Ruben slid into the back of the waiting Hummer, his heart in his throat. Trouble wasn’t an unusual state for him to be in, but over these past months he’d started to outdo himself.

This time, as always, it concerned a woman. No matter what he liked to think, he was clearly doing something wrong in that department.

Hans settled in beside him, spearing him with a glare that would freeze hell. “I warned you.”

“Don’t start. I’m thinking.”

“For a change.”

“Will you stop? I had to say something. I couldn’t let him splash pictures of the two of us all over the fucking news. You know—“

Hans placed a calming hand on Ruben’s shoulder. “Yes. Yes, I know. I’m sorry. But Christ, Ruben, you do realise that you can’t take this back, right? Your brother probably knows already. Everyone probably knows already. In fact…” He reached for his phone, but Ruben shook his head sharply.

“Don’t. Don’t bother. We both know it’s all over the news.” He knew from experience how fast these things spread. Although, last time he’d been burned by the press, it’d been for something far more salacious. Perhaps that sort of news spread more quickly…

Ah, who was he kidding? The black sheep of the royal family, engaged? Hans was right. His brother would know. Everyone would know.

He let his head fall back against the headrest, releasing a sigh. “I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I?”

“Which part?” Hans said mildly.

“Don’t be smart.”

“One of us has to be.”

Perhaps it was a blessing that his phone rang at that juncture. Or at least, that’s what Ruben thought, until he realised who must be calling.

Hans stared at Ruben’s jacket, where the chirping ringtone emanated from, like there was a bomb hidden in the silk lining. Ruben, unsurprisingly, shared the feeling.

“You’d better answer,” Hans said. “Or it’ll ring out.”

And then the king will lose his shit with all the grace of a machine-gun-toting toddler. And everything will be a million times worse.

“Right,” Ruben said grimly and fished out his phone. He took a second to collect himself before he answered the call. He’d probably still fuck up, though. His brother had that effect.

Resigned, he brought the phone to his ear and said, “Ambjørn.”

“You do that purely to irritate me. It’s pathetic.” The voice was a deep baritone, the kind that should’ve been soothing. It went through Ruben like nails on a chalkboard.

“Believe it or not, brother, not everything about me is designed solely to disappoint you.”

“If that’s true, why do you insist on calling me brother?” The King of Helgmøre sneered the word. “Provincial to the end. If bonds matter so very much, then please, use the correct term.”

Ruben bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Half-brother? Bit of a mouthful.”

“Then I suggest you stick to Your Majesty.” King Harald’s words were whip-sharp. So sharp, Ruben thought he felt the ghost of his brother’s switch against his calves. Even servants were pressed, charmingly, to call the king Harald—though of course, they never would. But Ruben wasn’t a servant.

In his brother’s eyes, he wasn’t a person at all.

“Your Majesty,” he gritted out. “Oh, great one, how may I serve you?”

“You may serve me,” Harald said, “by explaining your latest disgrace. According to the media, you are engaged.”

And Ruben, memories suffocating him and hatred burning like acid in his veins, said with utter nonchalance, “Yep.”

Beside him, Hans stiffened.

His brother expelled a noisy breath, like a dragon preparing to lay waste to some village. “And this is the first I’m hearing of it, because?”

“I understand your concern, Harald. You and I are so close, after all.”

“I am the head of this family, and you are lucky to be acknowledged at all.” His brother’s voice was a venomous hiss.

He could picture the exact expression that went along with this particular tone: lips peeled back from teeth as though they were fangs, blue eyes narrowed dangerously in a way that still set Ruben on edge. Still made him anxious. Still reminded him of days when he’d been so much smaller, and his brother had seemed like a mountain.

But he was the mountain now.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty—what the fuck do you want?”

“Careful boy. Whoever this woman is—it is a woman, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ruben said stiffly. “She’s a woman.”

“Thank Christ. You’re not a complete idiot, then. Whoever she is, I have not agreed to the match.”

“I wasn’t aware that I required permission to marry, Your Majesty.” Lie.

“You require my permission to breathe. Count yourself lucky that you still have it.”

Ruben clenched his teeth so tight, his jaw clicked with a burst of pain. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Because the one thing he absolutely would not do was give his brother the satisfaction of a response.

Harald hated silence. When he spoke, what he wanted, more than anything, was a reaction. So, as the quiet stretched out and Ruben held his tongue, it was the mighty king who broke first.

“Well,” Harald said finally. “At least this one’s cleverer than the last.”

Ruben swallowed, his own rage souring his throat. “What do you mean?”

“Unlike Kathryn, this one actually managed to trap you. Lydia is most concerned.”

Ruben ignored the reference to Lydia, his sweet sister-in-law, doubtless designed to keep him off-balance. Harald didn’t value his wife highly enough to mention her without an ulterior motive. “Cherry didn’t trap me,” Ruben said, his voice purposely flat.

