by Maisey Yates
Her heart clenched tight, because she couldn’t deny that what he was saying was true. Bastard. With the maturity of adulthood she could acknowledge that. That she had been naive at the time, and that she was, in fact, being ungrateful to a degree.
Hadn’t her position in the palace provided her with the finest education she could have asked for? Hadn’t she been given excellent opportunities? Chances to run charitable organizations that she believed in strongly, and that benefited all manner of children from different backgrounds.
No, as a princess, she would never truly have a profession, but with that came the release of pressure of earning money to pay bills.
Of figuring out where the road between what she dreamed of doing, and what would help her survive, met.
But the idea of marrying someone selected by her stepbrother, who no more knew her than liked her, was not a simple thing.
And underneath that, the idea of marrying any man, touching any man, being intimate with any man, who wasn’t Luca was an abomination unto her soul.
For it was only him. Luca and those eyes as hard as flint, that mouth that was often curled into a sneer in her direction, those large hands that were much rougher than any king’s ever should have been. It was only him who made her want. Who made her ache with the deep well of unsatisfied desire. Only him.
Only ever him.
“I will be holding a ball,” Luca said, his tone decisive. “And at that ball will be several men that I have personally curated for you.”
“You make them sound like a collection of cheeses.”
“Think of them however you like. If you prefer to think them as cheese, that’s your own business.”
Something burst inside her, some small portion of restraint that she had been only just barely holding on to since she had come into the throne room. “How do you know I like men, Luca? You’ve never asked.”
Luca drew back slightly, a flicker in his dark eyes the only showing that she had surprised him at all.
“If it is not so,” he said, his tone remote, “then I suggest you speak now.”
“No,” she responded, feeling deflated, as her momentary bit of rebellion fell flat on its face. “I’m not opposed to men.”
“Well,” he said, “one less bit of damage control I have to do.”
“That would require damage control?”
“How many gay princesses do you know?” he asked. “The upper echelons of society are ever conservative regardless of what they say. And here in this country it would be quite the scandal, I assure you. It is all fine to pay lip service to such things as equality, but appearances, tradition, are as important as ever.”
“And I am already a break with tradition,” she pointed out.
“Yes,” he said, that tone heavy. “My father’s actions in granting you the same rights as I have were unheard of. You are not his by blood, and in royal lines blood is everything. It is the only thing.”
“I will go to the ball,” she said, because there really was no point arguing with Luca once he had made pronouncements. But whatever happened after that... It would be her decision.
But she was too raw, too shocked, from this entire conversation to continue having a fight with him.
He wanted to marry her off to another man. He wanted her to be someone else’s problem.
He felt nothing about doing it.
He did not want her.
He’s your stepbrother, and even if he did he couldn’t have you. As he just said, tradition is everything.
She squared her shoulders. “When is this blessed event?”
“In a couple weeks’ time,” he responded.
She blinked. “Oh. I’m not certain my mother will be back from France before then.”
“She will be. I have already spoken with her.”
That galled her. Like a lance through her chest. Her mother, of course, had no idea how Sophia felt about Luca. She told her mother everything. Everything except for that. Everything except for the completely forbidden lust she felt for her stepbrother. But even so, she couldn’t believe that her mother had allowed Luca to have this conversation with her without at least giving her a call to warn her first.
“I told her not to tell you,” Luca said as if he was reading her mind.
She sniffed. “Well. That is quite informative.”
“Do not be indignant, sorellina,” Luca said. “It is not becoming of a princess.”
“Well, I’ve certainly never been overly becoming as princesses go,” she said stiffly. “Why start now?”
“You had better start. You had better start so that all of this will work accordingly.”
He looked her up and down. “We need to get you a new stylist.”
“I use the same stylist as my mother,” she said defensively.
“It doesn’t work for you,” he said, his tone cold.
And with a wave of his hand he dismissed her, and she was left somehow obeying him, her feet propelling her out of his royal chamber and into the hall.
She clutched her chest, gasping for breath, pain rolling through her.
The man she loved was going to marry her off to someone else. The man she loved was selecting from a pool of grooms for her to meet in two weeks’ time.
The man she loved was her stepbrother. The man she loved was a king.
All of those things made it impossible for her to have him.
But she didn’t have any idea how in the world she was supposed to stop wanting him.
CHAPTER TWO
“WHAT IS THIS?” The disdain in Sophia’s tone when Luca presented her with a thick stack of files the following week was—in his estimation—a bit on the dramatic side.
“It is the list of possible husbands to invite to the upcoming ball. I feel strongly that an excess of five is just being spoiled for choice. Plus, you will not have time to dance with that many people. So I suggest you look it over, and find a way to pare them down.”
