Page 33 of The Dandelion Princess

Tucking loose strands of hair back, she mixes the ramen and brings a twist of noodles to her mouth. No drips. I thought I was being rational, admitting to an attraction. I could keep it penned up that way. Domesticated. That’s what I thought.

Vede.

I stare hard at the steam coming off my bowl. Nothing has to change between Ella and me. We’ve gamed like this a thousand times. I taught her which buttons mapped to which functions on her first controller. It’s nothing new.

I drag the noodles into my mouth, scalding my tongue. “That actor,” I say, stabbing the ramen back and forth. The sunset casts a brilliant glow in the room, on the edge of day and dusk. Nothing stays the way it always was. Not even the light, shifting every second.

She laughs. “Mikkel?”

I grip the chopsticks in my fist and blow on the noodles, cooling them.

“Mama probably wishes she could send me to a convent, but our ancestors were too quick to welcome the Reformation.” She winks. “Sucks to be a Protestant queen.”

“Lutherans have nuns,” I mutter. A few. I might be able to sleep again if Ella is bound to vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience.

The light piercing the windows looks like a ripe peach, and I wish I could hold it in my hands, saving it for a dark hour.

“I’m not a nun,” she says.

I close my eyes and find a thin slice of pork, swallowing it down. The taste is simple, nothing like the depth of flavor you get when the ingredients have time to sweat and steep. Time is the thing. Maybe that’s the potent ingredient to this attraction, too. I’ve known her forever.

She tips the bowl to her lips, swallowing the last drops, her soft throat working.

“Did he ask you out?” I’m not proud of these words.

“Several times.” She dabs gently at her lips and gives me a dimpled smile. “No drips.”

She invites me to inspect the immaculate fabric of her bodice, but I look at the ceiling. I spend a lot of time looking at ceilings these days. “You can’t go out with him.”

I did my research. Noah would want me to warn her that Mikkel abandoned a long-time partner amidst rumors of an affair with his most recent co-star. He’d want her to know about Mikkel’s closest friend doing a stint of community service for a minor charge of drug possession. He’d want—

“Not you, too,” she releases a breath. “You can’t tell me who to date.”

The part of my brain belonging to some wise, ancestral warrior-prince tells me that I’ll lose this battle if I fight it.

But my ancestor probably doesn’t know that I’ve got an unbeatable opening line like, “Be reasonable, Ella.”

“Reasonable?” she squeaks.

I squint slightly. That wasn’t the top-shelf opener I thought it would be. “His reputation is rough and his PR firm probably told him to find some willing woman and—”

“Marcus van Heyden.” She straightens. “Did you come to insult me for the second time this week?”

“Ella, he’s not—”A good person. Good enough for you. Going to love you until his last breath.

I push the coffee table back and kneel at her feet, fisted hands pressed into the sofa, bracketing her hips. I meet her stormy green eyes. I could say a dozen more things that would get me in trouble, some of them she hasn’t even thought of yet. The possibilities gather on my tongue until the ancient strategist chases me down and holds me at swordpoint.

“I’m sorry,” I say, clamping my lips shut. “Of course you can date who you want to.”

She accepts my surrender. “I told him no a half dozen times. He’s not my type.”

Don’t touch Ella.I have to remind myself of the rules. “What’s your type?”

I follow the slow flush blooming up Ella’s cheeks. “I—”

When her phone pings, she reaches for it, falling across one of my arms. When she sits up again, I leave my hand at her waist, and shamelessly read the text from Clara upside down.

“We found your Pixy account, too.” This is accompanied by a rage-face emoji, pursed Pavian fingers, and a knife.