Page 3 of Go Luck Yourself (Royals and Romance #2)

“No. I— I know him. ” My voice is creaky and shrill. “He goes to Cambridge.”

“Okaaaaay.” Coal drags out the word, confused, and I dig the heel of my palm into the bridge of my nose.

“We were in something of a… conflict.”

“Conflict?” Coal grunts. “Wait. That study room thing?”

Just do it. Like a Band-Aid.

“He stole a study room from me,” I hear myself say, and it sounds so goddamn absurd that I hate myself all over again. “So I sort of. In revenge. Filled the whole room with tinsel.”

Coal’s office is dead quiet.

“And filmed it.” I drag my phone out of my pocket, eyes shut, and by muscle memory, I pull up the video.

Not that I’ve watched it a profuse amount. I just know where I stored it. That screenshot staring up at me, gray eyes framed in reflective blue tinsel strands.

I press play and swivel the screen towards where Coal, Hex, and Iris are standing. The office fills with the muffled sounds of the study hub’s laughter.

The video ends.

“That was you ?” Iris chirps.

My eyes pop open. “What?”

She digs her phone out of a pocket on her dress and flips through screens until she shows me a tabloid site, one of the outlets that covers all Holidays, 24 Hour Fête. Magic goes into keeping these news sites separate from the normal world, and until a few months ago, when Coal severely cut our press coverage, they featured the Claus family more than anyone else.

Unluckily—or maybe luckily?—neither Coal nor I frequent these poison sites.

The page Iris is showing me has its own video of that guy stumbling out of the study room. It’s a different angle, but there he is drenched in tinsel, there he is flipping off someone in the crowd—me. But my face isn’t in the shot and it isn’t clear who he’s mad at.

The headline: St. Patrick’s Day heir ensnared in hazing scandal.

I snatch her phone and scroll through the article. It alleges that Prince Lochlann is connected to hazing at the university.

Can he be trusted with as much power as King Malachy has given him? the article asks.

Half of me wants to laugh. And I do. A dry, humorless gasp, because it was one idiotic moment that involved tinsel, and this reporter is blowing it up to be hazing ?

Maybe using Cambridge blue tinsel was a mistake. Well, doing it at all was a mistake.

“You knew about this?” I gape at Iris.

Her eyebrows are nearly at her hairline as she takes her phone back. “Only people like you ”—she gestures at me, Coal, and Hex—“who refuse to read the tabloids don’t know about it. The St. Patrick’s Day royal family has never been in the spotlight, so this? Their crown prince comes out of nowhere with a scandal, and it turns out he got passed over for the role of king? It’s made Lochlann into the paparazzi’s next fascination.”

The article did sound the way tabloids used to talk about Coal, dissecting how irresponsible he was, how unworthy of his station.

It almost makes me like Lochlann out of solidarity against tabloid bullshit.

And I started it for him. I did this to him.

“ Fuck ,” I groan. But my stomach turns to concrete and sinks straight to my toes. “Oh shit. This is bad, isn’t it? Like, bigger picture bad. Christmas attacking St. Patrick’s Day?”

Hands grab my cheeks.

Coal beams at me.

“You tinsel-bombed the St. Patrick’s Day Prince,” he says. “I have never been more proud of you in my life.”

His joy butts up against my dread like oil on vinegar. It’s comforting, in a way; this has always been our dynamic. Me, silently panicking about a thing; Coal, finding that same thing hilarious.

“For fuck’s sake, Coal—”

“You tinsel-bombed the St. Patrick’s Day Prince. This was almost an act of war.”

“ I know —god, get off me—hence my appropriate response of oh shit. ”

Iris passes her phone to Coal. “No one’s connected Kris to it, but it’s certainly being framed severely.”

“I don’t think he knew who I was,” I try.

Although— how didn’t he know who I was? My face used to be plastered all over Holiday tabloids.

Coal scans the article. His humor droops, and I can see the same thought occurring to him that I had, how familiar it reads.

