19. Nina
19
NINA
I don’t know why I let Maia talk me into those two vodka shots or why I thought a strong margarita afterward was wise. I haven’t had alcohol like this in months—I can’t hold it for shit.
I made it a mere street over from the club before lowering onto the stoop of a small apartment building. I can’t walk in these heels on cobblestones while drunk. The worst part? It’s not even midnight.
“I don’t wanna go back,” I whine. “But I can’t walk in these.”
Wesley huffs, sliding his hands into his pockets. He’s rather calm for someone who just broke another man’s wrist. “Then what do you want to do?”
I look up at him through my lashes, fighting to keep my gaze steady. “Wander. Go to the square over there.” I point toward the bustling area that erupts with street performers.
He contemplates for a moment. “Stand up.”
“But I can’t?—”
“Stand. Up,” he says, firmer this time.
I roll my eyes but accept his outstretched hand. Before I can steady myself, he scoops me up bridal-style. “What are you doing!” I screech as he starts walking down the road.
“You can’t walk in those shoes?”
“No.”
“Then be quiet.”
I smack the back of his head. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
He groans in annoyance. My heels weigh my feet down like anchors, and I can feel my panties exposed down below.
“Wesley—my dress.” With one arm wrapped around his neck, I reach under me with the other. There isn’t enough fabric to pull down.
“I’ll blind anyone who looks,” he deadpans, and my stomach flips. After what happened at the club, I believe he would. It silences me for the rest of the walk.
My head slumps against his shoulder and I squeeze my eyes shut to curb the dizziness. The world spins, and I hold on tighter to Wesley in an attempt to ground myself. I expected panic to kick in, considering I’m drunk and in public in a foreign country late at night. Yet I don’t feel a hint of it. From jet lag to my unfamiliar drunken state to my life on the verge of flipping upside down, a sense of peace and safety washes over me for the first time in months.
When we reach the car, he sets me down and opens the passenger door.
“But I wanted to?—”
“I know,” he says in an exasperated tone, and I want to smack his head again because of it. He instructs me to sit down, and I do so with my legs still outside the car. He kneels before me and unbuckles the clasp around my ankles.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“You ask too many questions.”
I don’t argue that. Wesley reaches toward the car floor and grabs—slippers? He tosses my heels inside and slides the UGG slippers onto my feet.
“Where did you get these?” I wail. They’re padded on the bottom, suited for the outdoors. I click my feet together, reveling in the plushness and warmth. I look at him, bewildered yet joyful. “They’re so soft!”
“Now you can wander,” he says, rising and gesturing ahead. “After you.”
I squeal like a child and jump to my feet.
The city square is vibrant with life in spite of the time. Most shops and stalls are closed or preparing to, but people continue to pour out of bars and sit on stone ledges that lead to more of the city down below. If I look up and to the right, I can spot the restaurant from my first night in Maldana.
A street performer plays EDM music from a speaker and dances with glow sticks taped to his arms. Women offer roses in attempts to earn a euro. They back off when noticing Wesley behind me.
A few people stare as we pass through quieter streets. I hop up on the edge of the sidewalk, his hand capturing mine to steady me. I regain balance and tiptoe like it’s a tightrope. Placing one slippered foot in front of the other, I hold my arms wide and squint to focus.
“Watch where you’re going,” Wesley says from behind me. There’s nothing in front of me, so I flap my wrist to shush him.
Suddenly, I feel his hand on my forehead, the pressure making me stumble back into his waiting palm on my waist. I look up at the stop sign that would have whacked me in the head.
“Ohhhhh,” I drawl, pointing down, then up. “I thought you meant watch out down here but you meant watch out up here.”
He sighs.
“First the club and now this. You’re such a good bodyguard.” I pat his cheek, then reach up to smack the sign, my rings clanking on the steel. “You can’t hit me! As Avril Lavigne once said, I’m the motherfucking princess .”
“All right, come on,” Wesley says, guiding me away.
I stroll down a road not ten feet wide. This one is nearly silent, save for the man sitting on a short stool playing the saxophone. Water from this afternoon’s rainfall drips from the roofs around us. Wesley is far behind me, half of his body cloaked by shadow. I ignore him and sway to the music, its smooth melodies wrapping around me. A young woman passes by, and she gives Wesley a wary look before continuing.
