out her jaw, gaze unbowed, refusing to cave at my power play. “Sire, you are my client. It’s been royally commanded by your father and my liege lord, which means we need to get to work. I will return tomorrow to do your personality profile.”
“My what?”
“It’s protocol for all our clients.” There is a note of finality in her clipped tone. She means business.
I click my tongue, half annoyed and half impressed. “You’ll never marry me off, sweetheart.”
“Tell that to my matchmaking success rate of 100%.” She offers a smug smile. “See you tomorrow, Highness.”
Once out of the maze, she releases my arm and continues alone. But she’s still injured, so her haughty exit falls flat, even as she takes off her other shoe. I bite back a laugh before realizing the joke is on me. Because guess who still has a hard-on the size of the Matterhorn?
Still, I should follow her to the castle lest she goes to the tabloids with some trumped-up story about how poorly she was treated on palace property.
“I am fine to proceed alone,” she says, reading my thoughts. An unsettling experience.
“I’m afraid I must insist,” I say, taking the few steps needed to catch up to her.
“Please.” Her composure slips a notch. The mask not fully secure. “I—I need a moment alone.” A sign this unexpected dalliance affected her, as well.
She turns and makes her way toward the palace gates, clutching her heels, only the slightest limp still evident. Miss Winter has spunk. I’ll give her that.
A woman like this could bring a less controlled man to his knees. Good thing that I’m no such man. This angel is more dangerous than any devil.
Kate
I don’t care if it hurts to walk. Nothing is more important than distance. And by distance I mean space between me and Nikolai Lorentz.
The only problem? When I slip through the gates onto the main grounds, I can’t get to the front of the castle without swimming the moat.
Good Lord. He lives in a palace. With a moat. And I almost slept with him in a freaking maze. I begged the prince of our realm to fuck me as I lay in the grass with my skirt hiked up over my hips. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t fuck anybody. I have lovely, meaningful sex with men who love and care for me—and who put a ring on it. At least, I did have that once.
As I contemplate my next move, an older man—probably in his late thirties—approaches me from a nearby garden.
“Pardon me, Miss Winter, but I have been instructed to take you home.”
I shake my head. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. If you could point me toward the most direct route to the main road, I’m sure I can get a taxi.”
I look behind me, expecting to see Nikolai approaching, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Miss, there is no direct route to the main road other than through the palace.” He looks me up and down. “And I am assuming you’d like to make a discreet exit?”
I sigh and cling to the last shred of my dignity, holding my head high even as my just-been-finger-fucked hair falls into my face.
“I’m quite content walking through the palace...” But I trail off as I note myself gesturing with my shoes in my hands—as threads from my torn skirt tickle my thigh—and I immediately deflate.
“So...you were instructed to take me home?”
The man nods, the hints of silver in his dark hair glinting in the sun, and it’s only now that I realize his impeccably tailored suit, his straightened spine and hands clasped in front of his hips. His jaw is chiseled and his brown eyes are dark and knowing. He is not royalty. I can tell that much. But he exudes an undisputable authority nonetheless.
“Yes, Miss. His Royal Highness the Prince texted me with the order to see you home safely. I can lead you through the kitchen and out the servants’ exit to avoid any unpleasant encounters upon your departure.”
I hold out my arms, shoes dangling from my index fingers. “I guess I’m not in any shape to run into the king and queen again, especially if I want to keep this job.”
The man doesn’t even crack a smile but instead offers me a single nod.
“This way, Miss.” He motions toward the garden from which he came.
I limp in his direction, trying not to read into the prince’s gesture of making sure I get home safely. There is no way Nikolai Lorentz cares what happens between us from here on out other than him opposing my very being here.
“You can call me Kate,” I say, once I reach his side and he holds out an arm. I grab both of my shoes with my right hand and take his arm with my left—not because I need to but because it would seem rude to decline.
I breathe in sharply as my hand grips muscle so tight and corded that I can feel it through his suit.
“As you wish, Miss Kate,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“Maybe you could drop the Miss altogether? Makes me sound like a prim-and-proper governess.” I let out a nervous laugh. What just transpired between me and the heir apparent was not behavior becoming of a governess. Or the me I thought I knew, for that matter.
“As you wish, Kate,” he says, his voice devoid of any hint of emotion.
“You got a name?” I ask as he pushes open a door hidden in the brick of the palace’s side wall.
“His Highness calls me X,” he says, ushering me inside a small corridor. The servants’ quarters, no doubt.
“What do your friends and family call you?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “I have neither, Miss—my apologies—Kate.”
My stomach sinks at the thought as he leads me through a white six-panel door. But I forget the heartbreaking answer just as quickly as we enter an enormous kitchen and my senses are assaulted in the best possible way. The aroma of garlic wafts in our direction, and my mouth immediately waters. I skipped breakfast this morning because—hello—I was ordered to the palace. Who can eat with that kind of pressure? And now that I’d been satiated in a whole other way entirely, I was famished. There’s also something sweet in the air, a richness I can almost taste.
“Would you like one for the road, Miss?” A woman covered in a white apron spins from where she’s plating macarons from a baking pan onto a three-tiered plate.
I swallow before I start to drool. “Please,” I say, and she grabs a small saucer from beneath the island where she works and serves me five of the delicious-looking confections.
“Our secret,” she says with a wink and a smile, handing my bounty to X. The man simply nods and continues piloting me toward the exit.
The next thing I know, I’m sitting in the luxury of a Rolls-Royce, a plate of macarons in my lap, and an ice pack on my ankle—also, according to X, ordered by the prince. But the
