Scandalous Prince

by Rachel Van Dyken

  I bit back a curse. “Who’s asking for the intel, and how can we tell who’s in on it?”

  He looked on the next page and the next.

  And at the very bottom of the documents was a contract between Mil De Lange and Victor Petrov—signed in blood, dated a year before Violet was born.

  “Russians,” I whispered in horror. “It seems like they’ve gotten tired of Andrei’s leadership.”

  “Because he’s half.” Junior sneered, looking ready to rip the papers in half. “And they think we’re bad when it comes to blood.” He kicked a rock and then another. “That means Andrei knows, which means my dad knows, but what the hell does it have to do with Breaker?”

  “Collateral damage.” I started dropping the pages into the fire one by one, more secrets would die with those I loved, they would burn. “The cost of knowing too much or being in the wrong place at the right time, or maybe a combination of both.”

  My mind flashed to the last year and how he and Violet had started acting strangely and how he was constantly looking over his shoulder when he was with her.

  Now we would never know why.

  Because Breaker Campisi was dead.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A fool with a crown on his head and enemies who lie—I saved the world, and I didn’t even try, to be anything but what I was born to be, prince of the East—Russian Royalty. —Valerian Petrov

  Valerian

  I got out of the Denali, greeted by Sancto, whose normally chipper demeanor was as grim on the outside as I felt on the inside.

  “Good day at the office?” He approached, his brown eyes searching for the answer he’d been waiting for—the answer they’d all been waiting for since my birth, it seemed.

  “Yes.” I held my head high. “It seems we’ve decided that the merger wasn’t entirely working out for us. I’ve made some changes I think the men will find… inspiring.”

  His grin was wide, and then his eyes filled with tears as he reached out and grabbed my hand in his, pulled me against his chest, and kissed my forehead. “Mother Russia would be proud; your mother would be proud.”

  “May God bless her soul,” I whispered in Russian.

  “We celebrate!” Sancto shouted, earning more shouts of appreciation throughout the yard as men in suits acted more like men who’d been freed from a prison they didn’t even realize they’d been in.

  For years under a thumb they despised, looking for the long lost boy, the only one who could potentially get them out.

  And free them all.

  But at what cost?

  They were free, and now I was the one behind the bars, the crown heavy on my head as I watched them for the first time in what seemed like days actually smile.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, the readout showing unknown. “Yes,” I answered.

  “It’s done.” The voice was cold as expected. “I’ll contact you depending on how the next few days go. There will be fights. Blood. And there will be retribution, but you must—”

  “I know.” I interrupted. “I know what I have to do.”

  “We all have choices.”

  “Not me.” I lowered my voice. “Not me.”

  “The crown is only heavy because it’s new, you’ll get used to the ache, and then you’ll yearn for its power. Trust me.”

  “I do.” I sighed. “Trust you, that is. Otherwise—”

  “—Otherwise, this would have ended badly.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s not herself,” he said after a few seconds. “I thought you should know.”

  I let out a bitter laugh. He was joking, wasn’t he? “How the hell would anyone be okay after that news?”

  I wasn’t okay, and I was used to this.

  “It’s the mafia.” His simple clipped answer as if it made everything better like a Band-Aid you put on a mortal wound and wonder why the person’s still bleeding out.

  I mentally rolled my eyes as another SUV pulled up. My heart stilled in my chest. “It’s her, I’ll talk with you later.”

  I quickly made my way inside so she wouldn’t see me. After all, if she was going to be mine, if she wanted to be the princess in the high castle, she had to choose it in her own timing.

  And tonight was not the night.

  Death and rebirth rarely happen in the same twenty-four hour period.

  I waited in the shadows as she attempted to hold her head high upon entering the mansion. Her cheeks were stained with tears, her eyes swollen. Never had I wanted to touch her more, hold her close, kiss away the sadness that I would never be able to fix.

  Because this was my fault to begin with.

  And if she knew that—she’d reject me—and I wasn’t sure I could handle that sort of death, the death of love, the death of hope that she put there when she kissed me last night.

  She moved through the house like a ghost, slowly she took the stairs even as Sancto offered her a glass of champagne.

  That wasn’t going to get her through the night or last longer than two minutes. She was grieving.

  And I hurt for her, so far inside my chest that no matter what I did, it burned.

  “Sir.” Sancto appeared behind me. “Your mask.”

  “It’s only until she trusts me until she sees me and not the scars.”

  He frowned. “The scars on your thighs?”

  “The ones on my soul.”

  “Ah, those ones, yes, I see those too. They’re ugly and beaten to a pulp, those scars, but some might say they made you what you are today.” His brown eyes bore into me.

  I sighed. “And what’s that?”

  “A leader.” He bowed, and then he was gone, his footsteps light enough to make him more spy than butler.

  I donned the red and black mask one more time, hoping it would be my last as I took the stairs, following her familiar scent, the one that haunted my dreams, my nightmares.

  She was in our room.

  The bathtub was running.

  And under the noise of water filling the tub as a toe peeked out from the room, I heard the sobs.

