The Wicked Prince Read online

  The light filters through a gauzy curtained layer just before the windows. Dropping my fountain pen with a sigh, I push myself up out of my chair. Instantly Margot is on her feet.

  “Where are you going?” she asks, her voice low.

  I walk to the window, unwilling to look back at her no matter how badly I’m tempted. I already know what will happen.

  I already know that she will look at me with those deep blue eyes, her expression as cutting as a blade. She’s always just on the cusp of figuring me out, or at least that’s what her expression indicates.

  “Nowhere,” I answer, gritting my teeth. As if I could just leave when I have a mountain of letters left to sign. It’s all part of the deal, being a royal. “Just stretching.”

  I do take a minute to stretch, raising my arms over my head. I’m half dressed for the arts event that I have to leave for in half an hour; white button up with two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up, a pair of light gray trousers.

  As I stretch, I’m aware of her eyes again. Those clever, piercing eyes. I usually feel like an animal in a zoo exhibit on my best day. But having her here, in the midst of my most mundane daily tasks, is almost too much to handle.

  I hear paper rustling. “Can I ask you some questions while you’re stretching?”

  Looking back at Margot from the window, I see her opening a little notepad. It’s almost cute, the way she is deadly serious about her job. Her pink hair is curly and hangs loose. Her heart shaped face puckers a little bit as she frowns down at her notepad. As usual, she wears the same black blazer and black pants, although this time she wears an old yellow Blondie t-shirt.

  I lift one shoulder casually. “If you must. I don’t imagine that you actually have to write a single word if you don’t want to. You know that the royal press office would gladly write the whole damn article for you, don’t you?”

  Her eyes narrow. Her mouth twists. “I’m writing the article. It’s going to have my byline slapped on it. I might as well make something of the experience.”

  Shaking my head, I turn back to the window. “Suit yourself.”

  I move the gauzy layer blocking the window aside and peer out across the perfectly manicured lawn. A gardener moves at the far end of my view, closing a wooden gate. He has a basket of flowers on one arm and he stops, wiping his head with a cloth from the pocket of his gray coveralls.

  “When you think of Denmark and its future, what do you hope for?”

  Hunching my brow, I drop the curtain and turn back to face her. I know the answer to this question by heart. “Stability, success, and growth.” I give her my most deadpan expression. “Next question.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “You didn’t even think about it.”

  I repress an eye roll, adjusting one of my shirt cuffs. “You do know that I’m constantly being asked the same questions, right? I’m on display a hundred percent of the time. I come prepared with the answers to fifty most commonly asked questions.”

  “Ah.” She writes something down in her little notepad. “Well, I guess I’ll have to ask a wider variety of questions, won’t I?”

  Instead of an answer, Margot gets a shrug in response. I return to the table where my letters are stacked, sitting down and picking up the pen once more. Dropping back into signing them is the work of ten seconds.

  For fifteen minutes, I let myself fall into a trance. I relax my gaze. I think of nothing. I feel the pen moving across each piece of paper; I barely notice the fact that I have to move each piece of paper across the desk and into the finished pile. I am only barely aware of time moving.

  It’s not exactly a pleasant feeling to be able to lose myself so completely in a task. Nor is it bad… it simply is. It speaks to the fact that once a week, I do this exact same thing, in the same span of time. A thousand signatures on a thousand letters of reply. I’ve done it since I was old enough to hold a pen.

  When I sign the last letter, I return to everyday life with a sigh. Standing, I stack all the letters neatly. Although I don’t jog them; people that write me want their letters neat, without bent corners.

  I do my best to give it to them.

  When Margot speaks, I startle. I had forgotten that she was even here.

  “What happens now?”

  My head jerks to face her. I run a hand through my dark hair, standing up. “What?”

  She nods to my work. “The letters. What happens to them?”

  That gives me pause. “I don’t know. I just leave them here when I am finished. They appear and disappear routinely.” I frown. “I suppose someone in the press office comes to collect them.” I shrug. “Why?”

