again striking the table. “This has gone on too long already and we look weak in the international community. Foolish. The Crown Prince of Wildemar has disappeared and not only do we not know where to look for him, we don’t know who’s to blame for this, or who to punish for it. If this continues, we’ll lose our standing in the world and that I will not tolerate.” The words hit deep. Of course that’s what my father is worried about. Of course that’s what he cares about. Not Garrett—not what’s happening to him—but how our country looks

to others. I want to hate him for it, want to tell him just how heartless I think he is. But he’s right, and I know it. I hate that I know it, but I do. As does every other person in this room. We’re not a normal family and this isn’t just a normal kidnapping (as if there is such a thing). We’re the ruling family of the most influential constitutional monarchy in the world and it’s our responsibility and it’s our duty—to Wildemar and the world—to ensure that we do whatever is necessary to keep it safe. And if that includes a proportional response (again, as if there is such a thing) for the kidnapping of our crown prince, then that is what we have to do. And while I can’t blame my father for his pragmatism and concern for our country when it’s my job to understand it better than anyone else, I sure as hell can hate the truth behind his words. Can hate myself even more for understanding it. Pierre Sandoval, director of the National Security Committee exchanges another look with Jean-Luc Bollinger, the head of the BI, our main intelligence agency. Several long seconds pass as the king—my father—and I look back and forth between the two, waiting

for we’re not sure what. I just want to know where my brother is, just want to know how to get to him. Everyone tells me I need to prepare for the fact that he’s already dead—hell, logic demands that I acknowledge that’s probably the case. But neither logic nor these heads of intelligence agencies understand what it is to be a twin. They don’t understand that no matter how afraid I am that Garrett is dead, there’s a part of me that’s sure that he isn’t. A part of me that is certain that I would know, that I would feel it deep inside if my brother— my twin—was dead. “What?” I finally demand when the silence gets to be too much. “What aren’t you telling us?” Pierre reaches reluctantly for the tablet in front of him. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he addresses my father. “We don’t have a solid lead at this point—which is why we haven’t mentioned anything about this yet—but we have managed to uncover a witness who might have interacted with one of Prince Garrett’s attackers on the day he was taken.” “Might have?” I demand, my heart slamming against my ribs. “Or did?” “We don’t know yet,” Pierre reiterates.

“We’re trying to verify the lead, as well as track down the man she’s referring to.” “Who is she?” my father asks in measured syllables, the fury of earlier completely contained now—except for the fire raging behind his eyes. “She’s a barista in a coffee shop about three blocks from where Prince Garrett was taken.” “Why didn’t you find her in your original canvassing? Or the subsequent ones?” My father’s face looks carved from stone. “We missed her because she only worked the first two hours of her shift—then got an emergency call from a hospital in Lisieux about her father having a heart attack. She was home for three weeks with him, which is why we didn’t pick her up in the additional canvasses we did of the neighborhood. Her coworkers didn’t think it was important to mention that she’d been working the morning shift, so—” “How did you find her now?” I demand. “After three months? Did she come to you? And if she did, don’t you find that suspicious?” “We were at a dead end with the other arms of the investigation, so we started back at the beginning, just to see if we could get something new. We sent agents back in to

canvass again, to try to jog memories. It’s always a risk, because the longer Prince Garrett is missing the more people might manufacture evidence in their own heads about seeing his assailants. The entire country —and much of the world—is swept up in the story. Faulty residual memories come as part and parcel of that.” “And yet you believe this girl?” “That’s why I was hesitant to bring it up. We don’t know if she checks out yet. We’ve questioned her closely, have verified her story, but we’re not done vetting her.” “When will you be done vetting her?” I feel like I’ll explode if I try to sit still any longer, so I push back from the table. Start to pace. “This should be your top priority!” “Believe me, it is, Your Highness. As is following up on the information she gave us.” Jean-Luc reaches for his tablet, swipes across it a few times. Seconds later, a sketch shows up on the smartboard mounted on the conference room’s back wall. “This is the best we were able to get out of her working with a forensic artist. It’s been three months. Still, we’re running it against all the security footage that we took from the area, covering the days before and after the

attack—including from the coffee shop where she works. So far, nothing has, but we’ve still got a lot of footage to sort through.” “And Interpol?” my father asks. “Have you run the sketch through their facial recognition program? And the FBI’s?” “Again, we’re in the process of doing all of that,” Pierre assures him. “We just got this information a few hours ago and we’re putting everything we’ve got behind it.” “What makes you think this guy has something to do with Garrett’s disappearance?” I demand, staring at the sketch of a fairly average-looking man. “The witness mentioned that he had a very unique tattoo.” Jean-Luc swipes at his tablet again and this time a picture of a dark, frankly disturbing tattoo takes the place of the sketch on the smartboard. “Do you recognize the tattoo?” I shove my hands in my pockets so that my father won’t see how badly they’re trembling. Terror and hope are alive inside of me, a potent cocktail of emotions that’s shaking me more than I want to admit. Especially in this room, where the crown prince needs to be as steady as a rock. As steady as his country needs him to be. “We do. It’s from a home grown liberation

group that calls themselves the Dépassement por Liberté. They’re not a large group, but they’re an extreme branch of the LibérationEst. They want—” “To end the monarchy,” my father says, and for the first time his face is ashen. “Are you telling me you have proof this crackpot group has my son?” Ice slides through my veins, has everything inside of me stopping—freezing—as I wait for the answer I already know is coming. The Libération-Est is a radical group and has become even more so in the last few years since three of its leaders were put in prison for conspiring to blow up Palais des Fleurs, my family’s countryside home. If this group is a more radical offshoot of them, then I don’t even want to think of what they might be capable of. “We don’t know, sir. As you are aware, we’ve been looking at them all along, but nothing has popped,” Jean-Luc answers grimly. “Until now.” “So what are you doing about it?” I get in his face before I can even think about stopping myself. “Have you searched their compound? Pulled in any known associates? Obtained—” “We’re working on all of that, sir,” Jean-Luc

says as he takes a few deliberate steps back. Only then do I realize how close I’ve been standing to him—and how close I am to plowing my fist through a wall. The idea of Garrett in the hands of these madmen? It’s enough to make me insane. This is the group that tried to kill my whole family in one fell swoop with that bomb. The group that has spent years sending “anonymous” letter bombs to the palace and organized anti-monarchy protests all over the country. The group that not only hates us, but will do anything to see us disappear. When Garrett was taken, we looked at them exhaustively—of course we did. But after months of close scrutiny, of infiltration by agents risking their lives, it was decided that Libération-Est wasn’t to blame. To find out now that some radical offshoot might be…“Rage” isn’t a strong enough word for what I’m feeling. Then again, I’m not sure such a word actually exists. If these bastards took Garrett, if they took my brother, I will use every ounce of power and influence I have in this country, and the world, to hunt them to extinction. I will destroy them, piece by piece, person by

person. I’m not normally the vengeful type, but this group is a blight on our country, a blight on the world. They deserve—no, they need—to be wiped out. But first, we have to find my brother. We have to know, for sure, what’s happened to him. For the first time in three months, I can’t help seriously thinking that I might be wrong. That every feeling I have inside of me telling me that Garrett isn’t dead really is nothing more than a product of my own wishful thinking. Because for this group? Getting their hands on the crown prince is like every holiday on the calendar all rolled into one. And keeping him alive really doesn’t suit their agenda—or the madness that seems to underlie every decision they make. After all, what better way to strike a deafening blow against the monarchy than to kill its crown prince? To murder its future before that future ever has a chance of becoming a reality? Just the thought has my resolve hardening even as my blood runs cold. These people have hurt my family—and my country—more than enough. I’m not going to let it happen again. “How do we get to them?” I demand.

At the same time, my father orders, “I want Anastasia’s guard doubled at university. She’s too vulnerable on that campus. I want extra security measures in her dorm and her room. If she’s determined to stay there through all of this, I want her protected. And double Kian’s guard while you’re at it.” “We’ve already added a third guard to both —” Pierre begins, but my father cuts him off. “Six. I want six guards on each of them. I want a full membership list from LibérationEst—and any offshoot factions, including DPL —on my desk by midnight. And you’d better have a warrant to search these people’s properties by tomorrow morning.” “We’re working on that, sir,” Jean-Luc assures him. “Work faster! This is the Crown Prince of Wildemar we’re talking about.” Once again, my father’s fist slams down on the table. “You finally have a lead. Now act like it!” “I want the same information on my desk, as well,” I tell the directors. For once, my father and I are on the same page about something—furious and frustrated and desperate to find out what’s happened to my brother. It’s why I don’t argue with him about not bringing Ana home from school, why

I don’t say a word about him adding three more guards to my detail. But as the meeting wraps up and my father dismisses the lot of us, I can’t help going over what he said again and again. And that’s when it hits me, with a burst of bitterness that comes with the realization that my father never once called Garrett by name, never once referred to him as his son. No, it was the Crown Prince of Wildemar all the way and my father was every inch the king. I understand the importance of his position, just as I understand that the political ramifications of Garrett’s disappearance—and possible murder—are just as severe for the country as the personal ramifications are for Anastasia and me. But once, just once, it would be nice if I could see the man behind the crown, the father behind the king. Not because I need the coddling (my father’s never been a coddler) but because I need the reassurance—that if I step fully into Garrett’s shoes, and eventually, into my father’s—that I won’t lose whatever small piece of humanity I still have left.

Chapter 7 Hours later, I’m still thinking about the DPL. The Dépassement por Liberté—Overtaking for Liberty—and their vicious, violent ways. After the security briefing, I asked Pierre to send me any and all information he had on them and I’ve spent the last four hours scrolling through it. And trying, desperately, not to punch a hole through the wall. Or throw up—at the moment, it’s a toss-up which I want to do more. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuu​uuuuu​uuuuck. If even half of what’s in this dossier is to be believed, the DPL are maniacs. More, they’re monsters—completely without conscience or loyalty to anyone but their own small group. They say their mission is to overthrow the monarchy, but from where I’m sitting it looks like mayhem and murder is more their vibe, à la Gotham City under the Joker’s command. Their ideas are absurd, their violence

unconscionable. And these are the people who have Garrett? It doesn’t bear thinking about. But I can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop thinking about them kidnapping my twin. Can’t stop thinking about what they’ve done to him—or what they might be doing to him right now while I sit here, safe and whole. For the first time since this nightmare began, I pray that Garrett is dead. Because if he isn’t, if he’s been in the clutches of these madmen for ninety-three days, I can’t begin to imagine the agony that he’s suffered. Any more than I can imagine him being sane if, by some miracle, he’s still alive and we somehow manage to find him and bring him home. Fuuuuuuuuck! I slam my laptop down, barely resist the urge to send it sailing against the nearest wall. Then head for the door with my brain racing and my heart beating way too fast. I don’t know where I’m going when I crash through the doors into the hallway. Don’t know what I’m looking for or who I want to talk to or what I expect to find. All I do know as I start down the long hallway is that I can’t spend one more second reading about the DPL. Can’t spend one more moment thinking

about what they might be doing to Garrett—to my brother—at this very moment, while I’m sitting here safe in this damn palace, fielding texts from supermodels and drinking the best tequila money can buy. I may not have a destination in mind as I wander the halls—but when I find myself in front of the doors to Garrett’s suite a few minutes later, I’m not surprised, either. And when I push those doors open, when I step inside a sitting room that looks nothing—and everything—like my own, I think maybe that I’d been heading here all along. I haven’t been in here since the day Garrett disappeared, when I was called off that damn yacht and flown home in a Royal Air Corps helicopter. I came straight here after we landed on the helipad, hoping—praying—that this was all some sick joke. That my brother was safe in his suite, waiting to have a huge laugh at my expense. It was a ridiculous idea, thinking I’d find him in here that day. Just like it’s a ridiculous idea for me to be here now, looking for God only knows what. The royal guards, the police and numerous Wildemar intelligence agencies have all been through this room with a finetooth comb looking for evidence. If there was anything to find here, they would have found

it months ago. Still, I can’t force myself to turn around and walk out. Not when this is the closest I’ve felt to my brother since this whole nightmare began. I close my eyes, try to pretend—just for a moment—that he’s right here with me. That he’s in the bedroom changing clothes or in the small kitchen grabbing us both a beer. It doesn’t work. I’ve spent nearly as many hours in here through the years as I have in my own suite and it’s always felt familiar. Always felt like home. Not anymore. Still, I can’t help winding my way through the rooms, looking for God only knows what. It’s a familiar walk—partly because of the hours I’ve spent here and partly because it’s so similar to my own suite. Sure, the color schemes are different— Garrett’s rooms are done in warm browns and golds while mine are all cool blues and grays— but so much of the rest is the same. Same layout, same overstuffed furniture, same wall of bookshelves jammed with books. Same bones, I think, as I walk the small study off the living room, pacing from one end of the bookshelves to the other. But the

substance is different. The books on the shelves and the art on the walls—Garrett’s choices are solid, traditional, respectable, while mine are anything but. Kind of like the two of us, I think, as I pick up Garrett’s copy of Alexandre Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo. It’s one of his favorites, though you’d never know it from looking at it. My brother doesn’t believe in cracking spines or dog-earing pages or—God forbid— underlining a passage. No, he marks key spots in other ways. With Post-it flags and bookmarks and his photographic memory (just one of the many things that drove me crazy when we were at Le Rosey together). I flip through the book—it’s got about a dozen marked pages—and I can’t resist opening to one of them, just to see if I can figure out what Garrett likes so much about this book. But the moment I turn to the first quote, marked with a bright pink flag about halfway down the page, I feel it like a blow in my solar plexus. “Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered upon the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes.”

I’m shaking a little as I trace a fingertip over the words, as I read them again and again and again. And wonder if he somehow knew that his life would go this way. If he knew that one day everything would be exceedingly normal— exactly as it should be—and the next he’d be at the mercy of madness. It’s the crown prince’s job to understand that this might be his fate—more, it’s his job to accept it. And yet I find myself hoping that he didn’t have a clue, no matter what this damn book says. Furious now, with the book, with fate, with whoever took my brother and with myself, I start to put the damn thing back where I found it. As I do, something flutters out of it. Figuring it’s a bookmark from its long, skinny shape, I bend to retrieve it. And end up with the breath knocked out of me all over again. Because it’s not a bookmark I’m holding in my hand. Or, more precisely, it’s not only a bookmark. Instead, it’s a strip of photos from a photo booth and Garrett is one of the key players in the silly pictures. But it’s not looking at this younger version of my brother that stops me dead in my tracks. No, it’s the person in the picture with him that has my eyes going wide and my breath

catching in my throat. Because the very young, very fresh-faced, very beautiful young woman who is making faces at Garrett in one photo and kissing him in another, is none other than Savvy. My Savvy.

Chapter 8 Savvy I make the latest order of drinks—two mojitos, three lemon drops and a vodka tonic—and slide them down the bar toward Cecily. She smiles as she scoops them up, says, “Thanks, babe,” before turning away and making her way through the throng of people packing the bar tonight. Then again, when isn’t it packed? When I applied for a job here six months ago, I did so because it wasn’t a dance club and I— mistakenly—thought that meant most nights would be a little slower than the popular clubs farther down the street. But then Prince Garrett was seen here a few months ago, and it became an instant hotspot for young, hip, urban millennials. Add in the freedom the owner has given Marcus and me to put together a complicated and exotic cocktail list, and it’s pretty much been standing room only in here from six P.M. until one A.M. every night but Sunday. Not that I’m complaining. Or at least, not

much. I may not be able to write during offhours, like I’d originally hoped, but the tips are so good that I only have to do the hotel waitressing gig when they need extra staff for special galas. And even then, only when I want to. Plus, I like the Wild Sea. A lot. It’s beautifully decorated, filled with really great people to work with and I get to escape the pounding rhythms and brain cell–killing volume that the dance clubs boast. Not to mention it gives me a chance to stay in Wildemar. I’ve loved this country since I was a nineteen-year-old exchange student, immersing myself in French and Wildemarian literature, exploring the culture and art and pretending to be a great artiste. I was heartbroken when I had to leave— partly because of the country and partly because of a boy. I promised myself as I climbed on the plane that would take me back to America that I’d return here one day. And, after spending four more years getting my bachelor’s in English and an MFA in creative writing—and six months bumming around the world—I finally have. I’m not planning on staying forever, but my

work visa is valid for another nine months, so why not take advantage of it? “I need a lychee martini, a dragon’s breath and a flaming ninja,” Carter says as he lands at the bar. “Plus three club sodas and a scotch and soda for the hotties in the back booth.” “On it,” I tell him, as I finish up a couple margaritas on the rocks for one of Samantha’s tables. “Seriously?” Carter drapes himself over the bar. “You’re not even going to look?” “At what?” I keep my head down and my hands busy as I fill glasses with ice and lime slices. “I tell you there’s a table full of hotties back there and you don’t even glance up. Are you a nun masquerading as a bartender or are you a lesbian?” “Sadly, neither. Just a girl who’s had her heart broken one time too many. Besides, you saw them first. Don’t you have dibs?” “I wish. But they seem of the heterosexual variety, more’s the pity.” He fake cries into his hand. “Now, now,” I tell him as I slide the drinks his way. “No use crying over straight milk. Isn’t that what you always say?”

“It’s not, but it should be.” He sighs heavily, then puts the drinks on his tray. “Besides, I haven’t gotten a good look at the one in the back of the booth yet. Maybe he’ll surprise me.” “Bonne chance.” I give him a little salute before pulling my vibrating cellphone out of my back pocket. It’s a series of texts from Kian. What time do you get off tonight? I want to see you We need to talk I stare at the texts for long seconds trying to figure out what they mean—or even if they mean anything. Kian has texted me several times since he left my house yesterday, all sweet, upbeat little things that make me smile or get my heart pumping a little bit faster. I’ve answered every single one of those texts with something friendly and appropriate. But these texts…it could be my racing mind or my guilty conscience, but these texts have an entirely different tone. They seem on a whole new level. Not sure what I want to say to him right now —or what I should say considering I still haven’t shared with him my biggest secret—I shove the phone back into my pocket without

answering him. The night goes on that way, drink orders coming in hot and heavy for the next five hours, my rhythm broken only by a few intermittent texts from Kian, none of which I answer—and none of which sound particularly fun or flirtations. I take a quick ten-minute break in the middle of my shift, most of which I spend worrying about how I’m possibly going to explain things to Kian and listening to Carter rhapsodize about his table of hotties— especially the one with the “blue, blue eyes.” By the time the night finally winds down sometime after two, my head is pounding, my feet are killing me and I want nothing more than to take a shower and crawl into the comfiest pair of pajamas I own. Either I’m wearing the goal like a badge of honor or Marcus—sweet, wonderful, blessed Marcus—feels my pain. Whatever it is, he sends me home before the floor is swept and the last round of glasses is put away, pledging to take care of it himself. I feel guilty leaving him there, but not too guilty as I’m the last one in the bar more nights than not. To counter the guilt, I think about how good a shower is going to feel. Or a bath— yes, that’s what I’ll do. Pour myself a glass of

wine, put on some Ed Sheeran and slide into a tub full of bubbles. Maybe when I get out, I’ll have some idea of how to deal with Kian. There’s a part of me that knows exactly how I should deal with him, that knows I should just cut him off right now. Just stop answering his texts and start pretending he doesn’t exist. But there’s another part of me that doesn’t want to do that, a part that instead wants to say to hell with everything and go on that date with him. Yes, it’s going to end up with me getting my ass kicked by the universe, but right now that doesn’t seem to matter. Not when I keep seeing Kian’s smile every time I close my eyes and not when I’ve spent most of the last two nights dreaming about having his mouth and hands and body on mine. I never should have dumped that champagne on him at the gala. And I definitely shouldn’t have taken him out to the servers’ break balcony. I’m not even sure why I did it, except as I stood there watching Garrett’s “little brother” fend off one unwanted advance after another, something inside me snapped. Garrett was always so protective of him, always so determined to keep the difficult shit away from his twin that it was instinct to step in. Instinct to do what I know Garrett would

have done himself had he been able, what he would have wanted me to do. It just never occurred to me that if I did that —if I put myself on Kian’s radar and let myself meet him—that I’d end up as charmed by His Royal Hotness as the rest of the world. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me. Maybe I figured I was inoculated against him because of the feelings I once had for Garrett. Maybe it was because bright-eyed charmers with super fast zippers have never been my type. Or maybe it was because I was already charmed by him and I just didn’t know it. Whatever the reason, the damage is done. Now I just have to figure out how to deal with the fallout. I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts that I’m halfway across the brightly lit parking lot before I notice that there are four men waiting at the far end of it, standing only a few feet away from the small secondhand car I bought when I decided I was going to settle in Wildemar for a while. I have one moment to curse myself for being an idiot, to think oh shit. And then they’re turning to me as one and a few things hit me all at once. One, I must be staring at Carter’s table of

hotties. Two, I know these men. And three, the boy has stellar taste, because each and every one of these men is H-O-T, all right. I’m not sure how Kian does it, but somehow he looks better every time I see him. The Tom Ford tuxedo was a really good look for him at the gala and the suit pants and silk buttondown he wore to my house yesterday were even better. But this look—His Royal Hotness decked out in a casual V-neck T-shirt and tight, ripped jeans? I can feel every single one of my lady parts sitting up and taking notice. But how can I not? The man looks absolutely gorgeous. The white of his shirt brings out his tan and the bright, wicked green of his eyes, plus it’s cut just slimly enough to emphasize his broad shoulders, flat stomach and inked up, sexy-as-all hell biceps. Add to that the way his just-a-little-too-long hair is kind of wild tonight—falling over his forehead and flirting with his cut-glass jaw, and he’s the total package. I always thought Garrett was a beautiful man, but his fraternal twin is the sexiest person I’ve ever seen, bar none. His Royal Hotness, indeed.

We lock eyes and for the first time since we met, he doesn’t look happy with me. Is it because he knows I saw his texts and didn’t answer them or is it for another reason altogether? A reason that has nothing to do with him and me and everything to do with Garrett and me. My stomach clenches uneasily at the thought, and I promise myself that I’m going to tell him tonight if he doesn’t already know. “Savannah.” Kian steps forward, and I get to watch—firsthand—as his guards blend into the woodwork. Or in this case, the seats of what looks to be a brand-new Bentley SUV. Well, all except Lucas, who stands no more than five feet from Kian and keeps his eyes trained on the prince at all times. None of them acknowledge me, even after the lemonade and cookies from yesterday afternoon, and my trepidation grows. Something is very, very wrong here. “Kian.” I try to hide my unease with a flippant attitude. “Fancy meeting you here.” I step toward him, intending to brush my lips across the sexy stubble on his jaw, but he turns his head to avoid the contact. My nerves grow worse. I should have told him. Why didn’t I tell him? It would have been

awkward, but damn. Any kind of awkwardness would be better than the shit show this meeting is turning into. For long seconds, he doesn’t say anything to me. Nor does he make any move to touch me, something else that’s incredibly unusual for him. Instead, his eyes are hard as he stares at me, and his jaw is clenched so tightly I’m surprised I can’t hear his teeth grinding together. The sight has my stomach cramping up, has sweat rolling coldly down my spine as my heart starts the long crawl up my throat. And that’s before he finally unlocks his jaw enough to say, “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Chapter 9 The question hangs there in the air between us as I struggle to find an answer that won’t piss him off. Or get me locked up in the palace tower. I’m pretty sure Wildemar doesn’t do that anymore—since constitutional monarchies frown on that and all—but I don’t want to take any chances, either. Not when he looks as angry as he does. “Kian.” I reach an entreating hand out to him, but he looks at it like it’s a snake about to bite him. Or worse, like I am. “That’s Prince Kian,” he grinds out. Wow. The only thing missing is the to you. And considering how much time he spent with his tongue in my mouth yesterday, I’d say he’s really pissed off to pull the whole prince card out. Not to mention, even before that I’d never thought of him as Prince Kian—I spent so many months listening to Garrett tell stories about his “little” brother, Kian, that it’s hard for me to think of him as anything else—even though he’s a captain in the Navy and currently first in line for the throne. But if

that’s the way he wants to play this… “I’m sorry.” “For what?” “Excuse me?” I sound confused, but keeping up with his conversational twists and turns isn’t easy. “I asked what exactly you’re sorry for.” His gaze cuts like broken bottle glass. “For addressing me in an improper manner? For kissing me at the gala and at your house yesterday? Or for fucking my brother? There’s a lot of ground between the three, so I’m curious as to which one it is that you’re apologizing for.” Behind him, Lucas shifts uncomfortably and suddenly he’s looking anywhere but at the two of us. Even so, I can feel my cheeks start to burn. The lack of privacy is one more similarity from my time with Garrett, and it somehow makes all of this so much worse. Humiliated now—and angry and hurt—I lash out before I can think better of it. “I’d never apologize for fucking Garrett. He’s way too good in bed. Besides, you’re the one who kissed me.” He steps forward then, fists clenched at his sides and for a moment—just a moment—I’m afraid of the storm I see in his eyes. But Kian’s

touch is gentle even as he presses the palm of his hand against my collarbone and his fingers against my pulse points. “Who are you?” he demands. “Exactly who I told you I was the other night. A waitress, a bartender, a writer.” I clear my throat. “A woman who came here as an exchange student in college and fell in love with this country.” “With this country or with my brother?” It’s the question I’ve been dreading, the one I really, really don’t want to answer. But the look on Kian’s face warns me not to lie and I wouldn’t anyway. He deserves the truth. So I swallow, my throat bobbing against his fingers, before admitting, “Both.” He recoils like I hit him and I find myself wanting to apologize again, wanting to explain myself even though he’s the one with all the power in this situation. Even though he’s the one acting like an ass. “So why the fuck did you come on to me at the gala if you’re in love my brother?” For a second—just a moment, really—his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly. But then he takes a deep breath, and his hand slowly relaxes. He doesn’t move it, though. He keeps it right where it is, an intimate and eerie

imitation of collaring. “Or is it just the crown you love and you don’t care who’s wearing it?” “You’re going to accuse me of being a crown chaser one time too many, and you will pay the consequences for it.” His eyes narrow. “Yeah, well, if the crown fits, wear it, right? I said I was in love with Garrett, not that I love him still. It was a long time ago.” I glare up at him, refusing to be intimidated by the ice in his gaze or the calloused fingers at my throat. “And I wasn’t coming on to you. I was rescuing you from an uncomfortable situation. It’s a very different thing.” “And yesterday?” “You came to my house. I told you it was a bad idea and you kissed me anyway.” He lifts one sardonic brow. “And you were just along for the ride?” “What can I say? You’re a really good kisser.” That startles him, shakes him out of his rage for one second, two. I can even see the corners of his lips start to crook upward in his trademark sexy smile. “I bet you say that to all the royals.” It’s my turn to lift a brow. “Just the ones I

want to fuck. Obviously.” He lets out a frustrated sigh, shoves his free hand through his wild hair. “You should have told me.” “I should have told you,” I agree. His sexy green eyes go wide at the admission. “So why didn’t you?” “It’s not as easy to work into a conversation as you seem to think.” “It’s not that hard, either. Maybe something along the lines of, ‘Hey, Kian, I know your tongue’s in my mouth right now, but I thought I should mention that I used to fuck your brother.’ See how easy that was?” “Don’t you mean, Prince Kian?” I know the snotty comeback will only exacerbate the situation, but I can’t help myself. I’m furious, with him, with myself, with the whole situation. I absolutely should have found a way to tell him about Garrett, I know that. But it’s not easy to get the words out, especially with Garrett missing. It’s why I ducked out when I did at the gala, why I refused to give Kian my name, let alone my number. And it’s why I told him—even yesterday—that our getting together wasn’t a good idea. My relationship with Garrett was over five

years ago—and no matter how I felt about him at the time, it would never have gone anywhere anyway. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t awkward to talk about, especially considering how attracted I am to Kian and how, in the six months we were together, Garrett never made me feel half as much as Kian did in six minutes. But all this is just a little too much for me right now, not to mention more soul-searching than I’m up for. And since all Kian looks capable of doing at the moment is glaring at me through narrowed eyes, we might as well wrap this up. “Look, are we done here? It’s late and I want to get home. So if you don’t mind—” “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got to say to me? That it’s late?” “What do you want me to say? I already admitted I was wrong but it’s obviously not enough.” Annoyed—with Kian and myself—I shove his hand off of me and take a couple big steps back. “You ambush me out here, accuse me of being a crown chaser among other things, manhandle me in front of your bodyguards—” “Is that what you think this is?” he interrupts, and his hand is right back where it

started. Only this time, his thumb is stroking back and forth across the hollow of my throat as his green eyes blaze into mine. “Manhandling? Because, sweetheart, let me tell you. I’d be happy to handle you a whole hell of a lot more than I currently am.” His other hand comes up to rest on my waist, his fingers stroking over a sliver of skin at the small of my back, where my shirt has ridden up. I’m not sure what it says about me or this whole situation, but it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to arch into his touch. “Is that a threat?” I demand, trying to sound disgusted even though every nerve ending in my body is suddenly on fire. “I was thinking of it more along the lines of an invitation.” His gaze skims down my body and I know the exact moment he realizes— even in the dim light—that my nipples are hard. I shrug him off, cross my arms over my breasts to hide my unexpected and unwanted arousal. “I thought you believed I’m only after your title?” “You wouldn’t be the first woman I fucked who was,” he says so carelessly that I know I hit a nerve. “Probably won’t be the last. As long

as I get to come, I don’t give a shit who I’m fucking.” Behind him Lucas looks mortified. I know he’s trying to insult me—and I am insulted—but there’s such an element of poor little rich boy in what he’s saying, and what he’s not saying, that I can’t help feeling bad for him. Especially when I remember how Garrett used to worry about him, because Kian was so much more vulnerable than he ever let anyone know. It’s that memory that keeps me from telling him to go to hell and it’s that memory that has me reaching out to place a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry about Garrett, and about everything you’re going through right now. You don’t deserve it and it isn’t what he would have wanted for you.” He recoils like I’ve slapped him, every part of him—physical and emotional—pulling away. But not before I see the flash of vulnerability in his eyes. Not before I see the pain he’s working so hard to keep hidden. It’s gone as quickly as it came, and then he’s bending down a little, getting in my face. “Tell me the truth. What do you want from me? Why did you come up to me the other night? Why did you start this whole thing?”