“People are going to think you’re stalking me if you stay that far away,” I say to him, and he shrugs. I huff, head still spinning and body still loose from alcohol. “Dance with me.”
I’m suddenly thankful for the streetlights being behind me, as the backlight will hide my surprise. Why the hell would I ask that? Alcohol takes away what little filters I already have.
Wesley barely reacts. “No.”
The ease of rejection stings—and I fight it the best I can. I convinced him to ride a moped with me. This is much less dangerous. I walk closer. “People have been staring at you for following and not talking to me. It’s creepy.”
“I’m not concerned about them.”
I suppress another roll of my eyes. “Please?”
It would be easy to miss, but I’ve spent enough time with him to notice the little sag in his shoulders. It only fuels my stubbornness. His Adam’s apple bobs and a smirk tugs at my lips. I take his hand and lower my chin to look up at him with doe eyes.
“One dance. Please?”
Wesley glares at me, knowing the trick I discovered. Yet to beat me at my own game, he presses his palm against the small of my back and pulls me against him. My chest slams into his hard enough to knock the air from my lungs and fan the hair around my face.
“ One dance,” he says in a stern voice.
If only he knew I’d give him hell just to hear him talk to me like that again. It takes all my will not to melt entirely onto him, which means there’s none left over to curb the desire clenching my gut.
I curl my arms around his shoulders and imagine if there weren’t layers of clothes between us. We sway to the saxophone music, my head tucked where his neck meets his shoulder. I close my eyes, but I can’t feel or sense if he has an increased heartbeat like I do. Is he not as stirred as I am? Is his chest not enflamed like mine? Or am I just drunk?
It has to be the alcohol and the fact that I haven’t had sex in over a month. All I want to do right now is snake my hands through Wesley’s hair and feel his lips on mine. I ache to know what he tastes like. The night is warm, but shivers cover me from head to toe. I bet he fucks like a god. He’s a man of few words; I doubt he holds back in bed.
My hand clenches his shirt when his fingers graze up my spine. I release the fabric and subtly smooth it.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
He definitely noticed. I don’t expect his grip on my waist to strengthen and our swaying to the classic music to increase. He’s teasing me. If I wasn’t enjoying it so much, I’d be surprised he has it in him. I didn’t think he would care to do anything. As he caresses my bare back—only fueling my wish for him to slam me against the wall and kiss me—I slide my fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. His shoulder twitches ever so slightly and I suppress a smirk.
We dance through teasing one another until my body is so tight with lust I can’t think straight. When a lone pedestrian walks by, Wesley pulls away and I stumble.
“How do you feel?” he asks, steadying me. “You had a lot to drink.”
I lower my head, my hair a curtain around me as I pinch the bridge of my nose. Of course. Have I lost my mind? I’m drunk. He’s my bodyguard. I need to snap out of it because there’s no way that wasn’t in my head.
“I’m fine.” I square my shoulders and lift my gaze for any type of distraction. With a quick scan around, I notice an alleyway to the left. Stairs lead upward with a statue in the center of it. I narrow my gaze on it. A woman. “What is that?”
The musician still plays his saxophone. While I usually tip street performers, I walk up the uneven steps toward the woman, my stomach stirring in unease. The plaque reads Queen Ophelia. Rusty lamps reflect an orange glow on my mother’s stone face. A blank expression—frozen in time.
I wish the sculptor had given her more emotion. This is the closest I’ve been to her since she died. Real life. 3D. I take her hand in mine, brushing my fingers over the cold stone. What did it really feel like? Soft or callous? Did she always have a fresh manicure, or did she habitually bite her nails the way I used to?
Both fresh and decaying roses scatter around the statue and there isn’t a spec of dirt in sight. A few pedestrians trot down the steps that curve around her. They have no idea I’m her daughter. I constantly ask myself if the public would hate me, and the pressure is almost enough for me to decline the crown entirely.
Mom was supposed to be here. She was meant to guide me through this decision.
“Maldanina,” Wesley blurts.
I jump, so lost in my own world that I forget he’s here. “What?”
“Before we gained independence from the Greeks, we were called Maldanina.”
“Why was it changed?”
He shrugs. “Wanted to create our own name I guess.”
