“Excuse me, do you speak English?”

I turn my head to see a Japanese couple with their cameras out, holding them toward me like an offering.

“Yes I do,” I tell them. “Would you like your picture taken?”

“Oh yes please, thank you,” they say, handing me the camera and posing in front of the royal palace. I snap a few pictures and they go on their way, shivering as more snow starts to fall.

It’s hard to believe that it was just the other night that Viktor and I were here at the masquerade party and escaping on the Vespa. It reminded me that even though I came to de Kungliga Slotten (the royal palace) right after I arrived in Stockholm (it’s one of the major sights in the city) the jet lag seemed to have erased it from my memory. So here I am again, peering at the swords and crown jewels down in what can only be described as a dungeon, then traipsing the “royal apartments” as part of an audio tour.

A lot has happened since that night.

For one, we woke up the next morning to see Magnus, Viktor and I on the front page of the tabloids and the newspapers. All wearing masks, of course

Some of them reported on the Vespa ride (it was returned to the owner), some reported on the opulent party (calling it an orgy, which is a bit of a reach), some wrote about the fistfight that Freddie got into. That part was true. Poor Freddie still has a black eye.

Everyone speculated on who I was. All of them wrote about the “mystery girl that finally captured Prince Viktor’s heart” and now it seems the whole country is scrambling to figure out who I am.

There were a few interviews done with people who were at the masquerade party and they mentioned that “the Prince and her seemed to be very cozy” and “he couldn’t keep his hands off her, it was obvious that he was smitten” (I liked that one the best) and “I don’t know where she was from but she wasn’t Swedish.”

I guess in some ways we got lucky but in other ways it’s really fucked shit up. The paps are out on full force and have taken to hanging out by the main gates, which is why I’ve spent the day braving the cold and wandering around Gamla Stan and the Photography Museum, trying to keep myself occupied. I feel like a prisoner if I stay in the palace. I’m just lucky that Nick is able to sneak me out and lose anyone that starts to tail us. His training definitely comes in handy.

And now that the public knows that Viktor has someone serious, his parents are finally aware of me.

That’s the scariest part. Viktor went over there for dinner last night (while I ate in the kitchen with Bodi as he explained Swedish soap operas to me) and didn’t come home until late. He said it went fine and his parents weren’t upset but I know him well enough by now and I could tell he was upset.

I also know that since they know the truth about me, about where I come from, all my baggage, that I’m a commoner to the extreme, that they can’t be too happy about it.

I guess I’ll find out all that stuff in person tonight.

I’m supposed to meet them.

The King and Queen of Sweden.

At a private dinner party they’re holding at their palace for King Aksel of Denmark who is visiting.

I’ve been trying not to think about it because the more I think about it, the more nervous I get. I mean I’ve gone from being sequestered in the house to having to meet a queen and two fucking kings. All at once. I mean, I know meeting your boyfriend’s parents is nerve-wracking for anyone but in this case, I feel like I need to be drowning in aquavit just to get through it.

“Don’t be so nervous,” he says to me later that evening as we’re getting ready. “You’ll be fine. They will love you like I do.”

I give him a look.

“Well,” he corrects himself, “maybe not exactly like I do.”

“You’re nervous too, admit it.”

He raises his chin and stares down at me. “I will do no such thing.”

I sigh and turn to stare at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing the same long green satin dress that I wore to the masquerade party because I don’t have anything else that’s nice enough. I’ve put my hair up high and let a few strands of hair frame my face. I’m wearing peachy lipstick that I know drives Viktor wild and soft colors elsewhere. I’m trying for an elegant and classy lady and though I know I’m anything but, perhaps I can fool his parents.

Oh who am I kidding, I still probably have White Trash written across my forehead. If anyone can sniff that out it’s probably a King and Queen.

“So tell me about King Aksel,” I tell Viktor as we sit in the back of the car, Nick at the wheel. My leg is bouncing so much that he has to place his hand on it and hold me down. “Is he nice? I looked him up over the summer, he seems kind of young to be a king.”

