Page 224 of Twisted Royals

She swallows hard.

“Because you're all I can think about. Missing you is the reason I was in such a shit mood all night.” My mouth curves up on one side. “You’re the reason I was an ass to you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, blame me.”

“Elle, you're everything I want in a partner, a wife, and apparently, you're everything my parents want as well. Trust me, in my life, where everything I do disappoints them, the signs don't get any more cosmic than this.”

I push her hair out of the way and lean down, whispering in her ear. “I want you, Elle, for my whole life, and I think you want that too. I think you want me.” I pull away just enough to look into her eyes. “I love you. And though I'll never get to have the life I want for myself, if you say yes, I'll have you, and that will make it all worth it.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “You are everything I never knew I always wanted.”

Her blue eyes are misty, but she laughs at my mouthful of words, her expression filling me with love, purpose, and hope.

Before I’ve fully thought it through, I drop to one knee in front of her.

“Marry me, Elle. Be my wife, my lover, my queen.”

Elle

I’d never been the sort of girl to daydream about this moment. I’d never laid in bed conjuring up imagery of the perfect man, proposing to me in a million romantic ways, nor had I pictured the perfect wedding.

But even if I’d given it a fleeting thought, this would not have been on my list of possibilities.

In a storage closet, with the prince of Denmark, and a broken chair? God, it sounds like a deranged guess for the game of Clue.

My lips are dry and I wet them with my tongue as my mouth opens and closes like a fish drawing water over its gills.

This is all wrong. No matter how much my heart is screaming yes, I know I have to say no. I can’t be a princess or a queen. I’m not Danish. I can’t speak the language or know anything about the country. And I hate this kind of thing—this gala was torture tonight. And doesn’t being royalty mean you have to do this sort of thing all the time?

And yet, the thought of Dan going home to find someone who can do these things, kills me.

I would marry Dan, the hockey player, in a second. But Danon, the future king of Denmark…

I rack my brain, searching for an answer that isn't a definitive yes or no. Something to prolong the inevitable, but before I can, a piercing song blasts through the small room. My ringtone for Blanca.

Holding up my finger, sheepishly, I pull my phone from my clutch and stare at the notification for sixteen missed calls and a banner text saying, Bitch. Answer your goddamn phone. 911. Urgent.

“I have to get this,” I whisper.

Dan raises his eyebrows but says nothing as he stays on one knee looking devastatingly handsome in his tux.

“What?” I answer with an angry whisper. “I'm kind of in the middle of something!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. The stupid ball you've complained about all week,” Blanca says dismissively. “Go to the bathroom or somewhere you can talk. This is important. It's huge.”

“I can talk. Go. Say whatever you have to say but hurry.” There’s a very hot man on his knee in front of me. But hurry isn't a word in Blanca’s vocabulary.

Her story starts out long and rambly. “Okay well, you know how I need a new phone because mine sucks and never has enough storage?”

“Yeah,” I reply so she’ll keep going.

“Okay, well, I’m chatting with this guy online and I want to send him a few selfies so I’m clicking away, because damn girl, your fairy godmother is looking extra spicy tonight.”

“Blanca!”

“Okay, god. Anyway, Of course my camera stops working because I’m out of storage. So I go into my albums to delete some older photos and that’s when I see it.”

“See what?” I huff, wishing she’d get to the point.

“Dan’s ID.”

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