My Dark Prince: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Dark Prince Road)

Hermes. That’s who he reminded me of. The Greek god of fertility, music, and deception. Of all things debauched. With his wavy, wheat-blond curls, Wedgewood-blue eyes, and patrician angles. The only slightest imperfection in Oliver’s god-like features was his cowlick. That swirl of hair felt like my own private victory. It proved to me that he was mortal, just like us, not completely separate from the rest. From me.

Ollie’s brows knitted together. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He clasped my hands in his, tugging me from the rim of the terrace. “You’re sitting dangerously close to the edge, and you look like you’re about to cry.”

I was about to cry. My parents were discarding me in Switzerland. Did they ever plan on telling me? Or would I wake up one day to an empty home?

Sweat glazed my palms. If I could feel anything beyond utter shock, I knew I’d find them cold with panic. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him nothing. In the end, Oliver von Bismarck was the only person in the world who thought of me as more than an afterthought. I refused to burden him with my issues. Our summers together were supposed to be fun. Light.

I forced myself to laugh, rising to my feet and dusting loose gravel off my butt. “Do I?”

“Yup. Your eyeliner’s running. Don’t tell me it’s a new trend. Last summer, it was nose hair extensions. You’ll never understand the trauma of hopping off a long-ass flight and finding a tarmac full of furries. I thought I landed on the wrong planet.”

I almost laughed, pivoting to swipe at the stupid mascara Mom’s makeup artist had wrangled on me. The full force of the crowd’s attention hit me at once. I’d never get used to it. Not that I needed to. It only ever happened when Ollie accompanied me. He possessed his own gravity, and when he neared, nothing anyone did could ever yank them out of it.

“My eyes are stinging. Probably from getting too close to the fire show downstairs.” I weaved through curious socialites, wandering aimlessly. “What do you want to do?”

We always explored places, sneaking into kitchens and stealing cake whenever the catering staff turned away. It was an unspoken agreement that we’d spend the whole summer together. Our parents owned lake houses three properties apart. Each year, I waited with bated breath to see if Oliver would change his mind, head to sleepaway camp, or simply hang back with his DMV friends.

He always came back to me.

Ollie caught my step, towering over me with his impossible height. “Dance first.”

He grabbed my palm and tugged me to the dancefloor. I bumped into his chest with a soft gasp, not ready to look up and stare into his eyes. He was outrageously beautiful, but he was also my best friend. Well, my only friend.

At fifteen, I was certain Ollie had already kissed plenty of girls, and that suspicion enraged me. I wanted him to be my first kiss, but the possibility of losing what we had terrified me.

“Dance?” I snorted, trying to dislodge my fingers from his. “You hate dancing, Ollie.”

“Can’t pass up a chance to embarrass you, I’m afraid.”

“The only person you’re going to embarrass is yourself.”

Lie. If he wanted to, Ollie could compete professionally. As soon as he could walk without toppling over, his Prussian grandmother, a six-time Blackpool winner, taught him the box step.

“I’m too hot for my own good.” He led me to the center of the dancefloor and stopped. “I have to suck at something.”

Head bowed, he peered up at me. He wore a mischievous glint in his eyes and a dangerous smirk on his bee-stung lips. My heart exploded into a million butterflies. With my parents gone, would this be our last summer together? The thought sent bile up my gut. I swallowed it down, placing my palm in his outstretched hand. As soon as his fingers clasped mine, the song died down.

I jerked my arm back, hoping my cheeks didn’t betray my nerves. “Saved by the bell.”

He straightened, retrieving my hand as if it were natural. “Just wait.”

On cue, the orchestra began Tchaikovsky’s The Sleeping Beauty. His chuckle trickled into my ears like Corinthian bells. I made the mistake of glancing up at him, just in time to catch him light up. He was too lovely. It was so unfair. He should be ugly as sin. Then I’d have him all to myself and still love him, not even an ounce less. That was Oliver’s best kept secret. His gorgeous exterior was no match for how perfect he was within.

