“You didn’t get much etiquette training, did you?” His grin widens.
“I think respect is earned, Your Highness.” I spit the words.
“You might as well call me Wolfe if you’re going to say my title like an insult every time.”
“That would imply a level of amiability between us, and I don’t like to lie.” I give him a saccharine smile. “Your Highness.”
11
Wolfe
When we step outside, the dogs are excited. Rowan looks terrified.
I grin. “Don’t worry, Miss Reed. You’re in safe hands.”
“What, yours?” She arches a brow. “Remind me again why I should trust you?”
“I’ve already saved your life once, haven’t I?”
“So you keep reminding me.” Her pink lips press together, the cold air making her nose redden. She hikes her shoulders up, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “It’s colder than it looks out here.”
“It’ll only get worse.”
“Just another reason for me to get out of Nord as soon as possible,” she says under her breath.
I glance at Rowan as something twinges in my chest. She wants to leave? I shake my head and walk toward the sled. Of course she wants to leave. She probably wants to go see her grandmother and get back to somewhere more temperate for the winter.
Why does that make my chest constrict?
I don’t want her here. I’m not looking for another woman to save—that worked fairly horrendously the first time. Not only did I fail to save Abby, I had to watch her die in my arms—and then have videos of the moment played over and over and over again, every year, just to remind myself how useless I was when Abby really needed me.
Why would I want another woman in my life? Especially one as ill-equipped for this place as Rowan.
As Harvey straps up the dogs and checks the gear on the sled, I walk to the front of the pack. Chief sits patiently, his head thrown back as the proud leader. He’s always been the one to listen to my commands, and the one that other dogs follow most obediently. The natural alpha.
Chief chose Rowan to sleep with. Lifting my gaze to the sled, I watch as Harvey explains to her how mushing works. He points out the basket of the sled, the front portion that she’ll occupy, and where I’ll stand behind her. Rowan glances up at me, her face immediately schooling itself to hide her fear.
My lips tug. It’s hard not to enjoy her company, all attitude and false toughness.
If I hadn’t grown up around dogs, I suppose I’d be nervous too. I walk back toward Rowan and Harvey, jerking my head to the basket. “Hop in.”
Rowan takes a deep breath and takes her seat. I nod to Harvey and stand behind her, my legs resting against her back. My hand drifts over her shoulder, squeezing gently. She leans back ever so slightly, and…I like it. That tiny movement that tells me she’s comfortable being here. With me.
I stiffen. That’s not why she’s here. She’s here for work, and I’m here to ride out the worst month of the year. I’m here to get away from all the memories I can’t erase. I’m here to stay away from women like Rowan, who make me want to save them when I should be pushing them away.
I grab the driving bow, the handle I’ll be holding during the ride, and put an inch of space between me and Rowan. She feels the distance and doesn’t lean back.
Good.
“Hike!” I shout the command, and the dogs start moving. Rowan lets out a sigh, sitting up in the sled to watch the landscape pass us by. I relax, trying to forget that she’s here. It’s just me and the dogs, and the landscape I’ve always loved.
But how can I forget that Rowan’s here? How can I ignore the warmth of her body so close to my legs? How can I stop myself from glancing at her copper hair, the profile of her face, her soft lips?
“This is incredible,” Rowan says, turning her head to smile at me. She looks fucking beautiful in the bright winter sunshine. With pink cheeks and a little red nose from the cold, and her freckles dusted across her face, I’m pretty sure she’s part goddess.
“Wait until we really get going.” I grin. Her hand grips the edge of the sled, a smile tugging at her lips.
I shouldn’t be enjoying spending time with her. I should be keeping my distance. I shouldn’t be thinking about protecting her from the cold, or the storm, or hypothermia, or any other threats that might exist up here.
