Chapter 23

Stasi

The smell of a clean man nearby wakes me before the sun does.

Opening one eye, I see Sigurd perched next to me, looking fresh and delicious in a flannel shirt, his meaty hand holding a cup of steamy goodness.

"What time is it?" I croak.

"Time for me to go do a thing," he says, with a note that says he's preparing for me to insist I come along.

I lean forward, and we share a kiss; then, I look down over the edge of the bed and spy his feet. There, his big hairy toes are still colored a pretty mermaid turquoise. I smile. Of all the things we did together, I think simply hanging out with him, talking, and painting his toenails was my favorite. Don't get me wrong, the orgasm stuff was spectacular. The "I love you" stuff…I'm getting used to it.

Looking at this giant, gruff, wild-bearded man, one would never think of him as an "I love you" kind of guy.

But the more time I spend with him, the more he shows me what he really is. The sweetest, most protective, and doting teddy bear.

I would be an idiot not to let him love me.

My mind keeps coming back to the "baby" thing. Am I ready for that kind of commitment? Will I ever be?

"You kept your pedicure," I say.

Sigurd looks offended. "Of course, I kept it. You gave it to me."

He has this way of making me swoon when I'm least expecting it.

I lean in and let our lips melt into each other's. I never want this to end. I want to wake up every day with nothing but vibes on our agenda.

"What thing are you going to do today?" I ask.

"Bird counting."

"Oh. Okay," I say, with a weird irrational thought that I am being ditched for some local hussy, one of the dozens he keeps stashed and waiting for him all over Gravenland.

"Not those kinds of birds," he says with a glower.

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"You know it's not that."

"Okay."

"You wouldn't like it."

"That's fine," I say, pushing my hair out of my eyes, then sipping the hot tea.

He pauses, observing me, suspiciously almost, as I sip.

"Thank you for the tea."

I smile brightly, or as brightly as possible, considering I'm half awake. I hum as the hot brew warms me inside, slowly waking me up to the day.

"If you need to go, you can go," I say.

Still, he stares. He looks like he's mulling something over in his mind.

I stare back, wondering if he's having an aneurysm. "I can pack you a lunch if you think you'll be gone long."

"It might be long."

"Okay."

"But I don't want to leave you alone," he says.

I blink at him over the rim of my teacup. "And?"

We stare at each other for a long minute.

He lets out a long, exasperated sigh. "Can I trust you to be alone?"

"You can trust me not to entertain other men while you're gone."

"Stasi."

I bat my lashes at him. "But if you're asking me if you can trust me not to get into the water, no. I probably cannot be trusted."

"Fine."

"Fine, what?"

"Fine, meaning you're coming with me," he growls.

I clap my hands together. "Yay! Where do we go to count the birds?"

"On a hike in the woods."

My shoulders sag. "Really? When we could take the bike? I could ride on the handlebars."

He shakes his head. "It's not far. Eat your breakfast, and then put on some decent walking shoes. No flip-flops. And wear a hat."

Minutes later, I've finished my breakfast and joined him outside in my leggings, tee shirt, and sneakers.

With a harrumph, he goes into his camping gear bag and pulls out a hat that a grandpa would wear while hunting.

"I look like an old man in this hat," I say.

"Good. I won't be tempted to tackle and rut you in the woods."

"You're no fun."

"Let's go."

Whatever it was I thought we were doing today, literal birdwatching was not it.

When we arrive at a small clearing in the woods, Sigurd drops his pack on the ground, unzips it, and pulls out several small, rugged cases.

I watch as he sets up a telescope type of thing, attaches mirrors to it, and then takes out a weird little box.

"What is all this?"

"Bird counting equipment. That," he says, pointing to the weird small box, "is a bird song meter. This," he says, pointing to the oldest-looking tripod and camera I've ever seen, "is a camera."

"I think my great-grandfather owned one like that."

"It's not that old. It's digital."

I never would have pegged him as a bird guy. I never gave birds a single thought until this moment. But it's nice to sit here and listen. And watch. And watch, and watch some more.

It's nice…but difficult to not distract him with kisses.

At one point, Sigurd sits perfectly still on a tree stump, and the birds literally come to him.

I've never seen anything like it.

The Wild Prince is fucking Snow White.

Even the birds love him. He's Snow White with a beard and an attitude.

So wait, what does that make me? Grumpy Elf? Was there a clumsy elf?

