Page 1 of The Harvest Homecoming

Chapter One

“Are you sure, Harold?”

I pulled my attention from my face in my hairstylist’s mirror to look at Gus. His amber eyes locked with mine. He’d told me he wore colorful contacts to match his moods. Handsomest hairstylist in all of Oslo, I liked to say. Stunning man Gustav Bakken. Dark, robust, possessed of skilled fingers that could tease a hairdo and a man into a state of bliss. I’d learned after a few tumbles in his bed several years ago. Somehow I’d let him go as a lover—something that I seemed to be prone to do—but I’d clung to him tightly as a stylist and a dear friend. He plucked a dark curl from my head, then let it spring back.

“I’m sure.”

“What you’re looking for is drastic.”

“I know,” I replied, sitting upright in one of four exquisite salon chairs in the entire salon. Gus was extremely finicky about whose hair he styled. He only accepted the cream of European society into his tiny shop facing the grounds that housed the royal palace. Lovely place filled with lovely monarchs. Friends of my parents, mostly, but kind enough to her boys, as my mother liked to call her sons.

He rested his long fingers atop my curls, his brow furrowing. Chatter from the waiting area blended into a playlist of alternative rock bands from Norway as he studied me like an amoeba on a slide.

“Harold, what you’re asking for is drastic.”

“You said that already,” I reminded him, the collar of the soft gold cape—changed seasonally from pink to green, then gold, and then winter white because Gus was just that way—tied around my neck was beginning to itch. I felt the need to give it a yank but left my hands on my lap, hidden under the hairdressing cape where I could fidget with the royal ring on my right index finger. All four of the Valdemar princes wore one or had one in their possession. My younger brother Anders, now in the States with his beloved Mitchell and Mitchell’s daughter Gilda, had probably tucked his away because he’d given up the life of a royal to be obscure and in love. Bearing the seal of Östermon, it chafed occasionally. “I feel it’s time for a change.”

He sighed through his nose. “Does this have anything to do with your thirty-fifth birthday coming up soon?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Did I seek out a new Harold because the old one was getting…dare I say it…old? Or was this growing unease with my life due to something else like maturing? Gasp! My parents would love that. So naturally I pushed against it, but even with the rebellion against the restrictive ways of our country and the weight of a crown to keep me busy, there was a chasm in my life. I hated to consider what that crevasse might be, but it had increased in size since Anders had gone back to the States nine months ago, leaving me the lone queer in the castle. Even Rani had left, scurrying off to the UK to work with my sister-in-law, Lady Alva, as her personal assistant. Truly, it fucking sucked not being able to glimpse him from time to time. I’d let him slip through my fingers too, damn my foolish eyes.

“Do you want me to lie, or do you want the truth?” I asked and got a crinkle of his nose. “Fine, the truth. Of late, I feel as if the faster I drive, boat, run, or ride a horse, whatever it is that is pursuing me is not only keeping up but is damn close to overtaking me.”

“Are you speaking about reality or one of your abstract modern art dreams?” He ran his fingers through my hair as he spoke.

“That was one dream six years ago, Gustav.”

“Yes, but it was freaky. Who but you dreams of people he knows moving through the streets of Raivask as walking cube humans? It was very distressing when you told me about it the following morning.”

I will admit that was an unsettling dream. The good folk who lived in our nation’s capital did not in any way, shape, or form have two noses or mismatched eyes.

“That was only because we’d been to see that Picasso exhibit at Raivask Art Museum that night. Also, I may have indulged in a tiny little mushroom before going to bed.”

“Hmmm, yes, you and your indulgences.” He gave my scalp a good rub. “Are you positive, Harold? Straightening and lightening your hair will—”

“Be drastic. Yes, I know. Please, let’s do it. I think that it may do me good to be a new Harold for a while. If I hate it, I’ll just wear a wig until it grows out.”

“As you wish.” He gave my head a pat. “We’ll lighten first, then in a week or so you can come back to straighten. You’re staying in your apartment by the Akersalva so you can skip over when it’s time. No, do not bicker with me. You may be the prince, but I’m the ruler in this salon.”

