Asteria In Love with the Prince (24 page)

He could see it in my eyes, too. His fingers worked at the back of my head, then the gag was out of my mouth and we were kissing, soft and gentle:
I’m here for you.
I could feel him loosening the belt above my head and as soon as it was free, I pulled the dress off my wrists and hugged him.

The room was almost dark now, the sun just disappearing below the horizon. We didn’t mind: it was comfortable, cuddling in the darkness. I was so intent on holding him, when he went to move away I clung to him, panicked.

“I have to untie your legs,” he told me gently, and I flushed. He massaged my ankles and then spooned me, his huge, hard body pressed tight against mine.

“I love you,” he said, and the shock of hearing it made me worry that I’d imagined it.

“I love you too.” I nestled even closer against him.

“Do you still want this?” There was that note in his voice that I remembered from the limo, all that time ago. That hint of vulnerability, the concern that I might not.

I looked down at my sweat-soaked, still-trembling body. “You have to ask?”

“Not just the sex. Being owned. Are you sure?”

I tried to ask myself the question honestly. It wasn’t so long ago that I’d been horrified by the idea of slaves: the notion of giving myself to someone, becoming
theirs:
it would have seemed crazy even a month before. But as I dug deep within myself, feeling for the truth, there wasn’t even any uncertainty. It was all about the person, I realized. In Jagor, I’d found someone I wanted to be with forever: I knew he’d never hurt me, knew he’d love and care for me. I wanted to commit to him, but it was more than that. There was something missing, deep inside me, something that maybe had always been missing without me being aware of it. When I was with him - and when I wore his collar - I was complete. I didn’t just want to be owned by him. I needed to be.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”

***

The chef prepared dinner for us – trout, crusted with almonds and served with salad and a crisp Chablis. Jagor took a phone call while we waited and sipped the first glass. “Security,” he explained when he’d finished. “We’re taking on guards.”

“Don’t you – we – already have bodyguards?” They still made me nervous, ever since the boutique in Monaco, but I was gradually getting used to them – especially Arno.

“We’ll keep them, for normal situations. But after what happened to my father...I wanted something else in place for when we return. What they call a crash team, to get us to safety in an emergency. Military men: specialists.”

I nodded and told myself it was probably just overkill: paranoia on Jagor’s part.

When the butler had served us, Jagor asked me gently, “How long do you want to stay?”

I ate while I thought. The trout was melt-in-your-mouth delicious. “A year?” I asked hopefully.

“Are you that scared of Asteria?” He was frowning with concern, and I felt a stab of guilt.

“No...yes.” I looked at my plate for a while. “Things didn’t work out so hot last time I was there.”

“No surprises this time, Lucy. No hiding, either. We’ll be together.”

“It’s okay for you. You’re their prince: they love you. I’m the interloper.”

A flicker of concern crossed his face. Something he wasn’t telling me? “They’ll warm to you,” he told me. Then, gently, “We can’t wait
too
long.”

“A week?” I pleaded, “can we stay here a week?”

He nodded in relief. “A week is fine.”

***

After a few days, I almost forgot about Asteria.

We saw the sights. We walked hand-in-hand down tree-lined avenues and rode in a private boat down the Seine, me snuggled between Jagor’s thighs and his coat wrapped around me to keep the breeze off my bare arms.

The apartment helped to create the illusion that we were alone – just a couple living out their lives in Paris with no commitments. There were a few more press calls, but Jagor managed to limit them to quick, evening parties we could escape early from and one posed photo in front of the Arc de Triomphe.

One morning I woke up to find the other side of the bed empty and Asterian cursing coming from the kitchen. Asterian cursing is really quite something: if normal Asterian speech sounds like lumps of granite grinding together, the cursing is like red-hot lava bursting from fractured rock.

I wrapped a sheet around me and shuffled into the kitchen, motioning the butler to stay back. Jagor was standing at the counter, shoulders hunched. Coffee beans lay in a carpet across the counter top and in a pool on the floor. The coffee grinder was choking out a cloud of noxious black smoke. Brown grit was gently raining down from the ceiling.

