emotional connection. You’ve made that point crystal clear. So I’ve been instructed to provide you with appropriate choices.”
“Fascinating.” A cold front blows over my chest, transforming my tone to sheer ice. I spent last night milking my cock, dreaming of her sweet, soaked pussy, and all the while she’d been reviewing appropriate brides. Not once in five years have I given a single fuck what a woman thinks about after I’ve been with her.
Not once until today.
How much is Father paying her for this trouble? My stepmother would bankrupt the royal coffers if it meant having her revenge. She won’t play me the fool the way her daughter did. Victoria made me believe that a kiss meant love, not a fast track to sink her claws into my wealth—or my future throne.
These days the only crown jewels I’m prepared to offer the opposite sex rest between my legs. It’s likely she is conspiring with my stepmother. No doubt yesterday’s unexpected encounter was part of her carefully constructed ruse designed to disarm me. Being heir to the Edenvale throne means living with an invisible target on my back. The thing is, though, that I already know there’s a sniper in my midst, and she sleeps in my father’s bed.
My smile is as cool as her name. If Kate Winter hopes to lie in wait to stab a proverbial blade between my shoulder blades, then I hope she has the patience of a saint, because I aim to give her no such satisfaction.
X returns, and her expression morphs from confused to horrified.
“Fishing poles?” She gasps. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
“Fishing is one of my many hobbies,” I lie smoothly. “And it seems an apt metaphor given our current situation.” I take a pole from X and hand it to her.
She grips it without complaint, understanding the gesture isn’t a request, but an order from her prince.
I grab the dossier from her other hand, not bothering to look inside, and hand it to X. “We won’t be needing that just yet,” I say, then turn my attention to Kate. “After all, there are many fish in the sea, correct? Or should I say...river?” I pivot and stride toward the old Roman bridge. “And how can I be sure of your skills in catching one for me until I see you in action?”
Kate
It’s a stone bridge, I remind myself. A sturdy, stone, won’t-crumble-beneath-your-feet bridge. There’s no need to tell him I can’t swim.
Though the swelling in my ankle has gone down, the lingering ache still slows my gait. He walks a few paces ahead of me, not bothering to wait. Decidedly different behavior from yesterday when he carried me after my fall—saw to it that I made it home safe. Hell, he even sent me breakfast this morning. I knew I was stupid to think it meant anything more than feeding the help, that Nikolai Lorentz was anything other than what the media portrayed.
I catch up to him at the center of the bridge where nothing else waits for us other than two buckets, one of which must be bait, the other to hold what we catch. I swallow hard when I note the height—or lack thereof—of the stone wall separating us from the river below. Nikolai perches casually on the low barrier, reaches into the bucket and pulls from it what looks like a small slice of sausage.
“What is that?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
He shrugs. “X prepared it. Says it’s his best recipe for catching trout. You met Beatrice in the kitchen yesterday, yes? Our head cook? Tonight’s royal meal depends on what you catch for us today.”
His tone is more cold than playful, yet I decide to humor him.
“Well, then,” I say. “I’ve got plenty of suggestions for takeout when this goes royally amiss.”
He buries the hint of a smile, but I see it nonetheless and take it as a sign that I do have the power to break through whatever wall he’s hiding behind today. I remind myself that my livelihood depends on it and let out a breath before reaching into the small bucket and pinching a slimy piece of bait between my thumb and forefinger.
I shudder at the feel of the foreign substance against my skin but do not dare complain. I watch as Nikolai fixes his bait to his hook and mimic his movements precisely. Maybe this won’t be so difficult after all.
He raises a brow. “You’ve fished before?”
I shake my head. “I’m a quick learner,” I say, realizing I’ve nowhere to wipe my hand and opt for the ledge of the wall I don’t dare sit on myself.
He casts his line into the river, and again I follow suit.
Piece of disgusting, slimy cake.
He finally grins. “May the best fisherman win,” he says. “Not that it’s a competition.”
I smile. “You’re on, Your Highness.”
We fish in silence, him still sitting on the wall while I stand a pace behind it. In less than three minutes his line tugs at the pole, and Nikolai whoops in response, standing to reel in his catch.
I can’t help but marvel at the ease of his movements, the flex of his biceps as he rotates the crank on the pole. And it’s this lapse in my attention, this gravitational pull he seems to have on me despite every bit of logic saying it shouldn’t, that causes the tug on my own line to catch me off guard.
My body yanks forward, and I stumble. It all happens in the space of a few seconds. I don’t even have time to scream before I knock into the wall and pitch right over it.
The water is cool, yet it burns my lungs and throat as I panic and breathe it in. I cough, but it only makes me take in more water. In this strange, suspended panic, I note the clarity of the river, that I can see through the surface and to the bridge to where it looks like something is falling toward me as I sink.
As quickly as I was yanked off the bridge, strong hands wrap around me and tug me toward the surface. When I break through, I cough up the water I couldn’t release seconds ago and gasp for air. Instinct has me thrashing in his arms, but he doesn’t let go.
“Kate!” he yells, his voice hoarse. “Christ, Kate! Stop fighting me and put your feet down. It’s only five feet deep!”
His words register, and I cease movement, letting my legs straighten below me while I still cling to his arm with my own.
My shoes touch the riverbed, and I stand on my tiptoes, my five-foot-five height keeping my face well above water.
We reach the bank, and I collapse onto my ass, humiliation seeping in as I cough up another mouthful of water.
Nikolai falls onto his back, panting, his T-shirt and jeans plastered to his muscled frame.
“Christ almighty,” he says, catching his breath. “Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t swim?”
I try to convince myself that this job is worth it, that no matter what other disasters befall throughout the length of this contract, it will be worth it in the end. Because if I fail, it’s Maddie and Gran who will pay the price.
“You’re my prince,” I say dully. “You said we were fishing, so I obeyed.”
He bolts upright, brows pulled together. “Is that
