Free His Princess (A Royal Romance) by Abigail Graham Page A

other half of the coin. You assume because you are American that you know everything and because I am Kosztylan I know nothing.”
    “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”
    He looks at me with a flat expression.
    “You also assume we do not have television. Do you really think I do not have HBO? I have streaming. Cable is too expensive and I do not want the home decorating channel.”
    I stare at him.
    “Are you messing with me?”
    His lips twitch and he breaks into a tight-lipped grin. “I find you amusing.”
    “Amusing. You find me amusing.”
    “Yes. You are too high-strung. I think you spent too long in your camp. You need a man.”
    Then I’m standing up, and my hand is stinging, and there is a look of absolute shock on my face. It doesn’t dawn on me that I slapped him full-on in the face until it’s already happened, my hand is throbbing, and there’s a red handprint on his cheek. Wide eyed, he turns to me slowly.
    His hand shoots out and he seizes my wrist in an iron grip, so hard it cuts off the circulation in my hand and his knuckles go white. I grab at his fingers, trying to pry them loose.
    “You are the ones who stomp around where you do not belong, ignorant of where you step. In my country the law is clear. To strike the blood royal is a capital crime. The penalty is to have the offending limb struck off.”
    “S-s-struck off? Like cut off?”
    He squeezes harder, somehow, and plucks the knife from the table.
    Oh my God.
    “No don’t please don’t, I—”
    He rams the knife into the table, where it stands, quivering as he releases both it and my wrist.
    “You are a woman, and in my house we hold hospitality sacred still, even if the meaning of the word eludes you enlightened Americans. I will forgive this indiscretion once. Once . Am I clear?”
    “Yes,” I squeak, trying to keep my hands at my sides. My wrist is throbbing.
    “You will not treat me this way in sight of anyone, is that understood?”
    “Yes.”
    “You will address me respectfully and you will behave yourself.”
    “Okay. Uh, my prince.”
    “Better.”
    I flinch as he takes my arm, holding his palm under my forearm. He looks at my wrist and touches it with the first two fingers of his other hand.
    “Did I hurt you?”
    “Yes.”
    “You hurt me.”
    “Oh, you poor boy,” I groan.
    He glares at me.
    “Perhaps we can forgive each other. Did you think I was going to cut off your hand?”
    I nod.
    “I would prefer not to. It is a lovely hand. It is my pleasure to meet you, Persephone.”
    Then he kisses my fucking hand. Lightly, on the knuckles.
    Somehow it doesn’t look completely stupid. I feel a hot flush in my chest and dip into the world’s most awkward curtsy. I think it’s a curtsy.
    “You will join me for lunch and hawking this afternoon.”
    “Uh, yeah.”
    “That wasn’t a request, it was an instruction. Go back to your room now.”
    “Yes.”
    “You didn’t say ‘my prince.’”
    I snatch my hand away. “I don’t have a prince.”
    I can’t read his expression. I’m not sure if he’s amused or frustrated, maybe both. I turn around, not caring if it’s appropriate to turn my back to him or not, and stomp toward the door. It must be good enough, because his guards open it and escort me, slowly and tediously, back to my room.
    The old woman meets me halfway.
    “He likes you,” she says, nodding her approval.
    I groan.

4
    A s I sit on the bed waiting to see what’s going to happen to me next, a pressing question nags at my mind.
    What the hell is hawking exactly?
    I pace the room, working out my ankle. It feels a lot better. I’m tempted to flop on the bed and sleep, but I don’t want to find out what happens to me if I dare to rumple my dress. After pacing a bit I can actually walk, though with a hip-popping limp to my gait. Damn it.
    I hobble back out to the balcony and lean my hands on the rail.
    Its leader may not be a very nice guy, but this is a beautiful country. I can’t stop thinking