And so it went on. And on, and on, and on, for almost a week. Cherry avoided him with impressive conviction and iced her way through their dinners; Demetria scolded him about checklists and convincing performances like a schoolteacher; and Ruben became desperate. Really fucking desperate.

He didn’t want it to be like this. Fuck, none of it was ideal, and it was completely his fault, but...

He kept thinking back to the woman he’d first met at the Academy. Her spark, her knowing humour, the confidence that danced through everything she did. Now that woman was trapped in his gilded cage, doing everything she could to keep him at arms length, and it was taking its toll. She seemed a little more tired, a little more subdued, every day.

So one night, about a week after they signed that damned contract, he made a decision.

Was it a sensible one? Probably not. But then, he wasn’t known for his sense.

Ruben lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what it said about his life that he was tucked beneath the sheets before 10.30 p.m. Nothing good, probably.

And then the idea bit him. Bit him, and wouldn’t let go.

You should see Cherry. Talk to her without Demi’s list and Agathe breathing down your neck.

But Agathe’s the only thing that makes it bearable. If she’s not around, Cherry probably won’t talk to you at all.

Or she’ll lose her temper and scream at you for half an hour.

Now that sounded good. That sounded great. Ruben didn’t want her blank stares or her polite answers or her pointed avoidance. He wanted her to bite his fucking head off.

Maybe she’d feel better afterwards.

He leapt out of bed and yanked open his door, striding out into the hall. Then he remembered that he was naked, and turned right the fuck back around. If he showed up at her door without any clothes on, there was a 98% chance he’d leave with his balls stuffed up his backside.

Throwing on some pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown, he started the short journey again. He was marching down the hall with a discipline he hadn’t felt since his rather uneventful time in the air force.

But when he reached her room, the fire in his gut was snuffed out as reality flooded in.

This wasn’t going to work. What was he going to do, force her to speak? Prod at her until he got the response he wanted? Because that would make her feel so much better.

With a sigh, Ruben rested his head against the cool surface of her firmly closed door. She was so fucking close, and it didn’t even matter. He’d dragged her into his bullshit and fucked up her life, just because he wanted her. No matter how different he liked to think he was, in reality he was just like his siblings: an overgrown, spoilt brat who treated people like toys.

Why would Cherry want anything to do with him?

He turned, ready to leave. But then a thought captured him.

If he wasn’t enjoying this, she wasn’t either. But if they got to know each other, perhaps they could rub along for a year without her feeling trapped, always being on her guard.

Maybe someone just needed to make the first move.

He hesitated, hovering at the door like a ghost. His common sense was telling him to turn the fuck around and go back to bed, but his instincts disagreed.

Always follow your instincts.

Funny; that mantra kept failing him recently. But it had served him so well for so long, he couldn’t give it up after a few failures, could he?

Maybe something good was waiting at the end of all these apparent mistakes.

Taking a deep breath, Ruben knocked gently on the door.

For a moment, nothing happened. But then a voice called, “Demi?”

Ah, fuck. He definitely should’ve left. “It’s me.”

Another pause, and then she said, “Oh.” That was it. Oh. He couldn’t tell if she was pissed or just surprised. He couldn’t tell if that Oh meant, I see or Fuck off.

So he said, his voice embarrassingly tentative, “Um... Can I come in?”

“Why?”

“Cherry,” he sighed. “Let me come in.”

For a long, long moment, he thought she’d tell him to fuck off. He wouldn’t be surprised. But when she did finally speak, all she said was, “Fine. Come in.”

He froze. Did she really mean that? Had he misheard? Or—

“For fuck’s sake,” she snapped, “hurry up. Before I change my mind.”

For once, Ruben did as he was told.

The room was veiled with inky darkness. As he shut the door behind him, his vision blanked out completely. But he waited, knowing his eyes would find the faintest scrap of light somewhere, if he gave them a chance. He’d spent a lot of time locked in dark rooms as a kid.

Sure enough, the outlines of furniture came into view, so faint and shadowed he wasn’t sure if he really saw them, or somehow sensed them. But those were the kinds of fanciful thoughts he’d taken comfort in as a child—maybe I’m special, maybe I have powers, and one day I’ll use them to make everyone pay.

Now he was an adult, and he knew that his supposed night vision was thanks to cracks in the curtains and underneath the doors, and pupils wide enough to drink in those drops of light and put them to use.

He moved gingerly through the room, still managing to catch a side table with his hip, but not falling over anything or otherwise disgracing himself. When he reached the foot of Cherry’s bed, he felt a little presumptuous sitting down—but the darkness was too disorientating for him to stand on ceremony.

“Oh, by all means,” she said acidly as he sank onto the mattress. “Make yourself at home.”

“There’s at least four feet of space between us, so don’t have a fit.”

“Why the hell did I tell you to come in?”

Ruben sighed. “I don’t know. I’m insufferable. I apologise.”

