Asteria In Love with the Prince (18 page)

She looked shocked for a moment; then accepted it. “OK, fine, I’m a slut. But you’re not me.”

“Maybe I’m more like you than you think – maybe I was just hiding it before. Or denying it.”

There was silence for a moment.

“So the whole time I’ve known you, you were really a librarian with a tempest of raging lust bottled up inside you?” Gwen sighed. “I don’t know, Luce. That’s going to take some getting used to.”

“You always wanted me to be more like you. You were always setting me up with guys.”

“Yeah, but—I
knew
you, then. And you haven’t turned into me; you’ve left me far behind, with your foreign prince and your....” She sighed. “Okay, okay: I trust you. As long as you’re happy. But if he hurts you, I
will
have his balls.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “And you know I haven’t really left you behind, right? I need you with me, Gwen. I can’t do this on my own.”

“I am
not
putting on a collar.”

“But you’ll come to the wedding?”

She looked at me, horrified. “Oh, Lucy mouse: of
course
I’ll come to the wedding. Are you kidding me? I’m just—I’m allowed to look out for you, right? Someone has to.”

I nodded quickly. “I like you looking out for me. And I’m sorry: you’re not a slut.”

She sniffed. “For your information,” she said, mock-stiffly, “it was only three guys.” Footsteps behind me. “Hark: your prince approaches.”

“Can you please call him “Your Highness”? Just for me?”

“He’s not
my
Highness.”

I gave her a look; but I knew we were going to be okay.

Jagor was smiling a little uncertainly as he approached. Having your girlfriend – no, wait,
fiancée! –
talk about you with her best friend was scary even for him. “Been catching up?” he asked. I was so used to talking to him in Asterian that hearing him in English was a shock; his voice was like a heavy steel axe cleaving hunks of granite.

“Yes, Your Highness,” beamed Gwen. I wondered how long it would be before she said something outrageous. “Lucy’s been telling me about Asteria.”

Jagor nodded politely.

“Do you have a whip, Your Highness?” she asked innocently.
About five seconds
I thought, furious.

He regarded her carefully, giving her the full force of those dark green eyes. “Yes, I do. Were you concerned for Lucy?” He tilted his head to one side, “Or just…interested?” And he gave her just a hint, just a tiny taste, of that look of raw lust he gave me. Not long before, I would have been crazy jealous. Now, I didn’t mind it: I knew he was mine just as I was his, and I knew he was only teasing.

Gwen was used to being the one in control: her usual problem was which man to pick. Meeting someone so completely unafraid of her, so dominant, must have been like meeting a man for the first time after only knowing boys. I saw her swallow and her mouth work, about to snap out a witty comeback, and then she did something I’d never seen her do before: she dropped her eyes to the table and glanced at me for help.

I slid out of my chair and hugged him. “Gwen’s just making sure you’ll treat me right.” I poured a glass of wine. As I handed it to him, I flashed back: to the bar, naked under my raincoat; to the sex club, bringing him his drink in a slave collar. A delicious liquid tremble ran through me. “To our future?” I offered, and he nodded. We all drank a toast.

Everything was happy and relaxed for a moment; then something occurred to me. When I’d been his aide, he was never more than ten feet from a bodyguard. “How did you persuade them to let you come to America on your own?” I asked.

“I didn’t,” he said simply.

I walked slowly to the window and peeked out. The street was empty of traffic: police officers stood behind cordons at either end, three patrol cars lighting up the buildings with red and blue flashes. Directly outside my apartment building was a familiar fleet of SUVs and blocking the entrance was a line of stocky men in smart suits. I watched as one of my neighbors tried to argue their way inside. “They’re all here?” I asked weakly.
Everyone we lied to?

He nodded.

I had to try to normalize the situation: cordon off a street in New York and you’ll have news crews all over it in minutes: I didn’t want that to be the way our engagement came out. Jagor led the way downstairs and we talked with Arno, newly promoted to chief guard. I asked if we could at least do without the NYPD and re-open the street. He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not until we get the Prince to a secure location,” he told me, as if my quiet little street was Baghdad. Since the attempt on the King’s life, they weren’t taking any chances.