“Because you looked miserable. Because I remembered the way Garrett used to talk about you, and how—when he did—I felt close to you even though I’d never met you. Because he would have wanted me to.” They’re all valid reasons, and they’re all true. And if I’m leaving one out—about how I’d always wanted to meet him and Anastasia even though Garrett had made it clear that was off-limits—no one needs to know about that but me. Except Kian’s face crumples at my words, and suddenly his hands are on my shoulders, his fingers biting into my flesh as he grates out, “Tell me. Please. Tell me one thing my brother told you about me. About us.”

Chapter 10 Kian For long seconds, I don’t think Savvy is going to answer. And I want her to. I really, really want her to. I don’t know why it’s so important, why I think some almost stranger’s recollections of a story my brother told her about me—about us—is somehow going to be more powerful than what I myself recall. But then I remember those pictures I found, remember how happy they looked in them. How in tune they were. And I need to know. “It’s okay,” I say, trying to be reassuring. “I’m done being mad. It’s just, there’s obviously this whole part of his life that I knew nothing about and I just…I want to know.” Savvy just shakes her head, glances uneasily over my shoulder. And that’s when I realize she’s looking at Lucas again. “Come on,” I tell her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and propelling her toward the passenger door of her car. “I’ll drive you home and we can talk.”

She looks like she’s about to argue, but in the end, all that comes out is a sigh. I decide to take it as acquiescence. But when Lucas reaches to open the back door to climb in, Savvy freezes. “I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Ride with the others.” “The king—” “What the king doesn’t know won’t hurt any of us.” He starts to protest again, but I shoot him a look and he backs away. Lucas isn’t happy and he lets me know it, but he’s been on my detail long enough to figure out when I’m serious. And right now, nothing is going to get between Savvy and me. Nothing but Garrett, that is. “Keys?” I hold out my hand. “Umm, no.” She shakes her head, shoots me a disbelieving look. “I’m driving. Obviously.” “That’s not what we agreed on.” “Oh, I’m sorry, Prince Control Freak. But we never agreed on anything and riding in the passenger seat is the only way you’re getting in my car.” “I drove at a grand prix. I can handle a used VW.”

“I’m sure you can. Just not mine.” She pops the locks, then slides behind the driver’s seat. “It’s two A.M. and I’m tired. Either get in or get out of the way so I can go home.” “If you try that, I’ll just follow you, you know.” I open the passenger door reluctantly. I don’t like giving up control to anyone—most of the time, I drive even when I’m with my detail —and I sure as hell don’t like the idea of giving up control to Savvy. “Follow away. That doesn’t mean I’ll let you in my house—and I’m pretty sure that Wildemarian law prohibits even you from forcing your way in without a warrant.” She sticks the keys in the ignition and starts the car. Then gives me a look that makes me want to turn her over my knee—and make her come half a dozen times or so while I do it. Which is a serious problem, considering I still don’t know exactly what relationship she and Garrett had. It’s pretty obvious it was serious, though, considering he talked to her about our family. And if that’s the case, I have no business thinking anything sexual about her at all, let alone imagining what she’ll look like sucking my cock. But just because I shouldn’t, doesn’t mean I’m not.

Savvy honks the horn, draws my attention back to the present. She gestures impatiently for me to get in, and I do. How can I not when I have so many questions that need answers? She doesn’t say a word as she backs out of the space and navigates her way through the brightly lit parking lot. And neither do I. I’m too busy trying to figure out what answers I want—and what questions I need to ask to get them. It turns out I don’t have to ask any, because once we’re making our way through the empty streets, Savvy glances over at me with a smile. “He loves you, you know. A lot.” “That’s it?” I run an annoyed hand through my hair. “That’s your big reveal?” “I don’t have to reveal anything—I’m not the one looking for proof here.” She stops at a red light, then turns to face me. “I just thought it was important that you know how much you mean to him. Especially now.” Her breath hitches a little on the last word. “When’s the last time you talked to him?” “Five months ago. He came to the bar, wanted to take me to dinner.” The light turns green and she starts to drive again. Jealousy claws through me, dark and intense and completely unreasonable

considering I barely know this woman. And considering the fact that Garrett is missing, maybe dead. “Did you go?” “Couldn’t. I was working.” “Savannah.” The reprimand is sharp in my voice. “No. There didn’t seem to be any point in it.” Yet she’s fidgeting—tapping out a strangely familiar rhythm on the steering wheel—and looking anywhere and everywhere but at me. I want to ask more, want to push for answers. But it’s not my place. Not now. Not yet. The last comes unbidden, makes my hands clench into fists and my brain haze over—with annoyance and anger and an arousal I can’t seem to get a grip on, no matter how many times I tell myself it’s a bad idea. No matter how many ways I remind myself that she was Garrett’s first. That doesn’t seem to matter, though, not when every instinct I have is screaming that she might have been his first, but she can be mine now. At least for a while. We drive a few minutes in silence. I’m just getting ready to call the whole thing off— obviously, we have nothing to say to each other now that Garrett is an invisible specter

between us—when she says, “When you were eleven, you covered for him when he broke a Fabergé egg.” I turn to look at her so fast I nearly get whiplash. “What did you say?” I ask hoarsely. “It was one of the crystal ones, from the Imperial Collection, if I remember correctly? You were home from boarding school for the summer and he was kicking around a hacky sack in your mom’s office, trying to keep it up as long as you could. But he wasn’t anywhere near as good as you were. He kept messing up and then, because he was mad, he kicked it too hard and it bounced off a lamp, straight into your mother’s favorite Fabergé egg. Which then crashed to the ground in a very ignominious heap. “And you, being a good brother and the son most likely to get into trouble, took the blame for him so that he wouldn’t miss Wildemar’s tennis championship, which was being played the next day. Instead, he let you miss it, and he let you take all the heat with your parents.” I’m reeling, the bottom dropping out of my stomach as she pulls the car to a stop. It’s not that I didn’t believe she knew Garrett—I saw the photos, after all—but that story is a long way from a few silly photos in a photo booth,

no matter how cozy they looked. That story has always been just between Garrett and me. Anastasia doesn’t even know the truth about what happened, and neither does my father, even now. So if Savvy knows it, her relationship with Garrett was a lot deeper than I originally thought it was. Fuck. Shit. Damn. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She told me she was in love with him, but lots of women have been in love with him through the years. That’s nothing new. The fact that he told her something so personal, however, the fact that he let her in? That means he probably loved her, too. The thought makes me want to punch a hole through the dashboard. Makes me want to burn down the whole damn block. Makes me want to pound my chest and yell that I saw her first. But that’s not true. Garrett saw her first. Garrett kissed her first. And it’s only been a couple days, a couple short conversations. I could pick up my phone and have a dozen women waiting for me by the time I get back to the palace. This mess shouldn’t matter to me at all. It does, though. It really does, and I don’t

know why. Savvy’s not the first woman I’ve wanted. She certainly won’t be the last. Hell, she’s not even the first woman Garrett and I have both been attracted to—though he usually tends toward the delicate red-headed types, a beautiful woman is a beautiful woman. And Savvy is very definitely beautiful. “You were together six months,” I say as she pulls into her driveway. “Yes,” she answers, though it wasn’t a question. “He obviously cared about you quite a bit.” “Yes.” She turns the car off, but keeps staring straight ahead. “And you cared about him?” This time it is a question even though I know what the answer’s going to be. This time, when she answers, it’s barely a whisper. “Yes.” Finally, finally, she turns her head to look at me. Her eyes are wide and shimmery, like she’s trying not to cry, and she’s worrying her lower lip between her teeth. She looks beautiful and fragile and I’m not sure what it says about me that I still want her, even now, in the midst of this discussion about her relationship with my twin.

But her voice is steady when she says, “Just say whatever it is you want to say.” “You obviously had a relationship with my brother, one that was important to both of you. So why have I never met you? Why did I never even hear about you? And what the hell would have happened if you hadn’t decided that I needed rescuing the other night? If you hadn’t dropped those glasses of champagne on me, would I ever even know that you existed?”

Chapter 11 Savvy “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to all that,” I tell Kian after he finishes questioning me. “You’re supposed to tell me the truth. If you’d asked me last night, I would have said I was closer to my brother than any other person on the planet. And that goes both ways. But now, here you are, and I don’t know what that means.” He looks so bewildered, so lost, that I can’t help reaching out and taking his hands in my own. As I do, a jolt of electricity races through me—the same jolt that comes every time we touch. The same jolt that sent me running from him that first night when I realized he was stirring up things in me that had never been stirred. Stirring up things that were better left dormant. “What Garrett and I had…it wasn’t for public consumption.”

“I get that. I do,” he insists, when I raise a brow at him. “But I’m not the public. I’m his brother.” “I know.” “Do you?” I roll my eyes. “The resemblance makes it hard to miss—you’re not identical but no one can deny that you’re brothers. Even if you are the wild-haired, tattooed type and he isn’t.” Even as I mention them, I try not to stare at the tattoos in question, but it’s hard when his left arm is decorated with one of the most gorgeous sleeves I’ve ever seen. Done in shades of black and gray, it starts with a beautiful, deconstructed steam punk–type pocket watch on his shoulder while the sands of time wind down his arm, interspersed with roses and the scales of justice. I probably shouldn’t admit that I’ve wanted to lick them ever since I first saw them on the cover of Time magazine a couple years ago, after they’d named him Person of the Year for his philanthropic work. “So, why didn’t he tell me?” Kian’s plaintive question draws my attention back to the matter at hand, no matter how much I want to ignore it. I buy time by slowly reaching into the

backseat to get my purse as I try to figure out what to say. I finally settle on, “Want to come inside, maybe have a cup of coffee or another drink?” There’s a part of me that hopes he says no. After all, talking about this aspect of my relationship with Garrett is completely humiliating and it’s the last thing I want to do after a long night working the bar. At the same time, though, I’d rather get it over with now, instead of having it hanging over my head for God knows how long. And it will be hanging over my head like a shoe waiting to drop. Someone else might let it go, but nothing I’ve learned about Kian these last two days makes me think he’s the kind of guy to let anything go if it matters to him. And this obviously matters to him. A lot. “I’d love a cup of coffee,” he says, slowly disentangling his other hand from mine. I feel the loss keenly, which is ridiculous considering we’re sitting here talking about my long dead relationship with his brother. “But,” he says, stroking a hand down my cheek, “I know you’re tired. It can wait.” I almost take the out. I want to take it, so badly I can almost taste it. But if I have to do this, I might as well rip the bandage off with

one swift tug. “No, I’m good. Come on, let’s go inside.” He climbs out of the car, then walks around to my side to shut the door for me. Then he loops an arm around my shoulder and walks me toward my front door. With the moon high in the sky and the stars twinkling so brightly, it might have been romantic—except for the subject hanging over our heads. And the six-man security detail slowly trailing behind us. “They’re going to have to check your place out before I can go in,” Kian says apologetically. “With you not being in there for so many hours—” “I know the drill,” I answer. And just that quickly things get awkward again. We wait on the porch while the three men clear my tiny cottage. I want to say something to break the uncomfortable silence but my brain is frozen. I can’t think of anything that won’t make things even more awkward. Kian must be having the same trouble, though, because he’s looking anywhere but at me as the tension grows and grows and grows. Lucas and the others finally come back out and I breathe a sigh of relief as they nod to us before heading back toward the SUV parked at

the curb. At least now I can get in my kitchen and make coffee. It might not give me anything to say, but at least I won’t be standing around like an idiot who can’t formulate a complete sentence. Except I never make it to the kitchen. Hell, I never even make it out of the foyer, because the second I close the door behind us, Kian is there. Cupping my face, pushing my back against the door, lowering his mouth slowly, slowly, slowly, to mine. I know I can stop him, know he’s giving me a choice on whether I want to kiss him or not. On whether I want to let him touch me. I shouldn’t want it, but I do. My God, I really do. Leaning forward, I cover his hands with my own. Then, caught in the blazing green fire of his eyes, I press my lips to his. Softly, sweetly. Once, twice, a third time as I wait for him, wait for— He breaks so suddenly it shocks me, has my heart fluttering in my chest and my breath trapped in my throat. “Savvy,” he whispers moments before his mouth slams down on mine, open and wet and ravenous against my own. So, so ravenous that it brings my own hunger to the fore.

I press against him with a moan, tangle my fingers in the cool black silk of his hair and let him in. He feels my acquiescence—I know he does— because he takes instant advantage, his tongue sliding between my lips. He feels so good, tastes so good—like the scotch he had at the bar mixed with the sweet and wild ocean wind that likes to whip through this town with the least provocation. “Kian.” His name is a prayer, a plea, a cry of desperation and desire. I wrap his hair around my fingers and tug hard enough to have him groaning in his throat. “Fuck, Savvy,” is his only answer, and I revel in the gravel and the greed of it even as he sweeps his tongue along the seam of my lips, as he explores the corners of my mouth and the curves of my lower lip. “I love the way you taste.” I start to answer him, to tell him I feel exactly the same way, but then he’s sucking my lower lip between his teeth, biting down softly, and any thoughts I have scatter like grains of sand in a windstorm. Heat slams through me and I gasp, hands curling into fists. Fingers tugging at his hair, pulling sharply. He groans low in his throat

and then his free hand is on my hip, his fingers digging into my ass. Not hard enough to hurt, but definitely enough to remind me that there’s a real live man behind the prince. The reminder only makes me hotter, and I can’t stop myself from moving restlessly against him. I want more than he’s giving me. Need more than I ever imagined I would from anyone. But Kian is having none of it. He nips sharply at my lip, but it only pulls me under. Even the gentle strokes of his tongue that follow the bite—strokes meant to soothe away the small hurt—do nothing but drag me under. Drag me deeper, until nothing matters but Kian and this moment and the sweet heat flowing like honey through my whole body until I nearly drown in it. And still it’s not enough for him. Still he pushes for more. Sliding his hand up my throat to my chin, he tilts my head up and back a little more. And then he takes me over, his tongue sweeping inside my mouth to slide against my own. To stroke over the roof of my mouth, down the side of my cheek. To tease and taunt and torment me until all I can think of is him. Until all I want is him.

I tug at his hair again, even more sharply this time, and he responds by slamming his hips against my own. It feels good, so good, and I want nothing more than to stay right here, like this, with him. But as he wrests his mouth from mine, as he skims his lips across my cheek, my jaw, the sensitive spot beneath my ear, I know that I have to stop this before it gets much farther. Before I lose myself completely in him and forget why we’re here. Forget what he wants to know and what I have to tell him. With that thought in the front of my mind, I turn my head away—then nearly whimper as he buries his face in the bend between my neck and shoulder. For long seconds I’m spellbound, held captive by the shivers running up and down my spine and the pleasure skating along my every nerve. But as he whispers my name again, as his hands move to cup my ass, to hold me closer, I know it’s now or never. And while there’s a part of me—a big part—that wants nothing more than to lead Kian to my bed, that wants nothing more than to make him feel good and let him do the same to me—I can’t let it happen. Not yet. And so I bring my hands down to rest on his shoulders and then I press forward, pushing

him away.

Chapter 12 To his credit, Kian stops immediately. He lifts his head from where he’s kissing at the hollow of my throat, takes a step back. And just looks at me. It’s disconcerting, how completely he does it —like, in that moment, I am his complete and total focus and priority. It’s not a reaction I’ve ever had to deal with before, and for long seconds I don’t know what to do or what to say. But it’s clear he’s waiting for me to do something, so in the end, I do. “Why don’t we have that coffee?” I suggest, after clearing my throat. “I think I still have some cookies, if you’d like.” “Not quite the treat I was hoping for,” he says with a wicked grin, “but beggars can’t be choosers.” “Like you’ve ever had to beg for anything in your life,” I tell him with a laugh. “I’m pretty sure if your title doesn’t get it for you, then your charm will.” I start toward the back of the house. “So, you think I’m charming?” he asks as he

follows me into the kitchen. “You know exactly how charming you are, Your Royal Hotness. You don’t need me to stroke your ego.” His eyes go dark and intense at that and, as my breath catches in my throat, I have the feeling we’re both imagining me stroking something that very definitely isn’t his ego. He walks over to the hutch I’ve got between the French doors that line the back wall of the kitchen and looks over the array of framed pictures resting between my tiny piles of dishes. “If you’re looking for one of me and Garrett, you’ll be disappointed,” I tell him as I get the coffee beans out of the freezer. “Your brother was pretty reclusive when we were a couple, making sure that only a few photographs were taken.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “What about the ones I found? From the photo booth?” “Those were the very rare exception.” I smile at the memory. “The university had a long weekend, so he took me to a small town just over the French border. He’d rented a small house for us, right on the outskirts of the town. We didn’t go out much—mingling with

the masses wasn’t really his thing—but the last night we were there, he took me into town for dinner. “It was this little café. I still remember—they made the best chocolate mousse I’d ever tasted. It was so good we fought over it, so they brought us two more—on the house.” I’m smiling now. It’s a good memory, and I’m glad to have the chance to pull it out and examine it. Things didn’t end well for us, and for a long time the good memories have been drowned out by the bad. It’s kind of nice to know they don’t hurt anymore, at least not in the same way they used to. Now, there’s a different kind of sadness when I think of Garrett and what might have happened to him. What might be happening to him still. Kian clears his throat and the sound brings me back to my pretty little kitchen and the task at hand. I put the kettle on to boil, then carry the beans over to the grinder and pour them in. “Where does the photo booth come in?” Kian asks. I hold a finger up, telling him without words to hold on since the grinder makes a truly ridiculous amount of noise. When I’m finally done grinding the beans, I pour them into my

French press and then continue the story as I wait for the water to boil. “We were walking through the town, checking out all the little nooks and crannies of it. We found a traveling carnival set up in an empty field and I begged Garrett to check it out. He didn’t want to, but eventually he caved. “We rode the Ferris wheel and one of those huge swing things. I won him a stuffed pink unicorn at the balloon toss and as a thank-you, he took me into the photo booth. We must have taken fifty pictures, maybe more.” “Do you still have them?” Kian asks, all low and gravelly as he pulls a chair out from the table and sits down. The husky sound of him sends a dark little thrill through me, and for a moment—just a moment—I imagine walking over and climbing into his lap. I imagine straddling him and rocking against him and licking my way deep into his mouth just for the thrill of hearing him call my name in that voice of sex and sin. But considering I’m in the middle of telling him a romantic story about his twin and me, I’m pretty sure he’d dump my ass on the floor —which is no more than I would deserve. “I don’t.” I deliberately turn my back on him

and his sexy hair and his bedroom eyes, focusing instead on getting out mugs, sugar and a small carton of cream. “When we broke up, Garrett was very insistent on getting all the photos back. And making sure I deleted anything I might have saved on my phone or my computer. I thought he’d destroyed them.” I open up the cookie jar, pull out the last couple snickerdoodles from the batch I made the other day and put them on a small plate for him. I’m so busy concentrating on what I’m doing—and trying to forget how much Garrett’s lack of regard hurt me—that I don’t even know Kian has moved until he’s standing right behind me. “It sounds like my brother was a total dick,” he says as he rests his hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him. “He was just…careful,” I tell him. “He didn’t want anything to mar the crown prince’s reputation.” “Especially not an American girlfriend.” “Especially not that.” I smile wryly. “Imagine the scandal.” What I don’t tell him is how much it hurt that Garrett was so careful to hide me, how much it bothered me that I didn’t matter enough for him to tell his friends and family

about me. I understood—and was grateful for —him keeping the press away from me. But everything else felt like rejection. Felt like I didn’t matter enough no matter what he said. I put up with it because I loved him. And when we broke up, I put up with the obsessive secrecy because I loved him still. And because I’d always known it was going to end, always known that he wouldn’t stick around. After all, no one else in my life ever had. Why should he have been any different just because he said he loved me? The water is boiling, so I switch off the stove and pour the water over the coffee grounds. We wait in silence as they brew, until I slowly depress the plunger. I reach for two cups, but Kian beats me to it. He places the cups on the tray I’ve set up, then pours each of us a cup before carrying everything through the kitchen doorway and into the living room. “I thought we’d be more comfortable in here,” he says in response to my raised eyebrows. “By all means, Prince Kian.” I take a seat at the end of the sofa, curling my legs underneath me. “Careful, peasant, or I’ll have you thrown in the dungeon.”

That starts a laugh out of me, considering how close it is to what I was thinking the other day. “The dungeon and not the tower?” I ask, tongue in cheek. “That hardly seems fair.” “Yes, well, the east tower is part of the palace tour and somehow I doubt American tourists would appreciate seeing one of their own in chains. And the west tower has been turned into Roland’s office, so—” “Roland!” I clap my hands, delighted. “I didn’t realize he was still around. How is he?” Kian freezes at that, and for long seconds the only sound is the gentle whirring of the overhead fan. “You know Roland?” he finally asks. Aware now that I’m treading on newly rocky ground, I tone down my enthusiasm. “I’ve met him, yes.” “At the palace?” “Yes.” I try to hand him his coffee, but he’s too busy studying me to bother taking it. “Garrett brought you to the palace?” he says, sounding partly like he’s looking for confirmation and partly like he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. I think about lying—it’d probably be easier all the way around—but I’m a terrible liar. Plus, all Kian has to do is ask Roland about me

and the jig is up. I’m not so vain that I think Roland should remember me after five years, but the king’s social secretary is one very sharp tack. I’m pretty sure he remembers the names, ages and occupations of every single person— including tourists—who has ever set foot in his beloved Palais les Charmilles. “Yes,” I finally tell him, because I can’t see a way around it. “How many times?” Well, that’s definitely not the question I was expecting. “Excuse me?” “How many times were you at the palace?” “I don’t know. Maybe a dozen or so?” “In six months, you were there a dozen times?” He sounds, and looks, flabbergasted. “Maybe less.” He arches a brow. “Maybe more?” He holds my eyes, almost daring me to look away this time. In the end, I just nod and whisper, “Maybe.” “Have you met my father?” “Yes, but only once. We had dinner, about two months after Garrett and I started dating…” I trail off when I realize he’s stopped listening. Which is fine with me—I’d rather not discuss what an unmitigated disaster dinner

with the king had been, anyway. Not that I’d expected any different, but Garrett had insisted. Then, when his father pretty much tried to buy me off at dinner, he’d been annoyed but not surprised. That’s when I figured out why he’d really brought me there. He’d wanted to know my answer as much as his father had. It was the first time we nearly broke up, but not the last. I can’t help wondering if Kian would try the same thing. And what I’d do about it if he did. When Garrett pulled it, I was young and desperate to matter to someone for the first time in my life. Even before my parents died unexpectedly in a car crash, I’d never been more than an afterthought to them. Garrett was my first chance to be more, or so I’d thought. Even after he’d pulled that bullshit, I’d stayed because I loved him. More, because I needed him to love me. But I’m not that person anymore, and I’ve already cut Kian as much slack as I’m going to. I wait for Kian to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just presses his lips together and nods his head a bunch of times. Then he leans forward and begins doctoring his coffee.

A spoon of sugar and a splash of cream. Then another spoon of sugar, then another splash of cream. A third spoon of sugar, a third splash of cream. He’s about to add a fourth spoon to a cup that really isn’t that big, when I reach out a hand and stop him. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” I tell him as I ease the spoon from his grip. “Does it really matter how many times I’ve been to the palace?” “I don’t know.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, rubs it up and down against the back of his head. Still, he shakes his head, taps his fingers back and forth against his knee. And looks anywhere and everywhere but at me. “Kian, I’m sor—” “Don’t apologize!” he half-laughs, half-yells. “It’s not your fault, and I’m not handling this well.” He pushes off the couch then, walks over to the painting Garrett bought me at the end of a weekend at the family beach house. He studies it for long seconds, then— without turning back to look at me—says, “This is from my brother.”

“Yes.” “I figured. I noticed it the last time I was here, thought it was a coincidence that it was the same view we have from the beach house. But it’s not a coincidence, is it?” I shake my head, then utter a hoarse, “No,” when I realize he still isn’t looking at me. “I guess I wanted this thing between you and my brother to be nothing,” he says after several long, excruciating seconds. “I wanted to be able to brush it off, to say it didn’t matter. But clearly, it did matter, to both of you. I’m sorry for being a dick, I just…need to get my head around it.” He finally turns to face me. “The thing is, I really like you. It’s the worst possible time for it, what with Garrett being…missing, and me trying to take over his duties and balance my own. But still. I like you and you’re in love with my brother, which is pretty fucking awkward, so…” I’m off the sofa and crossing the room before I’m even aware that I gave my body the command to move. I don’t stop until I’m right in front of Kian, so close that I can feel his breath against my cheek. “Was,” I whisper. “What?” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to understand what I mean, but his green eyes

stay pinned to mine. “I was in love with your brother. But that was five and a half years ago. I was a different person then. I was nineteen and foolish and incredibly vulnerable after the deaths of my parents. “Garrett came along and swept me off my feet, gave me the fairy tale—or at least what I thought was the fairy tale. Until I woke up one day and realized some other girl was actually getting the fairy tale and I was just some wild oats he wanted to sow.” “Felicity.” Kian grimaces. I nod. “Felicity.” His eyes somehow grow even sadder. “I’m sorry.” “Now you’re the one apologizing for something you have absolutely no control over.” I reach out and grab his hand. “So why don’t you come back to the couch, eat some cookies and drink some really sweet coffee. And while you do, we will talk about something that has absolutely nothing to do with Garrett.” He stares at me for long seconds and I can see the debate raging right behind his eyes. In the end, he nods, though, and even manages a little smile. “That sounds good.”

“It does, doesn’t it.” I start tugging him toward the couch. “Well, everything but the coffee.” He grins at me. “No offense, but I’m pretty sure that’s a deal breaker.”

Chapter 13 Kian I surface slowly, feeling a little bit like I’m struggling through honey as I try for wakefulness. I’m not sure why I’m trying so hard to wake up, but there’s an urgency deep inside me, a voice screaming that I need to OPEN MY EYES. I do, consciousness rushing over me like a freight train as my eyes pop open to dark and unfamiliar surroundings. There’s a weight pressing down on my chest and a low whimpering sound in the air around me and it takes me a moment to figure out what’s happening. Sometime in the middle of the night, Savvy and I fell asleep on her couch. Right now, she’s stretched out on top of me, and judging from the small, distressed noises she’s making, she’s having a nightmare. “It’s okay, baby,” I murmur in her ear even as I wrap my arms more tightly around her. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

She whimpers again, a miserable, highpitched little sound that gets me in the gut. In response, I hold her more tightly, rub a soothing hand up and down her back, whisper soothing, nonsensical things into her ear. She comes awake with a jolt, her whole body recoiling violently in my arms. “It’s okay, Savvy. It’s Kian. You’re safe, I swear.” It takes a moment, but eventually she relaxes, her body going loose and languid on top of mine. I shudder a little as she buries her face against my throat, then order my dick— which is already twitching with interest—to stand the fuck down. No way am I going to do anything to contribute to scaring Savvy any more than she already is. “We fell asleep.” “Yeah.” “Did I have a nightmare?” she asks after a moment, her voice all slow and sleep-husky and sweet. “I think so, yeah.” I continue to run a soothing hand slowly up and down her spine. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” “Nothing to be sorry about.” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” She struggles against me and reluctantly I let go, not wanting her to think that she’s trapped against me. She doesn’t go far, choosing instead to stay on my lap, her legs straddling my hips as we stare into each other’s eyes in the early morning gray. And there isn’t any order I can give at this point, any soccer statistics I can relay in my head, that will keep my dick from reacting to the warmth and closeness of her sex. I’m about to apologize, about to lift her off me and spring into some kind of damage control action. But then she moves, tilting her hips forward with a gasp and a little moan. Her sex brushes against my aching dick and just that easily, I’m drowning in her and the feelings she brings to life inside of me. “Kian, I want t—” I cut her off with a kiss. Our faces are already so close that our breaths mingle with each inhalation and it seems like the most natural thing in the world—despite everything —to lean forward and take her lips with mine. She stops talking mid-word, takes in a strange, squeaky little breath. And then her hands are sliding from my face to my back, her arms wrapping around my neck as she kisses

me. It’s not our first kiss and I’m suddenly determined that it won’t be our last, either. But it is the first one we’ve had with all of our cards on the table, with all of the secrets of the past laid bare between us. Because of that it somehow feels more real than any of the others…and more important. I bring my hands to her face, cup her cheeks, tilt her head this way and that as I seek to go deeper. As I try to delve all the way inside to the beautiful heart of her. It’s only been an hour or so since we fell asleep, so she still tastes like coffee and sugar and sweet, spicy cinnamon. But underneath that there’s more, there’s strawberries and cream and warm, willing woman. I can’t get enough of it. Can’t get enough of her. I pull Savvy even closer, pressing her breasts to my chest as I wrap myself around her and lick my way slowly, slowly, slowly into her mouth. She gasps at the invasion, but doesn’t protest. Instead, she tilts her head, opens her mouth. Lets me in. I’ve never been more grateful for—or more excited about—a woman’s acquiescence in my life. With that knowledge front and center in

my mind, I slide inside her mouth, gently stroke my tongue against her own, then lick my way across the top of her mouth and down her cheek. She tastes so damn good, feels so damn good, that I can barely think, barely breathe as she licks her way inside my own mouth. There’s a voice in the back of my head warning me that this is a bad idea, that the past is still looming between us—big, painful, unavoidable. That no matter what happens here, no matter how I feel about her or she feels about me, Garrett will always be between us. But anyone who knows me will say I’ve never been very good at listening to that warning voice, and right here, right now— when I have a warm, willing Savvy on my lap— is no exception. Instead of hesitating, I barrel forward, determined to give her whatever she asks of me. Whatever she wants. The thought has heat slamming through me like a rocket, and I bury one hand in the silky fall of her hair while sliding the other one to her lusciously curved hip. Savvy moans a little at the feel of me tugging at her hair, then arches her back in an unspoken plea for more. I give it to her,

tugging harder, more sharply, taking care to make it sting a little but not hurt. The last thing I want is to cause Savvy any more pain. If our talk last night taught me anything, it’s that she’s had enough pain to go around—and a lot of it was caused by my brother. But thinking about Garrett right now is a mood killer, so I banish him from my brain. I focus instead on the way Savvy’s breathing has increased in tempo, the way her skin feels hot and her body feels pliant against mine. So far she’s with me every step of the way, and I couldn’t ask for more. She moans again, deep in her throat, as her fingers claw their way under my shirt and up my back. It’s my turn to groan and she takes instant advantage, sliding her tongue against mine. She laughs a little then, a husky sound that dances across my skin and sets my nerve endings on fire even as she strokes her tongue between my teeth and my upper lip. “Fuck, Savvy, you feel so good,” I murmur without ever lifting my mouth from hers. “So do you,” she answers softly, one of her hands tangling in my hair, her fingers scratching gently against my scalp. I want to take it deeper, want to roll her over onto the couch and thrust against her.

