The Wild Heir(41)

But with Viktor not answering (not that I blame him, he’s been busy with his own fiancé), I start roaming the halls like a ghost. Too much restless energy than I know what to do with.

Finally, I go to her room and rap on the door. Naturally she’s chosen the room at the opposite end of the hall from my bedroom, as far away as possible.

“Who is it?” I hear her ask through the door.

“Prince Fucking Charming,” I tell her.

I hear a muffled laugh, probably Jane, and a few long seconds tick by before the door opens.

Ella stands there looking unimpressed, dressed as she was before in black leggings and a pale blue sweater that falls off one shoulder. Her blonde hair has been braided to one side, her face bare of any makeup. She looks astonishingly pretty.

Except for the fact that she’s glaring at me. “What do you want?”

I raise my brow and stare at her expectantly.

She sighs. “What do you want…Your Highness?”

I smile. “That’s better. And actually, I was hoping to steal you away from your Lady over there so I can talk to you in private.”

“What about?”

I squint at her and then look over her shoulder at Jane who is sitting on an ottoman at the foot of the bed. “Is she always this grouchy in the evening? I would have thought giving her food would have helped.”

“Clearly you’ve never owned a mogwai before, sir,” Jane deadpans.

Ella looks back at her. “What did you just call me?”

“Listen, Gizmo,” I tell her, pushing the door open further, “we have two weeks to get to know each other and I’m not sure if you’re here just to get a free trip to Norway or what, but at any rate, we need to talk.” I pause. “I have a game I’d like to play.”

“What kind of game?” She looks both scared and curious.

Good.

“You’ll see.” I nod at Jane. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Please,” Jane says with a dismissive wave. It’s only then that I notice she has curlers in her hair. “We were talking about rubbish which is what we usually do. Please take Ella and don’t bring her back for a long time.”

“Jane,” Ella chides her, but I reach out and grab her arm.

“Come on. I won’t bite,” I tell her, pulling her gently toward the door.

“Unless I want you to, right?” she asks wryly but still lets me drag her out into the hall, the door shutting behind her.

“I didn’t say it,” I tell her. I don’t let go of her arm either; instead, I slip my hand down until I’m holding hers.

“What are you doing?” she asks, trying to wrestle her hand out of mine.

“Holding your hand,” I tell her. “I’m dastardly like that.”

“More like bastardly,” she mumbles under breath.

“That’s the spirit,” I goad her. “A few more back and forths like that and it’ll be like we can hold an actual conversation.”

She doesn’t say anything after that. Still holding her hand in mine, I take her down the stairs and into the parlor, sitting her down in a giant leather wingback chair beside the fireplace.

“What are you having to drink?” I ask her, heading for the little bar cart I had Ottar help set up earlier. There may be fake fruit in the bowls but the booze is very real.

“I’m okay,” she says.

“Scotch then,” I tell her, filling her up a highball glass.

She sighs as I bring it over to her and reluctantly takes it from me. “Thank you,” she says quietly, and I know that’s just an automatic reaction from her upbringing.

“No problem.” I get my own glass and sit down across from her in another chair. The fire is roaring—courtesy of Ottar again—and everything looks downright cozy in here.

Ella sits in her chair primly, her ankles crossed, taking delicate sips of her drink. A bird would drink it faster.

She stares at the fire rather than at me, which gives me the freedom to stare at her. Her profile is rather cute, her nose turning up just slightly at the end. With the way the flames are lighting up her face and her hair, she’s positively angelic.

My eyes drift to her bare shoulder where I don’t catch sight of a bra strap. The skin of her palm felt soft and smooth, and I can only wonder what the skin on her shoulder feels like. Silk, probably.

I haven’t seen Ella expose much skin. At dinner with my family, her gown practically covered her all up except her lower arms. When she came to negotiate, she was wearing black pants and a white turtleneck. Today’s glimpse of her shoulder is probably the most I’ve seen of her skin.

I know women think that wearing a revealing outfit is sexy, and while I have no objections to seeing a lot of leg, a lot of tits, or a lot of ass, there’s something equally as sensual as only showcasing one spot of skin.

I’m starting to fixate on it, hyper-focus.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have quite the intense stare?” Ella says, still not looking at me.

I tear my eyes away from her shoulder and take a gulp of my drink. “I’ve heard it a few times. Nothing I can do about it. I feel things intensely most of the time.”

I can tell she wants to roll her eyes. “So what is this game you speak of? Please tell me it’s not a drinking game because I’m not interested.”