“What if some of you came upstairs?” I reasoned. “Could you...
secure
the apartment, instead?”

***

Twenty minutes later the police were gone, the traffic was moving again and the apartment was “secure’.

“Secure” meant there were two bodyguards on the door to the street downstairs, one on the stairs, one outside my door and two in the apartment with us. Also in the apartment were Medenko, Jagor’s butler, Villik and Ismelda, his two aides and Jagor himself. And Gwen. And me.

It wasn’t a big apartment.

The retinue stood silently just inside the door. It was raining outside, and they were all in somber gray raincoats, apparently preferring to stand there and
drip
at me than take them off. As they glowered at me, I swear I felt the temperature drop a few degrees. I saw Medenko look pointedly at Gwen.

“Um, Gwen? Could you show the guards around?” I asked.

She nodded, rolling her eyes a little. Then she took a proper look at the bodyguards, who were both six-foot-four beefcakes with typically rugged Asterian good looks. “Sure,” she said, more enthusiastically, and led them from the room, both guards trying to avoid staring at her ass. I thought back to the two guards in the boutique in Monaco: I’d have to warn Gwen about flirting with them. Right now, though, I had bigger problems.

I turned to the retinue. “So,” I started: and then didn’t know what to say.

Utter silence.

“We should apologize,” Jagor told them in Asterian. “I have apologized to you already, but we should apologize as a couple. Deceiving you was wrong, but we were in love.” He said the last as if it explained everything, as if he could have said, “
We’re sorry we invaded your country, burned your house, killed your parents and stole your horses but –
shrug –
we were in love.”
Then again, maybe he could have: if you think the French are serious about
amour
you haven’t met an Asterian. The retinue collectively nodded and actually seemed satisfied with this. Then they turned to me.

“I’m sorry. I’m glad it’s out in the open now. From now on, no more secrets. I hope we can all be friends.” I winced at how cheesy they sounded: as Jagor’s betrothed, was I considered their boss now? Would they be friendly or secretly hate me?

Medenko stepped forward. “Thank you, ex-killer. We all hope you and the Prince will be happy together.”

Ex-killer? Was he talking about Calara? “
What did you call me?”

“Exkella,” Medenko repeated, and this time I got it, even if I didn’t know what it meant. “It’s the formal term for,” he took a deep breath, “one who is old enough to be owned, but is not owned yet, and is betrothed to a prince. The word is not in common usage, though of course it will be now.” He glanced pointedly at the two of us. “This hasn’t happened in several hundred years.”

That’s me: upsetting hundreds of years of Asterian tradition.
Because of me, every schoolchild in Asteria was going to have a new word to learn in a few days’ time.

“How are people in Asteria going to take the news?” I blurted. A big part of me didn’t want to hear the answer, and I should have followed my instincts. Everyone looked at each other. “That well, huh?” I joked. There was stony silence.

Ismelda stepped forward. “The Prince has appointed me to handle public relations for the two of you, Exkella. Normally such things are handled by the palace press team, but the Prince felt that we may need extra help in these,”—she glanced at Jagor—“delicate matters.”

So basically Ismelda is here to handle the fallout from me.
I should have been offended, but I actually felt slightly better for having her there. Ismelda had always been a little cold towards me – she’d never really accepted me as one of the retinue. But she was uber-organized and absolutely ferocious about protecting the Prince: she’d be good to have on my side.

“So...how do the public feel about me?” Almost unconsciously, my hand reached for Jagor’s and found it.

Ismelda looked like she was considering how truthful to be. I saw her glance at Jagor and caught his nod. “Well, they don’t know you exist – yet. Few people care who’s in the retinue.” There was a hint of bitterness there: apparently, even the loyal Ismelda got a little tired of always being in Jagor’s shadow. “Some websites reported that an American was being allowed to work here, but it wasn’t especially negative….”

‘...But?”

