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“I think you’ll find that’s patently untrue.” Another flash in his eyes—but this time a different kind of darkness.
Heat spreads through my stomach, warming my thighs and turning my blood to fire. Maybe Rhea’s right. Tonight, I should just let go. I should leave all my memories and troubles behind and let myself live.
Tomorrow, I’ll walk with her to the top of the Treo mountain ridge and honor my father’s memory. I’ll let my sadness overwhelm me and cry for him.
But tonight… Tonight, I could put that burden aside. I could stop worrying about classism and the scourge of the monarchy in Nord. I could strip away all the memories of Lord Birchal’s son and how he cleaved my heart in two. How he made me feel like less of a woman—less of a person.
Tonight, I could take my convictions and my political opinions and just…let them be quiet. I could kiss the man in front of me and feel the heat of his skin against mine.
I take a step closer to him, reaching for the lapel of his green jacket. He lets out a low groan, dipping his head down to stare at my face. My fingers slide up his neck, feeling the stubble prickling my fingertips as I reach his jaw. He watches me, eyes hooded, as I run my fingers over the outline of his lips, then higher still to brush the edge of his mask.
“I didn’t think I was into frogs before,” I say quietly.
“Curious choice of a costume, then.” He arches a brow, jerking his head toward the wig and snout I left lying on the grass.
I grin. “That wasn’t my choice.”
“Someone forced you at gunpoint to show up here dressed like Miss Piggy?”
“Metaphorically, yes.” My smile widens and I find the courage to lift my other hand to his face. His skin feels like magic. Warm, rough with stubble.
Months. It’s been months without something hard and male inside me. Months since I let a man thread his fingers through my hair and kiss me. It’s been months since I wanted to.
But right now, oh, it’s almost all-consuming. I can hardly think of anything except the feel of his skin beneath my fingers, the shape of his lips, the breadth of his chest as he stands unmoving in front of me.
A noise makes me jump. Looking over my shoulder, I see Rhea and her male companion standing on the deck above us. “Jazz!” she calls out, leaning her head against Zorro’s shoulder. “We’ve been looking for you. What are you doing down there?”
I take a step back from Kermit, forcing a smile onto my face. “I dropped my ring.” Holding up my hand, I show her the piece of jewelry. I can feel him behind me, as if every part of my awareness is tuned to him. Even as I look at Rhea above, I know exactly how far his leg is from mine. Where his arm hangs beside him. I sense the exact moment he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His hand brushes the small of my back, his scent enveloping me. His warmth is there, so close, so tantalizing. Even when I look at my friend above, my body screams at me to turn and stare at him.
I shift ever so slightly closer, feeling the pressure of his hand grow on the small of my back. His fingers brush the waistband of my panties, sending fire spreading through my body. I clench my thighs together, resisting the urge to close my eyes.
Then my gaze moves to her companion. Zorro’s deep brown eyes are on me, then shift to the man standing to my right. His eyes widen, and in one swift movement he takes a step away from Rhea and drops into a deep bow. “Your Highness,” he says. “I hadn’t realized you were here.”
Heat turns to ice. I feel the cold seeping up my legs from the ground below, holding me in place like a thousand frozen roots. My heart, which had been thumping so hard, feels like a lump of coal in my chest. Slowly, holding my breath, I turn to look at the man beside me.
It surprises me to find sadness in his eyes. He pinches his lips together, reaching up to pull the mask off his face. When his eyes meet mine again, he gives me a remorseful smile. “My name is Silas,” he says quietly. “But I guess you’ve figured that out.”
“You recognized me.” I take a step away from him—from the Prince of Nord. He drops his hand from my back, lifting it to rake his fingers through his hair. My eyes widen as I watch him, wondering how I didn’t see it. The perfectly tailored clothing. The air of aristocratic ease. The cocky smirk that hasn’t left his face since he walked up behind me.
He’s royalty.
The man who made me want to drop my panties is the symbol of everything I think is wrong with this country—with the world. Of course the first time I feel the desire to get in bed with someone, they’re wholly inappropriate. Isn’t that how I’ve always operated from the time I was a teenager until now? I always go for the wrong man. One who is sure to reject me. One who will throw my low status back in my face.
Prince Silas inclines his head. “When you said your name, I connected the dots.”
I shouldn’t care—we’re at a party in the middle of nowhere and all he did was help me find my ring—but a sense of betrayal winds its way through my heart like a worm through an apple. I gulp, taking another step back, but my shoe squelches through the muck and gets stuck. I yank at my foot again, but the suction holds strong. Flailing, I lose my balance.
I’m going to fall on my ass in front of the Prince of freaking Nord. Of course I am. I’m going to make a fool of myself and pretend I don’t care, but I care. I don’t want him to look at me with pity or contempt. I don’t want him to look at me like I’m some bumbling idiot. I don’t want him to throw my lack of grace back in my face.
I didn’t go to etiquette school. I didn’t have a governess to teach me how to walk and sit and stand and speak. I’m just a fucking commoner, and don’t they love to remind me of it.
My arms windmill, my body waves, but before I totally lose my balance, the Prince is there. His strong, solid arm sweeps around my waist as he pins me against his broad chest. God, does he have to smell this good? It shouldn’t be allowed. It’s not right.
Stupid rich prince with his stupid cologne and stupid perfect body. Of course he’s attractive—his whole life is coddled. He has people waiting on him hand and foot. I’m sure his cologne is somehow perfectly crafted for his particular scent. He probably has a chef and a personal trainer and someone on hand to inject his face with Botox if even a hint of a wrinkle appears.
No wonder he looks perfect. Asshole.
I want to pull away, but my hands are curled into his jacket. Somehow, my face is buried in his neck as his other arm circles around my waist as well. I’m pinned against him and…damn it, I like it, okay? I shouldn’t like it—I hate everything this man represents—but he feels good pressed up against me.
