2. LAYLA
Two
LAYLA
“Girl, you are about to get RAILED by a Viking.”
I choke on my smoothie, coughing mango chunks all over my silk robe. “Monique!”
My best friend, technically my lady-in-waiting, but she’s more like my ride-or-die since we were twelve, is sprawled across my bed, scrolling through her phone with one hand, eating my grapes with the other.
“I’m just saying,” Mo continues, popping another grape. “Six-five. Blond. Built like he was carved from a damn fjord. And you’re supposed to marry him and pop out a peace baby? Sis, that’s the plot of every mafia romance I’ve ever read.”
“This isn’t fiction, Mo. It’s my life.”
“And your life is about to get VERY smutty.” She rolls on her stomach, her braids falling over her shoulders. “Have you seen his pictures?”
I nod reluctantly.
“And?”
And my pussy got wet. And I hated myself for it. Then I got wet again.
“He’s the enemy,” I grumble. “His ancestors killed ours. We’re not supposed to think he’s hot.”
Monique raises an eyebrow. “But you do know he’s hot, right?”
“Monique.”
“Layla. You literally have a vibrator named ‘Viking’ in your nightstand.”
I throw a pillow at her. She dodges it, cackling.
“I’m just saying, if you gotta get knocked up to end a war, at least the sperm donor is gorgeous. Silver lining, bitch.”
I groan, falling back on my vanity chair. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You love me. I’m the one keeping you grounded while your uterus gets drafted for diplomacy.”
I let out a choked laugh. She’s not wrong. My father announced the arrangement three days ago. King Soren of Vinterfjord, the big, blond bastard from the frozen land, is flying in today to sign the contract, marry me, and put a baby in me. All within the next month.
It’s insane. It’s medieval. It’s…
“He’s landing in twenty minutes,” Monique says, checking her phone. “You should probably put on some clothes.”
I’m in a silk robe and underwear. “Shit.”
“Shit indeed. Want me to do your hair?”
“Yes. Please. Make me look like someone who isn’t terrified.”
“You’re not terrified. You’re in denial. Very different energy.”
She drags me to the mirror and pulls a brush through my hair.
I stare at my reflection. Smooth, dark skin, big brown eyes, full lips.
Curvy in all the places that make dress fittings a nightmare.
A real woman, I’ve heard many times. But today I don’t feel like one.
I feel like a girl who’s about to meet the man she’s being pawned to.
“There.” Monique steps back, admiring her work. “You look beautiful, but relax. He’s just a man.”
“He’s a giant Viking!”
“So? You’re a warrior princess. You’ve fought men twice your size. You lead patrols. You got this.”
I take a deep breath. She’s right. I can do this. I can meet the enemy, sign the papers, and pretend.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Monique squeezes my hand. “And if he’s an asshole, we’ll poison him.”
I roll my eyes. “We can’t poison a king, Monique.”
She winks. “Watch me.”
* * *
When I make it to the landing strip, the sun is brutal, the heat already making my fancy dress stick to my skin. My father stands at the front of our delegation, straight-back and solemn. I take my place next to him, trying to look unaffected.
The plane touches down, the door opens, and he steps out.
Holly. Shit. He’s massive. Easily six-five, broad as a damn doorway, with huge muscles pushing against his dark ceremonial uniform.
He has short-cropped blond hair, icy blue eyes, and a ruggedly handsome face that sports his infamous permanent scowl.
Asshole’s all straight nose, full pink lips, square jaw, and cut cheekbones. Ugh, kill me now!
As he walks toward us, I notice Soren of Vinterfjord moves like a soldier, not some pampered royal. Straight, powerful, fucking commanding. And the closer he gets, the more our size difference hits me… My knees go weak. Actually weak. Like, might-collapse weak.
“Breathe,” Monique whispers behind me. “You look like you’re about to faint… or come,” she ends even lower.
I stifle a giggle. “Shut up.”
Soren shakes my father’s hand, then turns to me. His fingers completely swallows mine. And I feel it all at once: warm, strong, calloused. A warrior’s hand. And he holds on…
Then greets me, “Princess,” in a low baritone.
Jesus, I’ve heard this man speak in interviews too many times to count, hated myself for enjoying the deep notes of his voice, and I’m realizing now that was nothing compared to the real thing… His voice is low with a touch of gravel that travels straight between my legs.
“King Soren.” I manage to keep my tone flat. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up.”
His full lips twitch, blue eyes twinkling. “I aim to surprise.”
His eyes drag over me. Blue as a bright summer sky, with thick, short lashes, and the shine of the ocean over the horizon.
Slowly. Deliberately. From my increasingly heating face, to my ample chest, to my full hips, then back up.
It feels like he’s undressing me. And my traitorous body is very responsive to his scorching gaze. I’m getting wet. Embarrassingly so.
My father clears his throat, cutting through our staring contest. “Let’s get you settled, Soren.”
The ride to the palace is pure fucking torture.
Soren sits across from me in the royal limousine, his thick, muscular thigh taking up half the space of the vast bench, his stupidly big arm brushing mine every so often.
He smells like clean soap, aftershave, and a darker note underneath I’m sure is all him. Simple, masculine. Ridiculously sexy.
I squeeze my thighs together and stare out the window, trying not to think about what that massive body would feel like over mine. Pinning me down. Stretching me open. What the fuck, Layla?!
“You okay, princess?” My seat companion asks in a low rumble, the melodic notes of his Scandinavian accent rolling through his words.
“Fine,” I reply between gritted teeth.
The corner of his stupid, sexy mouth lifts. How is this man so fucking big, rugged, terrifying, and pretty at the same time?! “You look… bothered.”
“It’s hot.”
“Is it now?” He cocks a thick eyebrow as his eyes drop to my chest, where my stupid nipples are hard against the fabric of my dress. Fuck. Me. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I kick his shin, but the brute doesn’t even flinch. He just smirks. Asshole. Hot, terrifying, makes-my-pussy-clench asshole.
God, I’m in trouble.