Chapter 19 Queen Ageltheld #2
My gaze takes in the tamed curls, the stand-up collar with the tiny ruffle, and the sober-colored skirt.
Ella looks like an electric current crackling through an insulated wire, but, as long as she holds perfectly still, you might forget how dangerous she is.
“Your brand messaging points to a different conclusion.”
“It’s a means to an end.” Her smile is back. “I only have to turn myself into a dish of plain Pankedruss for another year, long enough for my family to settle down. If I survive the ordeal with my personality intact—”
“That’s not funny,” I bite out.
“It’s a little funny,” Ella counters. She rubs her arm against a sudden gust of wind. “Jang Mi is scheduled to start filming a drama next year. There’s already talk about how much chemistry she has with her co-star.”
I inhale a deep breath. “I don’t care what happens with her co-star. I’m not dating Jang Mi. I don’t want to date Jang Mi.”
Ella shades her eyes, a dark shadow slanting across rosy lips. I know the taste of them, and the longer I watch her, the louder my pulse sounds in my ears.
No matter how steep and narrow the track my ancestors have set before me, I’ve climbed it, keeping my father’s wildness penned up. But sitting this close to Ella, I feel his reckless blood seep into my system, drop by poisonous drop.
The trace of wildness becomes a trickle and I close my eyes for a brief moment, trying to collect myself. I should get out of here. I have work to do and can’t afford to waste my time. She’ll understand.
I open my eyes to find that the trickle has become a rivulet. Idiot. I know the way she kisses—willing, sweet, stealing my breath. Ella takes a pull from her straw and a flood crashes through my veins, knocking my resolutions aside like stikubb pins.
Forgive me, ancestors.
“We have to go,” I say, dragging her to her feet and through the maze of tables. No one notices a pair of old family friends, even when they’re holding hands.
“Where—?”
We cross the threshold of the club, stepping into the long, tiled lobby that stretches to the front doors.
Beyond the brilliant rectangles of light, there are paparazzi, waiting for something to happen so they can splash it across every news outlet in Sondmark.
Too public. I glance at the shallow, richly-carpeted stairs, leading to the private suites.
No. My brain shouts the command. Too private.
I urge her into the lounge with a hand to the small of her back, burning up the last of my self-control to keep it from wandering.
The interior is dark, the brass fittings gleaming with a rich, dull finish, and near the bar, a few older members gather to talk about monetary policy.
I propel Ella past them, beyond the potted plants and the scattering of chairs and tables.
I think of the football game I attended with Noah, full of noise and confusion, the players diving with false injuries to win an advantage.
At the end, we hunched over Affelworst and beer in some pub as Oskar patiently explained our national obsession to a baseball-loving Jacob.
“Here it is. Here’s the one rule.” My translation was crisp.
“Football is what you can get away with.”
Noah isn’t here to tell me what the rules are. I steer Ella toward a shadowy alcove at the back where dim light reflects off a black marble tabletop, and deposit her on the leather banquette.
I follow after her, sliding along the high curved back. “We need to talk.”
“So shoot me a text,” she says, brow knitted as she scoots down the bench. She thinks I want room. I catch her wrist and drag her into my arms, brushing her lips with the pad of my thumb.
Ella takes a shocked breath and presses her palms against my suit jacket. “Marc, you said you didn’t want—”
“Forget what I said.”
This time, I don’t have the excuses of too much soju and the rowdiness of a midnight game. It’s not a sudden impulse, either. I’ve been thinking of kissing her every second since it happened.
My mouth settles on hers in the way an ice-whipped prow of a Viking longboat noses out to rough seas, carrying fur-clad warriors beyond the comforts of hearth and hall. Resolute. Relentless. Quickened with the thought of treasure.
She hardly hesitates before pulling me closer. The knot of my tie presses against the pounding pulse in my neck, and I recognize that Ella lied to me. We are very, very good.
After the first rush, I inhale against her skin. Vede.
A pair of pleasant bongs echo across the lounge, resonating through my bones.
My mind dimly registers that it is 2 PM on a Wednesday, steps away from where I negotiate some of my most vital business interests and meet for afterwork drinks with her brother.
This is a place where people have the highest expectations of me—but a shaky breath breaks from my lungs. I left those shores long ago.
I resume kissing her—slower this time—and taste the lingering trace of cranberries on her lips, bitter and sweet. The soft touch of revelation tents her fingers against my chest. For the rest of my life, when I taste cranberries, I will think of Ella and this kiss.
