Page 11 of Fallen Crown

Maren

Prince Brice walks into the climbing center in a black tank top and shorts, tattoos and muscles on full display. There’s no bodyguard today. I may harbor an intense dislike for the prince, but I can’t deny his attractiveness. Light-brown hair, eyes that are more golden than brown, and a wide smile that toes the line between playful and cocky. Women have flocked to him like a magnet ever since I was old enough to notice. Fools, all of them.

The Bellerive Royal men are blessed by a genetic combination that renders each of them different but no less beautiful. Of course, the easy-breezy life Prince Brice lives doesn’t exactly lend itself to premature wrinkles and gray hairs. Training for this race just might give him both.

As he makes his way toward me, I’m surprised at how fluid his gait is. Between the run and the long paddle, he should be stiff and sore. While he looks fit, I didn’t actually expect him to be fit. All gloss and no substance. A flash of annoyance sparks in me that anything about him is surprising.

“All right, Tucker,” Brice says when he gets close enough. “What’s the latest torture disguised as training?”

“A little run and a small paddle are hardly torture,” I say as I gather all the clips and harnesses we’ll need to rock climb the hardest wall in the back room of the center.

“Is 10k is a little run to you?”

“Eight.” I throw our harnesses over my shoulder and head for the area I already reserved.

“Ten,” he says, and his jaw tightens as he falls into step beside me.

It was ten, and I cock my head, trying to decide whether he’s that good at judging distances or whether he typed our route into a map app and had the distance displayed for him. Likely the latter. Though his ability to almost keep up with me for as long as he did yesterday caused me to push myself harder than I’d normally be comfortable with, given the state of my ankle.

“Getting a taste for rock climbing today,” I say.

“Done it before.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve done it all before. Left no feat of athleticism untouched.” A day here or there of some activity in a foreign country arranged for PR purposes hardly counts as real experience. He doesn’t want to be seen as an amateur, and I don’t intend to treat him like one. Arrogance on the course will put everyone in danger, so he might as well face his ignorance during training. Luckily, I have no problem arranging a few hard knocks.

“I never say no to adventure,” Brice says.

“I have no doubt ‘no’ isn’t in your vocabulary.” There are photos all over the internet of him saying “yes” to all sorts of things. I open the door to the final room and sail through without holding it for him.

He grabs it with a grunt. “Everyone should live their life through a ‘yes’ lens instead of a ‘no’ one. Why limit the possibilities?”

“Not all experiences or possibilities are equal or”—I give him a long look—“worthy of my time.” Although it bothers me to hear him claim a philosophy so close to mine—too close to something I once said to Enzo in a crowded bar. “To be alive is to be challenged. Seeking out the next adventure is the best part.” My wiser, more knowledgeable self, cringes at my naivety. Not everything in life should be a yes. Some experiences are best left as a firm no. Save yourself the pain.

“Spoken like someone who hasn’t experienced nearly enough joy.” His hands are on his hips, and he’s surveying the giant wall in front of us.

His comment reverberates through me. When was the last time I experienced unadulterated joy? Not once since Enzo left, and even before he ditched Bellerive, I can’t put my finger on our final good day. In Chile, my fall wasn’t just physical.

“Where’s everyone else? Or did you give me a starting time thirty minutes before the team again?”

“Today was trainee’s choice.” Though Wren tried to pick rock climbing, saying she thought I needed to be supervised with Brice. Something about me committing murder, which I won’t do, at least not literally. Metaphorically murdering him doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Which isn’t what I told her, obviously. Coaches don’t pick favorites or the opposite of favorites, which is what he is. “Each team members has a different training goal for today.”

“I could have picked my own goal too,” he says.

“Oh?” I pass him a harness that needs to be put together. “What do you know about what it takes to race?”

“I’ve seen all the seasons.” He holds up the harness and stares at the buckles and straps.

“Bit like watching your team play in the NFL and feeling like you could step into the quarterback’s shoes during the Super Bowl.” I slip into my harness and begin buckling myself in. “You’re no Tom Brady.”

“Don’t you mean Nathan Fa’avae?” He weaves one of the straps through the wrong buckle, and I glance up at the high wall.

Naming one of the best adventure racers in the world isn’t exactly an incredible accomplishment. Two minutes with a search engine would have given him that, and if he’s truly watched all the seasons, the winners are always featured heavily. He drags the strap out and tries another loop.

“Need some help?” I ask.

“Depends.” He glances at me before drawing the strap taut in the wrong place. “Are you going to be helpful?”

“Since I’d prefer you didn’t die today, yes.” I tighten my own harness.