Page 49 of The Midnight Princess
The words are out of my mouth before I’ve thought them through. The realization hits both of us at the same time, and we freeze, my hand on her waist, closer even than we were on that midnight.
I’m afraid there aren’t enough wooden spoons in the world to keep me from reaching for what I want. I draw a breath, but before I can move, there’s a tap on the door and someone clearing his throat.
“Chol nia, Karl,” I grit out.
I look up but the man at the door isn’t Karl. The stranger’s light brown hair is streaked with blond highlights, his skin has a deep, nutty tan, and his shiny half-boots look fit for grinding the faces of the poor.
“I don’t know who Karl is,” he drawls, waves of European nobility sheeting off an enormous forehead, “but I know my fiancée when I see her.” His gaze flicks pointedly to my arm.
Alma wiggles in my tight grip, a flush on her cheeks.
“Pietor.”
14
Usual Style
ALMA
Jacob’s arm tightens around my waist, and my breathing becomes erratic. Hauled up against his chest, I want to forget that Pietor exists.
“Alma,” Pietor snaps.
I toss the gloves on the counter, jam his engagement ring onto my finger, and drag myself out of Jacob’s arms.
I dredge up a smile. “This is a surprise.”
“I see that, darling,” Pietor answers, not sparing me a glance as he stares down Jacob.
The testosterone standoff ignites something within me. My cheating ex-fiancé is supposed to be in another country, making love to his causes and any adjacent models. Instead, he’s here, littering hollow endearments like trash along a shoreline.
I lean up to kiss him, exhaling the brine of the North Sea into his face, and he lurches back, throwing an arm across his mouth. A fun geographical fact is that Himmelstein is completelylandlocked. They have lots of root vegetables, but not a lot of pickled herring.
He thrusts me away, nostrils flaring. “Darling,” he grinds out, “I’ll wait in the sitting room while you tidy yourself.”
I look over to see Jacob lounging easily against our kitchen counter. He’s been like a sponge this month, absorbing the astonishing amount of information I’ve thrown at him, filing it away for later use. I know that intent, sharp-eyed look. He’s absorbing now.
“Don’t mind me,” he says, flipping a hand towel over his shoulder. “I’ll just be in my room.”
Not happening. The old Ostphalian door is nowhere near thick enough for my peace of mind.
“We’ll go downstairs,” I say, gripping Pietor by the arm. The arm is muscled, no doubt hardened by weeks at sea in a high-tech rowboat, plying his oar to the other side of the world. I wish he’d kept rowing.
Halfway out the door, Jacob halts me with a question, a mischievous light dancing in his eyes. “You want me to wash up after us?”
“Zekle,” I hiss.
His low laugh follows me from the door and when I catch up to Pietor, my color is high.
My official fiancé tucks my hand through the crook of his elbow. “He’s washing up after the both of you? You wasted no time finding companionship,” he says. “He’s rougher than your usual style.”
A Sondish princess is supposed to be precise and modest, representing the monarchy as the queen wishes and making room for her to participate in the vital work of governance. I imagine the headlines if I were to push him down the stairs. “Usual style?” I murmur. “I can’t hope to achieve the numbers you have.”
“You’re notstillupset?”
We enter an anteroom used to house cloaks and hats when Mama throws a ball. How fitting. The engagement between Pietor and I has been a similarly serviceable article, tailored to fit the monarchy.
Mama placed him next to me at the Ragnar Prize banquet, and our conversation found its way to his recent trip to the Arctic to bring awareness to organic pollutants building up in the fatty tissue of Arctic animals.