“Haw!” I call out, and the dogs turn left. We cross the snow-covered meadow as we make our way toward the visitor’s cottage, cold air whipping around us. The dogs run like a dream. Like they’ve missed this as much as I have. I lead them past the cottage and onto the trail that leads up to the nearest ridge. Rowan doesn’t protest. Her head spins around to take in the sights as she takes deep breaths of the clean, fresh air. There’s just something about cold, snowy air that tastes better.
When we pass through some snow-covered pine trees and travel up the wide trail, I slow the dogs down and sink the sled’s snow hook into the ground as an anchor. I hop off the sled, extending a hand to Rowan.
“Come on.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“If you want to redesign this palace, you need to understand how it sits on this land. You need to understand the arctic. The snow. Everything.”
Plus, I want to see her face when she has the world at her feet.
Rowan smiles, pulling herself up and taking my hand. Even with gloves on, it feels right to have her beside me.
No. Stop.
She’s nobody. I’m lonely. Abby’s memory still stings, and I’m just looking for comfort, that’s all. I have an addiction to saving damsels in distress. Rowan came into my life nearly dead, and it hit me right in my weakness, at a time where I was most vulnerable. It’s my dumb brain making connections that aren’t there.
Right?
Rowan takes a step onto the trail and promptly slips into a tree well—the softer snow at the base of a tree. She yelps and I lunge for her, catching her arm as she falls.
Rowan laughs, accepting my help to climb out from the soft snow. When she stands in front of me, I don’t let go. My hands find the bottom hem of her jacket, skating across the clothes she’s wearing underneath.
Clear, blue eyes stare up at me, her hands resting on my jacket. “Your Highness,” she says softly, and this time, it doesn’t sound like an insult. She blinks, her tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip.
I want to kiss her. Desperately. I want to taste those pink lips and feel the warmth of her core. I want to see how her body splits open when she comes, pleasure written all over her face.
It’s because I’m weak. Because no matter what, I can’t resist a woman who needs my help. Who doesn’t know how the world works up here, and who needs a protector. I pull away, jerking my chin past her shoulder. “This way.” I stalk ahead, ignoring the thumping of my heart and the heat that wraps around my spine.
Then…thunk.
Something hits me in the center of the back. I pause, frowning, and turn to see Rowan leaning over to ball up another handful of snow.
She giggles, winding back to throw a snowball at me. It flies wide to the right, missing my head. Rowan stands tall, staring me down. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to defend yourself?”
“Rowan, are you challenging me to a snowball fight?” I don’t miss the sharp intake of breath when I say her name. If only she knew how good it tasted on my tongue and how badly I want to growl it softly in her ear.
Instead of answering, Rowan leans over and gathers up another handful of snow. I stand there, letting her throw it at me, arching an eyebrow. It hits my shoulder and explodes in a puff of white.
When I don’t move, Rowan’s shoulders drop. “You’re no fun.”
Before she can react, I grab a handful of snow and throw it at her, hitting her square in the neck. She squeals, brushing the snow off as it falls down the back of her jacket. I rush her, circling my arms around her waist and hauling her over my shoulder. Rowa
n giggles, thumping her gloved fists on my back. I laugh, almost surprised that the sound is coming from me.
I can’t help it. She makes me want to laugh. Smile. Have a snowball fight for the first time in decades.
I carry Rowan toward the lookout, tossing her into a big snowbank and watching her sink down, arms and legs sticking up in the air.
She pushes her hat back from her forehead and blows a strand of hair away from her face, grinning. “Fine. You win.”
“Of course I win.” I smirk. “What did you think was going to happen?”
She extends a hand toward me and I yank her upright, spinning her around to look at the landscape that extends below us. My arms rest on her shoulders and she leans back against me, letting out a long sigh. “Wow.”
“Now, do you understand?” I say softly. “You need to appreciate this place if you’re going to redesign it properly.”
“I hate to say this,” Rowan says, turning to glance at me over her shoulder, “but you might actually be right in this one particular situation.”
My lips tease into a grin. “You’re too sassy for your own good. Have you forgotten that I’m a prince?”
