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And so I jump in. “I do?”
The prince nods ever so slightly. “You deserve attention. Fun. And happiness. And wild orgasms. And all the Nutella and Oreos you can eat. You deserve someone to take care of you so ridiculously well that they carry you from room to room, and fuss over you when you’re sick, and rub your feet when you’re tired, and feed you by hand when you’re too old and weak to do it yourself. You. Deserve. Love.” He says it all so fast, like a dam has burst.
“Oh, gods,” I squeak. I’m not going to cry, I think. I will myself not to, but the more I do, the more the tears fall down my cheeks. And now my throat is so clogged I can’t even squeak, so my witty follow-up of “Gods dammit,” comes out as a whisper.
His serious expression softens, and I melt when his lips meet mine.
“Don’t you think so? Don’t you think you deserve all those things, my Stasi?” The pads of his rough thumbs stroke my cheekbones as he cups my face, his gray gaze locked on mine. Sure and steady.
I let go of a sob—and when I say “sob,” I don’t mean a delicate sob of a pretty girl. My lungs erupt, and I make the weirdest heaving-wheezing-explosive noise ever. Emma Thompson in a Jane Austen movie could never.
All I can do is nod my head.
“Don’t you deserve to be a queen?”
This dries up my clogged throat quickly. “Wait. You don’t want to be king.”
He shakes his head. “I do not.”
“Not a literal ruling queen, then,” I say, relieved.
“I mean my queen.”
“What if Etienne fails, and they come looking for you? What about that? What if they need you to be king?” I ask.
He considers this, then says, “If they find us, they find us. There are ways around being king.”
“Like what?”
“You’re not gonna like it.”
He hesitates and finally spills it. “When I say this, please remember that it’s the law of the land speaking, not me.”
“Okay,” I say warily, yet fully recognizing that I know about some of the more grotesque laws regarding Gravenland royalty. It’s a subject that comes up often amongst the royal watchers who fight with each other like children on social media.
He takes a deep breath and says, “A prince or princess cannot become king or queen if they have a baby born out of wedlock.”
This is news to me, and I’m curious to know where he’s going with this. “And?”
“And I can keep us hidden for at least nine months. Guaranteed.”
Oh. I see where he’s going with this.
“Sigurd,” I say, laughing. Oh, but his face is serious.
“I’m just coming to terms with the fact that you love me. I haven’t even said it back yet. I’m not ready to have a baby with you.”
“I know.”
The truth is, my primal instinct can totally get down with being pregnant with Sigurd’s baby. I’m 29 years old, and it’s not like true love and babies haven’t occurred to me. Just not, like,today.
“It won’t come to that, will it?” I ask.
He shakes his head ever so slightly. “My sister thinks Etienne might rise to the occasion and surprise everyone. She’s usually right about people.”
I bite my lip.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up. They’ll never find us here.”
