Cherry perched on a stool at the kitchen island and ate her cereal. She kept her eyes glued to the little TV on the counter, and her spine straight—well, slightly arched—and her ankles crossed. She was wearing jeans, turned up a few times at her calves. A silk camisole beneath a buttoned-up little cardigan. Her hair was piled on top of her head in the kind of style that looked casual and effortless but actually took an industrial-strength hair tie, fifty hair grips and half a tub of gel.

We’re going to do this again. In the daylight.

Oh, it had seemed so simple. In the dark.

But now she felt caged, waiting to bump into him in his ridiculously normal house. She would, sooner rather than later. Why couldn’t he have a damned mansion, for Christ’s sake?

She caught herself. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that, now she wasn’t avoiding him or sticking to her room, they’d almost certainly be on top of each other. It didn’t matter that he could come in here at any minute, or that she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d say to him if he did. It would be fine. It would be—

“Morning, Cherry Pie.”

She clamped her teeth together, but that didn’t stop a strangled yelp emerging from her mouth. It also didn’t stop her dropping her spoon into her cereal, sending the milk flying.

In an instant, Ruben was beside her, a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?” He frowned down at her, taking in the milk splatters on the table and—oh, dear. On her cardigan. So much for the perfect sartorial armour.

“Fine,” she managed. God, she could do better than that. She forced her smile into place, forced her voice to become light and airy. “I’m fine. You surprised me. Whoops!” A soft little laugh floated from her lips, and she let her fingers drift up to her cheek. Then she waited for him to look enchanted.

He did not look enchanted.

He continued to frown, looking at her as if he could see right through her. No, not through her; into her. Behind the carefully put-together version of herself she’d chosen to wield, right to the real, actual person. She waited for him to call her out. He didn’t.

Instead he said, “I’m sorry. Agathe always says I need bells.” And then he smiled. It was lovely and charming and devastating. A gift.

“You do. Someone so big shouldn’t be so quiet.” She gave him a smile of her own, a real one, and he reached out and slid his hand over the back of her neck. Cherry tried not to arch into him, but she rather thought she’d failed.

For a moment they stayed that way, connected by the warmth of his skin against hers, by secrets whispered into the darkness and looks shared in the daylight. But then he pulled away, shaking himself slightly, and strode across the kitchen.

“Here,” he said, grabbing a cloth from beside the sink. But he didn’t give it to her; he wiped up the mess she’d made of the table. Then he lifted the cloth towards her, hesitated, lowered his hand again. All at once, Cherry registered the cold wetness spreading through her clothes. Oops. Annoyed at herself—really, she was staring like a widgeon while milk soaked into cashmere—she hurriedly unbuttoned the cardigan and tugged it off.

The milk wasn’t bad at all, she decided, examining the splatters. She could rinse it out. Setting the damp fabric aside, she turned back to Ruben, a thank you on her lips.

The look on his face wiped her mind clean. And then made it filthy.

He was staring down at her chest like he’d never seen tits before. Sure, her bra was kind of visible through the white silk, but it was hardly erotic.

And yet… he looked down at her, his jaw set, his grey eyes thunderous. His nostrils flared slightly as he took deep, hungry breaths, his fists clenched at his sides. If she didn’t know him, she might think that he was angry.

He wasn’t angry. He was focused. So, so focused.

“What?” She said softly, arching a brow.

He movements were fast and sharp, predatory. He bent over her, resting a hand against the island, his other hand grabbing a fistful of her piled-up hair.

“You know what,” he rasped, his eyes boring into hers. Then they dropped. “No lipstick?”

“It’s 9 a.m.,” she breathed. “Why would I—”

“You always wear lipstick.”

“I’m relaxing,” she drawled, as if he wasn’t filling her space and exposing her throat. “At home.”

He smiled, the brightness of the expression cutting through his intensity, softening the harsh lines of his face. “Home, hm? Interesting.”