He received nothing but silence in reply. He couldn’t quite grasp the quality of that silence. Was she agreeing, or simply surprised by his words, or too tired to bother with conversation? He supposed it didn’t matter.

“Believe it or not,” he said, “I didn’t come here to irritate you.” The words reminded him of conversations with his siblings. He was beginning to think he had issues. He felt the sting of rejection too keenly, and yet, he chased it down.

“So why did you come?” She demanded. Even though she’d been lying in the dark, she didn’t sound tired. But then, as far as he could tell, she spent all day in the library reading books and playing with her cat.

So he just said, “Our meetings aren’t going well.”

“Meetings,’ she murmured. “Is that what we’re calling them?”

“I don’t see what else we could call them,” he said reasonably. “Preparation for the Grand Deception?”

She snorted. Which was close to a laugh, right? He’d made her laugh once. Before she’d learned to be wary of him.

Spurred on by that snort—edged in derision though it was—he tried again. “Improving Cherry’s Ruben-Threshold?”

“Something like that,” she admitted. She shifted slightly on the bed, and he felt the motion through the mattress as if they were lying side by side. He’d said there was distance between them, but he had the oddest feeling that if he reached out, his hand would find her ankle, or her calf. He laced his fingers together and put them firmly in his lap.

“I know this is hard,” he said. “And I know you don’t like me, and you don’t trust me. But this will go easier on both of us if we know something about each other once we leave this place. And fuck, I wish we didn’t have to, but we do. I do.”

“And I do too,” she murmured. “I decided to do this. I agreed to it. And I suppose I have been… shirking my obligations. Which isn’t the way I usually behave.”

He chose his words carefully. “I think you could be forgiven for feeling unlike yourself, at the moment.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she said dryly. “But the world keeps turning, and all that. I think I’ve wallowed long enough. It doesn’t really suit me.”

“If you’ve been wallowing, it was the most graceful and glamorous wallowing I’ve ever seen.”

She did laugh at that; an adorable little giggle that bubbled out like water from a fountain. She tried to hide it; he could tell. He couldn’t see her, but he’d bet money on the fact that she’d put a hand over her mouth. Didn’t matter. In the quiet of the night, and with the way she captured his attention so very thoroughly, he couldn’t miss it. And the sound made him bold.

“I want to know you,” he said, honestly enough. But he clambered up the bed as he said it, finding the headboard with outstretched hands before settling down beside her.

She tutted. “You think you’re so smooth.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She tugged at the covers. “You’re hogging the blankets.”

“I’m not even under the blankets.”

“I should bloody well hope not. But you’re lying on them and it’s pulling them off me.” He felt her foot knock into his calf through the covers, a glancing blow. He wasn’t sure if she’d kicked him on purpose or if she’d come across him by accident and snatched herself away in the next breath. He wanted her to do it again.

But that wasn’t why he’d come, he reminded himself sternly.

“I think we should play twenty questions,” he said.

Her reply was doused in sarcasm. “Oh, really? Are you going to ask me if I’ve ever kissed a boy?”

“No. I save that sort of thing for truth or dare.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I certainly am. Shall I go first?”

“You can ask. No guarantee I’ll answer.”

“Fair enough.” He paused, pretending to think of a question. In reality, he didn’t have to think. His mind was nothing but a jumble of questions when it came to her; there were a thousand things he wanted to know, and as soon as his questions were answered he’d think of a thousand more. For some reason, he’d developed a mild fixation on this woman. Probably because she didn’t want him.

But, once upon a time, she did want you. And you were no better back then.

Firmly ignoring the voice in his head, Ruben said, “First question. Who’s your favourite person in the world?”

“My sister,” she said immediately. “Who’s yours?”

“Agathe,” he said, just as fast.

“The housekeeper?” She sounded incredulous. “I mean, she is really lovely, but—”

“She’s not the housekeeper,” he laughed. “She’s my grandmother.”

“Um… What?” Her voice came out as a squeak. “Wow. We really do need to get to know each other. What the hell? Why does she do all your cooking?”

“Because she’s my grandmother.”

She scoffed. “I’ll ignore that. Why don’t you call her grandma? Or whatever you guys say?’”

“Mormor,” he supplied. “And I never got into the habit. I only met her…” He calculated quickly. “Seven years ago.”

“What?”

“Well, no, that’s not accurate. I knew her for the first five years of my life. Then I didn’t. Then, seven years ago, I did.”

She shifted beside him, the mattress rolling. He imagined she was looking at him now. So she hadn’t been before. “Forget twenty questions,” she said. “Explain that.”

“Well… She’s my mother’s mother.”

“Okay. And?”

“Did you… Google me at all?”

He could almost hear her eye roll. “You think that’s what I do with my free time? Research you?”

“Truthfully, I had imagined you would. I mean, why wouldn’t you?”

