Lone Prince by Lilian Monroe
Wolfe
I lookup from my laptop when Eyvar, my driver and personal bodyguard, makes a low noise. It’s a cross between a huff and a grunt, but it speaks volumes. The big Icelandic man looks like Thor himself, with a big beard and ice-blue eyes. His hands are so big they nearly cover the top half of the steering wheel and his shoulders bulge out beyond the width of the seat.
He doesn’t usually speak. It’s one of the reasons I hired him.
Even a soft grunt from Eyvar means something’s wrong, and as soon as I glance up from the screen, I know what the problem is.
A woman in a red jacket collapses on the road just ahead of our vehicle. She lands on her back and doesn’t move as the car inches forward, her black suitcase making a slow nosedive into the ditch.
Eyvar slows the car. He wouldn’t normally make an unscheduled stop without my instruction, but we both know what it means for someone to collapse outside in these temperatures.
This is the worst storm I’ve seen in all my life. It’s not even October, but it might as well be the depths of winter, it’s that cold.
The woman has minutes to live if we don’t do anything. Anger flashes through my chest, hot and bright. What kind of idiot goes walking in these temperatures? By the look of her clothes, she forgot she was only a few miles from crossing into the arctic.
Did she not see the storm? Thought it was a good day for a stroll? Has no sense of self-preservation?
Fucking southerners. I can tell just by the look of her unconscious form that she’s not from Nord. Stupid, stupid southerner. They don’t understand this place. They don’t understand the danger. The weakness of the human body. Just how vulnerable we are.
She doesn’t belong here. I know it already.
Eyvar pulls the parking brake and opens his door. A bitter blast of wind slams it closed behind him, and I button my jacket all the way up. My driver crouches over the woman, putting his huge palms to her face and neck, checking for a pulse. I exit the back seat of the car, standing by the open door.
Fuck, it’s cold out. I should have stayed in Stirling, the capital city, instead of coming all the way to the Summer Palace—but then I’d have to deal with the yearly memorials for my dead fiancée. Coming here was supposed to be my escape, and I’m greeted with yet another woman collapsing at my feet.
My heart aches.
Eyvar glances up at me, pale eyes somber. With a grunt, he scoops the woman up and starts marching toward the car. Even that mountain of a man has to brace himself against the wind, the woman limp in his arms. A strand of red hair falls free from her hat, whipping against her lily-white face.
Between her hat and her scarf, I see delicate features. A pink mouth. Eyes closed, with frost clinging to the lashes. Her skin so frozen it’s almost transparent. She looks like some sort of ethereal ice goddess.
What the hell is she doing walking to the Summer Palace in this weather?
A protective instinct flares inside my chest. I nod to the back seat. “In here,” I say.
“I can put her up front,” Eyvar says. The back seat is reserved for me.
I shake my head. “Lay her down there. I’ll try to wake her up. Grab her bag.”
Eyvar grunts, his eyes lingering on mine. He doesn’t approve. I don’t give a shit.
Why don’t I give a shit?
I’m not some Good Samaritan out to save some moron who decided to take a walk along the Arctic Circle. Does she have a death wish? As far as I’m concerned, this woman deserves to freeze. Where was she headed, anyway? The castle? With a fucking roller suitcase?
After Eyvar puts her in the car, I slip into the back seat and lift her head onto my thighs. Her skin feels like ice, but there are soft breaths passing through her lips. I close the door again, thanking everything that’s holy for heated seats.
Unwinding the woman’s scarf from her head, I toss it aside. It’s half-frozen-stiff and half-soaked with melted snow. She’s wearing a second scarf underneath, soaked in sweat. Her hat is the same. If she’s hypothermic, those garments will only make it worse.
She needs to get warm and dry. Fast.
Eyvar hauls her suitcase over, slams the trunk, and gets in the front seat. My bodyguard glances at me in the rearview mirror. I jerk my head at the gate. “To the security lodge. It’s closer, and it’ll be easier to warm up a small room. We don’t have much time.”
“You know her?” His eyes narrow, flicking to the woman in my lap.
I bristle. I don’t like his tone. Maybe my employees are getting a little too comfortable with me. No matter how close we are, Eyvar still works for me. I’m his liege. He should act accordingly.
“Drive, Eyvar.” I don’t owe him a fucking answer. I don’t owe anyone anything.
There’s a hole in my heart and poison leeching into my soul. When Abby died, she took part of me with her—and it was just like this. Head in my lap, eyes closed, the Reaper stealing her away from me in a few short breaths.
I belong here, alone in the frozen north. Surrounded by cold and death. The lord of a castle made of ice, with no one to answer to but the elements. This is my home.
But my hand moves to the woman’s cheek, and I feel the silkiness of her skin. She doesn’t belong here. She’s too soft. Too fragile.
And unlike Abby, this woman is still alive.
