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“I’ll be just down the hall,” Asher says, pointing to a door, “if you need anything.” I can hear the teasing in his tone. The slight emphasis on the word anything. The laughter dancing in his eyes.
The urge to slap him is strong.
“Much appreciated.” My voice is frosty, but my core burns hotter. “I’m surprised you have a house here at all. I thought you’d be back in Farcliff as soon as you broke ground.”
Asher shrugs. “Maybe I’m planning on staying longer than that.”
He holds my gaze for a few moments as fire erupts low in my belly. My heart thumps hard at the thought of him staying—so close to me. Accessible. After a pause, Asher bows and heads back downstairs and out of view. I follow Frederick to my room, where my staff is unpacking an overnight bag that had been stowed in the plane. They bow to me and back out of the room, and I’m left alone to gather my racing thoughts.
With a sigh, I sit down on the edge of the bed, staring at the bare surroundings. There’s a nightstand and a double bed, and a closet with no coat hangers in it. If he bought this place, does it mean he intends to spend time in Nord? Maybe the reason he’s here isn’t just money for his father’s company. Maybe he was telling the truth when he said he was drawn here for another reason…for me.
My heart thumps and I squeeze my eyes shut. Those are dangerous thoughts, and ones I can’t afford to have if I’m going to be the Queen Nord needs me to be.
Frederick has my chef prepare a meal for my dinner, which I eat alone at the kitchen table. I pick at my food, barely finishing half the plate. I wonder where Asher is. After dinner, I ask to be left alone. Frederick is staying in the room next to mine, my security staff have rolled out sleeping mats on the ground floor, but I feel lonelier than I do in my big, empty castle in Stirling.
I lie back in bed, knowing sleep won’t come. Asher’s presence is everywhere. I hear a floorboard creaking down the hall, and my heart takes off.
Eyes squeezed shut, I try to regain control over my body. Asher and I talked about this. We have to keep things professional. What happened at Prince Gabriel’s wedding was a mistake. A slip of judgement. I should never have done it.
Now, we need each other professionally. He needs my approval for his diamond mining operation, and I need him to provide jobs and housing for the workers along with a boost to NRG’s operations. He’ll help prevent widespread protests and strikes, and I’ll make him a very rich man.
It’s business.
So why does it feel like so much more? Why does it feel like fate?
After twisting and turning for an hour or three, I finally swing my legs off the bed. Taking my silky, white travel robe off a hook on the door, I wrap it around myself and head downstairs. Not even knowing where I’m going, I find myself padding toward the kitchen. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I barely ate my dinner.
Silently, I tiptoe through the empty house. Guards are stationed outside, with their untouched sleeping mats laid out for later in the night. Most of them will probably stay outside until the small hours. I peer into living rooms devoid of furniture, wondering if Asher will actually establish himself here. Did he buy this house to stay, or is it just an empty symbol as a show of his commitment?
When I turn the corner to the kitchen, I let out a yelp.
Asher turns around, plate in hand, eating my leftovers from the fridge.
Oh—and he’s shirtless.
My eyes drift down his strong shoulders and over his perfectly formed chest. His skin is taut over his broad frame, cords of muscle moving in fascinating ways as he turns toward me. His stomach shows every ridge and valley of abdominal muscle, ending in deep grooves that lead all the way down between his legs. Loose, gray pants hang low on his hips. I stare at him, taking it all in. This is what I wanted to see at Gabriel’s wedding. This is what he hid from me, not letting me undress him.
My eyes snag on the left side of his body, where his scar extends down from his neck, covering part of his chest and wrapping around his side. The burn marks are still clearly visible, even decades after the accident. The skin is discolored and slightly raised, with wide bumps and ridges where healthy skin was grafted overtop. It looks like a patchwork of suffering and scars—the history of his pain, right there for the world to see.
“Asher,” I whisper, unsure what I want to say.
“Majesty.” His growly voice rattles through me, his eyes trained on mine. He lowers the plate of food to the counter, letting his arms hang loosely at his sides. One hand rises to touch the edge of his scar, near his heart, and my eyes flick up to his.
Slowly, Asher turns. I see the burn marks on his body extending all the way around his back, with rugged edges that look like the map of an unknown land. Somehow, I find myself walking toward him. Drawn to him. I step around the kitchen island as he glances at me, eyes dark.
“I guess it’ll be easier to keep things professional now that you’ve seen what lies beneath,” he says, dark smoke shrouding his words.
My fingers reach for his skin. It’s warm as my hand skates over his chest, teasing the edge of his scar. The skin, uneven and strangely smooth, feels like magic under my fingers. Heat teases through my chest, sinking low down into my stomach. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper. It’s a stupid thing to say to a man with a body like Asher’s. He’s all muscle and brawn, with a scar that makes him look like some kind of warrior god. He’s arrogant, cocky—he knows how good he looks.
But when my eyes flick up to Asher’s, I see surprise in his eyes—and something else. It’s the same thing that’s plagued me for weeks. The same thing that’s twisted my stomach in knots since I crossed the threshold of his new home.
Hot, needy desire.
12
Asher
When people see my body, they usually recoil. Sometimes it only lasts an instant, but I see it. There’s a flash of surprise, then disgust, and occasionally pity, which is somehow worse.
