by Kati Wilde
Philippa adds with quiet exasperation, “And it’s not as if you’re in love with the girl, Maximilian. You hardly even know her.”
“That’s true. I don’t know Victoria. But I’m promised to her.” And I haven’t even looked at another woman since ascending to the throne. I might not love her but I’m committed to her—and she has my full loyalty. Which my advisors and Jeannette don’t seem to realize, because they sure as fuck keep talking as if anything they say might make a difference.
“Even a scandal would suit the kingdom better than she would, because Victoria’s real sin is that she’s boring,” Jeannette says dourly. “Boring boring boring. When she’s not being awkward, that is. If you search the internet for her name, the two most popular photos are these.”
She flicks open one of the folders on the table in front of me—one of the folders that came from Frederich’s office. But as soon as I glimpse the contents, I realize they must have originated in Jeannette’s department. Jeannette keeps dossiers on every public figure that I might come into contact with and briefs me before I meet them. It’s no surprise that they have a dossier on Victoria. I’ve ordered Jeannette’s people to keep tabs on her, but since she’s the daughter of Wilhelm Dietrich, Jeannette would have probably kept a file on her, anyway. No doubt the other folders contain profiles of women without a single embarrassing photograph to their name.
Yet the dossiers were in Frederich’s office. So he must have looked through them, approving a selection of alternate brides. And the three of them must have been planning this ambush together.
But unless she’s in prison for murder—or unless she’s a fucking Nazi—Victoria is going to be Kapria’s queen. I wouldn’t go back on my word for any less of a reason. Hell, and if the person she murdered was a Nazi…I might still consider marrying her. She could be infertile and I’d still marry her, then either adopt an heir or rely on science to get her pregnant. She could screw her way through half of Europe, and I’d still marry her.
And maybe she has. After that windup about Victoria being a horrible choice, I’m expecting at least a sex tape in her dossier. Something that’ll require delicate public relations handling.
Instead I see a photo of a blue ski-suit stretched tightly across a shapely ass sticking up out of a snow bank, with a pair of skis splayed in an upright X, as if she plowed headfirst into the snow. Philippa winces a little when I laugh out loud—partially in relief, partially in amusement.
“The world laughed, too,” she says quietly.
So what if they laughed? It is absurd. But delightful. And when I marry her, that curvy little ass will belong to me—as will the rest of her.
I move on to the next picture and my laughter dies, replaced by a bolt of sheer lust. The photo captures the moment she stepped out of a limousine. Either the wind blew or she misjudged the angle, because the photographer had a direct view of white silk panties nestled between the sleek lengths of her inner thighs, and the camera’s bright flash rendered the delicate fabric partially transparent. Faint shadows hint at the sweet treasure hidden beneath.
With my cock suddenly feeling heavy and my uniform trousers uncomfortably tight, I slide my gaze upward. She’s wearing a short black dress covered in glittering sequins. A night out clubbing, maybe. Her head is turned in profile, as if she’s talking to someone still seated behind her in the car. A wavy lock of long, dark hair conceals most of her face, and the curled tips brush the upper curve of her breast, her lightly tanned skin exposed by the dress’s low neckline.
Desire roughens my voice as I ask, “When was this taken?”
Jeanette says quietly, “Last year.”
Then I should have gotten married a year ago. But the subdued, almost reluctant nature of Jeannette’s reply makes me glance up. Jeannette is never subdued.
When I glance up I find their gazes averted from mine. As if they’re discomfited by the sight of my reaction to discovering how unsuitable Victoria is. Except that’s not what I’m discovering. And they must have misread my silence as dismay. But I’m not dismayed. I’m more determined than ever to have her. These pictures might have been meant as a deterrent but they’re having the opposite effect.
