Kris would be cast out of the royal family before he’d be allowed to court a woman like Frankie.
“You don’t know everything about me,” she said, voice shaking.
“Then tell me.”
She felt a pressure in her chest, the cold of a metal clasp snapping closed. “I can’t.”
He swore under his breath, grasping the side of his head.
“I feel like I can’t,” she said again, small and painful. “Because I’m ashamed.” Her insides were ice as she said, “I—I’ll explain why. Let me build up to it.”
“You have no reason to be ashamed.” He was so serious, believing everything and understanding nothing. “I left you behind once. I’m never doing it again.”
“Kris . . .”
His jaw flexed. “I asked you to say my name—not use it as another word for no.” His shoulders expanded with warning. “Don’t do that. Use it to mean yes.”
God. On those orders, she wouldn’t speak his name at all. She rolled her lips tight on bitter acceptance. She had to do it. Resort to her backup plan—and reveal her past. She had to do it right, in a way he couldn’t deny.
“Stand up,” she said, and rose to her feet.
He did, his frown as puzzled as it was irritated.
“Since you won’t hook up with a stranger like a good randy prince,” she said, and caught the flash of humor in his eyes. “We have limited options for working that temper out of you.” Lifting to the balls of her feet, she pulsed her heels a few times. “To the base of The Scepter and back. Five reps.”
She set off without waiting for his response. His bark of startled laughter echoed across the city. She heard the scuff of his takeoff, the impact of his feet on the steps, and realized too late that this was just another form of giving him chase. And even though she was faster on this wickedly steep decline, skilled at staying out of his reach, a flutter of panic rose beneath her breastbone.
She’d never wanted him to catch her so badly.
8
Kris wanted to go home.
Not forever—unless that was an option—but to clear his head. Life in Kiraly cluttered his days, his thoughts, his vision. Something always needed doing, needed thinking about. And despite the palace’s endless halls and towers and grand open rooms, those high ceilings and echoing chambers felt like lungs filled with stale air, showing off its power by trapping space rather than granting it freedom.
What he wouldn’t give to stare out at a vast, empty landscape for a few hours and let his mind quieten. He swore his heart beat faster here. If he were back in Montana, he’d get in his truck and drive without destination—just him and the lonesome stretches of roadway and wide eternal scenery. The only signs of civilization would be the occasional passing car or old cabin tucked in the margins of nature. That kind of full-body unwind would help him haul his restlessness into line.
The closest he could manage was spending time with his brothers.
After a morning of meetings, Kris dropped onto the sofa in the tower study and swiped an oatmeal cookie from the platter. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it had come fresh from Rose’s Diner. He had to give the palace chefs credit—they sought to provide touches of Montana flavor to the otherwise fine food served to the royal family. Chewing, Kris sank deep into the cushions, fatigue from his sleepless nights weighing him down even as undirected energy continued to surge through him. Without the grounding effects of his homeland, he was living on the edge, and sooner or later, he was going to slip right off.
“You okay over there?”
He opened his eyes to find Mark watching him from where he sat opposite the grand monarch’s desk, looking over paperwork.
“Philip called me King Markus in this morning’s meeting,” Kris answered. “Gotta tell you, it’s strange to be addressed by that man without reprimand. His tone was respectful.” Kris shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “Gave me the creeps.”
“Don’t worry,” Mark said. “Once he doesn’t have to pretend that you’re me, he’ll never address you with respect again.”
Kris laughed and tossed a cookie at him. Mark snatched it from the air one-handed and looked back down at the paperwork.
“You’re doing well,” Mark said as he flipped a page. “Philip agrees. It seems like this plan will work.”
Kris’s gut cramped. “Yeah?”
Mark looked up, features pained, and asked, “Are you really sure, Kris?”
Was he sure he wanted his brother to be happy? “Yes.”
The study door opened and Tommy stepped in, the carpet muting the heels of his leather boots. Door shut behind him, he glanced between his brothers.
“I was summoned?” He sounded amused.
“Take a seat.” Kris gestured toward his desk as he sprawled wider on the couch.
Tommy hesitated, tugging on his bunched shirtsleeve and angling his face down to the right as if he was trying to discreetly look behind him. Kris had long suspected the movement accompanied heated internal debate—which clearly ended in a win against his anxiety, because he moved to take the unoccupied monarch’s chair.
Mark set the papers on his lap and shot a look at Kris. “What’s up?”
“I miss you guys,” he said with a sigh. “And the ranch.”
The heaviness of his brothers’ silence betrayed homesickness was only ever half a thought away for them, too.
“The quarter horses are due to arrive any day now,” Mark said, about the horses they’d secured for the royal stables. “And I was just describing chokecherry cider to Ava last night. I’m going to get some shipped over.”
Tommy quirked a brow. “We’d have to hide it from Frankie.”
“She’s a menace for it.” Kris grinned. “I’ll leave the last empty bottle somewhere for her to find.”
“She’ll claw you to pieces,” Mark warned.
Kris’s smile faded. “She’d have to get close enough.”
His brothers exchanged a glance before Mark leaned back in his chair, crossing his feet at the ankle. “How are things going with her?”
Kris tried to think of an appropriate word. “Strained,” he said, and after a pause, added, “As in, sexually.”
Tommy picked up a pen, spinning it between his fingers as he murmured, “Story of your friendship.”
“Is it—would it really be so bad if I ended up with a commoner?”
Tommy looked out the city-view window, pen still twirling. “Depends on the commoner.”
“She’s convinced we’re incompatible. She’s killing me.”
Mark smiled faintly. “The opposite of her job description.”
“Oh.” Kris shifted, remembering, and cast them a serious look. “Something happened while I was out last night,” he said, and told them about the incident at the bar. He noted Tommy’s tension—the stiffening of his shoulders, the way his eyes glazed as he stopped blinking. “The guy’s been charged with some offence called lèse-majesté.”
“To do wrong to majesty,” Tommy translated quietly.