“This is...” She looked up at him, her dark eyes furious. “These are dossiers of...men. Photos and personal profiles...”
“How else would you know if you’re compatible?”
“Maybe meeting them and going out for dinner?” Sophia asked.
She crossed her arms, the motion pushing her rather abundant décolletage up over the neckline of the rather simple V-neck top she was wearing.
They really needed to get ahold of that new stylist and quickly. She was, as ever, a temptation to Luca, and to his sense of duty. But soon it would be over. Soon he would have his problematic stepsister married off, and then she would be safely out of his reach.
He could have found a woman to slake his lust on, and over the years he had done just that. After all, whatever was broken in him...Sophia should not have to suffer for it.
But during those time periods he had not been forced to cohabitate with Sophia. Always, when he had spent too much time with her, he had to detox, essentially. Find a slim blonde to remind himself that there were other sorts of women he found hot. Other women he might find desirable.
And then, when it was really bad, he gave up entirely on playing the opposite game and found himself a curvaceous brunette to pour his fantasies into. The end of that road was a morass of self-loathing and recrimination, but on many levels he was happy to end up there. He was comforted by it.
But this... Sharing space with her. As he had done since his father had died. No other woman would do. He couldn’t find it in him to feel even a hint of desire for anyone else. And that was unacceptable. As all things to do with Sophia invariably were.
“You are not going on dinner dates,” Luca said. “You are a princess. You are part of the royal family. And you are not setting up a Tinder profile in order to find yourself a husband.”
“Why not?” she asked, her tone defiant. “Perhaps I
want nothing more than to meet a very exciting IT guy who might swipe me right off my feet.” He said nothing and she continued to stare at him. “Swipe. Swipe right. It’s a dating app thing.”
“That isn’t funny in the least. As I said, you are part of this family.” Perhaps if he repeated it enough, if he drilled it into both of them that they were family, his body would eventually begin to take it on board. “And as such, your standards of marriage must be the same as mine.”
“Why aren’t you looking for a wife yourself?” she asked.
“I will,” Luca said. “In due time. But my father asked that I make your safety, your match, a priority.”
He would marry, as duty required. But it would not be because of passion. And certainly not because of love. Duty was what drove him. The preservation of reputation, of the crown. If that crumbled, his whole life was nothing.
He would choose a suitable woman.
Sophia was far from suitable.
“What about the production of an heir?” Sophia lifted a brow. “Isn’t that important?”
“Yes. But I am a man, and as such, I do not have the same issues with a biological clock your gender does.”
“Right,” she huffed. “Because men can continue to produce children up until the end of their days.”
“Perhaps not without the aid of a blue pill, but certainly it is possible.”
For a moment she only blinked up at him, a faint pink tinge coloring her cheeks. Then Sophia’s lip curled. “I find this conversation distasteful.”
“You brought up the production of heirs, not me.”
She scowled, clearly having to take his point, and not liking it at all. “Well, let me look through the dossiers, then,” she said, lifting her nose and peering at him down the slender ridge, perfecting that sort of lofty look that was nothing if not a put-on coming from Sophia.
Though, possibly not when directed at him.
“Erik Nilsson. Swedish nobility?”
“Yes,” Luca responded. “He’s very wealthy.”
“How?”
“Family money, mostly. Though some of it is in sheep.”
“His money is in sheep?” Sophia asked, her expression completely bland. “Well, that is interesting. And one would never want for sweaters.”
“Indeed not,” he said, a vicious turn of jealousy savaging his gut. Which was sadistic at best. To be jealous of a man whose fortune was tied up in sheep and who had the dubious honor of being a minor noble in some small village that wasn’t part of the current century.
A man he had not expected his stepsister to show the slightest interest in. And yet, here she was.
“So he will have access to...wool. And such,” Sophia said. “And...he’s quite handsome. If you like tall and blond.”
“Do you?” he asked.
“Very much,” she said with a strange injection of conviction. “He’s on the table.” She set the folder aside. “Let us get on with the next candidate, shall we?”
“Here you are,” he said, lifting up the next folder and holding it out toward her. “Ilya Kuznetsov.”
She arched a brow. “Russian?”
He raised one in response. “Very.”
Sophia wrinkled her nose. “Is his fortune in vodka and caviar?”
“I hate to disappoint you but it’s in tech. So, quite close to that IT guy you were professing to have a burning desire for.”
“I didn’t say I had a burning desire for anyone,” she pointed out, her delicate fingers tracing the edge of the file.
He couldn’t help but imagine those same fingers stroking him.
If he believed in curses, he would believe he was under one.
“I don’t know anything about computers,” she continued, setting the folder off to the opposite side of the first one. “I prefer sheep.”