  Margot gives me a careful look. “Just trying to get a sense of what happens. There are probably a hundred thousand little tasks that get done without you ever knowing it.”

  My brow furrows. “I suppose so.”

  She flips her notebook closed. “So where do you go to now?”

  I check my watch. “Oliver should be here any second to tell me I have to get ready to go. I think today I go to an art exhibit followed by a primary school.”

  Eyeing her, I start to roll down my sleeves. “Fetch me my tie from over by the door, will you?”

  Her expression grows stormy. “Is there something keeping you from doing it?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “No. You are just closer, that’s all.”

  She folds her arms across her chest, cocking her hip. “Do it yourself.”

  I roll my eyes and saunter over to the tie, which has been placed on a coatrack with extreme caution by some unseen hand. As I put the tie on, I cast my eye over Margot’s defiant stance.

  My lips curve upward. “You’re cute when you’re being mutinous.”

  Her cheeks color, giving me a certain kind of satisfaction. She scowls. “You’re a pig.”

  Chuckling, I nod. “I couldn’t agree with you more. I’m right, though.”

  All that earns me is a glare.

  Oliver’s soft knock sounds at the door. I swing the door open, surprising him. He stands up a little straighter, his white hair and black suit looking dapper as always.

  “Deres Højhed,” he says, bowing stiffly. He always calls me your highness, even when I ask him not to. It’s just his way. “Your car is waiting.”

  I start out the door behind him, only stopping about halfway down the hall. I look back with a frown. “Oliver? Hold on a second, would you?”

  I walk back to the doorway that I just left, finding Margot standing at my desk. She’s not touching anything. But she is staring down at the stack of letters, her brow furrowed.

  “Hey,” I bark.

  She looks up, eyes wide. Her pink tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. “Yes?”

  I cock my head. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Oh.” She frowns. “Yes. I just thought— “

  I turn, leaving her to hurry after me, her explanation falling on deaf ears. She has to practically run to keep up with my natural stride. I see her looking at me, trying to figure me out again. I’ve done something that she didn’t expect and now she’s trying to pin her understanding of me down again.

  I hurry downstairs and up to the back seat of the waiting Audi limousine. It’s considered polite to help a woman into the back of a car first. I stop and stand stiffly by the back door, motioning her in. It’s more of an automatic gesture than anything else, but Margot’s face flushes as she accepts and climbs in first.

  Once we’re in the car, I roll up the partition between the driver and us. Margot buckles her seatbelt and frowns at the partition as it rises.

  “What?” I ask.

  She rolls her eyes. “Nothing. I just wanted to know who was driving us.”

  Shrugging, I sprawl out, taking up the majority of seat. “Who cares? We’ll get where we’re going.”

  Her eyes tighten on my face. I can tell that I’ve somehow said the wrong thing, but I don’t particularly care. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride, skatter.”

  I grin. H
er cheeks flare bright pink. She frowns and shakes her head, looking away.

  “What does that mean? Skatter,” she says, sounding the word out.

  “It means the one I treasure. My sweetheart.”

  Her eyes widen and the bright pink blush on her cheeks turns into a beat red flush. All right, that was kind of fun. It’s entertaining to watch her squirm.

  When she looks back at me, there is an intensity in her expression that wasn’t there before. “What does the palace expect from you, exactly?”

  I cock a brow. “What do you mean?”

  Her lips thin for a moment. “I mean… you are supposed to be a king someday. That position comes with a lot of expectations, I’d imagine. Along with being born with a silver spoon in your mouth, there have to be downsides. Personal sacrifices. What are they?”

  I furrow my brow, looking out the window thoughtfully. “Every word I say is recorded. Somewhere, somehow. Everything I do is pulled apart and searched for motives.” I wrinkle my nose briefly. “That’s why I liked being a nobody in New York. It’s nice to set aside the political correctness and the strict guidelines and just… be anonymous for a while.”

