Wild Heir

by Andrew, Nikolai

  Wild Heir

  Dani Wyatt

  Nikolai Andrew

  Copyright © 2020

  by Dani Wyatt & Nikolai Andrew

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  Cover Credit Pop Kitty

  Editing Nicci Haydon

  Created with Vellum

  Dedicated to the fighters and the runners.

  Contents

  Stalkers welcome

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28 - Epilogue

  Stolen Princess

  Masked Prince

  Royal Obsession

  Other Titles By Dani Wyatt

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  Chapter 1

  Valeria

  “If you want to survive, you’ll learn to obey him.” My father’s words sounded like an incantation, not loving advice to his daughter in preparation for her wedding day.

  I stared outside, feeling dazed and distant, watching the snowflakes dissolve on the carriage window as I pressed my finger to the ice-cold glass, dragging a line through the steam where my breath condensed on the beveled pane.

  The snow was falling harder now, and the sound of the horses’ hooves was growing more muted as we wound our way down into Greengallow Valley.

  The light in the carriage was on that cusp of shifting from the stark blue of winter afternoon to the sinister shadows of frigid dusk. I wished I could throw the carriage door open and run, but I knew I wouldn’t—I was in a dove gray silk ball gown, and horribly tight buttoned shoes made from a matching impractical silk. The heavy quilted velvet cape I wore might protect me for a while, but not for long. My fate was sealed and the carriage rumbled on.

  I had been dreading this day for months. Today I was to meet my fiancée; reminding me of the impending loss of my freedom, the end of my own life.

  My dreams of marrying for love, as my parents had done. Of living happily, raising children. Mapping the stars in the sky. Traveling to far off exotic lands on the search for all sorts of adventure. All of that was gone.

  The end of everything had arrived. And I felt as cold inside as the air outside.

  “Valeria,” my father snapped, whacking his cane on the carriage floor to get my attention. “You hear me? You’ll learn to obey him. In everything.”

  I sucked in a freezing breath and turned to face my father. His cheeks were ruddy with too many years of hard living—drinking, smoking, and gambling. God, the gambling.

  What a ruin my life had become because of his gambling. If it hadn’t been for all his losses, I wouldn’t be in this position at all.

  “I will never forgive you for this,” I hissed.

  I ground my teeth together as I stared at him. What I wouldn’t give to slap his chubby, red cheek. I clenched my fist, and my white, calf-leather glove stretched over my knuckles with a squeak.

  He kept his eyes on mine as I finished. “Paying off your debts with me. Like some brood mare.”

  Now it was my father’s turn to look away.

  I knew he felt guilty about it all; he wasn’t a monster at heart. I knew that every time I reminded him of what he’d done, it stung him deeply.

  Finally, he was going to face a consequence for his actions. One that would continue to confront him, day after day. A living, breathing reminder of what he had done to himself, to our family, and to me.

  “You’re a princess, Valeria Valentine. Time to start acting like one,” my father said. “You come from noble stock.” He pecked at his chest with a chubby finger. He wore no rings because he had lost them all over the years. So easy to gamble away five hundred years of family history on a losing hand. “An arranged marriage was always your fate—it’ll be a good match, for you and for the Greengallows.”

  “Save your excuses. You did this for yourself. To save your hide. If you hadn’t had me to marry off to Petre Greengallow, they’d have killed you. You know it and I know it. But instead, I get to call this godforsaken family of criminals my in-laws. Well done,” I snarled, and turned away again.

  I snatched my purse from the seat beside me and carefully opened the clasp so as not to break the small, delicate hinges. Like everything in my life, my little purse only gave the appearance of wealth. But look closely and you’d see the frayed silk and the missing beads.

  We were titled and land rich yet cash poor, as the saying went. Despite everything, my father was still a prince. His family disowned him when he married my mother against their wishes, ironically, for love as she was the daughter of an unwed scullery maid that worked in their manor.

  Such a scandal it was. Especially when it was discovered, my mother was already with child when they ran away and were married in secret under the mid-night moon.

  His family sent him away to the least loved castle in the harshest corner of the kingdom and forgot all about him, but they didn’t strip him of that damned title..

  My “fine clothes” were mended; my “jewels” were glass; our “castle” housed more ravens than people; the “carriage” where I sat was so rickety a pumpkin would have probably been sturdier.