“Vultures, all of them,” Coal mutters to the screen.

Hex is scanning the article now. “This is a far better reason for why Christmas is so abruptly interested in visiting St. Patrick’s Day.”

My whole face gets lava hot.

Oh no.

“Given the impact of this… tinsel scandal,” he continues, “it would be far less suspicious to have you go there to mend fences. And you wouldn’t have to visit other Holidays to perpetuate any cover.”

“This incident did screw up the guy’s image,” Iris says. “I don’t know how he actually is as a person, but—”

“He actually is a douche.” But as soon as I say it, I wince.

Whether he’s a douche, I feel bad I caused someone to be smeared like this.

Unless he’s stealing from us.

Then fuck him.

I scrub my hands over my face, and when I drop them and meet Coal’s eyes, I might as well be translucent.

“You don’t have to do it,” he assures me. “Wren—figure out a way for me to go.”

I’m not the only one who gives Coal a the fuck are you doing look.

“I appreciate it,” I tell him, jaw tight. “But I can do this.”

“Yes, you can,” Iris agrees gently. I’m looking at her before I can think not to. “You can fix this. And be great in the process.”

“Is it? Fixable.” I bite the inside of my cheek.

Iris’s eyelids flutter. “Of course it is.”

Coal still looks like he wants to protest, fire in his eyes that isn’t just for this situation. It’s from Dad’s departure, but where that’s a problem he can’t solve, this is.

I love him for it. But I flat-out refuse to let him take on everything. Hell, up until a few weeks ago, I refused to let him take on anything if I could help it.

I’ve been floundering to stay relevant in all the changes he’s been making, and those insecurities double back on me now, sighting the underbelly of my weaknesses with lethal precision thanks to the image of Dad walking out now too.

My throat thickens.

Coal wouldn’t do that. I know he wouldn’t do that.

I’m being childish. All these fears, all this anxiety—fuck it all.

I nod at my brother. “I appreciate your offer, but it’s fine. Besides, you’d go to St. Patrick’s Day to apologize for my behavior, without me ?”

Coal cringes. “Ah. You mean it wouldn’t be convincing to show up in Ireland all, ‘Trust me, Prince What’s-His-Butt, Kris is torn up about the whole tinsel attack. He’s so sorry he sent his brother to apologize for him.’ Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Not the best move.”

Severity falls over him so quickly that my face relaxes.

“But Iris is right,” he says. “You—”

“What?” She frowns at Coal.

He frowns right back. “What? I said you’re right.”

“I’m sorry, still didn’t hear you.” She cups her ear. “One more time?”

He catches on. “I said Iris is the pinnacle of humility and we should all aspire to emulate her poise.”

She folds her arms with a satisfied nod. “Continue.”

Coal, smirking, refocuses on me, and that smile helps temper the way he says, “I do think you’ll be good at this. Being our ambassador. Getting to the bottom of our stolen joy.”

“Sucking it up and apologizing to a jackass,” I grumble.

“I believe he’s a jackass. I also believe that you’re incredibly capable of figuring out what’s going on.” Coal’s vicious grin returns. “And send me that video. I’m going to put it in one of those digital photo frames and set it above my fireplace.”

“Piss off.”

“And I’ll engrave it to say Baby’s First Political Incident. ”

Hex laughs, and Coal whips an adoring look at him that’s so love-laden it forces me to turn away. God, they’re freakishly good at creating immediate intimacy in public.

Turning angles me at Iris.

I never stared at her that way. The way Coal looks at Hex.

She deserves someone who will.

Her smile is timid. “It’s nice to see you. Even under the circumstances.”

“It is?”

Her head tips, braids falling over her shoulder. “Yes. You idiot. You’re my Claus boys. When it’s just Coal, all I get are jokes and his messy nonsense.”

“Excuse you,” he pipes in, one thumb hooked in Hex’s belt. “There is nothing nonsensical about my mess.”

Iris rolls her eyes as if to say, See?

