Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(133)

“Woman.”

Melissa’s mom is sobbing.

“Woman,” he barks.

She goes silent. I can hear her trembling over the phone, almost.

“You are married.”

“Y-yes, we are.”

“Children? Other than the girl?”

“I have a younger son.”

“I will send plane tickets… No, I will send a full diplomatic escort. You are welcome to join her here, as guests.”

“What? You want us to come there?”

He looks at the phone. Melissa’s mom is talking to her father.

“Can we leave now? Please?”

“As soon as my people arrive. I will hand you off to one of my adjutants who will arrange the details. Then you may speak to your daughter again. When you are on the plane, I will arrange a video conferencing call.”

“Oh God, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“It… It is my pleasure…” he says mechanically.

He hands the phone off, as he says, to one of his men, who speaks in curt, accented English.

“Everyone out,” he says in a flat, quiet tone.

It’s like someone set off an alarm. Everyone on the entire floor just vanishes, even the guards at Melissa’s door.

Everyone but me. I stand to my full height, such as it is.

“It is a shame you refuse to be a princess. You would be a magnificent one.”

I cock my head to the side.

“Maybe you’re not completely evil. Now, can I call my parents?”

“I will consider it.”

“But—”

“Enough.”

I close my mouth sharply and tilt my head down.

The prince reaches over and pushes my chin back up with his fingers.

“I like you better with your head held high. You’re prettier that way.”

I bat his hand away. “Don’t get grabby, mister fancy pants.”

He laughs. “You berate me for inspiring so much fear. I think my men were more scared of you than they were of their prince just now.”

I smile but quickly force my face still.

I really shouldn’t encourage him.

“If you think you can buy your way into my pants with kindness to my friend, you’re wrong.”

“What would it take me to convince you that I was moved by your pleas? Truly?”

“I don’t know if you can.”

Just for a bare moment he glances at the floor. Then he simply turns and walks, expecting me to follow. I quicken my pace to catch up, and it’s like someone hit a giant pause button. All the activity in the hospital resumes, people just sweeping right back to work as we pass, as if nothing happened.

Almost nothing. I can still taste it on the air, the tension. Like ozone before a thunderstorm. I can sense the relief, too, as we step into the elevator.

“You don’t see it at all, do you?”

“What?”

“These people are terrified of you. Truly afraid.”

“Do you not fear the police in your country?”

“In my country?” I repeat, my eyebrow twitching as I eye him.

He sighs.

“Yeah. I am a little scared of cops if I think I might get in trouble. I don’t come from the land of sunshine and lollipops. But if I was at work and the president came to visit me, yeah I’d be a little intimidated, but I wouldn’t be afraid that he’d murder me if I sneezed in front of him.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“It’s called hyperbole.”

“I don’t murder my people.”

“When you call yourself judge and jury and act as the executioner, yeah, you do.”

“Why does it matter that these things be done separately?”

“One person shouldn’t have all that power over another person’s life. What if you chop off someone’s head, and you’re wrong?”

I almost expect him to tell me he doesn’t make mistakes, but instead he says, “Your country uses the death penalty, too.”

“Yes… But there’s a difference. There are rules of evidence and the court is supposed to be unbiased. I’m not saying it’s perfect, but did you execute that man I watched you kill because the evidence demanded it or because he pissed you off?”

“Both. Wait,” he says sharply. “I don’t know. Do you argue he didn’t deserve to die?”

“No. Maybe, I don’t know. He’s not a good example. He was a complete piece of shit, yes, but maybe whether he deserves to die or not, it isn’t up to you to decide.”

“Yet it is done in your country.”

“Not everywhere. Look, I don’t know if capital punishment is right or wrong. I can’t make up my mind, but the government of my country has that power because the people have granted it to them. The people can take it away, and they have in many states. You only have that power because nobody can stop you. The only difference between you and any other thug is a castle and a fancy armor suit.”

I expect him to snap at me again, but he looks almost thoughtful as he regards me. Then his expression shifts.

“You are very passionate when something angers you.”

I look away, hoping the harsh hospital lighting won’t let him see me blush. I have to control myself. In spite of however I try to make myself feel, I get a little tingle every time he praises me.