by Zoe Chant
Seven followed, trying hard to ignore her surroundings. She wasn’t a prude, exactly, but chastity was one of the Seven Knightly Virtues. These days it wasn’t as strictly enforced as it had once been—even the most hidebound traditionalists like Lord Azure had grudgingly accepted the exception for knights who found their true mates—but lewd behavior was still considered deeply dishonorable.
Honor did not appear to be uppermost on anyone’s mind here.
Courage, courtesy, compassion, chastity, charity, constancy, candor. Seven mentally chanted the Seven Knightly Virtues in her head as Carole’s swinging hips led her through the club. Get the Prince, get him to Montana, and try to forget this ever happened.
The club was busier than Seven would have expected from the entrance fee. She had to force her way through packs of hooting, inebriated men—and a surprising number of women—crowded around the base of a long, elevated glass stage. Seven kept her gaze grimly fixed on the back of Carole’s head, trying very hard not to look up. Even so, she couldn’t help being aware that there was a lot of…gyrating going on.
Her opinion of the Prince, which had not been high to start with, sank to new depths. Bad enough that he—from all accounts—changed partners as frequently as most people changed their underwear. It was one thing to indiscriminately oblige any woman who had a hankering to handle his crown jewels. It was quite another to pay to ogle dancers who were no doubt just counting down the minutes until they could get out of their torturous high heels and into a pair of comfy slippers.
Doesn’t he have enough women throwing themselves at him? Seven thought irritably as she dodged yet another marauding pack of bros too distracted by the heavenly bodies above to pay any attention to where they were going.
Carole guided her out of the packed bar to a long corridor flanked by closed doors. Some were painted with sinuous, winking cats, while others were decorated with strutting chickens.
Not chickens. Seven bit back a groan as she got the pun at last. Cockerels. And pussycats. Kill me now.
“He’s right through there,” the hostess said, indicating one of the rooster doors. “Private room number four.”
Wonderful. Not only did the Prince apparently have a taste for both strippers and terrible puns, he spent so much time here he had his own room. He probably had a loyalty card too.
Seven raised a hand to knock, then hesitated. “He’s not, ah, got anyone in there at the moment, has he?”
“He’s all yours, hon.” The hostess lowered her voice, leaning forward. “Listen, sorry if this is sticking my nose where it isn’t wanted, but I’ve gotten to know that hot mess of a man pretty well over the last few months. And whatever’s going on between you two, you look far too serious for it to end well. You want my advice? Forget about him. Turn around and walk right back out the front door. Whatever you’re hoping to get from him, you won’t. He’s not the kind of guy to pin your heart on.”
“I have no intention of doing that,” Seven said stiffly. “And I need to see him.”
“Not my circus, not my monkeys,” Carole muttered under her breath. With another shrug, the hostess turned away. “Well, I hope you find what you want, hon.”
What Seven wanted, more than anything, was to be back under the ocean in the quiet, dignified streets of Atlantis. But she had her quest. Steeling herself, she knocked on the door.
“Come in,” called a man’s voice.
Chapter 3
It was worse than he’d ever imagined.
Joe had thought himself prepared. He’d seen her countless times before, after all—in visions, in dreams.
But nothing compared to seeing her.
In the tawdry darkness of the strip club, she gleamed like a sword blade. Built in strong, straight lines; hard and elegant, compact and deadly. A single glimpse, and he was pierced to the heart.
She, on the other hand, looked like she was wishing her armor was a whole lot thicker, and possibly had an antibacterial coating.
Showtime.
He touched his sunglasses, making sure that they were secure. As long as she couldn’t see his eyes, she wouldn’t know that he was her mate.
He adopted a casual, careless tone. “Come in. I promise I don’t bite.” He let his mouth stretch in an arrogant smirk. “Not unless you want me to, that is.”
