A Nordic King

I glance at him over my shoulder and I’m already smiling before I see him. The man just gets more and more handsome every bloody day. It’s hardly fair.

And now, as he strolls toward me and Karla, he’s wearing one of my favorite outfits on him—pajamas. Well, essentially just red flannel drawstring pants and a white t-shirt. I only catch him wearing it late at night and usually he’s wearing this silk robe over it that I always want to reach out and touch.

I let my gaze linger on his body longer than I should. I know it’s as inappropriate for me to check him out as it would be for him to check me out (though, good lord, I wouldn’t mind him being inappropriate for once), but I can’t help it. I drink him in like water. I love Aksel in his usual sharp, dark suits but to see him dressed down like this is, well, a treat. I’m sure his t-shirt is made of some fancy material and costs a million bucks because it clings to his muscles perfectly.

Have I mentioned that the King of Denmark is ripped? Because, yeah. He very much is. I know he goes to the gym inside the palace every morning and whatever he’s doing there, it shows. He’s the perfect mix of lean and muscular. Especially in his upper body. His shoulders are like works of art, broad, rounded and perfectly sculpted, leading to large biceps and strong, sinewy forearms. Sometimes I think his hands are my favorite part of him. Maybe because I see them so often. Maybe because they’re massive and commanding and they look like they’d leave perfect handprints on my ass.

These thoughts aren’t new to me. The problem is that I’ve been having them more and more often, and it doesn’t help that I’m fantasizing about him spanking me while he’s standing right beside me.

Thankfully Aksel is eyeing the Christmas tree instead of me and therefore can’t see the flush on my cheeks. “It looks…” he says, trying to find the right word. “Festive.”

“I think I’ll decorate the top half tonight,” I tell him. “If you want to join me?”

Karla comes away from the window, and her gaze flits from him to me and back to him again. Aksel cocks a brow at me. “You want me to decorate the tree?”

I roll my eyes and scoff. “Oh, I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I forgot that Christmas tree decorating is beneath you.”

He doesn’t look amused.

Karla clears her throat and asks him in Danish if he wants his port. Now that the weather is getting colder, Aksel tends to sit by the fire every night with a glass or two, going over some paperwork. Occasionally I’ll see him reading some Danish hardback.

“Please,” he says to her and juts his chin out at me. “You want a glass?”

“Am I allowed?” I ask, glancing at the grandfather clock across the room. “I’m still on the clock for another hour.”

“I’ll allow it,” he says, and I swear I see a hint of a smile. “In fact, I insist.”

“I’ll bring two glasses,” Karla says cheerfully as she leaves the room.

“Generous mood tonight?” I ask him.

He nods at the tree. “I must be feeling the spirit of the season. So are the girls. I haven’t seen them this excited about Christmas in, well…” He trails off, clearing his throat.

“It’s hard not to be excited when you have presents every single morning. You know, I think you might be spoiling them.”

He gives me a withering look. “They’re princesses, Aurora. Literal princesses. I hardly think they can be spoiled. Besides, that’s Danish tradition.”

When December 1st rolled around, so did the presents. That’s when the Christmas Calendar comes out, which means children get a present every morning, counting down to the big day. It’s a bit much in my opinion, but then again, most of what goes on in this palace is a bit much. I mean, this is the King who closed down a national theme park for two days just so we could be there in peace.

“Well, I heard your tradition was to also only decorate the tree the day before Christmas Eve,” I tell him. “Look at you now. It’s only December fifth.”

“Where did you learn that?”

I give him a leveling look. “You know I know things. I probably know more about this country than you do at this point.”

His eyes rake over me appraisingly, like he’s sizing me up. “Hmmm. Perhaps you can take my place on the throne. I might want a day off.”

I hate the little thrill that runs through me because what he said is such a throwaway line. But for a split second, I imagine what that would be like. To be a queen. Even the fact that he said that with such ease.

“I don’t think that’s part of my job description,” I tease him. “You might have to pay me extra.”

“How about we start with the glass of port and see where it goes from there,” he says to me just as Karla comes out with the two small glasses, each with a generous pour.

She hands them to us and then leaves, shooting me a curious look before she goes. I wonder what that look meant. Probably the fact that Aksel isn’t one to share his time like this with anyone but the girls.

“Sk?l,” I say, tipping my glass at him before I take a delicate sip. It tastes expensive as hell.

He opens his mouth to say something just as we hear Clara yelling from downstairs. I turn to see Freja in the doorway to the room, tears running down her face.

“What happened?” Aksel says, quickly putting his drink down on the mantel as Freja comes running over to him. She immediately throws herself at his leg, wrapping her arms around him.

“Snarf Snarf, han er v?k,” she cries.

“Han er v?k?” I repeat.

“He’s gone,” Aksel says, frowning, glancing up at me.

I shake my head. “I told the girls they could say goodnight to him.” It’s then when I hear Clara yelling again and I realize she’s calling for the pig.

“Clara ?bnede d?ren,” she says, wiping her face on Aksel’s pajama pants. “She opened the front door. He ran outside into the snow. He’s going to be cold.”

Oh shit. Snarf Snarf escaped. It’s late and it’s snowing and he could be anywhere in the city by now, perhaps getting hit by a car. My mind goes to the worst scenario.

“I’m on it,” I tell Aksel, downing the rest of the port for courage and running out of the room.

“Aurora, wait!” I hear him say, but it doesn’t matter. I have to find that damn pig or the girls are going to be crushed, and the last thing they need is to lose something else they love.

I’m dressed only in my uniform, albeit with a light cardigan, so I slip on a pair of rubber boots from the downstairs closet and run to the front door. Clara is outside on the steps, yelling into the night, and of course to the people milling about in the square. They’re all looking at her, some even taking pictures. It’s so rare that any member of the royal family would use this door.

“Clara,” I tell her, pulling her back inside. “Stay inside.”

“But Snarf Snarf,” she says, and as I pull her into the light of the foyer, I can see the pure fear on her face. “I didn’t mean to do it. I thought it would be fun to see him in the snow and there wasn’t as much snow in the back and…” She trails off into a slew of mumbled Danish that I don’t understand.

“I’ll get him back. Just stay inside, okay? Go find your father.” I usher her further in before I step out and close the door.

Even though I probably should head over to the curious onlookers and ask them if they’ve seen a pig, I know that will get reported to the tabloids (“Hog Wild: Nanny Loses Royal Pig in Snowstorm”) so instead I just follow the tiny little tracks in the snow that his hooves have made.