And I’m pleased to see them. Not just because I’m discovering that I want her, but because this was what I wanted for her. Ski trips, nights out with friends. Years ago, I ordered Jeannette to inform me of any significant events or accomplishments in Victoria’s life, but the only notification of achievement I’ve received was for her graduation from Oxford six years ago. Since I didn’t receive any other news about her, I assumed she was doing what these photos suggest—traveling through Europe, attending parties at nightclubs. Her father gave away most of their fortune and assets but their family still has enough money—and her name has enough pull—that she could live completely unburdened and gain entry into any social circle.
I’m almost sorry to end this carefree era of her life. Almost. My gaze returns to her face and settles on the curve of her cheek, her soft red lips. Before the heavy warmth of my arousal can deepen, I glance back up at Jeannette. “These two photos make her a horrible choice?”
I see her struggle for patience. If I were anyone else, she’d have snapped a caustic reply instead of explaining evenly, “Upon the announcement of your engagement, millions of people around the world will Google your bride’s name. These photos will be their first impression of your queen—a bumbling, awkward woman with a plain face and unremarkable personality. And these are some of the only photos of her. She hasn’t accomplished anything of note. There’s nothing about her that will capture the public’s imagination. And considering that her father was a brilliant man, most will expect his daughter to be as brilliant and as driven. So her rather common intelligence will disappoint the public and serve as a poor legacy to the Dietrich name.”
A plain face? The only remaining photos in the dossier aren’t from the web, but from Jeannette’s internal publicity files, taken at events within Kapria. In one, she’s posing with a student awarded with a scholarship from one of Dietrich’s foundations. In another, she’s handing out ribbons to the winners of a village horticultural show, which is exactly the sort of ceremonial activity that the sister of a local baron might do, and that she’ll be required to do as queen—though on a larger scale.
And she’s not plain. Thick dark hair falls in waves around her delicate features, and her wide smile emphasizes the subtle point of her chin. Everything about her is pretty and pleasing.
Except for her eyes. Those are stunning. Though the rest of her features faded from my memory after our one meeting during her father’s funeral, I’ve never forgotten her eyes, or the tears that transformed them into a sapphire sea.
These photos don’t capture the effect of her eyes, but she’s still not plain. Maybe she’s not beautiful in the high-cheekboned, fashion model sense, but she’s not going to be walking down a runway. She’s going to be in my bed and at my side, and the way she looks is perfect for both roles.
I glance through the rest of the dossier—pausing when my fingers encounter heavy linen stationery. A note from Victoria…and addressed to me.
I’m damn sure I never received it. “When did she send this?”
Jeannette frowns slightly, as if trying to recall. “After you sent the flowers marking her graduation, I believe. It’s nothing but a thank-you note.”
Six years ago. Scowling, I unfold the letter, which begins with the standard formal greetings and expressing gratitude for the gift. Then,
As I am no longer occupied by my academic studies, I humbly request the honor of serving at Your Majesty’s pleasure, whether within our fair kingdom or abroad.
Always yours,
Victoria
Always mine. And as I’m occupied by imagining the kind of service I might have requested of her six fucking years ago, Jeannette opens another folder.
“Adele von Schuster”—she shows me a photo of an elegant blond—“of the Viennese von S
chusters, and whose father is likely to become the next chairman of the Bilderberg Group. Here she is cutting the ribbon to open Kapria’s new fine art museum.”
“A perfect choice,” Frederich confirms with a nod.
“And this is Felicity Pfieffer”—a brunette who draws a murmur of approval from Philippa—“whose family founded the Bank of Europe. She recently donated a new wing to Kapria’s university hospital, along with a generous grant toward their Alzheimers research program. And here is Elsa zu Danzig—”
I laugh. “The actress?” And the only film star born in Kapria. Worldwide, more people would recognize her face than would recognize mine.
Jeannette isn’t laughing. “During her latest trip home, she visited the children’s cancer wing, which brought international attention to our national health program. And in a recent interview, she indicated that she would like to settle in Kapria and retire from the film industry. A match between Your Majesty and Elsa would capture the world’s attention, as Grace Kelly did—and as Prince Harry’s fiancée did.”
