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‘Within a month I had doubled my savings,’ he said, no trace of arrogance tainting the statement of fact, no hint of the negative bent of his thoughts. ‘Within the first year my name was a whispered warning, and in five years I had majority shares in more companies than I could remember the names of.’
Over the years, more and more companies had required face-to-face meetings and, after his childhood on the streets, he had settled easily into a nomadic way of life in luxury hotels across Singapore, Zurich, New York, Hong Kong, Toronto, Sydney and here in Milan. Not once in all that time had anyone peered too closely at his past. Not once in all that time had anyonewantedto know.
Until Kozlov.
UntilMarit.
‘And that is how I got from the streets of Athens to here,’ he said, finally taking a sip of his beer, the amber liquid tasting like memories and regret.
Marit didn’t think Lykos had meant to reveal so much, but she’d been able to see through his words to the betrayal he had felt at the hands of his mentor. After a father who had given Lykos nothing but abuse and mistreatment, to be used by a man he’d thought was safety and hope personified...it must have been devastating for him. Yet he simply shrugged dismissively as if it hadn’t cost him a thing.
‘It’s an incredible achievement,’ she said sincerely.
He simply inclined his head as if acknowledging the truth of her observation while not taking the praise. Marit reached for her drink. The large slice of orange soaking in the midday sun made the drink look frivolous, not to mention the candy-striped straw and the little cocktail umbrella.
Lykos swallowed, put his beer back onto the thick white cotton covered table, leaned forward and nudged the paper umbrella before she could pick up the glass. ‘You and your sweet tooth.’ He tutted as if disappointed, the tease pulling at the corner of her mouth, anchoring her in the present and away from the shadowy images he had painted in her mind of a childhood that couldn’t have been more different from her own.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze holding her enthralled, forgetting her drink, forgetting their fight and once again that awareness twisted and turned deep within her. It smashed the defences she’d built last night and suddenly they were back in that darkened room, her breath caught in her lungs, his chest beneath her palms—
‘What was growing up like for a princess?’
His question snapped her back into the present as if she were on a leash he held and because she was so distracted the truth fell from her lips.
‘Lonely.’
They both blinked at her answer and she shook her head, trying to understand why this man seemed the only person to whom she said what she never wanted to say. Focusing on picking at an imaginary bit of fluff from her trouser leg, she had marshalled her features by the time she looked back up at him, her voice cool as she said, ‘I’m sure you don’t want to hear about the poor little Princess.’
He held her gaze and in it she heard her words to him earlier that day.I want to know about you!
She would have given anything to hear him say that. It made her cheeks pink and her heart turn. He was stubborn enough to keep on staring at her in silence until she answered his question, even if it took all afternoon.
‘There are little girls all around the world who dream of being a princess,’ she said.
‘Not you?’
Marit shook her head and shrugged easily. ‘How can you dream of what you already are?’
Only she wasn’t. Not really. Freya was the real Princess. Loved by the people and her parents and, despite the sting of jealousy, loved by Marit most of all. The absence of her parents’ attention—love—had always made her feelinvisible. As if she didn’t matter. As if her thoughts and feelings weren’t important. But it had been Freya who came to her room when Marit had a nightmare. Freya who soothed her tears when she fell over. Freya who told Aleksander to stop being a beast for hiding her toys. Freya who helped get Marit out of the palace maze when one of their nannies got distracted. But even Freya hadn’t quite been able to compensate for the lack of love Marit received from their parents.
‘So, you are what you always wanted to be?’ he asked, the doubt in his tone making it clear he too thought little of her being a princess.
‘I wanted to be a musician,’ she said, wanting to pierce the arrogance of his response. ‘But a royal cannot be such a thing.’
‘Who decided that?’
Marit stifled the urge to make a pithy comment, to hide her hurt in a joke or a distraction, but Lykos had honoured her with the truth and she would not disrespect him in return. ‘My parents. It wasn’t up for debate,’ she said, taking a sip of her Aperol Spritz, not tasting the sweet orange and herby bitterness of it at all.
‘What were they like?’ His silvery gaze glinted in the afternoon sun and she couldn’t shake the sense that he was hunting her response for something that would explain who she was on a level she didn’t want him to see.
‘They were the King and Queen of Svardia.’
He levelled her with that gaze that demanded answers, demanded honesty.
‘They were distracted and very busy. Always in meetings, or on trips to far-flung countries,’ she said simply. ‘Papa wasn’t supposed to have ruled, but his brother died in an accident before he had heirs, so he was propelled into a position I don’t think he wanted.’ It was the first time she had said the words out loud and the first time she wondered for the space of a heartbeat if she might have something in common with the stern-jawed, dark-eyed man who was her father. That he had never been meant to rule had always made Marit wonder if that was somehow to blame for the way her parents immersed themselves so deeply into the role that they rarely looked up. ‘But he certainly made sure that Aleksander and Freya knew their roles and their future responsibilities.’
‘And you?’
‘The only expectation for me was to stay out of trouble.’ So simple, and yet so damaging too. At dinners, their parents tested and prepared her siblings. Even if Freya tried to bring her into the conversation, it never lasted long. Aleksander had watched with a kind of helpless fury which had only made things worse and, in the end, Marit had settled with trying to make the silent waiting staff react to little silly pranks unseen by her parents.
