It’s rather early in Stölland for a phone call, but I know my brother Colden will be up. I waver for a moment, considering calling someone else instead when Gracie refuses my calls.
Five years ago, I didn’t know Willow Honeycutt existed.
Now, I count my stepsister among my dearest friends. Plus, she’s isolated from all the royal shenanigans and rules, which means she’ll most likely have a relevant perspective.
However, she’s rather close to the Berger twins, which means confiding in her may not be the wisest course of action just yet, even though I suspect Zeus will know by morning. Also, Willow works early in the morning, which means she’s probably already in bed.
So I dial Colden.
He answers on the fourth ring. “Your ringtone annoys the sheep.”
“You picked it, old man.” He has me by two years, though if age were judged by grump factor, he’d have one foot in the grave. “Did I interrupt private time with Bessie?”
“Fuck off.” There’s a grunt on the other end of the phone, and I assume he’s lifting hay bales or dragging wood or possibly tossing a whole bloody sheep out the door as he takes care of his own self-assigned duties at the palace grounds in Stölland’s early morning. If Colden had been born without royal blood, he’d have moved to the moors, grown a beard down to his belt, taught himself to play the lute, and lived out his days as a shepherd. “Did you break a bone, get yourself kidnapped, need bail money, or knock up a girl?” he asks.
“Because I would only call in one of those cases?”
“Yes.”
Bloody fucker knows me too well. “Elin arrived. If I have to marry that woman, I’ll leap off a bloody cliff.”
There’s another grunt. Elin would’ve been Colden’s problem, had he not been born with bowed legs. No, I don’t want the cripple. I’ll take the third son instead. Braces straightened his legs before he was a decade old, but worry over genetics kept the old earl from wanting his daughter to marry closer to the top of the royal food chain. His daughter will still be named a princess, though with far fewer roles and responsibilities.
All the better for Stölland.
“I’m quite serious about the cliff,” I tell Colden.
“Let me know when you’re ready to jump. I’ll bring flowers.”
“What did that tramp do to my luggage?”
I wince as Elin’s inhuman screech pierces my eardrums from the floor below. At the same time, I find myself smiling. I can’t imagine what Gracie might’ve done to Elin’s luggage, but I dearly hope it’s irreversible.
“What the devil was that?” Colden asks.
“My betrothed,” I reply dryly.
“Bloody hell.”
“You realize if I go over a cliff, you’ll be forced to take her on.”
“Doubtful, as I’m unable to have children.”
My lips part. “Fucking sheep on a platter, Colden. Since when?”
“Since the moment you threatened to saddle me with your betrothed.”
“Fucker.”
“You have two options. Either you can die, or she can. I’m in favor of the latter.”
“Give me back my monkey!”
Earplugs are in my near future. “I can’t marry this woman, Colden. Fuck royal duty. I won’t do it.”
“Don’t have much choice, old chap. Austling paid a hefty sum for you, and he will most likely do everything in his power to ruin our family if you back out.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose, because I know he’s right about the ruination. “A hefty sum?” I repeat.
There’s silence on the other end of the phone. Silence is fairly typical for Colden, but this silence is heavy.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
Arranged marriages have been happening in my country for generations. My father’s bride—my mother—was picked by my grandfather as well, who believed it in the family’s best interest to form an alliance with her family, as the Groessens were titled and wealthy, employing a full one percent of Stölland’s population through their farming and fishing conglomerates. My grandfather was betrothed to a princess from Heilsen, further north in the Norwegian Sea, as part of a peace treaty between the two countries as settled on by their fathers.
Land, political advantage, and trade partnerships often come into play. But to the best of my knowledge, none of my family’s arranged marriages have included cash payments.
Not even Gunnar’s, when he wed the second daughter of a Danish prince in order to open up trade routes.
“I know about your secret girlfriend,” I tell my brother. “Talk.”
He grunts. I’ve no idea if he has a secret girlfriend, but it seems a legitimate threat.
“I have no details,” he tells me. “You’ll have to discuss it with Gunnar. As I understand it, the whole situation was so entirely fucked up that Pappa still doesn’t like to acknowledge the truth. In the meantime, you might talk to Sylvie.”
“Because she’s the most level-headed of the lot of us?”
“No, because she’s the most romantic of all of us. Should make for quite the entertaining dinner to watch her and Pappa argue over the age-old tradition of marrying off the king’s children to keep peace and expand the influence of the kingdom. Not that she’ll be able to change his mind, since Austling has us over a bloody barrel, but I’ll be entertained.”
“You’re being rather unhelpful.”
“I’m up to my elbows in sheep shit with an appointment to visit a preschool, and then a hospital, and then have dinner at the ambassador’s club this evening, while you’re merely annoyed with a woman. I’m rather disinclined to be helpful.”
I sometimes wonder if he truly has the social skills of an uneducated sheep, or if he simply pretends to lack social skills to get himself out of engagements.
Considering his schedule, it’s rather likely his pretending has failed him.
“She stole my scarf! That bloody whore took my Hermes scarf!”
My guards will require a raise if she doesn’t leave soon. “Don’t suppose you know anything about poison,” I mutter.
“Yes. Don’t drink it.”
I sigh.
“You do have one more option,” Colden says.
“Anything.”
“Introduce her to someone richer. Or at least more handsome. Shouldn’t be difficult to find the latter.”
Not a half-bad plan. If she throws me over, her father can hardly fault the Freys for her infidelity. “He’ll have to be half-deaf,” I murmur as another shriek goes up from the floor beneath me. “And rather tolerant.”
“One man’s rubbish is another’s treasure.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re welcome.”
Something crashes beneath the floor, and my phone buzzes with an incoming message.
From Viktor. This is worrisome, Your Highness.
I’m tempted to tell him to take it up with my father, but it’ll simply come back on me. Handle your woman, Manning. ‘Tis your duty to do so.
Colden’s right. One of us needs to die, or I need to find her a richer, more attractive beau.
I’m fourth in line for a crown. Hardly a prize as far as royalty goes.
But finding a man richer or more titled than me willing to accept Elin’s brand of crazy will prove difficult.
Especially when I’d far rather be spending my precious free moments getting to know the woman having my child.
Despite everything, I can’t suppress a natural smile of joy.
My child.
The idea should be terrifying. Disturbing. Possibly suffocating.
But there’s soon to be a miniature version of me walking this earth. With his mother’s dark eyes, our combined charm, my athletic tendencies, and her heart, he’s bound to be the most perfect creature ever created.
And I swear on my life, he’ll be allowed to choose his own bride.
In another forty or forty-five years.
And not a day before.
