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Chapter Three
Elena glares at her phone. It's too late to call the office now, but there's another number she should be dialing. Just book the flight already. It's not like she packed anything ball-worthy and she certainly can't afford to go out and buy a gown on the fly.
Giuseppe and Stefan gently prodded her about it at dinner, painting a picture of elegant dancing, royals in decadent dresses and fine tuxes, the grand ballroom decorated with accents of green, gold, red, and silver. It's tempting but it still seems like a disaster in the making, considering who will be in attendance.
Damon didn't join them for the meal, unsurprisingly. There's a tiny voice in the back of her mind telling her the progress they made today was erased the second she stupidly brought up his romantic prospects.
Her phone chirps with an incoming call—Bonnie. Her best friend is probably dying for her to spill about her adventures in Mystfallia and the story she's not writing. They met as undergrads at Columbia and have been each other's confidants ever since. Most of their Friday nights are spent on Elena's couch with Netflix and a bottle (or two) of wine.
"Hi, Bon."
"'Lena! Are you knee-deep in royals and schmoozing with the future king?"
"Uh, schmoozing isn't the word I'd use." Trying to avoid his wrath, more like.
"Oh, no. Tell me everything." Even separated by thousands of miles, Bonnie can still detect when a situation has epically gone to hell.
Elena starts with Damon's meltdown in the kitchen, then his apology and refusal to take part in the assignment, and wraps up with the skating incident. She's exhausted when she finishes and she's only known the man for twenty-four hours.
"Damon was jealous of Arthur?" Bonnie whistles at the insanity of it. "Are you sure you met the actual prince and not some nutjob pretending to be him?"
"I may have baited him a little." Or a lot. "Made him think Arthur was a sex fiend who lives with me . . ."
"You didn't."
"Hey, he's the one who jumped to conclusions," she argues.
"Oh, my god. Elena!"
"He got over it." Then I really put my foot in it.
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. Giuseppe and Stefan want me to stay for the ball." So does (did?) Damon.
"Then go," Bonnie says as if it's the obvious solution.
"In what? It's not like I can chop up the curtains and sew a dress."
"I'll loan you money."
She shakes her head even though Bonnie can't see her. "I'm not blowing your savings and mine on a shindig so far out of my league I shouldn't even be considering it." But she is, dammit.
"You could go with the curtain idea. It worked for Scarlett O'Hara," her friend muses.
"Damon's no Rhett Butler. He's less Prince Charming, more Hamlet."
The silence on the other end stretches on longer than it should.
"Have you considered the possibility that Damon might actually like you?"
That's a minefield Elena has no desire to cross. "If he did, and he definitely doesn't, he has a funny way of showing it."
"But the skating was flirty."
"If you're into the caveman school of courtship," Elena drawls, ignoring the flutter in her belly. "He was just getting his own way. Arrogant ass."
"Mmm."
"Anyway, I'll let you know how it goes."
As she hangs up, the flutter morphs into a sort of queasiness that only gets worse the more she thinks about Damon and the days ahead.
###
The blonde tornado of straight-off-the-runway fashion and hyper organization that is Caroline Forbes blows into Gioiello sul Fiume the following morning and whips the occupants into a frenzy.
Stefan introduces her to Elena at breakfast and the heiress wraps her in a rib-bending hug like she's a long-lost sister, enthused to have another woman in the palace.
"The testosterone gets a bit thick," she whispers, flashing a brilliant smile at the oblivious men seated with them at the table, and Elena giggles.
Before the meal is finished, Caroline insists Elena join her for a shopping trip in the city and schedules them for mani-pedi and spa appointments, part of the requisite pre-ball pampering.
Elena doesn't have the heart to tell her she's not even sure she's going.
In a shocking twist, Damon is there, but he's more interested in moving food around his plate than interacting with anyone. Caroline makes several valiant efforts to engage him in conversation, all politely rebuffed. He offers a passable smile but dodges her like one might a child with jam-coated hands.
Elena mistakenly locks eyes with him just once, drawn by the spring-sky blue of his irises—no frost clouding them today—and the temperature in the room skyrockets. She quickly looks elsewhere before she manages to offend him yet again.
