Chapter 3

Stasi

Darkness is all around me as water rushes into my nostrils.

I need to get to the surface but can't find it. The shadow of the upturned boat above me makes everything dark and murky when I open my eyes beneath the surface to get my bearings.

Or is the boat below me?

I try not to panic, but it's difficult to remain calm when one is not a strong swimmer, and your brain is confused as to which way the surface is.

I wish I'd paid more attention when the nicer foster family put me in swim lessons when I was a chubby ten-year-old. The best I could do was dog paddle. I stopped going when the lifeguard I admired—a beautiful teenage boy—told me I was a "floater and not a sinker" and pointed out my rail-thin foster sister to illustrate his comment. "She sinks to the bottom like a lot of thin people do. You have the good fortune of being a floater. It's just biology."

He may not have meant any offense, but I took it to heart. I never continued my lessons.

How ironic that this trip was intended, in part, to help me be more confident in the water.

Finally, the cold water jolts my rational brain. I'm a floater. I can just float to the top!

The second I stop flailing about, it happens. I stretch my arms out and begin to float to the surface. I hope. At least until a huge tree branch gets in my way.

Most alarmingly, this branch is attached to what must be a dead tree or something under the water because I am fully wedged now. Another bout of panic sets in, and I kick and shove against the branch, only to realize it's not a branch after all.

That's an arm.

Before it registers that the arm belongs to the man I saw on the dock, I've broken the water's surface, and I'm expelling a bucket full of lake water from my nose.

"Don't…struggle." commands the deep voice against my neck. "Relax against me."

It's not as if I have a choice.

I'm being hauled onto the steady surface of the weather-beaten dock, where the big arm sets me down gently on my side.

Air…wonderful, delicious oxygen. I'm safe. Although I'm still coughing and struggling to breathe, I manage to rasp, "The…boat…I lost the boat…"

"Taken care of," he says gruffly.

As oxygen returns to my brain, I remember the prince.

Prince Sigurd was the one standing on the dock, glaring at me.

Behind me, there's a clatter of wood, a straining grunt, and a swish of water over the dock. I rotate to my opposite side, shielding my eyes from the sun, and watch as a shirtless, sopping-wet prince secures the righted rowboat to the dock pole.

A waterlogged white shirt sits in a lump on the deck. I swallow with guilt as I watch the tanned back work, muscles and tendons bunching with the effort of tying off the boat. His cotton trousers are so soaked that the waistband is slung low on his hips, revealing twin depressions just above his rump.

I should not be staring at those things. What are they called? Hip dimples? Pelvic caves? Divots the perfect size and shape for licking?

Well, that tracks. I nearly drowned a second ago, and now I'm staring at a man's body like I'm entitled to stare.

At a fucking royal.

The royal family's youngest son and middle child is the burliest of all of them.

Sigurd, the one they call the Wild Prince, just pulled me out of the water.

All the Haart men are ruggedly handsome, but Sigurd? Sigurd is in a class of his own as he towers above everyone, with his unkempt hair, untrimmed beard, and limbs tanned from working out of doors.

I am more of an indoor girl, but maybe that makes Sigurd all the more fascinating.

I have occasionally wondered whether he'd be hairy, too.

Just then, he turns to face me and answers that question. Water drips from the whorls of soft-looking hair accenting his chest, and droplets find their way down, down, and down the fuzzy stomach to the vee lines and lower still. My cheeks heat as I look away. I should not be seeing this much royal skin, especially not one as nice to look at as Sigurd, whose movements are so stimulating to look at.

Look at me. Almost drowned and still having horny thoughts. Well, as soon as this Sasquatch skedaddles, I can handle that problem using a toy I brought.

But he doesn't leave. In fact, he does the opposite. Before I can say another word, this man is scooping me up and carrying me, one arm hooked under my knees and the other supporting my back.

Then it hits me. Did he come here to get his money back? Has he just realized how huge of a tip he gave me and will now force me to give it back?

"What are you doing?" I ask. It's more of a shout than a question.

He grumbles, "Getting you off the dock before someone shows up to investigate all the screaming."

I am offended.

"I didn't scream; I gasped," I protest.

The prince doesn't reply; he only marches down the dock and crosses the wide clearing like he's on a mission.

"Dunno what you think you're doing not wearing a life jacket in my rowboat, especially if you don't know how to swim," he throws in for good measure when we reach the cabin.

Okay. There's a lot to unpack with that sentence.

"First of all," I say, trying not to notice how he somehow opens the cabin door with a knee while still carrying me princess-style, "I do know how to swim. I just got disoriented." Lies. I'm a lying liar who lies. "Secondly, your rowboat? Since when is that your rowboat?"

He doesn't answer but sweeps me over the threshold, and now I'm blushing because of this? Yeah…this looks like a groom carrying a bride over the threshold, and it's working for me. A little too well. A lot too well.

