Free Asteria In Love with the Prince by Tanya Korval

out of them.
    Jagor, in tailored dinner jacket and black bow tie, looked completely at home, greeting old friends as we moved through the crowd. He seemed to be back to his old self, the revelations of that morning buried – at least for now. He took the time to introduce me: in the space of five minutes, I met three minor royals, two captains of industry and an ambassador. I smiled and tried not to stumble in the heels the dress store owner had given me. I still wasn’t sure what my purpose was that night: genuine translator, arm candy or something more – was he hoping that we’d get some time alone together? It seemed unlikely: the bodyguards were always close by.
    I was still unsettled by what had happened in the dress shop. The journey back had been utterly silent. Sitting there in the back seat, watching the backs of their heads, I couldn’t stop wondering what they were thinking about: what they were imagining doing to me. I wasn’t used to men staring at me, let alone staring like that. I didn’t know when we’d be going to Asteria, but I knew I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready at all.
    The casino owner greeted Jagor by the blackjack table: a seat had been reserved for him…but only one. That was fine: I was happy to stand, like the bodyguards.
    “My aide will need a seat,” Jagor told the owner in passable French.
    The man sitting next to Jagor was a deeply tanned man with thinning silver hair. From the amount of chips he was purchasing, he was approaching Jagor’s level of wealth. The owner gestured apologetically at him.
    Jagor did something then: it was the first time I’d seen it, but I’d come to know it as The Royal Stare. It was distantly related to the modern day “You did not just say that” look, but weighted with hundreds of years of royal lineage. The social effect for the recipient was like sprinting headlong into a brick wall.
    The owner reddened and hurriedly spoke with the man in English, persuading him to move. He eventually did, grumbling and glaring the whole time. When he’d gone, muttering something about the royals under his breath, Jagor gestured politely at the seat. I sat.
    “I may get some bad press tomorrow,” Jagor whispered in my ear. “He owns it.”
    “Owns what, Your Highness?”
    “The press.”
    I wanted to curl up and die: we’d antagonized a press baron, just so I could have a seat. “I would have been happy to stand, Your Highness.”
    “My aide doesn’t stand,” he told me, looking deep into my eyes. I caught my breath and had to look away quickly, before the look made me do something stupid. Jagor chuckled.
    I’d never played blackjack before, but the croupier was a quick teacher and Jagor enjoyed showing me. After a few practice rounds, he called for chips. They brought out his own set: gleaming metal and stamped with the royal crest. “Pressed palladium,” he told me proudly. I looked at the numbers on the chips. Each one represented $1000.
    He put a stack of twenty chips in front of me.
    “Oh no,” I told him. “Your Highness, I don’t think I should…”
    “More fun if we play together.”
    “Your Highness, I barely know how to play!”
    “You’ll be fine.”
    I wasn’t.
    Blackjack isn’t a complicated game to play, but you’re destined to lose unless you can count cards – which neither of us could – and you’ll lose quickly unless you know what’s called “basic strategy” - which I didn’t. I asked for cards when I should have stuck and stuck when I needed a card. I lost or busted hand after hand. Every chip that disappeared from the table ratcheted up the bill for my mistakes. That was a thousand dollars. That was another thousand dollars. That and that and that and suddenly I hadn’t lost a dress or a month’s rent: I’d lost the equivalent of a car. A crowd had gathered behind us and were ooh-ing and aw-ing at every loss. I looked up into Jagor’s eyes, terrified.
    He was smiling. “Enjoying yourself?” he