Her cheeks flushed. She was unusually pale for a sea dragon, with creamy skin and long, steel-grey hair pulled back in dozens of thin braids. Either she had mixed human blood in her ancestry, or she hailed from one of the reclusive, isolated Arctic tribes. Given her painfully traditional outfit and general aura of utter dismay at her surroundings, he assumed the latter. There was no way she’d ever spent more than a handful of days away from the sea. If this wasn’t the first time she’d ventured into a human city, he’d eat his turn out gear.
Good. She was sea dragon to the bone, just as he’d seen her in his visions. That would make it easier to horrify her.
He leaned back against the gold-upholstered chaise lounge, striving to be every inch the decadent playboy. “I said, come in. And close the door behind you. I think this should be a very private audience.”
She obeyed with clear reluctance, stepping through the doorway as though expecting the crimson carpet to lunge up and grab her. Her gaze flicked over the small room, taking in everything from the zebra-print wallpaper to the velvet swags covering the high ceiling. Her armor-plated shoulders twitched as though restraining a shudder.
“Hey, don’t blame me.” The words slipped out, not part of his pre-planned speech. “I didn’t choose the decor.”
She glanced at the prominent stripper’s pole and visibly winced. She turned to him, spine straightening even further. Like most Arctic sea dragons, she was short—the top of her head would barely have reached his shoulder if he’d been standing up. Yet she carried herself with such poise she seemed to fill the room.
“Crown Prince of Atlantis.” To his surprise, she spoke in English rather than sea dragon. “Heir to the Pearl Throne, Emperor-in-”
“Don’t do that,” he said sharply.
Her blush deepened. “My sincerest apologies. I meant no disrespect.” With the grace of a trained warrior, she sank to both knees in a posture of formal submission. Silver honor-charms braided into her hair flashed as she bowed her head. “Crown Prince of Atlantis, Heir to the Pearl-”
“No!” He grimaced, gesturing at her to stand back up. “Look, it’s Joe, okay? Just Joe.”
From her expression, he might as well have demanded that she address him as ‘bro’. “I…do not think that would be appropriate, Your Highness.”
He winced at the hated honorific. “Gah. Considering I’m over a foot taller than you, that just makes me feel like you’re making fun of me. Try again.”
She bit her lip. “My prince?”
Oh, he was. Hers, now and always, forever…
“That’ll have to do.” He tried to look casual, draping his arms across the back of his chair. “And what shall I call you?”
He already knew the answer, of course. But he found himself desperate for any excuse to stretch the conversation as long as possible.
Because if all went well, these few precious, shining minutes were all he’d ever have with his mate.
Her armored shoulders relaxed a little. Clearly the return to formality comforted her. “I am the Seventh Novice of the Order of the First Water, Squire to the honored Lord Azure.”
“Not your sea dragon name.” He waved a hand dismissively, trying not to show how his heart was hammering against his ribs. “You must have an air name, surely? A human name?”
Her posture stiffened. Somehow he’d struck a nerve, though he’d no idea how. “I am Seventh Novice, my prince. Some people call me Seven.”
“Well, Seven.” He treated her to his laziest, most infuriating grin. “I shall call you Sexy.”
If looks could kill, he would have been floating belly-up on the waves. “As it pleases you, Your Highness.”
Sea, he loved her.
Seven drew in a deep breath, expression smoothing out again into blank courtesy. “My prince, on behalf of your noble mother, the Pearl Empress, I have been tasked with—”
“Hold it.” He raised a hand, stopping her. “Before you report, there’s something you need to do first.”
Alarm flashed across her grey eyes. “I am sorry, my prince. I am unaccustomed to the honor of addressing a member of the royal family. If there is some aspect of formal etiquette I have neglected, I sincerely apologize.”
“No, you haven’t done anything wrong.” He stood up, moving to one side. He gestured at the seat he’d just vacated. “Sit down.”
She eyed the chaise lounge as though it was upholstered in bear traps.
“I’m waiting.” He leaned against a wall, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pants. “We can’t continue this conversation until you sit down.”
Gingerly, she lowered herself onto the chair, making the minimum possible contact with the golden velvet.
