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Asher
Prince Gabriel’s wedding is beautiful, I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing. I spend most of it staring at the back of Penelope’s head. The complicated twists of her blond hair capture my attention for minutes at a time. The sun catches the strands as she moves, gleaming when she gracefully bows her head and reveals the column of her neck, the pearl of every vertebrae straight all the way down her spine. Every inch of her is enchanting. I want to run my fingers up her back and sweep them over the nape of her neck. How does her hair look when she lets it down? When it cascades over her shoulders and frames her beautiful face?
She’s sitting near the front—a place fit for a queen.
My seat, on the other hand, is in the back row. Childhood friend and rich businessman I may be, but I’m no noble. Just like in boarding school. My family was wealthy enough to send me there, but my father’s fortune was self-made. I was always half a rung below the rest of the kids. I saw it in the way they sneered at my last name. How they made fun of me when I didn’t know someone’s proper title or family history. How they laughed when I said I never played polo.
Except Penelope. The little queen who treated me as her equal.
When the bride and groom walk back down the aisle, Gabriel puts his hand on Lady Jolie’s stomach and looks like the happiest man alive. His daughter, Flora, slips her hand into Jolie’s, and the overjoyed family walks back toward the castle together. My gaze shifts to Penelope, whose face is completely still. I’m the only one who notices the flash of pain that crosses her features, and how quickly it disappears behind a smooth mask. I can tell it’s a mask she’s honed to perfection over the years. One she wears often.
It doesn’t take me long to walk through the crowd and stand beside her. Another cocktail hour is beginning while Gabriel and Jolie greet their guests. Gabriel comes straight over to the two of us, wrapping me in a big bear hug.
“Gerhard,” he grunts, pulling away. His hands are on my shoulders, pure joy blazing in his eyes.
“Highness.”
“Oh, shut up.” He laughs. “You refused to call me anything but Gabe when we were kids, and I don’t expect that to stop now. Here, meet my wife.” His beaming bride nods to me, extending a hand. She glances at Gabriel, one hand on her stomach, unable to stop herself from smiling.
It’s sickening—their love. Beside me, Penelope tenses. She paints a forced smile on her face and congratulates the couple, speaking in platitudes that sound appropriate for a queen and not an old friend.
Within seconds, Gabe is whisked away to another guest, and Pen and I are left alone. My brows climb up my forehead. “You okay?”
Gulping, Penelope nods. “Fine. Just…weddings, you know? All that…happiness.” She pinches a smile and shakes her head. “Sorry. Debbie Downer.”
“Never apologize. I happen to think weddings are torture, and I’m planning on leaving as soon as I can.”
Penelope’s shoulders soften, and she flicks those ice-blue eyes my way. A jolt of heat pierces my stomach and I lean in Penelope’s ear, inhaling the sweetness of her perfume. “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper.
Her eyes widen. “And go where?”
“See how this palace compares to yours.”
Penelope rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch into a smile.
“Come on, Pen,” I whisper. “Just like old times.”
A flash crosses her pale blue eyes, and warmth knots in my stomach. She rests her hand on my arm and lets me lead her around the perimeter of the tent. My heart hammers as we walk, but I gather every scrap of composure and use it to keep my breath steady and my steps measured.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Reginald Donovan downing a glass of champagne in one gulp. Now would be the perfect time to try to pull information out of him. He’s tipsy and distracted by all the beautiful women around, which means he’s vulnerable.
Any other day, I’d be beside him, asking him just the right questions to find out what he’s planning, and why he doesn’t seem scared of the Gerhard Corporation acquiring his sorry excuse for a company. I’d be in his ear, intimidating him and letting him know that this merger will go ahead, whether he likes it or not. Whatever he’s planning is irrelevant.
Now, though? With the Queen of Nord hanging off my arm and a new kind of warmth flowing through my body?
Donovan can wait.
Pen and I walk around the side of the castle behind the rose garden. She glances over our shoulder.
“Anyone notice us leaving?” Not that I care.
“Probably.” She laughs, the sound making my heart thump. Glancing at her, I catch the tail end of the laughter on her face. Bright, open, and so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache. I want to make her laugh again, all the time, every day.
Intertwining my fingers with hers, I pick up the pace. She giggles, jogging alongside me before telling me to stop. I watch her lean over to slip off her heels, flashing a smile at me. Mischief gleams in her eyes, and another tug jostles my heart.
“Torture devices,” she huffs. “Heels are my least favorite part of being a monarch.”
“I can think of torture devices that might be more fun.” The words slip out of my mouth, and I half-expect Penelope to pull away.