I nudge her chin into a better angle, and erase the spaces between us. Since birth, I have been steeped in the duties and rituals of two cultures, but even my most righteous ancestor would not blame me for this.
She makes a soft noise, and the seemingly impossible issues that separate me from her feel as thin and insubstantial as a paper door on a lattice frame.
Light glows on the other side—muted brightness and tantalizing shadows.
It would take nothing to push the door back and cross the line forever.
Nothing. I would simply present myself on my knees, head bowed, fisted hands resting on thighs. Your humble servant. Yours.
I catch my reflection in the antique glass—the disheveled tie, my hand splayed across Ella’s back, holding her in place. Vede. I drop my head again, nosing her chin up, kissing her neck. She shivers and I grin against her skin.
“Admit it,” I whisper. “Admit it was good.”
Suddenly, Ella bolts upright. She slaps at my hands, peeling them away.
“Arne is coming,” she squeaks, adjusting her cuffs. I fumble for her but Arne is closing in fast. I don’t know what to do with my empty arms. I cross them over my chest. I drop them at my side. One elbow on the table…
Arne gives a brief bow, his gaze scrupulously neutral. “Your Royal Highness, while you were,” he gives a discreet cough, “otherwise occupied, the prime minister called an impromptu press conference. It has been picked up by all news outlets. You may find it noteworthy.”
He bows again and departs, not before giving me a reprimanding eyeball. I want to point at Ella as exculpatory evidence, waving a hand up and down her person. How could I resist?
Meanwhile, Ella digs into her purse for her phone. She looks to be completely recovered from my attentions, but my arm settles around her waist, hand on her hip. I haven’t moved on from this. I may never move on.
“What in the flamen hell?” she cries. I look over her shoulder, inhaling her scent. She points to the news chyron, running along the bottom of the screen.
“PRIME MINISTER INTRODUCES BILL CALLING FOR THE REMOVAL OF PRINCESS FREJA FROM SUCCESSION. CITES MARRIAGES AND SUCCESSION ACT (1798).”
Ella cranks up the volume until the prime minister’s mumbling tones reach our ears.
“Sondmark has rich natural resources and a deep pool of talent, engaging in commerce around the globe. Because of our strong, unified culture and adherence to the rules which bind us as a people, we are consistently rated as the Happiest Country in the World.”
“I’d like to take a look at that research model,” Ella spits. She looks like an angry little dragon and, with a shadow of a laugh, I gather her close.
The prime minister goes on. “When we flout accepted norms, this precious unity is damaged. Though we wish the young couple every happiness, it is with a heavy heart that I announce an official inquiry concerning the removal of Her Royal Highness Princess Freja from the royal succession, following her illegal marriage to Neer Oskar Velasquez.”
“Illegal?!” Ella slaps the table. The men anchoring one end of the bar look up. I pull her into the shadows.
“Only as it applies to the Marriages and Succession—”
Ella elbows me. “It was perfectly legal.”
“Not for any princess in the line of succession,” I say, pushing a roll of cutlery out of her reach. “It’ll be fine. I know your mother is consulting lawyers.”
Ella rolls her bottom lip, biting it. “His tone, Marc. I don’t forgive his tone.”
“Again, your mother has a plan to handle it.”
“Handle,” she scoffs, pointing at the screen. Torbald is taking questions, his attitude reading as sorry for the whole affair. “I don’t want this handled. I want him destroyed.”
Ella exists within the fiction that she’s nothing like her royal ancestors, but the edge of her voice is as bloody as Queen Ageltheld’s sword. She slips out of my hold, bouncing along the seat until she comes out the other end of the curved bench.
“Ella. Wait.” My hand chases her. “Your mother—”
Not three minutes ago, those lips were slowly driving me insane, but now they press into a firm line.
“Her Majesty is going to do what she always does—be very, very apologetic as she allows the government to grind her family into dust. She’ll tell us her hands were tied.
That we should brush ourselves off and say a prayer of thanksgiving that the monarchy was saved. ”
Ella closes her eyes for a moment, and pain is carved in the gentle lines of her face.
Does anyone else see this side of her? She doesn’t cry often.
When she’s upset, her emotions take another path to the surface, erupting as caustic humor or aggression.
In one fluid motion, I escape the booth and pull her in my arms.
When I promised Noah I would look after his sister, what did we imagine? That she would say something outrageous in public? Her expression promises an apocalypse.
“You’re not going to do anything rash,” I declare.
She looks up, steel in her eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”