I try to smile, but end up dropping my chin and scratching the back of my neck.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “You deserved better than—”

She punches me in the chest.

I jerk away. “What the—”

“Stop apologizing. Don’t take care of me. I don’t need you to take care of me. What do you want, Kris?”

My gaze swings to Coal and Hex, heads close, talking quietly and smiling like fools in love.

What do I want?

Coal asked me that a few weeks back. What I wanted to do, really do, like I had any other choice than to be a Prince of Christmas. And yeah, sure, at one point I’d dreamed of going to school to learn more about books, but that was a pipe dream; and yeah, sure, at one point I’d been neck-deep in my writings about happy ever after, but Cambridge crushed any time for frivolous art, and I’ve broken myself out of longing for that happy ending.

So now? What do I want?

“I—I don’t know,” I say.

Iris hesitates. Watching me. Waiting.

“ You deserve better, too,” she whispers. “I wish you’d know that.”

Discomfort builds, makes it difficult to speak. I don’t know what to do with the way she’s looking at me. Pity, but not; sorrow, but not.

I deserve better?

She can see me, right? Sweats that smell like coffee and bags under my eyes? The guy who brought a full-fledged PR nightmare down on someone whose only crime—at that point—was not giving up a study room?

“When do you need to get back to Easter?” I ask.

“A few hours, latest. Why?”

What the hell. “Stay for lunch? I miss Renee’s cooking, and I know you do, too.”

“Yes!” Coal springs away from his desk. “Stay. You have to stay. Kris asked, so the awkwardness is over.”

Iris shakes her head in amusement. “Subtle, your brother is not.”

“It’s one of his many charms.” I push my hair back, tugging at the strands. “But—lunch?”

She considers. “Only if you promise to start texting me again. There have been like two dozen insane made-up words my professors have tried to pass off as English. I kept a list.”

I crack a smile. “I wanted to figure out a way to send you a photo of that guy. Before I tinseled him.”

Iris arches one eyebrow. “Mm, he is dreamy. Those cheekbones.”

“Right?” My eyes pop wide and I fumble. “I mean, no, not the dreamy bit. He opened his mouth, and any dreaminess went full nightmare.”

Iris’s arched eyebrow sharpens. “Uh-huh. Sure it did.”

She’s teasing about me finding another person attractive. Which isn’t something we ever did before, so the fact that we can now…

Maybe things between us will be okay.

And not just okay, but better.

Woah there, let’s not get ahead of ourselves with that kind of positivity. I might sprain something.

“And this is why I didn’t send you his picture for… what’s the media of the moment?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Probably.”

“Mosaic.”

“That’s not a bad—”

“Using multicolored googly eyes.”

I do laugh. Enough that Coal and Hex and even Wren shoot identical surprised looks at me.

Am I that much of a sad sack anymore?

Iris has her phone back out and she pulls up a photo, shows it to me, and I laugh all over again. It’s—well, there’s no other way to describe it.

It’s a mosaic of Iris’s sister made out of multicolored googly eyes.

I’m sure she loved being immortalized this way, all proper and dignified as she is.

“That is the single most horrifying and hypnotic thing I’ve ever seen,” I say. “How do you have time for this?”

“I make time.” She shrugs. “How do you blow off steam between your classes?”

By picking fights with guys who turn out to be Holiday royals, apparently.

Iris shows the picture to Coal and Hex.

“Oh. My. God. ” Coal waves at Wren. “That’s the only format in which I will accept an official Santa portrait. Make a note of it.”

Wren blinks slowly at him. And does not make a note of it.

Iris grins. “I needed something silly after my unintentional deep dive into Russian Orthodox iconography.”

“Yeah.” I chuckle again. “I can see that. So—you’ll stay for lunch?”

She turns her grin on me. “Do we have a deal?”

I smile. “Yeah. Deal.”

“Then I’ll stay.”

“And we can review the other members of the St. Patrick’s Day family,” Coal adds. “Make sure Kris hasn’t viciously assaulted anyone else they’re related to.”