She was infuriating. And baffling. “Not something you hear every day. Now, to the next one.”
She set aside the next two. An Italian business mogul and a Greek tycoon. Neither one meeting up to some strange specification that she blathered on about in vague terms. Then she rejected an Argentine polo player, who was also nobility of some kind, on the basis of the fact that a quick Google search revealed him to be an inveterate womanizer.
“You’re not much better,” she said mournfully, looking up from her phone.
“Then it is a good thing that I am not in the files for consideration.”
Something quite like shock flashed through her eyes, and her mouth dropped open. Color flooded her cheeks, irritation, anger.
“As if that would ever happen. As if I would consider you.” She sniffed very loudly.
“As my sister, you could not,” he bit out.
“Stepsister,” she said, looking up at him from beneath her dark lashes.
His gut twisted, his body hardening for a moment before he gathered his control. The moment seemed to last an eternity. Stolen, removed from time. Nothing but those eyes boring holes through him, as though she could see right into him. As though she could see his every debauched thought.
Every dark, terrible thing in him.
But no, there was no way she could.
Or she would run and hide like a frightened mouse.
“In terms of legality, in terms of my father’s will, you’re my sister,” he said. “Now, the next one.”
She went through the folders until she had selected five, though she maintained that the Swedish candidate was top of her list.
It did not escape his notice that she had selected all men with lighter features. Diametrically opposed to his own rather dark appearance.
He should rejoice in that.
He found he did not.
“Then these are the invitations that will be sent out,” he said. “And I will be reserving dances with each of the gentlemen.”
“Dances?” She blinked. “Are we in a Regency romance novel? Am I going to have a card to keep track?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can keep track of it in an app.”
She barked out a laugh. “This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but if you can think of a better way to bring together the most eligible men in the world, I’m all ears.”
“And what happens if I don’t like any of them?”
“You’re very excited about the sweaters.”
“What if I don’t like any of them?” she reiterated.
“I imagine something will work out.”
“I’m serious,” she said, her blue eyes blazing with emotion. “I’m not marrying a man I don’t like because you have some strange time frame you need to fulfill.”
“Then we will keep looking.”
“No,” she said. “I promise that I will be fair, and I will give this a chance. But if it doesn’t work, give me six months to make my own choice. If I can’t find somebody that is suitable to me, and suitable to you, then I will let you choose.”
“That was not part of the original bargain.”
Six months more of her might just kill him.
“I don’t care,” Sophia said. “This isn’t the Dark Ages, and you can’t make me do what I don’t want to. And you know it.”
“Then you have a bargain. But you will have to put in serious effort. I am not wasting my time and resources.”
“Well I’m not marrying a man just to suit you, Luca. I want to care for the man I marry. I want to like him, if I can’t love him. I want to be able to talk to him. I want him to make me laugh.”
Luca braced himself. Braced himself for her to start talking about passion. About wanting a man who would set her body on fire.
She didn’t.
She had stopped at a man who made her laugh, and had not said she wanted a man who would make her come. He shouldn’t think such thoug
hts. Shouldn’t want to find out why that didn’t seem to occur to her.
Why attraction didn’t come into her lists of demands to be met.
It made him want to teach her. Didn’t she understand? That physical desire mattered?
And if she didn’t understand...
Some Swedish sheep farmer would be the one to teach her.
Luca gritted his teeth. “But do you need to want him, sorellina?”
He should not have asked the question. He shouldn’t entertain these thoughts, and he certainly shouldn’t give voice to them.
Cursed.
If he weren’t a logical man, he would swear it.
“Want him?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.
“Yes,” he bit out. “Want him. His hands on your body. His mouth on yours. Does it matter to you whether or not you want him inside you?”
He hadn’t realized it, but he’d moved closer to her with each sentence. And now he was so near her he could smell her. That delicate, citrus scent that always rose above the more cloying floral or vanilla perfumes the women around the palace typically favored. A scent he was always assured he could pick out, regardless of who else was around. Always Sophia, rising above the rest.
“I... I...” Her cheeks blushed crimson, and then she stood, her nose colliding with his cheek before she wobbled backward. “I’ve only ever wanted one man like that.” The words seemed to be stuck in her throat. “I never will again. I’m sure. And I refuse to discuss it. Least of all with you.”
And then she turned and ran from the room.
CHAPTER THREE
SINCE MAKING A fool out of herself in front of Luca days earlier, Sophia had done her best to avoid him. It wasn’t that difficult. Luca was always busy with affairs of state, and it was actually for the best. The problem was that every time she heard heavy, authoritative footsteps on the marble floors of the palace, her heart caught, and held its position as if it was waiting, waiting to bow down to its king.
