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“You’ll have to meet both my brothers. I don’t know why Alex wasn’t in the official lineup before. Probably off being naughty somewhere, knowing him, although he did insist he’s changed.” She shrugs.
From what I know about the guy dubbed Prince McHottie, I imagine he was.
“Oh, look. There he is,” Amelia says as she waves and smiles at someone behind me before her features drop. “Goodness. What happened to his face?”
I turn to see a man in a red buttoned-up jacket, a blue sash crossing his body from shoulder to hip, his stride strong and confident. His face looks like the image in Chloe’s magazine, extremely handsome with a head of dark hair, a strong jaw covered in a cropped beard, and the kind of olive skin I always wished I had instead of my pale skin prone to freckles. Although now that I look at him, his nose is red and swollen and looks like he might have been?—
Wait.
His nose looks like it’s been…punched?
Ice cold seeps across my chest.
It was him. It was Prince Alexander in the closet!
I freeze, every nerve in my body on high alert.
He stops to speak with someone and although I wouldn’t have thought it possible, he looks so much more handsome in person. Dangerously handsome.
And angry. Definitely angry.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. The guy in the closet was Prince Alexander. The guy I went NHL in a bad mood on, who I thought was a murderer or worse, is in fact the Crown Prince of Ledonia, heir to the throne, brother to my new friend.
And the worst thing of all? He’s heading our way.
Chapter 10
Alexander
As I make my way through the crowd to Amelia, I spot the woman standing with her. She's about Amelia’s height, her hair piled up on top of her head in an elaborate updo that probably took hours. I know. My sisters have complained to me about the process many times.
She's in a blue satin dress, which clearly marks her out as Malveauxian royalty. If there's any doubt, she’s also wearing a tiara on top of her head.
She must be the new American Princess.
As I get closer, I size her up. I admit she's a beautiful woman, with classically high cheekbones, wide eyes, full lips, her brown hair an attractive shade of chestnut.
As I get closer, it hits me.
It’s her. She's my cupboard attacker.
She’s the woman with the shockingly firm right hook who not only damaged my face, but then treated me like the enemy even after I tried to help her back to her feet when she fell.
I narrow my eyes at her as hers do the opposite, widening in recognition.
She’s about to stutter a heartfelt apology, and I’ll do my best to forgive her. Eventually. But not until I’ve made her squirm. What she did was entirely unnecessary and needlessly violent. Not the behavior of a princess.
“Alex! Where have you been? And what on earth happened to your face?” Amelia exclaims.
I wave her concern away. “It's nothing.”
“It doesn't look like nothing. It looks like you've been smashed in the face by an anvil.”
I glance down at the American princess’s hands. She's clasping her right hand in her left, and I'm quite certain the hidden hand would show a battle scar almost as bad as my own.
“Not an anvil, because I’m not a cartoon character,” I reply, my eyes trained on the woman with the strong right hook. “Something else.”
Princess Madeline appears to have some control over her features now, and has the good grace to avert her gaze, her face turning as pale as a sheet. She must have concluded that the man in front of her, sporting a damaged face, is in fact her would be assailant—or rather her innocent victim who accidentally stumbled on the scrappy fighter. And paid the price.
