My eyes widen when I hear the king’s words. She’ll be here tonight…

It feels like a knife has been driven into my chest—I can barely breathe. Andrew’s father is choosing his wife. How can he not see that? How can he be so blind?

I pretend to scribble some notes in my files, but really, I’m trying to keep myself from screaming at either of the men. At King Edmund for being a controlling douchebag. At Andrew for letting him.

I stand, giving each man a courteous nod—I know it wouldn’t do for me to look like some foul commoner by not giving the men the respect they believe they deserve. Instead, I force a smile and look over at Andrew, not quite meeting his gaze. “Do let me know when this mystery woman arrives. I should at least be in the room when you meet her, Your Highness.”

He stands, too. “I’ll escort you back to your room.”

I shake my head. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure I can find my way.”

“I insist.” He almost trips over himself as he scrambles to my side.

The king also stands, giving me a cursory nod. “Yes, you two should go over the details of Ms. Simpson’s notes from this meeting.” He almost glares at me. “I absolutely insist that my son sign off on every detail of anything you wish to publish.”

My lips press together in response, but I fight not to clench my teeth. I did agree to this Montovian bullshit lack of any sort of freedom of the press. It isn’t as though I didn’t know what I was getting myself into when I agreed to this thing.

I nod at the king. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Andrew puts a hand on my arm to lead me out of the king’s office. “Thank you, Father. Ms. Simpson and I will spend the entire afternoon together going over her notes and proposed first story. I’ll see you later this evening.”

My mouth opens to protest, but I say nothing. Whatever it is Andrew is doing, it’s a pretty obvious attempt to get me alone again and I have to wonder why the king seems so blind to it.

“A splendid idea, son. Though it is early—you should attempt to get some rest before our guests arrive. I wouldn’t want your future wife meeting you with the circles I can see under your eyes.” He lifts a brow. “A nap might be in order—after you and Ms. Simpson are finished with your business, of course.”

Andrew smiles at his father and gives him a shallow bow. “Of course. Thank you again, Father.” He tugs at my elbow and almost pulls me out of the inner office.

We walk for some distance before I notice we’re headed in the wrong direction. Even though this place is still a complete maze to me, I can tell we aren’t headed in the direction of my room.

Andrew nods at a passing servant, but still hasn’t said a word to me.

We walk for another minute before I stop and turn to him. “Where are we going?”

His expression is blank—but it almost looks forced. “We’re almost there.”

I frown. “That didn’t answer my question, Your Highness.”

Something flickers across his face, but I can’t read what it is. He takes me by the elbow again and leads me down the hall.

We finally reach a door at the end of the corridor and he pauses for a moment, glancing back and forth down the hallway several times before he pulls the door open and almost yanks me inside.

“What are you—?” I stop myself from asking as soon as the door clicks closed behind me. It’s pretty clear where we are—it has to be Andrew’s suite.

It’s a much bigger room than mine—the sitting area alone is almost the size of my entire space. It’s decorated sparsely in dark but neutral colors—exactly what I imagined his tastes would be.

He motions to the file in my hand.

I lift a brow. “You can’t be serious.”

He almost rolls his eyes and motions again for the file.

I shake my head and hand it to him.

He only opens it up, giving the sheets inside a glance before he hands it back to me. “Now I can tell my father I’ve looked at the notes.”

“You could have just told him you looked at them, you know. You didn’t really have to—”

He interrupts. “He would know.” There’s something strange in his expression—something I definitely do not recognize.

I stare at him for a moment before I motion at the door. “I should be going, then—”

“No.” He shakes his head, interrupting again. “I didn’t bring you all the way over here to glance at your notes, Victoria.” He lifts a brow. “And I only glanced at them so my father wouldn’t accuse me of lying.”

“I don’t understand, Andrew.”

He frowns again, his brow furrowing. “I imagine you’re as tired as I am.”

I have to close my eyes for a second. “Andrew—”

“Victoria, you have no idea how much it killed me, not having you in my arms last night.”

“And yet, here you are still alive—”

He almost growls. “You know what I mean.” He pauses for a moment. “One nap. Please. I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t important—”

I shake my head, forcing myself not to clutch at my stomach from what feels like a sucker punch. “You want me to sleep with you so you’re all fresh and pretty for your new princess.”