Want to slide my hand down the front of her jeans and feel her wet heat. Want to hear her breath hitch and see her eyes go blurry as I make her come and come and come. But we’re in her living room, in front of a large window that may or may not have one of my detail stationed outside of it at this very moment. I’m sure they’re in the car as opposed to watching our every move, but still…I won’t do that to her, not when we’ve finally started to talk to each other, to try to understand each other. Savvy deserves so much better than that. Fuck, who am I kidding? She deserves better than me, certainly deserves better than His Royal Hotness. If I were a decent guy, I’d get up now and walk away before this gets any deeper, any messier. Before she has to deal once again with the mess that is being involved with a member of the Wildemar royal family. But I’m not a decent guy and I’ve never claimed to be. I’m the spare who has spent the last decade fucking around with any and every woman who caught my attention, taking what they had to offer without a backward glance. And now that I found someone I like, someone I might actually be able to care about and who

my past might actually affect, it all seems so… gross. Still, I shove the thought away, refuse to think about those other women in any way. Not now, when I have Savvy warm and soft and pliant on my lap. Not when she’s making those soft noises and rocking her hips against mine. Not when she seems to want me as much as I want her. Just the thought has me growing impossibly harder, has need tearing against the edges of my control. One more kiss, I promise myself as I tug on her hair, pulling her head back just a little. Just enough. And then I take her, plunder her, devour her—taking every single thing she’s willing to give me and pushing for more. Pushing for everything, as I delve so far inside her that I’m not sure I’ll ever find my way free again.

Chapter 14 Savvy I’ve never felt like this in my life. Never felt this open. Never felt this taken. Never felt this much, and Kian isn’t even inside me yet. I want more. Need more. More of Kian and more of the insidious pleasure that’s sizzling through me like lightning. I don’t know what any of this means, and I’m sure as hell not stupid enough to think I know what I’m doing. Being with Garrett nearly destroyed me five years ago, and now here I am with his brother, setting myself up for the same pain, the same betrayal. And yet, I don’t want to stop. I can’t stop, not when it feels so good to be held, kissed, loved by Kian. Not when it warms me the way it does to have him smile at me, listen to me, touch me. I know this isn’t forever, know that he treats women like flavors of the week or even day, depending on his mood. But he’s here with me

now, holding me, whispering soft, sweet things in my ear, and what I know doesn’t seem to count. What I fear doesn’t seem to matter. Not when it feels this good—this right—to be in Kian’s arms. He pulls me closer. Kisses me deeper. Whispers my name against my lips and how beautiful I am, how good I feel, how much he wants me. I’m falling for his words, drowning in his kisses and the soft stroking of his hands along my spine. Normally it would frighten me, this giving of myself over so completely to someone else. But crazy as it seems, Kian makes me feel safe. More, he makes me feel cherished even now as I straddle him in the middle of my couch. As I rock my sex against him and bite my lip to keep from begging for more than I can emotionally take. He reaches down, cups my ass in his hands and presses me even more firmly against his long, hard cock. And he is hard, so fucking hard that I’m sure he’s suffering for it. So fucking hard that I’m shocked he hasn’t already tried to get inside me. Instead, he’s taking his time. Skimming his fingers along the nape of my neck, pressing

kisses to the hollow of my throat, urging me to take what I want—what I need—from him as I lift and lower myself over him. I’m not used to men who treat me like this, who put my needs first and work so hard to take care of me. I haven’t been with many men —when things went sour with Garrett it turned me off relationships in a big way—but I know enough to understand that this isn’t normal. To understand that Kian treats me like I’m special. The thought sends equal jolts of fear and pleasure shooting through me. Because that’s how I get hurt—thinking I’m special. Thinking I matter, when it’s been proven over and over again to me that I don’t. I can’t afford to think like that about Kian, about His Royal Hotness who also happens to be the twin brother of the first man I ever loved. But knowing and feeling are two totally different things, especially now when the feel of him against my most vulnerable part only makes me want more. Not now, when Kian is turning my insides to molten lava with each skim of his fingers across my back and each stroke of his tongue against my own. He tastes good, so good. Like dark coffee. Like rich cream. Like wild waves crashing

against the seashore. It’s a taste I could spend hours—days—exploring and still never get enough of. But I don’t have hours, don’t have days. All I have are these few stolen moments and even those are slipping away from me, slipping through my fingers like time in Kian’s tattoo. He must feel the same way, because he lifts his head with a muffled curse. For long seconds I can do nothing but drag great gulps of air into my tortured lungs. I’d probably be embarrassed by how long it takes me to catch my breath if he wasn’t doing exactly the same thing with exactly the same intensity. Once I can breathe again—once I can think again—I work on uncurling my fingers from the death grip they have on his hair. It’s harder than it sounds, especially when I want nothing more than to hold on to him as tightly as I can. “Fuck,” he mutters, resting his forehead against mine. “Wow, His Royal Hotness sure can be profound when he wants to be.” I try to sound teasing, but it comes out breathless instead. He just snorts. “You want profound, you probably shouldn’t kiss me like that.” “Excuse me, but I’m pretty sure you’re the

one who kissed me.” “Best decision I’ve made in a long, long time.” He starts to pull away, but I give up the battle not to touch him as I slide my fingers back into his hair in an effort to keep his face against my own for just a few moments longer. He looks funny like this, his nose squished and bright green eyes sliding toward the center of his face, becoming one. The fact that I like the way he looks, even now, is more worrisome than my response to the kiss could ever be. I slide my hands over his shoulders and down his back, then circle them around to his chest, where I clutch at the thin material of his T-shirt. As I do, my nails scratch gently against his pecs and his eyes grow even brighter, to a brilliant neon green that I want nothing more than to fall straight into. Then his hand is fisting in my hair and he’s kissing me and kissing me and kissing me, until I lose the breath I just got back. Until my lips burn and my jaw aches. Until my whole body goes up in flames and all I can think about, all I can want, is him. I whimper, my lower body rocking against the hardness of his. Kian groans in response, slides his hand down my body to once again

grab my hips, my ass. And then he’s moving me against him in a rhythm that makes me hotter, takes me higher, has me growing wetter and wetter with each clench of his fingers against me. “Kian!” I manage to gasp against his mouth as the heat—the need—builds and builds inside of me. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he growls. “I’ve got you.” Then he’s skimming his mouth across my jaw, down my throat, to the bend where my neck meets my shoulder. He bites down gently, then laves the small hurt with his tongue before doing it again and again and again. Pressure builds inside me with each lick of his tongue over my skin, with each clench of his fingers against my hips, with each thrust of his hard cock against my aching sex. My breath hitches in my throat, my body moving of its own volition now, and Kian groans a little at my response even as he bends to press his hot mouth against my fabric-covered breast. With a strangled gasp, I arch my back, press closer. He laughs a little—a dark, sexy, tortured sound—then sucks my nipple into his mouth. I can feel the heat even through the fabric of my bra and shirt and it feels good, so

good. I tell him so, my voice shaky—shredded —with need. He responds with a groan and a powerful thrust of his hips against my own. Then he’s biting down gently, gently, gently, and my body’s going off like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. He works me through it, his mouth drawing on my nipple and his hands lifting and lowering me against his cock as I come and come and come. When it’s over, I collapse into him, my face buried in his neck, my heart beating hard against his own. Long moments pass as I try to get myself together. He’s still hard and I want to return the favor, want to make him feel as good as he made me feel. But I’m wrecked, shuddering and gasping and so weak that—for long seconds—I can’t do anything but lean against him and tremble. And he lets me. He doesn’t push for more, doesn’t try to take what I’ve so obviously offered. Instead, he rocks me, with his arms around me and his fingers tracing soothing patterns on my back. He whispers in my ear, presses soft kisses to my cheek. It’s tender and sweet and so exactly what I need after the most explosive orgasm of my life. When I can finally breathe again, when my

hands are no longer shaking and aftershocks are no longer shooting randomly along my nerve endings, I reach for him. I fumble with his belt, run my palm along the long, thick, denim-covered hardness of his cock.

Chapter 15 Kian God, she’s touching me, her hands brushing against me, and all I can think is if she does it again I’m going to lose my mind. And my ability to function. And I’m going to do it all in full view of her front windows. Reaching down, I place my hands over hers in an effort to stop her. “But I want to,” she interrupts as she skims her hands over my shoulders and down my chest. “I want to make you feel good.” “You do, baby.” I cup my hands around her ass, then stand up, taking her with me. But I lose my train of thought when she squeals and throws her arms around my neck, wrapping her long, beautiful body around mine even as she blows a long, slow stream of air into my ear. “Fuuuuuck.” The word escapes without my permission, my hands clenching on her hips of their own volition. Part of me is afraid I’m pushing it, pushing her, but shit. How am I

supposed to help it when she’s warm and willing and wrapped around me like a vine? Her hands feel so fucking good—she feels so fucking good—that I can barely breathe as she tugs my T-shirt over my head and tosses it behind us. Then her hands are just there, her talented fingers gliding over my pecs, along my rib cage, down my torso. More curse words catch in my throat and I arch helplessly against her, my dick desperate for any attention she wants to give it. Savvy laughs then, and this time when our eyes meet, hers are a little less sleepy, a little more focused. It’s what I’ve been waiting for, and when she teases the tips of her fingers across my chest, I let go of the last of my reservations and give myself over to whatever she wants from me. “Is this okay?” she asks as her fingers circle my too-sensitive nipples again and again and again. I bow my head, press my forehead to hers. “Sweetheart, anything you want to do to me is okay.” Her grin is wicked, her eyes even more so, when she tells me, “You should be careful giving me carte blanche over your body. How do you know I won’t abuse it?”

“I trust you,” I answer, because it’s true. And because I want her to know that she can trust me, too. That she can let her guard down without worrying that I’m going to hurt her like Garrett did. Because I won’t. I can’t. I see my message register in her eyes, feel it in the way her body sags against mine just a little. “Still all right?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything more. “Yes,” she murmurs, before pressing hot kisses against my jaw. My mouth. My throat. I tilt my head back on a groan, let it fall back on my neck as Savvy licks and kisses and sucks her way across my collarbone. I want to return the favor, want to kiss and touch and worship every inch of her, but I don’t want to push her. Don’t want her to think this is just some onenight stand where I get my rocks off and then walk away the second I’m satisfied. Because it isn’t. Maybe it’s been that way a million times before with dozens of other women—but not this time and not with her. She— “Fuuuuuuuuck.” Her hands are on my stomach now, her fingers lightly teasing around my belly button, over my V-cut, down the happy trail leading to my—

“Fuuuuuuck,” I say again. I swear, she’s reduced my vocabulary to that one word, and reduced my entire existence to the feel of her soft, cool hands on my skin. Knowing it’s now or never, I start moving, heading toward the back of the room and the hallway there that I desperately pray leads to Savvy’s room. She gasps again, wraps herself around me. The pressure of her—the feel of her warm, slick, soft heat—has my knees trembling as I try to get us both out of the eye of the street. Yeah, it’s the middle of the night and no one is around, but I figure better safe than sorry. Especially since my detail is still out there, at this point probably trying to look anywhere but at the window. When I get to two doors, I mutter, “Which one’s your room?” against her hot cheek. “On the left,” she answers with a whimper, and then she’s untangling herself from around me, sliding down my body with the agility of a dancer. As soon as we make it to her room, she pulls off her clothes, stripping the offending pieces of cloth off her body and sending them flying. Then she’s once again reaching for my belt and this time, I help her. She’s got talent though,

and it’s only seconds before my jeans and underwear are on the ground. Only seconds before she’s cupping my balls and wrapping her other hand around my dick. It feels so good I can barely breath—she feels so good. I arch into her touch, and she tightens her grip so that I see stars every time she slides her palm over me. Then she’s bending to lick her way over my throat before continuing her way down my chest so she can take my nipple in her mouth. Heat gathers at the base of my spine at the contact, crazy-intense pleasure rocketing through me from all the different places her body is touching mine. All the different ways she’s making me insane. Normally I’m not very good at ceding control, but if this is the reward it gets me, I’ll hand control over to Savvy any time she wants it. “Is this okay?” she whispers against my skin. “Do you like it?” I bark out a laugh. “Yes, yes, God, yes.” Her lips are still pressed against my chest, and I can feel her smile in my skin. “Good,” she murmurs, right before she drops to her knees in front of me. I reach for her, try to pull her up. “Baby, you don’t have to—”

She swats my hands away. “I want to.” And then she’s leaning forward, licking and nuzzling her way along my dick. “Fuck,” I say again, and it’s become my mantra. Become the only coherent sound I can still make. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I don’t even know if I’m saying it out loud at this point or if it’s just in my head. And I couldn’t care less, not when Savvy’s on her knees in front of me, her beautiful mouth pressing kisses to my stomach, my balls, the tip of my cock. I want to stay like this forever, want to feel her mouth on my dick every second of my existence. The way she leisurely licks along my length, her tongue soft and warm and so fucking talented is my favorite thing ever. At least until she pulls my balls into her mouth, gently sucking on them, and I lose even the ability to think “fuck,” let alone say it. Some garbled noise comes out of my mouth as pleasure slams through me, and she laughs at me a little. Not that I care—I’m too caught up in the feel of her hands and lips and tongue to worry about anything else. Too caught up in the ecstasy tearing through me to do anything but stand here and let her have her way with me.

Pleasure sizzles along my nerve endings. Runs through my blood. Takes over my every organ, my every vein until all I can feel is her. Until all I can smell or taste or breathe is Savvy. A little dizzy and a lot overwhelmed, I tangle my fingers in her hair in a desperate attempt to hang on to something. To hang on to her. She glances up at me then, her lips red and swollen and obscene looking, and I swear I almost come from the sight of her mouth alone. A problem that’s only exacerbated when I glance up and realize I can see Savvy’s beautiful back reflected in the mirror over her dresser. I stare at our reflection for long seconds, watching my hands as they tangle in her long, glorious hair. Watching her back as it bows and bends with each brush of her body against my own. Watching her head as it bobs forward with each streak of her tongue across my cock. Somehow it gets me even hotter, ratcheting up my need for her another thousand degrees or so, until the need to come is a pressure on my spine and an ache in my belly. In an effort to distract myself, I glance away from the mirror for just a few seconds. But it doesn’t do me any good because now I’m

looking at her all spread out in front of me, watching that beautiful mouth firsthand as she leans forward and takes just the tip of my cock in her mouth. A glance back at the mirror shows her back arched, her hand clenched on my hip, her jaw working as she sucks me slowly, slowly, slowly down her throat. I honestly don’t know which view is better. It’s incredible to see her like this, from the front and the back all at the same time. Incredible and intense and more arousing than I ever dreamed possible to see all of her even as I feel the wet heat of her mouth close around me. Savvy pulls me deep, takes me all the way in until I feel myself hit the back of her throat. I try to pull back, try to make it easier for her, but Savvy just cups my ass in her hands and pulls me forward. Pulls me even deeper until she’s taking all of me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Pleasure slams through me, takes me over, encompasses me until all that I feel, all that I am, is centered around Savvy and her obscenely hot mouth. She’s barely gone down on me and already I’m so close to losing it that I can feel the pressure increasing at the base of my spine, can feel my orgasm

welling up inside of me. What is it about this woman that makes me want her this badly? What is it about her wicked eyes and loves-to-fuck-with-me attitude interspersed with moments of vulnerability that drive me to the brink so quickly? I don’t know, and at the moment, I don’t really care. How can I when I’m held in thrall by her and her glorious, gorgeous mouth? Even the random thought of whether or not she’s done this with Garrett doesn’t stop the pleasure from crashing through me. I’m too far gone, and it sure feels like she is, too. Sure feels like she’s enjoying this as much as I am. Then she moans deep in her throat, and my teeth clench at the ensuing vibrations. She slides her tongue over and around my cock in circles that make my eyes cross and my jaw lock at the pleasure. I glance down at her, watch as she slides me back and forth between her cherry red lips. Her eyes are closed, her long, dark lashes resting on her cheeks as she tucks the head of my cock against the roof of her mouth and once again slides me down her throat. “Look at me!” My voice is low, guttural, more animal than human as I force the words

out. But she must understand, because her eyes fly open and she looks up at me. Our gazes lock as she takes me deep again and again and again, her tongue licking along the underside of my dick. Pleasure explodes through me, sweeping up from my balls to the base of my cock, taking me by surprise as she sucks a little harder, her tongue wriggling over the sensitive spot on the underside of my dick. “Fuck!” It’s a groan, a plea, a prayer for mercy, but Savvy is having none of it. Instead she takes me even deeper, her hands clenching on my ass as she works her throat convulsively around me. And just that easily I’m coming, emptying myself into her with a force that makes my head swim and my teeth ache. I try to pull out, but she won’t let me go. Instead, she holds me in place, taking all of it, swallowing me down and leaving my knees so damn shaky it’s all I can do not to fall on her. And still it isn’t enough. Still I want more. More of her and more of this mind-numbing pleasure. I’ve just had the most powerful orgasm of my life, just come down the throat of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, and all I can think about is doing it again. But this is Savvy, smart, sexy, tentative

Savvy, and the only thing I want more than to blow down her throat again is to make her feel as good as she’s made me feel. With that thought in mind, I untangle my fingers from the death grip I have on her hair. I wrap my hands around her upper arms, then pull her carefully to her feet, searching her face for any sign that she’s uncomfortable with what just happened between us. This isn’t how I thought it would go between us, isn’t what I had planned. I’d thought to take it slow, thought to give her so much pleasure that she forgot about Garrett, forgot about anyone else who has ever touched her. Instead, she blew my mind completely, made me lose all thought processes and control. I’m not used to that. I’m always the one in control. I’m always the one who decides what happens and how it happens. The fact that that’s not how this went down, the fact that I ceded this easily to Savvy…it makes me think. Makes me wonder just what is supposed to come next. But for now, as I gather her in my still trembling arms and carry her to bed, the answer doesn’t matter. Nothing does but holding her in my arms, kissing her, and making her feel as good as she’s made me feel.

Chapter 16 My phone goes off an hour and a half later. I’m tempted to ignore it, considering I’ve got a warm, sated Savvy dozing in my arms. Not to mention, my pants—which is where my phone currently is—are crumpled on the floor just out of reach. But Savvy’s having none of it. Ignoring my protest, she rolls away from me and snags my phone from the front pocket of my jeans. “Here,” she says, seconds later as she deposits it on the bed beside me. “Why’d you have to go and do that?” I demand, even as I plug my password into the phone. “I thought we’d already discussed how heavy that crown you’ve got is,” she says as she grabs a robe from her closet and belts it around her. “Call whoever it is back while I go make some breakfast for us.” “You don’t have to do that,” I tell her as I pull up my phone log. “Sure, I do.” She shoots me a grin from the doorway before continuing down the hall

toward the kitchen. “I’m hungry.” A glance tells me I’ve missed two calls from Roland. I vaguely remember my phone going off a little while ago, but since my cock was in Savvy’s mouth, I hadn’t paid any attention to it. I start to text Roland back—if this is just another reminder of some bullshit interview he wants me to do, then he can cancel the damn thing. I’d much rather spend the day with Savvy, making love and badgering her with a million questions about herself, than I would smiling at yet another reporter as I lie through my damn teeth. But I barely get the chance to hit send on a text to Roland before someone’s pounding on Savvy’s front door—and by pounding I mean knocking so hard that she could be forgiven for thinking it’s a warning that Armageddon has finally arrived. I know better, however. I’ve heard that knock numerous times in my life and while it’s rarely good, it’s rarely as bad as the pounding makes it out to be. Still, I haven’t forgotten about the king’s ultimatum to Pierre and Jean-Luc, and I get out of bed a lot more quickly than I usually would under similar circumstances. Which is a

damn good thing, since I’ve barely gotten my jeans over my bare ass before Niall bursts into the room. I expect some quip—that’s how these things usually go—but Niall looks deadly serious as he tosses me the shirt I left in the living room in the middle of the night. “What’s going on?” I demand as I pull it over my head. “Meeting at the palace in forty-five minutes, full security council and heads of all the intelligence agencies.” Shock slams through me, followed quickly by elation. “The lead panned out.” I take the shoes he hands me and shove my feet into them, sans socks. “Holy shit, Niall. They found something!” He tries to look cautious, but we’ve known each other long enough that I can see the excitement he’s trying to keep under wraps. “It looks that way, Kian.” “Forty-five minutes? We’ve got to go.” “That’s why I’m standing here trying to forget what your bare arse looks like.” “I was wondering how long it would take you to bring that up.” I head for the kitchen— and Savvy.

“One of these days I’m going to write a tellall book. It’ll include the number of times in my career I’ve had to drag your bare arse out of some place or another. And it will include pictures.” “Make sure you get my best side.” “Don’t you mean your best cheek?” Lucas asks, from where he’s leaning against one of the kitchen walls, a cup of coffee in his hands. “Making yourself comfortable?” I ask, sarcasm ripe in my tone. Avery springs to attention, setting down his own coffee mug with a clatter. “I’m sorry, sir. Savannah offered—” “Don’t get your panties in a twist.” I skirt the counter to wrap my arms around Savvy from behind. She’s standing at the stove, cracking eggs one handed into the skillet and putting bread in the toaster with the other hand. “I haven’t sent anyone to the dungeon for drinking my coffee in at least a year.” “Technically speaking, it’s my coffee,” Savvy says, shooting an amused look over her shoulder. But the moment our eyes meet, the wooden spoon in her hand falls to the floor. “Oh my God. You heard something about Garrett.” Her hands go to my shirt, her fingers twisting in

the thin material. “Is he alive? Is he—” “I haven’t heard anything yet,” I tell her, gently pulling her into my arms to soothe her. And myself, if I’m being honest. I know her concern for Garrett is reasonable and I appreciate it—I do—but there’s a part of me that can’t help wondering what’s behind the concern. That can’t help wondering if, maybe, the reason she’s so upset is because she’s still in love with him. I hate myself for even thinking like this— everyone in this room is excited that there might be a lead on Garrett, I remind myself viciously. And she obviously loved him at one point—why wouldn’t she be excited that he might be alive? It makes perfect sense, I know it does. Just as I know I’d be offended if she didn’t care that there might be a lead on Garrett. But all that is logic speaking. The mini freak-out going on in the back of my mind has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with jealousy. Acknowledging it might not make it go away, but it makes it a hell of a lot easier to tolerate. I drop another kiss on Savvy’s cheek, even as I signal for my detail to leave us alone for a couple of minutes. “I’m sorry I can’t stay,” I tell her.

“Don’t be ridiculous! He’s your brother— and the Crown Prince of Wildemar.” “I know, but it’s still pretty shitty to make love to a woman and then run out on her at first light.” The look she gives me is half-perspicacious, half-annoyed. “I’m pretty sure these are extenuating circumstances. Go take care of whatever you need to take care of. I’ll be around when you’ve got things under control.” “You’re really great, you know that?” “That’s what all the boys say,” she answers with a roll of her eyes. “Oh, yeah?” I wrap my arms around her again, then pull her back against my chest. “How many boys are we talking about here?” “Don’t worry, Your Royal Hotness. You still beat my record by a hell of a lot.” She’s playing around, teasing me like I was teasing her, but the words strike a chord anyway. And for the first time in my life I’m embarrassed by my reputation—and the copious amount of women that I’ve screwed and made no pretense of even being interested in. Garrett always told me my promiscuity would come back to haunt me, but I never really believed him. The fact that it is now,

with a woman he met a long, long time before I did, just makes the sting a little worse. “I need to go,” I tell her. “I know.” She turns around in my arms, hugs me tight as she presses soft kisses into my neck and jaw. “Just give me a minute, okay?” “Sure. What do you need?” Right now I’d give her anything, give her everything, if she asked for it. The fact that I know she won’t only makes me want to do it more. “I just want to get these ready.” She lays four thick pieces of toast out on the counter and covers each one with a piece of cheese. Then she flips two eggs into the center of each piece, tops them with slices of bacon that were sizzling in another pan and then crowns the whole thing with another piece of bread. Then she’s wrapping the sandwiches in pieces of aluminum foil and putting them in a small paper sack, which she hands to me. “Give the extras to the guys. Tell them I’m sorry for keeping them sitting around all night.” I stare at her, completely and totally awed. I start to thank her, to tell her she really didn’t have to do that. But all that comes out is, “I’m totally crazy about you.” Savvy’s eyes go wide with surprise, but when

I make no move to take the words back, she flushes with what I think is pleasure. “Yeah, well, I like you, too.” “Wow, that’s big talk. Don’t hurt yourself.” She rolls her eyes, even as she leans in for a quick kiss that turns into a slightly longer kiss. “I really hope it’s good news for you and Garrett,” she whispers against my lips. “Yeah, me, too.” Anything else doesn’t bear thinking about. “I’ll call you when I get the chance.” “No worries,” she tells me. “Now go before your breakfast gets cold.”

Chapter 17 The drive back to the palace seems to take forever, even with Niall and Lucas going on about how much they like Savvy—and how much they think I should “try keeping this one around for a while.” Avery doesn’t comment, but I figure he’ll loosen up eventually, once he gets used to the fact that I don’t stand on the same kind of ceremony the rest of my family always has. Plus, it’s kind of nice to have someone on the detail who doesn’t know what a slacker I am and who hasn’t had to clean up any of my messes… The fact that I’m thinking the same thing about Savvy feels strange—relationships have never been my thing, thanks to an up close and personal view of my parents’ own disastrous match before my mother’s death—but it also feels surprisingly right. I don’t know where this is going to end— God knows, we’ve got some strikes against us— but I do know that one night with Savvy is nowhere near enough to satisfy me. Then again, right now I can’t imagine a thousand nights being enough.

I pull up to the palace ten minutes before the meeting is scheduled to start. Knowing the king would not approve of me attending a meeting in jeans and a T-shirt, especially one of this magnitude, I hightail it up four flights of stairs to my suite. I really need a shower, but there’s no way I’m risking being late, so I settle for the basic hygiene necessities before grabbing the first suit I find. Exactly nine minutes later—after tying my tie as I traverse the halls of the palace, I’m settled in the large conference room, waiting for my father to arrive. Every chair around the table is taken and there’s a palpable air of excitement in the room that has me nearly jumping out of my skin. I’ve done a pretty good job of acting normal so far, but if this goes on much longer I’m going to lose my shit completely. Next to me, Sebastian Mireaux—director of royal security—connects his laptop to the smartboard in obvious preparation for his slide show. I lean over, about to ask him if there’s anything he can share with me, but the king chooses this moment to walk in, grim faced. Underneath his stoic demeanor, he looks exhausted. Not that I blame him. I haven’t

been sleeping much myself, not when every time I close my eyes I see my brother begging for his life. Or worse, begging for death even as he holds out hope that we will rescue him. “Good morning, gentlemen,” my father says as he makes his way around to the seat right in the middle of the conference table. “I trust you have the information that I asked for.” He nods to me as he settles into his chair, and I nod back. Then we turn away as one. It’s our standard greeting—our standard interaction, actually—a lesson I learned early and well at my father’s knee. “We’ve spent the last twelve hours going over every piece of information we have with regards to the DPL, Your Majesty,” Pierre says, but his pen is moving so hard and fast that I’m afraid the thing is going to take flight. “Safe houses, compounds, membership lists, intercepted documents, surveillance photos.” “And?” the king prompts. “And nowhere did we find any evidence that the person described by our witness has any connection to the Libération-Est.” Just that easily, I feel my optimism start to flag. That means the witness had either the tattoo or the face wrong—and trying to get a warrant without those key pieces of

information is going to be almost impossible, even when it’s the crown prince’s life on the line. “Yet you called me here for this briefing.” My father’s tone is less than impressed, which is the first thing we’ve been able to agree on in pretty much forever. “I expected more than this.” I’m not willing to jump to that conclusion yet. From the years I’ve been on this council, I know that Pierre tends to line up all his ducks in a row and explain those ducks in great detail before getting to what we need. Even if what we need is for him to give us the money shot and then work his way back from there. He’s an amazing analyst and an even better investigator, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t frustrating as shit at times like these. “We did find something,” Jean-Luc says, piggybacking on Pierre’s comments in order to keep the room from exploding. “The barista isn’t as squeaky clean as she’d like us to think. She’s got ties to the new Résistance-Fer that we find very interesting. At first glance the ties look obscure, but when we started pulling on the thread, it started to unravel.” “So what are we talking here?” I ask. “She came forward and tried to blame a different

militia group because she wanted to throw the scent off of RF? But you weren’t even looking at RF, were you?” “We had looked at them, but there was nothing to connect them to Prince Garrett at all—especially since they tend to be a more moderate group, on the whole, than DPL.” “When they’re not kidnapping the crown prince.” Jean-Luc nods at me. “Precisely.” “So, what’s the next step?” my father demands. “The RF has safe houses all over the country. How do we find him without tipping them off and forcing their hand with regards to the crown prince?” It’s a solid question, one that I want an answer to, as well. My gut says raid them all at once so they don’t see us coming, but what if he’s being held somewhere else and the raids trigger his execution? It’s a huge risk. “Investigation,” Pierre says simply. “From the moment we discovered her ties to the RF, we’ve been examining RF assets.” He flicks on the projector. “We’ve narrowed it down to five places we think he’s being hidden, but none of them are safe houses. All of them are remote access, off the grid and

very hard to run reconnaissance on.” “Is that what you want to do?” I demand. “Run reconnaissance? How long will that take?” “A couple of weeks,” Sebastian says. “A couple of weeks? Are you kidding me? You think you know who has my brother—the Crown Prince of Wildemar—and you want to wait two weeks before going after him? Are you kidding me?” “We’ll move as quickly as we can—” “Like you have so far?” I shove back from the table, walk over to the corner where a pitcher of water and some glasses have been set up. I don’t want anything to drink but I can’t sit still any longer, not when they’re discussing my brother’s life with no more urgency than they would a chess game. “We need to know what we’re going into,” Pierre jumps into the conversation. “What the farm-compounds look like, where our best chances of finding him are—” “You can do that with satellites and a couple government experts. Shit, I could probably do it with Google Earth. Then, put five teams together and raid them all at the same time.” I pour myself a glass of water that I don’t want. “And if we do that and he isn’t in one of

those five spots?” my father says to me. “They’ll rabbit with him, and then we’ll never find him.” “Am I the only one who’s noticed that they’ve already rabbited with him?” I answer. “We haven’t gotten any demands. No group has claimed responsibility for having him. No video has shown up on the internet of him being tortured or spilling state secrets. He’s already gone.” “Right now, we’re certain he’s still in the country—” Pierre begins. “And he still will be, even if we raid these places. If they haven’t smuggled him out by now, they aren’t going to. How would they even go about it with the heightened security we would implement in the airports, train stations and along our borders and coast?” “We don’t want to push too hard,” Jean-Luc tells me. “If we provoke them, things could go really badly.” “More badly than they already are?” I walk back to the table, slide into my seat. “What proof do we have that he’s even alive at this point?” “That’s enough, Kian,” my father says, his voice slicing the air like a whip. “It’s obviously not enough. Because if it was,

we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about waiting two more weeks to actually do something to get Garrett back. We’ve been cautious for three months and it’s gotten us absolutely nowhere. If he isn’t already dead, then he’s probably dying. And if that’s the case, every second counts.” “And if we raid these compounds, risking the lives of dozens of Wildemarian soldiers, and he isn’t there? What do we do then?” “We round up everyone who is there and we interrogate them until one of them tells us where he is. If these are five of the most important, most secure places owned by the RF, somebody there knows where he is. I have absolute confidence that our intelligence agencies can get the information if they’re given the chance.” “And if they see us coming and kill Garrett out of spite?” my father asks. “What then?” “If they kill him out of spite, then they were going to kill him all along. Which means that every second he spends a prisoner of the RF, he’s one second closer to death. We need to get him out!” “And we will,” Jean-Luc says. “But the intelligence community agrees that reconnaissance is the best bet for now. Give us

a week to do our jobs—” “You have seventy-two hours.” Once again, my father’s voice cuts through the room. “While I understand the importance of intelligence gathering, I agree with Kian that we’re reaching a critical point. I want to meet back here in seventy-two hours, and at that point, I want to know exactly how you’re going to go in and get the crown prince.” The meeting goes on for an hour after that as all sides discuss the logistics of what my father and I are asking. And though I pay close attention, there’s a part of me that keeps wondering if seventy-two hours is going to be too late. Or, worse, if we’re already too late. If maybe Garrett is already dead and I just don’t want to admit it.