“How could I forget when you keep reminding me every four freaking seconds?” She nudges her shoulder against me. “Check your ego and maybe you’ll get more respect from me.”
Rowan steps away from me and looks back, arching a brow.
Heat winds through my core, and I know I’m in trouble.
Rowan doesn’t need to be saved. Doesn’t need to be protected. She’s not some damsel in distress who needs me to swoop in and be her champion. Rowan is stronger than that—and it makes me want her even more.
12
Rowan
Dog sledding is something I never knew was missing from my life. It’s exhilarating and peaceful. It’s quiet, fast, and makes me feel an odd sort of power. There’s nothing but the soft clinking of the harnesses and guidelines, the breathing of the dogs, the scraping of the sled along the white snow.
There’s no motor. No smell of gasoline. No artificial warmth and comfortable leather seats. Just me, the Prince, the dogs, and the quiet natural beauty that surrounds us.
I can’t believe I thought this place was harsh and unforgiving. When I first arrived at the train station, I hated Nord. I hated the cold. I hated the fact that I was alone and afraid. I hated that no matter what my heritage says, I’m not from here.
Now?
I see past the cold to the beauty beyond. Every minute that passes, I watch as the Prince relaxes, unwinds, and shows me more of himself.
As we ride toward the visitor’s cottage, I glance back at him and see him smiling. Truly smiling. Not a mocking smirk, or a triumphant grin. Just a soft tug of his lips as he watches the dogs run ahead of us.
My heart squeezes—shit. That’s bad. This isn’t some heady desire winding its way through my core. This is more.
Last week, I thought he was the biggest asshole to ever walk this earth, and now I think I might like him? Unacceptable. Wrong on so many levels.
The only way this can end is in disaster.
He’s royalty, for one. People open doors for him wherever he goes, moving up and down so much to bow and curtsy they probably get seasick. He’s lived in luxury since he was born.
And me?
Mom struggled with three jobs and died in poverty, saddled with debt with a brave smile on her face. I watched her work herself to the bone, slowly being worn down by life’s constant assault. Putting me first all the time and protesting when I tried to sacrifice for her, for once. No one curtsied for her. No one bowed for me or called me Your Highness. I had to work from the time I was fourteen until now. I’m under no illusion as to how difficult life really is.
The Prince and I come from different worlds. Even if we did have some connection, it would never work.
My head is a mess.
I’m not here for him. I’m here for work.
Work is what I do best. It’s my anchor in a stormy world. It’s the only thing that gave me purpose after my mother died. Work is the only thing that gave me the opportunity to have true independence. To stand on my own and know I’m a burden to no one. It’s everything to me.
So why do I feel like it doesn’t even matter right now?
We arrive at the visitor’s cottage and the Prince tosses me a set of keys.
“I need to take care of the dogs. You go inside.” The Prince goes around the side of the building, where I see another door leading to kennels.
I turn away from him and head for the door. When I step inside and out of the cold, I pull my gloves off and let out a long breath. My gaze travels up to the ceiling to see the soot stains from centuries ago. I take in the old room, a big, rectangular hall with a small dais at the other end. Probably where a throne once sat.
History is woven into these walls. I can feel it. The old stones have witnessed centuries. Kings and queens and normal people who lived in this land long before us. And…I didn’t even know this place existed. My original design didn’t take it into account at all, but I can’t ignore it now. This place needs to be preserved. Restored. Celebrated for what it is.
This is the birthplace of Nord, and it’s as important to the history of this kingdom as the Summer Palace.
I take off my jacket and throw it over a hook on the wall, then pull my hat off and comb my fingers through my hair.
The door opens behind me and a cold blast of air follows. The Prince stomps his feet, blowing a breath into his hands. He brushes past me and moves to the big fireplace on the side wall, starting a blaze within moments.
Maybe not a coddled, arrogant prince, after all. Why do I find it sexy that he knows how to start a fire?
