Kris suddenly lost the ability to breathe.
“That’s visceral,” Gul commented, opening a large container and piling sandwich triangles onto his plate. “And somewhat poetic. You’re full of surprises.”
“I’m a wordsmith who likes to shoot things. What can I say?”
Gul chuckled. “I’d say you’re romanticizing this more than you should.”
Kris was forced to agree. He took a step forward and said, “Hanna.”
He didn’t need to raise his voice for it to travel across the deserted kitchen.
Hanna and Gul froze. She dropped from his back as he spun around, the humor fleeing from their faces as they ended up side by side, spines straight and features neutral. The perfect guard façade. A moment later, they bowed in tandem.
“Gul,” Kris said, attention moving between them. “Evening.”
The man inclined his head, emanating formality.
Kris crossed the tiled floor, forcing himself to keep it casual. “What’s happening here?”
Hanna swallowed what looked to be an overly large mouthful of blueberry pastry. Her voice was thick with it as she answered, “A snack, Your Highness. How can I assist you?”
“By bringing back the Hanna I just saw and explaining why you pretend to be someone else around me.”
She kept her gaze downcast. “I’m afraid I can’t do either of those things, Your Highness.”
His irritation flared. “Why not?”
She hiccupped. Too much pastry in a single swallow, or perhaps too many drinks wherever she’d been that night. Gul rolled his lips together, lowering his face farther, as she said, “My orders, Your Highness.”
“Your orders?”
The corners of her mouth turned down just a fraction, as if she regretted her words.
Well, this was insightful. He moved to the stack of clean plates at the end of the counter, set out for resident palace staff with midnight appetites. “Orders from the head of personal security, by any chance?”
There were several moments of silence—punctuated by another hiccup—that she finally broke with a muttered, “Damn it.”
“I’ve been here for months, Hanna.” In an effort to keep himself under control, he opened a second industrial-sized, stainless steel fridge. He hardly saw what he put on his plate. “You’ve followed me just about everywhere. Avoiding eye contact, rarely speaking, regardless of how many times I’ve tried to draw you out with conversation. But here you are.” He gestured between her and Gul with a stuffed bagel, the beat of frustration sharp in his neck. “Proving it’s all been an act. And I am done with being lied to by the people around me.”
His head spun. This energetic and excitable woman had been ordered to disengage around him. Why? Why would Frankie do that to him?
Hanna didn’t answer, but guilt had crept into her eyes. Then she hiccupped again.
Kris stared at her.
She did it again.
He raised a brow. “That’s kind of killing the tension here, don’t you think?”
There—a spark of amusement lit her features. The first sign of her true personality, directed at him, in over three months. “My apologies, Your Highness.”
“I want to know why Frankie—”
Another hiccup interrupted him.
Kris ran a hand over his mouth but couldn’t hold back his grin. “Get some water, for God’s sake.”
Hanna made a small noise—a kind of “meep”—and darted to fill a glass under the tap. Gul waited silently, hands behind his back and chin still angled down. Kris couldn’t tell if he was uncomfortable or keeping a lid on his own amusement.
Once Hanna had drained a full glass and returned sheepishly to Gul’s side, Kris continued. “From now on, I want you to be yourself around me,” he said, hating that this request was even necessary. “That goes for all of you,” he added, louder, throwing a glance at his overnight security posted by the door. “Have a chat, talk to me. Laugh. Joke around. Tease me—we all know I deserve it. Please?”
“Your Highness,” Hanna said, wincing. “I’m not sure—”
“Finish dishing up,” he said firmly, cutting her off. “Then we’re all going to sit together and have a chat. That’s an order. Because your boss might be a badass, but I’m your prince.”
Funny. Hanna ran out of resistance after that.
Frankie’s headache was a pounder. She’d opened the window of her small room and set the fan on high, but even after a cool shower, the hammering at her temples persisted. She shouldn’t be surprised. This was a lot bigger than a heat headache.
Tossing the damp towel onto the desk, she pulled on a pair of bed shorts and cotton camisole and collapsed into the only comfortable seat in the room—an old, fraying armchair that had come with the simple staff quarters. With one-hundred-and-forty-eight bedrooms in the servants’ wing, the rooms were old, poky and unadorned. In other words, perfect. There was a bed with a mattress several decades older than she was, but it was a double and the palace laundry handled washing the sheets, so she couldn’t complain. Then there was this armchair and the coffee table she propped her feet on. All she needed.
Other staff plugged in bar fridges or brought in their own furniture to make their room feel more like home, but Frankie had never owned furniture or a home, and she had no issues grabbing her meals from the dining hall. If she was safe, she was happy.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. Her body sagged into the cushioning.
Her mind remained adamantly awake.
If she didn’t get proper rest soon, her team would strong-arm her into the emergency department with exhaustion. She’d caught the concern on Hanna’s face this week, the grim assessment in Peter’s glances. Frankie wasn’t naïve enough to believe the pair had kept her involvement with Kris a secret, but at least the rest of her team were smart enough to act like they were none the wiser.
She groaned, clamping a hand around the back of her neck and squeezing. Her tension was stockpiling. Kris hadn’t left the palace grounds. Which was good. She’d had time to work, but it also meant she spent every second of the day poised, waiting for word that he was leaving, knowing she’d have to make a run for it so as not to delay a member of the royal family.
She’d then spent each night fixating on the fact that he was avoiding her.
The later the hour, the more foolish her thoughts became.
He hated her.
He never wanted to see her again.
He was going to fire her.
He was going to make her his mistress.
He was in hate-love with her and the next time he saw her, he wouldn’t ask to kiss her, he’d just do it, shoving her against the nearest wall and—
Foolish or not, she’d stick by those thoughts right to the end.
Dropping her hand to her lap, she remembered the times it had been just the two of them—when she’d been too preoccupied by what separated them to soak up the simple pleasure of being alone with him. Walking the ranch with Kris in open-skied isolation, no brothers or neighbors for miles. Half-day road trips for supplies in his farm truck, filling the time by playing conversation games or songs they thought each other would like. Camping in the craggy mountains the few times he’d convinced her to do something so reckless—she’d come dangerously close to surrendering to their attraction on those rough, lonely slopes.