No…no, definitely Horny Elf.

We spend all day out here, and he shows me how to operate the camera.

Later that day, while we're lollygagging on the dock, his head in my lap, he looks through the photos I snapped on the camera.

"You're an excellent photographer."

"That's what Suzanna says," I say.

"Who's Suzanna?"

"My housemate. She's a poet, and she's always trying to get Jakob and me to show our stuff at her friend's galleries and things."

"Wait, who's Jakob?"

I feel his shoulders tense against my leg. "Calm down, stallion. Jakob is my other housemate."

"You have a man as a housemate?"

I roll my eyes. "Please tell me you're not jealous."

"Not jealous," he says, though I don't believe it.

"Don't worry, baby. Jakob is utterly devoted to some mystery woman."

"Huh?"

"He's a total recluse, and all he does is write letters to some childhood friend with whom he says he has a marriage pact. It's weird, though; I never see any letters show up at the house from her, though. So, I think he might be slightly touched in the head. Maybe he lost somebody, and these letters are his delusion that she's still around. Or maybe they're real, and there actually is some untold love story there. All I know is he spends all his time writing these letters and making art from found objects on the street."

"Hm," Sigurd grunts, and it reminds me oddly enough of Jakob. "You've spent a lot of time thinking about this Jakob."

Oh, brother.

"You two have the same kind of grunt, as a matter of fact. It's pretty adorable," I say.

"He's adorable? How adorable?"

"In a brotherly way," I say, lovingly slapping his shoulder.

"Well, if he loves this mystery woman, he should go and get her instead of writing her letters; that's my opinion," Sigurd said.

"You might be right about that."

"I'm also right about your photography," he said. "If you won't listen to Suzanna, you should listen to me. You're that good."

For some reason, this makes me shut down a bit. "Baby, I can only take so many compliments at once. Give me time to get used to you…used to us…being a thing."

Sigurd sits up straight. "One thing to understand about me is if you let me love you, then you let me love you all the way. If I'm trying to be your cheerleader, it's no bullshit."

"Okay, but you don't understand. It feels a little bossy. You don't get to dictate my life."

"I'm just trying to help."

I think I get it. He doesn't mean harm, but the words hit the wrong way.

Patience, Stasi. He's never been in a real relationship.

"Let's circle back to that later," I say, unlocking my phone and seeing my first news alert in days: "Prince Etienne is set to marry in ten days."

I take a deep breath because I can see this conversation is not going to go well.

"Perhaps we can discuss photography more after you return from your brother's wedding."

Sigurd fixes me with a curious gaze. "What?"

I flip my phone around and flash the screen at him. "Look."

He takes the phone and leans forward, reading the story. After a few seconds of scrolling, he sighs. "Wow. He's really still doing it."

"Yep."

"I'm not going to the wedding." He hands me my phone and then sits up straight, swinging his legs over the side of the dock.

"Why not?"

I look down and notice how the water covers him to mid-calf, while my toes barely scrape the lake's surface.

"Because it's not a real wedding."

"True," I say. "But he's your brother. And he's going to be king."

"I told you, I'm staying here until everything blows over."

"I'm confused," I say, resting my hand on his. "He's getting married, so you have nothing to worry about. You don't want to be king; clearly, Etienne does, or he wouldn't be going along with all of this. So, you're in the clear. Why not come out of hiding?"

"I like hiding. Hiding is what I do best."

"But you can't hide forever," I tease.

"Do you not want to be here with me?" Sigurd asks.

"I…yes…but…"

"Good," he says. "Because it sort of sounded like you were pushing me away."

I take a stab at what I think is happening here. With a heavy sigh, I reply, "I think we're having our first spat."

The prince lets out a low, rumbly sigh. "It doesn't feel good. I do not enjoy arguing with you."

"I don't enjoy it either. And…it seems that neither of us enjoys being pushed to do things we're not ready to do."

To my surprise, Sigurd's shoulders sag a little. Then, he says, "I can't be in that chapel with all those people. Even if I'm related to half of them. I just…can't do it. This is why Torben helped me arrange for my personal royal charity to involve something remote. The social gatherings, the pretense, the small talk, the expectations—all of it makes me feel like I could …well…die."

I swallow and take another stab at it. "Have you…talked to anyone about all this?"

"I'm talking to you," he says.

"A professional, I mean."

"No. Why would I? My brother solved it for me."