“It was hardly a vicious assault —”

“Wren.” Coal ignores me. “Can you send him the profiles for—”

My phone pings.

His jaw drops. “A few hundred years ago, you’d have been burned as a witch.”

She makes a noise I swear to god I’ve never heard from her. It takes me a beat to realize she’s laughing. “Thank you, Nicholas. I appreciate that.”

I reach across the desk and shove the side of Coal’s head. “I’ll see about getting my classes wrapped up early before we have lunch. When am I leaving?”

Wren poises her finger over her tablet. “When would you like to? I haven’t reached out yet.”

“As soon as possible.” Get this over with.

It’s manageable, if I break it down: go to Ireland to apologize, tail between my legs. Figure out who is stealing joy from us, even though there’s no way it isn’t someone as arrogant as Lochlann. Stop him from stealing from us. Get him to pay us back.

I suck in a stabilizing breath, wading through my bubbling emotions to find one last, lone island of resolve. I owe it to this guy to give him the benefit of the doubt after my prank and this subsequent tabloid mess. Maybe Lochlann isn’t the ass I remember. Maybe he was locked in his own Week Five Blues episode too. Maybe it’s the St. Patrick’s Day King who’s screwing over Christmas and Lochlann doesn’t even know about it.

My thoughts swivel sharply back to Dad.

Nope. Not thinking about him, or Mom, or anything but this.

Not that this is much better.

And that’s how I find myself in the Claus Palace foyer with a suitcase at my feet and a scowl on my face five days out from March 17.

It couldn’t have been a quick visit. No, oh no; the moment St. Patrick’s Day heard I wanted to apologize for my behavior, it skyrocketed from a quick weekend bounce-over to Wait a few weeks and come for the full splendor of our Holiday. Which isn’t surprising—the tabloids have been having a field day picking apart Lochlann’s life, according to the summaries Wren gives me. They go off speculating wildly about any gaps in his history, and are doing their darndest to paint him as an immature wild child.

He’s definitely their new golden boy of paparazzi fodder.

When we announced my visit—and the reason for it—there was a brief shift in the articles, wherein few people believed I was actually both involved and the perpetrator of the tinsel incident, because Prince Kristopher is usually so reserved . As though I’d lie about this.

So I’m now due to spend five days in Ireland, prancing from St. Patrick’s Day event to event, proving to the press that the tinsel was a harmless prank between friends, not something that Lochlann had any fault in.

Not only do I have to apologize, I have to pretend that Lochlann and I were and still are the kind of pals who tinsel bomb each other. While, of course, I’m really there to figure out who’s stealing from us.

What could go wrong.

The delay of me going to Ireland also means that St. Patrick’s Day has spent these three weeks siphoning joy from us. Which could be another reason they pushed my visit, to allow more time to suck up our magic. They’re taking small amounts now, according to Marta, but it’s grating to know someone is actively hurting our Holiday and we have to let them.

The amount we’re planning to use as repayment to the winter Holidays shrinks each time another chunk is stolen, and if we don’t figure out who is doing it and stop them, we’ll have to tap into the joy we need to keep Christmas running. Which means things like monitoring the wishes of the world’s children, creating toys, and even keeping our whole North Pole compound hidden from the real world could be at stake.

It’s giving us a taste of what it was like for the winter Holidays Dad stole from.

Coal was right; it is karma. Karma for all those years Christmas spent draining other Holidays of their joy. But we’re trying to undo all that; if anything, it should be our dad who has to swallow his pride and fix this. That’s way too much to ask, though.

I muted all texts and messages from him, but Coal told me he sent a photo. Of him and our mom. At a pool bar.

That’s the most we’ve talked about them. Coal’s tried a few times, but I can’t. I won’t. It doesn’t matter. They’re grown adults; if they want to spend time together, the hell do I care? And, bonus, Mom hasn’t texted me the whole time Dad’s been with her, so really, this is a good thing for everyone.

I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the permanent kink in the back of my neck. My jaw is clamped so tight the beginnings of a headache palpitate across my skull.

