14. Liam

I'm falling for you… Nessa's words hit me hard. It's what I've secretly hoped for, yet it's still complicated. On the one hand, it's everything I wanted—to know she feels as deeply about me as I do about her. On the other, it's a stark reminder of the complexities of my life that I've kept hidden from her.

It's a weird spot to be in, wanting her love yet feeling guilty for it, given the secrets I'm holding back. Cole's sudden decision to marry Eva has, ironically, given us a brief pause from our own drama, focusing the spotlight elsewhere. But it's just a temporary reprieve.

Inside, I'm torn. I dread the idea of walking away from what Nessa and I have, yet facing the truth seems daunting. The logical step is to come clean, to share the part of my life I've kept under wraps, especially after spotting that exchange program application to England on her desk. She's not ready to say goodbye either.

My thoughts are interrupted by Cole's voice. "Hey? Why do you look like a kicked puppy?" He's standing in the kitchen, clad in just a towel, with that all-too-familiar smirk on his face.

"Why are you not with your wife?" I retort, trying to deflect. "Oh yes, she doesn't want to be with you?"

His amusement quickly turns to annoyance as he flips me off. "She's coming around… I'm taking her to meet my parents this afternoon."

"Uh-huh… I'm sure they're all thrilled," I can't resist adding, skepticism lacing my voice.

He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, seemingly unfazed. "They'll get used to it."

I chuckle, unable to help myself. "Who? Your parents or Eva?"

His glare sharpens at my dig. "Both. We're inevitable. Eva just needs more time to see it. And my parents? Mom's already a fan. And Dad?" He shrugs, a careless gesture, as he heads back toward the stairs. "Couldn't care less what he thinks. Eva's mine—always has been, always will be. What other people think doesn't matter to me."

His words, so full of confidence and disregard for others' opinions, strike a chord in me. I find myself envying his resolve—his ability to pursue what he wants without fear or hesitation. If only I could approach my situation with Nessa with the same boldness. If only it were that simple.

Maybe it is… The insidious little voice of hope whispers in my head loud enough for me to go into my room and do something I had not planned to do… Call my father.

Dialing the number, I brace myself. I'm well aware of the protocol; direct calls to my father are a rarity, filtered through Hank, his ever-loyal aide.

"Hello?" Hank's voice is as neutral as ever, giving nothing away.

"Hank, this is Alexander. Could I speak with the king?" My voice feels strange, using my formal title after so much time.

"Oh! Prince Alexander. I almost forgot how your voice sounded." There's a hint of a jab in his tone, a reminder of the distance I've allowed to grow between myself and my responsibilities.

"Yes, I've been… occupied," I admit, skirting around the full truth of my life here.

"Certainly, of course," Hank responds, the professionalism returning to his voice.

"Alexander," the authoritative timbre of my father's voice resonates through the line, pulling me back from my thoughts. It's that same commanding tone that has always demanded attention, respect, and a certain degree of apprehension from me.

Instinctively, I straighten up, even though he can't see me. It's a reflex ingrained from years of standing before him, trying to meet expectations that often felt as towering as the castle walls themselves. For a moment, I'm transported back to my younger days, standing in the vast, echoing halls under his discerning gaze that seemed to see right through me.

"Yes, Father," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. The weight of the crown, of centuries of tradition and duty, presses down on me through his voice alone. In this moment, I'm reminded of the divide between the life I lead and the one I'm expected to embrace. Cole's reckless abandon in love and life, which seemed so enviable moments ago, now feels like a distant dream, worlds apart from the path laid out before me.

I brace myself for the conversation ahead, knowing that this call could shape the future in ways I'm both hopeful and fearful of. The desire to carve out a piece of happiness with Nessa, to blend my duties with personal desires, suddenly feels like an impossible challenge.

"You were missed at the jubilee."

The conversation looms heavy—each word exchanged with my father carrying the weight of years of expectations and the silent battles I've fought to find my own path. His remark about the jubilee and my absence from it underscores the gulf between us—a divide not just of opinions but of understanding.

"I'm sorry for missing it. Something came up," I offer, my voice carrying defensiveness I can't quite mask. The truth is more complex, more personal, but not something I can easily explain to him.