The firelight casts shadows and light across his angular features, and I find myself walking toward him. He’s crouched near the fireplace, and when I approach, he turns his head to look at me. My hand drifts over his strong jaw, his stubble prickling at my fingertips.
The Prince lets out a low groan, closing his eyes as he tilts his head toward me. “Rowan,” he says softly, and oh, I want him to keep saying my name like that. His voice is gruff and raspy, and it makes every part of me tingle in anticipation. He says my name like it tastes good on his tongue. Like he wants to taste more of me. When the Prince stands, I don’t step back. His hands drift up my sides, brushing the fabric of my sweater.
“You have such beautiful eyes,” I whisper, immediately blushing. “I’ve never seen any that color before.”
“As soon as I opened my eyes, my mother knew she would call me Wolfe. Or so the story goes,” he says, a sad smile ghosting over his lips. Those beautiful lips. Full. Soft. So perfectly kissable.
We’re so alone here. Isolated. Nothing but the fire to keep us company. Would it be so very wrong to kiss the Prince? To feel those lips on mine and enjoy the touch of his broad, strong hands? Would I regret it tomorrow if I enjoyed his eyes drinking me in? All of me?
As the fire crackles beside us, it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels like the only right thing that has ever happened. Every hour I’ve spent building up my architecture firm has led me right here, to this moment. I tilt my head toward him, parting my lips. Asking for a kiss. Wanting him to take it. To take me.
But the Prince drops his chin and backs away, letting his hands fall away from my sides.
Disappointment crashes into me, closely followed by embarrassment. Silly girl. Of course the Prince doesn’t want to kiss me. Who am I, anyway? A young architect who naively thought she designed a beautiful palace when she didn’t understand the first thing about this kingdom. Why would he want to kiss me?
Wind rattles against the door, and the Prince walks to a window. His brow furrows. “Storm’s coming in.”
“Another one? Should we go back?”
He shakes his head. “It’s too late. The storms come in quick over the mountains, and it could be here within minutes. We could get lost and not make it back. It’s not worth th
e risk. We’ll wait it out.”
“Here?” I ask. “Alone?” I wish my voice didn’t tremble so much.
The Prince swings those amber eyes toward me, tugging his jacket’s zipper down. “Is that a problem?”
“I…” I clear my throat. “No. Of course not.”
Instead of answering, the Prince turns his back to me and tosses his jacket on a hook. I watch him strip off his scarf and hat, kick off his shoes, and readjust his other layers of clothing with a sort of sick fascination. He unbuttons his next layer, folding the sweater neatly and laying it on a bench by the door.
What if he…didn’t stop? Just kept undressing until we were alone here, naked, cut off from the world?
Blinking, I turn away.
What. Is. Wrong. With. Me.
I need to get a grip. Walking to the opposite end of the cottage, I start studying the walls. The artwork. The rugs. The intricate tile work on the dais, and the way the floor is brighter in a patch in the center where a throne once sat.
I look anywhere but at the Prince.
When I finally gather my courage and look back, he’s sitting in front of the fire, watching the flames. Lost in his own thoughts.
Definitely not lusting after me, so I can get that little fantasy right out of my head.
Taking a deep breath, I walk back to him and take a seat on the opposite armchair. He lifts his gaze to me, darkness dancing in his eyes. My chest constricts.
“Storm sounds bad,” I say. Good choice, Rowan. The weather. Stick to that topic. Definitely don’t mention how much you want to lick his chest.
The Prince grunts. He leans back, his long limbs stretching toward the fireplace as he lounges in his chair. My eyes snag on every inch of exposed skin. A little strip at his ankle. A tiny triangle at his waist. His rolled-up sleeves revealing muscular forearms.
I turn to stare at the fire. It’s safer.
“You can look, you know. I don’t mind.” The Prince flashes a grin at me, and my whole head bursts into flame.
Lone Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected Book 7) Page 8