I loved him so much, in that moment. Just for trying.

The week felt like a holiday, which is exactly what we needed. But all holidays come to an end.

***

The morning we were due to fly to Asteria, Ismelda appeared with a box covered in purple velvet. She set it down nervously. I had a pretty good idea what it was.

“Are you ready?” Jagor asked me gently. I nodded.

He opened the box. I sat down on the couch and swept my hair up and out of the way, so that my neck was exposed. It seemed to grow very quiet.

I felt the collar loop around my neck and draw snug. It was soft, like the palace collar had been, not stiff metal like the slave collar Jagor had given me at the sex club.

I heard a clack-click behind me and Jagor’s hands moved away. I stood up.

“Do you want to—” Jagor started, but I held my hand up, stopping him. I walked out of the room.

There was a full-length mirror in our bedroom. As I turned the door handle I could hear my heart thumping in my ears, drowning out everything else. I stood in front of the mirror and looked, before I chickened out.

The collar was made of a thousand tiny pieces of silver, sewn like a lizard’s scales to what felt like leather underneath. The leather was stretchy enough to be snug but not tight, expanding as I breathed and moved, the scales sliding smoothly over each other. It was only three fingers in width, but widened at the front to a downward-facing point. Dead center was the Prince’s unmistakable seal, cast in solid silver. At the back the padlock seemed to be built into the collar itself – it didn’t have to be adjustable, after all, since only I would ever wear it.

I fingered the metal slowly as Jagor walked in and stood silently behind me. I had to fight an instinctual, animal urge to rip the thing off. That was the point, I realized. If it felt comfortable and natural, wearing it wouldn’t be a commitment.

“Are you ready?” I knew he didn’t just mean to go out there and face Ismelda.

Something was happening. I could feel just a tiny amount of warmth stealing into the cold silver, as if Jagor’s presence was imbuing it with some of his essence, making it more than just a thing – making it a connection between us. My need to wear it was beginning to overcome my instincts. I took a deep breath and turned to him. “Yes, I’m ready.”

Chapter Fifteen

That afternoon, I sat in one of the palace reception rooms and trembled.

I’d been shaking since the Queen’s aide had seated us. I’d shaken while she brought us tea, and my cup had rattled on its saucer when I sipped. I’d had to force my hands to steady, but that only made the trembling come out somewhere else: now my leg was nervously shuddering.

“Stop it,” muttered Jagor, not unkindly. He laid a warm hand on my back.

“I can’t.” There was just too much history. As well as a selection of priceless vases that had me scared to go within six feet of them, portraits of former kings and queens covered every wall. Even Jagor was up there, looking suitably regal. And then there was me, without a drop of royal blood in me.

The aide returned and told us simply, “The Queen approaches.”

The Queen approaches?!
Dear God, even the way they announced her was intimidating. I stood up and tried to smooth my clothes. We heard footsteps approaching down the hallway, slow and deliberate. Jagor took my hand and squeezed it.

She swept in, in a turquoise suit that made even my Parisian wardrobe feel tasteless and ill judged. “Mother,” Jagor greeted her, and moved forward to kiss her on the cheek. She allowed it.

The Queen and I stared at each other. I curtsied: I’d been practicing, as well as checking the etiquette. The Queen let me get halfway through the movement before speaking, as if to deliberately throw me off.

“The last time we met,” she said, “you told me you were my son’s aide and translator.”

I stayed silent, hoping she’d continue…but she wanted me to confirm the lie. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Even as the Exkella, I’d have to address her formally until Jagor and I were married.

“But the entire time you were sleeping with him: correct?”

It felt like tiptoeing over red-hot coals. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

There was a long silence. “Well, at least your ability to lie will serve you well. Do you have any idea what awaits you?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I don’t mean allowing my son to tie you to the bedposts and flog you—”

“
Mother!
” Jagor grated.