That's a temporary solution to a problem that goes deeper than simply preferring to be alone and in nature. "Okay," I say. "But maybe…just maybe, with you being a prince and all, you could easily get help."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore. And it's not as easy as you say."

Maybe not, but some things need to be said, so I press on. "I'm going to say something that you're really not going to like, and it might even make you not love me when I'm done saying it."

He grumbles a sound that makes my heart squeeze. "Go on…I think."

I inhale, my hands shaking. "Here's the thing. I would have sold my soul in foster care and at the group home to have someone to listen to my problems. Maybe I would have realized sooner that I deserved to be treated better. I had well-meaning but overworked social workers who were too tired and had bigger problems than me. Meanwhile, you have all the privilege in the world, and your father—the fucking king—never even had a thought about providing what you really needed. And now the adult in you is refusing it, despite knowing it might help the root cause of something blocking your happiness."

"Nothing is blocking my happiness. My happiness is with you," he says.

"Happiness isn't one person."

Strangely, a smile spreads across his face.

"What's happening? Why are you smiling at me like that, Sigurd?"

"You love me."

"Sigurd."

"You wouldn't give that speech to someone you didn't care about."

"Of course, I care about you."

"Yes. And you love me."

That shit-eating grin is going to kill me.

"Alright, fine, I love you."

Sigurd's entire body seems to shift from tight to loose. "Yeah, you do."

"Cocky much?" I ask, leaning to the side and nudging his shoulder.

"All the time, baby."

I yip in surprise as he pulls me onto his lap, his hands traveling under the hem of my shirt.

The sun is setting, and the sunny day is cooling down. I can see in his eyes he's got something on his mind, and it's not dinner.

His big hand spreads out, and his palm flattens across the small of my back as we kiss.

"Hey," he says. "I've never been skinny-dipping before. You want to?"

I chuckle. "Sure, but what I do is not called skinny-dipping. It's more like pudgy dunking."

"Even better," he says. "Now, get your clothes off and get in the water."

We still need to finish this difficult conversation.

But playing with Sigurd in the water is a whole different experience, and a welcome distraction. I can wrap my arms and legs around this man without thinking about how I might hurt his back.

His hands slide over my bare back, over my shoulders, and down to my ass. "Damn, you feel good, woman."

"I like this. You don't have to bend down to kiss me."

His hands squeeze my bottom. "You think I mind bending down to kiss you? Let's get something straight because we are gonna be kissing each other every day for the rest of our lives. I like kissing you. No, I love kissing you, and it's not that much of a height difference. I'll reach for you no matter what. I'm a moth and you're my flame, little girl."

No one has ever called me little, and no one ever would, except Sigurd, the Viking prince.

With my legs wrapped around his middle, the tip of his cock presses against the soft flesh of my under-thigh. He's hard and hot.

"What are you thinking about, Your Highness?"

Sigurd grits out, "I'm thinking about putting it in your ass."

My body heats from my scalp to my toes just thinking about that.

"Oh."

"Does that freak you out?"

I chuckle, "No. It freaks me out less than birthing a baby out of wedlock to excuse you from being crowned king."

It's true; I am a little freaked out at bringing a baby into the world for the wrong reasons. I'm warming to the idea of having a life, building a home, and making babies with Sigurd, though.

Still, I have to parse out my motivations here. I like him so much. Do I love him? I think I do.

Would I marry him? I can see myself marrying him.

But…I need time. Whether or not he's to be king, marrying into a royal family is a huge deal. Simply being the girlfriend of a royal is equal to being engaged in the eyes of the royal-obsessed public.

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," he says, picking up on my internal ruminations.

"I'm so glad you've figured that out about me," I say, putting a tiny bit of distance between our bodies so I can reach down and circle my hand around his length.

He's thick in my hand, and the touch of his skin warms me on this chilly evening. I glide my hand up and down his shaft, feeling every throb, reveling in every ragged breath.

The air is thick with whispers, murmurs, and groans as I pump him, milking him from his root to the throbbing tip.

When he goes rigid and pumps out his release, the prince buries his face against my neck. His seed surges into the water. Sigurd's body loosens under my clenching legs, and I want so much to have taken him inside and let him fill me.

He's a good man. I suspect he'd be a good man to me out in the real world. I simply know he's true to his word.

But for now, I will enjoy the man I have here in our cozy little hiding place.