Page 31 of The Midnight Princess
I like how he never pretends.
“Tiara, earrings, necklace…” I answer, allowing myself to believe that I really am teaching him something he has to know, that I’m not at his mercy. “A matching set. No one has seen them in decades.”
“Mm.”
He extracts another pin, and the tiara wobbles. I brace it as he discovers more anchors, brushing my neck and the tips of my ears, sending tiny electric shocks along my veins. When he lifts the tiara free, I hear a knock.
“That will be Mama’s dresser,” I say, standing reflexively.
“No, you don’t.” Jacob eases me back into my seat, hand clasping the back of my neck, almost circling it, his index finger sinking into my hair. “This is the box?” he asks, touching the tooled leather case.
When I nod, he fits the tiara inside, and I hand him the earrings. Technically, this box shouldn’t leave my hands, but the tablets haven’t kicked in.
“I’m coming back,” he says with a voice well-suited to demanding answers and calling for decisive action. The list of his virtues is growing longer. There was almost nothing in that column last week. “Change into something comfortable.”
I hear the low-voiced conversation at the front door and duck into the closet. Sliding the Werewolf’s Girlfriend onto a padded hanger and my high heels into a fitted cubby, I glance at my nightgown. Rich honey-colored satin cut on the bias, paired with a deep neckline outlined in delicate lace trim. It’s not the only one. Every nightgown I own screams, “I’m an obscenely rich widow living in Monaco for tax reasons and willing to allow a gigolo to attempt to seduce me out of my fortune.”
Everyflamengown has a matching robe. All flamboyant. I groan and slide the hangers around, looking for anything that communicates, “I’m a prudent public servant who would knowto tie her fortune up in a diversified stock portfolio and carefully vetted real estate investments”.
At the back of my closet, I unearth a pair of basic joggers and an old Harvard sweatshirt. It will have to do.
Jacob’s voice, muffled through the door, finds me. “She inspected the box twice and told me to tell you that if you ever let them out of your sight again, you’re getting the Cyclops.”
I yank the pants on and juggle the shirt, looking for the way in.
“Cyclops?” he adds.
“Clara’s tiara,” I explain, tugging the sweatshirt over my hips. I ease the door open. “It’s got a big rock in the middle that looks like an eyeball.”
When he gets a look at my outfit, he gives a low, teasing whistle.
I return a quelling smile. “Thank you,” I say, guiding him out of my room. I’m acutely aware of the stack of lumpy winter hats next to my knitting basket, the pile of papers scattered across my desk, and a novel,Death by Plum Flummery, on my bedside table. If he sees any more of me, I’ll have to kill him.
It would not be the first time an extrajudicial assassination of a foreign prince happened on the grounds of the Summer Palace.
Jacob turns quickly, and my hands land against his chest. Even a piercing headache can’t override the unwanted wish to slip and keep slipping until I’m in his arms.Vede, Alma, no. This princess of Sondmark would never do such a thing—betray the trust of her queen, drop her defenses in the face of an enemy, want something she can’t have.
“Let me,” he says, voice low. He moves into my space, and I have enough sense—just enough—to move away. I keep moving until the backs of my knees hit a chair, and I sit down with a plop. “I’ll do the hair, too,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” I breathe, but I’m tired and his hands are already working another set of hair pins out, and this feels so good. I close my eyes.
The painkillers hit when he’s halfway through, the medicine slowly unweaving the band of pain over my brow and temples, and I let out a sigh.
“Say what you like about the Old World,” he murmurs, “but you don’t get over-the-counter painkillers like that in the U.S.”
A braid slips loose, and he works the translucent rubber band from the end. His thumb presses into the plait, deconstructing it from the bottom up, the rippling hair holding its shape.
The tips of his fingers explore another coil, his brows gather, and he tips my head to the light. “Why is this so complicated?” he asks, running a finger along the roots of my hair. Each time a section moves, it feels like a bruise.
“I need to look good from every angle.”
“You’re in pain.”
“I’m impatient.” I tap his hand, resting gently on my head, fingers tangled in my hair.
He tips my face up so we’re eye to eye, even if upside down. His gaze flicks to my lips and away, leaving my stomach in knots.
“Is it worth it?”