And then he kicked himself. Fuck.

“Cherry?” Harald barked out a laugh. “The fruit? Kirsebær? What, do you fuck strippers now?”

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

“Put down your sword, Prince Charming. It is just plank of wood and you are just a peasant boy.” Harald snorted with delight at his own joke. “Whatever. It is too late now; we must project unity. You will pretend that I met this Cherry long ago. And you will bring her to me.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a request, boy. Don’t forget: you do need my permission. Unless you’d like to renounce your claim on the throne of Helgmøre?”

Ruben gritted his teeth, the pulse thudding through his head so strong that it was painful. This was the game he played, the line he danced across. He was fifth in line for the throne of Helgmøre, which gave Harald a certain legal amount of control over him. Escaping his brother’s power would mean renouncing his claim.

And he would never renounce his fucking claim. He would not be struck out of history books and swept aside, no matter how many people thought his existence was a mistake.

“No,” he said. “I will not renounce my claim.” Now, he would tell his brother the truth. He would never hear the end of it, of course—would be summoned home immediately, have his activities with the Trust curtailed, and yet again, the press would spend months breathing down his neck. Tearing him apart and glorying in his bloody entrails.

At the thought, his skin became too hot and tight for his body. His heart rate thundered and his breath came fast, shallow and sharp. Again. It would happen all over again.

He couldn’t tell his brother. He couldn’t tell anyone. He couldn’t go through another fucking scandal. They’d eat him alive.

“I will bring her,” he choked into the phone. “Okay? I’ll bring her. Soon. At some point. I’m going now.”

“I beg your pardon? Ruben—“

“I have to go!” He put the phone down and threw it into the car’s footwell. Then he stared down at it, that innocuous little rectangle of glass and metal, with which he’d just dug himself into an even deeper hole.

Fuck.

He looked over at Hans, searching for some kind of reassurance. Instead, he was faced with the sight of his bodyguard and lifelong companion wide-eyed and open-mouthed, looking at Ruben like he’d just grown another head. Out of his arse.

“What the fuck did I just do?” Ruben rasped.

“I don’t know. Shit. I don’t know. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I… I realised that if I take this back, it could start all over again. Just like before. And I can’t do that again. I can’t.” Memories rampaged through his mind, blurring together like a countryside viewed from a speeding train. The headlines, the articles, the fucking documentary, all the shit that had popped up over the last eight months. People dredging up the drama of his past, his origins, the story of his parents—his mother. All because he’d dragged the family name through the mud and turned out to be exactly what people always thought he’d be.

Unworthy of the Royal House of Helgmøre.

“Hey.” Hans’s voice was as hard as the grip he had on Ruben’s shoulder. He squeezed, his fingers grinding into muscle and bone, until the pain brought Ruben back into the present. “Stop panicking. You don’t need to panic. This is fine.”

Ruben huffed out a laugh. “No it fucking isn’t.”

“It is. So you told the world that Cherry is your fiancée. You know what that makes you?”

“What?”

“Boring. Normal. Something other than the royal family’s black sheep. And it protects her from too much media interest, too—as long as they think she’s yours. So… Why don’t you make it real?”

Ruben stared at his bodyguard. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Make her your fiancée. Then everything is simple, yes? No lies. She’s just your fiancée.”

“Hans,” Ruben said patiently. “I realise that you don’t know much about women—“

“Hey!”

“—But Cherry does not want to marry me. At all. Not even close.”

“Actually, I did notice that.” Hans said this a little too smugly for Ruben’s liking. “But I am not talking about a real engagement.”

Ruben eyed his friend warily. “Continue.”

“I mean, you ask her to play the role of fiancée. For a period of time, I don’t know; a long engagement. Long enough for the press to become bored of her, and your brother to forget you exist.”

“I wish,” Ruben muttered.

“Whatever. Then she leaves you, yes? And you are a tragic figure. Everyone feels sorry for you. It blows over. Understand?”

Ruben tapped his fingers against his thighs as he mulled that plan over. “I don’t know. It’s kind of ridiculous.”

“You have a better idea?”

“It’s extremely ridiculous.”

“Okay. Give me an alternative. Another way to extricate yourself from this situation without a repeat of the last eight months.”

Ruben clamped his teeth together. “I don’t know. She’d never agree to that.”

“She might. If you offer the appropriate motivation.” Then, at Ruben’s baffled look, he added, “Money. People need money, Your Highness.” He was still angry, then, despite all his advice.

“Oh. Right. Of course. Do you think she’d do that? For money? Put herself in that position?”

“You’ve already put her in that position. She might as well get something out of it. And I think you’ll find that most people, these days, are in desperate need of money. Offer her enough, and see what happens.”

The silence stretched out between them as seconds crept into minutes.

Then, finally, Ruben spoke. “You might be onto something.”