  All I had was my title and it seemed that it had doomed me from the start.

  From inside my purse, I fished my silver cigarette case, which was engraved with my mother’s insignia. She had given it to me as a gift on my eighteenth birthday, just a week ago. I took a clove cigarette from the case and struck a match.

  The scent instantly calmed me. It reminded me of much better, happier days. Of making clove-studded oranges with my mom or poking them into a ham at Christmas.

  “Filthy habit,” my father said. “I should never have let your mother encourage it. And the expense of them, when we have barely enough as it is!”

  I took a long draw and exhaled in my father’s face. “Look who’s
talking.”

  He huffed at my disrespect, but let my sullied comment pass, knowing my foul mood was a direct result of his actions.

  The carriage slowed to a stop and then rocked slightly as our driver climbed down. Crunching footsteps in the snow were followed by the squeak of a heavy metal gate being opened, and then the carriage rolled forward slowly again.

  Peering out the window I could see on my side of the carriage, mere inches from the window, was an ivy-covered raw rock wall. On the other side, much further away, sprawled the Greengallow Estate. It sat on a stone outcrop with a sheer drop on my father’s side of the carriage.

  With a childish sense of satisfaction, I watched him stiffen and lean away from the window.

  What a coward.

  He wasn’t afraid of losing every penny he had; he wasn’t afraid of risking the life of his own daughter to pay his debts, oh no. The only thing he was really and truly afraid of was heights. Positively petrified of them.

  If poker were a rooftop game, my life would’ve turned out very differently.

  I turned my attention more fully to the estate. The house was lit up brilliantly from inside, every window gleaming.

  That, at least, was a welcome difference from our home, where we burned rush lights instead of real candles, and skittered down unheated hallways into the few rooms where we could afford to light fires to ward off the bone chilling Praquean winters.

  The valley below the cliff was so immense that some of it was still in partial late afternoon light. Whipping from each corner of the imposing main house were flags with the Greengallow family crest, a sickle beneath the heavens, three stars within its curved blade representing the three sheaths of corn allegedly gifted to the first Greengallow by the king himself, many centuries ago.

  I stubbed out my cigarette on the inside of my cigarette case and tucked it back in its place, to save it for later. The carriage driver assumed his place again and we started to descend further along the long drive toward the imposing structure ahead. The closer we came, the tighter the strap around my chest snugged until each breath was a struggle.

  “Father,” I started, my voice softer in an attempt to put aside our differences for the moment. “Do you think he’s as bad as they say?”

  My father turned to face me. We had both heard the rumors. Like all the Greengallows, Petre was deeply entangled in the Praquean Mafia. One of its leaders, just like his father. Their family controlled all but the smallest backroom gambling tables and when you borrowed money from the house, the Greengallows were the house.

  As my eighteenth birthday loomed, they called in his debt with no other option for an extension. With no way to repay, it became clear what they really wanted and more than likely why they allowed my father to borrow from the house for so long. They did not want the money, they wanted what they did not have.

  Title.

  But there were darker rumors too—that Petre was petty, cruel, and quick to violence. Especially with women.

  My father patted the back of my hand.

  “If you watch your tongue and show him respect,” my father said, “I’m sure you’ll be just fine. I’m sorry, my child. Marriage is about connections. Creating allies and fulfilling larger causes.”

  I huffed, swallowing hard, and ran my thumb over the engraving on my cigarette case. I didn’t need to say it, he already knew what I was thinking. Why was it that he was allowed to marry for love, against his family’s wishes, but the same wasn’t true for me? Perhaps women weren’t supposed to have such thoughts, but I did.

  Though I’d had few luxuries growing up, my time at boarding school had made me strong and confident. I was an experienced fencer and an accurate archer. They even taught us to fight alongside the more traditional studies of embroidery, literature and poetry.

  The unique teachings of my school made me understand my own power, and I could spot the weaknesses of my opponent. And yet, I’d never planned on having to defend myself from my own husband.

  The word husband made me nauseous.

  “I hate you for this,” I growled. The setting aside of our differences short lived. “I never minded being a paper princess. But if you had listened to mother, to me, and stayed away from the gambling dens,” I said, staring at the approaching estate, “none of this would have happened. None of this would be my future. None of this…”

  “Watch your tongue. I’ve put up with enough of your disrespect,” my father snarled and grabbed my wrist, sending my cigarette case flying. I was stunned—never had my father gone so far as to touch me.

