Ella and Jane exchange a look. “And where do I sleep?” Ella asks. “It’s not going to be with you.”

“I wasn’t offering,” I tell her. “And you can sleep in any of the bedrooms upstairs. Maybe avoid the ones that are haunted.”

“Haunted?” she asks, eyes wide. “Which ones are haunted?”

I shrug. “I can’t remember. You’ll find out soon, I’m sure. Okay, I’m off to take a shower.” I walk past the fruit bowl and toss the half-bitten wax apple back into it before heading upstairs. “Don’t eat the fruit. It’s fake.”

To say that my first day with Ella is awkward as fuck is an understatement. She does her best to avoid me, spending her time with Jane by her side, and even when we pass each other in the halls, she barely looks at me.

Which makes me wonder why bother going through with this two-week plan at all if she’s not going to make the effort? Why didn’t she just say she wasn’t interested when she had the chance? No one would have held her accountable to anything, except for her father, and that’s her business, not mine.

I keep thinking this as we have dinner together. I was planning on it being just us two originally, but when she was insistent that Lady Jane eat with us, I insisted that Ottar and Einar join us too. The more the merrier, the more to take the pressure off both of us.

She didn’t say much during the meal, which meant most of the conversation was dominated by Jane and Ottar, who seemed to get along like long lost relatives. I know I have a tendency to float away and become locked in my head and couldn’t help wondering if Ella was doing the same. She just picked at her food, lost in her thoughts.

It could be that Ella is shy for the most part. I’ve seen her be bold, especially with me. But this has taken her out of her element. She’s no longer in university, living on campus. She’s no longer a student. Instead she’s here, at this isolated estate in a foreign country, where she’s to remain for the next two weeks as she decides whether she wants to marry me or not.

I mean. Fuck.

I actually feel sorry for her. I certainly feel sorry for myself for being in the same stupid situation, but at least this is my home and it’s my life that she’s come into. She’s got Jane here and that’s it.

Though it makes me wonder if it’s the same thing back in Scotland. Is she the life of the party? Does she have a large group of friends? Is she involved in sports teams or does she tutor other students or was she seeing someone before all of this shit blew up? Does she moonlight as an exotic dancer with the name Pantyless Princess?

I know nothing about her.

And if I don’t do something about this, I’ll still know nothing about her by the time she leaves.

And as much as my ego hates being taken down a notch or two, I have to man up here and provoke her a little more than I had intended.

Once dinner is over, she immediately retires to her room while I try to place a call to my friend Viktor, the Crown Prince of Sweden. I haven’t told him yet about the developments in my life and I could honestly use a friend and some advice from someone outside of this royal family, and Ottar doesn’t count. He’s under my father’s payroll, after all.

But with Viktor not answering (not that I blame him, he’s been busy with his own fiancé), I start roaming the halls like a ghost. Too much restless energy than I know what to do with.

Finally, I go to her room and rap on the door. Naturally she’s chosen the room at the opposite end of the hall from my bedroom, as far away as possible.

“Who is it?” I hear her ask through the door.

“Prince Fucking Charming,” I tell her.

I hear a muffled laugh, probably Jane, and a few long seconds tick by before the door opens.

Ella stands there looking unimpressed, dressed as she was before in black leggings and a pale blue sweater that falls off one shoulder. Her blonde hair has been braided to one side, her face bare of any makeup. She looks astonishingly pretty.

Except for the fact that she’s glaring at me. “What do you want?”

I raise my brow and stare at her expectantly.

She sighs. “What do you want…Your Highness?”

I smile. “That’s better. And actually, I was hoping to steal you away from your Lady over there so I can talk to you in private.”

“What about?”

I squint at her and then look over her shoulder at Jane who is sitting on an ottoman at the foot of the bed. “Is she always this grouchy in the evening? I would have thought giving her food would have helped.”

“Clearly you’ve never owned a mogwai before, sir,” Jane deadpans.

Ella looks back at her. “What did you just call me?”

“Listen, Gizmo,” I tell her, pushing the door open further, “we have two weeks to get to know each other and I’m not sure if you’re here just to get a free trip to Norway or what, but at any rate, we need to talk.” I pause. “I have a game I’d like to play.”

“What kind of game?” She looks both scared and curious.