Chapter 18 Savvy I wait all day for Kian to call, but he never does. Not that I really expected him to. He’s got other things way more important than me to deal with right now. It’s just…it’s just I really wanted him to call. Really wanted to know that last night meant something to him. Which is stupid, I know. And unfair to Kian, considering he might have just gotten a lead on his missing brother—who also happens to be the heir to the Wildermar throne. Garrett’s kidnapping shocked the nation, threw the country’s financial markets into absolute chaos and turned a lot of other things inside out. Including Kian’s life. Because not only does he now have to deal with his private grief over his missing twin, but he also has to take on the duties of that twin and help steer the nation through the crisis. It’s a lot for anyone to deal with. Expecting him to worry about my feelings on top of all of that…it’s ridiculous, not to mention selfish.

I know all this. I really do. And I believe it one hundred and ten percent. But knowing it doesn’t stop me from checking my phone every fifteen minutes—even while I’m tending bar—on the off chance that I might have missed a text or a phone call from him. Which I didn’t. When two A.M. rolls around with still no word from Kian, I tell myself it’s no big deal. Tell myself that it doesn’t matter. That I’m expecting too much from a guy I’ve only slept with once. It’s just…I really like him. I shouldn’t, but I do. And just once, I’d like someone that I care about to care about me the same way. To treat me with the same respect and concern that I try to treat them with. No matter what that movie says, sometimes a guy not calling isn’t a sign that he’s not into you. Sometimes he really is just busy— especially if he’s second in charge of running an actual country. Or at least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Except, as I walk out to my car, I know that even that’s not true. It’s only been twenty hours since Kian walked out of my kitchen and into my head, and I’ve already let him go. Already convinced myself that he’s moved on

like everybody else in my life. Already believe that I don’t matter to him any more than I’ve ever mattered to anyone. After all, why should His Royal Hotness be any different than everyone else in my life? As I get to my car, I can’t help pulling out my phone one more time, can’t help checking my messages one more time. Can’t help being disappointed when there’s nothing there. It’s not exactly a big freaking surprise, but still… The drive home only takes about ten minutes—the great thing about a middle of the night commute is no traffic—and as I pull onto my street, I promise myself that I’m going to curl up on the couch with a pint of butter pecan ice cream and my poetry journal. Lately I’ve spent so much of my free time doing research for the mystery novel I’m about to start that I haven’t actually written anything for weeks. Tonight, I’m determined to change that. But as I pull up to my house, a familiar, black Bentley SUV is sitting at the curb. My heart starts to beat a little faster and suddenly ice cream is the last thing on my mind. He came. He really came. I pull into my driveway on autopilot, park the same way. I’m still trying to figure out

what to say, how to act, when I climb out of the car. But my time is up because Kian’s already here, standing next to me. Closing my car door with a smile. Wrapping me up in a hug that smells a lot like home, and feels that way, too. Shit. I’m so completely screwed. The knowledge doesn’t stop me from burying my face against his neck, doesn’t stop me from breathing in the warm orange and bergamot smell of him as he holds me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. “Sorry I didn’t call,” he says as he starts to pull away. I want to hold on to him a little longer, want to feel him against me and revel in the fact that he’s real. That he’s here. “But by the time I got free of meetings—and a rousing fight with the king—I was afraid you’d already left for work and I didn’t want to bother you there.” Trust him to make all those hours of angst and worry seem like the stupidest thing in the world with him trying to be all respectful of my work situation. The jerk. Not. “No problem. I figured you’d get around to me when you had time.” “Get around to you? I spent all day thinking about you, wishing that we were still tucked up in your bed, eating snickerdoodles and talking

about anything and everything.” I do laugh, then, because right now His Royal Hotness sounds downright domesticated, and we both know how untrue that is. “Is that what they’re calling it these days? Eating snickerdoodles?” He laughs, too. “I think they still call it all kinds of things, but I was actually talking about your cookies.” “Oh, I know you were,” I tease as I take his hand and lead him up the walk to my house. Avery and Niall are already on the front porch waiting for us. “What can I say?” His grin is downright wicked. “You make really good cookies.” “She does,” Avery agrees out of nowhere. “They’re amazing.” I manage to keep a straight face, but Kian cracks up. Even Niall snickers, which only makes poor Avery look even more confused. “Ignore them,” I tell him, patting his arm. “They’re a bunch of adolescents. But if you tell me your favorite cookie, I’ll make you a batch tomorrow.” “Hey, I like cookies!” Niall complains. “You could make me a batch, too.” I shoot him an arch look. “I only make

cookies for nice boys.” He snorts. “I happen to know that’s not true.” He looks pointedly at his employer before ducking into my house to make sure no assassins are lying in wait for the prince. “I’m a big fan of chocolate chip,” Avery says as he follows him inside. “And I’m a very good boy.” Kian rolls his eyes behind Avery’s back, then bends down and picks a large bag off the ground. “I swear, you’ve bewitched my entire detail.” “I’m pretty sure I’d have to be magic to bewitch anyone.” “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure you are magic.” He leans forward, presses a quick kiss to my mouth. “I’m serious. When he found out I planned to come back over here tonight, I think Lucas was upset it was his night off.” “Of course he was. Who wouldn’t be upset about not getting the chance to spend the night in a cramped SUV? I line up for the chance at least once a week. Obviously.” “That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one day.” He smooths his thumb along my lower lip. “You know that, right?” “I’m pretty sure what you mean is that my mouth is going to get you in trouble one day.”

Kian grins. “Maybe that is what I mean.” “Yeah, I thought so.” I wrap a hand around the back of his neck, start to pull his lips down to mine, but Niall and Avery choose that moment to clomp back onto the porch. “All clear,” Niall says cheerfully. He’s holding my cookie jar in his hands. “Hope you don’t mind. All that talk of cookies made me hungry.” Kian looks amused, Avery looks appalled and I can’t stop laughing. I’m beginning to realize I’m as nuts about Kian’s detail as I am about him, which is crazy and delightful and a little terrifying, all at the same time. I don’t remember much about Garrett’s bodyguards, but I know they weren’t this much fun. Then again, neither was Garrett. He was always too wrapped up in the appearance of being princely to ever forget himself—even for a second—and just be human. Kian, on the other hand, seems to forget that he’s a prince more times than not. “What are your favorite cookies?” I ask Niall. “I can make a batch for you tomorrow, too.” “Seriously?” His whole face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Peanut butter with those little chocolate kisses on top.”

“Jesus, Niall,” Kian says. “Specific much?” It’s Niall’s turn to blush. “Is that too much? I mean, peanut butter cookies are fine. Or chocolate chip. Whatever—” “Are you kidding? Peanut butter with chocolate kisses are my favorite, too,” I fib. “I’ll make a double batch and we can stuff ourselves tomorrow night.” “That sounds amazing,” Niall says with a grin. “I’ll bring the milk.” “What am I supposed to bring then?” Avery asks plaintively. “Me!” Kian says, knocking shoulders with him. “You’re supposed to bring me.” “Oh, right.” Avery rolls his eyes. “I can do that.” Niall pats him on the back. “Was that sarcasm I just heard? Aren’t you afraid our illustrious prince is going to turn you into a pumpkin?” “He’s a prince, not my fairy godmother,” Avery answers as he tries to reach into the cookie jar. “We’re going inside now.” Kian tugs me toward the house. “Have a good night!” I manage to call over my shoulder before he slams the door in their

faces. “That was rude,” I told him. “They’ll survive,” he answers as he makes his way to the kitchen, bag in hand. “I brought food, by the way. Figured you’d be hungry after work.” “You didn’t have to do that.” “And you didn’t have to let Niall abscond with your cookie jar. But you did.” He drops the bag on my counter and then wraps both arms around my waist and pulls me against him. “Besides, it’s the least I can do considering I’m hoping you’ll let me sleep in your bed again tonight.” “Don’t you have a bed in your own house?” I ask, tongue in cheek. “Sure I do. But it’s lonely. And cold. And it’s four hundred years old. Yours is much more comfortable.” “I’m sure.” I press kisses to his jaw, marveling once again at the perfect line of it. “You don’t actually think I’m going to buy this sob story, do you?” “It’d be helpful if you did.” “I bet. Nobody likes to sleep in an uncomfortable bed.” He grins. “That’s what I’m saying.” “So, that’s what we’d be doing then?

Sleeping?” “Well, sleeping and some other stuff…if you’re interested.” He slides his hands down to cup my ass. “Oh, I’m definitely interested. But Niall absconded with the last of the snickerdoodles, so what are we supposed to do instead?” “I’m really glad you asked.” His grin goes from amused to wicked, and he starts backing me out of the kitchen. “I’ve got a couple ideas I’d like to run by you, if you’ve got time.” “Oh, I’ve got the time.” I wind my arms around his neck as he maneuvers me down the hall to the bedroom. “But what about dinner?” “Fuck dinner,” he growls, all deep and gravelly. “I’ve got way more interesting plans for your mouth.” “Isn’t that a coincidence? So do I.”

Chapter 19 Kian I don’t know where this need has come from, if it’s always been inside me waiting for the right person to let it out or if it’s new because I finally met Savvy. All I know is that it’s been burning me alive since I first saw her at that gala and it shows no signs of quitting now that I’m so close to having every part of her. For a second, just a second, Garrett pops into my head and I wonder if he felt the same way about her. If this raging fever in my blood, this unquenchable need I have for her, is something he had, too. But if he did, why would he give this up? Why would he give her up? It makes no sense, but then, none of this does. Nothing does but Savvy and the need I have for her. I move forward, move her backward, until she is pressed up against the back wall of the kitchen. Then, for long seconds, I don’t do anything else. I just stand there, savoring the feel of all those lush curves of hers resting so

gloriously against me. I want to touch her, to wrap myself up in her softness until my senses are glutted with her. Overloaded. But I’m trembling like a kid, my need making it impossible to think, to breathe. To plan. I want all of her at the same time, need to kiss and touch and fuck her until I’m nearly insane with it. Control, I remind myself as I press kisses down her throat. It’s all about control. But then she gasps, arches, and my very last remnants of control shatter like glass. My hands go to the collar of her shirt and I yank it apart, taking a primitive kind of satisfaction in the way the fabric tears and falls right off her body, baring her to my desperate gaze. She’s beautiful, so beautiful with her full breasts pressed up against a black lace bra only a few shades darker than her eyes. The lace is open enough that I can see her nipples through the cups and I reach out, run a finger over one hard peak. Revel in her gasp and the need that vibrates so violently between us. “Kian,” she gasps, her hands clutching at my shoulders, tangling in my hair. “I want to touch you, too.” She arches into my touch even as she says the words that ratchet me up

another ten notches. I’m done going slow, done worrying about Garrett and the past when everything I need is right here in front of me. Once my brother is back home, the future can take care of itself. Right now, Savvy is hot and trembling in my arms, as desperate for me as I am for her and I’m going to take her. Going to make her mine. I don’t tell her that, though, at least not with words. Instead I grab her wrists, raise them above her head. Then lean down and capture her mouth with my own, using lips and tongue and teeth to claim her in a way she won’t soon forget. A way I don’t think I’ll ever forget. But, God, she tastes good. Spicy and sweet and delicious, like strawberries and cream drizzled with warm summer honey. I suck at her lower lip, revel in the gasp she can’t stop and the way her wrists jerk against my hold. My cock screams for relief at the movement, but I shove the need down as far as I can manage. I’ve spent all day fantasizing about this, and I’m not about to rush it. Besides, this is different than all those times with all those other women whose names and faces I can’t remember. I want so much more now than to just get myself off. This, tonight, is about Savvy. About making her feel good.

About arousing her to fever pitch and then drenching her in so much pleasure she can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel. And, I admit to myself as I pull her lower lip between my teeth and lave it with my tongue in an effort to stop the ache, I want to control her. To drive her beyond reason, beyond boundaries, beyond sanity until she wants me like I want her. Until she needs me like she needs her next breath…the way I’m discovering that I need her. I nibble at her lip again, and she goes wild, her lush, strong body bucking against me. Once again, her wrists jerk against my grip, but I’m still not ready to let her go. Can’t let her go. One touch from her soft, slender fingers and this will be over before it ever really starts. So I keep her pinned against the wall, using my hand and chest and hips. Make sure that she feels me against her from her shoulders to her toes. And then I devour her. “Kian,” she gasps, her head rolling back and forth against the light blue wall. “Hurry up. Please. I’m going crazy—” Her breath breaks on a half-sigh, half-sob. “I like you crazy,” I answer, then take advantage of her parted lips to thrust my

tongue inside. She feels like silk. Like velvet. Softer than anything I’ve ever felt. Hotter than anything I’ve ever dreamed. She moans and I try to gentle myself a little, to give her the tenderness she deserves. But then she sucks my tongue deeper into her mouth and drags me under. I’m desperate, lost, drowning in sensation. Drowning in her as my shitty day disappears and all that is left is Savvy and the heat flowing between us. She digs her nails into the backs of my hands, just little pricks of want, of demand, and loses it completely. Need explodes deep inside me, sharp and terrible and allconsuming. It rakes its talons down my spine, thrusts its heat so deep all I can think of is taking her, fucking her. Branding her. She must feel the same way, because she’s clutching at me, wrapping herself around me as she slides her hands up my neck to my scalp. She digs in a little, small pinpricks from her fingernails that mix pain and desire, control and overwhelming need. And then she nips at me the same way I did her, teeth closing on my lower lip in a sharp demand I’m helpless to resist. Lust explodes through me and I tighten my hold on her wrists, knocking her head into the

wall in my desperation to get at her. I start to apologize, to ease off, but she twines herself around me and the last rational thought I can form is buried under an onslaught of want. Burying my other hand in the long, sleek silk of her hair, I tilt her head back and feast. And when she sucks my lip between hers, I open to her, nearly fall to my knees when she thrusts her tongue into my mouth to explore mine as I did hers. I take her wild exploration as long as I can— reveling in the fact that her need is as sharp as my own—but it seems like mere moments before I’m at the breaking point. Tearing my mouth from hers, I ignore her pleading little moan and the desperate clutching of her fingers at my back. Instead, I press kisses down her jaw to the graceful curve of her neck, before moving on to the sharp angles of her collarbone. She’s soft and sweet and strong in my arms, and for a second—just a second—I’m overwhelmed by the need to take care of her. To protect her from everything, especially all the shit that comes with my fucked-up, public life. She deserves more than I can give her, more than the irresponsible spare trying so desperately not to be the heir.

For a moment, just a moment, I think about pulling away. About giving up all this dangerous, decadent pleasure that suddenly feels as necessary to me as breathing. But then Savvy gasps out a plea, a brazen, broken demand that grabs on to me with feral claws and yanks me back under. And I know—God help me, I know—that not even the threat of hurting Savvy and dragging her down with me can make me stop what’s happening here. Using my free hand, I reach behind her and free the back clasp of her bra. Then I let go of her wrists just long enough to rip the thing off. I have to taste her, have to feel her lush, gorgeous nipples in my mouth, have to devour her before I implode. Sinking to my knees in front of her, I relish the feel of her hands digging deep into my hair, enjoy the sharp tug on my scalp. The little pinches of pain that only make the pleasure sweeter. Then I forget everything but the ecstasy of her body as I bury my face between her breasts in what is very close to a frenzy. I reach for restraint, but it eludes me, slipping through my fingers like quicksilver. Then I reach for patience, for delicacy, but with this woman, I have none. Not now, not this time.

Instead, I latch onto her nipple and suck it hard into my mouth. Savvy whimpers, her fingers flexing convulsively in my hair. For a moment I fear that I’m being too rough, that I’ve crossed the thin line between pleasure and pain that I like to flirt with on occasion. But her hips are moving, shifting, pumping restlessly against me, and I know she’s with me all the way. It’s enough to tell me that she’s still here, with me. That she still wants what I want. I bite down softly on her nipple, ready to take her deeper into the maelstrom of desire that’s grabbed us by the throats. But when she moans my name and clutches at me, I’m the one who goes under.

Chapter 20 Savvy I gasp, tremble, try to press myself even closer to the hard, muscular warmth of Kian. He’s killing me with his patience, killing me with his ability to hold off his own need so that he can stoke mine. He did it the other night and he’s doing it again now and all I want, all I need, is him on the brink of ripping his clothes off like he did mine and fucking me like I so desperately need him to. Instead, I get patient, thorough Kian who’s determined to put me through my paces and is acting like he has all the time in the world. The bastard. But, God, no matter how frustrating it is— and the answer is very—all the little details feel good. He feels good against me, so good that I’m close to losing it completely if he doesn’t do something soon. And by something I mean more than stoking the flame, more than driving me crazy. I mean fucking me. I mean slamming himself inside of me and making me forget how temporary this is, and

how fast he’ll be gone when he’s ready to move on. But I’m not going to think about that now, not going to worry about a nebulous future when he feels so good against me. So strong and caring and sexy. And when he bites sharply at the underside of my breast—so sharply that I’m sure I’ll have a bruise—I’m afraid I’m going to lose it completely. Afraid I’m going to come before I ever get to feel him inside of me. He’s barely touched me and already I’m trembling on the brink of orgasm, ready to fly over the edge at the slightest provocation. “Hurry,” I urge him, trying to fight it, trying to hang on to this side of control with bruised and battered fingertips. But I’ve wanted him since we sat down on that balcony at the gala and no matter how many times I told myself it was wrong, told myself that it shouldn’t happen, that I’m done with important and powerful men—and am especially done with this family—here I am. Wrapped up in Kian’s arms and begging him for more. Begging him for everything he has to give me, and more. And now that I’ve given in, now that I’ve said to hell with being safe and protecting

myself from pain, I want to feel everything, experience everything that Kian has to offer me. I want to kiss him, taste him, fuck him, want to have a quickie right here against this wall but also want to make this last forever. And though I haven’t said a word about what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, Kian seems to know. To sense it. To understand my need to draw this out and make it last forever. Or at least as long as we need for bodies and emotions to reconcile. Or maybe this is just the kind of lover he is, slow and thorough and determined to draw every last ounce of response out of me. Whatever is driving him, I’m grateful. And determined to enjoy the ride as long as it lasts. But then Kian bends to my breast, nips at my areola, and my body wigs out, a scream of frustrated need welling up inside of me. I bite it down, hold it back, because if he knows how much this hurts he’ll finish me off. And I’m not ready for this to end, not ready to lose myself in pleasure so intense it blinds me to everything, including the look and feel and taste of Kian. But when he bites me again, then carefully laves the sting until only the memory of it remains, I lose the fight. No man should be so

tender and so controlling, so selfless and so domineering all at the same time. How am I supposed to resist him? How am I supposed to keep from falling for him harder than I ever did for his brother? Already, my relationship with Garrett seems like it happened a long time ago, to someone else. And what I felt for him? What he made me feel? It’s nothing compared to what Kian pulls out of me so easily. The knowledge scares me a little, but it’s too late to turn back. Too late to try to save myself. I can’t. Not now, and maybe not ever. I don’t know how I got here. It seemed like such an easy thing—like the right thing to do— to rescue him at the gala when everyone wanted a piece of him. How was I to know that it would lead here, to me falling for Kian? For Garrett’s brother? It’s such a Gossip Girl thing to do…especially when this can’t turn out any better than my relationship with Garrett did. I’m still a commoner and he’s a prince, for God’s sake. This can’t end anywhere good. The thought tears at me a little, but I shove it down, ignore it, as I clutch his head to my breast and relish the soft, sweet brushes of his tongue and lips. Because no matter how hard

the landing is going to be, there’s nothing on earth that’s going to make me miss this ride. “Kian,” I whimper as he nibbles his way across the vulnerable underside of my breast. “Please. I need you.” “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he moves to my other breast. “I’m just getting started.” “Please,” I gasp again, my fingers clutching at his shoulders as I sob out his name. Suddenly, my body isn’t mine to command anymore, my voice and thoughts and movements taken over entirely by his mouth, his touch. By him and his indomitable will. Kian shifts then, once again catching my wrists in his strong hands. Then he pulls them forward, clasping them in front of my body with one hand. “What are you—” I’m out of it, my head fuzzy as I try to figure out what he’s doing. “Look.” His voice is deep and gravelly, nearly unfamiliar in his desire. I feel a sharp rush of pleasure at the thought that I’ve done this to him, that I have driven this gorgeous, brilliant, amazing man so crazy with lust that he can barely speak. I follow his gaze and am transfixed—much as he was—by what I see in the dim light. He’s captured my wrists in such a way that my arms

frame my breasts, plumping the already full mounds up and out for his pleasure. For my pleasure, too, because already I can feel the increase of blood flow to the constricted area. But he isn’t done, the hand on my wrists tightening so that my arms squeeze my breasts even more tightly. They actually sting, the air chafing my sensitive skin and too-tight nipples. “You’re beautiful, Savvy,” he tells me, eyes wide in lascivious appreciation. “So goddamn beautiful.” I feel beautiful when he looks at me like that, when he touches me and holds me and strokes me like I’m the only woman in the world. I know it’s a lie, know he’ll probably be with another woman long before I’m ready to let him go, but right now I can’t bring myself to care. Not when he’s looking at me like I’m his whole world. Kian leans forward, pressing himself against me until the strength of his chest and shoulders is the only thing keeping me upright. Then he bends his head and takes my nipple into his mouth. He sucks me deep and I gasp, beg for mercy. But he has none as he bites and licks, sucks and nuzzles me straight into ecstasy.

Wrapped up in the incredible heat burning through me, the climax catches me by surprise. Though I’d known I was close—so close—I hadn’t expected to hurtle over with nothing but the touch of his mouth on my breast. But there’s a roaring in my head, a fuzziness that overtakes me as a freight train of pleasure slams through my body. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced and it leaves me with no choice but to hang on for the ride. My body convulses again and again, wave after wave of ecstasy shooting through me, sizzling along my nerve endings, lighting me like Christmas and New Year’s Eve all rolled into one. And then I’m flying, soaring, dissolving into the endless night sky. I come back to earth slowly, more than a little shocked by how high he took me. I’ve never felt like that before, never been so opened up and vulnerable. It makes me nervous, makes me uncertain—about the amount of pleasure he brought me so easily and the willingness I have to drop right into him. To give him anything and everything that he wants from me without worrying about the consequences.

Nothing I’ve ever felt before, nothing anyone has ever done to me, could possibly have prepared me for these moments with Kian. Not even last night, when he made me come again and again, felt like this. Nothing ever has, and I’m terrified nothing ever will again. The thought chills me, has me withdrawing into myself. But Kian isn’t putting up with that. Instead, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me tightly against him as he kisses his way across my bare stomach. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says. I stir against him, trying to fight down the panic. Trying to tell myself that this doesn’t have to matter, that he won’t break me like Garrett did. Abruptly, he pulls away, tilting his head up until those crazy green eyes of his are blazing straight into my own. “Savvy,” he asks, his voice still husky with desire. “Are you okay?” And just that easily, I relax. Hearing him say my name, knowing I’m more to him than some nameless, faceless crown chaser soothes me as nothing else could have. “More than okay,” I tease, dancing my

fingers over the gorgeous ink that covers his arm. I want to touch him, to explore every inch of his sexy, beautiful body before he walks away. Before the chance is lost to me forever. “When do I get to touch?” I ask. “After I’ve gotten my fill.” His fingers go to the waistband of my shorts, start to unbutton them. “You haven’t yet?” I ask as I help him shimmy my shorts over my hips to fall on the ground. Then I lose the ability to talk as he kisses his way over my abdomen to the top of my lacy bikini panties. “Not even close. Two nights with you will never be enough.” He runs a finger under the lace, teases the light dusting of curls at the apex of my thighs. “Open your legs.” I obey instantly, the commanding note in his voice sending shivers down my spine. Still, much as I want him inside me, I want something else more. “I want to touch you, feel you—” Last night wasn’t enough for me, either. “Oh, you will baby. You will.” He slides his hand lower, strokes his way over my mons and down my sex. I tremble, my body teetering on the edge of a second orgasm from no more than that simple touch. “Kian,” I gasp his name, an

agony of need welling up inside me. But he just laughs, a soft, gentle expulsion of air that has my sex clenching and heat sweeping across my belly. Just that easily, I shatter again. Driven beyond thinking, beyond rationality, beyond logic, I clutch at his shoulders. Then I turn my head and sink my teeth into the only part of him I can reach—the biceps of the arm that is holding me pinned against the wall.

Chapter 21 Kian I freeze at the feel of her teeth sinking into my flesh. For one second, two, I’m motionless, held in place by a desire so fierce it borders on obsession. Then Savvy moans and strokes her tongue along my inked-up biceps and the spell is broken. And just that easily, so is my resolve. I had planned to spend the night petting her, touching her, gentling her to orgasm after orgasm—she more than deserves that kind of care from me after I ran out on her this morning. But there’s no way I’m going to last all night, no way I’m going to last more than a few more minutes before burying myself deep inside of her. Determined to give her all that I can in those minutes—and to make her come at least once more before I slide inside of her—I let go of her wrist and crouch down. I bring both of my hands to rest on her bare thighs and coax her into opening her legs.

Moving slowly, giving her time to come down a little, I slide a finger along the edge of her black lace panties. Then I lean forward and do the same thing with my tongue, licking along the edge of lace and relishing each gasp and shiver I elicit. “Do you have more of these, sweetheart?” I pull at the waistband a little before allowing it to snap back against her bikini line with a satisfying smack. “Yes.” It’s a gasp, and a barely coherent one at that. “I’m glad.” I smile then, let her see the wicked promise in my eyes. Then lean forward and rip the thing to shreds. She gasps and my grin grows wider, even as a powerful surge of need tears through me. This is what I’ve been thinking about nonstop all day. Savvy, hot and wet, her skin flushed a sexy pink. Incoherent with need. As desperate for me as I am for her. “Please. Kian.” She moves her hand to my chest. Plays with the edges of my tattoos. Strokes her way down my stomach until she gets to the waistband of my jeans.