Viktor straightens his tie, peering at himself in the rearview mirror. “King Aksel is a good guy. A bit reserved, maybe comes across as cold to most people. The Danish press seems terrified of him and loves taking photos of him looking harsh. But I swear once you get to know him he has a wicked sense of humor. And yes, he’s pretty young. I believe he’s having a big fortieth birthday bash this year that…” he trails off. “Well anyway, I will be attending.”

“Is there a queen? I read that he has daughters.”

“There was a queen,” he says. “She died last year.”

“Oh. Shit. I better not bring that up.”

“No. It was a shame too, she was beautiful, perfect, Denmark’s answer to Princess Di. Now Aksel has these three daughters and, well I guess you two might have more in common than I thought.”

That makes me feel a little bit better about this king although I’m not going to start up a conversation with him like “I heard you lost your wife, I lost my parents, let’s talk about how hard it is to raise kids on your own.”

It’s not long before the car is pulling up through the gates of Drottningholm Palace and even though it’s dark out and a layer of snow is blanketing the landscape, there’s no mistaking the in-your-face majesty of the palace.

It’s huge.

“Wow,” I say through a gasp as the car drives around a large statue, “This place is like…the palace of all palaces.” I look at Viktor with my brows raised. “And you’re going to live here one day?”

“We’ll see,” he says after a moment and I have no idea what that means. Why wouldn’t he want to live here? The place is so grand and opulent, lit up by dozens of lights against the night sky. Even though I’d never been to Versailles in France, that’s what it reminds me of. I tell Viktor this.

“Well, Swedish nobility originated in France,” he says. “This palace itself was built in the 16^th century. It’s a UNESCO heritage site. Gorgeous, but not very homey, in my opinion.”

“But you grew up here. I can’t imagine what that would have been like.”

He shrugs. “You know what you know.”

It’s truly something and honestly has me so awed that for a minute there I forget to be nervous.

That is until I step in through the front doors.

Gold ceilings, massive chandeliers, and columns made of quartz, busts and statues adorning the walls.

I so don’t belong here.

And in the middle of it all are what seem to be a group of staff. Now here are the butlers and maids and cooks you think about in all those fairy tales and they’re all here, hands behind their backs and waiting to attend to us.

One takes my coat, another hands me a glass of champagne and then a tall thin man in a suit with slicked back blonde hair and an iron jaw is whisking Viktor and I over to another opulent room that puts the ones at our palace to shame. I didn’t even think that you could compare palaces and have one be better than another but it turns out you can.

“This place is incredible,” I whisper to Viktor.

He eyes my champagne glass. Which is suddenly empty. “Thirsty?”

Nervous as fuck, I mouth to him.

“They’ll be with you shortly,” the blonde guy says to Viktor, seeming to give me a look of disdain before he strides off.

“What’s with Dolf over there?” I joke.

“How did you know his name was Dolf?”

I blink at him and laugh. “Are you serious? His name is Dolf? I was making a joke. You know because he looks like that actor, Dolf Lundgren? You know, The Punisher and He-Man and --”

“Dolf Lundgren is a national hero,” he says, almost defensively.

Dead serious.

“Is he Swedish?” I ask.

“Who, the actor or my father’s private secretary?”

I’m going to assume they’re both Swedish. “Never mind.”

“His real name is Hans, by the way,” Viktor says under his breath just as the doors open and two butlers come in, standing to the side of the doors.

One of the butlers announces something in Swedish.

Oh shit. This got real.

The King and Queen of Sweden step inside the room.

Both Viktor and I immediately get to my feet and I realize he hasn’t taught me any of the royal protocol, so I’m trying to do my best impression of a curtsey.

They both walk, no, glide into the room and stop right in front of us.

I glance up and they’re staring down at me with tight smiles.

