“What an asshole,” she mutters under her breath.
If only she knew. Thorsen Lykken is known for being an asshole. His reputation in the media has never been a favorable one, not that I believe half of what the papers print. But after meeting him in person, I’m convinced at least some of it must be true. Still, I can’t seem to stop thinking about the way he chased after me. Tall, dark, and too handsome for his own good. The man might have a horrible disposition, but he has the body of a Nordic god. Long after I left the palace that night, I could still feel his touch branded into my skin. I’ve never been touched by a man, and Thorsen is all man. A strapping, virile, muscular brute of a dark prince. I’d be lying if I said those stormy gray eyes haven’t continued to haunt me in my sleep. His temperament might be pitch black, but there’s something undeniably attractive about that enigma. My imagination has taken that image of him and run wild with it. In my dreams, he isn’t just holding my arm. He’s caging me in with his body. Branding me with his lips. Moving inside me, altering me forever as he infects me with his darkness.
“What are you doing this weekend?” Charlotte’s voice stirs me from the depths of my depravity. “Do you have time to hang out?”
“I don’t know.” I frown. “Narcissa has been adamant that the manor is spotless. She’s still convinced the prince is going to knock on our door any day, intent to carry Lavinia off into the sunset.”
A strangled laugh bursts from Charlotte’s lips. “Poor miserable bastard he would be.”
A commotion from downstairs catches my attention as a herd of footsteps clomps across the floor. Someone squeals, and then there’s a knock on the front door.
“Shit, I gotta go,” I tell Charlotte. “I’ll call you later.”
“Okay,” she answers frantically. “Go, go.”
We both hang up, and I stuff the phone beneath my pillow just as I hear a masculine voice at the front door. Running to the window in the attic, I press my face against the pane, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious visitor, but all I can see is a fancy car sitting in the drive.
My curiosity gets the best of me, and I know it’s a risk, but I crack open the door to the attic and hold my ear against the gap. Narcissa is speaking with someone, insisting they come in while she offers tea, coffee, or anything their heart desires. She’s being far too kind for a regular guest, and my heart leaps into my throat when I recognize the voice that responds. Masculine. Accented. Unmistakably Nordic.
Holy freaking shit.
“I can’t stay,” Thorsen answers. “I just came here to ask if you are familiar with any other women from Kent who attended the ball on Saturday as well.”
A sour note colors Narcissa’s voice. “Another woman?”
“Yes, a blonde. Petite. Blue dress. She left her shoe behind, and I don’t know much about her, only that she was from Kent, and—”
“That’s my shoe!” Lavinia interjects. “I can’t believe how silly I was to leave it behind. I’ve been looking everywhere for it!”
“Your shoe?” Thorsen answers with a biting note. He knows she’s lying, but Lavinia is too self-involved to notice. Meanwhile, I can scarcely breathe, praying he doesn’t say anything that will incriminate me. What is he even doing here?
“Yes, it’s mine,” Lavinia assures him. “And I was wearing a blue dress that evening as well, Your Highness.”
“In that case, you wouldn’t mind showing me the other shoe,” he suggests.
There’s a pause of silence, and then Narcissa answers. “We would, Your Highness, but unfortunately, it’s at the repair shop. Her heel broke.”
Another silence. “Then perhaps I can return another day when you have the shoe in your possession.”
“We would be so honored,” Narcissa replies coyly.
“There isn’t anyone else from this area who might have attended?” Thorsen repeats.
“I can’t think of a single person,” Narcissa says. “To my knowledge, we were the only family from Cranbrook with the honor to attend.”
“Very well.” He clears his throat, but the undercurrent of hostility remains. “I’ll be on my way then.”
“You must come back.” Narcissa follows him out the door, their voices disappearing from my reach.
I shut the attic door and run to the window again, peeking through the glass. My stomach roils when I spot the familiar heel in his possession. It’s definitely mine. But why is he bothering to return it? And why does my heart feel like it’s going to explode when I lay eyes on him?
Today, he’s in a navy sports coat and matching trousers, a pair of shiny brown Oxfords jutting out from beneath the hem. And right now, it’s not difficult to understand why I got him mixed up with Prince Aston. He’s incredibly tall, and every part of his body seems extraordinarily large, from his hands to his feet. If I had to venture a guess, I would bet money he’s an actual descendant of Odin himself.
My breath seems to get caught in my throat when I look at his face. He’s wearing the customary scowl I’ve noticed in all his media pictures. From their perspectives, he’s moody and reclusive. The articles paint him as someone who rarely speaks unless he’s forced to, which explains his behavior at the ball. Yet I can’t help but wonder what made him that way? I don’t believe anyone would choose to be so miserable all the time.
Narcissa continues to fawn all over him, touching his arm and admiring his car. She’s probably making offers to sacrifice Lavinia’s firstborn and send him straight to Valhalla if she can have some sort of royal title herself.
With every passing second, tension bleeds into Thorsen’s face until inevitably, he shrugs her off and locks himself in his car, speeding away. It isn’t but a moment later when Narcissa returns to the entry, where Lavinia assaults her with questions.
“Do you think he’ll come back? What are we going to do about the shoe?”
“We’ll have one made,” Narcissa conspires. “Whatever it costs. Don’t you worry, darling. We’ll get us a prince yet.”
8
Ella
Two weeks have passed since the excitement of the ball, and I’ve fallen back into my routine with the exception of Narcissa breathing down my neck. She’s been making me work triple duty every day, insistent that the Norwegian prince will return at any moment to haul Lavinia back to his kingdom. I’ve hardly had a moment for myself, and worse yet, I haven’t been able to get to the sanctuary in days.
“House bitch!” Lavinia summons me. “I spilled some crumbs. You better clean them up. His Royal Highness could be here at any moment.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes and grab the broom while she and Magnolia flip through a magazine with a few articles on Thorsen. They’ve been doing so much research on the man I might actually find it in my heart to feel sorry for him if he ever does cross their paths again.
“I don’t know.” Magnolia studies his photograph. “He seems so stuffy to me. He’d hardly be tolerable with that cold demeanor.”
“You’re just jealous,” Lavinia snaps. “I’d hardly have to worry about tolerating him. I’d be rich, you daft cow. That means I could spend my time however I want. Besides, I think that broody, silent thing he has going on is hot. All women love a bad boy.”