“I want you,” she whispers, bringing her hands back up to my shoulders where she clutches at me, pulls me closer. “Want isn’t enough,” I whisper to her, determined to push her as close to insanity as I am. “You have to need me the way I need you.” “I do!” It’s nearly a wail, one that turns to a high, keening cry as I nip at her inner thighs with my teeth. I love the sounds she makes then, and I nip and lick and kiss her over and over in an effort to get her to make them again. To make more. I’m losing my mind, drowning in the fount of her sensuality, and I want her to feel the same. Need her to be as desperate, as crazy, for me as I am for her. “Let’s see about that,” I taunt, darting my tongue out to run the length of her sex in one slow, long sweep. She tastes like strawberries and cream and rich, sweet honey. I delve deeper, wanting more of her. Wanting all of her. “Kian!” Her scream shatters the silence around us and pushes me up against the line I’ve been riding. “Kian, please. Fuck me. Please, fuck me.” I love the pleading note in Savvy’s voice,

love even more the breathless words spilling out of her throat. But it isn’t enough, isn’t near enough. I have a fleeting thought that it will never be enough, that I will want her like this forever. But then she moans, clutches at me, and the ability to think deserts me completely. All I can do is feel. The need that’s been building inside me from the moment I first laid eyes on her explodes, turns white-hot and dangerous. My breathing is shallow, my cock threatening to burst with one more touch from her. I push the desire down, fight it back. Savvy will come for me again, this time against my mouth. Only then, when she’s lost all control and inhibitions, will I give in to the lust driving me to the brink of madness. Only then will I take her. Lifting her right leg, I drape it over my shoulder. She inhales sharply in surprise, tangles her fingers in my hair. I gentle her, angling my shoulders so that I can support her weight. Whisper to her everything I’m going to do to her. Then I lean forward and thrust my tongue as deeply inside of her as I can reach. She goes wild, her body thrashing against me as she arches her hips and clutches at me. I hold her still, stop the wicked bucking of her

hips with a heavy hand on her stomach as I continue to take her higher. To take us both higher. She’s delicious, intoxicating, the sweetest honey I’ve ever known, and in that moment I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. And suddenly, it scares me, this need I have for her. It has me pushing her higher, faster, deeper, in an effort to quiet all the noise raging around inside of me. It almost works, would have if she hadn’t cried out for me, grounding me in the middle of the maelstrom. “Kian!” It’s a plea, a demand, a cry for surcease, but I can’t stop. I have to have her, have to taste every drop of her sweetness, have to take every shudder and cry she will give me. Stroking deep, I concentrate on finding every sensitive spot and work to take her higher than she’s ever gone before. When she’s just about there, when she’s sobbing and pleading and I can tell that she won’t be able to take any more, I pull my tongue out of her luscious warmth. Then, slipping my hands beneath her ass, I lift her up higher, open her wider and wrap my lips gently around her clit. She screams then, her body arching

violently as she comes, bucking so wildly that she almost dislodges me. But I hold on, using my tongue and teeth and lips to ride her through one climax and into another. I feel like a man possessed, utterly enchanted by, completely addicted to the exquisite feeling I get from giving her pleasure. I could stay like this forever, my cock throbbing and my mouth buried in her incredibly sweet, incredibly responsive sex. Making her come could easily be my new obsession. I’ve had a lot of women in my life, have used my name and charm and looks to get whomever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Have used sex to keep my demons, and my failures, at bay. But sex with Savvy is different. Because Savvy is different, a primitive voice in the back of my head warns even as it urges me on. Thrusting my tongue inside of her, I send her over the edge to one final climax before skimming my mouth across the curve of her hip to the flat plane of her stomach. Unable to resist, I suck on the soft flesh of her waist until I mark her, relishing the highpitched cry she doesn’t even try to hold back. I soothe the small hurt with my tongue and lips

before pulling back. “What—” she asks, dazed. Confused. She’s trembling, but I know it’s from an overload of pleasure instead of cold. Her skin is flushed and nearly feverish. As am I. My balls are on fire, my cock burning with the need to bury itself in the wet, silky heat of her. Lowering her back to the ground, I turn her so that she’s facing the wall. “Kian, please! I need—” “I know, sweetheart. I know.” Determined to get inside her—to stay inside her—I press on her upper back so that she’s leaning forward, her ass thrusting back for me. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out a condom. I unbutton my pants, ease out my aching dick, and roll it on. And then, intertwining my fingers with hers, I thrust into Savvy from behind. She cries out, arches wildly, tugging as if to free her hands from my grip. But I hold on, covering her body with my own. I couldn’t let her go now if she begged. The moment I’d slid into her, everything else had stopped. The voice in my head that always screams that I’m not good enough. The terror I feel for my brother every waking hour.

The fear that I will never be half the man he is, never be good enough to take his place on the throne. It all goes away, drowned out by the beauty and the power of this moment. I’m rough with her, rougher than I’d intended on being, but I lose control. Any gentleness I’d had in me was used up in the long, sexy moments of going down on her. But even as the pleasure swamps me, I make sure that every cry I pull from her is a good one, make sure that every slam of my body into hers takes her one step higher. I wrap an arm around her to make sure she’s protected from the rough finishing of the wall, and then I ride her hard and fast. Each thrust is a frenzy of raging desire, each stroke a declaration of control and ownership and vicious, violent need. And Savvy takes it. No, she doesn’t just take it. She begs for more, her muscles clenching down tightly around me. I reach down, push her legs farther apart. I need to go deeper, need to drive my cock so hard and deep inside of her that I’ll never forget the feel of her. Never forget the power and the peace pouring through me. Sobbing, Savvy digs her fingernails into my

hands, hanging on for dear life as my thrusts pound into her. “Do it!” she gasps, her body shaking uncontrollably as her sex clenches tightly around my dick. “Please. You have to.” The music gets louder. My body screams for relief. But I refuse to give in—not now, not when she’s so close to coming again. I’m desperate to feel her orgasm, to feel her body as it spasms wildly around my own. Easing back a little, I bring my hand down, gently stroke her clit. “No, baby, you have to,” I whisper, following the words with a desperate lunge inside of her. “Come on, Savvy, sweetheart. Let it take you. Let it—” She screams, her back arching beneath me like a bow as the waves explode through her. Gritting my teeth, I keep up the hard, steady strokes until sweat streams down my body. Until my muscles cry out for relief. Until yet another orgasm whips through Savvy and she cries out my name again and again and again. Only then do I give myself up to a release so violent, so strong, so overwhelming, it’s like power itself.

Chapter 22 Savvy “Are you busy today?” Kian asks as we sit around my kitchen table stuffing pancakes into our mouths. I feel a little guilty about not inviting Avery and Niall to join us, but Kian’s in a towel and I’m in not much more. I could change, I suppose, but I’m enjoying the way Kian’s eyes keep skimming over me while we talk, the way he drifts off mid-sentence sometimes because he gets distracted by one part of my body or another. It surprises me how much I like it, in fact. I’ve always wanted a man to be interested in me because of my brain, because of what I think or what I have to say. Kian gives me that and I love it. But there’s something to be said for being with a man who loves my body as much as Kian does. Who is turned on just by watching me eat or talk or breathe. God knows, I feel the same way about him. Everything about this man was designed for sex. From his smoking hot body and inexhaustible curiosity to his very talented

mouth and utter unselfishness in bed. What he did to me last night— “Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” he suddenly demands. And then his face is right in front of mine, his green eyes blazing with laughter and enough heat that I can feel my panties growing damp while I sit here. “I’m listening, I swear.” “Bullshit. You were looking at my abs.” “Actually, I was looking at your V-cut and thinking about how much I really want to lick it. But your abs are nice, too.” His eyes go that crazy shade of neon that gets me every time. “I can probably free up some room in my schedule if you want to make that fantasy a reality. I mean, if it means that much to you, far be it from me to deny you.” “Wow. Look at you.” I reach out and pat his cheek. “Always putting somebody else before yourself.” “What can I say? I’m a giver like that.” “Now that, I won’t deny,” I say, my voice dropping a little as I think of just how many orgasms Kian gave me last night. “You keep looking at me like that,” he says,

his voice dropping right along with mine, “and I’m going to forget all about being selfsacrificing and take you right here on your kitchen table.” “Promise?” “Oh, I promise.” He stands, and in one fluid motion grabs my hand, pulls me up and then twirls me around so that my back is pressed against his front. “And I always keep my promises.” One of his hands sneaks up to cup my breast while the other delves between my thighs. I gasp at the first touch of his thumb against my clit, then moan a little as he grinds the heel of his hand against my mons. “This isn’t what you promised,” I say, barely able to speak through the pleasure. “Is that a complaint?” He squeezes my nipple between his thumb and forefinger for emphasis. “No complaint,” I tell him. “Just—” I break off as he slips two fingers inside me. “Just what?” he asks, his breath hot against my ear. “Just trying to keep you honest.” This time when he laughs, he sounds anything but happy. “If you’re looking for

honest, I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong brother.” “I don’t,” I tell him, as I move to capture his mouth in a kiss that makes us both sweat. “Besides, even if I did, I’ve got the only brother I want.” — “What flavor would you like?” Kian asks me hours later, as we wait our turn at an ice cream shop on the beach. We’re in disguise—or I should say, Kian’s in disguise as no one knows who I am. He’s wearing board shorts and a surfing T-shirt in shades of hot pink and aqua, a pair of the goofiest sunglasses I’ve ever seen and a big, floppy brimmed white hat the likes of which you normally only see on old women trying to avoid the sun. He looks ridiculous, but the pièces de résistance are the stripes of pink and yellow zinc sunscreen he’s drawn across his cheeks and down his nose. He doesn’t blend in by any stretch of the imagination, but he looks so outrageous and nerdy that people are too busy looking at all the separate pieces to pay attention to who is under them. “That’s the key,” he’d told me when Lucas

showed up at my house this morning with all of this in a bag. “To hide in plain sight. No one would ever imagine Prince Kian wearing something like this in public, so as long as I keep my head down and don’t make eye contact with anyone, I’m golden.” “No one would imagine His Royal Hotness wearing that anywhere,” I’d answered. “And why do you need a disguise, anyway?” “Because I want to take you out. And the last thing I want is for us to be hassled while I do it.” I’d be lying if I said that hadn’t given me a moment’s pause. It was so like something Garrett would say that for a moment I felt like I was back there with him, a dirty little secret that no one was supposed to know about. But Kian isn’t Garrett, something I keep reminding myself of when doubts creep in. Besides, it’s been a good day. We rode bikes along one of the big nature trails in Avignon, then had a picnic on the beach that ended up with us spending a ridiculous amount of time playing tag with the waves and each other. At one point Kian bought a dragon kite off a kid—and while I don’t even want to know what the kid told his parents when he showed up at home sans kite and with the Wildemar

equivalent of a hundred dollar bill—it was a crazy amount of fun to fly the thing. It was even more fun to watch Lucas (dressed in street clothes meant to help him blend in) climbing a tree to get it down after I got it stuck up there. Kian had planned on getting it, but Lucas, Malik and Avi (new bodyguards that I met for the first time today) were having no part of that. I guess the idea of His Royal Hotness falling out of a tree and breaking his neck was too much for their security oriented souls to handle. And now, apparently, it’s ice cream time, only Kian’s doing it all wrong—something I’m going to have to correct. “Don’t you know that’s not how you order ice cream on a date?” His eyebrows disappear under the gigantic hat. “There’s a right and a wrong way to order ice cream?” “There’s a right and a wrong way to do everything, dude. But yes, there is definitely a right way to order ice cream when you’re trying to impress a woman.” “And that is?” We’ve finally reached the front of the line, so instead of explaining, I ask, “Can I show you how it’s done?”

“By all means.” He waves his hand in obvious invitation. I check out the board and the myriad flavor options and combinations offered there. Then I turn back to study Kian. Finally, I say, “I think he would like a double scoop of turtle cheesecake and chocolate cherry chip in a chocolate dipped waffle cone.” I glance back at Kian, who is staring at me a little wide eyed at this point. “And he wants that topped with hot fudge, whipped cream and two cherries.” “Two cherries?” the girl behind the counter repeats. “Actually, make it half a dozen. He likes to have lots of choices..” Beside me Kian chokes a little on thin air, but he doesn’t say another word until she hands him his cone and spoon. “Thanks so much,” he says, shooting the girl the grin that’s dropped at least a million panties. “My girlfriend would like a triple scoop—” I laugh. “A triple?” “What can I say? You’re a greedy one.” I start to tell him that I am very definitely not greedy, but the wicked look in his eyes reminds me of this morning in my kitchen— and just how many times I begged him to

make me come. Okay, so maybe I am a little greedy… “What would you like on the triple?” the girl asks me. “She doesn’t get a vote,” Kian says as takes a scoop of ice cream and slowly, deliberately licks it off his spoon. He’s just fucking with me now, messing around and probably trying to embarrass me. And the truth is, if any other guy did that, it would probably gross me out. But somehow Kian manages to look crazy hot doing it—even with the hat, the colored zinc and the ridiculous sunglasses. At first I think it must just be me— considering how many times he’s used that tongue on me in the last thirty-six hours—but a quick glance at the ice cream dipper tells me Kian’s sex appeal transcends his ridiculous disguise. The girl can’t be much over eighteen, but she looks like she’s ready to drop her panties for him too, right here in the middle of the ice cream shop. “You’re ridiculous,” I hiss at him, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the sudden perkiness of my nipples. He just grins, then turns back to the girl and says, “I’ve finally decided. My girl wants a

scoop of butter pecan, a scoop of mocha fudge and a scoop of white chocolate raspberry in a Butterfinger-dipped waffle cone, covered in whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. And absolutely no cherries.” “That’s mean,” I tell him with a little pout. But he just grins. “How am I supposed to get you to lick my cone if I don’t have something over here to tempt you with?” “You’re disgusting,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “Besides, it’s going to take more than cherries to get me to lick your cone.” “We’ll see.” It takes five minutes for her to build the monstrosity Kian ordered for me, but when it’s finally done, we sit down at one of the corner tables to eat. “So,” he asks after a second, “is there a method to this madness? Or is the goal just to make the craziest concoction you can think of?” “I think that depends on the person.” I take a bite of mocha fudge. “Is that what you did for me?” “Does it feel like that’s what I did?” “Dude, I’m not one of your subjects. I don’t have to bow and scrape—which means you

don’t get to ask all the questions here.” That startles a laugh out of him. “Okay, I’ll go first. I picked the butter pecan because I saw some in your freezer and I wanted you to have at least one thing you liked in case I totally blew it with the rest of the cone.” The sweetness of that makes me a little gooey inside, but he’s just getting started. “I picked mocha fudge because it’s pretty common flavors—coffee, chocolate, cream— but when you put them together they become this complex, layered deliciousness that packs a huge punch—which is totally what you do.” “Is that your way of calling me common?” I ask, trying to keep things light when he just gave me what might be the best compliment I’ve ever received. But Kian’s having none of it. Leaning forward, he strokes the back of his hand down my cheek in a gesture so tender I feel it in my bones. “It’s my way of calling you extraordinary.” And that, right there, is how I slip into love with His Royal Hotness in the middle of a crowded Wildemarian ice cream shop. Holy. Fucking. Shit. I am soooooo screwed. My heart is pounding out of my chest, my blood racing through my veins so fast I can

barely keep from squirming. Still, I try to play it cool. Try to pretend like Kian hasn’t just destroyed me with a sentence. “And the white chocolate raspberry?” I ask after I clear my throat a couple times and finally pull myself back together. His wicked grin is back in spades. “That one’s just because it’s my favorite. And I wanted to know how much better it would be if I tasted it while kissing you.” For long seconds I forget how to breathe. And then I’m shoving my chair back from the table, dumping my ice cream in the nearest trash can and all but yanking him from the building. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks as I drag him down the sidewalk. I don’t answer him. “Savvy? What’s wrong?” he asks again. Then, “Did I say something wrong?” I turn on him then. “Wrong? Did you say something wrong? No, you didn’t say anything wrong.” “Then what…” “You said everything right.” “And that’s a problem?” “It is if we’re in the middle of a crowded ice

cream shop!” “And why is that exactly?” He looks and sounds completely confused. “Because if I don’t get you inside me in the next five minutes, I’m going to lose my mind.” “Oh.” His eyes go wide in surprise before taking on the wicked gleam I’ve come to love. “Well, in that case, I’ll race you to the car.”

Chapter 23 Kian “I want to go.” “That’s out of the question,” my father says as he pours us both a scotch, neat. “It’s not out of the question. You’re the king. I’m still a captain in the Royal Navy, albeit on leave. I’ve been on hundreds of missions and have contributed to all of them. I have every reason to go on this op.” “Every reason except that it might very well go bad. And then Wildemar will have both of its princes in grave danger. That’s not going to happen. Not just because I say it won’t happen, but because your duty to Wildemar prevents it from happening.” “Fuck Wildemar! He’s my brother!” “And he’s my son.” My father spits out the words like they’re poison. “Do you think I wouldn’t be there if I could? Do you think I would be waiting here in this palace like a prisoner if there was any way around it? He’s my son, as are you. And there is no way I’m

letting you put yourself in this kind of danger. Not when I may still lose one son.” “You? Or Wildemar?” “Does it actually matter? For all intents and purposes, we’re one and the same.” He holds his glass up in a mock salute, then downs the scotch in a couple of easy swallows. “In your mind, maybe.” “In everyone’s mind. The king is Wildemar, as is the rest of the royal family.” “Wildemar is so much more than just our family.” “Don’t be naïve, Kian. It doesn’t become you as you sit poised to ascend to the throne.” “Only for another few hours. Once we get Garrett back—” “Once they get Garret back, we’ll see what kind of state he’s in. He may not be ready, or able, to take on his old duties. In which case, you will remain Crown Prince of Wildemar until he is.” “If you won’t let me be part of the raid, at least let me be in the helicopter waiting for him. I want him to see my face when they get him on board. I want him to know I’m there. Please. I need to be there when they get him.” “You want to be there because you want

revenge on the people who did this to him. You can try to sell me—and yourself—a bill of goods about why you really want to be there, but I know the truth. And so do you.” “Justice, not revenge.” “Of course.” My father lets out a disbelieving snort. “Tell that to someone you don’t have so much in common with.” “We don’t have anything in common!” The words are out before I can even think to stop them. Then again, I’m not sure I even would have tried, had I known they were brewing. “Keep telling yourself that, boy. Maybe you’ll actually believe it someday.” “If anyone is like you, it’s Garrett. He’s smart and careful and—” “The perfect crown prince, and so on. I am aware. You need to remember that your brother is exactly what I trained him to be. But you—” “I was untrainable.” “Completely incorrigible,” he agrees. “You listened too little and cared too much.” “Then how—” “You think I was born like this?” he demands. “This stodgy old ruler with no sense of humor who always puts duty first?”

“Actually, yes.” He laughs. My father actually laughs at something I said. Trust it to be the one time I wasn’t going for levity. “Kian, from the time you could walk, you’ve been running from your birthright. And I let you, because Garrett was firstborn. And because he had the temperament to rule in a way you never have—” “Excuse me, sir?” We both look up to see my father’s assistant, Darius, hovering by the doorway. “The generals are here and they request your presence in the conference room.” My father and I exchange a look and I feel my stomach sink as fear sets in. Now that the mission I’ve been pushing for over the last several days is imminent, I’m terrified something will go wrong. Intel shows that Garrett is being held in one of two places, both in the north. While the officials are convinced that he’s being held in a small compound outside of Bayeux, there’s a farm in the Rennes area that has raised enough flags that we’ve decided to hit both places at the same time. “I want to go to Bayeux.” I make one more pitch to my father as we walk toward the

conference room where we’ll be briefed one more time. If everything is as it should be, my father will order the mission a go, and in a few hours, my brother will be on a helicopter back to the palace. I want to be on that helicopter. “I’ve already explained why that’s impossible,” he says, impatience rife in his voice. “Now stop whining about it like a child and start acting like a prince. What we’re about to do entails risking the lives of more than two dozen Wildermarian soldiers. That is not an order you should ever give lightly.” “You think I don’t understand that? I am a Wildemarian soldier.” We arrive at the conference room before he can say anything else. Then again, there really isn’t anything else to say right now. Not when he refuses to budge. No matter what my stance is on the issue, no matter how impeccable my military record is, if he doesn’t want me on one of those helicopters, I won’t be on one. It infuriates me even as I replay my father’s arguments in my head. What infuriates me more is, if I leave emotion out of it, I can see the logic in what he said. I may not agree with him, but I do understand that putting me in danger when we know nothing about the state of Garrett’s health is a danger to Wildemar.

And no matter how much I wish it wasn’t so, my duty is to protect my country in whatever way necessary. Even if that means keeping my ass at home instead of on the helicopter bound to rescue the true crown prince. The briefing doesn’t take long. One more look at intelligence that was uncovered regarding the militia group—and the two most likely places that Garrett is being held. A rundown of what the two concurrent missions look like, and though it hurts, I keep my mouth shut about going along with them. And then they’re asking for the go order and my father—the king—is giving it. Within seconds, it’s under way and there’s nothing that can be done to stop it. “What happens next?” I ask General Marceau, director of Wildemar’s Royal Air Corps and one of two men in charge of this mission. “Now we wait, Your Highness. The choppers will be taking off in the next fifteen minutes. If things go as planned, they’ll drop the infiltration team in approximately three hours. After that, we’ll need to take things as they come. See how it all plays out.” “That doesn’t sound very confident,” I growl. The last thing I want to hear when we’re

talking about my brother’s life are words like ‘play.’ ” “Actually, I’m very confident, sir. But it’s in my nature to be cautious, and the truth is, we won’t know until we know.” He’s right. I’ve run enough missions of my own to know he’s right, and still I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. Still I feel like I’m caught in some kind of nightmare that just won’t end. Every second that passes is an eternity, and as the generals head out to do whatever it is they will do until the mission goes live, I know that I’ll go insane if I have to stay here in this room and wait, just wait, for three excruciatingly long hours. Grabbing my phone off the table, I hightail it out of the room and down the hall. I text Lucas while I walk, so that he, Niall and Avery are waiting for me when I make it downstairs. One look at my face shuts them up completely. No joking around, no asking about Garrett, nothing. The thirty-minute ride feels like death. I pray it isn’t a sign of what’s to come. It’s not until Lucas—who I let drive because my head is so messed up—pulls over to the curb in front of Savvy’s cottage that I realize I didn’t even call to give her a heads-up. Or ask

her if it was okay for me to come by. I just fled here like a wounded animal looking for comfort, for someone to make it all better. I’m not sure what it says that Savvy is that person for me and right now, I don’t give a shit. All I want is to see her, to hold her, to lose myself in her to forget that I might very well lose my brother today. If I haven’t already. I pull out my phone, think about texting her, but I don’t have the energy or the patience to wait for her to answer. And so I all but fall out of the SUV and stumble up the front walk to her house. Lucas and Niall are right behind me. They don’t speak, but then, they don’t need to. They’ve been with me long enough to know just how messed up I am right now. I knock on her door—pound is probably a better description—and it flies open after a few seconds. Then Savvy is standing here in an oversized purple T-shirt that reaches her thighs and not much else. She looks surprised to see me, but one look at my face turns that surprise to alarm. “Kian? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Her gaze darts from my face to Lucas’s and Niall’s. I’m not sure what she sees there, but suddenly she’s reaching for me, pulling me inside. Slamming

the door on my detail. “Kian? Baby?” she murmurs as her arms wind around me. “What can I do? What do you ne—” I cut her off with a kiss, and not just any kiss. I slam my mouth down onto hers, then take her backward so fast that even my head spins. I don’t stop until her back is against the closed door, and even then all I do is cup my hands under her ass and lift her up so that her sex is pressed against my suddenly very hard dick. She gasps in surprise, even as she wraps her arms around my neck and her legs around my hips. “I need—” I break off as her lips part under mine. And then I’m fisting a hand in her hair, pulling her head this way and that as I savage her mouth and mutter incomprehensible things against her. Into her. “Take it,” she gasps out when I finally give her the chance to breathe. “Take whatever you want. Whatever you need.” I don’t know how she knows that’s what I need to hear right now, but I take her at her word, reaching a hand beneath her shirt and ripping her underwear off with one sharp tug. Then I’m lowering her feet back to the

ground, dropping to my knees in front of her. And burying my face against the slick, wet heat of her. “Kian!” This time when she says my name it’s high-pitched and trembly. It hits me where it hurts, has lust shooting through me like a rocket until all I can think about—all I can hear or see or feel—is her. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” I put her right ankle over my shoulder and start to kiss my way up the inside of her leg. She gasps, startles a little, but I pet her hip until she relaxes back against the door again. But I still have one hand in her hair and I tug on the ends a little, keep her face tilted down toward me. I need to see her eyes, need to know she’s as much a part of this as I am, need to be sure I’m not just sweeping her along in the maelstrom of my own emotions. Her brown eyes are nearly black as they look down at me, her pupils dilated wide with need. Her lips are parted, her skin flushed a soft, sexy pink, and her hands are clutching desperately at my shoulders. It’s enough to tell me that she’s right here with me, that she wants me as badly as I need her. I can feel my control slipping as she stares down at me, can feel myself start to give in to

the urge to take her right now and to hell with the consequences. God knows, there’s a part of me that wants to rush wildly for the prize, to bury my face in her pussy and sink my tongue deep inside of her. I want to taste her, to lick her, to get her off again and again and again until all she remembers is me. Until all she knows is the pleasure I can give her. But that’s not enough. Making her come isn’t enough. Taking her isn’t enough. That voice inside of me keeps demanding that I claim her, keeps roaring that she’s mine. No matter how short a time it’s been since we met, no matter that she belonged to Garrett first, no matter what happens next, Savvy is mine. And right here, right now, I want to claim her, want to brand her as mine in the most primitive way possible. More, I want to get as deep inside of her as she already is in me. So even though she’s right here, even though I could be tasting her right now, making her scream right now, I take a deep breath. Force myself to get a grip. To go slow and savor her the way she deserves to be savored. Kissing my way up her leg, I caress her ankle, her calf, the sensitive spot at the back of her knee before finally moving back up. I lick

my way along the insides of her thighs, pushing her shirt out of the way as I go higher and higher and higher until I finally reach her sex. I inhale then, savoring the sweet, musky smell of her before placing my mouth as close to Savvy’s clit as I can get without actually touching her. She moans again, arches away from the wall a little as her hands tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting. It’s a good hurt, though, one that ratchets up my need another notch or twenty and I put my hands on the insides of her thighs, spreading them wider so I can look at her. So I can see every part of her. Transfixed by her beauty, I look between her face and her pussy. She’s so vulnerable like this, so open, and I need to know it’s okay. More, I need to know that she’s feeling what I’m feeling. Needing me the way I so desperately need her. And though she’s blushing, Savvy doesn’t look away. Doesn’t push me away. Instead, she holds steady, eyes locked to mine, and waits for whatever I’m going to do next. The level of trust she’s giving me—it nearly breaks me. I, who have fucked more women than I can ever hope to count and done nearly every position in the book, am completely

undone just kneeling at this woman’s feet. I’m so undone, in fact, that just looking at her—just watching her watch me—nearly has me coming, untouched, on the fucking carpet like some fifteen-year-old kid with his first girl. And that’s not how I want this day to end. Taking a few deep breaths, I get myself back under control before I lean forward and slowly, slowly, slowly, lick my way along her pussy to her clit.

Chapter 24 Savvy Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t— “Oh God!” I gasp out as Kian circles my clit with his tongue. He lifts his head immediately, his green eyes electric as he stares up at me. “Okay?” he asks. I nod, even though I’m not sure I am. But then, I’m not sure of anything right now except that I want his mouth on me again. I need his mouth on me again. I don’t say that, but my desperation must be showing because he grins a little before lowering his mouth and licking his way along my sex again. I gasp at the sensations washing over me, dig my foot into his shoulder as I arch my hips in an effort to get closer. To get more. More pleasure. More Kian. More everything. And he gives it to me. God, does he ever, as he thrusts two fingers inside me at the same time he gently sucks my clit between his teeth.

It’s all I need and I come with a scream, my body spiraling completely out of my control as I break into a million pieces. I can’t talk, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel as pleasure careens through me, going on and on and on. I buck against Kian’s mouth, against his hands, not sure I can handle all the sensations flooding me at once. But after a quick glance up at my eyes, he holds me still and works me through it, so that even as the pleasure ebbs it starts to build again. “Kian!” I gasp, my hands tangling in his hair. “I don’t think I can—” “You can,” he tells me, his voice lower and harsher than I’ve ever heard it. This time, I’m the one looking into his eyes, and I’m trapped by the heat I see there…and the tenderness. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” And then he’s ducking his head again, and his tongue—his wild, wicked, wonderful tongue—goes from long, luxurious licks to deep thrusts that have painful ecstasy slamming through me all over again. He delves deep, licking his way deep inside of me until I can feel my fear crumbling under the pleasure, falling in pieces around us. Until all I can think about, until all I know, is the heat and the pleasure and the joy that comes from

being at His Royal Hotness’s mercy. He closes his mouth around my clit, sucks deeply as he slides first one finger and then another inside of me. He’s stroking me, thrusting, taking, giving, driving me closer and closer to the edge of another orgasm as I arch and shudder against him. He finds my G-spot, runs his finger over it again and again. The pleasure is overwhelming now, swamping me, dragging me down, and I cry out even as I hold him more and more tightly. He pulls back a little, starts flicking his tongue against my clit as he runs his thumb over my anus. I gasp, bucking against his hold as I look down at him, wide-eyed and wild. He just arches a brow at me, his gaze hot and wicked as that thumb circles me again and again, setting fire to nerve endings I never knew existed before this very second. Pleasure crashes into me, slamming through me like the waves of the Mediterranean and I call out his name just as he slides his thumb inside of me. I go into sensory overload then, another orgasm ripping through me—fast and hard and never-ending—and this time I can’t stop myself from crying out. I can feel him grinning, his lips curving against my sex as he once again pulls my clit

into his mouth and starts to suck. I’m nearly boneless with pleasure at this point, boneless and overwhelmed and exhausted. I collapse against the wall, wanting to rest for just a minute—or forever—to recover—but once again, Kian stops me, his free hand sliding around to my lower back and holding me forward. “Stay like this,” he growls, and I do because right now I can’t deny him anything. Don’t want to deny him anything even though I’ve never felt so exposed. The intimacy of this moment—of staring down at him between my knees while he looks up at me even as he continues to go down on me—is soul-stirring and overwhelming and terrifying and amazing all at the same time. He’s sucking me, licking me, spearing his tongue deep inside me again and again and again, until all I can feel is pleasure. Until all I can feel is him. The more sensitive I become, the more he gives—and takes—until I’m bucking wildly against him, twisting and pushing in an effort to get away from the ecstasy that is burning through my every defense and turning me to ash. But he still doesn’t stop, still doesn’t let me go. Still makes me come. Again and again

and again. Finally—finally—when I’m on the brink of insanity and my entire world is reduced to Kian and this moment and the pleasure that coasts along my nerve endings, he pulls away. Then he’s fumbling in his back pocket and pulling out a condom before lifting me into his arms and carrying me to the couch. “Come here,” he says, his voice low and guttural as he rolls the condom down his length and pulls me on top of him. He’s almost completely gone, chest heaving, hands shaking, body trembling with the need tearing through him. And still he waits for me to take him instead of thrusting inside of me and taking what he wants. The knowledge breaches my last barrier and I feel myself falling as I give over to him yet another piece of my heart. I have a pretty good idea where this is going to go—royalty doesn’t marry commoners is a lesson I learned years ago—but right now I don’t give a shit. Right now, all I care about, all that matters, is Kian and making him feel as good as he’s making me feel. I straddle his hips, reaching between us to guide him inside of me. His hands are on my ass as he lowers me onto his cock. Despite the

desperation I can feel rolling off him in waves, he takes it slow, keeps me from taking all of him in one downward plunge of my hips. Instead, he watches my face closely for any sign of pain or discomfort, those green eyes of his burning into mine as he lets me take him inch by excruciatingly slow inch. “It’s okay,” I tell him, pressing against his hands in an effort to take more of him. To take all of him. “I want you.” He growls deep in his throat, pressing his lips together in that crooked smile that melts everything inside of me. I lean forward then and lick the grin like I’ve been wanting to for what feels like forever. And then I press my mouth to his at the same time as I twist my hips out of his grasp and sink down on him, fast and hard, until he’s balls deep inside of me. Kian yells then, a low, hoarse cry that races through my already oversensitive body. He starts bucking against me, hips slamming against my own. He’s racing for his own pleasure now, his body totally in control as thrusts into me again and again and again. He buries his head against my neck, his mouth working at the hollow of my neck, and I wrap my arms

around him. Hold him tight as much to soothe him as to ground myself. He’s close now, his body strung tight as he calls my name over and over again. But even as pleasure takes him, even as he careens over the edge, he slips a hand between us and circles my clit once, twice, a third time. That’s all it takes and I’m shooting over that edge with him, my body slamming down as his slams up. Then we’re flying, flying, flying over the edge and straight toward the sun. His Royal Hotness indeed.