Shit. Maybe I’m not supposed to curtsey. Or maybe it just looks like I have a bad back.

“Mamma, pappa,” Viktor says before he switches to English. “This is Miss Maggie McPherson.”

I straighten up and give them my brightest smile, the one that says, I’m sweet and normal I swear, please don’t hate me.

“How do you do?” I say and then offer my hand.

They both look down at my hand and then over to Viktor, nonplussed.

In the agonizingly awkward seconds that my hand is just out there waiting, I take a good look at them. I’ve seen pictures of course, but in person they’re just that much more intimidating. More good-looking too. Viktor’s father has thick dark hair peppered with gray and a tall, foreboding stature. His mother has delicate features, high cheekbones, a stylish blonde bob that set off her glacial blue eyes. For some reason I expected both to be in tuxedos and gowns but they’re both in modest suits, hers pink, his a dark green.

Then, for a second, I’m thinking maybe they don’t speak English and they don’t know what he’s saying or how to talk to me.

Finally, after an exchange of looks between the three of them, his mother - the fucking queen – extends her hand to mine and gives it a firm shake. “So nice to meet you,” she says.

“Likewise,” I tell her. “Your Majesty,” I add quickly.

The King shakes my hand after. “Viktor said you were beautiful,” he says. “I see that he is right.”

My smile gets shaky. See, that wasn’t so bad. The king thinks I’m beautiful and the queen says it was nice to meet me. That could have been worse.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “Your Grace.”

He looks at Viktor and back to me. “We don’t really use that term here in Sweden.”

“Oh I’m so sorry!” I exclaim.

“Not a problem,” he says to me though he’s giving Viktor a look like who is this crazy girl and why haven’t you been teaching her anything proper?

I’m about to open my mouth and make a remark about no cow on the ice but I decide from now on I better just shut up. I tend to talk and babble when I’m nervous and this is no exception.

“Shall we have a drink before the guests arrive?” his mother says and Viktor leads me to the end of the ginormous room where a few couches and love seats are gathered around what looks to be a solid gold coffee table.

A butler comes in and stares at me expectantly.

“What will you have, dear?” the Queen asks.

“What are you having?” I ask.

“Just coffee,” she says to the butler.

Shit. I guess that means I’m having coffee.

“Maggie will have a glass of champagne,” Viktor says, coming to my rescue. “I’ll have a scotch.”

“Make that two,” his father says as the butler replies something that must be the equivalent of “very good” in Swedish and goes to the lavish bar cart in the corner which happens to have an espresso machine.

“So,” the Queen says as she’s handed her coffee. “Viktor tells me you’re a journalism student.”

“Was a journalism student,” I tell her. “I studied at NYU.”

“That’s a very good school,” Viktor’s father comments. “Do you see yourself pursuing a job in that field at some point? Viktor tells me you’re currently a…housekeeper?”

I smile stiffly. “Was a housekeeper.” I swear Viktor kicks me on purpose. “I quit my job to come here.”

“Oh,” his mother says then takes a sip of her coffee. “I see.”

This isn’t going well.

The butler hands me my champagne and I immediately busy myself by drinking it.

Viktor puts a hand on my knee and squeezes it. “I’m sure Maggie will be going back to journalism very soon. She’s a natural reporter and a gifted writer. In fact, I think her interview skills are hard to duplicate. Did you know that within five minutes, she was getting all the details of Nick’s personal life?”

“No kidding,” his father says, seeming impressed.

“Yes, he admitted that his favorite musician at the moment is Harry Styles. Anyway, she has a promising career ahead of her.”

I’m glad that Viktor is sticking up for me like this, even though it’s not exactly true. I haven’t really thought much about journalism lately, especially after I didn’t end up writing the article about him. Maybe I’m too preoccupied, maybe I’ve just moved on. They say whatever you end up studying rarely becomes your career.