Eyvar sets his jaw and puts the car in gear. He cranks the heat up as high as it’ll go, and I unzip the top of the woman’s jacket. The skin on her chest is so cold, she might as well have been walking naked out here.
My eyes drift down her body, imagining just that. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to dispel the thought. The last fucking thing I need to do is think about this woman naked. As soon as she’s awake and alert enough to speak, she has a lot to answer for. She’ll be getting on the first train back to whatever place she’s from, with strict instructions to never return.
If she has a death wish, it won’t be fulfilled here. I won’t have another soul on my conscience.
Eyvar parks the car by the security lodge. I jerk my head toward it. “Unlock the door and crank the heat. Start a fire, too.”
Eyvar’s teeth grind. He doesn’t like me being near an uncleared person. It’s a security risk, and he knows my head is a mess right now. Isn’t that the whole reason I’m at the Summer Palace? Keep me safe from the media and the masses and myself? Stay tucked away on my own, where no one can see me break down?
My tone of voice leaves no room for argument, though, and Eyvar is too well-trained to protest. He heaves his massive body out of the car and unlocks the lodge as I get out of the car and carry the woman to the building.
She’s light, as if I’m just holding a bundle of clothes. Her legs are covered in nothing more than a pair of thick tights, which is about three layers less than she needs out here.
Is this her first time in Nord? What kind of lunatic would start walking along the road to the palace in a peacoat and a fucking dress?
Anger winds its way through my core, setting everything aflame. But the woman’s eyelids flutter, and she mumbles against my neck. Her soft breath washes over my skin, easing the bite of the wind.
I don’t hate having her in my arms. As I march toward the lodge, she melts against my chest. She smells sweet, like candy. It feels good to hold her.
Too good.
I shouldn’t enjoy it. I shouldn’t want to protect her. To save her.
It’s just the gremlins of my fucked-up past, poking their ugly heads out ahead of the fourth anniversary of Abby’s death. Fate is sending this woman to me, unconscious and near death, to remind me of everything I’ve already lost.
Well, don’t worry, Fate. I remember. Every fucking day, and I know I’ll never forget.
When I kick the door closed behind me, the heat is already blasting in the lodge, and Eyvar is stoking a roaring fire. I jerk my head to the closet. “Blankets.”
Eyvar complies without a word. That’s better.
I lay the woman on a long sofa, dragging it closer to the fire. She whimpers, trying and failing to open her eyes.
“Gran…Grandm…” she whispers.
“What’s that?” I say, cupping her cheek. “What’s your name? Who are you?”
Her eyelids flutter, but her gaze is hazy. They close once again. My heart clenches. My bodyguard takes off her boots and jacket, then spreads two thick blankets over her, moving quickly and efficiently. She’s limp as we tuck her in, her eyes staying closed as her breath grows shallow.
“Radio the palace and get the doctor.” I tuck the edge of the blanket around her and touch her cheek again. I need her to be okay. I need her to live. It feels almost desperate, a sense of doom looming just beyond my consciousness. This woman can’t die. Not here. Not with me.
Not again.
Eyvar moves to the desk by the door. He presses a few buttons to turn on the radio, then grunts in frustration. I glance over to see him frowning. “Dead battery. Must have been left unplugged. Maybe a power outage.”
“Drive, then,” I say. “Get the doctor. And quick, Eyvar. She needs medical attention.”
“Your Highness, I can’t leave you here with—”
“You’ll do what I say, Eyvar.” I level him with a glare. “This woman will die.”
“Your Highness, your safety—”
“This woman isn’t going to magically wake up and try to stab me, Eyvar. She’s ice-cold and hypothermic. Go.”
Eyvar glances at the woman and finally lets out a long sigh. He turns his back to me and slips out the door without another word.
Turning my attention to the woman, I lay the back of my hand against her chest.
Frigid.
Sighing, I drag her closer to the fire and heap another blanket on top of her. I take a seat in an armchair, letting out a long breath.
For a few moments, I tent my hands under my chin and stare at the flames. Orange and yellow, they dance as logs crackle. The smell of wood smoke fills the lodge.
It would be pleasant if my mouth didn’t taste so bitter. I don’t want to be here. I shouldn’t need to be here. I should be in the capital beside my three brothers and sister, where I belong. I should be standing tall, protecting them like any good brother would do. My sister, the Queen, is the eldest, but I’m the oldest man in the family. I’ve always been there to look out for them.
But I’m weak. Every year, October eighteenth rolls around, and the kingdom mourns. This year, I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stay at the balcony of the Stirling Castle and watch the thousands of candles flickering at Abby’s yearly vigil outside. I couldn’t stand the songs and dedications. The video compilations set to sad, mournful music.
The inevitable resurgence of those videos and photos of her last moments in my arms.
The memories of everything the media didn’t know—that none of us knew at the time. Abby’s autopsy doubled my grief all over again.
