“I—I am not some dot-com organization. My matches are personal, well thought out...” I sputter as it sinks in not only what I’ve been called here to do but that my client is anything but willing.
“Save it, sweetheart,” he says. “I’d sooner fuck you than let you arrange my nuptials.”
The queen gasps, and King Nikolai slams his fist on the table.
“Enough,” the older man says, the finality of his authority dripping from the word. “Benedict is entering the priesthood. Damien is banished. If you do not marry with the intent to produce an heir, the throne falls out of the immediate family and to your cousin Ingrid. You will not fault on your duty.”
The muscle in the prince’s jaw pulses. “That’s right, Father. I’ve had enough.” His penetrating stare, though, stays on me the whole time. That’s when he leans in, hot breath on my cheek. “And you’d enjoy every goddamn second of it,” he whispers. “The word enough won’t even exist in your vocabulary.”
He bows toward his visibly shaken parents before making his dramatic exit.
I give myself a mental pat on the back for at least believing the stories.
The prince is a grade-A asshole.
My soaked panties, on the other hand, apparently did not receive the memo.
Perhaps they’re waiting for one with the royal seal.
Nikolai
“MARRIAGE? THAT’S IT, Father has lost his goddamn mind,” I mutter, ducking into the unobtrusive staircase, the quickest escape route out of the palace. Two floors down a young servant in a black dress and white apron takes one look at me and nearly drops the silver tray she carries, one laden with teapots, fine china and six different cakes. My mood is so foul that I ignore her alarmed squeal and don’t even smooth the situation over with a flirtatious wink.
She must have been assigned catering duty for the ambush upstairs, the one where my father invoked the ancient laws of our realm.
Sweat breaks out on my hairline. A sour taste fills my mouth.
My twenty-ninth birthday is just around the corner.
I am the heir to the crown.
The Royal Marriage Decree of 1674 declared that the Edenvale heir must wed before sundown on his or her twenty-ninth birthday or their claim is null and void. Plus, an Edenvale heir had to marry someone of aristocratic blood. My future bride doesn’t have to be a citizen of my country, but she does need to be nobility. Other than that, the requirements are simple: free consent.
Sounds easy enough. Except for the part where I’m not the marrying kind.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and draw a lung-searing breath before pushing through the exit that leads to the castle grounds.
Of course I know about the marriage decree. I memorized Edenvale proclamations and laws alongside my ABCs. But this is the twenty-first century. I never dared believe that Father would enforce that arcane law any more than he would the one about how no high ministers could enter the palace wearing purple, or how hunting on royal lands was a hangable offense.
Don’t even get me started on the decree prohibiting anal sex.
Hell, I tapped the back door of a hotel heiress in the castle’s highest tower last week. Not something I normally do, but she offered, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to turn it down. Not my favorite position, but sex is like pizza in Naples. Even if it’s not great, it’s still damn good.
The castle grounds are perfectly manicured with hedges cut into topiaries of rabbits and swans. Father enjoys indulging his whimsical side.
The morning sun scalds my neck.
“Sire, Sire, please, wait!” a woman cries behind me. Then she mutters under her breath how hard it is to run in heels.
My molars grind with enough force that it’s a miracle they don’t shatter. I’ve heard that lilting voice before—the auburn-haired woman from the matchmaking service that my father hired.
Marriage decree aside, this situation—them hiring a matchmaking service—is the biggest insult of all. As if I need any goddamn help finding a willing woman.
“Sire!”
I should wait. Chivalry and all that. But remember the part about how I’m no Prince Charming?
I veer into the maze, kicking at stones in the gravel path. Fuck being a gentleman. I turn left, then right, then left again. The walls surrounding me are twelve feet high and covered in leaves. This maze might be the largest in Europe, but it was my childhood playground. I always know the way out. Time to ditch this tenacious matchmaker and figure out a plan to avoid getting tied in unholy matrimony.
That’s when I hear it.
A snap, quickly followed by a sound like someone trying not to cry out.
Shit.
She’s fallen over.
Not a surprise. I caught a glimpse of her precarious five-inch stilettos when she crossed her legs upstairs in the castle hall and this path is rocky and uneven.
I also caught an eyeful of a toned calf that connected to a perfectly curving thigh. That was the best part of the meeting. Before I glanced at the folder on the table and read the gold-embossed title: Happy Endings Matchmaking Services: Making Dreams a Reality.
A cool mountain breeze brushes my face. I pause. Debating. I want to keep going. I even take a step. It’s not like I asked her to give chase. She saw that I didn’t need her advice. That I didn’t want her professional services. Yet she insisted on pursuing me of her own free will. This is her own fault. I owe the woman—a total stranger—nothing.
The image of that exquisite creamy thigh flashes behind my eyes, this time draped over my shoulder.
Okay. Correction. I don’t want her in a professional capacity.
My shoulders slump. No matter what my instincts demand, I can’t abandon an injured woman alone in the maze.
Before I know it, I’m backtracking. It takes less than thirty seconds to find her.
She’s kicked off that lethal-looking shoe and sits rubbing a swelling ankle. Her toes are painted a glossy classic red.
Okay, damn. I like that.
Her lips are flawless, painted in exactly the same shade.
I like that even better.
I’d like it best streaking my shaft.
My cock twitches in agreement.
Fuck. This matchmaker—and maddeningly sexy woman—is the enemy. But try telling that to my asshole dick. Sometimes an overactive libido comes with serious drawbacks.
Then her gaze fixes on my face, and with one look at those tear-filled baby blues, my brain fucking flatlines.
Kate
It takes everything for me to hold my prince’s fixed stare, not to wince at the white-hot pain in my ankle. But there is no way I’m letting this guy—prince or otherwise—get the best of me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Of course not.” I glance at my ivory skirt, the side slit ripped even higher. I’m also sure my ass is one big grass stain. And let’s not even discuss the hair. I’d gone for professional with the French twist, but now my auburn waves hang in my face, which is probably for the best. His steely gaze is too close.
“Just—show me the way out,” I say, attempting to push myself up, but as soon as I put pressure on my bare foot, my knees