I am a little annoyed that Viktor is talking for me though. It’s a bad habit of his, along with ordering for me and the like. I know he can be bossy and dominant sometimes and I don’t even think he realizes it. In this case, though, it’s best to let him keep talking. He knows how to work his parents.

After that though, the small talk changes from me to King Aksel, and then some other people I don’t know from other countries and I end up feeling pretty excluded and rather bored. I just keep drinking my champagne and wishing we could go back home.

Then King Aksel arrives and we’re all hustled out into the hall and everything gets very formal.

I stand beside Viktor, waiting to greet him.

King Aksel is tall and handsome with a cutting jaw sprinkled with stubble, his hair a sandy brown. His eyes are hard and squinty and this gem-like dark blue and he seems to be perpetually frowning. He’s almost too perfect except for his nose which is crooked in places and seems to have been broken a few times. I wonder what the story is there.

I’m introduced to King Aksel and I do my best not to fuck it up. I almost do by offering my hand again but before I can move it, Viktor grabs it and holds it to my side with an iron grip. That’s when I realize that perhaps you aren’t supposed to offer your hand first to royalty.

So I wait for King Aksel to offer his hand first and I barely say anything else other than “Your Majesty” followed by a short curtsey.

This seems to satisfy him but I can’t be sure. His eyes flutter with a lot of dark emotions I can’t read into and his grip on my hand is crushing. What is it with these Nordic royals and their strong hands?

I’m then introduced to the entourage that follows him in, his sister Princess Stella and her family, plus head secretaries and a few dignitaries and maybe the entire cast of Hamlet.

The dinner is upstairs in what I’m sure is one of many dining rooms and as I climb the stairs with Viktor, hanging onto his arm while making sure I don’t step on my dress, I’m accosted with the gorgeous sounds of classical music which makes everything seem extra fairy-tale like and royal.

When I get to the second floor I’m shocked to find a man sitting at a grand piano in the hall and playing the music live.

The queen turns to me and says, “Are you a fan of classical music?”

“Yes!” I exclaim. I mean, I like it a lot. I used to listen to it when I studied. “And I adore Chopin’s Waltz,” I add, proud that I remembered the name of the piece.

She flinches and lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Chopping?” she repeats.

I nod. “Yes. Chopin.”

Viktor groans from beside me.

The queen shakes her head, biting back a smile. “It’s not chopping, dear. It’s French. It’s pronounced Chopin.”

Like show-pan?

Oh. My. God.

My cheeks go bright red.

The queen exchanges a humorous look with Viktor and then walks ahead.

I glance up at him, ready to crawl into a hole and die. How American must I have just sounded? Chopping? Like choppin’ wood? Jesus.

Viktor is trying not to laugh but he fails.

“You jerk,” I whisper. “That was so embarrassing!”

“Was? I think it still is.”

I punch him on the arm, much to the amusement of some of the other guests as we make our way into the dining room. Whatever, at this point I’ve lost all credibility. I’m the uncouth American to everyone, watch me blunder my way through this next portion of the night.

But even though dinner looked to be an intimidating affair with this long fancy table and waiters hovering around and five courses and a million forks and knives, none of which I know how to use either, the whole event isn’t too bad. It helps that no one really pays me any attention so they just talk about everyone and everything else.

By the time the deserts come out though, people start retiring to different sections of the room and both the King and Queen sequester Viktor, leading him out of the room and elsewhere.

Viktor glances at me over his shoulder with a look that tells me not to worry, he’ll be back, and then I’m left alone with all these people I don’t know.

Fuck. This is the worst part of parties and being with royalty who come from completely different lives than I do, let alone, most people, I just want to shrink in the corner.

But I try making small talk with Princess Stella who is probably in her early thirties and when that doesn’t really go anywhere, I start making conversation with her daughter Anya. She might only be six but she’s the best talker out of all of them, and she speaks fluent English as well. We get in a discussion about Katy Perry and once again I’m grateful for pop stars, the universal language.