“Oh, don’t be smug.” She rolled her eyes.

“So sorry,” he murmured mockingly. His hand shifted, dragging her head back. She swallowed, painfully aware of the vulnerability of her position, of the control he had over her movements. Aware and… aroused. Fuck. Was it really that easy? Surely it shouldn’t be that easy.

But it was. He bent over her, his lips hovering an inch from hers, his gaze inescapable, filling her vision like a stormy sky. “I didn’t mean to do this,” he whispered. “I’m trying to go slow.”

“Go slow?”

He smiled. Her eyes were closed now, but she felt it—felt his lips skate against hers as the corners tipped up. “Yeah. Slow. We get to know each other, and you trust me, and then I kiss you under some mistletoe—”

“Mistletoe?”

“I thought the trust might take a while. I was aiming for Christmas at the latest.”

She could tell he was trying to make her laugh. Instead, her stomach sank like a stone. Because Christmas was almost a year away. By the time it came, there’d be 30 days left of their sham relationship.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Stop thinking about things.”

“You know I can’t.”

“You can. I could make you. Should I make you, Cherry?”

“Try,” she whispered back, the words disappearing like smoke against his lips.

He kissed her. That’s what it was called, one person’s lips against another: a kiss. He had one hand in her hair, and the other floated across her cheek, and his mouth slanted over hers, and that was a kiss.

But it felt like something more than that. It felt like he was pouring himself into her, and she didn’t want him to stop.

The hand on her cheek disappeared, returned at her waist. He hauled her off the stool and pulled her against him, holding her tight. His body was hard against hers, his erection harder. He reached down and grabbed her arse, his big hand clutching as much firm flesh as it could manage, squeezing and kneading through the stretchy denim of her jeans, staking his claim.

He dragged his lips away from hers, his hot mouth tracing her jawline, leaving brightness in its wake like the tail of a shooting star. “I like the hair,” he growled.

“I don’t care.”

“Liar. I like the way your lips taste, too. Never wear lipstick again.”

She sighed as his tongue flicked out to slide along the line of her throat. “Are you sure about that?”

He paused for a moment, as if thinking. She tried not to whimper and demand more of his mouth. “No,” he said finally. “I leave all lipstick decisions to you. Clearly, you know what you’re doing.” And then, blessedly, he sank his teeth into the softest part of her shoulder.

She let out a cry, and he froze. Then he released her hair, grabbed her waist, turned her around and lifted her onto the island. His hands went to her knees, forced them apart. He stepped into the space between them before she’d even fully registered the fact that they’d moved.

He grabbed her jaw, the tips of his fingers digging into her cheeks, forcing her to meet his eyes. His voice was raw and strained as he said, “I want to take your jeans off and get on my knees and lick your cunt. Tell me you want it.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then tell me what you do want, and I’ll give it to you.” He reached down and grabbed his cock through the thick cotton of his joggers, the muscles of his biceps rippling as he squeezed himself. Hard. His hips jerked forwards between her legs and he rasped out, “Tell me. Or at least tell me to fuck off before I come in my pants like a teenager.”

“Maybe I want you to do that.”

He pressed a thumb against her lips, forcing it between her teeth. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. Anything. Right now. Tell me.”

She gazed into his eyes, her breath coming in ragged pants, her pussy clenching as if desperate to be filled. The spread of her legs brought her jeans tight against her crotch, creating a hint of pressure over her clit, but not enough. He was staring at her with eyes heavy-lidded and lustful, his full lips parted, his hips still jerking as he stroked himself roughly through his clothes. He’d do anything to make her come—she knew that as surely as she knew her own name. He’d make her come, and he’d fucking enjoy it.

She made her decision.

“I want—”

The front door slammed shut, the noise reverberating through the house. “Yoo-hoo! Where is my guldklump?”

“Shit.” Cherry shoved at Ruben’s chest, laughter bubbling in her chest where there should be panic. “Agathe has a key?”

