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“Why do you want to abolish the monarchy?” I ask.
“It’s an outdated institution with a bloated budget that sucks the life out of the citizens of Nord.” Her eyes are hard when they swing back to meet mine.
I nod but don’t answer.
“Why did the Queen tell you to come on tour?”
“To punish me for failing to serve an outdated institution with a bloated budget.” I push myself to my feet and walk to the bar across the cabin from us, feeling her gaze on my back. I take my time fixing two drinks, keeping my back to Jazz. Heat and lust still whip through the barren landscape of my body, kicking up sandstorms in every neglected corner of my heart. It feels like a war is being waged inside me, and Jacinthe’s presence only intensifies it. I should probably ask her to leave, but it’s the first time in a while I’ve felt…anything.
I pause as the realization hits me. I’ve been so busy drinking and fucking my way through life that I failed to notice how empty it all felt. Meaningless.
Being here, with a woman who hates everything I am, is the first time I’ve felt like a person and not a…thing. A prince. A symbol.
When I’m composed enough to turn around and hand Jazz her drink, she’s still sitting in her seat, staring out the window. She accepts it with a smile, her fingers just brushing mine. Her eyes crash against mine, and another jolt of energy sparks between us, just as it has every other time we’ve touched. A static shock that makes my whole body buzz.
She drops her eyes to her drink as I stand there, waiting for her to speak. When she does, she doesn’t say what I expect, and she looks almost…embarrassed.
“I have nothing to wear,” she says, her voice quiet. Brows tug together. “To the gala.” She takes a sip, and I become momentarily distracted by the movement of her lips against her glass. “I didn’t want some fancy event to taint the way I think about the monarchy, so I decided I wouldn’t go. No one ever publishes stories about the gala, and I assumed it was just an opportunity for journalists to rub shoulders with the royals. I didn’t want to be part of some elite club that never wanted me to begin with.”
When she lifts her eyes to meet mine, the look in her eyes… I swear, I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone as badly as I want to kiss her right now. It’s the mix of vulnerability, defiance, a touch of anger, and heat. My grip tightens around my glass, and I find myself reaching toward her, brushing my fingers over her cheek. It’s instinctual. I couldn’t have stopped myself if I tried—and Jazz doesn’t pull away. She closes her eyes for a beat, leaning her head toward the touch.
For a few perfect moments, we stay like that. I feel the warm silk of her skin beneath my fingers, brush my thumb over her pouty lower lip, pretend that I have a right to lean down and kiss her.
Jazz tilts her head toward me, mouth parted, as if she expects me to do just that.
Then, a noise in the staff area makes Jazz’s eyes snap open. She sets her drink aside and stands up with a jolt. “I should go,” she mumbles, and disappears down the stairs.
11
Jazz
In Farcliff, I don’t see Silas get off the plane. The press team is whisked away to our hotel, and I assume Silas is taken to his. We’re not told where he stays—probably for security reasons. The official itinerary is released in the morning every day, and we’re given a chance to attend any official event if we choose.
But right now, I wish things were different. I wish I could see him without the weight of everything that stands between us. Without official itineraries and security protocols.
My body is still on fire. Up there, on his deck of the plane, I felt something. It was deep, primal. I could sense every movement the Prince was making, and I just… I had to go. I had to run away.
After checking into my room and taking a shower, I lie back on the bed and stare at my laptop bag. I should really do some work, write some damning article about the waste and luxury I’ve witness on tour. Instead, I curl up in bed and replay every second of my interaction with the Prince.
Over, and over, and over again.
Hot and bothered doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel. I curl my hands into fists for a while, but I can’t resist. My hands skim under the thick hotel bathrobe and I drag my fingers through my arousal.
I shouldn’t do this. I really, really shouldn’t do this. How will I look Prince Silas in the eyes after I’ve touched myself to the thought of him?
But my body burns up, and I can’t resist. I’ve done this before—masturbating to the thought of Prince Silas. I did it the day after the party, and again before going on tour. Irresponsible? Probably. It doesn’t help the whole brain falling out of my head every time he’s around thing I have going on. I should probably stop doing it, but my body hasn’t been entirely under my control for the past week. I’ll take any release I can get.
It’s not until it’s over and the bliss has melted away that I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a groan.
It’s going to be a long tour.
I’m able to keep things professional for the week we spend in Farcliff. I attend the required press conferences and observe the Prince at his various outings. Will and I usually stick close together, and I enjoy his banter and snarky comments because they distract me from the bonfire caused by Silas.
And the Prince?
I see fire in his eyes. He searches me out in a crowd, then averts his eyes. It’s like we always know where the other is, always have that tether connecting us to each other.
But he doesn’t summon me, and I’m glad. Saves me the need to refuse.