“Unclench your jaw, Kristopher,” Wren orders without looking up from her screen.

Coal’s right. She is a witch.

I obey. It doesn’t help.

I tug at the tie around my neck, trying to free even a millimeter of space. At least the rest of my ensemble isn’t overly formal—relaxed blue pants and surprisingly comfortable brown shoes, a simple pale green button-up under an emerald cardigan, the tie an interweaving plaid of green and red. Subtly Christmas, subtly St. Patrick’s Day. Our stylists are going to become experts at tying Holidays together.

Wren deftly clucks her tongue at my continued fidgeting. “If you mess up that Eldredge knot, I will personally garrote you with it.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. I can’t fucking breathe.”

She gives me an unimpressed stare.

“Sorry. Nerves.” I drop my hands and try to compartmentalize the choking grip of the tie.

“You don’t need to breathe,” Wren says. “It isn’t on the itinerary.”

My stare is flat. “Fantastic.”

“Do you know what is on the itinerary?”

“Yes.” No. She sent me a copy, I took one look at it—five days of festive activities culminating in a Dublin St. Patrick’s Day parade—and haven’t opened the file since.

The one solace: I know many of these activities will involve beer.

“What is on the itinerary,” she continues pointedly, “is a detailed explanation of your daily stylings to coordinate with the arranged events, and today’s specifically says Eldredge knot. I will make sure you present the proper visage of Christmas for this first introduction, because I know you will grossly neglect the outfits I picked out for your remaining days.”

I snort but clear my throat to hide it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmhmm.” Wren’s eyes drop to my suitcase, and she gives a sad headshake like she can read the assortment of pun-heavy Christmas shirts I stuffed in when the stylists left. But if I’m going to spend almost a full week trapped in Irish hell, I want to be comfortable. And passively witty.

Wren smooths down a stray curl that’s escaped my topknot and surveys my outfit for the fourteenth time. “All right.” She checks her watch. “As soon as your brother arrives to see you off, we can leave.”

I tug at the tie again before giving up and pinning my hands behind my back with an impatient huff.

“Purge your system of that attitude now, Kristopher,” Wren warns. “You won’t get—”

Saving me from another lecture on the importance of my ability to lie, Coal hurries down one of the wrapping staircases that frame the foyer. He’s got winter Holidays meetings this afternoon, and like my mix of St. Patrick’s Day and Christmas, his outfit is a diplomatic blend: a white shirt with a red sash, likely for St. Lucia; a blue suit jacket emblazoned with silver designs of candles, Hanukkah; and a sprig of holly in his breast pocket for Yule. There are other Holidays in the collective, but those are who he’s meeting with today.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he says, fastening the cuff on his jacket. “And look at me—very nearly on time.”

“Early, actually.” Wren waves at staff near the door and they begin setting up the necessary magic to travel. “We aren’t due to leave for another three minutes.”

Coal comes to a shuddering stop. “Wren. Are you managing me?”

“Nicholas, it is quite literally my job to manage you. Have you not noticed that you are always precisely on time, even when you claim to be running late?”

Coal’s mouth drops open. But I watch his mind work. And his mouth snaps right back shut.

I chuckle. “Well, damn. You’ve cracked my brother. Can you send me a list of the cheat codes you’ve figured out?”

“Of course.”

“There’s a whole list ?” Coal chokes. “Manipulation, in my own court! The betrayal —”

“Say your goodbyes.” Wren heads to the door, and Coal comes up alongside me.

“If she sends you that list, I want a copy.”

“Throw away that digital photo frame and I’ll share it.” He really did put that tinsel video in a frame after he pulled a copy off the tabloid site.

Coal blanches. “Never.”

“Then no list.”

“Traitor.”

“Gonna excommunicate me?”

“Shut up. Or what is it you posh Cambridge boys say? Piss off.”

“Be nice or I’ll make these talking points I’m working on for your next meeting just twelve bullets of how amazing your brother is.”