“Perhaps we would capture the world’s notice,” I begin dryly. “But what I notice is that Victoria is also in all of these photos. Here, here, here.” Attending the same events as these other women.
“Yes, but she is always in the background, Your Majesty. Even these other pictures”—Jeannette points to the snow bank—“she was only photographed because she was at the same ski resort as Lara Muller. This other one was taken during Chloe Schmidt’s bachelorette party. She is not the one who stands out, except for the wrong reasons. Should Kapria’s queen always be in the background?”
“Victoria will not be in the background when she is queen.” And I have wasted enough time. Standing, I tell them, “My mind is settled. Victoria will be my bride.”
Jeannette exhales a resigned sigh. “Shall I contact her, then, and persuade her that the king intends to marry? Since Karl apparently couldn’t do it.”
“I’ll see it done.” Irritation makes my voice harsh. But I won’t risk Jeannette saying something that sends Victoria running. “And from this point forward, I won’t tolerate a single word spoken against her.”
“We would not need to. The world will shout what we have just said,” Philippa proclaims, then appeases me with, “We will support Your Majesty’s decisions, of course. Even those we disagree with.”
“As is Your Majesty’s right,” Frederich says grimly. “We are only advisors. And you will do as you always do.”
“And I will spin whatever occurs into gold.” Jeannette purses her lips. “As I always do.”
As if I’m ushering my kingdom into an international crisis instead of thinking of Kapria’s future, as I have every single fucking moment since I was born.
I’m livid as I leave my offices. It must show. Geoffrey trots along at my side but doesn’t risk saying a single word.
Karl doesn’t have the same sense of self-preservation. He shows up beside me—apparently out of nowhere, as he often does. That ability is why he’s the head of my personal security. That, and because I consider him a friend. He’s also one of the few people who doesn’t defer to my rank. Not in private, anyway. He does his job and follows orders, but if I ask him to tell me whether something is shit, he’ll not only tell me the truth, but describe exactly how bad it smells.
But this time the stink is coming from inside the house. “What the fuck happened? Why didn’t Victoria believe you?”
He scowls. “She thought her sister was playing a practical joke on her.”
“And you couldn’t convince her?”
“No.” He hesitates before adding, “I didn’t try hard. I had a feeling it would upset her more than she already was.”
Now I’m scowling, too. “You upset her?”
“Or announcing that you wanted to marry her did.” He shrugs. “Perhaps I wasn’t the best person to send.”
Maybe not. But it was done for good reason. As my head of security, Karl can not only judge what needs to be done for Victoria and her family to keep them safe, but he also moves like a ghost when he wants to. If I’d sent Jeannette or Geoffrey to alert Victoria of my intentions, the press would have pounced. But Karl can disappear from public sight when he wants to—and even when he doesn’t, he’s not memorable. He cultivates a bland, average appearance for that very reason.
Now he adds unhelpfully, “She said she’s available next year.”
Christ. I look to Geoffrey. “You have her schedule?”
“Of course.” He must have familiarized himself with it, because he doesn’t even consult his calendar before adding, “Tomorrow she’s taking the early train into St. Moritz to attend the Women of the Future conference, and returning late in the afternoon. And she’ll be at the palace tomorrow evening for the the reception dinner to celebrate the Vic-10’s worldwide release. Wilhelm Dietrich’s family was invited, of course. Jeannette seated them at Philippa’s table.”
Probably to keep me from speaking with her. “Put her at my table.”
Geoffrey pales. “Your Majesty, the seating arrangements required months of delicate planning and…” His voice trails off when he gets a look at my face. Squaring his narrow shoulders, he declares bravely, “I will go and battle the dragon.”
“Good man.”
As he runs off, Karl asks, “Trouble from the old guard?”
