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Rowan
Dog sledding issomething I never knew was missing from my life. It’s exhilarating and peaceful. It’s quiet, fast, and makes me feel an odd sort of power. There’s nothing but the soft clinking of the harnesses and guidelines, the breathing of the dogs, the scraping of the sled along the white snow.
There’s no motor. No smell of gasoline. No artificial warmth and comfortable leather seats. Just me, the Prince, the dogs, and the quiet natural beauty that surrounds us.
I can’t believe I thought this place was harsh and unforgiving. When I first arrived at the train station, I hated Nord. I hated the cold. I hated the fact that I was alone and afraid. I hated that no matter what my heritage says, I’m not from here.
Now?
I see past the cold to the beauty beyond. Every minute that passes, I watch as the Prince relaxes, unwinds, and shows me more of himself.
As we ride toward the visitor’s cottage, I glance back at him and see him smiling. Truly smiling. Not a mocking smirk, or a triumphant grin. Just a soft tug of his lips as he watches the dogs run ahead of us.
My heart squeezes—shit. That’s bad. This isn’t some heady desire winding its way through my core. This is more.
Last week, I thought he was the biggest asshole to ever walk this earth, and now I think I might like him? Unacceptable. Wrong on so many levels.
The only way this can end is in disaster.
He’s royalty, for one. People open doors for him wherever he goes, moving up and down so much to bow and curtsy they probably get seasick. He’s lived in luxury since he was born.
And me?
Mom struggled with three jobs and died in poverty, saddled with debt with a brave smile on her face. I watched her work herself to the bone, slowly being worn down by life’s constant assault. Putting me first all the time and protesting when I tried to sacrifice for her, for once. No one curtsied for her. No one bowed for me or called me Your Highness. I had to work from the time I was fourteen until now. I’m under no illusion as to how difficult life really is.
The Prince and I come from different worlds. Even if we did have some connection, it would never work.
My head is a mess.
I’m not here for him. I’m here for work.
Work is what I do best. It’s my anchor in a stormy world. It’s the only thing that gave me purpose after my mother died. Work is the only thing that gave me the opportunity to have true independence. To stand on my own and know I’m a burden to no one. It’s everything to me.
So why do I feel like it doesn’t even matter right now?
We arrive at the visitor’s cottage and the Prince tosses me a set of keys.
“I need to take care of the dogs. You go inside.” The Prince goes around the side of the building, where I see another door leading to kennels.
I turn away from him and head for the door. When I step inside and out of the cold, I pull my gloves off and let out a long breath. My gaze travels up to the ceiling to see the soot stains from centuries ago. I take in the old room, a big, rectangular hall with a small dais at the other end. Probably where a throne once sat.
History is woven into these walls. I can feel it. The old stones have witnessed centuries. Kings and queens and normal people who lived in this land long before us. And…I didn’t even know this place existed. My original design didn’t take it into account at all, but I can’t ignore it now. This place needs to be preserved. Restored. Celebrated for what it is.
This is the birthplace of Nord, and it’s as important to the history of this kingdom as the Summer Palace.
I take off my jacket and throw it over a hook on the wall, then pull my hat off and comb my fingers through my hair.
The door opens behind me and a cold blast of air follows. The Prince stomps his feet, blowing a breath into his hands. He brushes past me and moves to the big fireplace on the side wall, starting a blaze within moments.
Maybe not a coddled, arrogant prince, after all. Why do I find it sexy that he knows how to start a fire?
The firelight casts shadows and light across his angular features, and I find myself walking toward him. He’s crouched near the fireplace, and when I approach, he turns his head to look at me. My hand drifts over his strong jaw, his stubble prickling at my fingertips.
The Prince lets out a low groan, closing his eyes as he tilts his head toward me. “Rowan,” he says softly, and oh, I want him to keep saying my name like that. His voice is gruff and raspy, and it makes every part of me tingle in anticipation. He says my name like it tastes good on his tongue. Like he wants to taste more of me. When the Prince stands, I don’t step back. His hands drift up my sides, brushing the fabric of my sweater.
“You have such beautiful eyes,” I whisper, immediately blushing. “I’ve never seen any that color before.”
“As soon as I opened my eyes, my mother knew she would call me Wolfe. Or so the story goes,” he says, a sad smile ghosting over his lips. Those beautiful lips. Full. Soft. So perfectly kissable.