By noon, the castle is full of professional decorators, tailors, cleaners, personal shoppers and assistants, and at least thirty additional kitchen staff. Elena offers to help but everyone gently shoos her away.
Instead of wandering the halls like a stressed-out ghost, she ducks into the nearest empty room, which turns out to be the castle equivalent of a den. There are leather sofas, a behemoth of a television mounted to the wall, a cart of expensive liquor in crystal decanters, the usual fireplace, and—best of all—a pool table.
There's a monthly tournament at the bar down the street from her apartment, and she rarely misses an opportunity to lighten the wallets of her competitors. After racking the balls into a neat triangle, she swallows a shot of bourbon and another because why not, coughs until the blaze in her throat fades, then takes her time choosing the perfect, polished cue. She's lining up her first shot when the door opens, flooding the room with the cacophony of chaos outside, and clicks shut.
"I thought I might find you here."
Just the prince she was hoping to avoid.
She sighs and stares at the striped and solid balls as if they could offer some much-needed advice. Her head is already a little fuzzy and his presence isn't helping. Clearly, bourbon wasn't her best idea.
She perches on the edge of the table, holding the cue at her side like a lance. "Why's that?" It's not like this is a spot she's known to frequent.
Damon crosses his arms, but there's no anger in it this time. His gray sweater looks soft and the dark jeans are the most casual thing she's seen him wear. They also hug him in all the right places, not that she should be noticing.
"I already checked the other rooms," he admits.
"Even the closet under the stairs? How thorough of you."
He chuckles and a shiver skitters down her spine. Damon eyes the cue stick in her totally non-sweaty grip.
"Having fun?"
"Loads. Just me and all my friends," she says, which sounded less sad in her mind.
"May I join in?"
An idea fights its way into her not-fully-functional brain. It's a brave one, or maybe that's just her leftover stupidity talking. Still, he came looking for her and he's offering to play a game. She can work with this.
"Sure." She pauses, gathering all the nerve she can muster. "On one condition."
Elena expects a frown or a sneer, or for him to vanish into thin air. Instead, Damon grins. It's a very, very nice smile, she decides; one she'd like to see more often.
"And what would that be?" he asks silkily.
Don't back down now.
"Let me do the story."
His smile winks out faster than a candle in the winter wind. "Elena . . ."
"Hear me out." Her hands flutter toward him, not quite touching. "Please."
He stares into the fire for a minute that could be an hour then stalks to the drink cart. "Fine," he tosses over his shoulder, pouring himself a generous dose of bourbon.
"'Fine,' the story is a go, or 'fine,' convince me?"
"The latter."
Reasonable. She gathers her points into an orderly pile, which is more of a wobbly Jenga tower thanks to the alcohol, and puts on her most earnest you-can-trust-me face.
"This is the Times, not the National Enquirer." He scowls at the mention of the outrageous rag mag full of alien encounters and haggard celebs, and she hastily forges on. "I'm not here to dig up juicy scoop or uncover a torrid affair. The skeletons are safe in their closets. I want to find out more about what you do, what you're passionate about, and share it with the world. If there's anything you're not comfortable with, we won't discuss it. And I'll send you the final piece to review before it goes live," she adds, hoping that'll clinch the deal.
He considers her over the rim of his glass, those ethereal eyes boring into her until a flush spreads across her skin like wildfire.
"I have a counter offer."
"I'm listening," she says carefully. At least it's not a Hell no.
"The night we met, you told me I didn't know anything about you, and you were right. I'd like to change that."
Elena wrinkles her nose. "The Arthur fiasco wasn't enough for you?"
He tips his head back and barks a laugh, and she finds herself leaning forward, basking in this new, unexplored side of him.
"Consider me curious."
That sounds . . . dangerous. "So, what are you proposing?"
Damon saunters to the rack of cues and picks one, chalking the tip. "For every ball you sink, I'll answer a question. For every point I make, you'll answer a question. Deal?"
"And if I win?"
"Then you'll have a story."
The anxiety and the what-ifs that have plagued her for days suddenly melt away. All she has to do is win? Psh. Cue the fireworks and pass the champagne. This one's already in the bag.