  When I glance back at her, I see her scribbling in that notepad of hers again. “I can see how that would be hard,” she mumbles.

  My lips twist. She has no idea.

  Shaking my head, I sigh. “I’ve never been able to just do what I wanted. When I was younger, I couldn’t go to school with all the other kids. Instead, my friend Erik and I—" I stop for a second. “You know Erik, ja?”

  She looks up at me, the blue of her eyes taking my breath away for a second. “Yes.”

  “Erik and I were tutored together here at the palace. He— “

  “Wait, wait.” She flips a page. “Okay. Is Erik a royal, then?”

  I snort. “No. He’s the son of the groundskeeper. My father got drunk with the groundskeeper one day; the next day, Erik was brought into my room to play.” I smile wryly. “I think we were about four.”

  She nods. “So you weren’t even allowed to choose your best friend, basically.”

  “Nope.” I grin. “I’m lucky that he’s not a fucking psychopath. And if you think that’s bad, wait until you hear how my wife is being chosen for me.”

  That seems to actually shake her. She stops writing. “What?”

  “Yep. I was presented with a list of young, eligible ladies. Each one with a pristine pedigree, each ready to produce as many heirs as I want, each one as boring as the next. I’ve been told to just point to one, or decide which flavor I want… a blonde, a brunette, a redhead…” I sigh. “And I’m assured that the rest will be taken care of. All I have to do is show up reasonably sober on my wedding day. Voila! Instantly, the perfect wife.”

  Margot scrunches up her face. “That sounds… awful.”

  “It will be!” I say. “Add to that the fact that I basically live in a fish bowl, with no expectation that any part of my life will ever be private… and you get the royal experience in a nutshell.”

  She chews on her lower lip, scribbling a few notes to herself. “Is it worth it?”

  I tilt my head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone thinks that being a royal is amazing. It is, obviously. But it sounds more complicated than that. I guess what I’m saying is… does having everything you’ve ever wanted make it worth not getting to make your own choices?”

  I repress a sigh, turning my face away from her. “I don’t know. This is the only life I’ve ever had. I don’t know how to live any other way.”

  Margot makes a soft sound, a little mmm. I don’t know what it means. I’m not willing to ask. I’m definitely not going to look over at her to see her expression.

  It’s better this way. I probably shouldn’t have even told her all of that. I don’t know why I let it slip.

  Not only that, but I find myself irritable now. Margot has a way of making me open up, but I don’t want to.

  I have exactly zero interest in being vulnerable around her ever again.

  Leaning forward, I press the button to lower the partition. When the driver looks back at me in the rearview mirror, I catch his eye. “Could you fucking hurry it up? I have places to be.”

  He bows his head. “Selvfølgelig, deres højhed.”

  Despite what I said, he doesn’t drive any faster. The palace drivers never do. They always drive five kilometers under the speed limit. It’s in their training. After all, they are moving precious cargo.

  Sighing to myself, I lean my head back and close my eyes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Stellan

  I pause for a moment, making sure my weight is centered, making sure I have the right grip on the basketball. Then I jump, shooting the ball toward the hoop. It sails into the basket, runs around the rim, and then falls off the side.

  “Rend mig i røven!” I shout, feeling sweat slide down my back.

  Erik gives a bark of laughter. “You are terrible at this game, Stel.”

  He runs to catch the ball, dribbling it as he returns. I wipe my brow on my shirt, turning to look at Margot as I do. She sits on a set of bleachers on the other side of the gym, with her notepad open and her pen in her mouth. Her head is down, her hair spilling everywhere as she scrawls something to herself.

  I can see that she’s shed that terrible black blazer she usually wears, obviously feeling warm in the stifling gym. It sits beside her, thrown carelessly on one of the lower bleacher steps like a piece of driftwood left by the sea. She has on a short black dress and leggings, the neckline of her dress tantalizingly low.

