Page 8 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

A quick glance around at the group we’re seated with confirms the pairing off has begun, and I certainly won’t be missed.

Davina is deep in conversation with one of the CEO’s, his fingers dancing over the skin on her inner wrist, and the musician has found her way into the politician’s lap.

I turn back to James, feeling distinctly off-kilter as he stands and offers his hand to help me to my feet.

In the ten minutes or so since we’ve arrived, more people have filed in. There is a group clustered by the bar beside the door, and the moment I’m standing, James is taking charge, steering me directly toward them with a hand resting on my lower back.

The way he’s touching me is unquestionably proprietary, and it seems clear our host wants me for himself tonight. Bringing me with him to greet whoever it is who just came in suggests he isn’t leaving it up to chance by letting me sit unattended for even a minute.

Do I want to sleep with him?

Everything is happening so fast. We just got here, and I’m struggling to wrap my head around the possibility as James leads me through the room, slowing here and there to greet people and introduce me as he does.

He’s not the kind of person I would date, but tonight is about sex, not love.

If I’m going to have a one-night stand, an attractive, confident duke seems like an ideal candidate.

There should definitely be less thinking going on right now, but I can’t seem to help but analyze the pros and cons from every angle.

The decision still hasn’t quite been made as we reach the group by the bar, and several people move to the side, allowing me to see that everyone has been clustered around a single man.

A single, extremely familiar man.

I don’t know him personally. We’ve definitely never met before, but I know who he is because he’s been on the cover of every tabloid or newspaper since I arrived in Stelland, and even some back at home. I even saw him on the evening news I was watching as I got ready to come here.

All the air goes out of me, because even with all the very powerful, impressive people I’ve seen here tonight, he is in another league entirely.

The king.

Oh, holy shit. I am so far out of my depth here. What kind of party did Davina bring me to?

King Benedict of Stelland is a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark brown hair that’s just long enough to curl at the top of his neck, and a closely cropped beard.

He’s unsmiling and stern, dressed as all the men here are, in a dark button-up and trousers, and if you didn’t know who he was, I doubt you’d guess the leader of an entire country .

“Your Royal Highness. Welcome,” James says as the other people around the king drift away, and he turns his attention onto us. His gaze finds the man at my side, then me, registering the briefest glimmer of surprise before lapsing into cool disinterest.

My stomach flips.

“Your Grace,” he replies grimly, holding out a hand for our host to shake. “It’s been a while.”

“It has. Allow me to introduce Miss Zelda Flowers. She’s here from California, filming a movie.”

Am I supposed to curtsy? It seems like a little much, so I go with a bob of my head, peering at him for indications I’ve done the wrong thing. “It’s nice to meet you,” I murmur, while the organ in my chest flutters like a trapped bird against my rib cage.

The king stares at me. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Flowers.”

Despite the formality of our introduction, I can tell this man has none of the pretense I’ve come to associate with men back home.

Everything about him speaks to quiet assurance.

King Benedict isn’t here to prove anything to anyone; he is a man who knows his place in the world and doesn’t need to posture to demonstrate it.

Considering my history, it’s no mystery why I would be interested in him. Which I am. Very much so.

Is that weird? A few moments ago, I was considering sleeping with James, but my interest in him evaporated in the time it took for me to be introduced to the wildly unpopular King of Stelland.

In that brief window of time, I also seem to have learned the difference between thinking someone is attractive and being attracted to them.

At my side, James raises his glass to the king. “Enjoy yourself, sir. I’m certainly hoping to.” Not discreetly, his hand drifts to my waist, offering me a practiced grin. With his hosting duties satisfied, he begins to guide me away, and I feel my body go stiff.

James doesn’t notice.

The king does.

“I would love to speak more to Miss Flowers, actually. It’s not every day one meets a movie star,” he informs James blandly, lifting a dark eyebrow in a silent challenge.

The hand on my waist falls back to James’ side. He looks between us, his expression flat, and finally lets out a heavy sigh. With a muttered “ typical, ” he’s on his way, strolling back toward the group we just left, and leaving me alone with the most powerful man in the country.

People are watching us. Pretending to be subtle about it, but definitely watching.

“You’ll have to forgive the duke,” offers King Benedict calmly. “We went to school together, and he once licked every pastry on a platter to prevent anyone else from taking one. I’m afraid you very nearly fell prey to the same tactic.”

A giggle bubbles from my lips, and I find myself looking directly into his eyes as I respond, tummy fluttering with nerves as I do.

“Someone should have taken one for the team and eaten one. Think of all the trouble it would have saved women everywhere if that strategy had proven ineffective early on.”

The man before me doesn’t laugh, exactly, but he lets out a quiet chuckle, his lips pulling into a small smile behind his beard.

I realize I’m grinning, too, as the sight of it manages to dissipate some of my nerves.

In the countless images I’ve seen of King Benedict in the media, I can’t recall a single one that depicts him smiling.

It makes him look like a different person, one whom I am somehow even more attracted to than I was a moment ago .

Why is the whole world not talking about the fact that Stelland’s new king is hot ? Like, really hot.

