The Wild Heir(48)

“You know that I’m rubbish at this game compared to you,” I tell him. “Maybe don’t try and murder me with each serve.”

“Maybe step up and try to hit it back,” he says.

I glare at him. Fine. I’ll try. But I know he’s just trying to humiliate me.

I take my stance, legs apart, butt out, and do my best to channel Serena Williams. I tense my thighs, tighten my grip on the racket, and wait, my heart beating loudly in my chest. I don’t know how but Magnus has somehow managed to turn tennis into a high adrenaline sport.

Magnus serves up the ball and once again comes down on it with a hard swing that hits the ball perfectly. It goes right for me again and this time I both try to jump out of the way and attempt to swing at it.

It doesn’t go well.

My swing comes up empty and the movement almost makes me topple over, and once again, the ball stays inside the court.

“Fuck!” I yell, tempted to ram my racket into the ground. I can see why tennis players have such anger issues. If this continues for much longer I foresee myself launching the racket at his head.

“That’s the spirit,” he says, holding up a ball. “This is the last one I have. You better make it count.”

“You’re a royal drittsekk, you know that?”

He grins proudly, though I don’t know whether it’s because I managed to speak Norwegian or that he’s actually proud of being a royal shitbag.

Either way, he’s in it to win.

The ball goes up.

The racket comes down.

And all I see is this tennis ball coming straight at me, like a neon green meteor headed right for my face.

I’m too stunned to even try to move.

The ball bops me right on my fucking nose.

The world explodes into stars and I yell, “You son of a bitch!” while my eyes pinch shut and I crumple to my knees, holding my nose with one hand, the other keeping me up off the ground.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, I tell myself even though my eyes are starting to water. Fuck, it bloody hurts!

Meanwhile I can hear Magnus leaping over the net and running toward me, throwing his racket to the ground. “Holy fuck, I am so fucking sorry!”

His hands are at my back, on my arm, and I try to wave him away but it’s hard when my whole face is on fire and I feel like I’m about to pass out.

“Let me see,” he says, placing his hand at the back of my neck and crouching beside me.

I gradually lift my head up and hear him inhale sharply.

“What?” I say, my eyes flying open. I manage to look at my hand. It’s completely covered in blood. “Ahhh!”

By the way, I don’t do well with blood.

The world starts to spin again, getting fuzzy around the edges.

“It’s okay,” he says, though there is nothing reassuring about his voice.

“It’s not okay!” I cry out. “You probably broke my nose, you asshole.”

“Drittsekk,” he corrects.

“Yeah, shitbag. Prince Shitbag.” I grab my nose again, the blood dripping onto the ground. “Oh god, I’m going to faint.”

“You’re not,” he says, grabbing my arms and trying to haul me up to my feet. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

I’m pretty much putty at this point and when I’m up, my feet seem to disappear below me. I lean right into Magnus’s chest. His very warm, very hard, very intimidating chest.

Which I’m currently getting blood all over.

I pinch my eyes closed, trying to stay conscious.

“Ugh, sorry,” I whimper, trying to pull away.

But I swear his body is a magnet to mine and then his arms go around the small of my waist, holding me against him.

I’m powerless.

And bleeding all over him.

“I’ve got you,” he says. His tone is serious, as is his grip. “Let’s just take a moment. Breathe in. Breathe out.” He pauses. “Not through your nose, of course.”

I try and take in a deep breath. Let it out. Then another and another.

“You feel better?” he asks.

I give a slight shake of my head. Honestly, I just want to collapse against him even more.

“Okay, hold on,” he says, and then before I know what’s going on, he’s bending down and scooping me up into his arms.

I let out a yelp, one arm going around his shoulder to hold on, the other still holding on to my nose, as if it’s stopping anything.

He carries me out of the court and into the house, and luckily I don’t think any of the help see us. They’d probably freak out and place a phone call to the Queen or something. Who knew tennis could go so wrong?

“Jane!” I yell for her once we’re inside, still in Magnus’s arms. “Jane!”

“She went for a walk,” Ottar says, coming around the corner. “What—” He stops dead when he sees us. “Oh, helvete. What on earth happened here?” He looks at Magnus accusingly.

“Tennis happened,” Magnus says. “Can you grab the first aid kit? I’m sure it’s somewhere.”

“Of course, sir,” he says and then scurries off.

“You can put me down now,” I tell Magnus.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “You might hurt yourself again.”