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“I’m genetically predisposed to be the mistress of a Kitzinian prince,” she told him, and smiled at him. She could do this. In truth, she already had. “And I’m already notorious. You may not want to accept your birthright, Pato, but I do.”
He looked at her for what felt like a very long time. His hands still cupped her cheeks, and she was sure he could see through her, all the way down to the deepest part of her soul.
“I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for this kingdom,” he said finally, his gaze more gold than grim, though his mouth remained serious. “It has never done anything for you but make your life a misery.”
“It’s no sacrifice,” she said, her hands tightening around his wrists. “I don’t want to martyr myself, I want to help.”
Another long moment, taut and electric, and then he shook his head.
“We have a week until the wedding.” Pato stood, drawing her to her feet and into his arms. As he gazed down at her, his mouth began to curve into that wicked quirk she recognized. “Lenz will marry his ice princess, the poor bastard. The spectacle will bring in hordes of tourists, just as my parents’ wedding did a generation ago. My father will finally cede the throne, and will spend the rest of his miserable life faced with the knowledge that the son he raised and then rejected is his king. And life will carry on, Adriana, without a single mention of the Righetti family, traitors and temptresses, or you.”
“But—”
“I promise,” he whispered against her mouth.
And then he kissed her, igniting fire and need and that searing joy, and she decided there were far better things to do with the man she loved than argue.
For now.
* * *
Adriana woke the morning before the royal wedding with a smile on her face. She turned off her alarm and settled back against her pillow, smiling at the light pouring in through her windows as if the sun shone only for her. As if it was simply another gift Pato had given her.
They hadn’t spoken again of his letting her go.
Pato was not considered a legendary lover by accident, she’d learned. His reputed skills were no tabloid exaggeration. He’d had her twice more before they’d left the cottage that day, reducing her to a sobbing, writhing mess again and again, until she was deliciously limp, content simply to cling to him on the drive back into the city, thinking not of thrones and notoriety but him. Only him.
“Come to the palace tomorrow,” he’d told her, letting her off on a deserted corner some distance from her family’s villa, out of the circle of light thrown by the nearest streetlamp, safe from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.
“You sacked me,” she’d reminded him primly. He’d grinned at her, sitting on that lethal-looking motorcycle and holding fast to one of her hands.
“I changed my mind. I do that.” His wicked brows rose. “It is my great royal privilege.”
“I’m not sure I want the job,” she’d teased. “My employer is embarrassing and often inappropriately dressed. And the hours are terrible.”
He’d tugged her to him then, kissing her as slowly and as thoroughly as if he hadn’t done so already that day, too many times to count. He kissed her until she was boneless against him, and only then did he let her go.
“Don’t be late,” he’d said, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “And I do hope you can behave yourself. I can’t have my assistant throwing herself at me at every opportunity. I take my position as the royal ornament and national disaster very seriously.”
He’d roared off, splitting the night with the noise his motorcycle made, and Adriana had fairly danced all the way back to the villa.
And then, the following morning, he’d sauntered into his office wearing nothing but a pair of dark trousers low on his narrow hips. He’d shut the door behind him and had her over his desk before he’d even said good-morning. She’d had to bite her own hand to make sure she stayed quiet while Pato moved inside her, whispering dark and thrilling things in her ear, pushing them both straight over the edge.
He’d started as he meant to go on, Adriana thought now, rolling out of her bed and padding into her bath. They’d followed his usual schedule, packed this week with extra wedding requirements. The difference was, every time they were alone they’d been unable to keep their hands off each other. The car, his office, even a blazingly hot encounter all of three steps away from a corporate luncheon. He’d simply glanced into what was probably a coatroom, pulled her inside and braced her against a chair that sat near the far wall.
“Hang on,” he’d murmured, leaning over her back and wrapping his hands around her hips. And then he’d thrust into her, hot and hard and devastatingly talented, and she’d stopped caring about the speech he’d been meant to give. She’d cared about nothing at all but the wild blaze between them and the way they both burned in it, together.
