The Wild Heir by Karina Halle
WARNING
Although fun and fluffy, this book is not recommended for sensitive readers.
It contains the Lord’s name in vain, ample amounts of swearing in English (and in Norwegian!), and some foul-mouthed sexually graphic situations.
If you are a reader who has problems with the things I mentioned above, pleeeeeeease take heed.
Thank you!
A Note From the Author
I’ll try and make this quick so you can get on reading about sexy royal scandals and arranged marriages.
As you have probably guessed from the title, this is a ROYAL ROMANCE about Magnus, the Crown Prince of Norway.
As such, I must put this teeny tiny disclaimer here: This is a work of fiction.
The actual Norwegian Royal Family is amazing.
(I am actually Norwegian myself…and Finnish and Canadian but I digress).
But this book is not based on them.
Same goes for the Liechtenstein royal family.
I know this is all without saying but people getting funny about their royals. Once again - this is totally a work of fiction and not based on any royal family.
However, I will tell you that the real Prince of Norway met his Princess when she was a single mother at an EDM festival, so when royal romance books might seem unrealistic, let’s not forget the truth is stranger than fiction!
Which means, hey, your chances of meeting a prince and stealing his heart aren’t that bad.
I also want to quickly point out to all my Norwegian family members - I know most of the characters have the same names as you but rest assured I did not name them after you! But of course, I was thinking about you and my beloved Norway while writing this book.
And yes, I suppose the Queen is named after my aunt Else :D
PS if you’ve snatched up The Wild Heir and you’re wondering if you need to read another book beforehand, rest easy - you don’t have to! Yes The Wild Heir is a spinoff of The Swedish Prince (where Magnus made a brief appearance) but you don’t need to read The Swedish Prince before you read The Wild Heir. The Wild Heir is a complete STANDALONE!
If you do plan to read The Swedish Prince though, it’s right here and FREE in KU!
HAPPY READING!
One
Magnus
“You fucked up!” Ottar says yet again.
Not exactly the thing you want to hear mere seconds before you’re about to fling yourself off a 3,200-foot cliff and free fall to the fjord below.
But in this case, as Ottar has spent the last five minutes drilling into my head what an idiot I am and how badly I’ve fucked up my life, hurling yourself off a cliff seems like the right thing to do. Maybe the only thing to do in this situation.
As I run toward the edge of Kjerag Mountain, I keep my eyes focused straight ahead at the fjord cutting through the valley like a blue knife, and let all thoughts, all worries, all self-awareness, melt away.
I jump.
Those first few seconds of free fall are what I imagine being born is like. A terrifying rush as you’re propelled from the solid and steady world you know into the cold abyss. There’s nothing like it, leaving safety and life for what should be certain death.
Then you’re flying, arms out, weightless, a bird in the sky, an angel’s descent, a step beyond being human.
Then you’re falling.
Wind rushing against your face, pulling your skin back into a smile, rattling your helmet. There’s nothing to anything anymore, nothing but you and the wind and the greatest adrenaline rush you’ll ever know. Better than sex, even.
Maybe.
The timer goes off, interrupting the rush before my brain has started to blur together. I quickly reach into the chute to deploy it and I’m jerked back, the blast of the free fall reversing for a second as the parachute spreads and the easy descent begins.
Usually this part of the jump is where your heart starts to slow, where you realize where you are, what you’re doing—that you made it. You’re safe. As you float down to earth, you carry nothing inside you but awe, knowing that you’re just a tiny bright-colored parachute soaring toward a cerulean-blue fjord, eagles at eye level.
But there is no peace and tranquility today.
There is none of that sharp focus and clarity that always comes during a jump, where my scattered world seems to pause, just for one wonderful minute as I fall from the sky.
All I can focus on are Ottar’s words slicing through my head. I fucked up. And it’s not just his words either. It’s my sisters, it’s my parents, it’s the press. It’s the damn prime minister.
When you’re royalty and you do something stupid, everyone in the whole world, let alone the whole country, gets to weigh in on it.
And I’m the Crown Prince of Norway, heir to the throne, and my latest scandal just set the public image of our country back another hundred years.
No wonder it was easier to jump today than most days.
A scream pierces my thoughts and I look up, even though I can see nothing above me but the electric yellow of the chute. That was Ottar’s scream. This is only the second time the guy has BASE jumped, and for him, it’s one too many. Hell, no sane person would attempt this sport, but I have the nickname “Magnus the Mad” for a few good reasons.