Violet

Packing my bags doesn’t take long.

Being financially strapped pretty much means my small wardrobe is easy to stuff into a few bags—and yes, it is me doing the stuffing. We had to do away with our staff months ago.

Which was fine by me. Iris and Dahlia, though, had a harder time dealing with losing our in-house hairdressers and daily housekeeping. But me? I’ve always been an early riser and go-getter, and I can brush my own hair and make my own bed, for goodness’ sake.

Besides, none of that matters when the fate of Elexia is resting on the shoulders of my sisters and me. Marrying an arrogant bastard is apparently the only way for me to ensure that my homeland can survive.

Walking from the castle to the airstrip, where Cressia has sent a private jet, I feel a warm island breeze wash over me. I inhale deeply, not wanting to forget anything about my home.

I blink; willing myself to remember that this isn’t about what I want. It’s about Elexia.

“I wish I was leaving first,” Iris moans. “But since I’m not, you’d better do your job, Violet.” She waves a finger my way, jokingly. “Marry him, so I can get out of this boring country. Oh, and you have to remember to smile.”

I hand my bags to a flight attendant. “I’ll smile,” I tell Iris, and give her a tight, fake-as-hell grin, annoyed at her digs about Elexia.

She rolls her eyes.

“What?” I ask. “I’m trying. This is me trying.”

“You may need to try a little harder,” Dahlia says, walking up to us. Her voice is soft as she reaches for my hand. Our farewell is upon us. I’ve never been away from my sisters in my entire life. “Violet, Cressia won’t pay the dowry until you take your wedding vows and consummate the marriage.”

Heat rises to my face, hearing my sister speak so frankly.

“I know,” Dahlia says. “None of us has ever had a ... partner—but Violet, you can’t chicken out. We need this. Elexia needs this.”

Iris laughs. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, we are way too old to be nervous about sex. Besides,” she says, “at least you know your husband-to-be is hot as hell. My man? There isn’t a single photograph of him anywhere on the Internet. I’m betting he has three heads.”

Dahlia and I exchange a grimace. We do both know our husbands are at least attractive.

And, if I’m being completely honest, I know Prince Hunter is more than handsome; he’s rugged in the most royal way. And while his personality turns me off—completely—I can’t deny that in every photograph Iris has shown me, his green eyes, stately appearance, broad shoulders, and intimidating height give me a lady boner. One I am absolutely trying to suppress.

This marriage isn’t about feelings; it’s about what’s right for my country.

And my father has been warning me all week to stay far away from Hunter until the wedding day. Apparently rumors have been flying that he isn’t that serious about his royal duties. If I slept with him, and then he tossed me aside, I would not only lose face, but also lose the dowry.

I need to keep my lady boner in check, and my head on straight.

Shouldn’t be hard, considering I’ve managed to keep my virginity intact for twenty-three years.

“I love you,” I tell my sisters, wrapping them in a hug, wishing I could stay and see them off for their marriages.

“We love you, too,” they both tell me, kissing my cheek.

Father is waiting at the foot of the stairs leading to the jet.

He nods solemnly, and my chest aches—for him, and for Elexia, and for me. This is not what I wanted.

“I know you aren’t keen on this plan, my dear girl,” he says, setting his hands on my shoulders, “but your marriage was inevitable, you know that. And this alliance will mean great things for our people.”

I brush a tear from my eye. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m not sentimental, you know that, Father. But Cressia is very far away.”

“I know. It will be a big adjustment, moving to the snow-capped mountains, but you have faced everything in your life with a maturity that surpasses your age. Prince Hunter is a lucky man. Just make sure you get him to the altar. Tell him whatever you need to, in order to get him there.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“You are a smart woman, Violet. Some men want freedom, some want … ahem, mistresses. I don’t know. Meet Hunter and find his angle. Capitalize on it. Whatever you do, make sure you use your head.”

I swallow my fear, wanting to make my father proud, to make Elexia proud.

“I’ll do my best,” I tell him, as he hugs me good-bye.

When the plane takes off, I find myself sitting in a plush leather chair. An attendant offers me a glass of champagne. “For you, Princess,” she says warmly.

I take the flute, sighing as I look out the window, watching my country grow smaller and smaller as we gain altitude.

This would all be easier if I hated my life, if I wanted to escape. But I don’t; I want to stay. Instead, I’m watching everything I love disappear before my eyes.

* * *

When I step off the plane in Cressia, I think two things at once.

It is frigid.

And why are there so many flashing lights?

I’m whisked into a massive, gleaming black SUV. A woman in her forties, wearing a massive fur coat, sits beside me. She introduces herself as Jemma, the royal publicist, but I’m not paying attention to her. I’m staring out the darkened windows as we roll through a snowy mountain towards a massive castle looming above us.

“That’s where I’ll be living?” I ask, turning to Jemma, who’s tapping on a phone.

She raises her eyebrows. “Perhaps,” she says with a heavy accent. “But Prince Hunter has lived in the woods for the past few years.”

“This isn’t the woods?” I ask, looking out the window once more. A thick forest is blanketed in snow and the castle turrets are covered in white. We pass a group of buildings that are reminiscent of a Bavarian village, or a Christmas story I might have read as a child, with gingerbread trim and thatched roofs. It’s charming, in an ice-cold sort of way. But it appears much more rural than I expected—and if this isn’t the woods, I don’t know what is.

“No, Princess. This is the capital. And Prince Hunter prefers to live in the wild. He has a good heart and loves this country; he shows his love in a different way than his father does. Living in his cabin gives him space for personal—err, for privacy. Though,” she says, patting my knee, “that may all change now the he is to be wed.”

“Does he want to marry?”

Jemma smiles tightly, a look I know all too well. I’ve been wearing a similar one most of the day. “This was quite sudden for him. And he’s … resistant to change.”

“That’s the diplomatic way of saying he doesn’t want me for a wife, isn’t it?”

When she doesn’t answer, my head drops against the seat. We pull up to the stately castle, and a footman opens my door.

I brace myself for a husband who doesn’t want me any more than I want him.