I am…uncomfortable with how comfortable I feel in the arms of a man I've never met before.

I could be mistaken, but I may see a twinkle of amusement in his silvery gray eyes as he gently sets me down on the sofa. But then, the glimmer is gone like a wisp in the next second as the prince turns away from me and heads to the kitchen.

"It's been my rowboat since the day I built it," he mutters, not looking at me as he fills the kettle with water from the tap.

He built it? He made a fucking rowboat?

Okay, he's delusional. One of the oars struck him on the head when he dove into the water to rescue me.

Prince Sigurd continues to putter around the kitchen, gathering tea and sugar and mugs and spoons. Meanwhile, I'm dripping all over the sofa.

"I'm soaking these cushions, and there's water all over the floor. I'm going to change."

"Don't move," he orders.

"But the sofa…?"

"Is ugly," he tosses over his shoulder as he fetches the milk from the fridge and sniffs it.

It's a brand new sofa that I would kill to own, and the knockoff version of it costs over a thousand euros. I know this because I was browsing furniture online the day after this very prince tipped me after that scene at the pub with his brother. I'd figured it was time to graduate from my wood-plank-and-cinder-block entertainment unit and make an actual grown-up sitting area. I changed my mind when I got distracted by a call on the house phone for Jakob, the caller ID saying it was from Mirror Lake. I thought that sounded like a nice place to visit. And then I remembered the whole country was due for an unseasonable late September heat wave that would only make moods in the house snappier and crankier.

On top of that, I told myself that I deserved some time away. So, after handing the phone to Jakob, I sat down and looked up vacation rentals in that area. It's better to make memories with this windfall than buy stuff.

And here I am, ruining this beautiful sofa that I can't afford to replace. The rental company is going to be pissed. "I should go change."

"Don't move until I check you over for a concussion. That's an order."

There was a time in my life when I would have run away when someone gave me firm orders like this. I was too used to being ordered around, hemmed in by my foster families and the group home. Anyone telling me what to do or not do with my body triggers a flight response. This fact was something I learned during my last go-round in the group home when they brought in a counselor to help me transition out of the house when I turned 18. She was really lovely and helped me understand my emotions before reacting. That was super helpful when I had to get a job. I like the tips while waiting tables but hate when the manager shouts. And when the chef hurls abuse the way he does, I don't just want to run; I want to stab.

Imagine my surprise when I notice that Sigurd's tone doesn't trigger my fight or flight response at all. It's giving me something else I can't quite identify. I stay still because I simply want to stay still.

"How do you take your tea?" asks the prince.

It must be the way he doesn't shout and is only firm. It could be the way he uses so few words to get his point across. The way he shows no emotion.

"Splash of milk, one sugar," I say, my throat still slightly scratchy from my accident.

I watch Prince Sigurd closely as he walks over a moment later and hands me a steaming mug printed with words on the side. I can't quite read, but it looks like the scrawling handwriting of a nine-year-old.

He moves deliberately but carefully.

"Thank you," I say.

Our eyes meet when I take the tea, and I look for something in those haunting gray irises. They give me nothing. Neither coldness or annoyance or even a little bit of amusement. I find this weirdly comforting.

He clears his throat and watches me drink my tea. I stare at the mug, finally deciphering the words, then take a sip. It's perfect tea, and he's invited to stay as long as he wants, as long as he continues to make tea precisely like this.

He seems to be waiting for me to speak, so I say, "It's good. Thank you, ‘World's Best Big Brother.'"

Sigurd looks confused, but then his cheeks flush. "Present from my sister when she was just a wee thing," he says, nodding toward the mug in my hands.

"Ah. From Princess Flora?"

He nods curtly and walks away, finished with hovering over me, I suppose.

I feel like an idiot. Of course, it was from Princess Flora. You know this man and all his siblings. Would there be anyone else related to him that you don't know? It's hardly possible with the reputations of the Reckless Royals, as the media calls them.

He comes back a moment later, holding a flashlight.

"Hold still and do not blink."

"Why?"

He doesn't repeat himself; he only clicks on the light and shines it directly into my left eye.

With a harrumph, he forces my eyelid open and moves in closer. Then he repeats this with my other eye.

Okay, now I feel the urge to run because he's touching my face, but then I remind myself he's checking me over for a concussion. He's helping me because I might be injured. Still, he could have asked before scooping me up and putting his hands all over my face.

"Any nausea?"

I shake my head no, controlling my urge to punch him in the throat. But he is royalty, and I wouldn't dare. Plus, he seems to know what he's doing.

You can't trust a man just because he's royalty. But this one has huge, weathered hands. Sexy hands, with sinew and soft hairs along the back…thick knuckles that have been cut, bitten, and healed over…calloused fingertips that have swung an ax and held the hand of a little sister.