“But the public liked Calara. The men lusted after her; the women wanted to be her. She was beautiful and graceful and always superbly dressed—”

“Right—‘

“And she had years of training in royal decorum; her family was one of the most respected in Asteria, in part because of her betrothal. It isn’t unreasonable to say that she was bred to be a princess—”

I was squeezing Jagor’s hand now. “I see—”

“She had a natural feel for dealing with the press and putting the public at their ease, while maintaining an appropriate distance. Last year she opened a children’s hospital and spent a day working there—”

“O
kay!”
I grated. “And now I come along and I don’t measure up.”

Ismelda paused. “I’m afraid it’s much worse than that, Exkella. You won’t just be compared to Calara: you supplanted her.”

“I pushed aside the public’s favorite.”

“Not just pushed aside. I don’t think you fully understand, Exkella: Calara’s life is essentially over. Her whole future rested on being Jagor’s wife. She’s now unowned and fast approaching her twenty-first birthday. She has to find another man who wants to own her, or go to the slave market.”

“That won’t happen though – right?” I asked weakly. “I mean, she’s practically a princess: there must be millionaires and billionaires queuing up to woo her.” They were all looking at me as if I was stupid. “What?”

“I chose you,” Jagor explained. Everyone else was suddenly looking at the floor. “I...” It wasn’t often that Jagor looked truly abashed, but he did now. “I discarded her.”

“But—but you didn’t love her!” I needed to hear it again.

“No, I didn’t love her.” From the lack of reaction amongst the retinue, this wasn’t news. “But the public don’t know that, Lucy.” He sighed. “To them, every royal marriage is a fairy tale.”

“And now no-one else will want her?” My mind reeled. “Nice system.”

“The
system
,” Ismelda snapped, “worked perfectly well for hundreds of years! This doesn’t happen with a normal betrothal: if Calara had been set to marry a commoner, no-one would know or care and she’d find another owner almost immediately. But Calara was set to marry the Prince and the whole country knows it! The media will be all over anyone who marries her, and no billionaire wants to appear to be picking up the Prince’s rejects. She could marry a commoner, but then she’s making a mockery of years of preparation.” Jagor opened his mouth to calm her, but Ismelda was in full flow. “This
never happens
, Lucy! This is precisely why royal betrothals are prepared years in advance: because the consequences of breaking one off are—are—” She finally saw Jagor staring at her and blanched. Her gaze fell to the floor. “I’m sorry for my outburst, Exkella.”

I nodded quickly, blinking back hot, prickly tears. “I didn’t mean to—So basically I’m seen as a complete bitch? I’ve swept in and stolen the Prince, and ruined someone else’s life?”

Ismelda looked like she didn’t dare speak. “Yes,” Medenko said simply.

I sniffed back some tears. “And what about not being Asterian?”

Jagor slipped an arm around my waist. “Perhaps that’s enough for now,” he suggested. He could be surprisingly gentle, when he wanted to be.

I shook my head. “I want to hear it all,” I told him. “What about me being a foreigner?”

Ismelda bit her lip. “It doesn’t make things any easier, Exkella. Most Asterians have never met an outsider. They don’t speak English. What they know of America comes from YouTube and movies. They won’t dislike you for being American. They’ll dislike you for not being one of them.”

I nodded quickly, wanting to get the words out before I descended into sobs. “Can you help me?” I asked. “Can you help me be more Asterian? More like a princess – like Calara?”

“Of course, Exkella,” Ismelda said quickly. There were murmurs of agreement from the others. None of it did much to reassure me.

“I’m Asterian,” Jagor reminded me softly. “And I fell in love with you. They will too.”

I caught something pass between him and Ismelda just then. There was something they weren’t telling me: but really, how could it possibly be any worse?

Chapter Twelve

Jagor wanted to take me to a hotel and the whole retinue agreed. I stubbornly resisted the idea, though: it sounded as if things were going to be so bad back in Asteria that I wanted at least one night where I could pretend we were just a normal couple. I felt cheated: the day your man proposes to you should be perfect but the knowledge of what I’d done to Calara had ruined everything. Jagor got the message and ordered the retinue to go to a hotel, leaving only the bodyguards and Gwen. She’d rejoined us, beaming, two bodyguards trailing in her wake. While Jagor spoke to the retinue, I’d pulled her aside.