Good.

“You’ll see.” I nod at Jane. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Please,” Jane says with a dismissive wave. It’s only then that I notice she has curlers in her hair. “We were talking about rubbish which is what we usually do. Please take Ella and don’t bring her back for a long time.”

“Jane,” Ella chides her, but I reach out and grab her arm.

“Come on. I won’t bite,” I tell her, pulling her gently toward the door.

“Unless I want you to, right?” she asks wryly but still lets me drag her out into the hall, the door shutting behind her.

“I didn’t say it,” I tell her. I don’t let go of her arm either; instead, I slip my hand down until I’m holding hers.

“What are you doing?” she asks, trying to wrestle her hand out of mine.

“Holding your hand,” I tell her. “I’m dastardly like that.”

“More like bastardly,” she mumbles under breath.

“That’s the spirit,” I goad her. “A few more back and forths like that and it’ll be like we can hold an actual conversation.”

She doesn’t say anything after that. Still holding her hand in mine, I take her down the stairs and into the parlor, sitting her down in a giant leather wingback chair beside the fireplace.

“What are you having to drink?” I ask her, heading for the little bar cart I had Ottar help set up earlier. There may be fake fruit in the bowls but the booze is very real.

“I’m okay,” she says.

“Scotch then,” I tell her, filling her up a highball glass.

She sighs as I bring it over to her and reluctantly takes it from me. “Thank you,” she says quietly, and I know that’s just an automatic reaction from her upbringing.

“No problem.” I get my own glass and sit down across from her in another chair. The fire is roaring—courtesy of Ottar again—and everything looks downright cozy in here.

Ella sits in her chair primly, her ankles crossed, taking delicate sips of her drink. A bird would drink it faster.

She stares at the fire rather than at me, which gives me the freedom to stare at her. Her profile is rather cute, her nose turning up just slightly at the end. With the way the flames are lighting up her face and her hair, she’s positively angelic.

My eyes drift to her bare shoulder where I don’t catch sight of a bra strap. The skin of her palm felt soft and smooth, and I can only wonder what the skin on her shoulder feels like. Silk, probably.

I haven’t seen Ella expose much skin. At dinner with my family, her gown practically covered her all up except her lower arms. When she came to negotiate, she was wearing black pants and a white turtleneck. Today’s glimpse of her shoulder is probably the most I’ve seen of her skin.

I know women think that wearing a revealing outfit is sexy, and while I have no objections to seeing a lot of leg, a lot of tits, or a lot of ass, there’s something equally as sensual as only showcasing one spot of skin.

I’m starting to fixate on it, hyper-focus.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have quite the intense stare?” Ella says, still not looking at me.

I tear my eyes away from her shoulder and take a gulp of my drink. “I’ve heard it a few times. Nothing I can do about it. I feel things intensely most of the time.”

I can tell she wants to roll her eyes. “So what is this game you speak of? Please tell me it’s not a drinking game because I’m not interested.”

I let out a chuckle. “You’re in what, third year of university, living in a dorm, in Scotland of all places, the only other place I know that can match Norwegians for their drinking prowess, and you aren’t interested in drinking games? Please tell me you have a fun bone in your body.”

Now I have her attention. She snaps her eyes onto me and I can’t help but smile at the sparks flying out of them, which probably only angers her more.

“Just because I’m not out boozing and cruising with everyone else at school doesn’t mean I’m not fun. I’m fun.”

“Okay, so tell me your idea of fun.”

“Oh no,” she says, shaking her head. “Not with you. Your idea of fun is jumping off a cliff or racing a motorbike. Or filming a sex tape. Or getting herpes. My idea of fun will always pale in comparison to yours.”

“Okay, first of all, herpes?” I scoff, leaning forward in my seat. “You don’t seem to play very fair.”

She shrugs. “You started it. You said I wasn’t fun.”

“For the record, I don’t have herpes,” I tell her. “I’m clean as a whistle.”

She snort-laughs. At any other time it would have been adorable.

“It’s true,” I protest. “I have the tests to prove it. And by the way, I think that’s a big plus going into this marriage.”

She fixes her eyes on me with a pleading look. “Oh, please. Come on, Magnus, we both know this marriage isn’t happening.”