Coal frowns, the mood crashing. “You aren’t supposed to be working on anything for me right now.” He shoots Wren a look over my shoulder. “Kris is officially off any other duties while he’s in Ireland.”

I don’t bother arguing. I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing and ignore him by working through Wren instead.

“Shit.” I shake my head. “It’s terrifying that you can do that.”

“Do what?”

“Become… this. The Christmas King, so quickly. It looks good on you.”

It does, but it’s been a slow rollout of publicizing it. Coal refused to let Wren plan a party announcing his new title until the winter Holidays collective is figured out, so once it all comes together, there’ll be some big shindig celebrating Christmas’s new direction from every angle. That doesn’t stop him from embodying his role now.

Coal grabs the back of my neck. “And this looks good on you. Being our ambassador. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. We should be visiting other Holidays. There should be a lot more collaboration outside of established alliances, or at least awareness and understanding. And I do think you’re suited to this.”

The chasm of anxiety that’s been opening more and more since last Christmas closes a little bit. See? I have purpose still. I have things to contribute. I have worth, goddamn it.

My smile comes more easily. “Don’t get mushy, I beg of you.”

“I’ll get mushy if I want to.” Coal squeezes my neck. “You said twelve bullet points of how amazing my brother is? Number one, how you helped me out last Christmas. Number two, how you’ve always been the one to help me out. Number three, how considerate you are—”

“Okay, Wren?” I turn away, face aflame. “I’m ready to—”

Coal grabs me in an overly clingy hug, practically wrestling me to the floor. “Number four, how dependable you are; number five, how generous—”

“Shit, Coal—okay, god, I love you too! Uncle, uncle!”

He lets me go and is reaching to mess up my hair when Wren seizes his wrist.

“I am not above garroting you as well, Santa or no,” she tells him.

He missed that part of the conversation, so he squints at her, but slowly pulls away. “Understood.”

“All right. We’re traveling in five—four—” She moves back to the door.

I face Coal one more time. His teasing has helped alleviate my stress, like always.

“Once more,” I whisper.

He smiles. “Unto the breach.”

“Two—one.” Wren points at the door. The mistletoe, the staff, it’s all set up, and on a wave of magic that warms the air and lifts the hairs on my arms, the door opens.

Coal nods and I move to stand next to Wren, who holds the door open for me.

Just get it over with.

I step forward, hauling my suitcase. Wren snatches it from me with a scowl that reeks of how I broke etiquette.

The door shuts behind us.

And we’re in Ireland.

The foyer of this castle is older, more worn-in, than Claus Palace. The overall colors are weighted and dark, with gray stones exposed along the walls and floor, and panels of red-brown wood capping the high ceiling, a heavy background for an iron chandelier. The smell to the air is the musk of ancient things with something earthy beneath it, damp petrichor richness.

Off to the side, a half dozen photographers wait from Holiday tabloids, already snapping photos and mumbling notes into recording devices.

They’ll be at every event we do over the next five days.

I’m hit with memories of all the times Dad ruined our outings by using them as PR stunts. Image was everything: look how beloved King Claus is, look how powerful; look how irresponsible Prince Nicholas is; look how nonexistent Prince Kristopher is.

My nerves strain, twisting even more.

Will parading around result in the press backing off on their smear campaign against Lochlann, or is this playing into their bullshit? It’d die down eventually, right, if Lochlann stayed out of the spotlight?

“Welcome to our humble castle.”

An internal clench grabs my body at the sound of his voice, that lilting, upward roll to his words.

Opposite the door, at the edge of the foyer, Lochlann waits, bookended by two women. I fight to keep my eyes on his, but unwittingly, I dip down, taking in his choice of outfit in one quick swoop. He’s in a corded ivory wool sweater, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and I know its intent is to represent his home, but all I can think is that he’s trying to look like a ginger Chris Evans from Knives Out.

He does look like a ginger Chris Evans from Knives Out.

Motherfucker.

