Chapter Two
Julian
I open the fridge and stare in until I find what I’m looking for: a glass tupperware container labeled Saturday . On top of it is a much smaller glass container filled with sprigs of parsley .
A garnish. Fucking cute .
I ignore the smaller container, pull Saturday out, and pop it into the microwave, leaning against the counter with my arms crossed over my chest, watching it spin slowly. I think it’s beef stew, not that I particularly give a shit .
Bouchon, my chef, has pretty much given up on me, though he’s fucking determined with the damned garnishes.
I keep him on staff, of course — I’m a prince, for God’s sake, I’ve got neither the time nor the inclination to cook for myself — but I’d just as soon eat a pile of raw potatoes as filet mignon .
The microwave beeps. I grab a kitchen towel and take it out, steaming, carry it into the tiny side room where I prefer to dine. There’s a table setting left for me, of course, along with fresh flowers on the table .
All wasted on me .
I wolf down the stew with one hand while I check my phone with the other, because the fucking anti-monarchy faction of Griskold has been getting vocal again. My people all suspect that Petrovinsk, our next-door neighbor, is encouraging some of them, but we’ve got no way to deal with it .
My ancestors fought the Petrovians on and off for as long as anyone bothered keeping records. Since about 1900 we’ve had an uneasy truce, but old habits die hard .
As I’m scrolling through my notifications, there’s a knock at the door and I drop my spoon, irritated .
“What?” I call .
The door squeaks open, and Lumien’s face peers through .
“Your Grace — ”
“I’m eating .”
“That’s true. It’s also true that Mademoiselle Marchand has shown up at the palace, demanding her father’s release, and she’s raising quite a fuss .”
“Send her away .”
A cloud passes over Lumien’s face, like he wants to disagree but isn’t quite brave enough. I sigh .
“What?” I growl .
“I’m not sure that will work, Your Grace .”
“And why not ?”
I shovel another spoonful of stew into my mouth, wishing that for once, I could have a single meal in uninterrupted peace and quiet. But no, I’ve got a palace guard who can’t even deal with one young woman .
“She’s lying down in the palace’s entrance hall and refuses to be moved, except by force .”
Then there’s an obvious fucking solution, isn’t there ?
“So move her by force .”
His eyebrows go up, and I roll my eyes .
“I’m not saying hurt her,” I growl, rubbing my forehead with one hand. “I’m saying pick her up and move her. We’re keeping her father because we suspect him of treason against the crown and collusion with a foreign country, can I be any fucking clearer ?”
“She’s also recording us and broadcasting via social media,” he says primly. Like this Mademoiselle Marchand has some sort of trump card .
“Jesus,” I mutter, standing from the table and my half-finished dinner. “Move. I’ll come deal with her myself. Cut cell signal for the palace for a few minutes, interrupt that broadcast .”
He bows, then vanishes through the doorway. I bend down, scoop two more spoonfuls of stew into my mouth, then follow him out .
I came here to get away from everything , I think. Not for problems to land on my doorstep .
The main palace of Griskold, where my father rules from, is on the other side of the country, fifty miles away. I came to the palace outside Inversberg after I was nearly killed serving my country .
I needed to recover. I didn’t want anyone to see me, especially at first, though even after a few years, I still don’t go out in public. The people of Griskold deserve a handsome, charming ruler, not the beast I am now .
I also came here hoping the dreams would stop. That hasn’t happened either .
I push through a few more heavy wooden doors, stride through hallways. Everyone whose path I cross bows their heads to me, and I grunt in response .
She’d better not still be broadcasting this to the world , I think. If Lumien hasn’t cut off the signal by now …
I walk into the throne room, heads turning as I do. I’m well aware that I’m not in my formal regalia at the moment, but I don’t care. I was interrupted to do a guard’s job while I was in the middle of my dinner, because apparently no one else in this palace is even remotely competent .
They can deal with their prince looking like a regular person instead of royalty for once .
I head through the huge doors at the other end of the throne room, fully ready to start bellowing at the guards there, to take this woman’s phone away from her, grab her, and throw her back out into the snowy night .
And there she is, lying prone on the marble floor of the entryway, her arms crossed in front of her, phone clutched uselessly in one hand, her hair fanned around her head .
But as I loom over her, the words get out or pay the price on my lips, I suddenly can’t speak, the air sucked from my lungs .
Mademoiselle Marchand, the troublemaker, is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen .