by Alyssa Cole
Where is the light switch?
She sighed in frustration. She couldn’t very well head back out into the cabin and ask the attendant for help after she’d flounced. She pressed the home button on her cell phone, the brief flash of light illuminating the edge of the bed.
She shuffled her way toward it, and sighed in relief as the soft mattress gave way beneath her palms and her knees. It was ridiculously decadent, as would any bed befitting royalty, and she allowed her weary body to sink into the swaddling comfort.
Now that she was alone in the dark, tears stung at her eyes and her chest felt tight. She would be home, Thesolo home, in less than two hours, and despite all the assurances she’d given to friends and family, she was not prepared.
She thought of the way Mariha had been so stiff with her when she’d boarded the plane. How she’d said the name Jerami like it was a hot coal.
It was a venerated surname in the tiny but increasingly powerful African kingdom—Annie and Makalele Jerami, Nya’s grandparents, were respected tribal elders, and Naledi Smith nee Ajoua, born of a Jerami, was the country’s prodigal princess, whose impending marriage was currently the most anticipated event in Thesolo.
The name was also reviled in some quarters, because of the man that made Nya’s hands tremble with nerves.
Alehk Jerami the traitor. Alehk Jerami the disgrace of Thesolo.
Alehk Jerami, Nya’s father.
He had committed many crimes against the kingdom of Thesolo, as everyone had discovered two years before—blackmail, treason, fraud—but the worst among these had been the unthinkable act of poisoning his own kin. Annie and Makelele and Naledi—Naledi, whose parents had fled years before to escape Alehk’s threats and died in a land far from their ancestors, leaving Naledi orphaned.
Unspeakable.
In the aftermath, people spoke of how Alehk harmed everyone closest to him, as if he himself were poison. There were even rumors that his beloved wife hadn’t really died in childbirth, though Nya was fairly certain that rumor wasn’t true. But his daughter? No one thought about mousey little Nya when it came to the crimes of Alehk Jerami, except to pity her or wonder if she’d aided him. He’d loved her too much to hurt her, everyone thought, but too much love could hurt, too.
“Would you leave me, too, Nya? After having taken your mother from me? Answer me, child.”
“No, Father. I will never leave you.”
She sucked in a breath against the panic and pressed her thumbs into the corners of her eyes, as if stopping a leak in a dam. Nya wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t, even though she felt more alone than she ever had before, and was certain that being home, which should have made her feel safe, would only make that loneliness apparent.
I wish . . . I wish.
The bed suddenly shifted and Nya was pulled into a strong, solid embrace. Her nose tickled at the smell of lemon and lavender, citrus, and an almost abrasive floral, a comforting scent that was as far from the ubiquitous eng flower of Thesolo—her father’s poison of choice—as she could get. The arms that clamped around her were lean and muscular, and the body it pulled her against was just as chiseled. But it was warm—so warm and holding her so gently that she relaxed back against it for a second and sighed at how right it felt before her fear and common sense kicked in.
Wait—
She was alone on the plane. But someone was in the bed beside her. Had her distress been so acute that it had reached Ingoka’s ears? Had she conjured this sudden comfort? She knew the folklore of the lesser gods, of those who gave humans what they wanted but always took more than they gave.
No, this is no time for silliness.
She tried to tug herself free from the stranger’s arm because, be they god or man, something really fucking weird was going on.
The hold tightened. “Reste bei mir.”
The words came out in a whisper that tickled Nya’s ear and made her belly jolt, even though she couldn’t decipher what they meant.
She pushed at one of the arms from below and the hold loosened as the stranger snorted and began to move.
“Hmm. What do we have here?” The voice was deep and smooth, a European judging from the strangely accented English. So definitely not a lesser god of Thesolo, and most likely a perverted human.
She jumped up off the bed, listing a bit as the plane hit light turbulence, and fumbled with her phone as her hands began to tremble slightly. She was on the plane usually reserved for the royal family of Thesolo. Ledi had made her listen to those true-crime podcasts, so Nya knew that this could be some depraved assassin.
What kind of assassin snuggles people to death? Stranger things had happened, she supposed.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she asked sternly as she tried to access the flashlight app, but her thumb was wet from the tears she’d pressed into submission and the fingerprint reader wouldn’t work. She pressed the button to take photos instead, no unlocking required, and the bright bursts of the flash revealed the outline of a man stretched out on the bed.
“What do you want?” she asked again, stepping back toward the door.
“Hmm. Biscuits?” The question was punctuated by the sound of shuffling on the sheets. “Biscuits would be super. I missed the in-flight meal.”
Wait. That voice—
The light flicked on then, and she blinked several times, and then kept on blinking even after her eyes had adjusted. Her ears hadn’t lied.
It’s him.
“It’s you.” Johan Maximillian von Braustein’s thick auburn hair was tousled and unruly, his cheeks slightly flushed as if he’d been dreaming of something naughty. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and rolled up to his elbows, revealing the reddish hair dusting his forearms. His wide blue eyes? Those were bright and clear, even if the rest of him was still half-asleep. For a second, she was smacked with the same certainty she’d had when she first met him—that he was appraising her like a man trying to tally how many goats he’d have to trade for the pleasure of making her his, and he was willing to trade them all.
