Now, she imagined she had given in.
Met his too-warm gaze over the campfire and held it. Allowed their stare to slide from a question into an unwavering answer. Made room for him as he slowly stood and came over to her, warmth gone from his face, replaced by a careful seriousness. Leaned into his touch as he reached for her face, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip a moment before his mouth—
Frankie started. Tangled in the ludicrous daydream, she was sure she’d imagined the knock on her door. It was beyond late. No one would come knocking.
Then she imagined it again.
“No,” she called out, just in case.
“It’s Hanna. I, uh—can we talk?”
Grumbling, but with no reason not to let her in, Frankie pushed herself out of the armchair. Ruffling her damp hair, she reached the door and dragged it open with a weary, “Yeah?”
Hanna stood in the middle of the doorway, still dressed up from her night out. Make up bold, blond hair loose. Her expression was peculiar. Uncomfortably apologetic.
“Realized you have the wrong room, Johansson?” Frankie asked dryly.
“No, ma’am,” she answered, standing tall.
Frankie pressed her fingers into the bridge of her nose. “Do you want to come in?”
“No, ma’am. I’m really sorry about this.” Hanna’s gaze swung to her left as she spoke. “I understand that it’s highly unprofessional. I would never, you know, except he came in while I was chatting with Gul and overheard—”
Hanna was cut off by a large male hand that reached out from the left of the corridor and cupped over her mouth.
Frankie’s pulse lurched.
She knew that hand—the coarse-haired, muscled arm attached to it.
Hanna spoke again, but the hand muffled her words. It could have been, “I’m sorry.” But could just as easily have been, “Don’t kill me.”
Slowly, Frankie leaned her head out the door, looking to the left. Even expecting him, her stomach ended up in her throat as their gazes clashed. He lounged against the corridor wall, facing her, eyes dangerous sparks of blue, close enough that she caught the woodland smell of him. Not the Kris from her campfire fantasy. He was rigid with barely contained temper, tight in his neck, bulging at the hinge of his jaw as he bit down hard.
Even angry, he filled her with a wild, hazardous need.
“Your Highness,” she made herself say. “Care to unhand my staff?”
His only response was to lift a brow. His hand remained over Hanna’s mouth, who was looking for all the world like, well, like a woman who’d unwillingly led an uncontainable prince to her superior’s private sleeping quarters in the dead of night.
Frankie’s own anger flared to life, fanned by her fatigue. How dare he put Hanna in this position? How dare he act so inappropriately?
He’s your prince, her fading traces of reason reminded her. And your guard is watching. Don’t blow your top.
“Your Highness,” she said, grinding her irritation down into a measured tone. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Silencing her,” he said, before removing his hand. The first words he’d spoken to her in five days and the rough texture of his voice moved like friction inside her. “Though it shouldn’t bother you, since you’ve ordered her silence since I got here.”
Oh. Shit.
Frankie flicked a glance at Hanna. The woman’s answering gaze was wary. “Dismissed, Johansson.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Then Hanna was gone.
“Let’s sort this out then.” Frankie jerked her head inside and was rewarded with a fierce stab in her temple. “Since you’ve clearly come here for a confrontation.”
God, that was not the right tone for addressing a prince. Not even close.
“You ordered my guards not to talk to me.” Eyes flinty, he brought himself closer to the threshold. She had to tilt her chin higher to hold his stare, and her stomach curled. He was still dressed in the jeans and shirt he’d worn that day. Lush hair all over the place—too long, too prone to his frustrated hands. And still, she wanted to jump him. “Do you know how badly I could’ve used a couple of friends around here? Hanna made me think she was the dullest person alive”—Frankie made a mental note to praise her guard for her efforts—“until I happened to discover she’s this vibrant bouncy-ball you ordered into stillness. Why would you do that? Why the hell would you punish me—”
“Punish you?” She bit back, too exhausted to keep herself in check as his words struck her pride. “You think that’s what this is? That I’m so useless at my job, I set orders based on personal grudges?”
He didn’t seem to care that her tone was out of line. He moved even closer, rolling his lips together. “I have no idea what this is, Frankie, because you don’t tell me the truth.”
“Let’s talk about telling the truth, then.” Bad. This was bad. His temper was expanding—and hers was responding big time. “Because you seem to be under the delusion that you’re innocent in all this.”
“This’ll be interesting.” His stare bored into her. “Enlighten me.”
“Inside.” She pulled her head back into her room, wincing at her headache. No doubt about it. His tension and her sleep deprivation were about to collide head-on.
Kris rounded the doorway, features threatening a fight. Intent pushed him passed her into the room, but she clocked the instant he realized how little she was wearing. Probably the exact same moment she realized she’d just let this wild prince into her bedroom. His insatiate energy seemed to chew up all the space, drawing the walls in closer, blurring the corners and edges until she was the only thing left in his field.
Facing her, his focus snapped to her body. Anger flickered in and out of his gaze like a frequency dial that couldn’t decide where to land. Outrage or lust? His throat moved on a hard swallow as he took in her bare legs; his mouth parted, bottom lip pulling between his teeth as his attention traveled over her hips and stomach. Then his jaw flexed and his fingers curled by his sides, as if he couldn’t decide whether to punch the nearest wall or take hold of her camisole and tear it clean off.
Hot and refusing to be flustered, Frankie kicked the door closed behind her. “You’re not here to look.”
The slam brought his temper rushing back. “You’re right.” Standing in the short stretch of space between the foot of her bed and the coffee table, he crossed his arms. “I’m here to put an end to this.”
An end.
She could have let her legs buckle; could’ve made the sound that broke behind her lips. Instead she let his energy latch onto her. Raging, ravishing in its intensity, it held her up.
She narrowed her eyes and answered coolly, “About time.”
“Here I was,” he said, shaking his head. “Doing my best to accept that you’ve always lied to me. That you convinced Mark to lie to me.” His very presence coiled with insult. “But now I find out you’ve ordered my guards to pretend to be people they’re not around me. It doesn’t—I don’t understand—” He sliced a hand into his hair, a growl in the back of his throat. “What are you playing at?”