Page 26 of The Princess Trap
“Unlike Kathryn, this one actually managed to trap you. Lydia is most concerned.”
Ruben ignored the reference to Lydia, his sweet sister-in-law, doubtless designed to keep him off-balance. Harald didn’t value his wife highly enough to mention her without an ulterior motive. “Cherry didn’ttrap me,” Ruben said, his voice purposely flat.
And then he kicked himself. Fuck.
“Cherry?” Harald barked out a laugh. “The fruit?Kirsebær? What, do you fuck strippers now?”
“Watch your fucking mouth.”
“Put down your sword, Prince Charming. It is just a plank of wood and you are just a peasant boy.” Harald snorted with delight at his own joke. “Whatever. It is too late now; wemust project unity. You will pretend that I met this Cherry long ago. And you will bring her to me.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a request, boy. Don’t forget: youdoneed my permission. Unless you’d like to renounce your claim on the throne of Helgmøre?”
Ruben gritted his teeth, the pulse thudding through his head so strong that it was painful. This was the game he played, the line he danced across. He was fifth in line for the throne of Helgmøre, which gave Harald a certain legal amount of control over him. Escaping his brother’s power would mean renouncing his claim.
And he would never renounce his fucking claim. He would not be struck out of history books and swept aside, no matter how many people thought his existence was a mistake.
“No,” he said. “I will not renounce my claim.” Now, he would tell his brother the truth. He would never hear the end of it, of course—would be summoned home immediately, have his activities with the Trust curtailed, and yet again, the press would spend months breathing down his neck. Tearing him apart and glorying in his bloody entrails. At the thought, his skin became too hot and tight for his body. His heart rate thundered and his breath came fast, shallow and sharp. Again. It would happen all over again.
He couldn’t tell his brother. He couldn’t tell anyone. He couldn’t go through another fucking scandal. They’d eat him alive.
“I will bring her,” he choked into the phone. “Okay? I’ll bring her. Soon. At some point. I’m going now.”
“I beg your pardon? Ruben—”
“I have to go!” He put the phone down and threw it into the car’s footwell. Then he stared down at it, that innocuous little rectangle of glass and plastic with which he’d just dug himself into an even deeper hole.
Fuck.
He looked over at Hans, searching for some kind of reassurance. Instead, he was faced with the sight of his bodyguard and lifelong companion wide-eyed and open-mouthed, looking at Ruben like he’d just grown another head. Out of his arse.
“What the fuck did I just do?” Ruben rasped.
“I don’t know. Shit. I don’t know. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I… I realised that if I take this back, it could start all over again. Just like before. And I can’t deal with that. I can’t.” Memories rampaged through his mind, blurring together like a countryside viewed from a speeding train. The headlines, the articles, the fucking documentary, all the shit that had popped up over the last eight months. People dredging up the drama of his past, his origins, the story of his parents—his mother. All because he’d dragged the family name through the mud and turned out to be exactly what people always thought he’d be.
Unworthy of the Royal House of Helgmøre.
“Hey.” Hans’s voice was as hard as the grip he had on Ruben’s shoulder. He squeezed, his fingers grinding into muscle and bone, until the pain brought Ruben back into the present. “Stop panicking. You don’t need to panic. This is fine.”
Ruben huffed out a laugh. “No it fucking isn’t.”
“It is. So you told the world that Cherry is your fiancée. You know what that makes you?”
“What?”
“Boring. Normal. Something other than the royal family’s black sheep. And it protects her from too much media interest, too—as long as they think she’s yours. So… why don’t you make it real?”
Ruben stared at his bodyguard. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Make her your fiancée. Then everything is simple, yes? No lies. She’s just your fiancée.”
“Hans,” Ruben said patiently. “I realise that you don’t know much about women—”
“Incorrect.”
