The Wild Heir

  I smile. “That’s better. And actually, I was hoping to steal you away from your Lady over there so I can talk to you in private.”

  “What about?”

  I squint at her and then look over her shoulder at Jane who is sitting on an ottoman at the foot of the bed. “Is she always this grouchy in the evening? I would have thought giving her food would have helped.”

  “Clearly you’ve never owned a mogwai before, sir,” Jane deadpans.

  Ella looks back at her. “What did you just call me?”

  “Listen, Gizmo,” I tell her, pushing the door open further, “we have two weeks to get to know each other and I’m not sure if you’re here just to get a free trip to Norway or what, but at any rate, we need to talk.” I pause. “I have a game I’d like to play.”

  “What kind of game?” She looks both scared and curious.

  Good.

  “You’ll see.” I nod at Jane. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “Please,” Jane says with a dismissive wave. It’s only then that I notice she has curlers in her hair. “We were talking about rubbish which is what we usually do. Please take Ella and don’t bring her back for a long time.”

  “Jane,” Ella chides her, but I reach out and grab her arm.

  “Come on. I won’t bite,” I tell her, pulling her gently toward the door.

  “Unless I want you to, right?” she asks wryly but still lets me drag her out into the hall, the door shutting behind her.

  “I didn’t say it,” I tell her. I don’t let go of her arm either; instead, I slip my hand down until I’m holding hers.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, trying to wrestle her hand out of mine.

  “Holding your hand,” I tell her. “I’m dastardly like that.”

  “More like bastardly,” she mumbles under breath.

  “That’s the spirit,” I goad her. “A few more back and forths like that and it’ll be like we can hold an actual conversation.”

  She doesn’t say anything after that. Still holding her hand in mine, I take her down the stairs and into the parlor, sitting her down in a giant leather wingback chair beside the fireplace.

  “What are you having to drink?” I ask her, heading for the little bar cart I had Ottar help set up earlier. There may be fake fruit in the bowls but the booze is very real.

  “I’m okay,” she says.

  “Scotch then,” I tell her, filling her up a highball glass.

  She sighs as I bring it over to her and reluctantly takes it from me. “Thank you,” she says quietly, and I know that’s just an automatic reaction from her upbringing.

  “No problem.” I get my own glass and sit down across from her in another chair. The fire is roaring—courtesy of Ottar again—and everything looks downright cozy in here.

  Ella sits in her chair primly, her ankles crossed, taking delicate sips of her drink. A bird would drink it faster.

  She stares at the fire rather than at me, which gives me the freedom to stare at her. Her profile is rather cute, her nose turning up just slightly at the end. With the way the flames are lighting up her face and her hair, she’s positively angelic.

  My eyes drift to her bare shoulder where I don’t catch sight of a bra strap. The skin of her palm felt soft and smooth, and I can only wonder what the skin on her shoulder feels like. Silk, probably.

  I haven’t seen Ella expose much skin. At dinner with my family, her gown practically covered her all up except her lower arms. When she came to negotiate, she was wearing black pants and a white turtleneck. Today’s glimpse of her shoulder is probably the most I’ve seen of her skin.

  I know women think that wearing a revealing outfit is sexy, and while I have no objections to seeing a lot of leg, a lot of tits, or a lot of ass, there’s something equally as sensual as only showcasing one spot of skin.

  I’m starting to fixate on it, hyper-focus.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you have quite the intense stare?” Ella says, still not looking at me.

  I tear my eyes away from her shoulder and take a gulp of my drink. “I’ve heard it a few times. Nothing I can do about it. I feel things intensely most of the time.”

  I can tell she wants to roll her eyes. “So what is this game you speak of? Please tell me it’s not a drinking game because I’m not interested.”

  I let out a chuckle. “You’re in what, third year of university, living in a dorm, in Scotland of all places, the only other place I know that can match Norwegians for their drinking prowess, and you aren’t interested in drinking games? Please tell me you have a fun bone in your body.”