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He tilted his head in the direction of the minibar. “Do you want a drink?”
“I am on duty, my prince.” Seven ploughed on without a pause, as though worried what else he might offer her if she let him get a word in edgeways. “As I was saying, I am here to-”
“Fifty bucks,” he interrupted her.
Her mouth hung ajar. “What? I mean, I’m sorry, my prince?”
“There’s a minimum charge for a private room.” He held out his hand. “You’ll have to give me fifty dollars.”
A muscle ticked in Seven’s jaw. “With all due respect, I am not the one with access to the Imperial treasury. My prince.”
“No, but you’re the one who wants to talk.” He raised his eyebrows at her, then realized that she wouldn’t be able to see that over his sunglasses. He shrugged instead. “Fifty dollars. Take it or leave it.”
Seven’s mouth thinned. She pulled a thin wad of bills from her belt pouch, counting off five tens. From what he could see, it was more than half of her funds. She thrust the money at him as though wishing it was a dagger.
“Great.” He took it from her. With his other hand, he palmed a discrete control panel set into the wall. “Then we can begin.”
Soft, pulsating music began to play over the hidden speakers. Seven started as the lights dimmed. Her hand closed over the hilt of a short pearl-inlaid baton that hung at her side.
“What the—” She stopped, clearing her throat. “My prince, the mood lighting is unnecessary. And I do not require a soundtrack.”
“No, but I do.” He stepped onto the low stage. He tossed the bills into the air, grinning at her through the fluttering green rain. “And you, Sexy, just bought yourself a pole dance.”
Oh sweet heaven, he’s actually serious.
Seven’s jaw dropped as the Prince grabbed hold of the pole. He swung himself round with easy, languid grace, grinning at her the whole time.
Her assumptions whirled like the fluttering bills, falling into a new, even more appalling configuration. “You work here?”
His free hand caressed his own torso, fingers sliding underneath one of his suspender straps. “My father gave me an ultimatum last year. Return to Atlantis and take up my royal duties at last, or…” He snapped the strap at her. “Become a firefighter. So here I am.”
She had been vaguely perplexed by his outfit, which was hardly club wear—sturdy yellow work pants held up with wide suspenders, a tight white t-shirt clinging to his chest, bare feet.
Now she realized…it was a costume.
“B-but,” she stuttered. “You joined a hotshot crew. You did. A real one.”
“Yep. And you wouldn’t believe the tips I get when women find out I was a real, live firefighter.” He spun around the pole again. “Turns out it was worth spending a summer choking on smoke and eating mystery meat out of self-heating packets.”
Was a firefighter?
Before she could ask what he meant by that, the Prince’s arms flexed. His feet lifted from the ground.
Seven had never given much thought to pole dancing before, but if she had she would have assumed it was something that only appealed to men. A scantily clad woman grinding her crotch against a long, hard shaft…the symbolism was hardly subtle.
There was absolutely nothing feminine about what the Prince was doing now.
He spiraled smoothly up the pole, barely seeming to touch it. He swam through thin air, body arching in a sinuous curve, legs swinging out behind him. His white t-shirt clung to his back like a second skin, revealing every flexing muscle.
She wrenched her gaze away, fixing her eyes on the opposite wall. “My prince—”
“Hey.” He snapped his fingers. “I’m up here.”
He’d taken one hand off the pole.
Everyone knew the Prince was a soft, spoiled man-child with no honor or discipline, who did nothing except drink and indulge his base desires. And yet here he was, supporting himself on a single rigid, flexed arm, upside-down, body straight as a sword. If he hadn’t been doing it right in front of her eyes, she would have said it was impossible even for a shifter.
“That’s better.” Only the slightest edge to his tone, a bare hint of strain, betrayed how much strength it was taking to pose like that. “If we’re going to talk, you can at least look at me. What were you saying?”
“I—I—” She unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “I’m supposed to take you back to your hotshot crew. I’ve been assigned as your bodyguard.”
