Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
FRIEDRICH
I’ve been doing a shit job at this whole dating bullshit lately.
Actually, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve been only half-assing it the entire time.
I guess there was always a part of my mind that remained convinced I wouldn’t have to go through with it.
Then, last week, I was called before Lord Heston, the head of the committee that had developed this whole plan and thoroughly dressed down for my lack of commitment.
He dropped a huge tome on the table in front of me.
The edges of the pages were yellowing and a bit frayed in places.
Lord Heston stabbed a nicotine-stained finger at the top of the open page and ranted about duty and responsibility and my role in this government.
It made me feel about half a meter tall being reminded of my failings.
This was bigger than tradition. I have to marry.
I have to continue my family line. I have to be a beacon of stability since Father is… probably dying.
The law that has been hanging over my head this entire time came crashing down over me.
If the direct line of my family dies out, our country ceases to exist. We’re annexed back into England.
It was a part of the peace agreement when we won our independence in the eighteenth century to prevent the throne from passing into foreign influence.
My family’s strong ties to Germany are of particular concern, even now.
Father sat across from me for the entire meeting, fixing me with his stern blue eyes and nodding along with everything that was said. I had no excuse. I had no argument. I know the law, and I know my role. I had failed.
No more.
I had already narrowed the field to ten ladies and made a plan to take each of them out one more time so I could pick five from those.
That’s a much easier number for me to manage.
Two weeks of more dinners and coffees and tedious conversations, and I presented my list of five to Father.
Not necessarily for his approval, but for advice on how to do this last part right. Plus, I’ve run out of ideas for dates.
That’s when Mother stepped in and requested a formal dinner with the whole family and the remaining women in attendance.
It was a great idea; the woman I’m to marry must get along decently well with my family.
I saw what happened with Harry and Meghan, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone come between me and my family.
I mean, they’re in love and all, so it’s a bit different, I guess.
But the dinner didn’t help narrow things down either.
And my siblings really did their worst. Claus hit on each one pretty heavily, especially Juliette, which—whatever—since I’m pretty sure she’s still pissed at me for breaking up with her last year and then the thing at the New Year’s Eve ball.
Lorelei and Liesel took turns Googling the women and asking about each clickbait article, the more salacious the better.
Mother and Father were disgustingly affectionate all evening, too.
Joke’s on them; it only served to highlight just how much I didn’t feel that for any of my remaining choices.
And now I’m stuck trying to think up ideas for dates because the deadline day for my announcement is looming. Only a few weeks left before I have to make the biggest decision of my life.
In the middle of all this life planning and wife picking, the charity amputee football match I’ve been working on for over a year is finally upon me. Nothing like a giant to-do list to keep my mind off my future doom.
I spend the week before chasing down last-minute problems. Late shipments, flakey vendors, and the typical technology issues. Miles and Trixie are my hands through it all. But there’s one task I can’t delegate to them.
My hair whips my face; in truth, it is getting rather long.
But standing under the strong downwash feels like home.
Dust and debris swirl around me, and I push my aviators higher on my nose to keep my eyes protected.
I am the epitome of cool as I wait for the rotors to come to a stop, arms crossed, feet apart, soldier scowl.
On the inside, though, I’m a giddy mess.
Cameras flash all around the fenced landing zone, and I continuously remind myself to rein it in.
Jagger and I were in basic training together and then went off to the same flight school.
We basically followed each other our entire military career, until I got called home early, and he took a bullet to the leg.
I’ve only seen him over Zoom and FaceTime in the last year.
But seeing him slide out of the cockpit floods me with memories.
He catches me watching, or thinks he does since my mirrored sunglasses hide my eyes, and shoots me that winning smile.
He slings a pack over his shoulders and takes a step toward me, but stops short, twisting his mouth to the side.
I want to go to him, to run and pull him into the embrace I’ve been dying for, but the shutter clicks and flashes remind me once again to be cool.