His pants are simple, brown, and he has no other touches of color on him, and I hate that Wren tried to bridge our differences through my outfit. I should’ve come in roaring Christmas absurdity. Red and gold and candy canes and a star on my head. Oh shit, I should’ve worn a terrible sweater with tinsel on it—god, missed opportunity, massively.

Lochlann tips his head when my eyes return to his, victory flashing across his face, like I lost a power play.

I channel my reaction into clenching my fists, not constricting my face, which remains smooth, pleasant.

What are the odds he’s forgotten I called him hot?

Wren softly clears her throat next to me.

I pull in a deep breath and cross the room.

“Prince Lochlann.” I stop in front of him. “I’m pleased to be here.”

Well I’ll be damned, that almost sounded genuine.

I recognize the two women with him from the files Wren sent me: Lochlann’s younger sisters, Fionnuala and Siobhán, both at Trinity College in Dublin, twenty and eighteen, respectively. Fionnuala is studying political science; Siobhán is undecided. Fionnuala likes singing and animal rescues; Siobhán likes fashion and football. Their mom died when all three of them were young, and their dad had a heart attack five years ago, which was when their uncle became king because Lochlann was deemed unfit. The press have come up with dozens of reasons as to why, but no real cause was officially given.

And I also know a smattering of useless tidbits about Lochlann now. He’s a year older than me, twenty-two; he is indeed studying art history at Cambridge, which does not congeal in my brain—he’s the heir of St. Patrick’s Day, and he’s in the art history track? He also has a degree in business from Trinity that he got at sixteen, some kind of prodigy. His list of likes was as vague as the ones for his sisters: painting—which, duh, art history—and whiskey. If that’s what we’re doing, my whole personality is writing and self-doubt.

The only one from their immediate family I don’t see is the King.

It also hits me how empty this foyer is. If we were five days out from Christmas, our palace would be in utter chaos—staff running everywhere, preparations in tumult. But the castle is silent, and all the rooms that open off this one are empty, no flurrying bedlam of an imminent Holiday.

Did they clear everyone out for me?

Why?

Lochlann stands in the position of figurehead with ease, that wide, placid smile on his face, the same one from his headshot. Performative. I get it; I’m performing, too.

But god if it doesn’t spike my animosity.

His gaze holds on mine for one too-long pause before he extends his hand towards me. We’re supposed to be playing up a charade of already knowing each other—and he might have known who I was anyway—so he doesn’t introduce himself, just says, “Hello again, Prince Kristopher.”

I shake his hand.

Cameras flash. My smile stays amiable.

His grip tightens. He has calluses on his fingers.

I squeeze right back.

“I don’t think you’ve met my sisters.” Lochlann extricates his hand from mine and motions to them. “Princess Fionnuala. Princess Siobhán.”

Fionnuala has short hair, red like her brother, and she’s almost as tall as he is, but less filled out in a simple black dress, with even more freckles splattered across her pale skin. Siobhán has long blonde curls and a compact stature, wearing a bright pink dress all sleek and fitted, and she’s smiling sincerely where Fionnuala is fuming. I recognize that expression; she hates me for what I did to her brother.

Well, that’s fair. Honestly, if someone had done to Coal what I did to Lochlann, I’d hate them, too.

I nod at his sisters and look back up at Lochlann. “Christmas is excited to see the full breadth of St. Patrick’s Day.” I toss out one of the many phrases I wrote that Wren approved as decently polite. “I’m eager to spend these next five days in your Holiday.”

“Yeah, we have quite a full schedule arranged for this visit.” Lochlann winks at me. “If I remember, you’re quite the fan of schedules, eh, boyo?”

My smile flickers.

Lochlann throws his arm around my shoulders and spins us to face the journalists. My muscles arrest at the feel of his body pressed to mine, but I hardly get a beat to react.

“Let’s buck off this formality a bit,” he says to the paparazzi. He smells like that cologne again, spicy and expensive, with the same undercurrent of chemical bitterness. “A few weeks ago, Prince Kristopher and I had a wee bit of a misunderstanding at our school. Wouldn’t you say so, boyo?”

