“I have not asked anything from you in a long time,” the king said, his voice no longer jovial. “You do what you want, when you want, and we deal with the bad press. But the referendum is in a couple of weeks. Can you not manage to date this woman until then?”

“She’s not some plaything for me to parade around for points,” Johan said. “She’s kind and intelligent, and I will not—”

“Oh!” Linus said. “You like her. Gutt, gutt. I thought I would have to persuade you, but I see I was worried for nothing. Have fun at the wedding. Talk to your brother. Date this woman you like. Bring her back home with you. See you soon, son.”

The line disconnected; his stepfather had hung up.

Johan stood in the alcove, furious—at what King Linus had asked of him, and at what the man had so easily discerned. Linus thought that Johan liking Nya made everything easier, when in fact it made it harder. So much harder. Panic welled in him at the possibility of what would happen if he didn’t crush this attraction he’d been harboring immediately, but he calmed himself with the fact that he’d be leaving in two days’ time. Depending on what she decided to do with her life, he might never see her again.

Reassurance had never felt so shitty.

“You all right, mate?” Tavish strode up in a fine kilt, two plates of food in hand. “You look ready to smash that phone, which I obviously endorse.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

Tav raised his brows. “Want to talk? You’re into that talking-about-your-feelings shite. And it helps, I’ll give you that.”

Tav had it all wrong. Johan was into talking about other people’s feelings. Talking about his own was about as fun as licking sandpaper.

Johan shook his head and plastered on his most convincing smile. “Just my brother acting out. You know how it is.”

Tav had a younger brother, and indeed knew how it was, which is why Johan had purposely focused on that aspect of his troubles. Besides, he couldn’t exactly share the crude suggestion his stepfather had made. Crude, and much too tempting.

Date this woman you like. Bring her back home with you.

Tav shook his head. “He’s what, seventeen? Pfft, good luck with that, mate.”

“Thanks,” Johan said. He followed Tav to the VIP table on the stage, where their friend group had been seated, though he hadn’t been there for most of the night. He’d been schmoozing and doing ambassadorial stuff and avoiding Nya.

She was talking intently with Portia, who was describing something excitedly, waving her hands around. Portia reached out and linked arms with Tavish as he sat, using her free hand to continue gesticulating. Nya laughed and nodded, but her gaze kept flitting to her phone.

Johan narrowed his eyes, wondering what kind of games this boyfriend of hers was playing this time to have her so anxiously awaiting his message. Or maybe they’d already made up, and she was hovering over her phone because she was awaiting something sweet from him. He shouldn’t be upset; if anything, he should be glad that she was proving the men he’d eavesdropped on wrong. Someone was obviously very interested in a traitor’s daughter. Someone besides him.

Control.

He approached the table, and the empty seat beside Nya, and sat down. Her phone lit up with a message.

My mission is a lonely one, Nya. I wish I could be with you right now. Do you want to be with me, too?

Johan grimaced as she glanced at her phone and smiled with what seemed like relief.

He cleared his throat.

“?a geet et, Sugar Bubble?” he asked with deliberate lazy ease. He did not feel at ease at all. The bodice of the white linen gown she wore had a deep V, revealing the curved mounds of her breasts and the shadowed valley between them. Her makeup had been touched up since her crying during the wedding, and her eyes were lined in kohl and sparkling teal. Her lips had a natural look again, just the lightest sheen of gloss to accentuate their fullness.

Johan fidgeted in his seat and then wrapped his hands around his sweating water glass. She turned to him, somehow curling in shyly even as she swayed in his direction.

“Hi, Phoko,” she said, and his body had the most ridiculous reaction. He leaned closer to her, almost a lurch it was so abrupt, and he suddenly understood the “moth to a flame” cliché. This attraction was absurd, and dangerous. She was dangerous, there in her beautiful bright warmth. Flying closer would surely lead to his demise. Moths who flew into flames weren’t exactly role model material, but then again, constant fiery death hadn’t stopped them after millennia of existence.

Johan leaned even closer.

“Phoko?” Portia asked from across the table. His gaze jumped to hers with a quelling look and she pinned him with a speculative glare. “Now you both have pet names for each other? That’s cute. Cute and interesting.”

He rolled his eyes at Portia’s relentless curiosity, aka nosiness, sure she was scheming how to get information out of one or both of them, and turned his attention back to Nya.

“Is your evening going well?”

It might go slightly less well when he told her she’d been linked to him in the tabloids, especially with the fertile gossip fodder that was her father. Maybe Nya’s text buddy wouldn’t like it either—maybe he’d be jealous. Johan tried not to take pleasure in that, and failed.

There was the slightest hesitation before she nodded, the briefest delay before she forced her lips up into a smile. Now that he was really looking at her, he could see that the joy radiating from her earlier in the night had been tempered. There was an uneasiness in her wide eyes and nerves in the way her hand reflexively sought out her phone.