“Would you like us to return, ma’am?” Peter’s hands stayed clasped behind his back.
“No,” she said. “I’ve got it from here.”
“Very well.”
“Sweet dreams,” Hanna said, and the pair retreated to the main camp. Silence filled the space they left behind, and Frankie stood holding a stack of containers, plates and napkins, wishing she knew how Kris intended this night to go.
He shifted in the muted light of the tent, propping himself up on his elbows to look at her.
Averting her eyes to the dogs lying nearby, she asked, “Where would you like to eat, Your Highness?”
He rose to his feet, running a hand absently over his ass. “You know what I realized earlier today?”
Her thoughts jammed at the sight of his powerful shoulders tapering to his hips, enhanced against the shadowed forest. Clenching her teeth, she gave a disinterested hum. She could get through this. She had years of practice being sensible. Last night she’d been too tired, too easy to disarm, and it had clearly encouraged him. But she didn’t have to play into his hand after a few bare-hearted words—not again. She could wear the dress and the coat.
“You haven’t actually said sorry,” he said.
“Out here or in the tent?” She kept her voice steady. “I think it’s finger food.”
He moved toward her, and her skin crackled at his searching gaze. “Now why wouldn’t you have apologized?” He took the containers from her, fingers brushing hers, and she snatched her hands away. “I can’t figure it out.”
“Does it matter?” she asked. “Your Highness.”
His bristle was almost palpable, raising hairs along her arms. “That’s the last time you call me that.”
She splayed her palms over her hips, blaming the sweat on the heat. “You’d like to get a head start on Your Majesty?”
“No. And that tone isn’t going to work on me. Not anymore.” He scanned her features. “Use my name.”
She turned her face aside, gaze on the first stars dotting the horizon.
“Now,” he said.
“Now?” she asked, frantically trying to think herself out of this, but he stood so close and smelled like safety, and all her mind managed was the possibility he’d sleep without his shirt on.
“Say my name now.” It wasn’t arrogance in his voice, but a low plea, and it stripped the moment bare.
Kris, she wanted to beg. Don’t.
“Please, Frankie.”
“I don’t know what you think changed last night,” she said. “But we’re not back where we started. You’re my superior, and I’m here to protect you.”
“I agree.” He shifted closer. “We’re never going back to where we started.”
She bit her tongue.
“You said because you sleep in the servants’ quarters, it doesn’t matter what you want. But it matters to me.”
“Don’t do this,” she said quietly, withdrawing a step.
His brow lowered. “What am I doing?”
“Cornering me.” Accusation tinged her words.
“I’m not cornering you.” He sounded insulted. “I’m trying to talk to you. Every time I ask how you feel, you accuse me of intimidation. You think I’m trapping you, but did you ever consider that’s just how it feels to let yourself be vulnerable?”
She shook her head, running a hand down her throat. She didn’t want conversations like this. Eventually he’d make her say too much and she’d never find her way back.
“Let’s eat inside,” he said roughly. “The bugs are getting bad. They’ll eat you alive.”
With a curt nod, she opened the flap and ducked into the tent.
The interior was ludicrous. The thick, cream canopy draped in lustrous folds of fabric and several ornate lanterns glowed through amber glass, with the largest hanging from a loop on the center pole. Rugs and embroidered cushions had been laid over the ground cover, and two double bedrolls had been spread with linen sheets and pillows, and placed a respectable distance apart.
“Yikes,” she said.
“I know.” Kris zipped the tent flap closed and straightened beside her. “Apparently there are spare candles in that box there. And I’ve got matches . . .” He dug a hand into the front pocket of his jeans, fishing out a matchbook and tossing it beside the box—a second before a small square packet hit the floor directly in front of him.
A condom.
Frankie froze, skin instantly cold.
For several seconds, the only thing that moved was the mortification hammering in her neck. Then Kris darted a look at her, and she ran a hand over her lowered face and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
There was the sound of plastic rustling as he jammed it back in his pocket. “Sorry.”