Chapter 25 When I can breathe again, I rest my forehead against Kian’s. Kiss him softly. Then start to slide off of him. “Don’t,” he whispers, his hands going to my hips to hold me in place. “Stay. Please.” There’s a part of me that wants to ignore his request, that wants to pull off and head to the bathroom under the guise of cleaning up. Not because I mind being a little sweaty and mussed up, but because I need a moment to get my composure back. A moment to try to build back a little of the wall he’s decimated so completely. A moment to just breathe. Because Holy. Fucking. Shit. What the hell just happened? It’s not the sex—or I should say, it’s not just the sex. Because sex with Kian is always like this. Mind-blowing. Soulshattering. All-consuming. But today…this was different. It was more. It was like that moment in the ice cream shop when I realized I was falling in love with him, only magnified times a hundred. A thousand. A hundred thousand.

I feel like I’m caught in a whirlwind, like a tornado has just blown through my insides and left me shattered, destroyed, laid bare in front of Kian and I don’t know what to think about that or how to feel. I shiver a little at the thought and he wraps his arms around me, pulls me impossibly closer. “You okay?” he asks, running his hands up and down my back. “You cold?” I shake my head, brushing my face back and forth against his chest as I do. It feels good to have him holding me like this. More it feels right, like I belong. I know it’s not true, but I’m not quite ready to admit it. Not quite ready to pull away. “I’m good,” I tell him, brushing kisses along the powerful line of his stubble-covered jaw before moving on to his throat. “Yeah?” He tilts his head to give me better access. “You sure?” “I’m sure.” I kiss my way across his shoulder. “How about you? You okay?” He stiffens, his whole body going rigid for the space of one second, two. I start to pull away, wanting to get a better look at his face— his eyes—but he keeps me in place, pressing one hand against the center of my back and cupping the other around the back of my head.

“Yeah. I’m better than good.” His voice is warm, his hands comforting, and if I couldn’t feel how tense he is beneath me, I might actually buy what he’s trying to sell. But I can feel the tenseness, can feel the way he’s so tightly wound—even after that mind-blowing sex—that it’s like he’s vibrating. I know not to push, though. I may not have known Kian that long, but I know him well enough to recognize the No Trespassing signs he’s currently got posted all over him. It hurts. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t, considering I’ve never felt more vulnerable in my life than I do right at this moment when it looks a little like he’s readying himself for battle. Or worse, like he never dropped his guard at all. The knowledge is enough to have me sliding off his lap onto my still shaky legs. He reaches for me, tries to pull me close again, but I elude him by reaching for my nightshirt, pulling it over my head. “Hey, wait.” He grabs my hand, lifts a brow. “What’s going on?” “Nothing. I’m just going to go to the bathroom and clean up.” “I thought maybe we’d go another round.” It’s my turn to lift a brow. “Oh, really? Is that

what you thought?” He doesn’t get the prickles. Instead he smiles lazily at me, tugs me closer. “It is.” “I have work soon. I need to get ready.” I’ve got an hour before I have to get ready, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Oh, right. Sorry.” He lets go, as I hoped. But then he’s buttoning up his jeans and trailing me through the house, which kind of ruins my plans to grab a couple minutes alone, a little air. “I was actually hoping that we could talk.” I want to tell him no or at least tell him not now, but there’s something in his voice that has me turning back, concerned. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Visions of Garrett’s dead body fill my head, make my own worries of losing myself to Kian seem insignificant. He shakes his head. “Nothing’s happened yet. But they think they’ve found Garrett. We’re sending a team in to extract him tonight.” “Oh my God! That’s amazing! Kian!” I throw my arms around him, hold him tight. “Baby, that’s wonderful!” He holds me back just as tightly, and this time when he buries his face against my neck,

I can feel a wetness that has my knees wobbling from something other than a few fantastic orgasms. “Oh, sweetheart, I can’t imagine how hard waiting is for you.” I drop kisses on whatever parts of him I can reach. “But you have to think positive. You have to believe it’s going to be okay.” He nods, but the wetness only grows. Shit. He’s been balancing everything so well since I met him—his new position, the search for his abducted twin, me—that I forgot he’s not superhuman. That underneath all that competence he is a man with the same doubts and fears and insecurities as any other. I forgot he bleeds just like everyone else. Wrapping an arm around his waist, I propel us the rest of the way down the hall to my bedroom. Then I pull him onto the bed with me and hold him tight against me as his whole body shudders like he’s undergoing electroshock therapy. He never makes a sound, never lifts his face from where it’s pressed against my neck. But somehow feeling his tears—and the pain shooting through him—is so much worse than seeing it. I don’t know what to say, don’t want to promise him that everything is going to be

okay when I really don’t know that it will be. So I just hold him instead, muttering all kinds of nonsensical things as I find myself falling deeper and deeper down the damn rabbit hole of my emotions. So much for catching my breath, for finding some perspective. Right now, we’re so close I don’t think we could get a piece of paper between us —and I don’t just mean physically. There’s a part of me that wished I did. But then I wouldn’t be able to give Kian what he needs, wouldn’t be able to hold him as his own emotions overwhelm him, and the truth is—I wouldn’t trade this for the world. Kian’s been strong for months—for the country, for his family, for himself. If he needs to replenish that strength for a few minutes, I’m honored if I can somehow help him do that. Long minutes go by as I hold him, my arms and legs and body wrapped around him as tightly as I can. But eventually the shaking stops, eventually he gets himself under control and raises his head. “I love you,” he tells me, those crazy green eyes of his staring directly into my own. It’s the last thing I’m expecting to hear right now. “I’m sorry, what?”

That stupid crooked smile flashes again. “I said, I love you, Savvy. It’s not what I expected to have happen when you dumped that champagne on me—” “When I rescued you, you mean?” “Yes.” He lifts my hand to his mouth, presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of my palm. “It was the last thing I expected when you rescued me. It’s certainly the last thing I’m looking for right now.” I stiffen a little at the implications of that, but he just smooths a hand down my back. “But just because I wasn’t looking, doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate you. Because I do, so much. I know my life is a mess, I know it’s asking unbelievable things of you to expect you to be with me considering my family has a giant target on its back right now and considering it’s never easy to be a royal—or be with one. “But I’m asking anyway. Because I love you and I really, really hope you love me, too.” The cocky smile fades as he says the last, and so does the prince. I’m left with the man, just the man—with the anxious green eyes and the worry lines on his forehead and the kindest, softest touch I’ve ever felt. And I know, even though everything he’s

just said is right, that it doesn’t matter to me. None of it matters to me, any more than the title and the money matter to me. Because, “I love you, too, Kian. I love you so much.” He stares at me for one second, two, like he can’t believe what he’s heard. And then he’s kissing me like I’m the most important person in the world, like nothing matters but this moment and the two of us. It’s not true—I wouldn’t want it to be true even if it was—but for right now, it’s perfect. When he finally lifts his mouth from mine, I take in great gulps of air. Watch as he does the same. Then tangle my hands in his hair and start to pull him back to me. He comes willingly, but before our mouths can meet again, his phone is buzzing in his pocket. He stiffens as soon as it does, then rolls away from me. “Is it about Garrett?” I whisper as he pulls it out of his jeans. I know it’s ridiculous for me to ask before he’s even looked at the thing, but I can’t help it. I can feel the tension in him. My hands are clenched into fists, and my heart is beating way too hard as I wait for him to swipe his phone open, as I wait for him to answer me. I loved Garrett once and I love Kian now and both are reason enough to have

me praying that the man I used to care about is safe. “It’s starting early,” Kian tells me, voice hoarse and eyes wild. “What is?” “The extraction.” He’s off the bed in seconds, tucking his shirt into his jeans as he heads for the bedroom door. “I have to go. I’ll call you.” He drops a swift kiss on my mouth and then he’s gone, moving fast. I’ve barely made it out of bed before he’s at the front door. I follow him anyway, at a dead run out of the house and down the walkway to the curb. “Is there anything you need?” I ask. “Anything I can do to help?” “Nothing,” he answers. He reaches for me again, this time dropping a kiss on my forehead. “Thanks.” His eyes are distracted though, his mind a million miles away as he climbs into the car. “Call me when you get the chance, please” I tell him, breaking my own rule about never asking a guy for anything. “Just to let me know how things go, if Garrett’s okay.” He nods as he pulls shut the door of the SUV. And then he’s speeding off into the night without a backward glance.

Chapter 26 Kian I get off the helicopter in Montrose after four of the longest fucking hours of my life. Extracting Garrett only took one hundred and three minutes, and that was fucking horrific enough. But the last two hours, when I’ve been in transit here…if I thought it would get me here faster I would have jumped out midair. But we’re here now, on the roof of the largest—and best—trauma center in Montrose province, and that’s all that matters. Once I clear the helipad usually used by rescue helicopters, I race across the roof to the elevator that will take me to the intensive care unit—to Garrett—at breakneck speed. My father is right behind me, though he’s walking at a more civilized clip. Fuck civilized. Especially when what they did to my brother was anything but. Thankfully, the Royal Guard has already cleared the area, because I’m not waiting for anything or anyone. And the last thing I need

right now is for Lucas or Niall to tackle me to keep me in place while they secure things. I make it to the secure elevator that is waiting, doors open, to take us to Garrett and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to close the elevator doors before my father even makes it inside. But I wait, the reassurances of the doctors we spoke to on our way in ringing in my ears. He’s alive. Garrett is alive. And he will recover. He’s injured—a broken nose, numerous cracked ribs, broken fingers, a pretty bad concussion, and numerous other injuries that have healed badly over three months and will require surgery to rebreak and fix properly. Not to mention the fact that he’s one giant, bloody bruise—at least from the video we saw during the extraction. Rage is a living, breathing animal inside of me. I want to kill the people who did this to my twin with my bare hands, want to tear them to pieces and then set those pieces on fire. And still it won’t be good enough. Still it won’t be enough to make up for what they did to my brother. The fact that the bastards who did this are

forever out of my reach doesn’t help matters. Raids have started at every known address to round up every member of the organization. But once they’re in the system, they will have lawyers and humane treatment and everything else that comes with being arrested in a constitutional monarchy. And while I believe in those rights for every citizen of this country —including these bastards—it’s killing me that I won’t be able to avenge my brother. Won’t be able to make the masterminds behind this fucking plan suffer the way Garrett has. My father’s on the elevator now, all stonefaced and quiet like he gets in situations like these. Not that there’s ever been a situation like this before…but in general, when shit goes bad, the king tends to go completely impassive. It’s a talent I’ve never wanted before tonight. Because right now, I want to shut down. I want to lock up tight every emotion burning inside of me. Want to be as stone-cold and impassive as my father is. As a crown prince should be. But I’m not the crown prince anymore, the little voice in my head reminds me. Garrett is back, and now things can go back to the way they should be.

The elevator dings on the second floor, and we step off into the ICU, which looks more like a police station than a hospital wing right now. Police are here manning every exit, entrance and hospital room while the Royal Guard has personnel posted up and down the hallway and at the nurses’ and doctors’ stations. I don’t know Garrett’s room number, but it’s hard not to know what room is his. Five members of the Royal Guard are standing at attention outside of it, while two more are literally in the doorway, examining nurse credentials before letting anyone pass. What a fucking mess. And that’s not even counting the fact that we haven’t been able to control this the way we wanted to. We got Garrett here in secret, but news of him being found leaked out from one (or more) of the medical personnel who worked on him, and there’s a feeding frenzy going on outside the hospital’s front doors. Press from all over Europe—all over the world—are desperate to get in here, desperate to get the first photo and the first word and the first interview from Wildemar’s injured Prince Charming. And no, I didn’t make up that name. One of the big news websites is actually referring to Garrett that way.

It’s one more reason I want to punch a wall. I get that as crown prince, Garrett belongs to Wildemar—and the world—as much or more than he belongs to himself and to us. But whoever he belongs to, whoever he is, he deserves the chance to recover in peace. Deserves to not have his pain and anguish played out for ratings on the six o’clock news. We’re outside the closed door now, and my stomach is one big knot. The doctor wants to talk to us before we go in, and though I understand the importance of what she’s telling us as she details Garrett’s very significant injuries, all I really care about is getting through that door. Seeing my brother, talking to him, hearing his voice after the three worst months of my life. It’s not that I don’t want to know how badly he’s injured—or how I can help him. It’s that I need to make sure this isn’t a hoax, need to make sure he’s really alive, really here, and the only way I’ll believe it is for me to see him, live and in person, with my own two eyes. For a moment, just a moment, I wish that Savvy was here. That she was beside me to hold on to when I walk into that room. But I’m pretty sure neither one of us is ready to kick

off a Royal Wedding Watch right now. Besides, I can only imagine how messy her past relationship with Garrett, combined with her present relationship with me, could make this reunion. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish she was here to wrap herself around me and promise me that it’s all going to be okay. Because I need that right now. I really, really do. The doctor finally finishes talking—I’ve caught enough to know that Garrett is in both worse and better shape than I feared. Worse, because there’s been a lot of damage inflicted to cause the most amount of pain possible. Better, though, because the bastards obviously wanted to keep him alive so with proper medical care none of his injuries is lifethreatening. It’s probably my father’s right to push the door open and go into Garrett’s room first, but I can’t take it anymore. So while he thanks the medical staff, I shove the door open and walk inside. It’s dim in here—probably because of Garrett’s concussion—but there’s enough light for me to see that Garrett is sleeping. Sitting next to his bed are Nigel and Benedict, two senior members of my father’s own protection

detail. They stand at my entrance, their heads bowed respectfully, but their faces are grim and their anger palpable. Then again, I’m sure mine is, as well. Slowly, I walk over to Garrett, torn between not wanting to wake him up and being desperate to hear his voice and know once and for all that he really is going to be okay. Jesus, he’s a fucking mess. His face is battered almost beyond recognition. His left eye is swollen shut—hell, the whole left side of his face is swollen and his perfect nose is crooked in two places now. His lip is cut and has obviously been stitched, and I can see the jagged cut on his cheek that the doctor says will require plastic surgery once the swelling goes down some. Most of the rest of him is covered by blankets, except his arms and hands—all of which are cut and bruised. His right hand is wrapped up, and bits and pieces of the doctor’s conversation—surgery in a day or two, once they’ve done at least one more MRI on his brain and had a prolonged chance to observe how Garrett is functioning with the concussion filter through to me. I want to grab him, want to pull him into a hug and hold him so fucking tightly that no

one will ever have the chance to hurt him again. But at the same time, I’m terrified of hurting him, terrified of touching him as there doesn’t seem to be a spot on his whole fucking body that isn’t hurt. They tortured him. They fucking tortured him…and for what? To make a point? To gain top secret information? Or just because they hate him for no other reason than who he is and what he represents? Garrett doesn’t deserve this. No one deserves this, but certainly not him. He’s spent his whole life looking for the good in others, trying to do the right thing and help as many people as he can. He doesn’t deserve this. A sob catches in my throat at the thought, and I cough to disguise it. To swallow it down. Because I have no right to cry, no right to suffer, when Garrett looks like this. Ripped to pieces. So broken and fragile that I can barely wrap my head around the fact that the man in the bed is my indomitable older brother. As I stand here watching him—aware of my father doing the same from a few feet behind me—the fury inside me balloons into something so huge I can barely breathe, barely think. Fuck the law, fuck everything.

I want to destroy the men who did this to him. Want to burn their fucking worlds to the ground. And I don’t give a shit that a royal isn’t supposed to think like that, isn’t supposed to act like that. Garrett spent his whole life playing by royal rules, doing what he was supposed to, when he was supposed to, always putting Wildemar first, and this is what it got him. More pain than any human being should ever have to endure. His hand twitches on the blanket and suddenly he moans, rocks his head back and forth on the pillow. “Garrett.” I step forward, lay the gentlest hand I can manage over his. “It’s okay. You’re okay now. You’re in the hospital and you’re safe. Dad and I are right here and we’re going to make sure of it.” He groans a little, but this time he opens his non-damaged eye. For seconds he doesn’t say anything, just licks his obviously dry lips and looks between our father and me. And then he half-laughs, half-groans as he brings the heel of his hand up to rest on his forehead. “Fuck. Am I dying?” “What?” The king steps forward. “No, of

course not!” “Are you sure?” “Positive,” I tell him firmly, even as I exchange an alarmed look with our father. “You’re going to be fine.” “I’m not certain I believe you.” “You should believe us.” The kingly voice is out in full force. “You’re getting the best care, and you’re going to be fine.” Which is when Garrett looks up at me and I see, just for a moment, a hint of the wicked sense of humor that he usually keeps under wraps. “Yeah, well, excuse my skepticism. But the two of you have managed to be in the same room together for at least five minutes and no one’s lost his shit yet. Hard to believe anything but my imminent demise would ever accomplish that.” Our father grumbles and growls a little, but I just laugh as relief pours through me. Because, for the first time since this nightmare began, I truly believe my brother is going to be okay.

Chapter 27 “I’ve got to tell you, man, your decorating style leaves much to be desired,” Garrett tells me three days later as two nurses wheel his hospital bed into his suite in the Palais des Fleurs. “Yeah, well, interior design always was more your area of expertise. Remember the hot pink chair and disco ball you begged Mom for when we were seven?” He flips me off, but he’s laughing, which is exactly what I was aiming for. And more than I have any right to ask of him. “Seriously, though, how many blood pressure machines does one bedroom need?” Garrett continues as they wheel him backward into the place I’ve had cleared for his hospital bed. “Three, obviously.” He rolls his one good eye, then tries not to wince. Kind of like what happens whenever he tries to sit up on his own instead of using the remote to lift the head of the bed into a sitting position. “Now, see, I was more concerned about the four IV poles. I mean, how many holes are

they planning on sticking in you, anyway?” “None,” he answers firmly. “No one is sticking anything in me, ever again.” His voice goes a little hoarse at the end and…fuck. Just fuck. I can’t believe this has happened, can’t believe some crazy-ass fringe group got their hands on my brother and used him as a fucking pin cushion, among other things. I can tell from the way he won’t look at me, from the way his jaw is working, that he doesn’t want me to say any more—that he sure as shit doesn’t want me to ask how he’s doing. So I don’t, but I can’t help wondering if I’m making a mistake. Can’t help wondering if I should be asking him just that and so much more. It’s only been three days, I remind myself. He can barely hold his head up without puking, can barely open his swollen eye. How the fuck can I expect him to be ready to talk about what happened to him? An awkward silence descends and this time, I’m the one who clears his throat. “Are you hungry? Lucille’s been working overtime making your favorites. She’s got bouillabaisse, fresh bread, paella, salted caramel pudding, chocolate cake. Can I have anything sent up?”

He lowers his head back to the bed, rolls it back and forth. “No thanks.” “You sure? I can get you a strawberrybanana milkshake.” “Nah. I’m good.” “How about a smoothie? Or a grilled cheese? You need to eat something. Maybe—” “Jesus, Kian, I said I was fine,” he snaps. “Stop fucking hovering. You’re not my fucking babysitter.” That shuts me up, has me sitting down in the chair next to his bed and looking anywhere —and everywhere—but at him. Silence stretches, sharp and awkward, between us. It’s not a problem we’ve ever suffered from before, but then my brother’s never been tortured before so… I know I should apologize—I am the one hovering over him like he’s a child, after all. It’s just, I was so worried for so long that I’m a little afraid to let him out of my sight now that I’ve finally got him back. A little afraid that if I’m not right here with him all the time, I’m going to wake up and find out that getting him back was just a dream. That the true nightmare is he’s still trapped in that hellhole, just out of reach. But that’s not on him. That’s on me, and I

owe it to Garrett to give him whatever space he needs right now. “I’m s—” “Look,” he says at the same time. We both stop for a second, waiting for the other to continue before I finally gesture for him to go ahead. “I know you’re trying to help, and I appreciate it. I do. I just…I just need a few days to wrap my head around all this, you know?” He’s still refusing to look at me, and his fists are clenched as he stares out the window at the gardens that were my mother’s pride and joy for her whole life here at the palace. “I thought I was going to die. Every day I woke up, positive that it was going to be the last day of my life. At first I fought it, but eventually I resigned myself to it. And now that I’m out…it’s just going to take me a little time to really accept that I’m not going to die.” His laugh sounds rusty. “At least for a while, anyway.” “I thought you were going to die, too. A lot of our advisers told dad and me to accept that you were already dead, but I could still feel you, you know. I knew you weren’t dead—or at least, I thought I knew. But I was terrified pretty much every second of every day you

were gone, so it’s going to take me a little while to adjust, too.” “Kian—” “I’m not done.” I hold up a hand to stop him. “But I’ll try to back off the whole playing-nurse routine. And if I forget and get a little crazy— which I’ll probably do—just slap me back again. Okay?” “Yeah. Okay.” My phone vibrates with a text and I pull it out, swipe it open. It’s from Savvy. I start to answer her back, but I can feel Garrett staring at me and it just doesn’t feel right to be texting her while he’s watching. At least not until I tell him about the two of us. I shove the phone back in my pocket and stand up, just as one of his two day nurses bustles in with a tray of medicine. “You sure you don’t want me to get you anything?” I ask as I get shuffled off to the side. “The caramel pudding is really good.” For a second it looks like Garrett’s going to lash out at me again and I brace myself for the explosion. But he just kind of smiles at me, instead, and says, “Okay, yeah. I’ll try the pudding.” “Really?” I try not to get my hopes up. Now he’s wearing a full-blown smile. “Yeah,

absolutely. And make it a big bowl.” “Yeah, of course. I’ll get it right now.” I’m so excited that he’s willing to eat, that he’s willing to try, that I’m halfway to the kitchen before it hits me that the pudding—that the trying— isn’t for him. It’s for me. The knowledge breaks my heart all the fuck over again. But I still get the pudding, because he needs to eat. And if I have to manipulate his emotions to make that happen, then so be it. Because now that I’ve got him back, nothing is going to take my brother away from me again. Not even his own demons…

Chapter 28 Savvy He didn’t call. Or text. Or email. Hell, he could have sent a fucking SOS via smoke signal and I would have been okay with it. But he didn’t do that, either It’s been four days and Kian hasn’t sent so much as a thought—or a fucking carrier pigeon —my way. And I don’t know what to do about it. Or what to think. “I need a cranberry vodka and a coconut mojito, Savvy. And I need it fast. This table’s been waiting for a while, and the guy is pissed.” Carter leans over the bar and bats his extra-long eyelashes at me. “I’m already on it,” I answer him, grabbing a bottle of vodka off the top shelf and pouring a healthy shot into a glass. “Tell him we upgraded on the house. That should calm him down.” “So many reasons I love you!” he tells me as he delivers a smacking kiss to my cheek. I’m too busy mixing up the coconut mojito

to return the favor. Samantha hits the bar just as I slide the drinks across the sleek wood to Carter, and I spend the next few minutes making specialty cocktails for her table of eight. But even as I make my third flaming dragon of the night— being careful not to set myself on fire along with the top of the drink—I can’t stop thinking about Kian. I get it. I really do. Right now Garrett is the most important thing to him—and he should be. The man has just escaped a living hell, if what I’ve heard on the news is true. Of course Kian wants to spend all his time, all his energy, on his twin right now. I’m sure I’d feel exactly the same way. Hell, I do feel the same way. It’s been years since Garrett and I dated, nearly as long since we tried being friends only to have that fizzle out, too. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about the guy, doesn’t mean I haven’t spent the last three months worrying about him and praying that he’s okay. Now that he is, now that he’s safely back with his family, it’s only normal that they all take some time to adjust. To heal. To try to figure out what the new dynamic looks like. The only way for Kian to do that is to be there,

in the palace, with his father and his brother. But does that mean he has to totally ignore me? I don’t need a phone call or a carrier pigeon, but a ten-second text would have been nice. A quick I’m okay and will call when I can doesn’t seem too much to ask considering the last time I saw him he told me that he loved me. How does a guy go from that—from I love you—to you don’t fucking exist for me? I don’t understand. I don’t fucking understand. Then again, I never have. I finish making the drinks and slide them over to Samantha, then start on Paige’s drinks as she cashes out a different table. I’m overreacting, I am. Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself as I grab the whiskey and pour two neat shots. I’ve seen the news, have heard all the stories. Kian definitely has his hands full right now. And maybe if I hadn’t broken my own rules, maybe if I hadn’t broken down and texted him —clearly begging for attention that he isn’t prepared to give me—I wouldn’t be this pissed off. This hurt. But I did text him, just a simple How are you? How’s Garrett? Do you need anything? But it was still a text. And I’ve still waited all

afternoon and evening to hear from him, all to no avail. It makes me feel cheap. More it makes me feel stupid. There’s a part of my brain that keeps telling me that I should have known better. That I’ve been down this road before, a million times. Texting someone I love, waiting for them to remember that they love me, too. I did it with my mother a million times through the years, but her job was always more important than anything I might need. I did it with Garrett for the six months he and I were together, only to be told time and again that Wildemar was more important. That he couldn’t take time for me when I needed him because he had people depending on him. I swore when I left him—when I got on that plane back to America—that I’d never do this to myself again. I’d never waste my time waiting around for someone to get in touch. Never waste my time trying to get the attention of someone who didn’t want to give it to me. And I sure as hell was never going to wait around for someone to love me again. Yet here I am, doing just that. Checking my

phone every five minutes, praying for a text or a missed call. Checking the door almost as frequently, praying that—despite everything— he’ll walk through it. It’s disgusting. No, it’s worse than disgusting. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. Even as I acknowledge it—and how angry I am at myself—I’m pulling out my phone and checking my texts. Again. Still nothing, which surprises exactly no one. “Two glasses of the house cab and a lemon drop,” Carter tells me as he hits the bar again. “On it,” I tell him as I reach for the limoncello. “Hey, you want to get something to eat after the bar closes?” he asks. “Paige, Samantha and I are thinking about checking out that all-night coffee shop that opened a couple blocks from here.” Normally I’d be all in—I like pretty much everyone I work with and I enjoy hanging with Carter and Sam, especially. But I’m pretty sure I’ll be lousy company tonight, and I should probably save everyone from my bad freaking attitude. “Thanks, but I’m tired tonight. Can I take a rain check?”

“Tired? Girl, you’re in your mid-twenties! These are the best nights of your life—you’re supposed to stay out late drinking and gossiping and having a good time. Don’t you know anything?” “Hit me up next time and I’ll go, I swear. Tonight’s just not a good night.” “Every night’s a good night,” Carter tells me with a roll of his eyes. But there must be something on my face because, suddenly, he leans across the counter and asks, “You okay, Savvy? You having man trouble or something?” “Are you kidding? I take my advice from the fabulous Carter Blandeis. And what is it you say? If you’ve got a man—” “You’ve got trouble,” he finishes with a laugh and then a sigh. “Ain’t that the truth, baby girl.” He snatches up the two glasses of wine and the lemon martini and drops them on his tray. “I’ll let you off the hook this time, but when we go out on Friday, I want all the details. Understood?” “By Friday night the details won’t matter because I’ll be over this…malaise…long before Friday A.M. ever rolls around.” “Of course you will, darling. That’s the spirit.” And then he’s whirling around and

heading off again, tray of drinks in his hands. I can’t help smiling as I watch him sashay through the crowd. Forget men—thank God for friends. Except I can’t stop thinking about Kian as the night goes on, can’t stop worrying that things with Garrett are way worse than the palace is letting on to reporters. Is that why Kian isn’t talking to me? Because he thinks he can handle this on his own? Or is it because His Royal Hotness really doesn’t care about me at all? It seems strange to think that considering he just said he loved me, but…I don’t know. Maybe he was just carried away in the moment when he said that. Or maybe he was just fucking with me. The Kian I know doesn’t seem the type to do that, but His Royal Hotness? The guy who’s just in it for the fun and the fucking? Maybe he had a different agenda all along… I hate that I don’t know, hate that I’m this uncertain about a guy. Hate that—after all the promises I made myself—I’m right back here, letting some prince mess with my head. I mean, how could I be here again? What American woman falls in love with not one, but two princes, in her lifetime? In what universe does this even happen? And for one

of those princes to be His Royal Hotness? The whole thing is completely unbelievable. Except…here I am. Again. I do one good deed because of my history with his brother and now I’m totally fucked. That doesn’t seem fair. How could I not have seen this guy coming? How could I have not realized that this is where we were going to end up? Because he’s smooth, that’s how. He slides in all charm and chuckles and sexy-as-fuck Vcut and you think you’re in for a good time. Except then he hits you with the gentleness and the intelligence and the hints of vulnerability that pull you under. And then, when you’re drowning, he slams you with the sweetness. And you are totally fucked. And by you, in this case, I mean me. Fuck. I mix drinks for Paige’s newest table and try my best to keep from banging my head against the bar. It’s hard considering how much I fucked this all up. Because really, how the hell could I have gone and fallen for the most eligible playboy in the Western world? The night drags on and I measure it in drinks. A flaming dragon is three minutes down. A gin and tonic, thirty seconds. A rare bottle of cab? Six minutes to locate it in the

wine cellar and then bring it back to the main floor of the bar. Drink by drink, minute by minute, the night ticks away with no contact from Kian. Big fucking surprise. The fact that I can’t just drive over and check on him—at least not without getting myself shot by the Royal Guard—is yet another reason it’s bad to fall in love with a prince. I only have as much accountability as he chooses to give me. Finally, finally, the night is over. It’s my turn to finish the cleanup—mop the floor, put away the final load of glasses from the dishwasher, wipe down the bar—so I’m the last one in the building when there’s a knock on the locked front door. I ignore it—it’s not the first time a drunk’s come sniffing around after closing time and it won’t be the last—but the knocking just gets more persistent the longer I don’t answer. Shit. I’m just about done here and I want nothing more than to go home and fall into my bed, laptop in hand as I pour all the angst and emotion from my crappy day into my latest story. But there’s a drunk between the bar and my car and until I deal with him—or her—I’m not going anywhere. Damn it.

