‘They don’t know why. There was no previous infection or scarring. It’s most likely always been that way.’
She forced herself to meet his gaze as his fingers played with the hem of her top, lifting it up and over her head and casting it to the side. Stripping back the layers of her hurt just like her clothing should have made her feel weak, vulnerable, but instead the way he looked at her, the pure desire glowing in his eyes made her feel bold, feminine,strong.
‘Why do you have to renounce your title?’ he asked.
She was about to answer when his hands stroked and moulded her breasts with possessive sweeps of his palm and her mind sought to lose itself in his touch rather than answer his question.
‘Freya...’ he nudged her.
And he tightened his hold as she clenched her jaw against the sudden tide of anger returning to wash against her heart. ‘They will crucify me.’
A frown slashed across his brow, his eyes blazing with fury. ‘Who will?’
‘The press. The people. They will never let me forget,’ she said, her soul shaking with her deepest fear. ‘Not only that, it will taint my family. They’ll question the fertility of my brother, my sister... They’ll study the family tree, looking for signs and symptoms of this biological failure that I will come to represent.’ She knew how bad it would be. She had been the perfect princess and still she’d felt the shocking lash of their censure if a camera had caught her in an unflattering angle. Heaven forbid anything worse.
‘Freya—’
‘Have you ever read what has been written about Princess Masako? The Duchess of York? Queen Letizia? Princess Diana? The Princesses of Monaco? The Duchess of Sussex? Princess Madeleine? The press can and often will be cruel, critical, snide, malicious...until they produced a child. Do you know that on any internet search, on any biography, info page or description, the first thing that is listed after a princess’s official title is the number and names of their children? Every. Single. Time. As a princess, I haveonejob. And it’s not one I will ever be able to fulfil.’
‘You say that they’ll never let you forget, that it will become your identity. But can’t you reclaim that identity? Make it your own on your terms? Control the—’
‘Narrative? I don’t want to have to!’ she cried. ‘It’s hard enough as it is. And you want me to be the poster child for infertility? The guiding light, leading by example, taking all the flack for future generations of royals?’
‘Not just royals... There are people out there without the support that you have.’
‘You don’t get to make me feel guilty about this,’ she warned, her stomach churning.
‘I’m not trying to, Freya, honestly. But there are so many options available to you, I just don’t want you to make a decision that you can’t take back. What is the urgency? Can you not wait a little longer until you’ve made peace with how you feel about it?’
‘No. There isn’t time. Not for Aleksander. Or Marit. Svardia needs stability. Right now. And although it will be hard stepping down, much better for it to be seen as my selfishness than anything that would undermine the royal family.’
He pierced her with a penetrating gaze. ‘Or are you just clinging to that so you can burn it all down?’
She hated it that he was even just a little right, and—worse—that he could see that about her. It might be brutal but turning her back on it all was so much easier than trying to grasp at what was left.
‘You want me to expose my damage to the public, but what about you?’
Kjell became preternaturally still.
‘No? Nothing to say to that?’ she demanded, hurt and anger making her cruel. ‘About why you won’t accept the medal? About what happened to require an After Action Report?’
He didn’t turn away but his eyes on hers had become fierce. Their gazes flaying lies like layers of skin to reveal the deepest, darkest truths and hurts. Until they both chose to burn on a different fire, an easier one but no less passionate.
They came together in a punishing kiss. Brutal, crushing and utterly delicious. Teeth clashed with tongues, pulses pounded and palms pressed desperately against hot fevered skin. Freya revelled in the power of their desire—the incendiary heat between them burning away the hurt, the sadness, the ache deep within her that she feared might never be healed, no matter what her future. But all thoughts fled when she felt Kjell’s fingers dip beneath the vest top and slide it up and over her head. The arctic blue gaze burned white-hot when he saw what he’d revealed of her, his eyes devouring her and seeming to glory in every inch of her body.
He leaned over her, pressing feverish lips to her skin and she couldn’t help but arch into his caress, gasp as his tongue toyed with her nipple and whimper when he palmed her other breast. Heat, intense, damp and urgent, built between her legs, shocking and already sensitised after the intensity of her earlier orgasm.
His hand around her back dropped to grasp her backside, moulding her to him and the evidence of his own arousal.
‘Perfect,’ he whispered against her lips. ‘You’re absolutely perfect.’
His words turned in her heart and she wanted to be that. Perfect. For him. But before she could say so he gathered her up in his arms. Instinctively wrapping her legs around his hips, he lifted her, finally bringing them eye to eye, lip to lip, where the supremely arrogant male smirk made her smile.
‘I wanted you like this,’ he said. He must have seen the confusion in her eyes. ‘From the first second I saw you, I wanted you naked, amongst the furs in front of the fire. I wanted it so badly.’
The confession felt precious, felt raw and honest—and she closed her mind to the part that warned that Kjell still hadn’t trusted her with his hurt. But she needed this just as badly and she promised herself that it was enough. For now.
Kjell backed up to the sofa, holding her to him with one hand, drawing several of the furs onto the floor with the other, without breaking the kiss.