  Sobs for a man she’d loved.

  Sobs for a chance she would never get again.

  Sobs for a life that was forever altered by one choice.

  Choices.

  I was out of them.

  Now I was living through them.

  And it hurt like fuck.

  Slowly, I rounded the corner. She didn’t even see me as I knelt next to the bath, reached for the body wash, pouring it onto the loofah as I slowly washed her.

  She said nothing.

  She didn’t cover herself.

  Just stared straight ahead as I washed her back, her neck, between her perfect breasts as water trailed down the middle.

  “He’s gone,” she whispered.

  “I know.” My voice caught. “I wish I could take this from you…”

  But all of us had our burdens, and this, this moment would be hers, and then I would take it from her when I could. But she would need to mourn Breaker Campisi. He at least deserved that much.

  My throat threatened to close up as I dipped my hands in the water, cupping it and spreading it all over her smooth skin.

  I loved her curves.

  Her heavy breasts.

  The small mark beneath her chin from fencing class that day I had watched by the tree.

  “I will be ready.” She finally looked at me, her blue eyes locking with my gaze in precision that I’d only ever seen in my enemies. “I will be ready for you to say yes, to this… to all of this, but I need—I need just one night where you tell me a story, where you let me cry.”

  I frowned. “One night seems very… little.”

  Her smile was sad. “He took all the pieces, Valerian, I hope you know that. The one you had was stolen, the ones he had were gifts, and I can’t take those gifts back and give them to you. I’m afraid there’s nothing left because I’ll always belong to him in a way, even though I’m bound to you.” A tear slid down her cheek; I
caught it with my thumb, swiping it away. “I’m sorry.”

  “I can think of no better way to leave this earth than with the knowledge that he held something so special in his hands, and he didn’t have to steal it, to get it,” I finished.

  She reached up and touched my hair. “Your accent, it’s stronger when you’re emotional.”

  She really had no idea, the restraint. No idea. “I can’t seem to help it around you.”

  “I like it.”

  I don’t.

  “What can I do for you right now? What does my princess need?”

  She was stoic for a minute and then burst into tears and sobs. “A hug, I just need a hug.”

  Without saying anything more, I grabbed a towel, then picked her up into my arms and carried her into the bedroom. I dried her off as carefully as I could. Then I moved to her semi-wet hair. I pulled it into a low ponytail, so it was out of her face, and then I drew her into my arms and whispered, “The prince was scared of so many things. Would his princess leave him? After all this time? Was she bored? Did she still love him despite his many sins? And then the day arrived, or the week that is.”

  “What happened?” Her voice was rough from crying.

  “The princess visited her mother and was given a magic candle that would allow her to see the king at night. She was so eager to see his face, to reveal his secrets that she took it. And later that week, a day before he was to be broken of the spell, he visited her, and she used the candle.”

  Violet turned in my arms and clung to my shirt with her fingertips. “She betrayed him.”

  “No.” I cupped her chin. “He failed her.”

  Her brow furrowed. “How?”

  “He should have been honest from the start. He should have found a way to tell her to let her see.” I slowly started to twist her hair between my fingertips. It was a bad habit, one I would never quit. “He should have fought, and now that she’d seen him, even though the curse was almost broken, he was summoned by the witch into her realm to serve.”

  Violet scooted closer, laying her head on my arm. “So, what did she do?”

  I smiled. “She fought for him even though some may say he didn’t deserve her loyalty, her love—and in the end, the brave princess, saved her prince, her soon to be king.”

  She licked her lips. “You’re eyes…”

  “What about them?” I held my breath.

  “Against the black, they seem so bright, for a minute, I just…” Her own filled with tears. “Imagined a world where life was fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair, and my eyes only look that bright because of the mask you choose for me to keep on.” I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her nose. “You can always take it off, Violet, when you’re ready.”

  She sucked in her lower lip. “I’m afraid. Not of your scars, but I’m afraid…” Her eyes filled with tears again. “I’m afraid I’ll like you, and that feels like betrayal.”

  My chest cracked. “It’s okay to like more than one person, Vi. I promise I won’t tell.”

  “What?” Her eyes narrowed. “What did you just call me?”

  “Vi.” I smiled. “It works, right? I mean, we are married…” I took her left hand in mine and kissed the back of it.

  “Right.” She clutched my hand and then looked down at the small sickle tattoo on my left ring finger, the one given to me as a child—marking me. “Do you think you could kiss away some of the sadness?”

  I thought back to all the times I was forced to hide that tattoo.

  “Only if we play another game to distract you from your broken heart.”

  She looked away. “I had a thing planned for us today, you know, I moved it to tomorrow, after everything… I don’t know if I could even play a game right now.”

  “We’ll play it in bed,” I suggested.

  She frowned. “What sort of game?”

  “Sadly, not the kind I want,” I teased, hoping to earn a smile from her, and failing miserably as her eyes once again filled with tears. “How about a rematch?”

  Violet shrugged. “I mean, if you think your pride can take another loss, then sure, we can have a rematch.”