My advisors. Who aren’t all old but admittedly have more decades under their belt than I do. Their experience makes them valuable to me, as is our shared hatred for everything my father stood for. But even when they look toward the future, they are also deeply rooted in the past. “Victoria was photographed with her panties showing. Google it. Or don’t.” I can’t stop the world from looking, but I can stop Karl. “Just take my word for it.”
He shrugs. “This day and age, the only remarkable thing is that she was wearing any panties at all.”
True. And I can’t stop imagining ripping those panties off. Of tasting her. Of taking her. The world might see a bit of white silk but the rest is mine.
But before I can lay any claim to her, I need to make certain she’s protected. “What’s the situation with her security?”
Karl rubs his forehead. I remember him making that same gesture once while we were pinned down by insurgents and he was trying to figure out how to get us out alive. “It’ll be a challenge. There’s no wall around the estate. The house has multiple unsecured points of entry. And her sister left me alone with her in the garden without even verifying my identity.”
Jesus. “You have until tomorrow evening to arrange a team.” After that, everyone will know who Victoria belongs to. “The family will be out of the house attending the reception. Install what you need to then.”
“I will. And I have a team on her now,” Karl says, then adds, “A discreet team. She won’t know they’re there until everything is in place.”
Good. I reach the White Chamber, where an interviewer waits to ask me about my kingdom and how the Vic-10 will revolutionize the world. To ask me how every step I’ve taken has been building to the moment I signed the trade agreement. To ask me about everything I’ve worked for—and am still working for. This interview is just another way to lift up Kapria, which has been my sole purpose in life.
But all I can think about is Victoria’s ass sticking up out of the snowbank, and picture myself gripping her hips and pushing into her hot pussy from behind. All I can see is her sleek thighs and white panties…and imagine how fucking good it’ll feel when those legs are wrapped around my waist, squeezing me tight as she comes screaming my name.
Maybe she is a horrible choice. Already I can’t even focus on what needs to be done.
But I don’t fucking care. I want her.
And I will have her.
Victoria
Before heading down the stairs, I check the mirror a final time. No makeup smudges. No hairs out of place. No reason to be so anxious.
But I am. A sick knot has taken up residence in my belly and
my heart feels as if it’s been replaced by a manic hummingbird. Because I’ve come to a decision.
If Maximilian doesn’t at least acknowledge me tonight, then tomorrow morning I’m breaking the betrothal.
Which shouldn’t make me so nervous. What would change in my life? Nothing, except that I wouldn’t be living in fruitless expectation of a future that will never happen. My life is a fulfilling one. I love my work and my friends. And by abandoning the dream of marrying Maximilian, I could build another future. One that would be just as satisfying.
One that wouldn’t keep me waiting.
Nothing would change. Yet at the same time, everything would change. That’s probably why I’m so nervous. And why I’m hurting so much. Because even recognizing how moving forward is best for me, letting go of that old dream is like ripping away a part of myself…and that part contains a large portion of my heart.
Not that I’ve completely given up yet. I carefully make my way down the stairs, lifting the skirt so that I don’t trip on the hem of my gown. I might not be a natural beauty, but I know how to make the best of what I’ve got—and protecting my image doesn’t mean that sexy has to be a bad word. The violet silk deepens the blue of my eyes and accentuates my every curve without exposing too much. But there’s still a tease, the slit in my skirt showing just a hint of upper thigh when I walk.
If Maximilian doesn’t notice me tonight, then he doesn’t deserve to have me, I tell myself firmly.
But I’m still terrified he won’t.
On leave for the weekend—courtesy of a special dispensation from the palace so he can attend this event—James is waiting for me in the foyer. A grin spreads across his handsome face when he sees me. “Looking good, sis.”
I am. But I’m struggling to contain the emotion filling my chest. Not my anxiety this time, but an upwelling of pride. Because he’s wearing the uniform for the Kaprian militia.
My heart full, I tell him, “You look amazing.”
“As good as you did? I remember that you put so much starch in your uniform that your trousers cracked every time you took a step.”