Guess he told me.

My chair spun, and I was tipped back for a spray. Staring at the ceiling of Kron Tress, I let out a long breath as Gus began wetting my hair while gossiping about the newest scandal in the British royal family. I’d read about it online this morning. Not to be a shit, but it was nice to see someone else with regal blood being lambasted by the press for a change. Petty? Surely. But honest. I rather prided myself on my honesty of late. Papa hated it. Mama cringed over it. The rather conservative palace PR department winced every time I spoke out about being bisexual. No more hiding for the queer princes of Östermon. Those days were long gone. Some things deserved to stay in the past. Some people not so much…

Chapter Two

Anew Harold stepped into the waiting area of Kron Tress.

Two sets of eyes, both hazel, rounded like tractor tires when they spied me with Gus at my side. Houghton, my bodyguard, and Vetra, my personal assistant, gawked openly for several long moments before snapping out of the shock. Both rose as Gus began gushing over Houghton.

Yes, my protector was a stud. Six foot six, two hundred eighty pounds of former professional wrestler from a small town in Canada, Houghton Pierce was massive. He wore plain black clothes, wore no jewelry or tattoos, and had not one strand of hair on his head. To be blunt, the motherfucker didn’t need ink or piercings to intimidate. Simply sucking in air was enough to put most people off. And if that didn’t, he could bend a human body into a swan origami in under ten seconds as well as body slam anyone who dared to give me a sideways glance. Just last month, I’d seen a rowdy protestor who grabbed me as I exited a hotel be slapped down to the ground and wrangled into a cobra clutch in under five seconds. Houghton carried no gun, just a taser for those times when a stepover toehold facelock just wasn’t enough to get a submission call from a would-be attacker. The stoic Canadian had been with me for six months now, and we’d shared perhaps a hundred words in that time.

Vetra Livari, on the other hand, was the exact opposite of Houghton. She stood a whopping five foot two in her standard and practical two-inch heels. She came to work for me seven years ago and somehow managed to not only put up with my stupid bullshit through my young and rowdy years but kept me from utter disgraces that would have seen me banished from Östermon after having my titles stripped and doing a walk of shame ala Cerci Lannister from the Cathedral of Saint Bjarke. My father knew of only a quarter of the awful shit I had done thanks to Vetra. Fifty years old, slim, always properly dressed and possessing a magical tote that held everything she or I might need at any time. Silver hair cut short and small glasses, she managed me better than either of my parents ever had with a firm hand along with a no-nonsense attitude.

“That’s a new look for you, Your Highness,” Vetra said as the surprise left her face. I took that shock as a small win. Little shook Vetra. Even walking into a rather risqué threesome when I’d celebrated my thirtieth in St. Barts to find me servicing two men as a worn-out woman cheered us on from a chaise lounge in the corner. All of five minutes passed before the celebrants were hustled out a side door after hastily signing NDAs while withering looks from Vetra sent me under the covers to hide.

“I’m feeling it. Next week the curls go straight, which will be the only straight thing about me,” I replied, pulling on a soft sweater as Houghton moved to open the front door for me. Vetra paid for the styling as I waved at Gus before being hustled into a bright blue Range Rover that Houghton adored. Rumor had it that he’d ordered it with armor plating when I’d told him to buy something new that he preferred for our outings. He disliked the Jaguar my previous guardian had liked, saying it drew attention. Once I was tucked into the backseat with Vetra climbing in to sit at my right, Houghton closed the door and took his place behind the wheel. I preferred to keep my staff light so no driver, at least not when I wasn’t in Östermon. Father insisted on such shit when home to keep up appearances, but I found just having one guard and one drill sergeant was enough outside the borders of my homeland.

“Would you care for some water or a clean shirt, Sir?” Vetra asked, opening her bag of many wonders and glancing at me over the top of her glasses. “I know the tiny bits of hair that fall into your collar chafe your delicate skin.”