Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(134)

The prince opens my door to the car in a gentlemanly gesture and steadies me as I step inside before entering himself.

He sits back in the seat.

“Why did you help her?”

“Who?”

“My friend. You could have just dragged me off if you liked, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I dislike the sound of a woman in distress. It…aggravates me.”

“I think you do care about these people, on some level. Part of you has to see that this isn’t right.”

“I tire of this line of conversation.”

I sigh. “Will you let them go home? Her parents? If she can’t leave, why can they?”

He clenches his jaw. “I don’t know. You make me regret my rash decision.”

“You should let her go.”

“If I let her go, her life is forfeit. Do you doubt me? You think the people who were ready to sell you will protect you? I will protect you!”

I shrink back and swallow hard.

“You’re not protecting her. Locking her in that room forever will kill her as surely as some assassin’s bullet, my prince.”

He leans forward. “I tire of this. We go back to the castle.” He clasps his head between his hands. “You make it sound as if my every choice is between one evil or another. I’d rather not choose at all.”

“We’re not going back to the castle.”

He lifts his head from his hands and looks at me.

“You promised me you’d show me around. Show me people, not horses and hawks. I want to see how people live here. You promised.”

He sighs, hard. “Very well. Where would you like to go?”

“It’s lunchtime. Let’s eat.”





Chapter Seven





“I do not know where you would wish to eat.”

I bite my lip and think about that one for a moment.

Then it hits me.

“Show me a school.”

“A school?”

“Yes, a school. With children.”

The prince looks away. “As you wish.”

I fold my arms over my chest and sit up in the seat. “Last night, you asked me to have your child. Which is not how it is done, I might add.”

“People in my country believe a strong mother begets a strong child.” He considers that for a moment, idly scratching his chin. “And you have birthing hips.”

I glare at him.

He gives the driver an order, and off we go, away from the hospital. I look back, silently praying that the prince will be good to his word and help Melissa. He seemed moved on the phone.

I glance over at him, trying not to catch his attention. I want to believe that my instinct is more than attraction, that there is more than the flutter in my chest when his sharp eyes look at me, more than the longing for his powerful arm and thick chest, and that feeling I get when he walks in front of me.

He has a great ass. I noticed. Can you blame me?

It’s layers and layers of masks with this guy. I saw it when Melissa’s mom was pleading with him on the phone. The mask slipped and I saw the man underneath.

I want to see that again.

He glances at me and I look away quickly, shivering as all the heat in my body goes to my cheeks. I fold my hands and end up wringing them for the rest of the ride.

“Here we are,” he says as the car stops.

You could have fooled me. This doesn’t look like a school.

This time I wait for him to walk around, open my door, and offer me his hand. I grip the handle above the door and lower myself down without touching him, keep my chin up, and walk toward the front entrance of the school. Kosztylan is close enough to Solkovian that I can read the legend printed above the door: Secondary Elementary, No. 19. No name, nothing like that.

“Secondary elementary?”

“What you would call…” he furrows his brow, “fourth grade through sixth. Older children, not yet adolescents.”

“Tell me about it. The education system here.”

He steps beside me and opens the door.

“School begins at three. From birth to the child’s third birthday, the mother is given a stipend and expected to stay home from work.”

“Generous, but then she can’t advance her career.”

“There is no advancing of careers here. Work is not a competition. From each according to their ability.”

I stop in the lobby, at least I think it’s a lobby, and look at him.

“Who decides what their ability is?”

“Let me finish telling you. At age three children enter a crèche… I think the American expression is day care. It lasts from an hour before the workday begins at six in the the morning… What?”

He must be reading the look on my face. Admittedly it’s not going to be hard to read. My jaw dropped.

“You make them get up at six in the morning?”

“No, they are collected at six. Most of the younger children are still asleep when the caregivers pick them up from their homes and take them to the crèche. They spend the next twelve hours there—”

“You make everyone work twelve hours a day?”

“No, nine with an hour lunch period in the middle. The extra time is to allow parents some time to prepare meals for their children.”