“Lucky me.” The Prince wrapped his ankles around the pole, dangling six feet off the ground. He stretched languidly, arcing his spine. “Though now I’m wondering who you pissed off, to get stuck with this duty. Was it my dad? Please say it was my dad.”
“No! I mean, I wanted this assignment. It’s an honor.” His t-shirt had come untucked, falling loose to display a sliver of chiseled abs. With a heroic effort, she kept her eyes fixed on his face. “My prince, would you please come down from there?”
“Hey, you were the one who bought a dance.” He ran a thumb underneath one suspender, pulling it off his shoulder. “Honor demands that I fully satisfy you.”
Her voice shot up an octave. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged out of the other suspender. “Stripping. What did you think people pay me to do here?”
“No, don’t-!”
Too late.
His hands fisted in his t-shirt. With a sharp jerk, he ripped the material in half. The dark planes of his chest gleamed, washed in shades of blue and green from the ever-shifting lights.
Her thoughts scattered like startled fish. She could only stare, mouth dry, as he rolled upright, muscles moving smoothly. His smirk had faded. His hidden eyes held hers.
For the first time, he looked utterly serious.
He braced himself on the pole with both hands, letting his body swing free again. His hips flexed in time to the throbbing music. Warmth pulsed between her own legs in answer. She found herself leaning forward, her entire being yearning towards his…
What was she doing? She shot to her feet, horrified by her body’s treacherous response. “Stop! Please stop!”
He responded instantly, dropping from the pole so fast that she instinctively lunged forward to break his fall. Her hands smacked onto smooth, oiled skin, velvet over steel.
Heat roared through her. Her knees gave way. She’d intended to catch him, yet he ended up supporting her, her palms pressed against his hard torso.
He stared down at her, his mouth only inches away from hers. His sunglasses were still in place somehow. The mirrored lenses showed Seven nothing but her own pale reflection.
She tore herself free, stumbling backward off the low stage surrounding the pole. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I, I thought you had slipped. Fallen.”
“I have.” His bare chest heaved. She couldn’t look away from the pulse leaping in the hollow of his throat. “I mean
—uh, never mind. Thank you.”
The memory of the Prince’s hot skin was seared into her palms. She’d felt his heartbeat, pounding as hard as her own…
She took refuge in formality, offering him a deep bow. “I apologize sincerely for my breach of etiquette, my prince. It won’t happen again.”
“Well.” He seemed to have regained his breath. He leaned back against the pole, his mouth stretching in that cocky grin once more. “Yeah. Pole dances are strictly hands-off. Now, if you wanted to tip me another twenty for a lap dance…?”
“No!” she yelped, trying to ignore the way her body was screaming yes! “Um, that is, thank you for the offer, my prince. But we should really be going.”
He tipped his head to one side. “Where?”
“Montana, of course, my prince. We must leave straight away, if we are to rejoin your crew in time for fire season.” A droplet of sweat was slowly rolling down the center of his chest. She tried very hard not to look at it. “Er, do you perhaps have a spare shirt?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, which did very distracting things to the way his firefighter pants hung from his lean hips. “I’m not going to Montana.”
“But…everyone is expecting you. Your father, the Imperial Champion, said that you had sworn to him that you would return to your crew.”
He rolled one shoulder in a careless shrug. “You’ve seen my sweet set-up here. Women throw themselves and money at me, every night. Who’d want to abandon all this for hard labor at the ass-end of nowhere?”
“You gave your word!” She couldn’t stop her voice from rising. Her chance, her one and only chance at knighthood, and it was slipping through her grasp… “Does honor mean nothing to you?”
“Oh, it does,” the Prince said cheerfully. “It means that my dad can’t do a single thing to stop me. He said I had to be a firefighter. He didn’t specify anything more than that. So if he tries to drag me away from here, he’s the one who’ll be breaking his honor.”
Outraged choked her. It was just as well, given that what she wanted to say to him would have landed her in serious trouble with Lord Azure.