He snuck into her room each night, when security switched to the late shift, and left again at dawn. They weren’t doing everything, but still, Beatrice had barely slept all week. She offered, once, to come by his room instead, but Connor’s refusal was adamant. If someone caught Connor outside her rooms at odd hours, they could at least give a plausible explanation. There was no reason for the Princess Royal to be up on the third-floor staff hallway.

Each morning Connor lingered a minute or two longer, both of them stretching out the night as if they couldn’t bear for it to end.

They talked for hours, about everything in the world except this—the sheer madness of what they were doing. It was as if they both thought that they could keep getting away with it, as long as they never spoke of it aloud.

Beatrice knew that they should talk about it. If she were braver, she would turn to Connor and ask him that very question: “What are we doing?” But then, she already knew the answer.

They were being reckless and foolish; they were tempting fate; they were breaking the rules; they were falling in love.

Or they had fallen in love a long time ago, and only now had the chance to act on it.

Lately, Beatrice had started to let another thought in, one so radical that she hadn’t even voiced it aloud.

What if there was a way that they could be together?

Sure, no commoner had ever married into the royal family. But no woman had ever sat on the throne before, either. Times were changing. Maybe a future with Connor wasn’t as utterly impossible as she thought.

Beatrice propped herself on one elbow, to gaze down at Connor’s outstretched form. She traced her fingers lightly along his jaw, rough with stubble, relishing the shiver that her touch evoked.

She let her hand skim still lower; over his sculpted shoulders, along the corded strength of his forearms. Connor swallowed. She felt his pulse jumping over his skin, as erratic and feverish as her own.

Finally her fingertips came to rest over his heart, above the sweeping lines of his tattoo. She loved that she could see it at last.

“Will you tell me the story behind this?”

It was an eagle, drawn over the broad planes of Connor’s chest in stark black ink. Its massive wings were unfurled, stretching from the top of his ribs up to the base of his throat. There was a boldness to the lines that evoked movement and a firm eternal strength.

“It’s the original symbol of the Revere Guard, from back when the Guard was just a few men guarding King Edward I. Well, not the real symbol,” Connor amended. “None of the drawings of that one have survived. This is just a modern sketch, based on descriptions from old journals. I got it after our first tour of service—after I lost one of my fellow Guards,” he added, his eyes shadowed.

Beatrice held her palm against the steady beating of Connor’s heart. “Who drew it for you?”

“I did it.”

He looked away, self-conscious, but Beatrice kept her eyes on his. “It’s magnificent. I had no idea you were an artist.”

“I’m not. My mom is the artist,” Connor argued. “I’m just a guy with a pen and ink.”

“Hmm,” Beatrice murmured. “As much as I’d like to debate your artistic talent, I can think of better ways to spend our time. If I only get a few more minutes, I’m going to make them count.” She leaned forward to steal a quick kiss.

When she pulled back, she was startled by her Guard’s expression. “I’m sorry, Bee. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I’m sure no other boy ever made you skulk around like this.”

“First of all, I can’t believe you said skulk,” Beatrice declared, which elicited a ghost of a smile. “And secondly, none of those guys mattered. Prince Nikolaos and I had the most miserable dates of all time.”

She was purposefully avoiding the mention of Teddy, but pushed her guilt aside.

“What about you? Who have you …” She trailed off before she could finish the sentence.

“No one, really,” Connor replied. “The Revere Guard doesn’t leave time for much else. Like you, I haven’t had the opportunity.”

“But the night of the Queen’s Ball, you told me you’d been in love before.” I’m happy for you, she had said coldly, to which he’d replied, You shouldn’t be.

It seemed to take Connor a moment to remember the conversation. When he did, his blue-gray eyes glowed from within. “Bee. I was talking about you.”

The world slowed, then stopped.

Before Connor could react, Beatrice had flipped herself up so that she was sitting on top of him, straddling his torso. “I love you, too,” she told him, laughing a little at her dizzying, delirious joy. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

It felt to Beatrice that she was the first person in history to say those words—that they had just been empty syllables before, had never meant anything until she spoke them now, to Connor.

She said it again and again, kissing him each time: on his nose, his temple, the corner of his mouth. A kiss for all the nights they had spent apart before they discovered each other. A kiss for everything Connor had suffered, for the lines of ink that swooped over his skin. A kiss for the future that Beatrice hardly dared hope for.

She felt Connor smile, even as a low growl echoed in his chest. He reached to pull her closer, running a hand down her back, the other tangled in her hair—