Praying it’s a woman—they’re so much easier to handle than drunk, entitled, belligerent men—I have my cellphone in one hand and my pepper spray in the other as I approach the heavy wood door. Except a quick check of the building’s security cameras in the foyer reveals it’s not a drunk outside, at all. It’s Kian—along with his three trusty bodyguards.

Chapter 29 For long seconds, I stand frozen, staring at the video feed of outside the front door area. Kian’s out there. Kian has come to see me. Considering I spent all night angry at him— and telling myself not to trust him—I’m not sure how I feel about this latest development. My cellphone lights up before I can decide what to do. Already knowing who it is, I swipe it open anyway. And nearly laugh, because of course Kian is texting me now. Of fucking course he is. He can ignore me for four days, but when he finally remembers I exist, he wants me right this fucking second. Not that that’s a fucking surprise. His Royal Hotness is pretty much known for his need for instant gratification, after all… Pissed off now—which is so much better than hurt—I march over to the front door. Then I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and click the locks. I don’t even get the chance to push the door open before Kian’s grabbing on to it and pulling. And then he’s here, right here, in front

of me, looking like absolute, utter shit. Just that easily, my anger melts away. Not my wariness, but it’s hard to be pissed off at a guy who looks like he hasn’t slept in ninety-six hours. Especially when he’s so shaky on his feet that a stiff breeze—or any breeze at all, for that matter—would knock him on his ass. “I’m sorry it’s so late,” he says after we spend several long moments just staring at each other. “I needed to see you.” “Okay,” I answer cautiously, not sure what he wants from me at this point or what I’m supposed to do in this situation. I step back to let him in, then ask, “How are you? How’s Garrett?” “He’s fine. He’s—” His voice breaks then and he looks away. Clenches his jaw. Shoves his hands deep in his pockets. And fuck it. Just fuck it, because there’s no way my newfound sense of self-preservation can stand up against his pain. Reaching out, I take his hand and tug him toward the bar I just finished cleaning. “Come on,” I tell him softly. “I’ll get you a drink.” He lets me pull him along without a word and when he collapses on a barstool and slumps over the bar, my already bruised and battered heart shatters completely.

I’m aware of Lucas and the others checking the bar out and then settling in a booth toward the back, but I don’t pay any attention to them as I squeeze past his long legs and settle on the barstool next to him. And then I just wait as I gently stroke a hand up and down his spine. Minutes pass in silence—or near silence, as Kian is taking deep, shuddering breaths that hurt my chest…and everywhere else. I don’t know what to say to him, don’t even know where to begin since all I know is what the news shows and papers have said—that Garrett was rescued and is in stable condition back at the Palais des Fleurs. Finally, finally, he speaks, in a voice so low I have to strain to hear it. “They tortured him. For three months, they fucking tortured him.” My stomach drops. I was afraid of that—I think we all were afraid of it—but to hear Kian say it so bluntly makes every part of me hurt. Garrett and I didn’t end well, but I loved him once and the idea of anyone hurting him like that makes me ill. “Is he—” I stop, not willing to ask if he’s all right, because obviously he isn’t. “How is he?” I finally say. “I don’t know.” Kian lifts his head then,

looks at me with green eyes so dark and shadowed they break my heart all over again. “I mean, he’s healing, physically. He had two small surgeries two days ago, and then there will be a series of procedures to help reset bones that healed badly and do away with some scars—” His voice breaks on the word “scars,” and I take his hand and squeeze tightly as I bring it to my lips. “But when I talk to him…when I try to talk to him, it’s all surface, you know. All jokes and sarcasm and big brother bullshit. Every once in a while he’ll lash out—which is the only time I get to see what’s really going on inside him. The rest of the time, it’s like he’s wearing a mask, pretending to be who he used to be to keep from dealing with what’s happened to him.” I wait for him to say more, and when he doesn’t, I turn a bunch of words over in my head, trying to come up with the right ones in the right order. “I think that’s actually pretty normal, don’t you? I mean, I’m not a psychologist, but I feel like after three months of hell, Garrett would want some normal. Even if it’s not really normal, even if it’s just some weird charade of normal, maybe it’s what he needs to feel secure. What he needs to prove to himself that he’s free from that hellhole and

he’s never going back.” “Do you think that’s what it is?” “I don’t know, baby. I just know that if I was Garrett, I’d be holding on to whatever bits of normal I could get. After my parents died in that car crash—which, I know isn’t the same thing at all—” “I didn’t know that’s what happened to them.” It’s Kian’s turn to squeeze my hand. “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay. We weren’t really that close.” I give him the answer I give everyone, partly because it’s easy and partly because now isn’t the time to be talking about my shit. “But afterward, when the funeral was done and the house was packed up and on the market…I’d gotten through all the hard stuff, you know. All the unspeakably painful stuff and I found myself trying to go back to life as usual. I just wanted to find normal again, no matter how abnormal things were. No matter that nothing would be life as usual—or at least not, that same kind of life as usual—ever again. “Maybe that’s what Garrett’s doing. For three months he was living in the most horrible, painful circumstances imaginable. And now that he’s free, now that he’s back home he’s probably struggling to find

normalcy again, trying to find the person he used to be—or at least the parts of that person that are still there. Until he does, until he gets those parts of himself back, I don’t think he’ll be able to deal with what happened to him and who it turned him into.” “I don’t know how to help him do that?” It’s a question as much as it is a statement. “I think you just follow his lead. Make things as normal for him as they can be while his body heals. Show him that he’s still your big brother and that you don’t see him as any less just because he went through this terrible thing—” “Of course I don’t! The fact that he’s still alive and sane proves how strong he is.” His voice breaks. “If you could see him, Savvy. If you could see what they did to him. It kills me.” “I know, baby. But that’s exactly what he’s afraid of, I would imagine. That when you look at him, you don’t see him anymore. All you see is what was done to him. I would think, for a guy like Garrett, knowing that would be almost as hard as getting through three months of torture.” He doesn’t say anything then, just kind of stares at me. But I can practically see his mind

working on what I’ve said. I lean over the bar, grab a bottle of Powers whiskey and pour him a glass, neat. “You don’t have to figure it all out at once, you know,” I say as I slide the drink over to him. He wraps his hands around the glass, but doesn’t take a sip. “I just…I don’t want him to be hurt any more.” “I know that. And he probably does, too. More, he probably doesn’t want you to be hurt by what happened to him, either. The Garrett I used to know was a pretty overprotective guy. I can’t see that changing just because someone hurt him.” “Yeah.” Kian laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound. “That hasn’t changed at all.” I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just stares down at his drink, locked in his head in a way I’m pretty sure isn’t healthy. “When’s the last time you ate anything?” He shrugs. “I had some pudding with Garrett this afternoon.” “That’s fantastic,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “Come on, let’s go to my place. I’ll fix you some real food.”

“You don’t have to do that.” “I don’t have to do anything. But man cannot live by pudding alone, so…” I grab his hands and tug him to his feet. “Let’s go.” At first I think he’s going to argue with me some more. But he just grabs the whiskey and drains it in one long swallow before letting me propel him toward the door. He doesn’t speak again until we’re seated in my car, and then he reaches over, rests a hand on my knee. “Thank you.” “I didn’t do anything,” I tell him. “You did everything. You are everything.” His voice aches with sincerity and even though I tell myself not to—even though I warn myself that I’m just going to get hurt again—I let myself believe him. Just for a little while.

Chapter 30 Kian Savvy’s asleep when I get the royal summons from the king. Part of me knows I should wake her, that I shouldn’t just disappear, but she looks so peaceful I don’t want to disturb her. Especially since I’m anything but right now. In the end, I decide to let her sleep. It’s only eight A.M. and we didn’t get to bed much before five. I dash off a quick text thanking her for taking care of me last night and telling her to call me. Then I stop by the kitchen and set up a pot of coffee for her, so all she has to do is turn it on when she wakes up. I straighten up the kitchen quickly—washing the pan from the omelet she made me last night, along with the plates and forks. Then, when I can’t put off leaving any longer, I make one last detour by her room to make sure she’s covered…and because I’m just sappy enough to enjoy watching her sleep. I’m not sure how I got here, but the truth is, I could stand here all morning watching the way the light plays over her skin, watching the

way her lips purse and her face wrinkles up just a little when she’s dreaming. She’s so beautiful, so goddamned beautiful inside and out, I have a hard time imagining that she’s mine. That I’m the man lucky enough to have her in my bed and in my heart —which is cheesy as shit, I know. But I can’t help it. Savvy brings it out in me. Duty calls, though, so with one last look, I let myself out of her house. Lucas and Niall are at the curb waiting for me, and as I climb into the driver’s seat, I think about apologizing for making them spend yet another night in the SUV. But we all know I’m not the least bit sorry—not when it means I get to spend the night with Savvy—so in the end I settle for giving them both a shit-eating grin meant to set their teeth on edge. When Lucas just rolls his eyes, I know I’ve failed, but I’m too damn happy to care. Yeah, I know I probably shouldn’t be, considering what I’m heading back to the palace to face. And considering the fact that the woman who put this smile on my face was once Garrett’s girl. I have to tell him about her —about us—but I don’t know how to do it. Or when. Part of me thinks I should wait until he’s

better, but if I wait that long, will he think I’ve been deliberately lying to him? Plus, what are the odds I’m going to be able to keep this a secret that long, anyway? Especially when I want to claim Savvy in front of everyone so that the whole world—and all the men in it— know she belongs to me. I’ve got to introduce her to my father, get with Roland so that he can start planning how to introduce her to the world. Talk to her about what she wants in terms of our public relationship…but first I need to tell Garrett. Which I’ll do, when I think he’s ready. By the time we get to the Palace des Fleurs an hour and a half later, my father is blowing up my phone. The fact that he’s texting me himself instead of having one of his minions do it is more than enough to tell me how serious he is. Still, I detour by Garrett’s room, determined to check on my brother before bearding the lion in his den. But Garrett’s sleeping fitfully— whether from nightmares about his captivity or the obvious pain he’s still in, I don’t know. Part of me wants to wake him up—I can’t stand the idea of him suffering any more than he already has. But the truth is, I’m not sure he’ll find any more relief awake than he’s

already got. So, in the end I just slip out quietly and make a mental note to visit him again after I see my father. Maybe the intelligence agencies will actually have some answers for us by then, answers that don’t involve the words “unhinged,” “cult” or “new mythology.” I know in many ways, those are the answers to what happened to Garrett. But I want more. I need an explanation that tells me more than it was a bunch of insane people with a charismatic leader and an axe to grind against my family who did this to Garrett. I want to know why—want to be able to tell Garrett why —and I need it to be something more than just they’re crazy or brainwashed. Because crazy and brainwashed are actual defenses in court and these bastards shouldn’t have any defense. They should rot in jail for the rest of their lives and to hell with a fair trial. To hell with jurisprudence. They killed three men, kidnapped my brother and then tortured him for three excruciating months. In my opinion, there isn’t enough crazy in the world to show them any mercy. I just hope the justice department agrees—and that the intelligence communities can back it up. I make it to my father’s office an hour and a

half after he originally summoned me and he is pissed, for all the icy calm in his eyes. Roland is pacing the room like a scrawny chicken on speed, flapping his arms back and forth in agitation as he goes over the king’s schedule for the day. It’s a formidable schedule from what I can hear, one that ends with a half-hour address to the public regarding what has happened to Garrett. So far, we’ve only issued statements through our PR people, with the exception of the very brief minute I spent at the podium, telling Wildemar that Garrett had been recovered. Standing there in front of the news cameras, knowing thousands of our citizens had gathered outside the palace for what they’d feared would be an opposite announcement, the weight of the crown I wear finally caught up to me. I finally understood not just the duty and the perks that come with it, but the souldeep responsibility to lay a path for my people to follow. In that moment, I understood my father— understood Garrett—in a way I never have before. And while I appreciate the clarity and the purpose, I’m so glad that I’ll never have to act as Wildemar’s crown prince again.

And that’s even without having to keep up with my father’s prodigious schedule. Knowing the old man can go all day, I clear my throat in an effort to interrupt. Roland stops mid-squawk when he catches sight of me, then bows his head in the least obsequious manner I have ever seen. Then again, that’s par for the course between the two of us. “Your Highness.” He reaches for a folder on the desk. “Thank you so much for joining us. I have your schedule—” I’m about to ask what schedule—after all, I have a social secretary of my own who does her best to keep me honest—and the last thing I need is Roland on my ass about not being seen enough or being too gruff with one group or another. I may like the guy a hell of a lot, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my days being called to task like a recalcitrant toddler. Especially now that Garrett’s back in the palace. Once he starts feeling a little better, all that shit is at his door, not mine. “Leave us, Roland.” My father’s voice brooks no argument, though it’s not like Roland is about to give him one anyway. In fact, the way the man runs for the door as if it’s the only thing standing

between him and an eternity of hellfire and brimstone has my senses on red alert. And when my father pulls a bottle of twohundred-year-old scotch out of the bottom drawer of his desk—despite it being only nine in the morning—I want to run for the hills, too. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-eight years it’s that when it comes to my father, nothing good ever comes with scotch. He pours two generous tumblers full, then slides one across the desk to me. I’m almost afraid to touch it, terrified that when I do Hell itself is going to come raining down on me. But the king is waiting, drink in hand. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I hold the glass up to my father in a minisalute, then take a long swallow to get it over with. It burns all the way down. I’m sure whatever my father is about to say will do the same thing. I brace myself, but I’m still not ready when he says, “Garrett’s been compromised.” “Excuse me?” He glares at me. “You heard what I said.” “I did. But I’m not sure what it means…” “It means he was tortured for three months

—” “Believe me, I’m aware of that!” “And we don’t,” he continues as if I hadn’t interrupted, “as of yet, know what classified information he’s given up. Nor do we know the extent of the brainwashing they attempted on him—” “Wait a minute. I’ve been in every meeting with the medical community and the intelligence community before and after he was recovered and nobody said anything about brainwashing.” The king—and at this moment he is very much THE KING—takes another swallow of his scotch. “You’ve been in every meeting I’ve allowed you to be in. It’s not the same thing.” “What the fuck does that mean?” Fear slams through me. “What’s wrong with Garrett?” “I already told you. Garrett’s been compromised.” “That’s about the country.” I slam my scotch down on his desk. “I want to know about my brother.” “The crown prince—” “Is a person,” I shout, throwing my glass with the damned scotch across the room. It hits the wall and shatters with a satisfying

crash. “He’s a person before he’s a prince—” “Now that’s where you’ve always gotten it wrong.” My father takes the last swallow of his drink before very deliberately putting the glass back on the table. “He is a prince before he will ever be a person. Just like I was. Just like you are going to have to become.” I’m still reeling from the idea that Garrett might be more damaged than I’d imagined, so it takes a minute for my father’s words to sink in. When they do, a whole different kind of fear works its way through me. “No,” I tell him, driven by my soul-deep instinct. He laughs. It’s not an amused sound, but it is—very much—a laugh. “Do you think I care what you want? Do you think Wildemar cares what you want? You have a responsibility—” “Garrett has a responsibility—” “He is unfit to take the throne.” I can feel the trap springing around me, can feel the peace I’ve found since I’ve found Savvy and recovered Garrett, start to drain away. “You don’t know that. He just got back. We need to give him time—” “And we will. But he will not hold Wildemar’s throne. Not any time soon, and probably not ever.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re healthy as a horse. There’s plenty of time for him to recover— mentally and physically. We can find him the best psychiatrist, get him—” “He’s damaged goods!” My father’s voice thunders through the room. “Wildemar does not need a leader who was preyed upon by some fringe group. It does not need a leader who was tortured and whose mental stability is in question. And it sure as hell does not need a leader who was so weak he allowed himself to be kidnapped like a child.” The unfairness of what he’s just said chokes me up, has me strangling on the words I so desperately want to say. The same cannot be said for my brother, however, whose voice cuts across the room like broken glass. “Wow, Dad. Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.” And shit. Just…shit, because a justifiably pissed off and hurt Garrett is exactly what this conversation was missing. I turn to find him standing in the doorway behind me—white and swaying beneath his bruises, but holding his ground with the look of someone who refuses to buckle. He’s also well within my father’s view, which means the son of a bitch knew Garrett was there the

whole time he was saying those fucked-up things. Goddamn it. I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to say in this situation—usually I’m the one my father is going after for some real or imagined indiscretion. Garrett’s always had a pass before, and the fact that he doesn’t now—when he needs one for the first time ever—pisses me off nearly as much as the bullshit my father was just spouting. And while I don’t give a shit about smoothing things over between my father and brother—my dad’s asshole behavior deserves whatever it brings—I can’t stand the look on Garrett’s face. Can’t stand the fact that, after all he’s been through, my father just fucking sucker punched him all over again. “He’s pissed off at me, Garrett. Not you—” “I’ll thank you to not speak for me. I’m not senile yet,” my father says. “Well then, stop acting like it!” I explode, crossing the room to my brother in a couple of big strides. “Whatever you’ve got planned is nuts, and I want no part of it.” “You never want any part of it,” he snaps back. “You’ve been useless your whole life— taking all the perks of being royal and none of

the responsibilities. That stops here. Get your shit together and do what needs to be done for your country.” “Careful, Dad, or I’ll start thinking overthrowing the king will solve all our problems. Too bad total assholery isn’t a punishable offense.” “If it was, you would have been indicted a long time ago.” “Yeah, well, it turns out I’m quite the chip off the old block, after all.” This is usually the part where Garrett steps in and tells us we’re both being idiots, but he’s gone from gray to white and he’s swaying so badly that I’m afraid he’s going to pass out any second. I reach for him, and the fact that he doesn’t shrug me off—doesn’t insist that he’s fine— tells me just how poorly he’s feeling. Garrett’s not one to tolerate weakness in himself, or anyone else. And he’s definitely not one to tolerate our father and me going for each other’s throats. “Come on, let’s get you back to your room,” I say as I wrap a supporting arm around his waist. “I’m supposed to walk more. My PT says it will help build up my strength.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure your PT meant to walk when he was with you, so…let’s take this as a dry run and you can do the real thing when he gets here later.” Garrett looks like he’s going to argue. The fact that he decides not to is just more evidence that he’s not feeling well. “We’re not done talking about this,” my father says as I guide Garrett back through the door. “You may not be done talking, but I’m done listening.” “You’ll do what I tell you to do, boy.” The look I shoot him over my shoulder would have dropped a lesser man in his tracks. “I’ll do what I think is best for the country. It’s my job, after all, and not even you are going to be able to pressure me to do something else. So back the fuck off before I walk out the front door and take Garrett with me.” “Don’t make threats you aren’t willing to follow through on.” My father follows us out the door, puts himself directly in our path. I think of Savvy, of how much easier it would be if I was just an ordinary guy. Think of Garrett, and how much better he would be if he didn’t have to recover, didn’t have to face what had happened to him, all while being in

the public eye. “If you think I won’t follow through on this, then you don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do. Now get the hell out of our way, old man, or you’re going to learn exactly what a mutiny looks like.”

Chapter 31 Savvy “I don’t know what to do. I feel so fucking helpless, you know?” Kian’s pacing back and forth across my living room, looking more upset than I’ve ever seen him, and I have no idea what to say to make things better. Getting off the sofa where we were both sitting before the inactivity got to be too much for him, I catch him halfway between my front door and the hallway that leads to my bedroom. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I pull him into me. Hold him tight. And whisper, “Sometimes the only thing we can do is be there for someone.” “I know that. I do.” He holds me for several long seconds, but then his feelings get the best of him and he starts to pace again. “But I can’t even do that right. You should have seen Garrett’s face when my father said that shit.” “Do you think it was really a surprise to

him?” He turns to stare at me incredulously. “Well, it sure as fuck was a surprise to me. Garrett’s the heir—always has been, always will be. I’m just the spare.” “I hate when you call yourself that.” “Why? It’s true.” “You make it sound like you’re expendable. And you’re not.” This time when I catch up to him, I wrap my arms around him from behind and hold him tight, forcing him to stand still. “I’m a lot more expendable than Garrett is.” He slumps back against me, like somehow it’s easier to admit these things if he doesn’t have to look at me. “I’m not going to let my father do this to him.” “Maybe everyone’s getting ahead of themselves,” I suggest, in between pressing soothing kisses to his silk covered shoulder. “Has Garrett even had a chance to see a psychiatrist yet? Or a counselor?” “He’s seen both. He’s not talking to anyone.” “So maybe you should just give him a few more days before you or your father bring the subject up again. I mean, he’s still healing, correct?” He nods. “Yeah.”

“So he can’t do the job right now, anyway, which means the whole argument is moot, at least for now. Give everyone some time and then you can revisit—” “Time isn’t something I’ve got right now. Can’t you see that? The press are chomping at the bit, as is parliament and the public. Everyone wants a look at Garrett, and there’s no way I’m parading him around like some carnival prize until he’s good and ready.” “That’s exactly what I’m saying—” “No, it’s not. Because he’ll never get better if he thinks our father doesn’t have faith in him. If he thinks Wildemar doesn’t need him. Duty to this country is Garrett’s whole life—healthy or not, that’s the truth. How can I take that away from him?” I turn his words over in my head, trying to get to the heart of what he’s saying. Usually Kian’s so direct, but it’s obvious he’s working this out in his own head as we talk and right now it feels a lot like we’re going in circles without ever getting to the truth of what’s bothering him. “Is that the real problem then?” I finally ask, wishing I could see his face. Then again, I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t be having this conversation if I could see it. “Not that you

think Garrett is competent and not getting a fair shake, but that you’re afraid taking away his title will crush his will to get better?” “His whole life he’s been crown prince. It’s his whole identity. It’s all he knows.” I’m in no position to disagree, considering how our relationship had gone. Garrett might have said he was in love with me, but I never held a candle to his love for Wildemar. He’d never had any intention of doing anything but marrying Felicity when the time came, because he believed that was what his country needed. Then again, maybe this isn’t about Garrett at all right now. Maybe it’s more about Kian than he wants to admit. “What about what you know? What about what you want?” Now he does turn to look at me, incredulity ripe on his face. “What the fuck does that mean?” ’ I back off immediately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.” “You didn’t hit a nerve. I just want to know what you mean by that.” Fuck. When am I going to learn to keep my big mouth shut? “I just wonder if deep down you agree with your father? That maybe you think Garrett isn’t capable of being crown prince again—through no fault of his own, of

course. Just…it might be a hard sell to the people, trying to get them to follow a leader who might have been compromised. It’s not a reflection on you if—” “Why the fuck does everyone keep saying that?” He shakes me off none-too-gently, which tells me just how upset he is as Kian’s never been anything but careful with me. “He’s not compromised!” “Okay.” He’s obviously really upset and I’m not going to fight him on this. Partly because it’s not my fight and partly because I recognize a losing battle when I see one. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.” “No, you’re not.” He’s staring at my face now, his green eyes dangerously narrow. “Excuse me?” “There’s obviously more you want to say. So say it.” “There’s nothing more I want to say,” I lie. “Really? That’s the story you’re going to stick with?” His eyes narrow even more. “You’ve never had any trouble speaking your mind to me before. So what’s different now?” Something in his tone gets my own back up. Puts me on red alert even as I tell myself not to get worked up. Kian’s upset, rightfully so. With everything that’s gone on in his life these

last few days—and few months—he deserves to have someone cut him some slack. “I was just trying to present both sides—” “Bullshit. There aren’t two sides to this issue. There’s right and there’s wrong.” I bite my lip to keep from disagreeing. “Okay. If that’s how you feel—” “See. You’re bullshitting me again.” He shoves a frustrated hand through his hair. “What the fuck, Savannah? I thought I could trust you of all people.” “You can trust me.” I pause as his words sink in. “And what does that mean, anyway. Me of all people?” “I came to you because I wanted your advice, wanted to know what you thought about this whole thing. Yet all you’re doing is blowing smoke up my ass?” Okay, now my back really is up. “First of all, I tried to be honest with you and you jumped down my throat. Second, are you sure you really want me to be honest? Because it feels like all you want is for me to agree with you since you jump down my throat every time I say something you don’t like.” “Because you don’t get it!” My brows hit my hairline. I’m understanding it—and him—by the second. I

don’t say that, though. Instead, I suggest, “So explain it to me. Tell me what really has you upset.” “Haven’t you been listening?” He storms toward to the kitchen. “My father—” “This isn’t about your father.” He pulls a mug out of the cupboard, pours himself a cup of coffee. “Of course it’s about my father. He blindsided me, blindsided Garrett…” “I think you want to feel like he blindsided you, but you’re a smart guy, Kian. You had to at least have had an inkling this was coming.” He takes a brutally big sip of the coffee, then grimaces when he obviously burns his tongue. “This isn’t what I want,” he says after a minute. “I never said it was what you want, just that it isn’t as big a shock as you’re telling yourself it is.” “Fuck.” He sits down at my kitchen table, then slumps over, his head in his hands. He doesn’t say anything for several long, interminable seconds. When he finally does speak, his voice is muffled. “I’m not Garrett. The whole self-

sacrificing for Wildemar thing doesn’t come naturally to me.” And there it is. The root of all this angst. I don’t know why I’m surprised, considering I figured we’ve been heading here all along. My heart trembles in my chest and my throat closes up, but I force the words out anyway. “You know, you don’t have to worry about me making waves. That’s not who I am.” He stares at me for long seconds. “What does that even mean?” “I just…when you have to end things, I won’t make a fuss. I—” “Is that what you think?” He’s up and around the table in a flash, his hands gripping my biceps as he hauls me toward him. “That I’m going to dump you for Wildemar?” “This isn’t about me. I was just—” “You just made it about you. Actually, you made it about us.” He studies my face. “Have you been waiting for me to drop you all along?” “No!” I force the word out my suddenly dry mouth. Because yes, of course I have. His Royal Hotness may hook up with a bartender/waitress/writer from America, but he sure as hell doesn’t get himself in it for the long haul. I learned that lesson a long time

ago. “Fuck, you have!” He drops his hands then and backs away from me like he can’t stand to touch me. “I can’t fucking believe this! All this time I’ve been falling in love with you and you’ve just been waiting for me to walk?” “It’s what people do, Kian.” His eyes blaze into mine. “What people do or what I do?” I don’t know what to say to that because, shit. Just…shit. “You have to admit. Your reputation—” “Fuck my reputation! Fuck what everybody says about me. I’ve been completely honest with you from the first day we met, which is way more than you can say.” I don’t answer, because I can’t. He’s right. Kian recognizes my silence for what it is. “Jesus, Savvy, what have I done to give you such a low opinion of me? All this time I’ve just been trying to love you. What the hell have you been doing?” “Trying not to love you.” The words burst from me before I can stop them. They hit him like a blow, have him physically recoiling from me. “Why the hell are we even together, then?” he asks after a

minute. I don’t answer him. I can’t. Not when he’s looking at me like I just shattered his whole world. “I don’t deserve this,” he tells me. “I’ve been as honest with you as I have ever been with anyone and I don’t deserve you doubting me like this.” “What do you expect? You—” “I expect the benefit of the fucking doubt! I’m not Garrett. You’re not my dirty little secret.” “You sure about that?” “Excuse me?” “What have you ever done to make me think I’m not your dirty little secret?” The words come from deep inside me, from a place I didn’t even know I was harboring them. Once they’re out, they hang between us—big and powerful and inescapable. “What’s going on here, Savannah?” he asks, suddenly very, very quiet. It’s my turn to sink down at the table, terrified my shaking legs won’t support me for much longer. “I don’t know.” “Sure you do.” He sits down across from me. “You’re going to have to spell it out for me,

Savvy.” I don’t know if I can spell it out—I’m not sure I even know what I’m trying to say. It’s just, I’m sick of being the one who gets left. Sick of being an afterthought to somebody else’s life. I can’t make myself say that, though. Can’t let myself be that vulnerable when I know Kian is just going to leave me, too. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But if he’s supposed to slide into Garrett’s shoes, it won’t be long before I become that afterthought I don’t want to be. Or worse, a liability he feels forced to hide. I did that with Garrett because I was young and naïve and thought it was romantic that we had our little secret. But it wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t fun. It was sad and I was pathetic. I swore then that I’d never be that girl again. That I’d never put myself in that position again. And yet, here I am. And he’s not planning on leaving me today—it’s obvious Kian is shocked by just the suggestion. But just because he’s not planning on it now, doesn’t mean it won’t happen once duty and country and life start getting in the way. “I just think maybe we should take a break,” I tell him finally. “Let you get stuff sorted out

at the palace before we try to make anything work between us.” “Try to make something work? I thought we were working.” I don’t answer. I can’t. There’s a lump in my throat the size of a fist. “Damn it, Savvy. Don’t do this.” “I’m not doing anything.” “You are, goddamn it. You’re breaking us before we even have a chance and I don’t know why.” “Kian—” “I love you,” he says, pulling me out of my chair and into his arms. “I love you, Savvy, and I don’t want to let you go.” “Nobody says you have to let me go. I just think we should—” “No,” he says, pressing his mouth to mine in what feels very much like a panic. “No. Please. No.” My resolve is weakening in the face of his certainty, his desperation. And though there’s a part of me that is screaming that I need to let him go, there’s another part that wants to hold on as tightly as I can. A part that wants to believe that this time will be different—that this time, I really do matter.

“I—” His phone goes off then, dinging with one text message after another. I pull away. “You should get that.” “Fuck it.” He pulls me back. “I love you and I want to fix whatever is fucked-up between us. If you would just—” A powerful knock at the door, followed by another string of texts, interrupts him. “I think you’d better answer.” He curses then, long and low and vicious. But he heads for the front door, pulling his phone from his pocket as he goes. I stay where I am, clutching the kitchen counter in an effort to stay upright. Because— no matter what he just said—I know exactly how this is going to go. Sure enough, he’s back in under a minute. “I have to leave.” I nod. “Okay.” “Fuck, no, it’s not okay.” He reaches for me, pulls me into his arms. But I don’t feel him. I don’t feel anything right now. “I’m sorry. If it wasn’t imperative, I wouldn’t go.” “It’s fine,” I tell him, because it is. “I’ll be back, Savvy. I promise. We’re going to work this out.”

