Page 2 of Bred By The King

I nod reluctantly.

“And?”

And my pussy got wet. And I hated myself for it. Then I got wet again.

“He’s the enemy,” I grumble. “His ancestors killed ours. We’re not supposed to think he’s hot.”

Monique raises an eyebrow. “But you do know he’s hot, right?”

“Monique.”

“Layla. You literally have a vibrator named ‘Viking’ in your nightstand.”

I throw a pillow at her. She dodges it, cackling.

“I’m just saying, if you gotta get knocked up to end a war, at least the sperm donor is gorgeous. Silver lining, bitch.”

I groan, falling back on my vanity chair. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You love me. I’m the one keeping you grounded while your uterus gets drafted for diplomacy.”

I let out a choked laugh. She’s not wrong. My father announced the arrangement three days ago. King Soren of Vinterfjord, the big, blond bastard from the frozen land, is flying in today to sign the contract, marry me, and put a baby in me. All within the next month.

It’s insane. It’s medieval. It’s…

“He’s landing in twenty minutes,” Monique says, checking her phone. “You should probably put on some clothes.”

I’m in a silk robe and underwear. “Shit.”

“Shit indeed. Want me to do your hair?”

“Yes. Please. Make me look like someone who isn’t terrified.”

“You’re not terrified. You’re in denial. Very different energy.”

She drags me to the mirror and pulls a brush through my hair. I stare at my reflection. Smooth, dark skin, big brown eyes, full lips. Curvy in all the places that make dress fittings a nightmare. A real woman, I’ve heard many times. But today I don’t feel like one. I feel like a girl who’s about to meet the man she’s being pawned to.

“There.” Monique steps back, admiring her work. “You look beautiful, but relax. He’s just a man.”

“He’s a giant Viking!”

“So? You’re a warrior princess. You’ve fought men twice your size. You lead patrols. You got this.”

I take a deep breath. She’s right. I can do this. I can meet the enemy, sign the papers, and pretend.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Monique squeezes my hand. “And if he’s an asshole, we’ll poison him.”

I roll my eyes. “We can’t poison a king, Monique.”

She winks. “Watch me.”

* * *

When I make it to the landing strip, the sun is brutal, the heat already making my fancy dress stick to my skin. My father stands at the front of our delegation, straight-back and solemn. I take my place next to him, trying to look unaffected.

The plane touches down, the door opens, and he steps out.