“I mean the responsibility of carrying this family’s name. Even as
Exkella
,” she picked over the word as if she were turning over a stone with her foot, unsure what she might find underneath, “you are the woman my son has chosen and your actions reflect on him – and on us. Do you understand?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but she was faster. “No, of course you don’t understand. But I hope you’ll learn quickly. Do you love her?”

The Queen was still looking at me but I realized she was speaking to Jagor. He was just as thrown as I was. “I—‘

“Oh for goodness sake, Jagor, it’s a simple enough question, do you love her or don’t you? The interviewers won’t be so kind if you hesitate. You must love her to even consider this, surely? Oh, no, don’t say she’s pregnant!”

My eyes were on the floor, my cheeks burning. I didn’t dare turn to look at Jagor, but I could imagine his expression: embarrassment and anger vying for dominance. “No! She isn’t pregnant and of course I love her!”

“Well.” The Queen clapped her hands in mock delight. “How romantic!”

***

When we’d escaped, Jagor led me to his private suite –
our
suite, now – and silently poured himself a generous tumbler of whiskey. I proffered a glass and he poured me one, too.

“Is she always going to be like that?” I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to know the answer.

“Would you believe me if I told you she’s really very kind?” I just looked at him. “She is,” he insisted. “But she liked Calara; she knew her since she was a child. Calara was practically one of the family—”

“You’re not helping,” I said quietly.

He sighed and knocked back his whiskey. “Sorry. Things will improve. Let her warm to you; let the public warm to you. Speaking of which, we need to go and get ready. They want us on the balcony in half an hour.”

***

The photos of us in Paris had been gradually appearing on gossip sites and in newspapers over the last week. Ismelda had put out a carefully worded statement that confirmed that the Prince was engaged to an American woman. A separate statement confirmed that he was no longer seeing Calara: the exact timings were left vague. I’d been surprised there weren’t more questions about the overlap: in America, the press would have mercilessly scrutinized every detail.

“Our press is a little different,” Jagor told me, looking almost ashamed. “The royal family has a greater degree of influence than in some countries.”

“Meaning you control the press?” I’d always believed in a free press. Now I was scared enough that total control seemed very appealing.

“More like they try not to offend us. It’s not always a good thing: it can make it difficult to judge things, sometimes, when we have no real feedback. The foreign press can be useful for that: we have no control over them.”

Great. It was going to be open season in all the newspapers back home.

Ismelda gathered us together, the King joining us at the last moment. She showed us into an old, stone-floored room with a large balcony at one end. “You’ll be on view from about halfway down the room,” she murmured in my ear. “Stand tall and stay close to Jagor: keep an arm around his waist. Big smiles.”

We walked in a line: The Queen, the King, myself and then Jagor. Just before we reached the halfway point, Ismelda whispered “
Relax!”
in my ear and then stopped, remaining out of sight while we walked on.

Relax?!

Jagor was taller than me, so he saw it first and I heard him draw in his breath. Then I was close enough to see over the parapet myself and I felt my mouth drop open.

We were perhaps four stories up, looking out of the front of the palace. Beyond the canyon that separated the palace from the city, a crowd stretched back at least as far as the first cross-street and filled our view left to right. There must have been twenty or thirty thousand people. Ismelda had done a very good job spreading the word that the Exkella would appear. Terrifyingly, they were there for me
.

“Wave,” the King said helpfully – if he hadn’t, I think I would have just stood there, open-mouthed. I waved, copying their practiced, lazy motion. Running through my head was
I can’t do this, I can’t do this.

The crowd cheered; a wave of sound that rose up towards us. Jagor pulled me a little closer and they seemed to like that, too. Then he turned me and I realized he was going to kiss me.

A kiss? Is a kiss on the agenda? What sort of kiss? How sexy should we make it?
We’d done it before at the Louvre, but this was different. Twenty shining camera lenses just felt intimidating. Twenty thousand watching faces was terrifying.