The Once And Future Prince (Castaldini Crown 1)

Looking light-years beyond spectacular in his crown-prince uniform, colored the deep crimson and gold of Castaldini’s crest, he walked up to the king, knelt on one knee, recited the oath, barely gave Benedetto time to tap his shoulder with the scepter before rising, turning around and thanking everyone for coming, clearly telling them all to scoot. It was over in less than five minutes.

But it was still something she’d remember forever. The sight of the only man she’d ever love in the middle of the fairytale setting as he took on the mantle of power and privilege he’d been born to, that he’d worked all his life to deserve.

He was now glaring at the crowd. He seemed to want a private audience with the king. And he wanted it now.

Everyone, disappointed, succumbed to Leandro’s influence, learning from the outset they had a regent who got his way. She met Leandro’s gaze over their departing bustle. Those eloquent eyes of his said so much, with such intensity. Such emotion.

She almost ran to him. She told him instead. In their whispers. The ones they no longer needed the whispering gallery for. Me, too. Oh, my love, me, too.

She suppressed the impulse to dance all the way to her room. She thought she might have scared a few people with her blaring smiles.

She’d just flung herself down on her bed when the venomous words hit her.

“You think you’ve got him now, don’t you, you American harlot?”

She closed her eyes. She knew that voice. She didn’t want to acknowledge the malignant manifestation that wore the body of a stunning female.

She opened her eyes, sat up in slow motion. And there she was, as majestic and flawless as ever, wrapped in the perfection of the emerald chiffon creation she’d worn during the ceremony. Stella the Serpent, as Phoebe and Julia called her.

Phoebe got up, circled the malevolent presence. “I wish I could say the same to you, Stella. But ‘harlot’ would be a huge compliment. And I certainly don’t owe you any of those.”

Stella’s perfect face was stained with the nastiness of her nature and intentions. “Save your pathetic attempt at cutting wit, you low-born trash. Your sister might have caught a minor prince—”

Phoebe interrupted fiercely, “Caught and kept. In spite of all your efforts to take him away, you high-born waste of DNA.”

Stella’s lips thinned. “Paolo was a child when she trapped him. And I let him go because he’s pathetically attached to the brood she’s saddled him with. I wouldn’t play mother to her rats.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that he didn’t see the evil spirit infesting your beautiful body. He ran from you, not the other way around. And we all know it. Notice the ‘all’ part?”

Stella smirked. “Go ahead, delude yourself. But there’s another who won’t run away.”

“You mean Leandro, right? Of course you do. Why chase the current king’s son when you can go after the future king himself?”

Stella stiffened, her eyes shooting over Phoebe’s head, her composure cracking.

Then it hardened again, the maliciousness in her eyes growing maddening. “I know this tactic. Women like you, climbers and moochers who have nothing but an easy body and a scheming mind, go around accusing others of what you’re doing yourself. You’re chasing after Leandro. You think if you compromise him enough, he’ll be honor-bound to make you his queen. But I’m not letting you disgrace him or blackmail him into making you anything.”

Exasperation and animosity finally morphed into rage. “And how will you stop me? Will you run to Leandro and tell on me? Tell him how I’ve been entrapping him with only one goal in mind?”

“Yes, I will. I’ll save him from the user that you are.”

“You mean you’ll save him for the user and abuser that you are? Well, good luck, sister. It’s your word against mine. Who do you think he’ll believe?”

“He means nothing to you at all, does he? This incredible man, and all you see is your ticket to royal status. You’re so certain of your power over him, think him so under your spell, you believe he’ll give you everything you’ve been after.”

“Yeah, my power over him is total, and it has no chinks in it for pathetic schemers like you to enter through. So go ahead, try to get him out from under ‘my spell.’ Knock yourself out. Preferably literally.”

Stella’s voice shook, but her eyes were stone steady. “You…you vile manipulator…even if you manage to deceive him now, I’ll help him see through your act one day.”

“Yeah, yeah. Save your breath for your act. Break both legs.”

Stella gave her such a look, Phoebe’s blood stopped in her arteries. It was…demonic. Then she sobbed and ran out.

The moment the door slammed after Stella, Phoebe began to shake. But it had been worth it, dammit, to turn that viper’s attack against her.

Suddenly tears were streaming down her cheeks. It was…too much. The paroxysms of emotion were taking their toll.

Seemed it was going to be one hell of a pregnancy.

And she couldn’t wait to experience each tumult and discomfort. And each breath of life with Leandro.

Leandro’s fury mounted. Even now that it was all over.

The moment he’d declared he’d accept the succession, the damned Council had dared demand—again—that he take their choice of queen with the crown. They claimed they were conveying the king’s will, since his illness had robbed him of the ability to speak it. The bastards even insinuated they’d take it up with Phoebe. They were sure that as an official of Castaldini, she’s see the exigency of having the crown prince marry, for his kingdom, a woman versed in all the demands of a queen’s life and duty.

He’d blasted them. He was marrying—for himself—a woman who would put any queen in history to shame. It was nonnegotiable. Otherwise, good luck with Durante or Ferruccio.

He’d stuck close to her during the last couple of weeks in fear that someone would get to her, try to pressure her into leaving him to his “greater destiny,” distress her for one second behind his back.

Out of respect for the king, he’d given his word that he wouldn’t declare his intentions until he’d informed Benedetto of them. They probably thought the king might still sway him. The fools.

Not that Phoebe needed declarations. She knew he was hers. She didn’t need words to solidify her ownership. Still, she’d have them now, like she already had everything that he was.