There's a pause, and even without seeing him, I can almost picture the disapproval etched across my father's face. His silence speaks volumes, a clear sign of his dissatisfaction.

"I'm not sure what could be more important than the duty to our nation, but this charade is almost done, thank heavens," he finally says, his words sharp with rebuke.

A charade. That's how he views my desire for a semblance of normalcy, wanting to step outside the golden cage of royalty to see the world not as a prince but as a person. My father, ever the stalwart figure of honor and duty, has never understood this need, this pull toward something different, something more.

I exhale slowly, the weight of resignation settling in. There's no point in arguing, in trying to make him see my perspective.

"What is it, Alexander?" His voice softens just slightly, offering a semblance of warmth. It's as close to paternal concern as I'm likely to get. He's always been clear about his priorities—nation first, family second. And yet, how often have I wished it were the other way around, even just once?

"I just—" The fragile hope I clung to as I made the call disintegrates, leaving me face to face with the harsh truth. My father, bound by tradition and duty, is unlikely to ever sanction another departure from my royal responsibilities.

"It's time to step into your role. This isn't merely a position you fill; it's your destiny. Heavy is the head that wears the crown," he states, his voice echoing the weight of centuries of lineage and expectation.

"Are you quoting Shakespeare to me?" I can't help but interject, seeking even the smallest levity in a conversation heavy with duty and destiny.

"It aptly expresses the situation. Your presence is needed here," he replies, his tone more insistent than I've heard in a long time.

This unexpected admission of need from my father catches me off guard. He's always been the embodiment of strength and stoicism, never one to acknowledge dependence on anyone or anything.

"Is everything okay? Is it Henrick?" I ask, concern threading through my words. It's unlike my father to show any hint of vulnerability.

He sighs, a sound so laden with fatigue it's as if I'm hearing it for the first time. My father has always maintained an unwavering facade of resilience in front of us, perhaps only revealing his burdens in private moments with my mother but never openly with his children. This glimpse of weariness, this subtle crack in his armor, shifts something in our conversation, hinting at pressures and challenges I've been shielded from.

"Henrick is fine," he finally responds, his tone carrying an unusual heaviness. "It's the realm that needs you. The pressures, the expectations… they don't pause just because you wish to explore a different life."

This acknowledgment of need, of vulnerability from my father, is uncharted territory. The invincible king, the pillar of strength and duty I grew up admiring and fearing, suddenly seems more human. It's a side of him I've seldom seen, hidden behind authority and responsibility.

"Father, I…" I trail off, unsure of how to articulate the turmoil inside me. The desire for a life with Nessa, to explore the world on my terms, clashes with the reality of my birthright. His admission adds a new layer of complexity to my decision. It's not just about what I want anymore; it's about a duty that goes beyond personal desires. "I understand the weight of my responsibilities," I continue, my voice steadier. "But isn't there room for balance? For a life that includes personal happiness as well as duty?"

There's a pause, long enough for me to wonder if I've pushed too far. Then, softly, almost imperceptibly, my father speaks. "Your happiness is not insignificant, Alexander. But the crown… it demands sacrifices. Ones I've made and ones you will have to make. It's never easy, but it's the life we're born into."

The conversation shifts something within me. The realization that my father, too, has made sacrifices for the crown adds a new dimension to my understanding of him and the role I'm destined to inherit. It doesn't make my decision any easier, nor does it quell the longing for exploring something with Nessa. But it does ground me in the reality of my position, of the delicate balance between duty and desire.

"I need you to come home next month," my father states, a hint of urgency in his voice that piques my curiosity.

Glancing at the calendar on my desk, I can't help but frown. "I have exams then," I point out, hoping for some leeway.

"It will only be for a day or two. There are matters we must discuss… in person," he insists, adding a weight to his words that I can't ignore.

Pressing a hand to my forehead, I sigh. "Father, can't this wait until I've d?—"

"This isn't up for debate, Alexander. This is a directive, not a request, from your king." The formality in his tone, invoking his role over our familial relationship, strikes a chord of seriousness I can't dismiss.