  Now I have her attention. She snaps her eyes onto me and I can’t help but smile at the sparks flying out of them, which probably only angers her more.

  “Just because I’m not out boozing and cruising with everyone else at school doesn’t mean I’m not fun. I’m fun.”

  “Okay, so tell me your idea of fun.”

  “Oh no,” she says, shaking her head. “Not with you. Your idea of fun is jumping off a cliff or racing a motorbike. Or filming a sex tape. Or getting herpes. My idea of fun will always pale in comparison to yours.”

  “Okay, first of all, herpes?” I scoff, leaning forward in my seat. “You don’t seem to play very fair.”

  She shrugs. “You started it. You said I wasn’t fun.”

  “For the record, I don’t have herpes,” I tell her. “I’m clean as a whistle.”

  She snort-laughs. At any other time it would have been adorable.

  “It’s true,” I protest. “I have the tests to prove it. And by the way, I think that’s a big plus going into this marriage.”

  She fixes her eyes on me with a pleading look. “Oh, please. Come on, Magnus, we both know this marriage isn’t happening.”

  I still. That catches me off-guard. “What do you mean?”

  She sighs and looks down at her glass as she swirls the liquid around. “I mean…let’s be reasonable here. This can’t possibly happen.”

  “Why not? You said you’d give it two weeks.”

  “I’m just buying time,” she says. “I mean, I meant it, but at the same time, now that I’m here…how is this even going to work? Do you really think in two weeks I’ll be able to look at you and agree to spend the rest of my life with you?”

  It shouldn’t sting but it cuts pretty deep. Thankfully my face shows nothing.

  “And you,” she goes on, “how can you think the same about me? If you do, it’s only because you have to. That’s the only reason we’re both here now. Because you have to be.”

  I clear my throat, feeling the wind taken out of my sails.

  She’s right.

  Or at least she was. If suddenly my father decided to call the whole thing off, said, I didn’t need to do this, if it was no longer his wish, would I part ways and never think about Ella again? Or would I pursue her relentlessly because there’s something inside me that’s determined to uncover who she really is? I joked that she didn’t have a fun bone in her body but the truth is I think she does. I think she’s just waiting for it to be exposed.

  “So I have to because it’s what my father wants,” I tell her. “And you have to because you don’t want to disappoint your own father. It doesn’t mean that we can’t have a little fun over the next two weeks.”

  She chews on her lip for a moment. “I thought you said I wasn’t fun.”

  “Prove me wrong then, Princess.”

  She doesn’t say anything but takes a rather large gulp of her scotch, coughing as it goes down.

  “Well, that’s step one,” I tell her. “Step two is playing the game. And no, don’t worry, it’s not a drinking game. It’s a getting to know you game. I call it…question tiiiiime!” I sing that last bit like it’s part of a game show.

  She cocks a brow. “Question time?”

  “Question tiiiiime! You have to sing it.”

  “And how do you play?”

  I’m actually making this game up on the spot and my mind
wants to run with it in a million different directions with dares and stunts and pop quizzes and verbal shoot-outs, but I decide to keep it deceptively simple.

  “I ask you a question. It can be any question I choose. You have to answer it honestly. There is no lying, no evading, no avoiding the question, no matter what it is. In return, you then get to ask me one question, only it can’t be a question I’ve previously asked you.”

  She wiggles her mouth in thought and makes a “hmmmm” sound.

  I go on. “We can play two times a day, morning, night, whenever the person wants to call it. And the most questions we can ask at a time are three. If you have more than three, you have to save it for later. But if I ask you three, you have to ask me three. If I ask you one, you have to ask me one.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” she says carefully.

  “Hey, you said you wanted to get to know me. I think by the time these two weeks are up, you’ll know me pretty well. And vice versa. Providing you’re not a liar.”

  “I’m not a liar,” she says haughtily.

