Chapter 18

18

FEUDING ROYAL FAMILY?

During the first of a three-day tour through South Africa, Réverie's King Simon spoke briefly about his children's nearly three-month stay in America. His Majesty acknowledged Crown Princess Annika's achievements, including her ongoing talks to build safer spaces for women. The king made no mention of Prince Jadon or whether he's made amends with Prime Minister Barnard. Has the spare already been forgotten?

"Do I look okay?" Reiss whispers. "To meet the king and queen?"

I grin. We've fallen into the traditional line of succession—Annika first, then me, with Reiss by my side. Our guards shadow close behind. Around us, the palace's staff efficiently collects our luggage from the Bentleys we rode from the airport in. Outside Centauri's entrance, a line of Royal Protection Guards bows as we approach.

"They're just my parents," I tell Reiss.

He snorts. "Yeah, no. Your dad was on CNN this morning. Mine was burning waffles. They're not just your parents."

A laugh tickles my throat. I give him a brief once-over: the collar of his Willow Wood Oxford peeking from beneath a black crewneck sweater, nice jeans, a pair of light purple Air Jordan 1 lows. Fading sunlight winks off his diamond-stud helix piercings.

"You look great," I say. "I'd date you."

"Oof, sorry." He frowns. "I kinda have a boyfriend."

"Hmm. What's he like?"

"Super arrogant. Loves pouting. Hates apologizing. Decent kisser, but the dimples make up for it."

" Decent ?" I squawk. "I'll show you how amazing I can—"

"Crown Princess. My prince." At the top of the palace steps, Jean-Marc, my mom's most trusted chamberlain, gracefully bows. "All of Réverie happily welcomes you home."

"Thank you," Annika says, perfect princess tone in place.

"Where's Mom?" I ask. "Papa?"

Jean-Marc's smile turns commiserative. "His Majesty and the queen are away. A prescheduled trip. They will return late tomorrow."

I try not to deflate. What was I expecting? My parents waiting for us? To cancel another appointment? Treat me like a priority and not a checkbox on their daily itinerary?

"We can't wait," Annika answers for both of us.

Jean-Marc nods. "This is Mr. Hayes, correct?"

Reiss waves awkwardly. "Mr. Hayes is my dad. Reiss is cool, your, um—royalship?"

Jean-Marc is in his late forties, tall and bald with dark brown skin and very expressive eyebrows. They climb his forehead.

"Interesting." With one subtle wrist flick, a chamberlain appears. Jean-Marc says, "Your suite is in the eastern wing. Henri will escort you."

" Suite ?" Reiss gasps, jaw unhinged.

Barely holding in another laugh, I say, "See you soon," squeezing his hand one last time before he disappears behind the large glass doors.

Annika turns to face me. "Wow. Jade, you've got it baaad ."

"What?" I shake my head. "No, I—"

"So bad," Luc confirms.

"It's quite nauseating," Ajani notes, upper lip curled. The Royal Protection Guards behind her fail to hide their giggling.

"We've cleared your schedules," Jean-Marc announces, his own lips twitching. "In case you want to spend extra time showing Mr. Hayes around tomorrow."

I growl out, "I hate all of you."

More laughter follows as I storm away, face so hot I could be the primary source of global warming.

Réverie's marketplace is luminous the next day. Ribbons of sunlight cut through the colorful canopies hung over stalls selling fresh produce and lush fabrics and pottery with intricate designs. Vibrant murals crawl up the sides of buildings. The air is fragrant with the scent of grilling meats and heady spices. Voices chase each other, in French, in English, in a collective harmony of people selling and buying and bargaining.

The rush hits like a tidal wave, nearly knocking me over. I've missed this space.

I half-turn to Reiss. "What do you think so far?"

It's late afternoon. I can tell he's still jet-lagged, occasionally rubbing his eyes or yawning. But now, his gaze dances around like he's overstimulated. He can't settle on one thing. His face glows at the laughter, the noise spilling from every angle.

"It's beautiful."

Ajani and two other guards navigate us through the crowds. It's a slow stroll. Every few shops, Reiss pauses to admire another shiny trinket.

"Is it weird," he says outside a teashop, "that I feel so safe here?"

I lift a curious eyebrow.

"Everyone looks like"—his eyelashes flutter when he inhales—"like me."