I was supposed to read through my public statement for the press and send back comments, but when I glance at the mystery woman’s immobile body, the last thing I want to do is official royal business. Moving to her bag, I unzip the front pocket to see if she has any identification. I open it up wider, and a lacy black thong tumbles to the floor. Picking it up with the edge of my finger, I arch an eyebrow.
Who did she think she was going to wear that for? Did she know I was coming to the Summer Palace? Is she here to try to seduce me?
I scoff.
You can try, baby girl.
In the soft light of the fire, her hair looks like glowing copper. A smattering of freckles covers her cheeks and forehead, barely visible on her pale skin. Her lips are a dull pink color, tinged with blue, and firelight dances over her skin.
I rummage through her things until I find a wallet. Bingo.
Rowan Reed.
I frown. Reed? That’s the name of the palace manager who just had an accident. Earlier today, she fell on the ice and broke a hip. Had to be airlifted out of here before the storm came in.
Taking another step closer to the hypothermic woman, I lean over her face. Could she be related? Is she here to take Mrs. Reed’s place? I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, heart clenching at the softness of her skin.
Do I see a hint of the old woman in the shape of the nose? Or am I making connections that don’t exist? Whoever she is, she’s gorgeous.
And almost dead. I touch her forehead with the back of my hand, happy to find her skin isn’t quite so cold. But when I reach down further, I feel the snow melting on the neckline of her dress. Her clothes are wet with sweat and moisture, and just as cold as her skin.
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath, flipping the blanket back. Her dress is soaked through and clinging to her body. Still fucking freezing.
The radio crackles by the door.
“Your Highness? Come in, Your Highness.”
I walk to the desk, seeing one new yellow bar on the device’s battery indicator. I grab the handheld radio and press the button on the side.
“Yeah?”
“You need assistance at the security lodge, sir?” I recognize Doctor Williams’ pinched, nasally voice.
“Hypothermic woman,” I respond. “Found her outside the gates. Her clothes feel wet to the touch and she’s not warming up.”
“I’m gathering my things. We should be there in ten minutes.”
Damn these huge palace grounds and the leagues that separate the security outbuildings from the main castle. It’s great for privacy—not so good in an emergency. I glance at the woman, noticing her limp hand hanging off the edge of the sofa. She hasn’t as much as stirred since we got here.
“I’m not sure we have ten minutes,” I answer. “Her clothes are wet.”
“Undress her, Your Highness,” Doctor Williams says. “Take all the wet clothes off and cover her with blankets. Don’t submerge her in warm water or heat her up too fast, but we need to bring her body temperature up.”
“Got it. Over.” I leave the radio on charge and move to the sofa. Tearing the blankets off, I stare for a moment. She lets out a soft moan, her smooth brow furrowing ever so slightly. Moving slowly, I remove her sweater then tug the zipper on the side of her dress.
“Easy,” I say, as if I were speaking to a nervous animal. I pause, hesitating. Her eyes are still closed. Body limp. It feels wrong to undress her like this, to take this scrap of fabric off her body and see what’s hiding underneath.
I shake my head. This is necessary. Her life is on the line.
Gingerly, I lift the hem of her dress, averting my eyes as I slowly, gently pull the garment up. When I get to her stomach, my eyes drift over her skin. There’s a dark freckle near her belly button, and I have the urge to run my tongue over it.
I squeeze my eyes shut. What the hell is wrong with me?
With a shallow breath, I pull one arm free, then the other. Lifting her torso off the sofa, I tug the dress over her head and toss it aside. It lands on the floor with a wet thunk.
Rowan’s body falls against mine and damn, she’s cold. Not warming up at all.
My eyes drift down over her skin-colored bra, not wanting to touch her too much. I put my hand on her thigh, feeling a line where dry meets wet on her thighs. Her jacket must have covered the dry part.
“Rowan” I say softly, touching her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”
I pause. Nothing.
Covering her torso with a blanket, I squeeze my eyes shut. I should really take her bra off. It’s soaked too, and she needs to get warm. Fuck. I haven’t been with a woman in four years, and I didn’t think the first naked woman I’d see would be unconscious.
Reaching under the blanket, I wrap my arms around Rowan’s body and unclip her bra. I pull it free, keeping the blanket over her body.
Sighing, I pinch my lips and tug off her tights. Inch by inch, ice-cold white skin is revealed. My eyes linger on the scrap of underwear around her hips, then I look away. I touch the edge of it—dry enough to leave on.
I’m not some fucking creep. I’m just trying to help this stupid woman who apparently doesn’t understand that being in the arctic means it gets cold. Why would she walk? Why didn’t she call anyone? Grab a taxi?
When I drag her tights down to her feet and pull them free, I fold the blanket down over her legs and lay the tights across the arm of a chair. She can keep the underwear on. I’ve done enough.
My heart is beating too fast, and I look away from the woman with a scowl.
She’s an inconvenience, is what she is. A potential security risk. Nothing more.
