by Thorne, Gigi
My hand goes out before I can stop it. I shouldn’t touch. I absolutely shouldn’t touch those rubies, but…they're mesmerizing.
The pads of my fingers make contact.
I don’t dare pick them up from their own little mound of crushed silk. I only run my fingertips over them, feeling the angles and facets. They’re warm, somehow, as if someone has been holding them in the palm of their hand, and I close my eyes. What would it be like to know that riches like these were just across the hall? It would be so commonplace to the royal family. So mundane. “Oh, those rubies?” they probably say. “I don’t know. Just put them out so we can see them, at least.” I imagine the heft of them in my hands when the official jewelry butler brings them into the grand foyer so I can even remember them. All that wealth, cupped in my hot little hands.
My fingers curl around one of them as my eyes flutter shut, the scene playing out on the backs of my eyelids. “Put them out,” I say nonchalantly in my fantasy. “It doesn’t matter one way or the other.” It doesn’t matter, because I’m so fabulously wealthy that two huge rubies don’t really tip the scales one way or the other. Why not have them out on display along with the bridal jewelry? Hell, why not put them on my bedside table? A princess probably wouldn’t care if they got knocked onto the carpet by a wayward cup of tea.
I’m stroking the red stone now. That’s the truth of what’s happening. But I can’t stop myself. It feels so good and warm in my hands, like the ruby’s alive with its own richness. I cradle it in one palm and stroke it with my fingertips, and—Jesus—is that a moan bubbling up from inside of me?
No.
No.
I snap my eyelids open, jarring myself right back into reality.
What am I doing?
Oh shit. Oh, shit. I’ve got the ruby in my hand and I let out a horrified gasp at the same instant that a new awareness pricks at the back of my mind: the door is opening.
I drop the ruby back into its spot, but it’s wrong, it’s all wrong. It’s not nestled in the twin hollow of the crushed silk, but instead it's sitting awkwardly off to the side.
Every cell in my body curves away from the cursed thing. Please, let it be a bridesmaid. Or an assistant. Anyone other than a member of the royal family.
On instinct, I reach for the September Sapphires. That’s why I came in here, and maybe if I’m holding them, it’ll buy me a few seconds of cover, it’ll let me get back to where I was supposed to be going—
The voice rings out behind me, low and smooth and spiked with an amusement that sends sharp shivers of fear down my spine.
“You little thief,” he says. “Purloining the family jewels.”
3
Bastian
The fine little creature fumbling for the September Sapphires freezes for one glorious instant and then whirls to face me, cheeks blazing. My breath catches in my throat. I knew when I pushed the door open that her body, at least, was exquisite, but now that I’m seeing her face—
Well. I like what I see.
“I wasn’t,” she says in a small voice, and swallows hard. “I would never.”
I saunter farther into the room. The staff have outdone themselves on this jewelry staging room. It’s utterly ridiculous, all the silk. They could just as well have left the jewelry in boxes and brought out whatever Victoria requested. “It looked premeditated to me.”
The three steps I’ve taken give me an even better view of her face. My red-handed thief has gleaming brown hair that's gathered at the nape of her neck in a haphazard ballet bun. My sister Victoria, who’s getting married today to the relief of everyone in the country, used to wear her hair like that when we were children and my mother had a dance teacher come to the palace four days a week. Tori’s bun was always perfect, not a hair out of place, lacquered to within an inch of its life. The thief’s hair looks like it’s barely hanging on.
I love that look.
And I love the look in her dark eyes even more. They’re open wide, searching my face. She parts the prettiest lips I’ve ever seen to speak again. “It—” She’s backed up against the table now, her fingers curled around the edge. The September Sapphires float in the air next to her arm. “Nothing was premeditated, except I have to get a necklace.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Which necklace?”
Every time she moves, I’m captivated even more. The all-black ensemble she is wearing hugs every one of her luscious curves, but it’s so close to the navy backdrop of the tables that I can only see when she moves. And move she does. She’s breathing hard, her full breasts rising underneath a fitted black shirt, long-sleeved despite the late spring warmth.
“That one,” she says, pointing to the sapphires. “For Aunt Rochelle.”
“Aunt Rochelle?”
“Yes?”
“There is no Aunt Rochelle. Not in any branch of my family.
“Rachael,” she says quickly, the color in her cheeks deepening. She lifts her chin a fraction of an inch. “Aunt Rachael. I was sent here by Princess Edie, and I was on my way back—”
“Don’t lie.” She snaps her lips shut the moment the words are out of my mouth. And they’re hypocritical words, of course they are. I lie more than anyone else in my entire life, which is why it’s my sister getting married today and not me. I’ve never met anyone and been completely honest with them. What’s the fun in that? “I saw you putting that jewel back.” She shifts her weight a little, blocking the rubies from my view. “It doesn’t matter, you know. I know it’s not in the right spot. I know you were touching it.”
In fact, the moment the door slid open, I heard her make the most delicious little noise in the back of her throat. It’s not a noise I’d normally associate with royal weddings. Cutting, half-disguised threats, yes. Little moans of pleasure? No.