  “Don’t get all high and mighty. According to your father, we’re currently engaged. What did you tell him anyway? You must have spoken to him after?”

  “Does this count as a question?”

  “No,” I tell her. “If it’s question time, you have to sing it. This is just me being curious.”

  She sighs long and hard and has another sip of her scotch. When I’m done with this woman she’s going to be drinking like a fish. “I didn’t speak to him. I spoke to Schnell. His butler. And I told Schnell to tell my father to keep things on the downlow because we are hammering out the details.”

  “Hammering out the details, huh? So that’s what this is.”

  “More or less.”

  “Definitely less hammering than I’m used to.”

  She shakes her head at that and a piece of golden hair falls in front of her eyes. She blows it off her face.

  She does a really good job of not looking at me most of the time. Which spurs my first question. “Okay. Question tiiime.”

  She swallows uneasily but sits up straighter. “What?” she asks, staring at the fire.

  I rub my lips together, trying to figure out the best way to get an answer. “Ella—oh, yes, that’s the other thing, we have to use each other’s names. Nicknames will suffice too. Okay, Ella…do I make you uncomfortable?”

  She balks at that. “What?”

  “You heard me. Do I make you uncomfortable?”

  “No,” she says. Her answer is weak.

  “Ella…be truthful. Don’t make me call you Princess Lying Pants.” I lean forward with my elbows on my thighs, watching her try not to twitch.

  She exhales sharply through her nose, taking a moment, her dark eyes seeming to wrestle with the truth. Finally she says, “Okay, a little.” She glances at me and for once seems apologetic. “I’m just…you’re very different from me. You’re older. You’re, well, a bloody prince. You’re…look, I don’t have a lot of experience with men like you.”

  “Or men in general?”

  “Is that an official question?”

  “No.” I have to save my questions. I have a lot.

  “Anyway, yeah. I guess. I guess I’m just socially awkward or something.” At that she finishes the rest of her drink and doesn’t even wince.

  I’m impressed.

  “You didn’t seem awkward at dinner with my family,” I tell her honestly. “And that wasn’t your average dinner with your average family either.”

  She shrugs and glances at me. There’s a softness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. It’s fucking beautiful. “I don’t know. I guess I just felt comfortable with them. Like they wanted me there, and no matter what I said or how weird I got about some things, they didn’t seem to judge me.” She pauses, looking away. “At least I hope they didn’t. They might be excellent actors. I guess you would have to be to be a royal.”

  “That’s not true,” I tell her. “I’m a horrible actor.”

  She tilts her head and glances at me thoughtfully. “I don’t know about that. I saw your public apology and I almost believed it.”

  “See?” I point my glass at her. “Almost.”

  “Well anyway, you were believable.”

  “I’ll have you know that I was being honest in that apology.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s true,” I tell her, my blood getting hot over that remark. “I am sorry it happened. I’m sorry for the people it embarrassed, especially my family. How the fuck was I to know something I did in private would be shared with the world?”

  “Is that a question?” she asks wryly.

  “No.” I take in a deep breath. “No. It’s just…I didn’t mean for that to happen. And I care what you think about me.”

  She laughs. “Are you serious?” Her eyes are wide and shining. “You don’t seem to care about anything.”

  I consider that. “Maybe I should care more about certain things. But you don’t know what goes on in my head. It’s a fucked up place to be. I care deeply about a lot of things.”

  “Like what?” she asks, tucking her leg under and facing me head on, suddenly interested.

  “Is that an official question?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Like you were before, I’m just curious.”

  “I don’t know.” I mean, how do you explain what you care about? Where do you start? Where do you stop? “I care a lot about my family. My father. My mother. My sisters. They mean the world to me.”

  “That I gathered,” she says. “Considering you’re getting married because of them.” She seems to think about that. “Can I ask you a question? Officially?”

  “You have to sing it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s the rules. For the first question of the bunch, you have to sing it. It’s like the official announcement. Or battle cry, depending on how things go.”

