The Princess Trap

by Talia Hibbert

  She blinked at him, looking deliciously dazed. Her lipstick was indeed a mess. But she recovered in an instant, her eyes flashing as she smiled. “A figure like mine requires the proper foundation.”

  “Oh it does, hm?” He bit his lip, hoping the sharp edge of pain would control the flare of his arousal. It didn’t. “Jesus. I wish I could fuck you right here.”

  “You know what they say about following your dreams.”

  He exhaled, clinging to the last of his control, feeling his grip slip. “You love to push, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” She tilted her chin up as if she were the one in charge. Like his hand wasn’t binding her wrists right now. “Do you want me to stop?”

  “Fuck no.” His fingers abandoned her suspenders and travelled higher—just not high enough.

  “So…” she breathed, the word shimmering in the air between them, white-hot.

  “So don’t stop,” he repeated, and then his hand found the satin edge of her underwear, traced it until she moaned. “Push.”

  Their eyes met, and he saw his own need reflected in the shadows. He knew, in that second, that he would do anything she asked.

  Then he heard the footsteps, fast and heavy, splashing through the alley’s puddles.

  And then he heard his worst fucking nightmare. “Your Highness!”

  That voice didn’t belong to Hans.

  Chapter 7

  “Your Highness!” A camera flashed bright white in the darkness, illuminating everything he’d ever wished to hide. “Who’s this? Who is she? Can I get a smile, sweetheart?” The last sentence was in English, the first few, thank God, in Helgmøre’s antiquated Danish.

  Ruben turned, using his body to hide Cherry from view, dragging a hand across his jaw—which was probably covered in scarlet lipstick.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he snarled, slipping into his mother tongue.

  Another flash. “Come on, Your Highness. Where’s the whips and chains?”

  Ruben felt a growl rise in his chest, felt his pulse pound and saw the world around him turn red. Rage tinged with panic flooded his throat, the phantom taste of blood and imminent regret. His fists clenched.

  But then he felt the lightest touch against his back, like a butterfly coming to rest. And he remembered. How could he forget?

  Cherry.

  “You can’t take our picture,” he said hoarsely, his sense returning. The screeching alarm in his head fading away. He squinted into the darkness. “Niklaus?”

  “Awww, you remember me!”

  Of course he fucking did. Paparazzi dogged him often enough, but this particular photographer had been his own personal poltergeist over the past few months.

  Until Demetria had forced Ruben’s brother to cut a deal.

  “You can’t take our picture,” he said again, louder now. More confident. “Or you’ll lose the privileges my brother promised.”

  “Ah, ah. I can’t take your picture.” Flash. “So I’ll blur you out. The king said nothing about your whores—”

  “Have some fucking respect,” Ruben snapped, “before I—“

  “What, Your Highness? Careful.” White teeth flashed in the shadows. “I’m recording.”

  Of course he was.

  “So come on, who is she?”

  Behind him, Cherry whispered, “What’s going on? Why is he taking pictures?”

  “Don’t worry,” Ruben whispered back in English. “It’s nothing. I—“

  “Your Highness! Who is she?” Another camera flash, and Ruben was thrown right back into the worst days of his adult life. The days when every aspect of his identity had been thrown to the wolves and torn apart for consumption, for analysis. Judged and found wanting. As always. He felt the visceral pain in his gut.

  “She’s my fiancée,” he said. “And if you don’t erase those photographs, you’ll lose all access to the wedding and be in violation of your agreement with the Crown. Is that what you want, Niklaus?”

  The flashes stopped. Ruben blinked as if emerging from a dream, phantom brightness still blooming over his vision.

  Then came Niklaus’s familiar voice, thready and whining as the buzz of a fly. “Fiancée?”

  “That’s right. Which makes her part of the family. You can’t take our picture.”

  Before Niklaus could reply, more footsteps came. Faster and more familiar than the first, bringing a smile of relief to Ruben’s lips.

  Hans led the pack, cornering Niklaus with a grim smile, more intimidating than ever.