"Those are high stakes when you've never seen me play," she warns. It's only fair.
"I'm not worried."
Overconfident much? "You could save yourself the agony of defeat and hit your brother up for information. He already grilled me."
Damon sobers, his hackles rising. "About?"
"The basics. Favorite food, favorite city, favorite Elton John song—"
"Which is?"
"That was Stefan's question, not yours."
He rounds the table, standing toe to toe with her. "Well, I'm asking now."
Here we go again. "You haven't sunk a ball yet," she reminds him with a shameless grin. "Your rules, not mine."
"Sei una donna bellissima e irritante," he growls, stepping past her to line up a shot.
She plucks the cue ball off the table before his stick can connect with it. "A, wait your turn, Your Royal Impatientness. B, don't call me names in languages I don't understand," she says sweetly.
Damon tries to snatch the ball from her, without success. "I said you're an infuriating woman."
"You left out the 'beautiful' part."
He gapes at her, one hand curled around her wrist, her body wedged between his solid frame and the pool table. His lids droop as his gaze zeros in on her mouth. A wave of heat starts at her toes and works its way to her ears, and she wonders for one wild moment what it would be like to taste him.
"Elena, cosa mi fai?" he whispers, his thumb grazing her cheek.
She doesn't follow and he doesn't offer to translate. With something that might be a groan, he releases her.
"Shall we begin?" he asks once the tension eases from sirens-blaring code red to proceed with caution.
"One more thing." Elena grabs her phone from her pocket. "Do you mind if I record the audio?" There's no way she'll remember their entire conversation in her current state. "If I lose, I promise I'll delete it."
He seems satisfied with the arrangement and even offers to let her break. She nails the triangle head-on and balls explode in every direction. A solid disappears into the corner pocket and she takes a victory lap, stopping to shimmy her hips and drop it low.
Yeah, she'll regret that one later.
"Tell me you're a better dancer than that," Damon says, looking vaguely horrified.
"Maybe I am." She pauses in front of him to execute a perfect pirouette—well, it would've been perfect if the carpet hadn't tripped her. "Or maybe that's as good as it gets. Too bad you won't find out because it's my turn," she sing-songs.
He rolls his eyes but doesn't argue. Miracles do happen.
"What do you love most about the work you do?"
Damon is quiet for a while, dark brows knitted while he thinks. "The children," he finally answers. "They're endlessly curious. Why is the sky blue and not green? Why does the sun rise in the morning and the moon shine at night? Giving them a place to grow, to turn that into knowledge and be the future the world so desperately needs—that's all I want."
He tells her about the school they just finished in Somalia. They provide the infrastructure, utilities, tech; the rest—teachers, staff, administrators, curriculum—is local. Elena gasps as the significance hits her. That's where his mother was working before she died. That was her project. The villagers chose to name the school after her, Damon reveals, his eyes glassy in the dim light.
Elena reaches for his hand, more a reflex than a conscious decision, and squeezes. He grips it tightly and gives her a small, sad smile.
"She would've been proud of you."
For a few minutes, there's nothing but the snapping and popping of seasoned wood getting consumed by the hungry blaze in the hearth, then Damon seems to shake himself out of the melancholy moment. Releasing her hand, he takes a shot, nudging a stripe toward the pocket but not sinking it.
"Figures," he mutters.
On her next stint behind the cue, she adds two more points to her score and gets two more answers from the prince, who—judging by the glare he's giving those balls, like they've personally offended him—isn't used to losing.
Turns out he speaks eight languages fluently, two more than she knew of, which makes her Duolingo lessons seem lame in comparison. In addition to hockey, he plays football (or he would if he had any free time, a commodity rarer than those smiles she loves—wait, loves?) and goes riding with his father and brother whenever he's at the castle (also rare). Horses, not dogs. Stefan's dogs, she discovered, are a pair of pony-sized Mastiffs, so the riding thing isn't necessarily out of the question.
While Damon concentrates on his shot, she focuses on him. The strong line of his jaw is dotted with a hint of stubble that would gently scratch her skin if she trailed her fingers from his cheek to his lips. His shoulders are broad. Capable. He moves with an easy grace, like he did on the ice, and she imagines the corded muscles in his back flexing if she were to run her hands over them.
