Page 18 of The Princess Trap
That voice didn’t belong to Hans.
Chapter Seven
“Your Highness!” A camera flashed bright white in the darkness, illuminating everything he’d ever wished to hide. “Who’s this? Who is she? Can I get a smile, sweetheart?” The last sentence was in English, the first few, thank God, in Helgmøre’s antiquated Danish.
Ruben turned, using his body to hide Cherry from view, dragging a hand across his jaw—which was probably covered in scarlet lipstick.
“For fuck’s sake,” he snarled, slipping into his mother tongue.
Another flash. “Come on, Your Highness. Where’s the whips and chains?”
Ruben felt a growl rise in his chest, felt his pulse pound and saw the world around him turn red. Rage tinged with panic flooded his throat, the phantom taste of blood and imminent regret. His fists clenched.
But then he felt the lightest touch against his back, like a butterfly coming to rest. And he remembered. How could he forget?
Cherry.
“You can’t take our picture,” he said hoarsely, his sense returning, the alarm in his head fading away. He squinted into the darkness. “Niklaus?”
“Awww, you remember me!”
Of course he fucking did. Paparazzi dogged him often enough, but this particular photographer had been his own personal poltergeist over the past few months.
Until Demetria had forced Ruben’s brother to cut a deal.
“You can’t take our picture,” he said again, louder now. More confident. “Or you’ll lose the privileges my brother promised.”
“Ah, ah. I can’t takeyourpicture.”Flash. “So I’ll blur you out. The king said nothing about your whores—”
“Have some fucking respect,” Ruben snapped, “before I—”
“What, Your Highness? Careful.” White teeth flashed in the shadows. “I’m recording.”
Of course he was.
“So come on, who is she?”
Behind him, Cherry whispered, “What’s going on? Why is he taking pictures?”
“Don’t worry,” Ruben whispered back in English. “It’s nothing. I—“
“Your Highness! Who is she?” Another camera flash, and Ruben was thrown right back into the worst days of his adult life. The days when every aspect of his identity had been thrown to the wolves and torn apart for consumption, for analysis. Judged and found wanting. As always. He felt the visceral pain in his gut.
“She’s my fiancée,” he said. “And if you don’t erase those photographs, you’ll lose all access to the wedding and be in violation of your agreement with the Crown. Is that what you want, Niklaus?”
The flashes stopped. Ruben blinked as if emerging from a dream, phantom brightness still blooming over his vision.
Then came Niklaus’s familiar voice, thready and whining as the buzz of a fly. “Fiancée?”
“That’s right. Which makes her part of the family. You can’t take our picture.”
Before Niklaus could reply, more footsteps came. Faster and more familiar than the first, bringing a smile of relief to Ruben’s lips.
Hans led the pack, cornering Niklaus with a grim smile, more intimidating than ever.
“Woah, woah!” The photographer held up his hands, one still clinging to his camera. “Let’s not get overexcited, gentlemen! I was just speaking with the prince—“
“Hans,” Ruben interrupted. “Niklaus has agreed to delete all photographs ofmyfiancée. Since they are in violation of his agreement with my brother’s estate. Please see that he does so.”