  I crossed my arms and grinned. “I think I can handle another blow. Besides, I never lose twice.”

  “We’ll see.” She chewed her lower lip. Her voice was small as she sat up on the bed, covering herself with the towel. “But first, I need clothes.”

  “Do you really need them?” I said in a dark whisper.

  She pulled the towel tighter around her like I hadn’t already seen what was underneath.

  “Fine.” I went to my dresser and grabbed a white shirt and a pair of Nike sweatpants, and tossed them onto the bed. “Dress.”

  “Turn.” Her eyebrows arched.

  I grinned and held up my left hand. “Married.”

  “Cute.” She crossed her arms over the towel. “Turn or no game.”

  I adjusted my mask with irritation. “Didn’t know the Italians taught you torture.”

  “They taught me everything.” She lifted her chin in pride.

  Good for her.

  It was on the tip of my tongue, my response.

  Instead, I said nothing.

  I held back.

  And then I turned.

  After a few seconds, I heard her plop on the bed; the casualness of it made me smile beneath my mask. “Ready.”

  She was devastating, even in sweats with wet hair and tear-stained cheeks. Then again, she would be, she’d always been that way, all classical beauty that demanded to be seen. Hell, she was a weakness I hadn’t seen coming because I would do anything to keep her safe, and it bothered me that I’d done the exact opposite.

  I’d married her.

  Securing a cellmate.

  She didn’t understand.

  But she would.

  And then I would have her hate.

  I grabbed another checkers set from the dresser and brought it over to the bed.

  She frowned. “Do you really have a checkers set in every room?”

  “Actually, yes.” I shrugged and started setting out the pieces. “It calms me, and it makes sense. It’s rational, it’s win or lose, strategy, it’s concentration. And it’s always the same.”

  “I take it you enjoy consistency and a challenge?” One black eyebrow arched up. Her eyes were so damn swollen.

  “Yes, a little of both.” I looked away from her grief-stricken face. All it did was remind me of things I couldn’t change, and a burden so heavy that she was sick with it, one she wouldn’t share with a stranger like me, one she would bear on her own while she grieved.

  “Ladies first.” I cleared my throat.

  She made her first calculated move. Her fingers were trembling, maybe this was a bad idea, but I knew her—I knew if she went to bed right now, she’d just think about Breaker, she’d blame herself, she’d dream of him.

  Was it so selfish to want her to dream of me instead?

  To want her to lean on me?

  Hug me?

  Let me take away the pain?

  The room was thick with it; a heaviness descended over us as we played, and no matter how many times I tried to ask questions and get her distracted, her chin wobbled like she was just barely holding it in.

  “What did you love about him?” I finally asked as we started our second game; she lost, then again, it wasn’t fair she was barely concentrating.

  A tear spilled from her cheek to the checkerboard, and I was instantly angry I’d missed the chance to wipe it away.

  “Everything.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands. “I loved everything about him. He was…” She locked eyes with me. “…mine. The one thing that I had in the Family that I claimed when I first saw him was Breaker himself. He was so… broken when he came to us. He smiled, and he fit in perfectly, but at night he cried.”

  “Did he ever tell you why he cried?” My body tensed.

  “He said he was broken.” Violet reached for another chec
ker and clutched it in her hand. “And I told him it was okay to be broken because when you’re broken, all you need is a best friend to help you find the pieces and put them back together again. And I promised him I would.”

  “He was lucky to have you as a best friend, Violet, and more…”

  “He was mine,” she said again, this time louder. “My dad has politics, my mom has my dad, Ash has his rage, Izzy has Maksim. Everyone has someone or something that they’re good at. He was my one thing; don’t you get it? He was it; he was mine! And he was stolen from me!”

  A mixture of a scream and a sob pierced the room as Violet threw the checkerboard against the dresser. The red and black pieces clattered to the floor, almost in slow motion.

  I didn’t move.

  She shoved at me.

  And I let her.

  She pounded her fists into my chest.

  I welcomed the pain.

  And then she was sobbing against my chest again. I pulled her into my arms; I wondered if she knew I mourned him too?

  The way she saw him was more than he deserved.

  “I’m so angry…” Her body shook against mine.

  “Then be angry, Violet. Bruise me, beat me, scar me—you have to let it out, or it will destroy you.”

  “It’s not fair!”

  “It’s not.”

  “I don’t want you, Valerian. I want him!” She shoved me again.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “You’ll always have him, Violet, always.”

  And I will always be second best.

  Or in this case—last.

  I let that revelation sink in while I twisted her hair in my hands and kissed the tears on her cheeks.

  Twenty minutes later, she fell asleep in my arms. Suddenly I felt very much like the king from the fairy tale as I turned off the lights and finally took the mask away and set it on the dresser.

  Only visiting her in the blanket of darkness when it was safe.

  I was cursed, just like him.

  Did she see the similarity?

  I left her then and went into the bathroom to take a shower. If she saw me if she saw it all—I would welcome the final nail in my coffin, because the crown was full of secrets, and secrets were heavier than the truth, they outweighed, outmatched, outsmarted.