Then he looked away, his features the very picture of boredom. Just her imagination running away with her again, always fooling her into seeing wide vistas when her path was blinkered at best.
He gathered the pillow, which had been tangled up in a sheet, close to him.
“Ledi’s cousin. Naya, is it? I thought you were a pillow,” he said before yawning hugely, though he at least covered his mouth. Then he glanced at her, as if he’d thoroughly forgotten her presence in the time it had taken him to yawn and was now mildly surprised to find her there. “Well? Do you have biscuits?”
“No.” She realized she was still holding her phone out defensively and lowered her arm. His gaze on her intensified, and Nya felt the English being knocked from her head by the impact of his gaze on her. “The bed. I want to be in it.”
“I see.” His gaze warmed beneath lashes that drooped as if they’d suddenly grown heavy. “Are you here to seduce me, Naya?”
Her vocabulary returned, reloaded by her anger. “Seduce you? No! I didn’t even know you were in here!”
He rolled over onto his side, resting his head on the mound of bed toppings he’d gathered, the better to see her. “I know this trick. ‘Oh, I’m just a timid little thing who wandered into the lair of the big bad wolf.’” He chuckled and patted the mattress. “Very well, then, Naya. Come to bed and I’ll eat you up.”
Goddess. He’d gone from ignoring her at every encounter, to not remembering her name, to accusing her of seduction, to offering . . . THAT as easily as the priestesses handing out garlands at the spring festival. She wasn’t sure what was more intolerable, his assumption or the amusement in his tone. He was wrong about her intentions, but, like everyone else, thought the mere idea of Nya taking what she wanted was laughable.
Even the most docile Jerami wouldn’t tolerate this disrespect. She gripped the phone and pointed it at him. “I am pulling no tricks. And my name is Nya. You might rem
ember that before inviting me to lower myself with a man like you.”
“My mistake,” he said, seemingly resistant to chastising, then scooted over on the bed. “Well, the bed is big enough to fit two, Nya, and I wouldn’t mind some company right now.”
Nya paused, dropping her hand to her side again. There was something in his tone . . . but before she could identify it, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
“I didn’t ask before, because I was asleep, I suppose, but do you prefer being big spoon or little spoon?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively, underlining the fact that to him this was a joke. But to her . . .
Nya had never been held by a man before Johan had, apparently, mistaken her for a pillow. It had felt good, in that moment before reality had set in. And now this jerk, who had never bothered to learn her name and would likely forget her existence again as soon as the plane landed, thought to make light of the most intimate experience she’d had thus far?
Of course. Self-indulgent, spoiled . . . he doesn’t know what it’s like to be alone. For him, spooning a random woman on a plane is just another Tuesday.
“You can be big spoon if you want,” he offered when she didn’t respond, and Nya sucked her teeth. He really was as appalling as the tabloids made him out to be.
“I will be the only spoon. Get out.” Her voice trembled and she swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. She could still feel his arm around her, holding her close. For the first time, she had known what it felt like to be . . . cared for. And it had been this ridiculous man, who cared for no one but himself. This greedy, wanton playboy with his good looks and smooth words, who expected her to bend to his wishes.
Nya was both embarrassed and furious.
Worse, behind her fury, a small, lonely voice in the deepest part of her whispered, Go to him. Johan sat there looking at her with his foolish, confident grin, as if he was in cahoots with her traitorous hidden desires.
She gestured toward the door. “Get. Out.”
“I’m quite comfortable,” he said, settling in. “And let’s not forget that I was here first, Mademoiselle I Want to Be in Bed.”
This teasing was so much worse than all those times he had ignored her. She’d imagined situations just like this, despite her distaste for him. Situations where he couldn’t pretend she didn’t exist and was hit with the realization that she existed and she mattered—and perhaps even that he wanted no one but her.
“Your dreams are too big, girl.”
Now, he was finally looking right at her and all he saw was a woman to be treated like a joke. That was all anyone would ever see.
Her father had been right.
“I said get out!” Nya had never yelled before. It was strange, how the angry words scraped her throat. How did people do this all the time? No matter. She would shout him to the threshold of Ingoka’s abyss if necessary. “You rude, inconsiderate, selfish, arrogant—”
Her words caught on an ugly choking sound and tears spilled down her cheeks, a sudden humiliating torrent. She raised her hands to her face.
“Ah, scheisse.”
She could see the white of his dress shirt and the gray of his pressed slacks through the spaces between her fingers as he moved from the bed and stood before her, but refused to look up into his face.
“Nya.” His voice was gentle now. So, so gentle, wrapping around her like his arms had, which somehow made everything worse.
She shook her head and sniffled against her palm. “I want to be alone.” Her voice broke like a youth preparing for her first flower festival, and she squeezed her eyes shut even harder. She had spent so much of her life never breaking, pretending that everything was all right, and of course it would happen now, in front of him.