The clack of balls crashing together and a triumphant whoop from Damon pull her from her reverie.
Jeez. Get a grip. He's not hers to moon over (which she was definitely not doing), and why should she care about what his mouth might feel like on hers? He belongs to a different world. He'll marry some princess or duchess and have a brood of kids who are as stubborn and moody as their father.
"He scores," she says after clearing her throat to remove the daydream-induced husk from it. "And they said it couldn't be done."
"It would've been easier if I hadn't had such an attentive audience," he challenges, closing the distance between them. "My turn. What's your favorite color?"
Elena stares at him. "Out of all the things you could ask me, that's what you're going with?"
Damon nods, his eyes darkening as he waits for her answer.
"Blue," she blurts, turning away before he sees her scorching blush. "I can't believe you wasted what might be your only question."
"Oh, it won't be the only one, I assure you."
Smug jerk.
She snatches her stick and clears two solids from the table, sending them spinning into the pocket. She learns that Damon loves music and plays cello and piano, which suits his long, elegant fingers. The more information she gleans, the more she's considering picking up another class at Columbia when she gets home. The man is too accomplished for his own good, but that's expected of rulers of countries, she supposes.
"Are you looking forward to Stefan's marriage to Caroline? It's been a while since Mystfallia's last royal wedding."
That one being his parents' union, of course. Damon stills, his grin slipping. She's overstepped.
He instantly recovers, schooling his expression into something neutral. "I'm sure it will be a joyous occasion."
The subtext is glaring. "You don't approve."
"On the contrary. Caroline is vibrant and loving. She's good for my brother, and he worships her," he says mildly.
Elena's still not buying it. "Then what's the problem?"
"This life is difficult," he says after several agonizing seconds of silence. "People see titles and power. Money. To be close to someone, to give them your trust . . . is not easy, or wise."
She recalls the failed romance he'd alluded to. There was someone once.
Without further explanation, he marches to the table and sinks a stripe but misses the next and turns the air blue with a colorful-sounding torrent of what might be Swahili.
He spins toward her. "Have you ever been in love?"
Elena's not prepared for the question, or the abruptness of it, or the fierce way he's regarding her. "W-what?" she sputters.
"Love," he repeats, softer this time. "Have you ever given your heart to someone?"
She's dated, although she's in a bit of a dry spell now. What she felt for her past boyfriends was attraction with some warm and fuzzy mixed in. Convenience. A temporary break from loneliness. Puppy love at best. Not the kind of all-consuming love that leads to "I do."
"Uh, no. I guess I haven't."
Damon's eyes flare in surprise, and maybe he's a little pleased. Why he'd care, other than passing curiosity, is beyond her. Unless he's twisting the knife as payback for the wedding question.
She shakes it off and chalks her cue. Her shot is wide open, impossible not to get. Until Damon coughs. She scratches, missing her ball by a mile—a rookie mistake.
"Hey!" Elena points an accusing finger at him. "That was dirty."
He raises his hands, all innocence. "I can't help it if your concentration is easily broken."
He pockets his next shot despite her flailing-slash-dancing at the other end of the table.
"Clearly, I'll have to give you lessons before the ball." His offer stops her mid-hip roll and he snickers. "What makes you happy, Elena?"
She blinks at him. "Maybe we should stick to the simple stuff—songs, books, wrestling moves . . ."
"I like this one better."
Of course you would. "I don't know, the usual? Spending time with friends and family. Drinking wine and laughing at ridiculous movies. Running in Central Park just before sunrise when the birds are singing." Her mind turns to work and the reason she's here with him now. "Telling stories. Introducing readers to new people and places." She tilts her head in his direction. "Knowing that what I'm doing means something."
He gifts her with a smile that's almost tender.
Attempting not to read too much into it, she sizes up the table and shoots a warning glare at Damon. Two questions left, three if she wins. Better make these count. She sinks her remaining solids and tries for the 8-ball, but it doesn't land where she hopes.
It's not over yet.
Elena asks about the work he's doing here at home in Mystfallia, promoting literacy and boosting programs that support orphans and kids in foster care. It's no wonder the man barely has a moment to himself, but that's clearly the way he prefers it.