He tilts his head, but doesn’t disagree.

“Fuck you, Andrew.” I turn on my heel and walk to the door.

He catches me by the shoulder, spinning me back to face him. “Victoria, please. It’s not just for whomever it is my father has invited tonight. It is for both of us—for you and for me. I can see in your eyes that you’re at least as tired as I am.”

“This is sick. You know that, right? That we’re both so fucked up in the head? That we both need psychiatric care—?”

“Victoria, no one else can understand the traumas we’ve endured together. We owe it to each other…” His voice trails off and his expression changes again. His shoulders are hunched and his voice is almost shaking. “Please, Victoria. I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t…”

I wait for him to finish, but he doesn’t. “If you weren’t what?”

He searches my eyes for a second, and if I didn’t know better, I would say his were almost wet. “If I weren’t desperate, Victoria.”

There’s something almost broken in his voice. And he looks at least as tired as I feel. As much as I hate to give in to anything he wants from me, this course of action seems at least mutually beneficial. If we’re going to stay up tonight—for Andrew to meet his future bride and for me to write about the meeting—we both do desperately need some rest.

I press my lips together and try to hide all the other feelings I don’t want to admit to myself that I’m having—the feelings I’m having for him that he can never know about. “Fine. But all clothing stays on.”

He nods, his shoulders dropping with what looks like relief. “Yes. Yes, I’ll even leave my shoes on if you like.”

“You can take off your shoes.” My voice is low, and I know I’m not hiding a damned thing.

But he either ignores the obvious desire in my voice or is oblivious to it, and he leads me into his bedroom, motioning for me to lie down on the bed.

I kick off my shoes and he does the same. He pulls down the duvet before we both crawl onto the large bed.

He covers us both before he pulls me into his arms. I turn and he nestles behind me in exactly the same position as we’ve slept the other times we’ve been together.

It’s not a moment later before I hear his breathing slow. I shift a little, pulling his arm across me to rest on my abdomen before I close my eyes.

And it doesn’t take me another second to finally fall asleep again for the first time in almost two days.

When I stir, the room is completely dark—there isn’t even light coming in from beneath the curtains. Andrew’s arm is still wrapped firmly around me and I can hear his slow, even breathing.

I should leave—it’s probably late and I’m sure Andrew will need to get ready to meet his future wife. Heaven forbid he’s sporting a five o’clock shadow when he meets her—the world might come to a spontaneous end or something.

I try to slide out from under his arm. I figure I can wake him up after I’m safely out of his bed. I know what seems to happen to us—or at least to me—when we’re anywhere remotely close to each other.

But we just slept together for at least a couple hours. I’m not sure why I’m trying to convince myself that it’s somehow all right for us to sleep in the same bed, when it’s so clearly a mistake for us to be around each other at all. Hadn’t he just said that last night? Hadn’t he been so ashamed to have been seen kissing me that he basically told me and his brother and sister that I wasn’t good enough for him?

Maybe I’ll just let him sleep. Let his perfect bride find him looking less than perfect.

I think about letting him embarrass himself for about half a second before I remember I’ll have to run every bit of my story by either Andrew or his father before I’m allowed to publish a word. Letting Andrew embarrass himself might do something for my ego, but it won’t be anything useful as far as his story goes.

I’ll be the bigger person here—I’ll wake him up so he can shower and get himself ready. I can return to my room and change my wrinkled clothes. And—

My thoughts are interrupted by voices. Nearby voices. I’m pretty sure by the way the rooms are arranged, I shouldn’t be able to hear any voices from the hall. Which means only one thing.

There are people in Andrew’s sitting room.

My eyes widen, and I turn to him, even though I can’t really see more than his outline in the dark. “Andrew.” I shake his shoulder, but he doesn’t stir. “Andrew.” I say it a bit louder, but it doesn’t seem to do anything.

I sit up in bed at the same time as I see the door to the bedroom swing open and the lights turn on. I’m blinded for a second and I shield my eyes with my forearm, trying to see who it is standing there. There are two, maybe three outlines of people, but it’s too bright for me to see who they are.

There’s only silence for a moment—too long a moment—before the king’s voice bellows through the room. “What the hell is THIS?”