All around, there are gorgeous shades of brown. Rich dark complexions. Warm sepia skin and cool russet tones. Different faces, body shapes, each person carrying their own swagger. For once, Reiss and I aren't two Black boys in a pale sea, like at Willow Wood.

Here, Reiss doesn't stand out. He's one of us.

"No," I whisper, bumping his shoulder. "It's not weird."

He grins crookedly. "I'm glad I came."

"You are?" I don't mean to sound so shocked.

He pans his phone around. Snaps photos and records video. "Visiting another country? Kicking it at a palace over school break? Do you know how much this is gonna elevate my social outcast status?"

I laugh, head tipped back into the warm sun. "I've heard somewhere that reputation matters."

"Only on the internet."

I wish that was true.

As we pass through a busy café, eyes track us. It's happened since we arrived. I smile and nod politely, the way my mom would. Some return the gesture, faces glowing with surprise at seeing me this close, outside Centauri's walls. But others avert their gazes, whispering furiously when they think I'm not looking, whenever my hand absently brushes against Reiss's.

Prime Minister Barnard's faithful followers. The ones who don't know the real him. Or the real me.

During the flight, Samuel swore public opinion has changed. That our efforts are working. But I don't know. Am I more than pics and videos to them? More than polls and surveys?

When they look at me, do they see the prince they want ?

"Oh, shit." Reiss holds up his phone. The screen lights up with a FaceTime call. "I forgot to check in with my parents. Dom's been dying to see what Réverie looks like. Is that okay?"

I bite my lip, grinning. "Yes."

"brB," he says, answering as he stumbles to a quieter corner.

Ajani motions for the guards to follow.

I drift deeper into the market. Losing myself in familiarity. In my thoughts.

"So, it's true. He really let you come back."

I jerk to a halt. My spine tightens at the unwelcome voice. At the boy standing in front of me. The same twists falling in his dark eyes, mellow brown skin; thin cheeks and a long jaw. Height like a basketball player, which he uses to look down on everyone.

Kofi .

He smirks in that patronizing way of his. "Thought America was keeping you."

"Thought you were staying with me," I snap quietly.

"What gave you that impression?"

"You were my best—" I can't get the word out. Not only because we're in semi-public. Because it's not true. I'm not sure it ever was.

Kofi exhales a dry laugh. "I did too."

"Then why'd you leave?"

"Why?" He repeats it with a pinched face, like the question tastes sour. "What did you want me to do? Go against the king's orders?"

"How about not let someone record me during my worst moment—"

"You have a lot of those, Jadon—"

"—and release it to the whole damn world?"

"Here's an idea." He edges closer. "How about, for once, we don't make everything about you, Your Highness?"

His tone is like a sharp slap across the cheek. He's never talked to me like this—with overwhelming disgust.

At my silence, his nostrils flare.

"You still don't get it." Kofi throws his arms out wildly. "It was my fucking birthday—"

Ajani leans forward. "Watch your tongue. Or I'll remove it."

I lift my hand before she follows through on her promise. I want him to finish.

"You made my day all about you, like always," Kofi says, lowering his voice, but the rage is still brimming.

"We didn't have to talk about it," I argue. " You asked me what was wrong."

"Sorry for caring," he says without a hint of sympathy.

"You let total strangers into our booth."

"Yeah." Kofi scoffs. "Because it was better than hanging out with poor, sad Jadon again."

"They filmed me , Kofi." I shake my head, chest hot. "Invaded my private moment. I needed a friend."

"You don't know what that word means."

It's another sting to the face. He's right. We've been around each other for years, but I don't know Kofi. His favorite movie. His dreams or fears. I never asked.

Kofi was always this carefree force of nature I could go to when I was angry or frustrated. I was made of gasoline. He was the one holding a match. But were we ever more than just two boys watching our fire burn the world down?

I hear Grace's voice in my ears: Where are your friends, Jadon?

Judging from Kofi's impatient glare, I never had any.

"Mon Dieu," he whines, shaking his head. "You don't get it. I was tired of being your sidekick. Tired of making every little thing about you. I needed a break, so I let them in."

I thought it would be different. Hearing him admit it. Like it'd give me relief. But it only makes me angrier.

He laughs bitterly. "I didn't think one video would ruin the son of a king—"

"I'm a person ," I seethe.

Tears prick my eyes. I didn't choose to be a prince. To grow up the way I did. But I chose loneliness and distance and making excuses for never fixing that. Because it was safer, comfortable.

But comfort doesn't last forever. And I don't want it to.