Pulling up the right leg of his pants, he twists and adjusts the offending appendage.
He looks up at me from that bent position, and I’m reminded of other times I’ve seen him that way.
He gives a little shrug and a self-deprecating smile before flipping down the sleeve on his thigh.
The camera hounds go wild as he tugs off his prosthesis, chucks it back into the open cockpit, and mimes dusting off his hands.
My initial reaction is shock, but seeing his antics has me howling.
He’s chuckling too as he unhooks his crutches from his backpack and finally closes the distance and throws his arms around me.
We shake with laughter as we embrace for the first time in over a year. The last time I saw Jagger in person was at the military hospital just after his amputation, and Christ, it’s both a punch to the gut and healing for the soul to put my hands on him again.
“You always did have a flair for the dramatics,” I say, sniffling. When had I started crying? Hopefully, the paps are far enough away they don’t pick that part up.
But then I feel something wet on my neck and realize he’s crying too, and the laughter turns to deep ache as we keep holding onto each other and the cameras continue to flash. I won’t be the first to let go this time.
Finally, when we’ve both gathered better control of ourselves, Jagger clears his throat, and we step apart but remain in that familiar space. “Only wear the damn thing when I fly.” He gestures with a crutch back at the helicopter.
“Well, you certainly gave them something to write about,” I say, clapping him on the back and leading him around the hangar where my car waits, sheltered from the dust up.
He climbs into the passenger seat, and I turn the ignition. His hand rests on the edge of his seat, hidden from outside view by the car door and his body. I clasp it in mine, giving a light squeeze, waiting for that zap of electricity at the small, intimate touch. It doesn’t come.
“Fuck, it’s good to see you again,” I breathe, because it is. But I’m not craving his touch like I usually do when he’s near.
“Don’t get all mushy on me now, Stones.” He shoots me that smile that stopped my heart the first day of basic.
Today, it goes on ticking like always. And I fucking hate it.
My heart and my dick are traitors. Miles is right, I need to fuck Aurelia out of my system. Or rather, have her fucked out of my system. But my body is not cooperating when I drag Jagger into a downstairs parlor at the palace after our final planning meeting for the match tomorrow.
Leaned against the door so he has something to balance on, Jagger devours my mouth.
I swallow down his panting moans as I grind my hips on his, willing my body for any kind of acknowledgement that Jagger’s cock is right fucking there.
This is the man who used to dominate me in stolen moments and secret hiding places during the early years of our training.
My body knows his, and his knows mine, and Christ, he’s still sexy as fuck. And yet I can’t—
Pulling his head back, Jagger’s hazel eyes are soft and understanding. “Stones,” he breathes.
“Jagger, I—”
He silences me with a finger on my lips. “It’s okay, Stones.”
“No, it’s not,” I growl. “I want you. My dick is just—”
“You get like this when you get in your head, you know,” he says, his fingers trailing along my forehead and pushing back strands of unruly hair.
“Like what? I’m not in my head.” I sound like a petulant child, and he just gives me a placating smile.
“Look, man, I know I’m a fuck-boy, but I have scruples, and I can’t fuck around with someone who isn’t one hundred percent into it.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he stifles my argument with a bruising kiss. Before, my body would instantly respond to his searing dominance, but I kiss him back not because I have no other choice, but because I think I’m saying goodbye. To this piece of my friendship with Jagger, at least.
My heart is heavy when my lips leave his. Every way I turn, my relationships are changing, and I feel adrift on a cold and lonely sea. Is this what being an adult is really like?
“We will talk more about this later,” I say, falling back into crown prince mode so I don’t get dragged under the spell of his dominance.
“But if we don’t leave soon, we’re not going to have time for all the things still left to do at Navy Yard before we have to meet the rest of the team at the hotel. ”
“Lead on, Your Highness,” he says with a saucy wink after picking up his discarded crutches from the floor.