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That ring represents my father. It’s the last thing I have. It’s the only piece of jewelry I wear. The only thing I always have. Always.
As my vision clears, tears falling to the darkness below, I look over the edge of the handrail as panic winds around my chest. I need to find it. Need to see a little glimmer of gold in the rushes. Need.
I knew I shouldn’t have come to this stupid party. I should have spent the weekend at the office or buried under my blankets with a tub of ice cream to keep me company.
Not here—not in some part of the countryside I don’t know, where my father’s ring will be gone forever. My chest feels tight. My breaths are staggered, and it’s hard for me to piece my thoughts together. Panic blares in my blood, pumping ice-cold through my body.
I can’t even move. My eyes try to focus on the rushes below for a glimpse of gold, but…when did it get so hard to breathe?
Finally, piercing through the fear gripping my body, a voice sounds behind me. Deep, masculine, with a hint of amusement. “Didn’t think I’d find you here, Miss Piggy.”
Turning to see the source of the voice, I almost cackle. I’m unhinged. I want to laugh, if only to release some of the tension winding around my throat. Rhea would. Did she set this up? I wouldn’t put it past her.
Standing on the edge of the wooden platform overlooking the creek is none other than Kermit the Frog.
Well, it would be Kermit if Kermit were drop-dead gorgeous.
He’s wearing a crisp green tuxedo jacket with a mask covering his face. The jacket is cut in a way so the lapels look like Kermit’s collar, and there’s no mistaking the particular shade of green. Dark hair curls around the edges of the mask, and his eyes—
For just a second, I forget about my panic. I forget about my ring, about everything wrong with this weekend. I forget about the fact that I’m going to have to spend three months away from home, away from my mother, away from everything that feels familiar.
Deep, piercing blue, this man’s eyes look like they’d promise me the world, and I’d believe them. He takes a step toward me, each movement purposeful. Powerful. Lethal.
The man is wearing a green tux and a frog mask, yet everything inside me tightens. It’s… It must be the panic making me feel this way. I’m emotional. It’s not him. My lips part, but my mouth is too dry to say anything.
He closes the distance between us, saying nothing, then reaches up and wipes his thumb over my cheek. It comes away black with smudged mascara. Tilting his head, he searches my face. “What’s wrong, princess?”
That voice… I’ve heard that voice before. I know it. It sends an echo deep into my soul as an ache pulses between my legs. He’s familiar in a way I’ve never felt before. I know him.
I can’t think straight.
I close my eyes, dropping my head. I shake it as I gather myself, willing my voice to work. “I’m fine.” It’s a squeaky croak, sounding more like Miss Piggy than I could if I tried.
There it is again—his finger. The pad of his thumb swipes across my other cheek and I find myself exhaling as I tilt my head up toward him. Opening my eyes, I stare at the man.
“I’ll ask you again,” he says quietly, the noise of the music fading into nothing. There’s no one here but us. Everything seems to melt away except the feeling of his hand cupping my face, his body so close to mine. He smells like…what is it? Like man. Like sweet, spicy musk. I can’t think of anything except how good it feels to have him this close to me. He dips his head closer, lips just an inch from mine. “What’s wrong, princess?”
2
Silas
Now, I’m not going to pretend I’m a saint. I’m not going to stand here and tell you I haven’t made some questionable decisions in my life—mostly revolving around women. My sister, the Queen of Nord, would tell you I have terrible taste and even worse judgement. The royal media relations team would tell you I’m their own personal nightmare.
But even on the drunkest night, when I’m most intent on causing chaos in my own life, when all I want to do is destroy myself, I’ve never been attracted to a woman wearing a pig’s snout.
First time for everything, I guess.
As I wipe the mascara smudges off her face, a strange, heavy thumping bangs against my ribs. It’s my heart, I realize in some distant part of my brain.
The woman gathers herself up, every breath whispering over my fingers as she lifts her eyes to mine. Dark eyes. I wonder what she looks like under that snout? What her hair looks like when she’s not wearing a ridiculous yellow wig?
Her body, I can see clearly. Thin, wiry, as if she spends too much time drinking coffee and not enough time sitting down for a full meal. When she wrings her hands together, I notice the way her wrist bones protrude. How her collarbone sticks out from her dress, ribs lined below it.
An urge rises within me—I want to take her to dinner, but not to wine and dine her. I want to feed her. Protect her. Take care of her.
That’s…unusual. I frown, struggling to make sense of my own emotions.
She’s thin, but strong. Back steel-straight, even as a tear escapes her eye. She clears her throat. “My ring.” Her eyes shift over the railing to stare at the creek. “I dropped it.”
