Eleven hours later, Aleksander could still smell it, the scent lingering as if it had transferred onto his clothes, but she’d not touched him once.
‘I’ll table the conversation for our meeting in Öström.’
‘You can table it,’ Aleksander growled into the phone, ‘but it won’t be a conversation. It is done. Ilian Kozlov threatened my sister—he crossed a line and there is no turning back from that.’ A fury exclusively born from the need to protect his family filled him with white-hot rage. Aleksander had hated every interaction he’d had with the Russian oligarch but as a fellow member of the extremely secret organisation Aleksander belonged to there’d been no escaping him.
Aleksander had been in his early twenties when his business mentor and old friend had initiated him into the organisation just before his death. Comprised of some of the world’s richest and most influential leading figures, its purpose was to support—in secret—0those that would advance the world for the better. Kozlov had inherited his membership only a few years ago but was the antithesis of everything they stood for.
‘Removing a member from the organisation hasn’t been done for a very, very long time, and with good reason.’
‘He has been engaging in illegal business practices for too long and he has got away with it because he was part of the organisation. No more.’
‘Kozlov knows too much. Outside the organisation he will be an untenable liability. So you need to be very clear about what you expect from the organisation, should you make this happen.’
‘I am very clear,’ Aleksander said darkly.
‘Does the Greek know about us?’
‘No. Lykos Livas had a pre-existing relationship with Kozlov and only approached me because he discovered my shares in the Russian’s company.’
A respectful grunt came through the telephone line. ‘Impressive.’
‘Yes. It is.’ Aleksander had hopes to initiate his brother-in-law into the highly secret organisation, but that was a conversation for another time. Now, Aleksander’s sole focus was Kozlov. ‘When Lykos got too close to toppling Ilian, the Russian threatened Marit because of their association. But Kozlov knows she is my sister and he knows the rules. Family is sacrosanct. I will see you in Öström,’ he said before ending the call.
He left the desk in the corner of his suite and, whisky in hand, made his way towards the living area where two large butter-soft leather sofas bracketed the open fireplace. Although the cold bite of spring was giving way to warmer winds, Aleksander enjoyed the fire. The flames twisted and turned, hissing and licking over the hunks of wood, but all Aleksander could see was Henna’s hazel eyes. His sister’s closest friend had proven herself to be nothing other than excellent in her work and he had no doubt that she would bring the same quality to her search for a suitable fiancée.
But he couldn’t deny privately that the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. It was, in fact, the last thing he could conceive of wanting, and the pun was intentional. The only thing he needed from his Queen was a child. It would take the focus and the pressure from Freya who—unable to carry a child to term—would come under some of the world’s most intense scrutiny for what would be perceived to be a failure on her part.
He fisted his hand. The world could be cruel, he knew that. Royals were expected to behave as if they never made a mistake, as if they never had a selfish moment, as if they never wanted something just for themselves. And if they dared take it, then more often than not the punishment was bordering on cruel.
I’m sorry.
Kristine’s long ago whispered words brushed against his consciousness and he washed his anger down with whisky.
Me too, Aleksander mentally replied before his grief could take hold.
‘I think you’d be perfect together,’ Henna said as she sorted through the files on her desk. With Freya away with her fiancé, Henna’s duties should have lessened. But staff kept coming to her with queries about His Royal Highness.
‘And I think you’ve lost your mind,’ came the laughing response from Natassia Malthe.
Henna had used her contacts, which weren’t quite a cabal, to reach out to the Norwegian businesswoman, who had apparently returned her call only because she was curious.
‘You don’t think you’re fit for a king?’ Henna asked, genuinely intrigued. Natassia’s confidence and self-composure were the envy of many a person.
‘I absolutely think I’m fit for a king. Just notthatking.’
Henna frowned. ‘I know he can be—’
‘Difficult? Moody? Manipulative?’
She couldn’t refute the adjectives being fired down the telephone line. But she wanted to. Because he hadn’t always been like that. The boy who had found her in the maze, brought her back and introduced her to Freya...was not, she could admit, the same as the man who ruled Svardia as if it were an art form.
‘I can’t deny that,’ she said to Natassia, ‘but he is also kind. He might not have the time to be nice about it, he does have a country to run. But—’
‘Are you trying to tell me there’s a cinnamon roll under all that bluster?’
‘That is not...no,’ Henna concluded, her tone revealing how unlikely just the thought of it was. Natassia laughed. ‘But he will respect you and your career. And he will treat you well and allow you the freedom to pursue what it is you want to do with your life. And you will be able to use a position by his side to achieve anything you want. That is more than most.’
‘But is it enough?’