I want movie nights with Karan and Lo. Mornings in the courtyard with Morgan and Nathan. Scooter rides and pier walks and sharing hot chocolates with Reiss.

That's the kind of friendship I'm choosing for myself.

"You don't have to worry about being my sidekick anymore," I tell him. "About poor, sad Jadon stealing your spotlight. It's all yours. I hope you enjoy it."

I spin away. Walk back into the booming marketplace, where I find Reiss with an armful of gifts for his family.

"I went a little overboard," he says sheepishly. Then, he studies me. "Everything okay?"

I pause. For once, there's no unbearable heat in my chest. No fire waiting to get out. It's just me and Reiss. I smile at him.

"Yeah. I'm…better than expected."

His eyebrows crinkle in confusion. Whatever question he wants to ask is drowned out by voices chanting, "Jadon! Jadon! Jadon!"

It's a pack of beaming, sweaty kids half my size. Their clothes are grass-stained. One boy spins a football on his index finger.

"You're back!" he shouts. "You owe us like a million games."

They all nod in unison.

I pivot to Ajani. She sighs, her face saying it all: You're asking for trouble . I am. But, this time, it's good trouble. Far from newsworthy trouble.

Turns out, Reiss is terrible at football. A fumbling, tripping, can't-score-on-an-open-goal mess. We run around for hours, breathless and drenched by the time we finish.

When the kids dogpile Reiss in the center of the field, my chest cracks at one thought:

I'm finally sharing my world with Reiss, like I hoped back on Santa Monica Pier.

Before we leave, I buy everyone crème glacée and promise another game soon.

Reality hits me again: this is my home. The place I was so desperate to get back to. America was temporary.

This thing with Reiss is…I'm afraid to figure that part out.

Centauri's eastern wing is always eerily quiet. It's only for guest chambers. I should be in my own suite on the other side of the palace. Then again, when have I ever done what I was supposed to?

The silent corridor's antique rug is soft under my bare feet. I move quickly. Sneaking around at midnight isn't new. I mastered it long ago, figuring out where the loose floorboards are, discovering secret rooms, places to hide from patrolling guards. I've never been caught.

"My prince."

Until now.

Wincing, I slowly turn to face Ajani and her suspicious glare.

"Sleepwalking?"

"Something like that," I squeak, throat tight.

She purses her lips, one hand behind her back. No doubt concealing the taser she's going to use before dragging my unconscious body back to my suite.

"Thing is," I try, "I was just looking for the, er—"

"Oh, please." Indignation flashes across her eyes. "Do I look that incompetent? Like I didn't know you were sneaking out with Léon all that time."

My jaw drops, eyes probably cartoonishly wide. She knew? All my careful planning. Ducking behind curtains. Crawling out open windows.

"Every single time," she says, as if reading my mind. "I won't speak of this if you"—she reveals what's behind her back: a plate of gooey chocolate cake drizzled in raspberry sauce—"never tell who's been stealing desserts from the kitchens."

"I saw nothing," I confirm.

"In your suite by sunrise," she commands, then disappears into the shadows.

At Reiss's suite, I knock twice before cracking the door. I messaged ahead of time. To make sure he was still awake.

The bedside lamp throws golden beams over the room's rich blues. Across the expensive furniture. Reiss sits in the middle of the baroque bed, legs crisscrossed. He's fresh from the shower, shirtless. I swallow as he uses a fluffy gray towel to dry his hair.

He mock-bows, a smirk flitting across his mouth. "Your Royal Arrogance."

I lean against the door. "Am I keeping you up?"

"Maybe." The corners of his mouth stretch higher. "I don't mind."

Warmth settles in my belly. I want to be near him. Touch him. Find new ways to make his eyes crinkle. But there's another thought chasing a chill down my spine:

What happens when Papa lets me come home, permanently?

Reiss clears his throat. "Can we talk?"

He's drumming his fingers on his knees. That nervous tic I recognize. Is he thinking the same thing? That this can't last?

I motion to the empty spot next to him, my eyes saying, Is that okay?

He nods.

Once I'm on the bed, he stretches his legs across my lap. Our hands find each other, fingers threading together. He chews his lower lip.

I say, "Is this a…bad talk?"

"What? No." Reiss's shoulders pull up around his ears. "I mean, I hope not? You said we should talk first. At the coffee shop. If I wanted to— you know ."

It takes five seconds for my brain to recalibrate. I rewind through our conversations and laughs and arguments before—

Oh . That .