I nod, even though I know the truth. That we can’t work this out. Because no matter how he feels about me, he’s going to end up choosing Wildemar. As he should. As he must. After all, none of this mess is on him. It’s on me. I’m the one who knew better and I’m the one who fell for him anyway. “Savvy. Please. I can’t just walk away when things are like this between us.” He’s wrapping an arm around my waist, stroking a hand down my face. “I’m fine,” I tell him, forcing the words out because I need him to leave before I burst into tears. “Go. We can figure this out later.” “Are you sure? I—” His phone goes off again. Whatever’s going on is obviously urgent. “Goddamn it!” “Just go, Kian.” It takes a few seconds and more than a few searching looks, but eventually he does just that. I keep my shit together through it all, keep my emotions all bottled up until I hear the SUV start up in the driveway and slowly pull away. Then and only then do I sink to the floor, arms wrapped around myself and tears streaming down my face, even as I promise myself that I won’t be here when he gets back.

Chapter 32 Kian She’s gone. Savvy’s fucking gone, and I don’t have a clue where she went. Goddamn it. I text her for what feels like the millionth time in the last two days and—big surprise—no fucking response. “When did they say she was going to be back?” I demand of Lucas, who just got back from the Wild Sea. “The manager refused to say. Just told me she was taking some time off.” “Refused to say? Did you tell him who was asking?” I feel like a dick even as the words leave my mouth. But shit. If I can’t use my title for this, what the fuck can I use it for? “Yes, Your Highness,” Lucas says drily, his way of telling me I’m being a dick, too. “But he reminded me that employee privacy is a matter of law in Wildemar.” “I fucking know that! I had to memorize the whole damn legal code before I was sixteen, didn’t I?”

Lucas wisely chooses not to comment on that one. Goddamn it. I need to know where she is, need to know if she’s okay. Savvy was pretty messed up when I left her the other day and the fact that she’s just up and disappeared is freaking me the fuck out. “And her landlord has no idea she’s gone?” “None,” Lucas confirms as he pours a cup of coffee and then settles onto the sofa across from mine. “Which is a good thing, right? It means she’s not breaking her lease, which means she’ll be back. Maybe she just needed to clear her head for a few days.” “Maybe.” I’m not convinced. Then again, I’m the first to admit that I’m not exactly thinking clearly right now. Between my father refusing to back down on his ridiculous ultimatum, Garrett pretending he doesn’t give a shit and Savvy disappearing, I’m a fucking wreck. Part of me knows she’s fine, that she left because she can’t deal with what’s going on between us. But another, darker part keeps thinking about Garrett. About how he disappeared and all the shit that happened to him. I know it’s illogical, know it’s not the same thing at all…but knowing it and believing it are two different things. I’m fucking going out of my mind.

Four months ago I was flying assignments for the Navy during the week, partying all weekend and generally loving life. Now, it feels like the weight of the whole fucking world is on my shoulders, and if I can’t find Savvy soon, I’m going to lose my shit. Completely. “You’ve got to calm down, my man,” Lucas says before draining his coffee. “And how the fuck am I supposed to do that when Savvy is missing?” “She’s not missing,” he tells me firmly. “This is not like what happened to Prince Garrett. She called in to work and took some time off. People who’ve gone missing don’t do that.” “I know.” He only looks at me skeptically, so I repeat it just as the door to my suite opens. “I know. I do.” “What do you know?” Garrett asks as he lets himself in. He looks good, or at least as good as a man who has spent three months being tortured can look. The bruises on his face are fading—his eye is actually able to open now— and he’s moving a little easier, despite the cast on his arm and the binding around his ribs. Thank God. “Umm—” My brain goes completely blank. “That I’ve, uh—”

“Got an appointment in a couple hours,” Lucas comes to my rescue even as he stands up. “I was just reminding him that I’ll be back to get him at two o’clock.” “Right. I’ll, umm, see you then.” We both watch as Lucas leaves and then Garrett turns to me, eyes narrowed. “You want to tell me what’s really going on with you?” “Nothing.” He snorts. “Yeah, right. That’s why you look like you’re about three seconds from freaking the fuck out.” “Three, huh? Cuz I feel like I’m about one second.” He settles on the couch next to me, bumps me with his shoulder. “So spill.” I haven’t even figured out how to tell him how I feel about Savvy yet, let alone the fact that she’s up and left me. But when I just shake my head, Garrett stands back up. “You know, I’m still the same person I was before all that shit happened. I know Dad thinks I’m damaged goods, but—” “Fuck. It’s not that, man. I know who you are. And I know you’re going to get through this and come out stronger on the other side.” “So why won’t you talk to me, then?”

“It’s just—” I break off, try to figure out what I want to say. “Everything’s complicated and —” “You think this is complicated? Try feeling like a stranger in the only home you’ve ever known. Try feeling like nobody trusts you even though you didn’t do anything wrong, didn’t tell anybody anything. Try having everyone look at you like you’re weak when that’s the one thing you’ve worked so hard not to be your whole fucking life.” He won’t even look at me as he heads for the door. Shit, that’s more than he’s been willing to say since he got home. Even the shrink reports he’s not saying a word. How the fuck am I supposed to just let him go when he’s finally reaching out? I can’t. “It’s not you,” I tell him, moving to get between him and the door. “It’s me.” “Yeah, right.” He starts to push me aside. “I’m serious, Garrett. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s that I have something to tell you, and I don’t know how to do that.” The angry, defensive look on his face doesn’t disappear, but it starts to fade just a little as curiosity takes its place. “So, just tell me, man.

We used to be able to talk about anything, so when the fuck did everything get so complicated?” I can’t help laughing. “Jesus Christ, you’re the one who got himself kidnapped and I’m the complicated one in this family?” “Fuck you.” But he’s laughing, too, and walking back over to settle on the couch. “Do you want a drink or something?” I ask, buying time as I try to figure out what to say to him. I know their relationship has been over for a long time, but I can’t help but remember Savvy saying he wanted to take her to dinner a few months ago. If he still has feelings for her…if he still has feelings for her, we are totally fucked, because I am not giving her up. “I’m pretty sure the Percocet is keeping me buzzed enough, thanks.” “I was talking about water, asshole. But whatever.” I get a bottle out of the fridge for myself and then sit down across from him. It gives me something to do with my hands, if nothing else. I guess I take too long trying to figure out how to say what I need to say, because after a minute or so, Garrett lets out an annoyed sigh. “Jesus, bro, I’ve got another surgery scheduled for next week. You think we can get this show

on the road before then?” “I don’t know. You think you can keep your mouth shut long enough for me to say something?” I answer with a roll of my eyes. His impatience with my reticence is a lifelong battle. “I’m just saying. Christmas is coming.” “Why exactly did I miss you when you were gone?” “Why wouldn’t you miss me? Who the hell wants to deal with Dad all on his own?” “Good point.” He smirks. “I’m full of them today. It’s what comes from having a fully functional brain, no matter what people think.” “I am aware you have a fully functional brain. I’m also pretty sure you have a fully functional fist,” I tell him, nodding to his good hand, “and I would prefer not to get punched.” “Well, this is getting more interesting by the minute.” He pauses. “You know that I don’t hold you responsible for Dad’s opinions, right? I know you’re not trying to get me kicked off the throne.” “Fuck no, I’m not! Jesus. Who the hell wants to be king anyway?” For long seconds, there’s nothing but

silence. Then Garrett says quietly, “I do.” “You’re going to be,” I tell him firmly. “It’s just going to take some time for the current king to get his head out of his ass. But he’ll get there eventually.” “And if he doesn’t?” “Well, there won’t be a new king until he dies. And when that happens, it’s not like he’s going to come back from the grave and take the crown off your head, so…it’s a moot point, really.” For long seconds, Garrett just stares at me, openmouthed. I’m beginning to think I went too far and that’s when he starts to laugh and laugh and laugh. Seconds later, I’m laughing, too, so hard that my stomach hurts and I’ve got tears in my eyes. When we’ve both calmed down, he says, “Okay. So if you’re not angsting about being king, what the hell is going on?” Fuck it. I’m going to have to tell him sometime. It might as well be now, when we’re both still grinning like idiots. “I met someone.” “No shit! I’m out being tortured and you’re ensconced in the palace with some gorgeous

woman. No wonder you didn’t want to tell me.” He’s trying to look serious, but his voice gives it away. As does the shit-eating grin he can’t get rid of. “So tell me about her.” “Yeah, that’s the thing…” “What?” His brows hit his hairline. “Should I be asking to hear about him?” “Dude, seriously? I think we’ve established pretty strongly that I’m hetero.” “You never know. Maybe some guy swept you off your feet while I was gone. It could happen.” “While it could happen,” I acknowledge, “it didn’t. She’s definitely a girl.” “Okay. So what’s the problem, then?” “No problem.” “Really? Because you’re acting weird.” “Fine. It’s just…you know her.” “I figured. There’s not a huge pool of aristocrats to pull from—” “She’s not an aristocrat. In fact, she’s American.” He whistles then, low and long. “No wonder you’re being sketchy. Dad’s going to have a fit.”

“Dad’s the last thing I’m worried about. He doesn’t get a vote.” “Then what’s the problem?” “It’s Savannah, Garrett.” His face goes blank. “What?” “I’m in love with Savvy. I didn’t mean for it to happen—” “Wait a minute? Savvy? You’re in love with my Savvy?” My teeth snap together at the proprietary way he says it. “No. I’m in love with my Savvy.” “When did that happen? How did that happen?” “She was working a gala I was at a few weeks ago. She saved me from Madame Aguillard and…it just kind of happened.” “But how did it happen?” He looks more bewildered than angry, but I’m not sure that’s a good thing… “How could it not? She’s great. Smart, funny, gorgeous…is it really such a surprise I fell for her?” “It’s a surprise you fell for her knowing she’d once been mine.” “I didn’t know. Not at first.” “She didn’t tell you? That doesn’t sound like her—she used to be straightforward to a fault.”

I laugh. “Oh, she still is. I found out before she could tell me, but by then it was too late. I was already hooked.” Garrett leans forward, runs his good hand through this hair. “I’ve got to tell you, I wasn’t expecting this.” “I know. And I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry, so…” “Yeah, I get that. You’re practically glowing like a virgin on her first date.” “Fuck you.” “So, what does this mean? You’re serious about her?” I nod. “As serious as it gets.” “Wow.” He takes a deep breath, blows it out slowly. “Okay, then. I guess I should say congratulations?” Relief sweeps through me. “You mean you’re okay with it?” “Okay might be a stretch, but I’m working on it.” “That’s fair.” “I think so, yeah.” We sit in silence for a couple of minutes, just thinking. Then Garrett asks, “So where is she? How come I haven’t seen her around if you’re that serious about her?”

“Yeah.” It’s my turn to blow out a long breath. “About that. She…left.” “Left what? Wildemar? Or you?” “Maybe both? Definitely me.” He sits up straight, suddenly looks more alert than he has in days. “What did you do?” “That’s just it. I didn’t do anything. She just freaked out.” “That doesn’t sound like her.” It gets my back up a little, the way he sounds like he knows her so well. Then again, he has known her a lot longer than I have. Instead of being jealous of that fact, maybe I can use it. Especially since I’m pretty sure he’s part of the reason I’m in this mess. “She started going on about how we didn’t fit and how I was going to leave her behind for the country. I tried to tell her that wasn’t true, but she wouldn’t believe me.” “Fuck.” He winces. “That’s my fault.” “Yeah. I’m aware of that. She disappeared right after, called in to work and said she was taking vacation time. I’ve tried texting, calling, but she won’t respond and I don’t know where she went.” Garret looks at me. “Are you asking me where she went?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He lifts a brow. “Okay, yes. I’m asking.” “Is she still in the country?” “I don’t know.” “Are you fucking kidding me? Call up the border patrol and find out. See if her passport dinged going through.” “Seriously?” “What the fuck’s the point of dealing with all the shit that comes with being royal if you don’t get some of the perks?” I laugh. “Now you sound like me.” “Well, yeah? Where do you think I learned that philosophy?” “Okay, I’ll make the call. But, if she didn’t leave the country…do you have any idea where she’d be?” “I’m working on that…”

Chapter 33 Savvy It’s a beautiful evening. The moon is full, the stars are out and the breeze blowing off the nearby lake keeps everything just a little on the crisp side. I pull my sweater a little more tightly around me as I walk, wishing I’d changed out of my shorts and tank top before walking into the village for dinner. Then again, I don’t think even jeans and a sweatshirt would keep me warm right now. I’ve been ice-cold since the minute Kian walked out of my house, and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it. It was the right thing to do, I tell myself as I veer onto the path that will take me to the cottage I rented when I fled my house like the hounds of hell were on my heels. It’s probably stupid to spend the money I’d been saving for a real vacation on it, but when things blew up with Kian I just wanted to get away and this seemed like the perfect escape. I’ve loved Tournemire since I stumbled on it

during my first road trip, not long after I started school in Wildemar. It’s a small village, rich with history and beauty and the friendliest people in the whole country—at least in my opinion. I’ve wanted to come back since I returned to Wildemar six months ago, but this is the first chance I’ve had. It helps that it’s also pretty isolated—or at least isolated according to modern world standards. There’s only one main road in and out of the village and internet and cell service is spotty at best. For most people that’s a killer, but right now, I’m loving the fact that I can’t pull up my Twitter feed every five minutes and find out where Kian is. Not that I want to know, because I don’t. It’s just hard to be on the internet for more than five minutes without running into an article about His Royal Hotness somewhere or other. I don’t click on them, obviously—I’m not a masochist—but it’s not like I can keep from seeing his face. His sexy, gorgeous, kind face… I nip the thought in the bud. The first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one and I definitely have one. I am in love with Prince Kian, the Duke of…and I am desperately afraid I’ve gone and ruined my entire life. Because, let’s face it, Kian’s not exactly an easy act for a guy to follow…

Garrett was one thing. Losing him broke my heart, but losing Kian…it’s shattered me into so many pieces I don’t think I’ll ever recover. The fact that I pulled the trigger—that I ended it before he could—somehow only makes the pain worse. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have trusted him—trusted what we had—more than I did. But it’s hard to do that, hard to believe him when he says I matter when I’ve never really mattered before. To anyone. My parents weren’t bad parents, but they were always more wrapped up in themselves and their great adventure than they ever were in me. I loved them, and I know they loved me, but I was always an afterthought. Always a problem they had to get around in order to live their lives the way they wanted to. And then there was Garrett—I threw everything I was into that relationship and it still wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. I was just another problem to get around, a dirty little secret he had to keep away from his public life. For a long time, I thought it was okay—that what we had was real in a way everything else wasn’t. Finding out it was actually the opposite hurt me like few things, save losing Kian, ever have.

I go around the last bend in the road, happy to see my cottage in the distance, the light I left on leading me to it like a beacon. The bag of groceries I’m carrying is getting heavy, but more than that I’m just ready to be inside. Ready for a distraction from my thoughts and the tears rolling slowly down my cheeks. Damn it. I’m supposed to be getting over him, not crying every time I so much as think his name. As I get closer, though, it registers that there’s another car parked in the driveway. And not just any car—a Bentley SUV. Oh God. Oh no. Oh God. My stomach starts churning, and for one long moment I think about running. Fleeing. Just dropping the groceries where I stand and bolting back into the woods. It’s such an inviting thought that for long seconds I stand frozen, absolutely unable to move forward even an inch. I can’t face him. I just can’t. I’m not ready to see him—someday, I’ll be ready. But not now. Not today. I can’t do it. I just can’t. Panic takes over now, shuts my brain down

just when I need it most. Because the decision on whether to stay or to flee, whether to see him or to run away, is suddenly taken right out of my hands as I realize Kian is standing on the cottage’s front porch, watching me. So, no running then. Not because I’m too proud to let him see me retreat, but because— for all his easygoing attitude—deep down, Kian is a predator. If I run, I have absolutely no doubt that he’ll chase. And he’ll win. And if that’s the case, I might as well get it over with—somewhere comfortable, with chairs and heat and wine. Lots and lots of wine. I start walking again and once he realizes I’m heading toward him, so does Kian. We meet about a hundred yards from the house. “I was just about to send out a search party,” he says, smiling a little. I don’t smile back. I can’t. It feels too good to hear his voice, to see that crooked smile and those beautiful, beautiful eyes. “Do you want wine?” I ask, nodding toward the bag I’m carrying. He looks surprised at the question, but then, who can blame him. I’m not tracking the best right now. “I want you,” he answers. And fuck. Just

fuck. “Kian—” “I mean it,” he says. “I love you, Savvy, and I’m not leaving here without you.” “Stalk much?” I manage to get out, though my tone is more yearning than snide. “I never have before, but you’re introducing me to a whole world of firsts.” Goddamn it, does he really have to be so freaking perfect all the time? It’s not until he laughs that I realize I said that out loud. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. My grip on reality is fading by the second. “You should go,” I tell him, ordering my feet to move so I can sweep past him. Too bad they have other ideas. “I already told you,” he starts, then freezes when his phone goes off. Of course he has service out here in the middle of nowhere. Of freaking course. Stupid satellite phone. Stupid prince. Stupid everything. “You should get that.” He takes the phone out—of course he does— and I wait for him to get distracted and finally break eye contact so I can breathe again. Move again. But he doesn’t look down to check his

messages, doesn’t look away at all. Instead, he pulls his arm back and then throws his phone as far as he can into the woods. I’m so shocked that all I can do is shriek. “What did you do that for?” “I told you. I’m here for you and I’m not talking to anyone else until we get this sorted out.” “Your father—” “Can suck it.” “Garrett—” “Knows where I am and knows better than to interrupt me.” “The country—” “Can wait.” “Kian, no, it—” “Can wait,” he repeats, bringing his hands up to cup my face. “Just this once, it can wait.” The tears start all over again. “Kian—” “I love you, Savvy. I love you and I want to marry you and I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy.” The bottom drops out of my stomach. “What did you say?” I whisper. “I said I want to marry you. I want to wake up beside you every day of my life and go to bed with you every night. I want to make

babies with you and a home with you and a life with you.” It’s so not what I expect him to say that for long seconds I can’t say anything. I can only stare at him, looking into his green, green eyes that are filled with more love—and more resolve—than I ever could have dreamed of. “I don’t understand.” I’m not trying to be funny, but he laughs anyway. “I know you don’t, sweetheart. I know. But that’s okay. Because I understand enough for both of us. You love me but you’re scared. Shit, I’d be scared, too, if I were you. I know my reputation’s not the best.” “I don’t care about your reputation.” “You should. I’ve been kind of a jerk.” “No—” “Yes,” he tells me. “I have. But that’s because I didn’t know any better. I didn’t know what it could feel like to love a woman so completely that she takes over my thoughts and my dreams and my life. I didn’t know what it would feel like to love you. But I do now and I promise, Wildemar or no Wildemar, crown or no crown, I will always put you first. You will always matter to me more than anyone or anything else in the world.” I’m sobbing now, just full-on sobbing, and

shaking so badly that I have to hold on to Kian to keep my knees from buckling underneath me. But that’s okay, because he’s holding on to me, too. Keeping me safe, keeping me right where I want to be. “How did you know?” I ask when I can finally speak. “How did you know what I needed—” “Because I see you. Deep down inside, where nobody else can reach. I see you, the same way you see me.” “I love you, Kian. I love you so much.” “I know, sweetheart.” He pulls me closer, nuzzles his nose and mouth against my cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I’m sorry I didn’t believe that you could love me the same way that I love you. I’m sorry I wouldn’t take a risk—” He stops me with a kiss—a soft, sweet, endless kiss that warms every single cold part inside of me. “Marry me,” he says, when he finally raises his head, “and I’ll forgive you.” “I’ll marry you,” I answer. “But only if you promise me a happy ever after. You are a prince, after all.” “Oh, sweetheart, I’ll promise you more than that. I’ll promise a happy, crazy, messy, funny, real ever after.”

I throw my arms around his neck then and pull his mouth back down to mine. “And I’ll promise you one right back.”

For my mother

Acknowledgments This book is the result of a fun afternoon brainstorming session between my amazing editor Sue Grimshaw and myself and I can never thank her enough. She’s the best editor, friend, cheerleader and support system a girl could ever ask for and I’m grateful every day that I get to work with her. I also need to thank Gina Wachtel, who is truly an inspiration and who I am so, so excited to work with. She really does know everything and I’m honored that after all this time she’s still buying my books and steering my career. Thank you so, so much! I want to thank everyone else at Random House, too—Matthew Schwartz, Erika Seyfried, Madeleine Kenney, Penelope Haynes and Lynn Andreozzi. I am so, so lucky to work with the best team in the business and I’m more grateful than you will ever know. As always, I must thank my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, who is one of my best friends as well as the greatest agent ever. Thanks for everything you do for me. There are no words for how much I adore you, xoxoxo

And finally, I have to thank my mom, who was so patient and helpful while I wrote this book. I love you, Mom, and am so grateful to have you!!!

BY TRACY WOLFF Lightning Novels Down & Dirty Hot & Heavy (coming soon)

His Royal Hotness Royal Pain Royal Treatment

Ethan Frost Novels Ruined Addicted Exposed Flawed

Hotwired Accelerate

Other Books Full Exposure Tie Me Down Play Me (serialization) Lovegame

Extreme Risk Series Shredded Shattered Slashed

PHOTO: © KEVIN GOURLEY

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author TRACY WOLFF lives in Texas and teaches writing at her local community college. She is married and the mother of three young sons. tracywolffbooks.com Facebook.com/​TracyWolffAuthor Twitter: @TracyWolff

Read on for an excerpt from

Royal Treatment His Royal Hotness

by Tracy Wolff

Available from Loveswept

Chapter 1 Garrett They say I’ll get used to this. After all, what’s there to get used to, really? Lounging around, doing whatever I want whenever I want, living a life of absolute luxury with absolutely no responsibility… It’s a dream come true. Or at least, that’s what everybody tells me. That this new life of mine—as the spare instead of the heir—is the best thing to ever happen to me. Too bad I’m not nearly as sure. That’s not to say I haven’t given it the old Royal try…because I have. For more than a month now. I’ve slept with half a dozen women in as many weeks. Have drunk my weight in bourbon and champagne more times than I care to count. Have raced the world’s fastest cars on the world’s fastest race tracks and frittered away copious amounts of money on absolutely

nothing of value… I’ve even hopped from one hotspot to the next—from Rio to the Azores to Patagonia, for God’s sake—which is pretty much at the end of the fucking world. I’ve been to more parties in the six weeks since I’ve gotten a clean bill of health than in the first twenty-eight years of my life. And that’s saying something, considering major galas have been a part of my existence since I learned how to walk. Maybe even longer. And now I’m here, sunning myself on a rock near a secluded watering hole in the small village of Tournemire and whining to myself about how much I hate my new life. Could I be any more of a spoiled prick if I tried? It’s obnoxious and I’m pathetic. Not to mention completely useless. The man once trusted to rule the country now can’t even be trusted to be in the royal palace…at least not when serious business is afoot. King’s orders. Oh, that’s not what he or my brother, Kian, say to my face. But I am very aware of how often they’ve been showing me the door lately. Just like I’m aware of what meetings are going on at the palace when they do. I may have had

a couple concussions too many in the three months I was missing, but my brain still functions better than most. Certainly well enough to know what my family is up to…even if they never say it. I’ve become a liability, someone who can’t even be trusted with palace gossip let alone state secrets. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuuuuu​uuuuu​uuck. Death has to be better than this. Then again, anything does. The alarm on my phone goes off, a reminder to roll over onto my back so I don’t burn. Because that’s what my life has been reduced to. No meetings, no public appearances, no charity work. Just me, a bottle of sunscreen and this very, very uncomfortable rock. Because I’m boring myself with all the whining going on in my head, I shove off of the rock instead of merely flipping over. And dive head first into small lake. And then I swim back and forth, over and over again, determined to exhaust the demons inside of me since I can’t seem to vanquish them. Somewhere around lap thirty-four, I become aware of a commotion at the other

end of the lake. And since the commotion involves a tiny little redhead with a very big attitude going toe to toe with one-third of my security detail, I can’t help but settle back to watch the show. And what a show it is. She’s a total spitfire—I may be a hundred yards away, but the fuck-off body language is hard to miss. As are the obscene hand gestures. Not to mention the killer body and long, red red curls. I don’t have a great view of her face, but I’m pretty sure it will match the rest of her and that intrigues me more than I want to admit. She intrigues me more than I want to admit. And since nothing has in far too long, I swim over to the edge of the lake and hoist myself out. Just in time to hear her tell Samuel to “fuck right off! You can’t own a public park.” He keeps his cool as he reiterates that the lake is off-limits for the next few hours, but she’s having none of it. She hurls a few more choice insults at him, then repeats her refrain about public parks being for the public and therefore incapable of being owned by anyone. Technically, that’s not exactly true, since all parks in Wildemar belong to the state and my family is the state. But since I’m pretty sure

that won’t win me any points with this hot little number with the American accent, I keep that small bit of info to myself even as I approach the two of them. The rest of my detail gets nervous at the move—I can see Bryce shifting uncomfortably from his spot near the trees. I can’t see Bastian, but then, I don’t have to. In the six weeks he’s been with me, he’s rarely taken his hand off his gun. I’m pretty sure this interaction only has his finger creeping closer to the trigger… “It’s okay, Samuel,” I say as I get closer, holding my hands up to signal the other two to stay back. Bryce glares at me, but he does as I order. Samuel doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t so much as look my way, though he does shift a little to the right so that he can cover me. From what, I’m not exactly sure, since the redhead is wearing a purple bikini and flip flops, neither of which leave her room to hide a weapon. Or anything else…thank God. Because she’s hot. Seriously hot. Capital H.O.T. She might be small—standing maybe five foot three on a good day—but she’s got major curves in all the right places. So many curves, in fact, that as she huffs indignantly at

Samuel, I can’t help wondering if she’s going to huff herself right out of her bikini top. Just the idea is a bright spot in an otherwise fucked-up day, because I’m dying to find out if her nipples are the same delicate pink as her full, plump lips. Behind me, I hear Bastian’s shoes crunch over the rocky ground as he moves closer and a quick glance at Bryce tells me he’s doing the same thing. So much for listening to orders. I hold up a hand to once again tell them to stand down, but they ignore me. I may be a prince, but in matters of my personal safety, my security detail does whatever they deem necessary, even if it puts them at odds with my wishes. Especially if it puts them at odds…the three of them are a contrary fucking bunch. “It’s okay,” I say again, louder this time since it’s for the benefit of all three of my guards. For the first time, the fiery little redhead looks at me. “No, it’s not!” she argues, tipping her sunglasses down so that I can see the heat in her bright blue eyes. “I want to swim.” “You can swim,” I say, gesturing expansively toward the lake. “Let the lady through, Samuel.”

He hesitates, but finally gives when she slaps a hand against his chest and pushes him back a little. “You heard the man. ‘Let the lady through.’ ” She says the last in a snide little voice that gets my back up. Or maybe it’s the fact that she doesn’t even glance my way as she passes that pisses me off. Either way, I can’t resist saying, “No thankyou?” She stops and turns back to stare at me, this time taking her glasses all the way off to signify she means business. “Excuse me?” The attitude turns me on way more than it should—she turns me on way more than she should. “Aren’t you even going to say thank you?” “For what?” “For me calling off the dogs and letting you in.” Behind me, Samuel chokes a little at being referred to as a dog, even metaphorically, and I promise myself I’ll make it up to him. Later. After I get this very sexy woman into the nearest bed—or towel-covered rock, as my dick is telling me the nearest bed is waaaaaaay too far. “Are you kidding me?” “Not even a little.” I step in front of her, very

deliberately blocking her path. “You can’t own a public park!” she says again, voice raised in annoyance. “What part of that aren’t you understanding?” “The part that forgets about a little known Wildemarian statute, one that says a man’s entitled to do whatever he has to to protect his land. Within reason, of course.” “But this isn’t your land,” she retorts. “It’s public parkland.” “Not if I call squatter’s rights.” “Squatter’s rights?” She looks incredulous. And annoyed. And—this could be wishful thinking, but I don’t think so—a very tiny bit intrigued. “You can’t do that!” “Sure I can. There’s another statute on the books that gives squatter’s rights to any public land that is occupied by three or more people.” “No.” I lift a brow. “No?” “No, no, no. I call bullshit. Those laws would be ridiculous—” “They are,” I agree as I unlock my phone and hold it out to her. “But you can Google them. One is civil code thirty-seven a, provisions six through nine and the second is —”

“You can’t be serious!” she answers, even as she snatches my phone out of my hand. About a minute later, she looks back up at me with narrowed eyes. “You are serious.” “I am.” “Squatter’s rights?” she says again, as if it’s the most bizarre term she’s ever heard. “So what keeps people from claiming all the public parkland here in Wildemar? Especially the beaches? They have to be worth a fortune.” “It’s a fairly obscure statute. Not many people know about it.” “And you just happen to be one of the lucky few who do?” “What can I say? I’m a good researcher.” “More like a good con man,” she says with a snort. “But far be it from me to trespass on private land.” She starts to turn around and go back the way she came, which is wholly and completely unacceptable. Especially considering sparring with her keeps my mind off the rest of my shitty life. But since I’d have to leapfrog over her shoulders to get in front of her, something my still tender ribs are not okay with, I nod to Bryce to block her path. Which he does, so quickly and silently she doesn’t notice until he’s already there.

“Are you kidding me?” she squawks as she turns to glare at me. “Two bodyguards? Don’t you think that’s a little overkill?” Her tone suggests that it’s a lot overkill and I don’t bother to correct her. How can I when her tone asks who the hell I think I am? Which is such a novel experience I find myself not wanting it to end. Even before the kidnapping, it was rare to find someone who didn’t recognize me on sight. Now that my face has been plastered on every newspaper and magazine cover in the free world, it’s pretty much impossible. But as she stands there, eyebrows raised and hands on her curvy little hips, I can’t help enjoying the fact that she doesn’t know. And the fact that for a few minutes I can carry on a conversation with someone who isn’t thinking about the kidnapping. Or the photos of my injuries that leaked after I was rescued. Or the fact that my father has basically labeled me unfit for duty. No, all she’s thinking is that I’m an asshole on a power trip and that…that is something I can work with. Especially when the prize is an afternoon in bed with the sexiest woman I’ve seen in pretty much forever…

Love stories you’ll never forget By authors you’ll always remember eOriginal Romance from Random House randomhousebooks.com

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