Realization dawns on me—this must be serious. My father has never played the king card with me before. Despite being alone in my room, I find myself bowing in automatic respect. "Of course, Father."

He clears his throat, a sign that he's about to conclude the conversation. "Ensure your visit is before the seventeenth. Inform Hank of your arrival date, and I'll make the necessary arrangements."

Curiosity burns inside me—why the seventeenth? What could be so critical? Yet, the finality in his voice tells me further questions would be futile. "No problem. I'll speak with Hank later this week."

"Very well. I'll see you then. And Alexander?" There's a momentary pause, and I detect something unexpected in his voice—could it be a hint of uncertainty?

"Yes?"

"Despite appearances, I am very proud of you. You will make a fine king in time. Goodbye." And with that, the line goes dead.

Left alone with his words echoing in my room, I'm struck speechless. That was perhaps as close to a declaration of love as I've ever received from King Frederik. The acknowledgment of pride, the unspoken affirmation of my future role—it's a lot to process, leaving me in a rare state of quiet reflection on the complex relationship between duty, destiny, and familial bonds.

Standing here outside the dance studio with a bunch of flowers in hand, I'm wrestling with what to do next. The smart move would be to remind her of our initial agreement—no strings attached, just friends with benefits, nothing more. That's what I should say, to make things clear, push her away, ensure she moves on without me. That would be the expected move, following the unspoken rules of casual relationships that seem so prevalent here.

But I can't. The idea of turning our goodbye into something so impersonal, so cold, doesn't sit right with me. Instead of plotting some tactless breakup, I'm here, flowers in hand, hoping to invite her out for dinner to tell her the truth about who I am. I can't stand the thought of leaving things unsaid, of her thinking less of me without knowing the whole story.

I'm not sure how she'll take it, but I need to tell her who I am because I can't bear to leave with her hating me.

I watch her dance through the small glass window on the door, and I feel the sorrow of goodbyes already.

She's wearing her pointe shoes today, and I can't take my eyes off her. She's mesmerizing in everything she does.

The sudden buzz of my phone breaks the spell, and I glance down to dismiss the call. It's Hank, likely about my impending trip home, but that's the last thing I want to tackle right now.

When I look back up, she's spotted me, a playful challenge in her gaze that sends a grin spreading across my face. I hold up the flowers for her to see, watching a blush color her cheeks, a reminder of the simple joys she's been denied for too long.

She should have been pampered with every breath, and yet…

"What are you doing here… creeping?" she teases as I walk in before she sits to remove her shoes. The room's filled with the lightness of her presence, making every concern momentarily recede.

"I was going to ask you out for dinner, but I got caught up watching you dance. You have that effect on me," I admit, watching her reaction.

Her blush deepens a little as she looks down, trying to appear unbothered as she removes her shoes.

"Dinner? Out in public?" Her voice carries a note of surprise as she looks back down to untie her shoes.

Indeed, it is.And despite the inevitable whispers it might stir, I find that concern fading in the face of what feels right. My phone buzzes again, a call from the embassy this time, but I dismiss it with a swipe. Nothing could pull me away from this moment.

She finally looks up.

"So what? I want us to have a nice dinner, and we can chat."

Resignation and something fiercer mix in her expression. "You saw the exchange program applications." It's not really a question, more an acknowledgment of the unspoken thoughts between us.

I nod, honest in my admission.

She stands, a sigh escaping her as she moves to pack away her shoes and slip on her sweatpants.

My phone attempts to intrude once more, but I turn it off, stopping any further interruptions—I focus entirely on her.

Turning to face me, her expression is resolute. "Look, don't make this a bigger deal than it is. I'm not asking for more… I just thought, why not London? But it's not me asking to extend what we have."

She tries to pass me, but I block her path, not ready to let this conversation end so abruptly. She avoids my gaze, but I'm patient, willing to wait for her to look at me. If this is how she wants to play it, I'm all in. Because right now, in this dance studio with her, nothing else matters.

The moment she lifts her gaze to mine, her face a canvas of apprehension, my heart tightens. "Do what you need to do, Liam. I won't make a fuss. So I crossed some line, and now we're done, right?" The resignation in her voice, the acceptance of an end she believes is inevitable, slices through me.

