‘When I realised just how much damage had been done to my little sisters by our parents’ overzealous focus on monarchy.’
Freya reared back as if she’d been struck. They’d never really spoken of their parents’ behaviour or treatment of them. It had been a sort of mute acceptance. Duty to the crown first and always. ‘I don’t...’ She trailed off, unsure what to say.
‘You are staying, yes? Maintaining your title and role?’
‘Yes,’ she said, a little unsure as to the swift turn of the conversation.
‘And Bergqvist is refusing the medal?’
‘Yes.’
There was a beat while her brother took this in. To the world, he might look as if he were deciding his next step, but Freya knew the speed with which his quick intelligence worked. Knew the way he considered people and decisions like pieces on a chessboard, weighing up all possible consequences of each move before it was made.
‘Okay. The investiture is set for two weeks’ time, but the Vårboll is on Friday. If you are staying, I shall expect you to be in attendance.’
Freya had forgotten about the Spring Ball held at the palace every year. She was nodding her agreement. ‘I’m meeting with Stellan in—’ she checked her watch ‘—about ten minutes. I still want to get the matter in front of parliament before the May recess.’
‘Okay,’ Aleksander replied. ‘And you have a plan to address the press?’
And, just like that, Princess Freya of Svardia returned. Only this was a new Princess, and she couldn’t help but see a little more assessment, a little more respect from her brother as they parried back and forth over the next seven minutes on the plan she had developed with Henna to reveal her infertility to the press. Aleksander insisted that they wait as long as possible before going public. But ‘as long as possible’ really only covered a few months. And the royal household’s PR department would need to get going on it immediately.
And even in that short time Freya felt emotionally drained by the conversation. She would have to stretch these muscles, learn how to build up the emotional strength to become an advocate, not a victim. And Freya promised herself she would make the time to do so. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, go back to being half a princess—part fantasy image and only part herself. Svardia—and she—deserved nothing but her truth.
‘When are you going to tell Marit?’ Freya finally asked.
Aleksander looked up at her and Freya couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something at play. Concern twisted in her heart for her sister. ‘Aleksander. What have you done?’
‘I’d rather wait just a little longer before informing her of your decision.’ It didn’t escape her notice that her brother had refused to answer her question.
‘Sander,’ she said, using his childhood name, calling on the long-ago bond between them.
‘It’s important.’
‘Will you explain why?’
‘Soon.’
A knock sounded on the office door.
‘Yes?’ Aleksander called.
Freya turned to see Henna in the doorway, looking apologetic for interrupting. ‘I’ve put Stellan in your office,’ she said to Freya.
Freya nodded and, looking to her brother, was surprised by the fierce look in the gaze Aleksander cast at Henna. Frowning, she turned back to Henna but she was already gone.
Freya opened her mouth to speak, but her brother spoke before she could even form the thought.
‘Good luck with Stellan.’
‘I’m going to need it,’ she replied.
‘Yes, you are,’ she heard, as she left the King of Svardia’s office.
Adrenaline flooded Kjell’s body, his heart pounded so hard it should have given up long ago, sweat poured down across his skin. An hour-long punishing run and it still wasn’t enough to rid him of the memory of watching Freya disappear into the sky in that helicopter.
He yanked open the door to the boot room, stripped himself naked and blindly made his way to the shower, refusing to even look at the sofa. It didn’t work. He clenched his jaw against the cascade of erotic images that poured through his mind like the sigh that Freya made just after she came. He was going to have to burn that sofa unless he wanted to lose his goddamned mind.
He ignored the way the bathroom door slammed against the wall, ignored the shiver of disapproval he felt from his ancestors, ignored the instinctive reminder to feed the wood burner in case it went out.