“I wish I could say I was selfless enough.” He leans in closer to speak without being overheard, and my breath hitches as my lungs are invaded by the heady, masculine scent of rosewood and cinnamon. “But God only knows where his mouth has been.”

I have to bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing out loud. “You know, that’s fair. I?—”

My next words are cut off by a boisterous voice. “Your Highness! Such a pleasure to see you here tonight.” We both look around at one of the other guests who has stopped just beside us, a man I don’t recognize, but whose accent suggests he’s a part of the same aristocracy as James and the king.

King Benedict stares at him, all signs of amusement gone. “And you, Lord Brian.” He turns his gaze back to me. “You were saying?—”

“You must allow me to introduce you to my wife,” Lord Brian offers loudly, apparently oblivious to the king’s total disinterest, winking.

“She’s been on me to get an invitation to the coronation, and I know she’d be delighted to meet you personally.

Let me call her over.” He looks over his shoulder, beady eyes scanning the room as his mouth opens wide, obviously preparing to call for his wife.

Before he can, though, the king puts an end to it.

“Believe it or not, I am not in attendance tonight to speak to you or your wife, Brian. You’ve quite rudely interrupted Miss Flowers, and as there isn’t one more word that could come out of your mouth that would be of the slightest interest to me. Leave. Now.”

The secondhand embarrassment I feel for Lord Brian in that moment is palpable.

His face goes bright red, and he stares at the king, lips pressed together as if struggling to prevent himself from rebutting.

After a moment, the man merely inclines his head curtly and turns on his heel, hurrying off without another word.

If nothing else, the interaction I just witnessed makes it clear why I’ve seen King Benedict called the most unlikeable monarch in modern history.

While I’m hardly an expert on the world’s remaining royal families, it seems as though they’ve generally taken a lot of trouble to make themselves well-liked, kissing babies and visiting hospitals to gain favor with their people.

It’s not that different from Hollywood, where giving the illusion of likeability is essential, but this man— this king —doesn’t seem to give a damn.

It should be a turnoff, right? Nobody likes an asshole. Yet as I turn my gaze back to him, still not quite able to wrap my head around the fact this is happening at all, my heart stalls.

Nope. Not a turnoff.

“I apologize for Lord Brian,” he tells me, noticeably less at ease as he takes a sip of his drink. In the corner of my eye, I see his fingers tapping restlessly on the edge of the bar beside us.

He’s nervous.

I gaze at him, a bit dazed by the underlying truth of the situation, which is only just now setting in: He’s just a man.

“He was rude,” I assure him, and take a small sip of my champagne, hoping for the drink to bolster my confidence a little.

He wouldn’t be talking to me if he didn’t want to, right?

No way. In the few minutes I’ve known him, it’s become clear that King Benedict isn’t the type to be polite for the sake of it. Actually, for him to come here at all must have been something of a sacrifice. Which means he, like me, is in attendance tonight because he needs something.

What is it like to be a king? Terribly lonely, I bet.

“It’s my first time,” I confess, feeling a rush of exhilaration as I stare up into his dark eyes. “Coming to one of these parties, I mean. My friend thought I needed to get out of my head.”

His fingers stop tapping. “Do you?” he questions, head tilting ever so slightly to the side.

I let out a breathless little laugh. “Probably. Does it work?”

The king considers for a moment, still looking at me in that same penetrating, studious way. “I would say so, yes. Though it’s been a long time since I attended. So my memory may very well be failing me.” His lips twist in a wry smile.

I’m dimly aware of a round of laughter and a few claps from somewhere behind me, but there isn’t a single thing that could be happening in this room that’s more interesting than the conversation I’m having.

King Benedict must feel the same way, because his eyes don’t stray from mine. Not for a second.

“I’m glad you did come here tonight,” I tell him, even as the words make me want to run and hide.

Am I actually flirting with a king right now? Is this happening?

His throat bobs, betraying the effect this statement has on him. It’s kind of intoxicating to know this man wants me, when I’m sure he’s had a lot of practice in never letting his true feelings show, or allowing anyone power over him.

As if he knows I’m onto him, King Benedict steps closer, leaning in so I can hear the low timbre of his voice over a chorus of voices that’s risen nearby.

“I must say I’m relieved,” he says, and something hot and restless shifts beneath my skin as his arm brushes mine.

“I’m not sure I could have recovered from the rejection in time to truly enjoy the night. ”

For the first time since we arrived at this house, I feel myself smile. Really smile . “That’s a very good line. Have you used it before?”

A quiet chuckle greets my words. “As a matter of fact, no. I haven’t. Admittedly, rejection isn’t something I come by often. ”

“It must be your hair,” I muse, and dizzy with my own daring, I reach up to brush aside a wayward lock of brown hair from where it has fallen across his forehead. “Or the shirt?”

He nods, expression composed into one of quiet thoughtfulness. “A possibility that never occurred to me, Miss Flowers. I have heard that black is my color.”

“It is,” I agree, dimly registering that I’ve become so absorbed in this conversation that the rest of the party has faded away.

Even so, I’m becoming aware of a shift in the energy surrounding us as the guests edge past the bounds of an ordinary celebration, shepherding in something much more sordid.

I can sense myself being carried away, too, and, for once in my life, I resolve to allow it.