  “Woah, woah!” The photographer held up his hands, one still clinging to his camera. “Let’s not get overexcited, gentlemen! I was just speaking with the prince—“

  “Hans,” Ruben interrupted. “Niklaus has agreed to delete all photographs of my fiancée. Since they are in violation of his agreement with my brother’s estate. Please see that he does so.”

  He waited with baited breath in the darkness, the silence deafening. But then Hans said, his voice monotonous as ever, “Of course, Your Highness.”

  Only a man who’d known Hans forever would detect the thread of disbelief hidden in those words. Or the undercurrent of fury.

  But he’d deal with that later.

  Satisfied, Ruben turned and put his arm around Cherry, switching to English. “I’m sorry. Come; we need to leave.”

  She walked quickly, barely hesitating. But her shoulders were stiff, and her jaw was set.

  Ruben had the sinking realisation that she didn’t want his touch.

  Cherry paced her open-plan living room in stockinged feet, her mind churning.

  Ruben was lounging on her sofa as if he owned the place, watching her with an infuriating smile on his face and an unsettling wariness in his eyes.

  Finally, Cherry pulled herself together and turned to face him. “So you’re… some kind of celebrity.” She may not speak Swedish, or whatever language they’d used down there, but that much was obvious. “And you didn’t see fit to tell me that before doing… things. With me. In a public place. Correct?”

  He rested one hand casually against the back of the sofa and arched a brow. “I suppose.”

  “You suppose? You suppose?” She sounded like somebody’s mother. Reigning in her unease and her anger, Cherry forced herself to relax. She fluffed out her hair—he’d probably squashed the curls at the back against that fucking wall—then remembered her makeup. Crap.

  Snatching her bag from the coffee table, she rifled through for a mirror. There weren’t any on the walls of her flat, except for the one in the bathroom. She didn’t need to be beautiful when she was alone.

  “Cherry,” he sighed. “You look fine.”

  “Fuck off.” Wait—she was supposed to be charming him. She flashed a smile to soften the words, then studied her reflection. Her hair was frizzy and her lipstick smudged beyond belief. Fine. She’d go with the ‘just fucked’ look and hope he liked it.

  Snapping her mirror shut, Cherry sauntered over to the sofa and sank down beside him. She swung her legs onto his lap and took his hand in hers, toying with his long, thick fingers. But now was not the time to focus on that sort of thing. Beneath his usual confidence he seemed unsettled, almost panicked. And downstairs he’d been absolutely frantic.

  Looking up from under her lashes, she studied his face. His features were drawn, his jaw hard. “Are you married?” She asked. “You can tell me, you know.”

  He smiled slightly. “Can I?”

  Fuck. She nodded beguilingly.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m married.”

  Shooting up out of his lap, Cherry grabbed the nearest cushion and threw it at his head. “You piece of shit! You—“

  Too late, she realised that he was laughing. Hysterically.

  Cherry threw another pillow. “You’re not married at all, are you?”

  “Of course not,” he choked out. He was still laughing. Smug fucking dick.

  “It’s not funny!”

  “Yes it is,” he wheezed. “‘You can tel
l me,’ she says. Christ, does anyone fall for that?”

  “Yes, actually.” She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Plenty of people.”

  “Plenty, hm?” He caught his breath, still smiling. Then he held out a hand and said, “Come here.”

  She ignored the way her pulse leapt at his command. “No. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I will. If you come here.”

  “Tell me, or the next thing I throw at your head won’t be a pillow.”

  He arched a brow, but let his hand drop. “Fine. You should sit down, though.”

  Oh dear. That sounded ominous.

  Before she could really start panicking, a knock came at the door. An inappropriately loud knock, the kind made by men with large fists and underdeveloped common sense. She let out a huff. “Would that be your mysterious bodyguards?”

  “Yes,” Ruben said, without a hint of apology. Had she really been ready to sleep with this man? He was bloody irritating.

  Cherry stomped out into the hall and yanked open her front door. A huge man stood in the doorway, dressed entirely in black. The man who’d been in Chris’s office with Ruben just that morning. The man who’d stormed into the alleyway after that photographer.