She paused. Then, with a huff, she admitted, “I kind of did. I started to, but the first thing that came up was—”

“Kathryn,” he finished grimly. It may have been eight months, but that particular scandal would never fade. He wondered how much she’d seen. How much she’d read. If she’d watched...

“I didn’t look,” she said quickly. “I wouldn’t do that. I just saw the headlines. And then I stopped.”

“I see.” He lay back, staring up into the darkness. Waiting for questions. But none came.

Apparently, she wasn’t going to push that particular issue. Still, he felt the need to move on before she changed her mind. “So, my brother, Harald. The king. And my sister, Sophronia. They’re my half-siblings. We have different mothers.”

“Okay,” she said, softly. As if she was treading carefully. As if she could already tell this was a difficult topic. Had his voice given him away? He’d thought it was admirably steady.

Actually, it was probably the fact that he’d been separated from his own grandmother for most of his life that clued her in. Yes. That made sense.

“My mother was a maid. Then she met my father, and I suppose they fell in love. He divorced his wife, the Queen Consort—my brother’s mother. This is when my brother was, I suppose, fifteen, and Sophronia must have been thirteen. My father abdicated the throne, and my parents married. I arrived soon after.”

“Your father abdicated,” she murmured. “Doesn’t that mean—”

“Harald’s mother was Queen Regent for five years,” Ruben said. His tongue felt dull, numb, too thick for his mouth. “Then Harald became king.”

“Only five years? That’s a lot of responsibility for a twenty-year-old.”

“Yes. But there wasn’t much choice. After five years, Johanna—the Queen Regent…” He hesitated. “Well, she took her own life.”

Cherry exhaled softly. It was barely a breath, but it contained a wealth of meaning. Before she could say anything, he forged on.

“She did so the day after my father’s death. My father and my mother.”

He heard her swallow. The tiny sound was loud as thunder in the stillness of the room. And then, out of the black emptiness, her fingers came to brush against his cheek. Tentative, searching. After that first contact, she touched him fully, her soft hand cradling his face as if he were a child. He realised too late that she would feel the dampness there. So much for keeping his voice steady.

“What happened?” She asked softly.

Ah, what a question. Still, he’d come this far in the spirit of honesty. And something told him Cherry valued that.

Ruben recited the story that had changed his life with as little inflection as possible. “They liked sailing. Had a house on the coast. And my mother liked to sneak out—that is, she hated being watched all the time, followed all the time.” He hated it too, even if he understood the need for security. He should learn from his parents’ mistakes and stop trying to disappear.

But then, if he wasn’t his reckless mother’s reckless son, he probably wouldn’t be here with Cherry right now. “They went sailing in the middle of the night, a storm struck, and they drowned. Tragic accident. Mundane, really.”

“I see,” she whispered. “I… I’m sorry.”

“They only married because of me. I was born six months after the wedding. Eight months after the divorce. And they only died because they were together—”

“Stop,” she said softly. “That’s enough.”

He sucked in a breath, familiar, dark thoughts like a jagged knife scoring his gut. Slicing open the same scar tissue. “Is it? I should tell you all the sordid details, really—”

“Ruben.”

“At least then you’ll understand why I can’t—why I have to avoid disgracing myself any further. The family name, you know. My existence alone already makes things… messy. If I could, I’d renounce my title completely. But I can’t. Because then I’d be just like—”

“Ruben.”

“I’m too much like my parents—like my mother, that’s what Harald always says. Reckless. But I know that, and I handle it. I had everything under control. It was all going well, until I chose wrong.”

Her breath caught, and her hand pulled away, and it took him a minute to realise what she thought he meant.

“No, not you!” He caught her hand, tugged it back to his cheek. As if he needed it. As if he needed her. “I’m not talking about you. I meant something else. Before.” He didn’t want to say Kathryn’s name. He was tired of hearing it, even from his own lips.

“Okay,” she said finally. The tension in her wrist eased away, and she touched him again. He fought the instinct to rub against her like an animal. He’d embarrassed himself enough for one night.

They were silent for a while. So long, in fact, that he might have thought she’d fallen asleep, if it weren’t for the slow glide of her thumb over his cheek. Then, suddenly, she said, “I’ve been trying not to like you. But I’ve decided to stop.”

He hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” There was a smile in her voice. “I wanted to hate you for making everything so complicated, but honestly, I’m bored of it. Being angry all the time is exhausting. And you’re right; we need to get to know each other.”

“We do,” he said slowly, fighting to calm the rapid beating of his heart. “But it’s easier like this, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” she said simply. “Everything’s easier in the dark.”

Ruben rolled towards her, wrapping an arm around her waist. And for once—even when he felt the soft curves of her body beneath the blanket—his mind stayed out of the gutter. He simply pulled her close and whispered against her forehead, “I’ll come back. If you want. Tomorrow.”

He didn’t think he imagined the way she leaned into him. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. Then he let her go, and got up, and left.

It didn’t feel right, but he did it anyway.