My back pressed against a shelf in The Hopper's backroom. Fingers peeling up his shirt. In the shadows, mouths so close, talking about taking this to the next step.

"Fuck," he breathes out. "I made this weird. Karan warned me. No one talks about sex. It just happens. Talking about it is—"

"Great!" I interrupt, gripping his hand. "Sexy. Necessary."

His dark eyes stare at me skeptically.

Grinning, I say, "I promise it is. I told you consent is important to me. Communication is too. I don't want to read things wrong."

"You're not." His cheeks are bruised pink. "I—I want to."

"Me too."

He struggles to keep eye contact when he says, "I brought condoms and stuff." Vaguely, he waves toward his luggage in a corner.

I can't imagine the personal crisis he suffered through in the checkout line. Léon always took care of that part for us.

Touching his burning cheek, I whisper, "That's a great start."

He exhales shakily, eyes still lowered.

"It's okay to be nervous," I tell him, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. "There's no rush."

A sharp noise escapes his throat as I grab the back of his neck. Pull him in. Ease my mouth across his.

He's the first to deepen the kiss. He yanks my shirt up so quickly, the collar gets caught around my forehead. We're both laughing when I finally free myself.

"Okay so far?" I ask while guiding him into my lap.

He stares down at me through thick eyelashes. I rub up against him. Hoarsely, he says, "Y-yeah. Perfect."

His sweaty hand moves from my bare shoulder into my curls. A tentative tug.

"Can I—do you like that?"

An involuntary shiver wrecks my body. "Yes. What do you want to do?"

"All of it."

I laugh. "Me too. But this is new." I remember my own first time. The awkwardness and messiness and how fast it ended. I want more for him. "Tell me what you like first. What you're comfortable with."

He pauses, thinking.

I edge my fingers up his spine. His response is immediate—a breathy gasp. I wiggle to adjust my boner, then say, "Just tell me what feels good. Or what doesn't."

"What about other stuff?"

My eyebrow flexes in confusion.

"I mean, I've seen porn," he says, chin jutting. "Should we know who does what?"

I press a kiss to his sternum. He smells incredible. Like peppermint and…

Wait .

"Did you shower because—" I purse my lips. "You already thought this through, didn't you?"

He doesn't blush or fidget when he admits, "I wanted to be clean. Just in case."

Just in case . Those three words run like lava through my brain.

"We can talk about that," I say, easing him onto the mattress, swiping away the dozens of useless decorative pillows, "if you want to go there."

"You won't get annoyed if I ask too many questions?"

"I promise." My hands spread over the waistband of his pajama bottoms. "Can we start here?"

After a long beat, he nods.

I untie the knot. It's a clumsy, graceless effort, but we get there. Then he slides off my joggers, and my boxers too.

"Whoa." He pauses. I can tell he's trying hard not to stare below my navel. "You're not, um, like me? Down there, I mean."

I grin. "No."

"Cool, cool." He nods too many times. "Should I do anything…differently?"

This time, a full, stomach-clenching laugh rumbles out of me.

"I'll show you."

"Cool, cool," he repeats to himself. "One more question."

I raise an eyebrow.

"Why aren't we kissing?"

"So bossy," I whisper, lying on top of him, skin to skin.

I take my time. Quiet pecks across his collarbone. Long seconds with my mouth against his shoulder. His hands roam over my biceps. Map every piece of skin he hasn't explored while my heart thuds noisily.

I stop to whisper, "Are you still okay?"

"Beyond." He's restless under me. "Keep going. I'll tell you if it's too much."

I comply. Through every motion, every new touch, I study his reaction. Wait for little cues. I never shy away from his questions or requests. He smiles appreciatively as we take breaks until he's ready to tell me what he wants next.

Reiss is the sea. I'm his shore. We meet in a soft embrace. In a thundering crash. In a rhythm only we understand.

Night stretches into dawn. Through a gap in the curtains, the sky melts from dull purple to a vibrant pink.

Sunrise .

I need to go. Ajani will literally kill me. But my legs are tangled in the sheets. Reiss is on top of me, boneless. Snoring into the crook of my neck. I trace his cheek with a finger, eyes heavy and gritty. I've barely slept, but this is worth it.

Watching him so relaxed. Knowing what we did. Dazed by this feeling in my chest, the words I'm scared to say out loud:

I'm in love with Reiss Hayes.