“Here,” he said, then there was the feel of silky soft material against the back of her hand. “Take it, along with my apology. I’ve behaved . . . I won’t say it was quite out of character, but I know better and shouldn’t have spoken to you in that way. I took out my bad mood on you.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to that,” she said miserably as she snatched the handkerchief he offered. If her father had prepared her for anything it was that her happiness was always to be at the whim of some man.
She wiped at her face, inhaling the scent of lemon and lavender that had wrapped around her so comfortingly.
“Used to it?” Johan huffed. “That doesn’t make it right. I was an ass.”
She blew her nose, barely listening. She knew that men only apologized when you made them question their own idea of themselves. She would assuage him, so that he could feel like a good guy again and would leave her alone. “It’s fine. I accept your apology.”
“Don’t pardon me so easily.” He had one hand on his hip, the other behind his back, as he leaned a bit closer to her. “Or pardon me if you want, I suppose, but at least don’t do it because you’re used to dealing with asses.”
“Sorry,” she said automatically. With her father, sorry had been a magic word to make unpleasant conversations stop.
“For what?” Johan pressed, and the brazen man had the nerve to sound annoyed with her.
Nya didn’t respond. She was annoyed herself—and confused. Johan had insulted her, then comforted her, and now was defending her from himself? Men were exhausting, truly.
He made a sound of consternation. “I don’t have any more handkerchiefs, but my shirt is quite absorbent if you need a shoulder to cry on. It’s made of the finest cotton.”
“I have my own shoulders, thank you very much,” she said, aware her words didn’t quite make sense. “I’m not going to cry all over some disrespectful man.”
He tutted. “Come now. You’ve read the tabloids, I’m sure. Tears are tame in the list of bodily fluids I’m said to share with strangers.”
“What?” She didn’t want to laugh—she was mad at him, after all, and wanted to be rid of him—but this was all so bizarre that she couldn’t suppress her shocked laughter. “Is that oversharing supposed to make me feel better?”
“Does it make you feel worse?” He grinned at her, then brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes.
She shook her head. “I guess not.”
“Gutt.” His gaze flicked to the door and then back to her. “Do you still want me to leave?”
Nya was aware that he was no longer being flippant—that if she wanted him to stay, he would do that, too. Her head spun a bit at how quickly Johan could change the flow of the conversation, but then she shook it for a second time. This wasn’t a game. He wasn’t her one true prince. In the end, he was just another tiresome man who wanted something from her.
“No,” she said. “You should go.”
“Comme tu willst,” he said softly. “The light switch is on the console on the bedside table next to the electrical outlet.”
With that he let himself out, taking the bundled top sheet with him. She wouldn’t conjecture why, given his whole bodily fluids thing. Instead, she flopped down onto the bed, still somewhat in shock.
Maybe it was for the best she was returning home. She would go back to work at the orphanage school, where the children needed her. She would resume visiting her grandparents, who loved her. She would once again be boring, timid Nya, because that’s who she was anywhere she went and she might as well stop trying to be someone she wasn’t.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
NEW MESSAGE FROM HANJO
I like a girl with spirit! I’ll be in the library tomorrow afternoon, and we can pretend it’s a coincidence when you show up and sit beside me.
“Shut up, Hanjo,” she muttered.
She was about to put the phone down when she remembered the flash she’d used to figure out whether Johan was a snuggly stowaway—she had taken photos of him. She shouldn’t have felt a gnawing curiosity as she navigated to the camera roll—it was kind of creepy having the photos, even if she hadn’t taken them intentionally.
There were eight pi
ctures. Most were dark with blurry patches of light, but one was as clear as if she’d taken it on purpose. She expected his expression to be sly playboy boredom, a wicked grin to match his words in the darkness, but his expression was somber as he looked toward the camera. He looked . . . sad?
No, he looks like a man about to bother you for no reason, because that’s what he did, she reminded herself. Then she looked closer.
Was that?
No, it couldn’t be.
But it was.
There, poking out from underneath the playboy prince of Liechtienbourg, was the face of a small, ratty, oddly disgruntled-looking teddy bear.
“Oh, goddess,” she whispered, not quite sure what to feel. He was a very weird man—not because he slept with a teddy bear, but because from everything she knew about him, he was the last man who would. He slept with models, and drove fancy cars, and . . .
Well, it didn’t matter. She doubted she’d see him, or his teddy, much after the plane landed, anyway. He was the loud, in the middle of the action type. She was usually safely holding up a wall, looking at those types in admiring scorn. She’d keep his teddy bear secret safe. She would not think about how it was rather cute.
She put her phone down and opened the drawer the flight attendant had told her about, in search of a handkerchief. She found a box of thick, aloe-infused tissues—along with condoms, lubricant, and a pair of fuzzy handcuffs.
She remembered the flight attendant’s smirk when Nya had insisted on going into the bedroom.
Nya slammed the drawer shut, curled up on the bed, and pulled the pillow over her head. It smelled of eng, but faintly, very faintly, of lemon and lavender.
She sighed.
If Mariha was a gossip, the Nya of the fantasy world would once again be much more interesting than the real one.
Can’t Escape Love
Can’t wait until April to read another Reluctant Royals story? Well, you’re in luck! Another steamy, fun Reluctant Royals novella is coming very soon!
CAN’T ESCAPE LOVE
