Sick with all the things wrong with that instruction, she’d been a full hour late to her date.
The Burberry boy had invited her upstairs—and she’d gone with him. Afterward, he’d presented her with a diamond necklace and earring set in farewell and didn’t ask her to stay until morning. She’d thanked him, taken it, and never set foot in her father’s house again.
Quite startling, the price losing her virginity had fetched at the right jeweler.
The journalists wouldn’t share the rest of the story. That Frankie had stayed at the cheapest backpackers in Kiraly while she finished high school. That she’d sat alone atop The Scepter on the night she’d graduated, staring wet-eyed and hollow at the palace, and seen the spark of a better life twinkling in those grand windows.
A position working in the palace—could that act as a pardon for her upbringing? The strict principles and integrity required to work for the royal family could reform her self-worth. She’d wanted to believe that she was capable of it, that she could become something good—and everything she’d done since that night had been working toward that goal.
No, that wouldn’t interest the media. But standing at the king’s side after fooling him into friendship and convincing him to make her his queen?
It would look like the greatest long con of her life.
“Would you rather sleep for twelve hours solid every night, or sleep for six hours but wake up every hour and a half?” Kris’s question was quiet in the still, moonlit tent.
He knew Frankie was awake. Her breathing hadn’t leveled since the lanterns had died.
No response.
Then, a slight repositioning on her bedroll. “Like, as a regular sleep cycle?”
His fingers bunched. Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d been screaming.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Every night.”
“How long do I wake up for in the second one?”
“Ten minutes each time.” It took all his self-control to stay casual, because he hated that he hadn’t known what to say earlier. Hated that he hadn’t been prepared for it. Obviously, he’d be expected to produce heirs. Why hadn’t he braced himself and confronted that reality? He’d allowed himself to be distracted by training and meetings and royal murders instead of wrapping his head around what he’d really be asking of the woman who stood by his side.
Heirs. Children. A family.
Once his thoughts piled on the idea of that with Frankie, he couldn’t haul them off. God, the fiery-haired comets that would flare into their lives—
But she either didn’t want or couldn’t have kids. The crack in her voice had betrayed it wasn’t a stance she held easily, but that was . . . well, it didn’t matter, did it? There was nowhere to go from there.
“Ten minutes?” Frankie answered, still facing away. “Disrupted sleep can get—”
“Please note, the twelve-hour sleep is impossible to disrupt.”
“No alarm?” she asked.
“No alarm.”
He hated, hated, that it wouldn’t have been a game-changer back in Sage Haven, but here, now, he literally needed a life partner who would give him children. Mark had given up his sovereignty to ensure Darius and any children he and Ava had together would not be in line for the throne. Heirs were up to Kris. Goddamn it. It felt wrong to his core that his royal obligation meant he couldn’t grab hold of this woman now that she was within reach. Now that he knew she wanted him to hold her.
“Well, twelve hours is useless.” Another shifting sound as she rolled onto her back. “I’d have to go to bed before dinner just to wake up in time for work.”
He waited, sliding a hand under his head.
“Six hours,” she decided. “But that was a sucky one.”
He smiled. She’d cracked open earlier, empty as a hollow shell, but he could feel her resuming her form and coming back to him. “Would you rather only eat tacos or pizza?”
“What?” She half sat up, sounding outraged. “What the hell impossible questions are these?”
And she was back.
“No answer?” He feigned innocence. “Your socks are about to get acquainted with my water bottle.”
“Fine. Tacos. No. Pizza. Shit. Yes—tacos.”
Kris grinned and rolled onto his side to face her, propping his head up in his hand.
She did the same, without the grin, and their eyes met in the soft, silvery moonlight.
“Hello,” he said.
Her gaze dropped to the space between their bedrolls. “Hey.”
“I’m sorry about earlier.”
“Yeah.”
“I have another question. Not specific to you and me. About you in Sage Haven.”
She didn’t turn away, but her hand rose to sit at the base of her throat. “Go ahead.”
“You monitored our safety,” he said. “Was there—uh.” His heart rate jumped, and he could have sworn the air in the tent got hotter. Was he capable of angling for this subtly? “Were there any incidents behind the scenes?”
Her brows dipped in a frown. “Not really. Sage Haven is a very low-key town.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Hmm.” She settled deeper onto her side, still wearing her jeans and a tank. He’d taken her lead and stayed fully dressed, minus his hat and boots. The only thing she’d taken off was her gun and holster, tucking them carefully beside her bedroll. “I guess there was Philip and his attempts to preserve the royal bloodline.” Kris stiffened, but her voice stayed casual, as if this wasn’t a critical wound between them. “He wanted your uncle Vinci to invite you boys to the palace where he could introduce you to suitable matches, curated to your tastes.”
“Ew,” Kris said.
Her lips slid upward. “He’d spoken to your father about the possibility, and apparently Erik had refused to put the idea to you three. I don’t know what Philip expected me to do about it, but I told him that even if he wrangled that invitation from Vinci, he could stuff it up his ass. You boys had zero need for curated matches. You lived in Montana—as far as I knew at the time, you’d always live there. He shouldn’t mess with your futures.”
Kris smiled. “One conversation with you must take years off Philip’s life.”
“You can talk.”
Fair point. “Poor guy.”
“He’s stronger than he looks,” she said. “I also did a spot of door knocking when I caught wind of close-minded muttering around town.” She paused. “You know, about Jones.”
He sucked in a breath.
“I didn’t catch them all,” she said more softly.
Regret bit him at the guilt in her voice. “I shouldn’t have said that the other night. That you didn’t protect Tommy. That you should have stopped it from happening. It wasn’t your fault.”
“No, you were right.” She frowned. “I wasn’t paying attention. I should’ve known those guys were in town. Should’ve noticed their gay-hate and aggression, and never let them out of my sight.”
“Frankie,” he said, sitting up properly even as his lungs tightened. Was he really going to do this? Share the shame that had eaten him alive for three years? “You know that they came to the ranch before the attack.”