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As Marit regaled her with stories of Paris and Milan and Athens, Henna realised that the fear she’d had of being only a tool, someone to rely on, to achieve things for Freya and Henna was gone. The easy conversation and the shared humour erased that fear and healed something deep within her, not completely but enough to see things a little more clearly than she had done in the past. She was just about to check on the catering when—
‘Who is that?’ Marit demanded, looking up to the first-floor balcony.
There was only one possible answer.
‘Your brother’s guest is Tuva Paulin,’ she replied, bracing herself as she turned to face Aleksander and his future fiancée.
Aleksander stood at the top of the stairs, able to see that his sister only had two more couples to greet before he could make his entrance. Tuva’s hand was tucked into the crook of his arm, on the side opposite his sword. Everything about this evening had to be perfect. It would set the tone for Freya and Kjell’s future—ensuring that, no matter what, she would have the support of the royal family, and hopefully the country, behind her when facing the announcement that she was unable to have children naturally.
Tuva cleared her throat quietly beside him and he realised that the music had transitioned to announce his arrival. He just stopped himself from clenching the fist by his side, gave Tuva a smile and then led them down the grand staircase. Freya and Kjell stood at the bottom on one side and Marit and Lykos on the other and for a second he allowed himself to feel the simple joy of having both of his sisters here with him.
Family.He wanted them near, not because it would look good for the country, or bolster his image, as his parents would have suggested. But because he loved them. For the first time he wondered what it would have been like if he’d been able to talk to them about what happened in the past. Whether he would have been this emotionally closed off. Whether he might have healed enough to...
He looked up just at that moment and the sight of Henna stopped his thoughts and his heart. In the second it took to take her in, a kaleidoscope of images from their time away pressed against the back of his eyes. The midnight-blue silk of her dress in Macau, the stars in the sky over Öström, the way her blue skirt parted either side of her legs before he tasted her, how the straps of blue silk had slipped from her shoulders in the elevator, how she had stood there, bearing the weight of his fevered gaze, strong and powerful, daring him to be even remotely worthy of her—the way she was looking at him now.
Gentle pressure pulled at his arm and everything came back in a rush, the musical accompaniment, the sounds of the guests, the trace of concern in Freya’s knowing gaze, the painfully perfect smile of the woman beside him. The woman who would be beside him in everything to come. He wasn’t fool enough to compare her to Henna. Tuva would lose every time, in every way but one.
Tuva’s gaze was heavy on him as he introduced her to his sisters and their partners. Both Kjell and Lykos were still a little wary of him—as they should be—but if Freya and Marit noticed, they didn’t let on. Lykos whispered something to Marit and with a long, surprisingly serious glance from his sister, Marit enticed Tuva and Freya away, leaving the three men alone.
A server appeared with a tray of drinks and all three men chose whisky over champagne.
‘Something on your mind, Livas?’ Aleksander said before a tipped salute of his glass to his future brothers and taking a mouthful of peat, vanilla and burn.
Kjell, ever the military strategist, seemed content to have one eye on them and the other on his fiancée.
‘Kozlov.’ The word dropped like a bullet from the Greek billionaire’s mouth.
Aleksander glared at him but, even without looking at the Viscount of Fjalir beside him, it was eminently clear he had no wish to discuss the matter in public.
The silver-eyed Greek shrugged. ‘Kjell is now family. Marit is...teaching me the importance of it and I am embracing it.’
Aleksander looked at Kjell, who held his gaze. ‘Russian oligarch, billionaire several times over, questionable dealings in the Ukraine, morally abominable and violent towards women. Nasty piece of work,’ Kjell concluded his accurate précis on the man.
Lykos leaned his head towards the man as if to say,see?
‘He will soon experience the loss of several major contracts that have, until now, afforded him a level of financial security,’ said Aleksander, giving in to the bonds that would tie him to even more people.
‘And with blood in the water, the sharks will start to circle. Good,’ Lykos said with a finality that appeased both men’s need for vengeance.
‘What you choose to do and who you choose to do it with in your free time is all on you,’ Kjell stated, leaning a little close to Aleksander’s secrets for his liking. But the man had been a Lieutenant Colonel in the Svardian army, so Aleksander trusted him more than most.
‘So, you chose Tuva then?’ Lykos observed.
‘Not who I was expecting,’ Kjell commented. ‘You?’ he asked the Greek.
It was on the tip of his tongue to demand to know what they were talking about, when he found both of their gazes locked onto where Henna was talking to a clearly besotted French Ambassador.
‘No. Shame.’
‘Agreed.’
With the distinct impression that they were ganging up on him, Aleksander stalked off, ignoring the sound of gentle laughter behind him, and went to find Tuva.
Henna extracted herself from the French Ambassador, whose crush on her was nothing but sweet harmlessness. She was just about to find Freya when the music quietened in preparation for the first dance. This was it. This was the line in the sand that Henna needed. This was the inescapable truth that he would never be hers.
The three siblings took up positions around the dance area of the ballroom. It looked like an image from a period drama, the stunning perfection of the clothes—Kjell in military dress uniform, while Lykos Livas shone just as gloriously in his tux. And the women—Henna bit her lip until she tasted a faint metallic thread, releasing it as the sharp sting struck. Tuva was beautiful and poised, perfection in a cream gown that matched Aleksander’s ceremonial uniform. They stood in a tableau, waiting for the music to begin, and for a moment she wondered if perhaps this was a dream. That this was where she would wake, but no. The music started and the couples spun around the floor in perfect synchronicity.
And even though she knew that she was strong, knew that she would survive this, she was once again on the outside looking in and it hurt like a thousand cuts to her soul. Aleksander never once made eye contact, but she felt his focus like a touch, slipping down the nape of her neck, her spine, spanning her shoulder blades and holding her in place. Holding her to the press of a body that would never be there. Would never hold her again. Would never pleasure her or protect her.