I’d associate those sounds with afterwards, when I finally chose a woman to take to bed. Naturally, she’d make other noises later, when it was time for her to be on her way. They never want to go, the women I bring to the spare bedroom. It looks regal enough to fool them into thinking that it’s actually my space.
“I don’t know if it’s better,” I continue, just to see her face grow redder.
“That what’s better?”
“That you decided to steal only the necklace.”
She looks so gorgeous under these lights, so wide-eyed and innocent, but this time there’s a flash of fire dancing in those dark eyes that makes my blood run hot. “I wasn’t going to steal any of it. I was getting the necklace and taking it right back across the hall.”
Is it terrible, the urge that comes through me to toy with her? Play with her? Push her? This day would be nearly intolerable otherwise.
If it’s terrible, then I don’t very much care.
“I think you know I can’t let you do that.”
Her lips part a little and I’m stricken with the urge to put my thumb on her bottom lip and tug it down so I can explore her mouth with my tongue. I want to know if she tastes as sweet as she looks. “What?”
“I can’t let you walk out of here without making sure.”
“Making sure of what?”
“That you haven’t robbed us blind.”
I’m fucking with her. The dark pants she’s wearing are tight enough for me to know that she doesn’t have anything in her pockets other than a phone. The only other adornment she has on is a little badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck.
I take another step closer.
There’s nowhere for her to go, backed up like this almost to the table, and this close, I can smell her scent on the air. Compared to the vapid floral undertone that everything in the castle reeks of she smells like clear water, like sunshine shining down on an open field.
“Take the necklace off the stand.”
“I—” She gets one word out, then seems to remember what she’s doing here. “All right.”
She turns away from me and I see the tremble in her hands as she reaches for the September Sapphires
and lifts them carefully from their stand.
“Now turn around.”
She turns to face me, cheeks still a holy pink, and I look down into those dark eyes. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice quiet but level.
“Who am I?”
“Prince Bastian.”
I laugh out loud. “And you dared to contradict me? Here in my own palace?”
Some of the color leeches out of her face, and I want it back. I want it back immediately. “I—wasn’t thinking. I was only thinking about my job, I swear. I only want to—”
“Put your hands over your head.”
She freezes.
“What’s your name, you cunning little thief?”
There’s that color again that I like.
This time, she doesn’t deny it. “Adele.”
“Adele,” I murmur. “A lovely name. Keep your hands up.” I move even closer. “That’s a good girl.”
The trembling moves down from her hands into the rest of her body, but she works to keep it under control.
I start at the top, at her wrists, wrapping my fingers lightly around them. At the first touch, she makes that noise again—a short, strangled little thing, but the same noise nonetheless. The necklace dangles from her grip and brushes against my fingertips, and then I’ve left to run my hands down her arms.
All the way to her shoulders.
Then lower.
I am meticulous. I don’t touch her breasts, only the outside of her ribs, brushing my palms down, lower, down and over her hips.
Then I squat down in front of her.
My face is in line with the split at the top of her legs, and by God, I can smell her. She’s aroused. And she is sweet. I have to force myself not to tug those pants down from around her waist and bend her over the jewelry table. They’re not jeans, as I’d originally assumed. Closer to yoga pants. And they kiss each one of her thighs like I want to.
Instead, I run both hands down one leg, then the other, all the way to her ankle.
Adele, my little thief, has slim ankles.
And I can’t help it.
I let my grip linger there for a few moments longer than necessary.
But just before I let go, she makes that little noise again, and I swear she pushes into me. It’s almost imperceptible, the movement, but she does it.
I release her and stand up.
“You can lower your hands.”
I’m still standing close enough to see every flicker of her eyelashes. Her face is a flaming red now, and her lips are parted like she has something to say.
As for me? I’m hard as a rock, and Adele looks like the perfect lush harbor to take refuge.
I thought it would be enough—running my hands over that body.
But it's nowhere near enough.
“You enjoy being touched.” I say it at the same time I raise a hand to her hair and brush back a stray lock. Women love that, and Adele is no exception. Underneath her shirt—and what must be the world’s thinnest bra—her nipples go tight and hard.
“Yes, I—I do, Prince Bastian.”
“Good.” I take one step back and gesture to the door. “Because your penance isn’t over yet.”
4
Adele
The moment I’m even with him in the doorway, Bastian reaches out and takes me by the elbow. It’s a far cry from the bodyguard’s painful grip from earlier, but so much power radiates from his fingers that it lights me up inside with the same nervous energy that was arcing through me then. I’m torn between the desire to bolt and the desire to go perfectly still. Only with Bastian, I have a third desire. Which is to let him steer me anywhere on the planet.
The truth about Bastian, Prince and Heir to the throne, is that no photograph in existence can possibly do him justice.
He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.
Blonde. Tall. God, he’s tall. And he’s wearing a tuxedo that makes him look like a living sin. That’s what my mother would say, if she was still alive. She reserved it only for the sexiest people she saw on TV, and she’d tip her head back onto the back of the sofa and whisper it half to herself.