  But his grip was terrifyingly strong.

  He raised his other hand to slap me. I stared it down.

  “Go ahead. Do it. Hit me. It’s the sort of marriage you’re sending me to anyway, isn’t it?” My voice was thick and hoarse with emotion. The low oil lamp in the carriage blurred with my tears. “Shouldn’t I get used to it?”

  He released my hand with a glare, and I reached over to pick up the silver case on the seat beside me. Behind his anger and cowardice, I saw a glimmer of what was driving all this.

  Fear and shame. And terror at what would happen to him if I somehow escaped this situation. They’d string him up in double-quick time, I had no doubt about it.

  He wouldn’t be the first. Everyone in out part of the kingdom knew what happened to men who failed to square their debts with the Greengallows.

  My father got control of himself, at least a little, and said, “Endear yourself to all of them, Valeria. You are a woman after all, and God has given you womanly gifts. Show the father, Francis, the utmost reverence and respect. Get in the brother’s good graces. They call him Vasile. The prodigal son not part of their messy businesses. He’s got his father’s ear, and his own sort of power, they say. If you ever need protecting from your husband, you may find an ally in Vasile.”

  Chapter 2

  Valeria

  My potential ally, according to my father, was a no-show for our big dinner.

  But Petre, much to my surprise, was not at all what I expected and my anxiety about needing an ally began to wane. I had heard so many rumors about my betrothed that I was expecting a monster.

  What I was met with instead was a well-spoken, elegant man, who seemed interested and respectful toward me. If I could fault him for one thing, it was that he was very clearly and very aggressively undressing me with his eyes. And a great deal more than that, too. I had once heard the term “eye fucking,” and I knew now exactly what that meant.

  Every time I met his gaze, my cheeks flushed, my skin prickling with heat, and I nearly had to bite my lip. Such hunger and desire, it hardly seemed polite.

  But even that seemed, oddly enough, somewhat acceptable. He was attractive, much more so than I had expected. He had dark hair and dark eyes and even his notorious limp, the source of so much gossip, was hardly noticeable.

  His dress for the evening was clearly expensive and in truth, somewhat ostentatious. A man who liked attention, I surmised. He wore extravagant rings and a sapphire and diamond neckpiece that looked a century out of place.

  Seated at the long, polished mahogany dining table, were Petre and his father, Francis Greengallow. Though the old man had all the trappings and behaviors of a mafia king—the pinkie ring, the raw calm, the sense of power, the slightly off-color jokes—I found that I liked him very much. He was warm and curious, and seemed genuinely happy at the prospect of having me as a daughter-in-law.

  “Having a lady to help run the house will be a damned good thing,” he said. “And my wife will be so grateful to have you here as well. I do apologize for her absence; she was simply too weak today.”

  “I am so sorry. I do hope she will recover.”

  He nodded, a half-smile showing gold-capped molars.

  “Thank you, my dear, but at this stage recovery would be a miracle. What we can hope for, and what I pray for every morning and night, is that her condition doesn’t deteriorate any further. It was unfortunate that today was o
ne of her worse days, she so wished to meet you.”

  “I’m sure we will get along quite well.” I gave a polite bow of my head.

  My father had filled me in on the family enough to know that Mrs. Greengallow, Petre’s mother, was unwell.

  A weak heart, the result of a fever that had spread through the region the year I was born. I glanced up at the ornately plastered ceiling, past the glimmering crystal chandelier, and wondered if she was right there above me somewhere, for all purposes confined to her own sort of prison. There was an unoccupied place set to the right of the older Mr. Greengallow, the place of honor which I guessed was for his other son, Vasile.

  I saw a look pass between Petre and his father as we sat awaiting our first course that seemed tense. But then, could I blame a man for resenting his newly returned brother’s place of preference at a dinner meant to honor his own engagement? And then, he didn’t even bother to show?

  As well, from what I’d heard it was Petre who worked with his father running the family business, not this Vasile who’d recently returned from somewhere to the east.

  The house itself, and the meal, were unlike anything I’d experienced in my life—such luxury and finery and good taste. As our dinner went on, I began to think that perhaps all the rumors had been just that. Rumors.