Hearing "we're done" from her lips feels like a physical blow, a jolt that awakens a fierce, primal part of me I hadn't known existed. Inside, a voice rebels with a fierce the hell we are. It's an instinctual, visceral reaction, a refusal to accept an end to what's between us.

"It's not like w?—"

Before she can finish her sentence, my actions speak louder than any words can. The flowers drop to the floor before I cup her face and steal her words with a kiss. It's possessive, demanding, a claim. I bite her lower lip gently, exploring the familiar taste of honey and cinnamon reminiscent of her favored concoctions, which floods my senses. It's a sweetness I find myself craving, an addiction not just to the flavor but to the essence of her.

The intensity of the moment lingers as we part, our breaths mingling in the space between us. "Does that kiss feel like a goodbye to you?" I ask, the words barely a whisper between us.

"It might," she replies, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

"No, wild rose," I assert firmly, "this isn't goodbye. But there's something about me you need to know before you even think about an exchange program to England or anywhere else." The mention of Denmark hangs silently in the air. "There are things you need to understand."

She looks at me with curiosity but there's remaining wariness I know she can't really shake off.

Her eyes also hold a shadow of caution I know all too well. "Okay, dinner then. But I need to go home and shower first."

I can't help but see through her, remembering how she used avoidance as a shield after our return from her parents' place. The tension that still clings to her tells me she might consider skipping out on our dinner. Not this time. "Why not shower at my place?" I suggest. "You've always said how much you love the shower there. Plus, you've got clothes at mine."

When I gave her a drawer a few weeks back, after she spent the entire weekend, it was a small gesture that unexpectedly filled me with a deep sense of contentment, especially seeing her toothbrush next to mine.

"No, I…" She hesitates, and I know I've caught her in her contemplation of escape.

"What if I make you an offer you can't refuse?" I amend, smiling. "I promise to join you in the shower, pamper you, and give you that scalp massage you love so much."

Her laugh, surprised and genuine, breaks through the last of her hesitation. "You drive a hard bargain," she admits, her wariness dissolving into amusement. "Alright, lover boy, let's go." Her agreement, laced with a hint of playfulness, reassures me that we're moving forward together, at least for now.

Upon entering the house, we head straight for the bedroom, eager for the shower, but my gaze immediately falls on the game book lying on my desk. "Shit!" escapes me before I can censor myself.

"What's wrong?" Nessa asks, concern quickly replacing the anticipation in her eyes.

"I forgot to return the playbook to the coach," I explain, frustration edging my words.

She offers me an out. "Go return it. I'll take a rain check on the shower. I'll take it alone and wait for you."

I give her a quick kiss, "I'll be back as fast as I can," I promise.

Luck is on my side when I see Ethan and Poppy pulling into the driveway as I exit. Holding up the playbook, I ask for a favor. "Could you drop this off to the coach for me?"

Ethan looks at me skeptically. "You want me to run this to the coach because…?"

"Nessa's waiting for me naked in the shower, and besides, as the next captain, you'll have these duties too," I say, letting slip more than I intended.

"Future captain?" His interest piques, even if I've revealed too much.

Realizing my slip, I offer a compromise. "I'll owe you one."

Poppy squeezes his arm, "Let's just do it. It won't take long."

I send her a look filled with gratitude as they agree to help, allowing me the sexy shower I was dying to take.

Rushing back to the house, my clothes are being shed the moment the bedroom door clicks shut behind me. I swiftly move toward the bathroom, anticipation building with each step.

Through the shower's glass panel, I catch sight of her, a vision of beauty. She's under the cascade of water, her silhouette a picture of curves and grace that I've come to adore. For a moment, I simply stand there, captivated by her presence, her movement, and the water tracing paths along her skin.

Quietly, I slide the door open, stepping into the warmth of the shower. My hand finds her hip, and at my touch, she jumps slightly, not having felt me enter. Quickly, I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close, our bodies aligning perfectly. My lips find the nape of her neck, kissing her softly, feeling her shiver at the contact.

She turns her head slightly, looking at me with a mix of surprise and inquiry. "I thought you were going to see your coach."