“Of course she has a key.” He pulled back, straightening her camisole. “She’s my grandmother.”

“Which is why you need to disappear,” Cherry whispered, casting a meaningful glance down at his crotch. Then her brows shot up as she finally caught sight of the erection she’d only felt before now.

Jesus Christ.

He shoved a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. As if they had all the time in the fucking world. Agathe’s heavy steps echoed through the house. “Ruben? Hans?”

Jesus, Hans. How had she forgotten that he could be around here somewhere?

“Go,” she hissed, smacking Ruben’s shoulder. “Now!”

“Okay, okay!” He stepped back. But then, with a mischievous smile on his face that was way cuter than it should be, he leant in again and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Want to come to work with me today?”

She blinked, stunned. “Um…”

“Say yes, or I’ll stay here.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“Fine,” she whispered, holding back her laughter. “Yes. Now fuck off.”

He kissed her other cheek. And then he left.

When Agathe came into the kitchen, her arms loaded with shopping bags, Cherry was still sitting on the island like a damned fool. And she didn’t even mind.

* * *

Cherry didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

She stood in the bright, January sun, wrapped up in a thousand and one layers—Ruben had insisted—and leaning against a huge maple tree. If she raised a gloved hand to protect her eyes and squinted just a little, she could watch a gaggle of children running around on the white-frosted grass, laughing and screaming and chasing a football.

A gaggle of children, and Ruben.

In the car over, he’d told her that these kids were aged 9 to 12. Some of them looked tiny; a few seemed huge for their age. She’d worked in a school long enough to notice that some of them probably had learning difficulties, and one of the girls might be autistic. But they were surrounded by staff members in matching purple jackets who made sure that everyone was involved, and that every child was comfortable.

It was as different from the Academy’s approach as anything she’d ever seen. She remembered her first date with Ruben—their only date, she supposed, since lying in bed with your fake fiancée, whispering your feelings into the dark, didn’t count. Ruben had seemed uncomfortable with the idea of sponsoring the Academy, had pushed for her opinion on the matter. And she hadn’t wanted to say anything, hadn’t wanted to badmouth her place of employment.

But when she thought about education, this was her personal ideal.

Not that she knew shit. She was just HR.

The kids clearly loved it, though. And when they’d seen Ruben approaching, they’d all run to him like he was their long-lost-father.

It was disturbingly sweet.

“You are impressed?”

Cherry jumped slightly, even though she recognised that impossibly deep voice. Hans. He was standing beside her, his arms folded, his eyes on Ruben and the kids. And his thin lips were tilted slightly into that half-smile he occasionally displayed.

“Yes,”she said, truthfully. “I didn’t expect him to…”

“To give a shit. I know. People are always surprised.” He leant back against the broad trunk of the maple, like her, as if they were friends. At first, she’d thought he didn’t like her at all, but recently she’d realised that he was just a prickly guy. She liked prickly people. She liked people who couldn’t be charmed.

“You and Ruben are close,” she said.

There was a slight pause, as if he were surprised. Then he said, slowly, “Yes…” And she knew he was surprised. “We haven’t been acting like it,” he added. “Since you came.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I noticed. Absence takes up a lot of space.”

He grunted.

“So what’s up? You’re still angry with him about… This?”

Hans sighed. “I am angry with him because he never looks out for himself. He thinks he can handle anything. He thinks if he can’t handle something, it’s a weakness and the end of the world, instead of a normal human limitation.”

“Always slaying dragons?” She suggested.

“And coming home half-dead, thinking no-one will care.”

She digested that for a moment. Then she said, “Tell me about his brother.”

And Hans said, “No.”

Cherry nodded slowly. “So it’s bad?”

The man’s bass voice was almost small, hesitant, as he murmured, “My loyalty is to the crown. If it weren’t, I could not stay with him. I would not be fit for this position.”

Cherry watched Ruben laughing in that cold, cold sunlight, letting the children foul him left and right, separating them when they got too rough or over-excited. He was beautiful. He was wonderful. He was perfect.

