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Why isn’t anyone stepping in to protect my royal butt from this assault? Fine, I’ll do it myself.
I wind up intending to throw a punch with my free arm. Turning my head to aim, I see two bearded, put-upon faces step into the light from the streetlamp.
Sigurd. The Wild Prince is out in public.
I’m so stunned that I drop my battle-ready fist.
“What are you doing here? Who died?” I slur.
“You might soon, if you don’t come with me right now,” my brother answers through gritted teeth.
“I can’t just leave my new friends,” I say, smiling and gesturing to the dispersing crowd.
I am aware that Sigurd’s hold on my arm is the only thing keeping me from falling face-first into the pavement, but that doesn’t give him the right to manhandle me. I remain indignant.
"Flora’s been calling and texting you. You didn’t answer,” Sigurd growls.
Shit.
“Is she okay?”
“Of course she’s okay,” he says, looking behind him. “You’re needed. Let’s go.”
I start to argue. “You’re ruining—”
“We’re done here.” Sig maintains his hold on my arm as he addresses the nearest server. “How much?”
The curvy woman with a mass of wild red hair gives him a shy smile. She hugs her empty drink tray to her ample chest. “On the house, Your Highness.”
Sig winces at the title but thanks her with a wad of folded bills. I shrug out of my brother’s grip while he’s temporarily distracted, but the big oaf manages to fist the back of my shirt collar while he stares dumbly at the server.
He fidgets his beard. “Keep the change,” he says gruffly. His eyes dart around the place, looking everywhere but at the server’s slow-blinking gaze. He’s behaving like he wants to say something to the pink-cheeked woman but gives up and turns around, hauling me away from the bar.
“Why do you have to be so rough?” I ask as I stumble to keep up. Sig’s grip is too tight, making me lose my buzz.
“Shut up and stop making a scene.”
We pass a cafe and two more bars humming with activity. People stare as Sig hauls me down the street, some taking videos with their cameras. I wave and blow kisses.
“If you didn’t want to be part of a scene, you should have sent the palace muscle to find me.”
“Uther’s busy,” Sig retorts, referring to the silent naval veteran who does a little of everything that the family needs doing. He’s the newest addition to the palace staff, as Father saw fit to beef up security after the incident at Torben’s birthday.
At the exact moment the words are out of his mouth, a blur of pale blue catches my eye. I blink twice to focus just as a familiar, cool scent hits me.
Kala St. Rain sits at a cafe table, spine straight as a guillotine. Her hair is done up in two loose buns, and she wears a poor excuse for a sweater. The blue drape of fabric reveals so much cleavage that I can almost see her stomach.
I want to pretend I don’t notice her, but I’m flummoxed. I’ve never seen her wear anything so revealing at court.
What that royal hanger-on Kala St. Rain wears is none of my business, I remind myself. We aren’t friends.
Yet, I’m amused. She’s out with her mates, and she can’t manage to relax physically. Shoulders back, eyes wide and keen, observing everyone’s movements.
Before Sig drags me away from the mist of her expensive perfume, Kala lifts one perfect eyebrow.
What is that face supposed to mean?
Sig trundles me into the back of his car.