Stop it with the fucking boyo. “A gross misunderstanding. Yes.”

“Oh, gross indeed. Now, what’s the real reason you’ve come to my Holiday?”

His gaze burns the side of my head.

Panic seizes me. Did he guess that I’m here to investigate him and his family?

But he’s beaming down at me.

“To apologize,” he says into my face.

I go even more rigid. “Well. Yes. That is the purpose of this whole—”

“Oh, no. No, hardly. The events of the next few days will be to enjoy some time together, St. Patrick’s Day and Christmas. But today, this right here? Ach, the people want your apology!”

He throws a smile at the journalists, and one of them melts, blushes at his princely charade, traitors. They have their cameras ready, recorders out.

My mouth dries and it’s my turn to burn the side of Lochlann’s face with my gaze. “You mean—”

“Apologize,” he commands. “To me. Now.”

I knew it was coming. But he’s demanding it. I haven’t offered it. And there’s a spark in his eyes that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Apologizing is why I’m here. This is what Coal needs me to do. Eat crow.

That reasoning is suddenly hard to see clearly.

Because right now, being in Lochlann’s presence, that heavy, choking wave of pretentiousness quaking off of him, I’m livid.

I don’t get livid in a way that doesn’t turn into depression.

Except, it seems, around him.

He still has his arm around me, a pinning vise, so I throw my arm around him too, playing up this buddy-buddy bullshit.

Then, to the journalists, “What happened in the library study room involving Prince Lochlann was nothing more than a harmless prank between friends. But I am sorry, Prince Lochlann, for the negative spin it put on you.”

That’s the apology I wrote. Simple. Effective. Done—

“And?” Lochlann presses, talking out of the side of his mouth.

I fix him with my sweetest smile. “And what?” I hiss.

“And that’s na good enough.”

All smiles. Happy, grinning, friendly smiles for the cameras.

“You can’t be serious.”

Lochlann laughs like I said something funny. He tips his head closer to me, eyes on the journalists, and growls for only me to hear, “You’re lucky I do na make you get down on your knees and beg. Though you did call me hot, so would you enjoy that, hm?”

My whole body goes molten so aggressively I get dizzy.

It fades, tapped by a slow drain of fury, head to toe, and with that drain goes my thinning resolve.

He wants a performance?

I’ll give him a performance.

“And,” I say to the journalists, “our misunderstanding in the library was entirely my fault. Prince Lochlann was merely a harmless, ignorant—”

His grip pinches on my shoulder. “All right, now.”

“—witless, I mean, unwitting, victim. I am honored to spend these next few days with him to draw light to what the press should be focused on: St. Patrick’s Day’s magnificent grandness. Their outstanding generosity. Their kind, welcoming, marvelous spirit that I have seen reflected so beatifically in Prince Lochlann himself.”

A few of the journalists blink at me, mouths slightly agape.

I hear a rumble in the deep of Lochlann’s chest. Annoyance.

A pause for pictures. Smiling still.

“Was that the apology you had in mind?” I whisper up at him. “Or should I go on about how all the rainbows in Ireland point to the pot of gold in your asshole?”

Those fingers on my shoulder are going to leave a bruise.

The muscle tics in his jaw. “You have na yet begun to repent,” he mutters.

“I agreed to apologize, not repent.”

“You’re in Ireland. That’s what we got here, repentance and Guinness.”

I angle for the reporters off to the side, smiling, and saccharinely tell him, “I will make your life a living hell these next five days.”

Lochlann rocks my shoulder and stage-laughs again. “Now, boyo,” he whispers to me, “how would that look for these nice reporters when you came here to be my wee bitch?”

My nostrils flare as journalists start asking questions about the events we’ll be doing.

I did try to play nice.

But I’m going to get proof that he’s the one stealing from my Holiday.

Then I’m going to go Christmas nuclear all over his St. Patrick’s Day ass.