  She’s not impressed but she takes in a deep breath and goes, “Question time.”

  “No, no, no.” I raise my finger high in the air. “You have to sing it…question tiiime. Like in this high voice at the end, really drag it out. And you have to raise your finger in the air.”

  “This is ridiculous. You sound like Nic Cage.”

  “That’s exactly who you need to emulate.”

  “Fine.” She raises her finger in the air, brows raised expectantly. “Question tiiime.”

  “Perfect.” But inside I am laughing my ass off because she just did a pretty damn good impression of Nic Cage.

  “My question, Magnus,” she says, her face going serious, “do you want to be king?”

  Obviously I’ve been asked that question a lot, always by my family. This is the first time an outsider has asked me and I’m not sure how truthful I should be. What if I do end up marrying Ella and I am the king?

  As if she reads this on my face, she says, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to say anything or judge you. I just want to know. Personally, I wouldn’t be cut out for it and I don’t think many people are.”

  I nod, running a hand over my jaw, the stubble feeling scratchy against my fingers. It’s my own stupid game and I need to be as honest as I can be.

  “Yes and no,” I tell her, taking a breath before I explain. “It’s complicated.”

  “Most jobs are. Most families are.”

  “Yeah. And most of this is tied to family. We are royals. A monarchy. It’s all about family and the job, combined. There is deep shame in abdicating.”

  “So you would abdicate if you could?”

  “Oh, I can,” I tell her, something inside me pinching at the thought. “I’d just rather not.”

  “I’m not sure if you answered my question.”

  “The thing is…my father wants me to rule. Lord knows why when Irene is more qualified than I am.”

  “Irene…she’s your sister. How old is she?”

  “She’s a couple of years older than you. Twenty-four. But she’s
dead serious about everything in her life and has taken an interest in the monarchy and position more than anyone else has. She would rule with an iron fist. She would be steadfast in her role. I can’t think of anyone better.”

  “But she’s twenty-four,” Ella says slowly. “I would think that’s too young.”

  “She is too young for it. But sometimes I think her twenty-four is a lot older than my twenty-eight. If you haven’t noticed yet, I’m rather immature.”

  “You don’t say,” she deadpans.

  “Yes, well, perhaps we’re both too young. But the truth is, we may not have much choice. My father isn’t doing well, and…everyone—including him, maybe especially him—think that at the very least he should step back from his role for health reasons. Which means someone has to step in, and so far the world is expecting it to be me. I am the heir apparent and I have no reason to abdicate.”

  “Except that you don’t want the job.”

  I let out a long breath. “It’s not that I don’t want the job. It’s just that I am not built for it. As you said, very few people are, and I…well, I shouldn’t even run a McDonalds. I’m absolute shit at anything to do with organization, and after a week the company would be overrun with monkeys and knuckle deep in secret sauce.”

  She stares at me for a few moments, seeming to take me in. I have to say, I like it when she looks at me. I like the feeling that I’m finally registering to her. Though it might not be in the most complimentary way. What was I just talking about, secret sauce?

  “I know what you’re saying,” she says quietly, her eyes dropping to study her empty glass. “But perhaps you’d be better at it than you think.”

  I shrug and get up, grabbing the bottle of scotch. “I doubt it. But I appreciate your faith in me.” I go over to her and try to fill her glass but she places her hand over it.

  “I’ve had enough for tonight,” she says. “And if question time is over, I’d like to go to bed.”

  I take the bottle back, pretending not to be slighted, and sit back down in my chair, filling my glass to the brim.

  “I have one more question,” I tell her as she’s about to rise from her seat.

  She sighs and sits back down. “This is going to be a doozy, isn’t it?”

  I only grin at her. “You should know what to expect from me by now.” I clear my throat. “Listen, it’s only because of what we were talking about earlier. My first question. I asked if I made you uncomfortable and you said yes, because you don’t have that much experience around men like me…”