"I saw Ethan on the way out. It was too perfect an opportunity to pass up," I explain, holding her closer, the hot water enveloping us both.

Feeling her relax into me, I take the loofah from her hand, reaching for her vanilla and brown sugar shower gel. There's something about these scents—so distinctly hers—that doesn't truly come to life until they mingle with her skin. As I begin to lather her back, every stroke feels like a rediscovery of the connection we share, deep and intoxicating.

I love taking care of her even more than I love giving her orgasms. It's in these moments, with her leaning back against me, eyes closed in complete trust, that I find a profound sense of fulfillment. It's more than passion; it's about protection, about offering her a sanctuary within my arms.

I kiss her neck again, allowing myself a fleeting dream. Maybe if this conversation goes well, I can take her with me to Copenhagen. I can let her visit the city with one of the guards to allow her to see my world. In my mind's eye, I see her marveling at the blend of ancient and modern, the cobblestone streets, and the serene canals, all the while contemplating a future where she might come to love this city as much as I do. It's a daring thought, full of what-ifs and maybes, but in this moment of serenity and connection, it feels within reach and…

Her soft moan breaks me out of my thoughts, and I realize I just ran the loofah over her erect nipple. I do it again, more consciously this time, and I'm once again rewarded by her soft sound of pleasure.

My cock twitches against her ass; it would be so fulfilling to take her right now with the way she's rubbing herself against my hardening length. I know she's more than receptive, but I'm determined to wait until we've talked before letting things escalate further. It's too easy for us to get lost in the heat of the moment, to spend the entire night wrapped up in each other, and in doing so, I'd likely lose the nerve to tell her the truth.

However, nothing is stopping me from pleasuring her, giving her what she needs for now.

I let the loofah trail down her stomach and drop it just as I reach the apex of her thighs, trailing my finger over her pussy until my fingers start rubbing her wet, hot flesh.

"Liam." She moans, reaching back and wrapping her arm around my neck, arching her back, allowing her delicious breasts to be on full display. Part of me is frustrated at being behind her and not being able to suck her nipple into my mouth.

I grab her earlobe in my mouth instead and bite it lightly as I rub her faster. She widens her stance, allowing me better access, and I slide two fingers inside her, her walls tightening with need. I keep up the movements, alternating between fucking her with my fingers and rubbing at her sensitive clit.

"Liam!" She moans louder this time, her legs unsteady, but I tighten my hold around her waist to keep her up.

I increase the pace as she rocks her hips against my hand, moaning more and more until she comes crying my name as I press against her clit.

Her gaze meets mine, and in her eyes, I see an entire universe of emotions. I've never considered myself overly vain, but the reflection in her gaze is unmistakable. Behind the admiration, desire, and postorgasmic glow, there's something deeper—genuine affection, perhaps even love. It dawns on me, startling in its clarity, that Vanessa Caldwell might just love me. And what's more terrifying? I think I love her too.

That epiphany strikes with the force of a revelation, unsettling in its intensity. As I slightly relax my grip, she turns inside my arms, sealing the moment with a kiss.

"I don't want to go out tonight," she murmurs, her voice husky from her cries of pleasure.

"Neither do I," I confess, the words I love you lingering unsaid on my tongue. "I'll just dry off and order something for us, okay? Take your time."

I hurry out of the shower before she can respond, and wrapping a towel around myself, I retreat to the bedroom. I can't bring myself to say those three words, not yet. The uncertainty of our future, the question of whether a life together is even possible, hangs heavily between us. For now, it's a feeling I must hold close, unspoken.

Slipping into sweatpants, I move to the living room to power up my phone, left untouched on the counter. My hand pauses on the power button at the sound of a knock at the door. Expecting Cole's usual interruption, I'm met instead with a sight that anchors me to the spot. Two royal guards and the Danish ambassador, a solemnity in their presence that instantly signals this is no ordinary visit.

"I'm sorry, King Alexander… The king is dead. Long live the king," the ambassador intones, and the guards kneel, an ancient ritual performed in the stark modernity of my living room.

The words echo in a void of disbelief.

My father is dead.

I'm the king of Denmark.