Page 25 of Royal Rising

“There’s your cat,” Dillon says, pausing in the rain with me.

“Not my cat.” The tabby pokes her head around the garbage bin, looking bedraggled and very wet. A pile of boxes gives her a bit of shelter but wet cardboard can only do so much.

I want to toss the poor thing into the kitchen so it can get out of the rain but it would be my luck to have the health and safety guy stop by.

Every time I see the cat, I tell myself to call Stella Laz. She would be better off if she was adopted or even took up residence in Stella’s pet rescue rather than scrounging for scraps in the alley.

She does keep the rodent problem down though.

And it’s not that she’s alone—I put food out for her every day. She’s a well-fed stray cat.

But still, my heart gives a hard tug that I’m walking away from her in the rain, and I tell myself to call Stella as soon as I’m done with Dad.

Dad. King Magnus of Laandia.

I haven’t had a chance to talk to him since Odin’s wedding and the fallout from his announcement. Dad had been busy entertaining the VIPs who stayed at the castle, and then, three days later, he left for meetings in Paris, Madrid, and London, the city in Ontario, Canada.

But now he’s back and it’s about time I find out what Odin stepping down means for me.

It means the same as it always did; as the firstborn, I’m next in line to inherit the crown. That won’t change.

But I’ve always wanted it to.

I don’t want the responsibility. I’m not interested in power. I can’t handle the pomp and circumstance and silly frou-frou that comes with being a king.

Those are only a few of the excuses I tell myself as I make the twenty-minute drive up the hill to the castle. Dillon sits shotgun—Gunnar and Odin may sit back and let their security do the driving but I’m too stubborn to let anyone else take the wheel.

Besides, it always reminds me of when Edie and I were learning to drive and I let her take the heat for something I did.

I’ve never forgiven myself for that, and I’ve never let anyone else take the fall for me.

Still, Edie was so insistent; back then she was even more earnest and opinionated and slightly scary. My Edie has mellowed over the years, while I get grumpier than a bear woken up too early in the spring.

“You’re smiling,” Dillon points out when we’re halfway up the hill. The rain comes down in sheets, with wipers doing double time.

“I smile.”

“Not really.” Dillon leans forward and ups the defrost. “I smile more than you.”

“You never smile.”

“My point exactly.”

I rest my hand on the gearshift. “Did I ever tell you Edie’s the reason I learned to drive stick?”

“You did not.”

“Duncan set it up with Dad’s security to teach me. I sucked at driving—”

“Maybe not the best thing to admit when we’re driving up a mountain during a severe thunderstorm.”

“Edie was much better than me,” I continue as if Dillon hadn’t spoken. “Not that I would let you know that. I hit the garage once and ran into the tennis court another time—and this was before I even got my proper license, so my mother told me if I hit anything else, I was going to have to wait another six months. I wasn’t about to wait, plus I needed to learn how to drive a stick shift.”

“Because you wanted to follow your little brother into racing?”

“Because Edie could drive stick and back then, I didn’t want to let a girl do something I couldn’t.”

“Take about a male ego. So glad you’ve gotten over that.”

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