Charmed By The Mountain Prince(9)
“I don’t give a shit about what those people think of me.”
I sigh, trying to redefine my surroundings.
So at first sight I assumed these people were simply assholes that didn’t want to celebrate our wedding. But now I realize it wasn’t about the King and Queen not wanting to make this a special day. It was about their son—my husband—not giving a rat’s ass about me being here.
I swallow my pride, however bitter it may be. Because it’s okay; I don’t need Garrick to like me instantly. I’m certain I can win him over soon enough.
Especially if the winning-over occurs at a party. I’ve been waiting my entire life for some real fun. Some royal fun.
Garrick looks me over, scowling. “What are you smiling about?”
I shrink into myself, instantly hating that his tone causes me to become smaller. I don’t do smaller. I do bigger-than-life. Insistently, I raise my chin, open my eyes wider, and pull back my shoulders. “I love a good party.”
“Are you kidding me with this?” he asks, not even addressing me with the question. He looks over at his mother and father.
“Don’t be rude, Garrick,” the king says sternly. “You agreed,”
“I agreed to a marriage. I didn’t agree to go on fucking parade.”
“Oh, fine,” the queen says. “Just go back to your cabin and pretend your parents don’t care about their only son and his wedding day. We’ll send the guests home.”
I swallow, realizing I’m witnessing a family feud.
“I’m not being rude,” Garrick says flatly. “I did my part. I’ll continue to do my part. I got married, because it’s what my family wanted. And I’ll give you an heir, because it’s my duty. But I’m not committing to anything more than that.”
Behind us, the priest coughs and says, “Well, son, you have committed to one more thing. You committed to Iris. She’s your wife.”
“Goddammit,” Garrick hollers, ticked off. “She’s my wife, and I’m taking her home.”
With that, he grabs my hand and leads me out of the chapel without another word.
6
The moment we’re outside the chapel, we see people waiting around, ready to gawk at us. I’m guessing the tourists got wind of whatever reception my mother was cooking up at the castle, and put two and two together.
Under my breath, I mutter, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Realizing that Iris has stopped in the center of the sidewalk, I know we need to get out of here, stat. The last thing I want is to get caught up in some press release. I wrap my arms around Iris, pulling her close to me, noticing the way her breasts press against my chest—and I admit, that forces me to pull her in even more tightly.
“We’re good here. Move along,” I call out, raising my free hand and waving at the people. More like, waving off the people.
“Is there a car for us somewhere?”
“We don’t have cars in the village. You can get yourself a car over the mountains, that’s fine, but we keep things old-school here.”
“Oh,” she says flatly. “We don’t drive cars in Elexia either. I mean, we have golf carts and people drive motorbikes, but no cars.”
I frown; I didn’t realize we’d find common ground so fast. Not that it’s a bad thing, but I’m just adjusting my understanding of where this woman is from. Maybe she’s used to having a less than privileged lifestyle.
As we walk down the street, the people surrounding us are respectful; since the announcement of my wedding was short notice, there aren’t too many people around. I’d stop and say hello if any of these people were the actual people of Alpinweiss, but the people here are obvious tourists, holding up their camera phones and trying to capture the newest royal couple. I lower my head, refusing to be a part of this charade.
Iris lifts her head confidently and scans the crowd. She smiles, waves. People stare openly at her, but scowl at me. Anyone who doesn’t live and work in the village thinks I’m an ass—mostly because I’ve never participated in their bullshit photo ops. I work, do my duty, lend a hand. But I won’t play the part that the media and paparazzi want.
“You don’t have to do that—wave at them. No one here needs a princess like you.”
“A princess like me?” Iris asks through a gritted-teeth smile. “I’m going to assume you mean that in the best way possible?”
“Oh, exactly. The best way possible.” I reach for the hem of her skirt and lift it up. “Just what I expected, not even wearing boots. Your feet are going to blister—not to mention freeze—in those sandals before we get to my door.”