Maldanina— Nina .
A wave of grief and love slams into me. I grip my mother’s stone hand tighter. Everywhere I look in this country, I discover more pieces of myself, of who I want to be. I have to try. I have to see if I can do it—and I can start by going to the introductory dinner.
In the morning, I’m woken by Maia jumping on top of me.
“Buenimara!” she sings.
I groan and cover my head with the pillow. My temples throb in pain as all memories of last night still burn my mind. Every agonizing moment of thinking Wesley was teasing me. If only I drank enough to forget.
“How are you not hungover?” I muffle into the pillow.
“I didn’t even drink that much. And you’re the lightweight, not me. What do you wanna do today?”
I pull the pillow away and stare at the golden-toned ceiling. “I saw a statue of Mom last night.”
She perks. “Really?”
“It was like… she was real.” I exhale. “I got to hold her hand.” I sound like I saw her ghost. It’s almost as if I had.
“Are you okay?” Maia asks, her voice suddenly soft.
I turn toward her. “She was supposed to be here. She would’ve—” I cut myself off. There are dozens of ways to finish that sentence. “Everything would be different… but I think we should go to that dinner Aunt Beverly told us about.”
“Really?” she repeats, lifting her brows. “The one to meet the Court? What makes you say that?”
“This was a big part of Mom’s world whether we like it or not. I think we owe it to her memory to try.”
She pulls her lips aside in consideration, but agrees, which makes Aunt Beverly ecstatic when we tell her. The dinner can’t be scheduled until next Friday because Helen, head of the human resources department, is recovering from an operation.
I stay in limbo with Dad over the week. It teeters on normal every so often—as normal as we can be while ignoring the elephant in the room.
I FaceTime Raven for hours one night and while I trust her wholeheartedly, I keep the princess news to myself. I hardly have a grasp on it—perhaps it’s best to tell her after the introductory dinner. Once I meet the Higher Court, I feel like I’ll have my answer.
I opt for minimal details about my family and highlight the culture here. Raven, like me, loves to learn about the different traditions around the world. The only difference is that her parents are rich and she’s actually seen the world, whereas I’ve just read about it.
I tell her that a lot of people know at least a little English, but largely act like they don’t. I suppose it’s from their love of tradition and culture. They want tourists to absorb as much of their culture as possible. According to Raven, plenty of Europeans want to practice their English with Americans, but it appears Maldanians don’t. They are strong, stubborn people with open hearts.
I like the thought of never leaving Maldana, yet I couldn’t ignore the ache from leaving my home. I don’t hate America; its founding principles of diversity and freedom are revolutionary. Except those haven’t been upheld, and I haven’t felt proud of my country in a long time. Maybe it’s a sign to share my pride.
I avoid everyone during these relatively empty days and create a self-care routine of morning yoga, journaling, and reading. I’ll then walk to the farmer’s market, inhaling the damp morning air and avoiding the already-roasting sun, and order a crepe or croissant.
Every so often, I’ll go with a slice of tora di pomke. Some street vendors sell rings they craft themselves, and one morning, I turn to the forever-silent Wesley behind me and ask for the credit card. He always hands it over without a word.
Given, the palace is paying for everything, but still.
My memories often drift back to that night—of his fingers trailing down my spine, leaving shivers in their wake. I’m more than fresh out of a relationship; I hadn’t been touched or held in that way even months before I broke up with James.
My body ignites every time Wesley touches me, and I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been so deprived.
When Friday afternoon arrives, the same team that prepared me for the club rolls in with their equipment. This time, the dresses they have for me are formal. I quickly settle on a maroon mid-calf dress. The front folds over my chest, exposing my collarbone and shoulders. My throat clogs with nerves. The Higher Court will be studying me for signs of Mom. How can I become her if I don’t know her?
I stare at my reflection as the team straightens and curls my hair again, twisting it into a low bun. I search my wide brown eyes for a hint of her. She had blue eyes. Perhaps we have the same sharp cheeks.
I shiver when the loose curls around my face tickle my neck. Greta sets a chunky ruby necklace against my chest, and frankly, I’m scared to ask what it’s worth. I struggle to steady my breathing the entire drive to the palace, but my thumping chest tells me this dinner will change everything.