  She eyed him warily. “Do you speak English? Because I don’t speak Swedish.”

  His thin lips twitched into something that might have been a smile. “Danish,” he said.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m not big on languages.”

  “It is no problem. I am Hans. May I come in?”

  Cherry, who had given up on all pretence of charm—surprise photographs and denied orgasms would do that to a girl—stepped aside with an ill-mannered sigh and said, “If you must.”

  The huge man dwarfed her tiny flat’s narrow hallway. He headed towards the living room as if he’d been here a thousand times before, not bothering to take off his shoes.

  Bloody men.

  Cherry slammed the door shut.

  When she returned to the living room, she found Hans standing by the window, peering out into the night, and Ruben on the sofa with… her cat, Whiskey.

  The fat little tabby was stretched out on Ruben’s lap, purring. Getting fur all over his £3,000 suit. He didn’t appear to mind. He rubbed her belly, and didn’t even flinch when she dug all of her claws into his hand.

  Cherry tried not to be impressed.

  “So,” she said, clapping her hands together. “This is cozy.”

  Hans turned away from the window to look at her dispassionately. Ruben continued playing with Whiskey, who hadn’t even acknowledge Cherry’s presence. Bloody traitor.

  Scrabbling for the remnants of her poise, Cherry picked up the pillows she’d thrown. “I’d offer you both a cuppa,” she said, “only I don’t really want to.”

  Hans inclined his head. “That’s quite alright, Madam.”

  How irritating.

  But Ruben turned wide, hurt eyes on her. “Really, Cherry? Denying us tea? Is that necessary?”

  It took her a second to realise that he was taking the piss. She shot him a glare. He responded with a lazy smile that had her treacherous heart leaping even as her temper rose.

  “Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?” She snapped.

  Hans blinked. Then he frowned at Ruben. “You didn’t tell her?”

  “I was easing into it.”

  “No you bloody weren’t,” Cherry spluttered. “You haven’t told me shit!”

  With a sigh, Ruben plucked Whiskey off of his lap and set the cat down on the floor. She, mortally offended, stuck both nose and whiskers in the air before sauntering off.

  “Okay,” Ruben said. “I’ll get on with it, if you like.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’m a prince,” he said.

  Chapter 8

  Cherry blinked. “No you’re not.”

  “Yes I am.”

  “No,” she insisted. “You’re not. There are, like, five princes. Charles, Philip, Will, Harry—“

  “I’m not an English prince.” He rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot we’re not the only ridiculous country in the world.”

  He arched a brow. “I take it you’re not a monarchist?”

  “Are you offended?”

  “No.” A corner of his mouth kicked up into that lazy, half-smile. “I’m not a monarchist either. I’m not much of a prince.”

  From his place by the window, Hans let out an irritated huff. “Yes, you are. You are His Royal Highness Prince Magnus Ruben Ambjørn Octavian Gyldenstierne of Helgmøre and you are very much a prince.”

  Cherry’s brows shot up. “Magnus? Your name is Magnus?” For some reason, the idea that she’d been calling him the wrong name all this time bothered her more than the fact that he was, apparently, royalty. And where the fuck was Helgmøre? She’d been hoping he was from Monaco.

  But he shook his head vehemently. “My name is not Magnus.”

  “Hans just—“

  “My name is not Magnus. My name is Ruben.” He lost his cool all at once, like the breaking of a damn. His eyes burned bright and his fists were clenched by his sides.

  Well. It was about time someone else lost their shit, since she’d been losing hers for the past twenty minutes.

  “Fine,” she said. “Ruben. Whatever.” She shook her head, trying to capture all of her scattered thoughts. “Look, what really matters here is… Christ, you are famous. Like, really famous. Right?” She looked at Hans for confirmation. The huge man nodded. “So where’s Helgmøre? Will those pictures show up in the British press? Because—“

  Ruben held up a hand. “You don’t need to worry about the pictures.”

  “I don’t? Why not?”

  He and Hans shared a look. “They’ve been dealt with.”

  Cherry frowned. “Jesus Christ, what did you do?!”

  “Nothing! Nothing bad.” Then he appeared to reevaluate that sentence. “Well, actually…”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. Or the way he was looking at her, with wary concern, as if she was a dangerous animal that could turn on him at any moment. Her eyes flew to Hans, and he seemed to share Ruben’s worry.

  “What?” She snapped. “Just tell me!”

  “Well… We may need to get you a security detail or… Something. Not sure. Now I think about it—“ He frowned suddenly, as if pained, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hm. This could get complicated.”

  “What?” She demanded.

  He ignored her, turning to Hans. “What do you think we should do?”

  “What?” Cherry repeated.

  Hans scowled. “Don’t ask me. Clearly you’ve lost your fucking mind today, so I doubt you’d listen to my advice.”

  “Oh, don’t be a bore, Hans. This really isn’t a good time.”

  “You’re telling me this isn’t a good time? I told you—“ Mid-sentence, Hans switched languages.

  Cherry pursed her lips, listening to their rising voices for a moment. Then she searched the living room for something to throw.

  She marched over to the bookcase, hefting an encyclopaedia with both hands. Was she strong enough to throw it at someone’s head? She wasn’t sure. It was rather heavy.

  “Cherry.”

  She moved on to an ornamental bulldog her dad had given her as a kind of weird flat-warming gift. It had a decent weight to it. Hefty, but light enough for her to throw it with some force. Now to choose the first victim.

  “Cherry.”

  She looked up, the bulldog in one hand. “What?”

  Ruben looked at the ornament warily. “Could you put that down?”

  “Why?”

  “Please?”

  She watched his jaw clench. And said, “No.”

  “Fine,” he sighed. “Okay, here’s the thing. I told the photographer that you were my fiancée—Jesus fucking Christ, woman!” He leapt aside as she launched the bulldog at his head.

  It landed on her coffee table with an omino
us thud. Hans walked over to the table and picked up the ornament to reveal a slight dent and a mess of chipped varnish.

  Cherry glared at Ruben. “You owe me a new coffee table.”

  “What?”

  “Shut up. Why would you say that?”

  “Because—“

  “I said shut up! Jesus,” she spat, throwing up her hands. Without permission, her feet began to pace. She didn’t really mind. It seemed appropriate. “So what happens now? A load of foreign paps come over here and stalk me? Camp outside my flat? Brilliant, bloody brilliant. Jesus Christ, I didn’t even get a shag out of it.”

  “Well, we could still—“

  “I swear to fucking God, shut the fuck up or I will gag you with your own fucking dick.” Had she screamed that last part? She rather thought she might have.

  Oh, dear. She was losing her temper.

  But Ruben didn’t seem to comprehend the danger. He crossed his arms and stared her down and said, “I did it to protect you. Okay? You don’t know how—“ His voice broke off, and for a minute he looked almost… lost. So lost that she forgot, in that very minute, to be furious. When he spoke again, his voice was stiff and formal. “No, you’re right. I—I have put you in an untenable position, without your knowledge or consent, and for that I apologise.”

  “Oh,” she said sweetly. “You apologise. Well that’s just grand. Can you also guarantee that my life isn’t going to change because of your big fucking mouth?”

  He swallowed. “No. I really can’t. But I—“

  She held up a hand. “I think that’s enough talking for one day. You can see yourself out.”

  “Wait, Cherry—”

  “Get out.” Her voice was hard. “Now.”

  She didn’t expect him to listen. Not really. But after a moment, he nodded tightly and turned on his heel, barking, “Kom,” at Hans.

  The large man hesitated by the window for a moment, his eyes on Cherry. Then he said, his voice soft, “We will return tomorrow.”

  “I won’t be here.”

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “You will.”

  Before she could work past the outrage blocking her throat, he left.

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Cherry threw herself onto the sofa, sinking into cushions made soft with age. Her parents had given her this sofa when she’d moved out. Almost all of her furniture was second-hand.