Finally, once the drinks start getting passed around and Viktor still hasn’t come back yet, I get up to go and find the bathroom and end up wandering down an endless hallway. Shit, I hope I don’t get lost and then end up walking into some forbidden room or something like that. I bet they have a dungeon downstairs that they would gladly stick me in.

“Maggie,” I hear Viktor whisper from behind me.

I turn to see him creeping toward me with his finger to his mouth, telling me to be quiet. The fact that he’s in a suit and doing this along the ornate palace hallways reminds me of a movie I can’t quite place.

“Where are your parents?” I ask him in a hush.

“They’re coming,” he says.

“Where did you go?”

“They wanted to have a talk with me.”

I stare at him. “Yeah, and? What did you talk about?”

“Many things. Nothing to worry about.” He jerks his head back toward the dining room. “How is it in there? Has Aksel softened up at all?”

“A bit,” I tell him. “Everyone is getting into the brandy and aquavit now. I was just going to freshen up my lipstick. Normally I would whip it out and do it right there but it feels so rude in front of the King of Denmark.”

Viktor smirks. “It’s so easy to take that sentence the wrong way. Come on.” He takes my arm and strides down the hallway, shoulders back, taking long, wide steps, like he’s the king of everything. Even though he seems to have hesitations about this place, it certainly suits him.

We walk past several doors and it isn’t until he pokes his head in a library and ushers me inside that I clue in to what’s going on. He looks back and forth down the hall to make sure no one saw us, then shuts the doors gently.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Stealing you away from the party,” he says, grabbing me by the silky waist of my green dress and turning me so my back is pressed up against a row of books. “Taking you for myself.”

“Sounds selfish,” I tease.

“Sounds like the truth,” he says. He brushes the loose strands of my hair behind my ears. “I hate having to share you with people. That my parents and other monarchs want a piece, have an opinion. I hate that I can’t keep you for myself. I hate that soon, whatever private and precious thing we have will be gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we can’t stay a secret forever, Maggie. People will find out who you are. And I don’t want the world to cheapen what we have.”

“Cheapen?” I repeat. “Because they’ll find out I’m a commoner, is that right? No wait, I’m worse than a commoner. I clean commoner’s hotel rooms and live in small-town in America, taking care of five kids.”

“Maggie,” he whispers to me, picking up my hand and kissing my knuckles, his eyes sinking deep into mine. “Don’t say such things. You know that it’s not true, that you’re not cheap. None of that matters. What matters is that I’m public property and I don’t want you to be public property too.”

I guess I was a bit defensive. I give him a soft smile. “Sorry. I guess I always think the worst.”

“Don’t think the worst,” he tells me. Winks. “Especially when I’m about to give you my best.”

I let out a laugh that turns into a gasp as he grabs my hips and hoists me up so that I’m balanced on the edge of a book shelf, my hands gripping the sides to keep me steady. He tugs my dress up so it’s gathered around my waist, then crouches down, his head between my legs, my underwear pushed to the side.

I barely have time to compose myself, to prepare, to say “hey, are you sure we should be doing this here?” I don’t get to say any of that because he’s at me like he’s starving, his fingers sliding me apart, his tongue and mouth so soft and warm. I feel every sensation like a bullet, each stroke a hit, radiating outward.

And just like that, any hesitation I had about him screwing me in the palace library melts away. His touch always brings what I feel for him to the forefront. It’s how he soothes me, how he tells me that what we have is good and strong and that we’re meant for each other.

I want so much from him. But among his satisfied groans and his hungry sounds, I know he just wants to devour me. He wants me to have as much pleasure as he can bring me, because he isn’t sure that he’s doing enough, making me feel enough. He doesn’t want to share me with the world.

But he won’t.

I’m all his, always his.

I groan, loudly, and my fingers curl around the edges of the shelf. I’m not sure if this room has cameras and I don’t think it has a lock, so what we’re doing could get us in big trouble. It’s not secret in here that we’re together but even so…

My thoughts melt away again, becoming less and less as he licks me out.