  As a matter of fact, when she sits in just this position, I can almost see her nipples.

  Almost.

  I stare for a second too long and she looks up, catching me. Her cheeks immediately turn pink and she sits up, adjusting her dress. I lift a brow at her, just in time to get a basketball right in the stomach.

  The breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. I catch the ball and glare at Erik.

  “Quit that,” I command. My order is met with an eye roll.

  Erik has always been my closest friend and biggest rival, all at once. He’s also the only person who is completely unafraid of telling me to go fuck myself.

  “Stop staring at the pretty reporter,” he says, grinning. “We’re supposed to be playing a game here.”

  I roll my eyes and forcefully chuck the basketball back at him. He catches it, dribbles, and then makes a shot. The shot goes in the basket without even touching the rim. He does a celebratory dance.

  Shaking my head, I run to catch the ball. “I’m a thousand percent certain that you aren’t supposed to do a dance every single time you make a basket.”

  His grin only widens. “Says the guy that can’t dunk. Do I detect a note of jealous bullshit?”

  He’s right, of course. It irks me beyond measure that I’m the future king of Denmark and the soon to be ruler of everything I see… and yet I just can’t manage to master basketball.

  I casually stride around the court, trying not to let my ego get the better of me. We could play some sport that I actually have a chance at scoring goals, like football or handball. But Erik likes to mix up our shared workouts to allay boredom.

  So today, I’m playing basketball.

  I line up another shot and jump, throwing the ball. This time the ball bounces off the backboard and then bounds away from me. My eyes tighten; I hate being so intensely bad at something that should be so easy.

  I swing my gaze over to Margot, who is watching my every little movement. She tucks her pink hair back behind her ear, looking at me with an unreadable expression. As she tilts her head to the side thoughtfully, she comes off as analytical.

  What is she thinking?

  “Seriously?” Erik asks. I turn to him, my expression innocent, but he just rolls his eyes.

  He cups his hand around his mouth and calls to her. “Hey! Margot!”

  I glare at him, my pulse picking up. What i
s he going to say?

  Margot looks at him, arching a brow. “Yes?”

  “You can go. Stellan needs to concentrate on his workout and then he’s going to bed early. We have to get up super early tomorrow for our hunt.”

  Her eyebrows rise. She glances at me but I refuse to meet her eyes. Instead I just go after the ball and dribble it, shooting it toward the basket. Margot gathers her coat and stands, coming over to me.

  The way she looks at me feels strange; it’s the work of half a minute to realize that this is the first time I’ve been dressed down since New York. Usually I wear my button ups and Briony dress slacks like they are a kind of armor, keeping my shields up and everyone else out.

  But just now, as she’s walking over, I realize that I’m only wearing a black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. It’s weird, but I feel just the tiniest bit vulnerable.

  She stops a few feet from me, jogging her tote bag on her hip, her coat over her arm. She scrunches up her face. “Am I needed tomorrow?”

  I keep my eye on the ball as much as I can, catching it when Erik throws it to me. “I would rather you stayed at home, if that’s what you are asking.”

  Her eyes narrow. “It isn’t. When is super early? And what are you hunting?”

  Shrugging, I shoot another basket. This time it goes in the hoop. Erik whoops.

  “That’s what I am talking about!” he crows. Then he turns to Margot, wearing a smirk. “Five thirty. That’s what time we’re going. If you’re going to come, wear clothes you can get dirty.”

  Margot scrunches up her face, her gaze sliding to me. I lock down my emotions and keep my face smooth; it’s almost second nature to me, even though Erik just flat out lied to Margot about what time we start.

  “All right,” she says at last. “I’ll see you both bright and early, then.”

  She turns, heading out of the gym. I can’t help but watch her ass sway in that short black dress; there is a hole in her leggings on the back of her thigh that gives me all kinds of dirty thoughts.