Gah. Get a grip, Stasi.

I'm attaching a lifetime of stories to a man I barely know. He rescued me, he's being kind to me, and on top of all that, he's not hitting on me even a little bit. Therefore, my brain wants to attach to him.

And then I remember that he's probably here because he wants his tip money back. Jerk.

Just then, there's a knock on the door. Desperate to end this moment, I stand up to answer it. "That'll be my groceries!" I say.

"Hey, I said to be still," Sigurd says, his voice hard but not scolding.

Ignoring him, I answer the door to a sweet young twenty-something carrying several boxes of groceries.

"Hi!" I say.

The kid's eyes travel over my body before he corrects himself. It's…uncomfortable.

"Come on in," I say.

"Stay right there," the grumpy bear growls behind me.

The bear reaches past me and takes the box of groceries out of the bag boy's hands. "I've got it."

I sigh. "Please come in while I get my cash to tip you," I tell the young man.

Despite the prince's bad attitude, he takes my groceries from the bag boy and sets them on the kitchen table. Then the prince returns to the door and blocks it with his big shoulders, his arms crossed in front of his brawny chest.

"Come on," I say, chuckling and rifling through my wallet and pulling out a few small bills for the lad.

The kid is eyeballing Sigurd and looks scared out of his wits.

"Honestly," I mutter, reaching past his hulking form to hand the tip to the kid. "Here," I say, shooting him a bright smile. "Sorry for Paul Bunyan; he's not used to people."

When the door closes and the kid drives away, I approach Sigurd.

"Who is Paul Bunyan?" The prince asks.

I ignore this. "What's wrong with you?"

"Huh?"

"You were so mean to that kid."

"Mean?"

"You stood in his way after I invited him in," I said.

"He was ogling you."

"Ogling? Come on."

"Anastasia, he was staring at your…breasts," he says, breaking up his sentence with an awkward throat clearing. Sigurd's eyes are everywhere but on my face.

I shiver at that. No one calls me Anastasia.

"Stasi," I correct.

"Stasi," he repeats. "Did you not see the way he looked at you?"

I stare at him, my body still ringing from when he spoke my name.

I don't want to admit that I felt uneasy about how the young man stared. Because wasn't I just staring at the prince in the same fashion?

Wait, how did he know my name? Oh, of course, he tracked me down, remember?

With that fact in mind, I don't want to give Sigurd the satisfaction that he protected me from something. He's annoying. He's here because he wants to discuss how he overtipped me. He wants his money back so badly that somehow he found out where I was. I suppose the royal hunter has his ways.

"I can take care of myself," I say.

We stare at each other for a long moment, neither of us saying a word, but both of us undoubtedly feel the charge of extreme annoyance in the air between us.

An early evening breeze sweeps in through the windows, and I shiver involuntarily.

"Get changed into some dry clothes. I'll start a fire," he says.

"Fine." I swallow the rest of my tea and hand the empty mug over to his outstretched hand. My body is deeply aware of him staring as I walk to the bed to rifle through my suitcase.

Alone in the bathroom, I peel off my swim top and shimmy out of my swim shorts, tossing them into the tub with a wet slap. I get a look at myself in the mirror. A drowned rat looks back at me with a matted mess of hair. The lake water might look clean, but I'll need to wash my hair now.

And then I see what it is that caused such a fuss. My nipples are as hard as river stones. Likely they were poking right through the swim top. Oh gods.

Heat flushes my cheeks as I rinse my suit under the warm water, hang it over the rod, and idly wonder what happened to my bra.

While I'm washing my hair and trying not to think about my tits, a thought hits me.

When I'd first approached the grumpy-looking Sigurd on the dock, he'd been holding my bra.

And now it's probably lost in the lake due to my clumsy ass.

The one and only bra that I'd brought because I'd planned on spending most days braless, topless, or in a bikini.

And now I'm here, alone, with a royal freak who likes to steal women's underthings.

Yeah, I gotta get the fuck out of here because I'm not going to let someone fuck around with my bras and panties.

Am I?

No! Absolutely not. That's just…weird.

… isn't it?

Hell. Even if I want to stick my tongue down a man's throat—and I kind of do—that doesn't change the fact that that man is most likely a weirdo.

A weirdo who pulled me from the water, carried me like I weighed nothing, checked me over for signs of a concussion, made me tea, and put away my groceries.

Those things change nothing.

Just because I feel fluttery when my brain conjures up an intrusive thought of those big hands using my bra to masturbate doesn't make it okay for him to do that.

Which he probably didn't. Right? Sigh. No telling. But still.

Stasi, be smart.It doesn't matter how big, rugged, gorgeous, or royal someone is; they don't get to fuck around with my shit.

And that's that.