His mouth is ruthless. He’s tireless. His tongue plunges deep inside me before licking up my clit and sucking me into his mouth. I nearly scream, my body at the height of all awareness, on the verge of overload.

He reaches down with one hand, and two long, beautiful fingers thrust deep inside, curling against me. The heat builds deeper, and my nerves are a million champagne bottles about to burst. It’s the slow, twisting anticipation that makes my mouth drop open and my neck arch back until my head meets the books on the shelves.

God, I’m not sure how much longer I can last and Viktor’s just gotten started. My legs clench around his face, driving his lips and tongue and fingers against me, inside me, harder, deeper, and he responds by acting as if I’m all he needs to live his life, like he’d die without me.

With impatient hands, he pulls me toward him, his tongue hard and urgent, and the world begins to move, to swing like a pendulum and we’re both on it for the ride.

I want to feel him, all of him. My hips rock into him hard. He drags his tongue back over my clit, flicking it so fast, back and forth, over and over, and I can’t breathe anymore.

He moans against me, the vibrations shattering my resolve.

And then I let go.

I’m swirling into space, coming into his mouth, nearly falling off the edge of the shelf. His hands grip my waist, holding me up, while he finishes me up with the hard suck of his lips, ripping a cry out of my throat.

I’m loud. I know I am. And at this blissful moment I don’t mind if someone in the hallway knows, overhears my cries, because this man is incredible and the whole world should know it.

When my orgasm subsides against his lips, he straightens up, staring at me with feverish eyes. His eyes that say he knows my body better than anyone, better than myself, and he’ll never stop proving it.

Instinctively, I grab his head and kiss him, long and soft, the taste of me on his tongue reinvigorating me.

He moans into my mouth, and it’s a sound straight from his gut, making my blood run even hotter. “You taste like a peach,” he whispers, his lips moving to my neck. “Now you know just how good.”

I undo his belt and unzip his pants, fumbling for his cock, grasping his stiff length in my palm, so hot and pulsing against my skin. He moves forward and I guide him in, so wet and ready for him that he slides in like silk, our bodies accustomed to each other with a beautiful kind of ease.

I wrap my legs around his waist, the dress flowing around us, my heels digging into his firm ass as he starts rocking into me, each slow, slick glide igniting my nerves once again.

I whimper as we find our rhythm, like we always find our rhythm. My body aches from wanting him so intensely, and without saying anything, his body responds, always giving me more than I need.

Always more, never less.

“Maggie,” he groans against me, breathless, as a bead of sweat falls off his brow and onto my collarbone. He thrusts in harder and deeper, and it feels like the air is being pushed out of my lungs and I’m clinging to his body as his pace quickens.

I press my nails into his back, hanging onto the ride. Our skin slaps together in a violent, thick sound that echoes off the bookshelves. Each push is long and hard, and he grunts with effort until his cock hits me in just the perfect place.

I come hard.

His hips pound against me, brutal, punishing, and he’s gone in a flurry of groans, my name whispered over and over as he claws at my hips, releasing every inch of himself inside me, shooting as far and as deep as he can go.

When we’ve both caught our breath, when our hearts have slowed their schizophrenic pace, he pulls out of me and he grabs my waist, lowering me to the hardwood floor, my ass completely numb.

“Well,” I say after a few moments, reaching up and straightening his tie. I’m a bit unsteady on my feet, my legs feeling heavy, my head full of stars and champagne. “Wasn’t that a royal treat?”

“I think we both needed that tonight. Just so we can get through the rest of this evening.” He grins at me and grabs my hand, squeezing it. “Let’s go join the party.”

“I think they’ll know what we were doing,” I tell him as we open the doors and look out into the hall. Empty.

“Let them think what they want,” he says.

Though I have a feeling he might regret saying that.