Oh, dear.

* * *

“I think this has gone on long enough.”

Ruben looked up from the stack of cones he was putting away. Hans was looming over him like a giant, his face serious as ever.

Ruben raised his brows. “What’s gone on long enough?”

“Don’t be petulant.” Hans shifted slightly, the only sign of his discomfort. The sort of sign only Ruben would notice.

Still, he turned away, stacking the cones neatly. “Use your words, Hans. I believe in you.”

His bodyguard released a sigh so loud, Cherry probably heard it from the classroom down the hall. The classroom where she was currently getting to know the children while Ruben helped put away this morning’s sports equipment. Every so often, he heard her laughter. Far more often, he heard the children’s.

“I think we should get over this… disagreement,” Hans finally said.

Ruben stood, dusting off his hands. “You want to kiss and make up? Already? Usually, you last longer than this.”

Hans shrugged. “You need me.”

“Oh, I do?”

“Yes. You want to talk to me. About her.”

Ruben grinned. “I do?”

Hans rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He turned to leave, but Ruben grabbed his old friend’s arm in a move they’d executed countless times over the years. They were both too stubborn for this friendship to work, and yet, somehow, it did.

Sometimes, people were meant to be in each other’s lives, and nothing else really mattered.

“Stay. You’re right. I want to talk to you.”

Hans sighed again. He was a master of sighs. Then he shut the door of the little equipment room and leant back against a shelf. The shelf, sturdy as it was, creaked dangerously under his weight. Hans stood.

“So talk.”

Funny. All of a sudden, Ruben had no idea what to say. But in the absence of certainty, his mind spit out a thought that seemed both ridiculous and true. “I don’t want her to leave.”

“She’s not going to leave. You’ve got a year.”

“I never want her to leave.”

Hans looked slightly alarmed. “You’ve known her for—“

“Less than a fortnight. I’m aware.”

“Hm.” The rough-hewn lines of Hans’s face appeared blank as stone, which meant that he was thinking. “You know, your father once said he fell in love with your mother at first sight.”

Ruben arched a brow. “Have you been watching interviews?”

“Please. You know my mother is obsessed with yours. The beautiful and tragic Lady Freja.”

“Still?”

“Of course. The people loved her.”

“Thank God somebody did.” Ruben felt traitorous as soon as the words left his mouth. Plenty of people had loved his mother. He had loved his mother, more than anything else in the world. So had his father. “I don’t think emulating my father is a good thing, when it comes to love. Things turned out badly for him.”

“I don’t know about that,” Hans said slowly. “He got everything he ever wanted. He died, but everyone must die. And not all die happy.”

Ruben turned those words over in his mind, but couldn’t quite get a handle on them. They felt ephemeral, like something beautiful but impossible to hold. Something that didn’t apply to people like him. He put the problem away for later and focused on a more pressing issue.

“I don’t want her to meet my brother.”

Hans shrugged. “That is natural. I wouldn’t want Demetria to meet a python.”

“…Demetria?” Ruben frowned. “What does Demi have to—”

“You know, people you care about,” Hans said. “Would you want her to meet a python?”

“I—what?”

“Would you lock Demi in a room with a python?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“No! You wouldn’t! No-one would. That’s all I’m saying.”

Ruben stared at his friend. Hans was almost… emoting. And right now, he looked panicked. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Look, don’t worry about Cherry. You have a whole year to convince her that you’re the love of her life.”

“Well, I don’t know about love—”

“Shut up. A whole year, Ruben. If it’s meant to be…”

“I don’t know about meant to be—”

“Shut up.” Hans opened the door and strode out into the hall . “Come on. Let’s go.”

Ruben felt slightly dazed. He wasn’t entirely sure what that conversation had been about, or if they’d agreed on anything, or why Hans kept using words like love.

But he and his best friend were okay again. So he shrugged it off.