Could that be because you’re about to stand before a room of dignitaries and try to convince them that preserving our country’s sacred sites is worth more than their political clout? That history and culture hold value that can’t be measured by gold or industry?
I straighten my cuffs, only to realize my hands are trembling.Damn it.
“You’re nervous,” Charlotte declares, perching on the arm of a nearby chair in a way that would have our deportment teachers weeping. My youngest sister has never been one for rules, even now with a former bodyguard warming her bed and a ring on her finger.
“I don’t get nervous.”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes, somehow managing to look both elegant and exasperated in her flowing sundress. “You’ve been prowling around like a caged tiger all morning. Even Victoria noticed, and she’s been buried in Kit’s schedule updates since dawn.”
Before I can argue, the door opens and Katherine sweeps in. My older sister may wear our father’s crown now, but here, inthis room, she’s just Kit—albeit a very pregnant Kit who looks ready to declare war on someone. Her dark hair is pulled back in a practical yet elegant twist, emphasizing her striking features—high cheekbones, that intimidating royal jawline we all inherited, and those penetrating brown eyes that seem to strip away pretense from everyone they assess. Unlike Charlotte’s expressive warmth or my reserved diplomacy, Kit radiates the unmistakable aura of someone born to command. Even heavily pregnant, she moves with the practiced grace of a monarch who has never doubted her place in the world.
Normally a balanced, calm individual, she currently looks ready to declare war.
“If one more advisor suggests I should ‘take it easy’ while they handle things, I’m going to have Jon take them into the mountains and ‘accidentally’ push them off a cliff.” She waddles to the nearest sofa, one hand supporting her heavily swollen belly. “I’m pregnant, not incapacitated.”
“You’re also cranky,” Charlotte observes cheerfully. “And probably hungry. Should I ring for tea?”
Kit makes a noise that in a less regal person might be called a growl. “I want chocolate biscuits. And those little sandwiches with the cucumber. And maybe some of those spicy things Jon’s aunt sent over.”
I hide a smile as Charlotte signals one of the hovering staff. Eight months into her second pregnancy, Kit’s appetite has become legendary among the palace kitchens. Her husband Jonathan—former politician turned devoted Prince Consort—has taken to carrying snacks in his pockets.
“Now,” Kit says, fixing me with the look that makes parliamentary ministers squirm, “are we going to discuss why you called this little family meeting? And why you’ve been avoiding me for the past week?”
I shift my weight, military training warring with brotherly instinct to fidget under her scrutiny. At thirty-two, I’m a decorated special forces veteran, third in line for the throne, and occasional diplomatic envoy. But under Kit’s knowing gaze, I feel like the little boy who used to hide behind her skirts at state functions.
“The Manari Tribal Council is arriving next week,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “They’ve requested a liaison for the sacred sites preservation discussion.”
“And you’d be perfect for it,” Kit says slowly. “You served with their warriors, you speak the language, you understand our customs...” She trails off, dark eyes narrowing. “So why do you look like you’re about to face a firing squad?”
Charlotte gasps suddenly, sitting upright. “It’s him, isn’t it? The one you mentioned in your letters when you were deployed? The warrior who?—“
“Lottie,” I cut her off, but it’s too late. Kit’s expression has shifted from confusion to understanding.
“Captain Murahka Rangi,” she says softly. “He’s heading their security team.”
My pulse stutters. Of course, Kit would know.
I pinch my nose, closing my eyes briefly, remembering a night years ago, huddled around a campfire in the mountains. Remembering quiet conversations in our native tongue, sharedstories of home, a connection I’d forced myself to forget when I returned to royal duty.
Rangi, as he’d insisted we call him, had been an enigma among the special forces. Built like a warrior of old, he stood well over six feet tall with broad shoulders that spoke of generations of fighters in his bloodline. But it was his hands that I remembered most vividly—graceful despite their strength, calloused yet gentle.
His facial features carried the proud angles of his Manari heritage, high cheekbones and a strong jaw softened by lips that seemed perpetually caught between a smile and a challenge.
The tattoos that marked him as a warrior had fascinated me—intricate patterns that flowed across his arms and chest, each telling a story of his lineage and achievements. He’d caught me staring once, around a campfire high in the mountains. Instead of taking offense, he’d spent hours teaching me the meaning behind each symbol, his deep voice weaving tales of our shared culture in our native tongue.
“You’re lost in thought,” he’d said that night, dark eyes reflecting the flames. “Your spirit is far from here, Your Highness.”
“Leo,” I’d corrected automatically. “Please. Here, I’m just Leo.”
His smile then had undone me—warm and knowing and dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with combat. “Are you ever ‘just’ anything?”
He’d been the first person to make me feel seen, not as a prince or a soldier, but as myself. It had been terrifying. Exhilarating. The kind of connection I’d forced myself to forget when I returned to royal duty, though my dreams had other ideas.
He’s just a man,I remind myself.Granted, a very attractive one.
“If this is too difficult,” Kit begins, “I can assign someone else.”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended. I moderate my tone. “No, I’m fine. I just... needed you both to know. To understand if I seem....”