Oh, God, he smells so good. He smells expensive, like maybe they use a specially formulated royal laundry detergent that’s scented with actual diamonds.
I want him so badly. More than I wanted to touch those jewels. More than I want a new apartment.
And he is totally going to get me fired.
His words ring in my ears. Your penance isn’t over yet. Sweet lord, what more could there possibly be? He’s already had his hands all over my body. They were everywhere.
Everywhere except where I really wanted them to be.
Is that the penance? That I have to live my life with Prince Bastian never rolling one of my nipples between his thumb and forefinger? How have I lived my entire life without his hands on me like that? That’s penance. Living without his scent in the air has been a lifetime of penance, and I didn't even know that until a few minutes ago.
Also, I’m about to get fired.
The heat between my legs collides with a cold fear knotting in the pit of my stomach. Even if Marissa pays me for the last few days, it’s not going to be enough for both rent and food. Being hungry isn’t so bad when I know the next paycheck is coming, but if I’m hauled out of the palace in disgrace, what salon would hire me? I clutch the September Sapphires to my chest, but loosen my grip when I remember that the necklace is a piece of priceless heirloom jewelry.
Bastian barrels straight through the fluttering crowd in the bridal suite. He doesn’t even pause when there’s a skip in the conversation that's like a scratched CD. The murmurs resume in whispers. I steal a glance at him and his face is neutral, a little smile playing around the corners of his perfect lips. A throb of desire shoots through my core. His hands felt so good on my body. It was so wrong, but so, so good.
How much better would his lips be?
We continue heading straight through the crowd, which parts for us like the Red Sea, and before I can catch my breath, we’re at the doorway to the VIP suite. I struggle a little bit—of course I do—as Bastian steers us right over the threshold. I’m not supposed to be in here. I am so not supposed to be here. But he strolls right in like he belongs here -- which, I suppose, he does -- and that's when he finally lets go of my arm.
“You look gorgeous, sister Charlotte,” he says, his voice interrupting all the chatter.
Princess Charlotte might as well be his twin. She has the same golden hair, though hers has been expertly coiled at the nape of her neck by Marissa. Three of her bridesmaids, including Princess Edie, are gathered around her in their couture bridesmaid dresses while Marissa supervises. It’s time to add the veil.
She flicks her eyes to her brother. “Get out, Bastiany.”
“All right,” he answers amiably. “I’ll take my little thief with me.”
Every eye in the room lands on me. I can feel them burning. “No—” I force out the word, feeling everything fall away from underneath me. The rent. My job. Marissa’s glaring at me like I killed a kitten. “No, I—”
Princess Edie is the one to break the spell. She rushes forward, takes the necklace delicately from my hands, and whispers a quick thank you. It’s not five seconds before she’s back at another woman’s side—she must be Aunt Rachael—and fastening the necklace around her neck.
“Thief?” Princess Charlotte says, her voice laced with acid.
“She’s stolen my heart,” Bastian says with a smile that makes me want to kiss him and run in the opposite direction at the same time. It’s a lie—I know it’s a lie. But I inch toward him nonetheless. He searches out Marissa—standing out in her all-black outfit, hovering just behind the veil operation group—and flashes her a smile that I swear sends a little titter through everyone else in the room. “You’ll spare her, won’t you, dearest?”
Even my tough-as-nails boss can’t resist that smile. Not fully, anyway. Her
cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink. “Share her for what?”
“I require her company for the rest of the afternoon.”
An audible gasp rises up from the women in the room, and then they all hurry to look anywhere but at me. Suddenly my clothes might as well be rags for the way they just reacted, and the shame battles with a flush of mixed excitement and dread. What the hell does Bastian have planned for me? Visions of some truly kinky shit crash into my mind like a sex wave. Oh, God. We’re in his palace. He probably has a fully outfitted dungeon. Did the royal family ever have the original dungeons renovated? I raise one arm across my nipples in an unconscious defense. It could be cold. It could be—
“For what?” Marissa says, looking totally bewildered. Her eyes dart to me and then back to Prince Bastian’s face. “I mean—whatever you need, Prince Bastian. But if you’re planning on attending any events, you must know that Adele doesn’t have the appropriate clothing.”
Nobody here is even pretending to look elsewhere anymore.
“That doesn’t matter.” Bastian takes me by the elbow again. “All she needs to borrow is one of your stylists.”
Marissa narrows her eyes at him, but at the last moment forces an accommodating smile. “Naturally. Portia?” She calls the name of one of the other assistants in a voice barely above her normal speaking voice, but I hear footsteps behind us instantly.
“Yes, Marissa?”
“Prince Bastian has requested our services,” Marissa replies over my head. “For Adele.”
There’s a beat during which I think all of this must be some kind of joke, and I brace myself for the inevitable fallout. Everyone’s going to be dying laughing at me—the hair stylist who thought she was getting a kinky date with the prince. As payback. For jewels that she didn’t steal. With every moment that passes, the clearer it becomes—this is a massive trick, and all of it—
“Sure,” Portia chirps. “My chair’s open right now. Come with me, Adele.”