"What do you want your legacy to be?"
Damon taps his chin with his stick, leaving a blue smudge that she wipes away with her sleeve. His cologne is woodsy with accents of spice, luring her closer to the crook of his neck. She takes a step back for her own sanity.
"I'd like to know I made a difference. That my efforts lightened someone else's load." His hand curls around hers, tugging her to him. "That what I did meant something."
His cue clatters to the floor as he cups her face. Elena freezes, hardly daring to breathe despite her hammering heart. It's a wonder the whole castle can't hear it.
Once the shock wears off, her brain starts screaming. He doesn't even like her, and she's . . . enjoying the view a little too much. It's a bourbon-fueled fantasy.
But his eyes are impossibly blue and she's drowning in them. In him.
He's watching her as if he's afraid she might run, but she couldn't move if she tried. He's giving her an out she has no intention of taking.
"I have to know," he whispers.
"Know what—"
His lips skim over hers, silencing her, and god, they're soft. On the next pass, she's falling. She grabs a fistful of his sweater as his mouth settles where it belongs—on hers. The kiss is tentative at first, a gentle exploration. When his tongue teases at the seam of her lips, she gasps.
There's a tremble in her fingers, and her knees, and everywhere else. He hugs her waist to keep her upright, tilts her chin for a better angle, and with a moan, she lets him in.
Damon takes his time, as if he has all day to kiss her. He susses out what makes her shiver, breaking away long enough to nuzzle her throat. With playful flicks of his tongue, he coaxes her to taste him. There's the smoky hint of alcohol but the rest is uniquely him. Her hand snakes into his hair, holding him in place because she wants more. Damon groans under the onslaught, absently stroking her hip.
The need to breathe in more than each other eventually forces them apart. Damon rests his forehead against hers as she struggles to ground herself, still kneading his sweater.
"Sweet, like honey, but that fire in you," he murmurs, pausing to suck at her bottom lip, "è inebriante."
This is bad. Ten-car-pileup-during-rush-hour bad. He's a prince and the future king and what are they even doing.
"Why?" she rasps. Her voice is wrecked and Damon is beaming.
"Why what?"
"The kiss. You were ready to kick me to the curb a couple days ago."
He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering on her lobe. "I was an idiot. We've established that." She tries to copy his grin, but her mouth won't cooperate. "When I'm with you, I can pretend there isn't a mountain of obligations waiting for me outside that door. You bring out something in me I hardly recognize. I haven't done this," Damon gestures over her shoulder at the game she's so very close to winning, "in years. Stefan stopped asking me to play when all I ever did was turn him down."
Elena likes this version of him. A lot. Much better than the overworked, underslept Damon she first met. Maybe the but-we-can't speech can wait a while. Besides, she's leaving for New York soon anyway.
The thought raises a twinge in her chest. Shoving it aside, she finally manages a smile.
"Speaking of playing, there's a shot I need to make. Prepare yourself for the most impressive victory dance you've ever seen."
His arm slowly withdraws from her waist as if he's not quite ready to let go. "Good luck."
"Eight ball in the corner pocket," she calls.
She lines up her shot, willing her twitchy fingers to cool it. They haven't gotten the message that the kiss is over. And she can feel Damon's gaze on her—so not helping.
The cue ball connects with the black one at the perfect angle and it sails into the hole. Followed by its white companion.
Shit.
The clunk-clunk of the balls returning to the rack might as well be her hopes crashing and burning. She collects her phone and stops the recording, swiping at the screen until the option to delete appears. She offers it to Damon.
"A deal is a deal. I'll let you do the honors."
Elena can't watch him erase everything they just shared, so she looks at the carpet. Instead of taking it, he nudges the phone back to her.
"But I lost." It doesn't make sense. He wanted to kill the story and she's giving him the loaded gun.
"On a technicality."
She shrugs. "Doesn't matter."
"Elena." He's in front of her now, all ruffled hair and strong arms and can they go back to the kissing, please? "I don't care who won or lost."
"What?"
His mouth—tempting as it is—quirks into a grin.
"Better get writing."