He laced an arm around my back, tugging me closer. “Well, well, if it isn’t your song.”

“My song?” I blinked, trying desperately to anchor myself to the present. To forget the bomb my parents had dropped before Ollie had arrived.

“Yeah. You’re the sleeping beauty, silly.”

“I am very much awake … though a nap sounds just about right,” I joked, uncomfortable with how older couples cleared the way for us, their eyes lingering on our smooth movements.

From the outside, it must’ve looked like Ollie and I had practiced for years. We moved together like a river meeting an ocean, spinning and swirling, our bodies tangled tight. I pretended for one sweet moment that he was mine, and I was his. That my parents didn’t betray me. And that I knew, and had always known, the love of a home. One with a heartbeat, not an address.

“Your name is Briar Rose, just like the princess.” Ollie dipped me while our arms stretched. “Plus, you look like her.”

“She’s a fictional character, Oliver.” I raised my leg, tipping my toes to the sky.

Around us, people clapped. Five minutes ago, they hadn’t even noticed me a gust of wind away from death.

“So? You’re a dead ringer for the Disney character.” He studied me with hungry eyes. “Long, dark-blonde hair, arched brows, pink lips.” He paused and frowned, taking a better look at my face. “No fingernails.”

This time, he earned a genuine laugh. I swatted his chest. No way did he make me laugh after the news I’d heard. Like always, Oliver managed the impossible.

“I do have fingernails.” I waved my hands to prove my point.

“Barely. You munch on them like they’re fucking spice cakes, dude.”

“I lead a stressful life, okay?”

“I get it. It’s hard being so beautiful and smart when everyone around you is average. I have the same problem. We should start a club.”

Another wave of laughter rolled through my chest. “Knock it off. You’re being annoying.”

“Made you smile.” His eyes twinkled with humor. “Knew I could, too. I’m irresistible like that.”

You have no idea.

I returned my hand to his, sobering up. “How was your year?”

“Hmm. Let’s see.” He tipped me down, my breasts leveled with his eyes. Well, breasts was a big word for what they were. “School was fine. My dad is building three more hotels in Japan, which means he hasn’t been home as much.”

“How was that?”

“No one noticed.”

I knew he was kidding in the same way I knew he loved his family fiercely. In our circles, people treated their families like trading cards, something to be shuffled around when the need arose. Against all odds, the von Bismarcks actually liked each other.

I pouted, rubbing my thumb against his wrist. “I’m sorry you spent the year away from your dad.”

He shrugged in that carefree Oliver way. “Business is business. Plus, he bought me a sorry-for-ditching-you-in-your-formative-years gift, and it’s pretty epic.”noveldrama

“Let me guess. A secret door?”

“First – that topped my Christmas list years ago. Second – The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is a classic.” He spun me so fast, my fingers dug into his shoulders. “He got me a house. On Dark Prince Road.”

Year after year, Oliver lamented the fact that his two best friends lived on the same street while he resided in a quaint, 17,000-square foot manor on the opposite side of Potomac, Maryland. God forbid they caused mayhem without him, never mind that Zachary Sun had a permanent stick lodged up his ass and Romeo Costa couldn’t find Fun on a map with a GPS, a compass, and Dora the Explorer on speed dial. (Ollie’s words, not mine. I’d never met them, and frankly, the possibility scared me. Seriously, Ollie once let it slip that Romeo’s family had left a trail of bodies large enough to fill up a circle of Hell.)

“A house?” I echoed, trying to excavate the pang of jealousy growing roots in my chest. The idea of living near people who loved me was enough to bring tears of envy to my eyes.

“The biggest on the street. Mom says I can live in it the second I turn eighteen – on the condition that I visit every Tuesday and let Seb sleep over.”

At thirteen, Ollie’s little brother only cared about his family and rowing. Sebastian and I got along well, but I found him a little too cold and abrasive for mass consumption.

“You’re going to make your neighbors regret the day they moved there.”

“Mrs. Costa already phoned Mom, begging her to reconsider. It’s too late, anyway. I already built a stable there.”

“For what?”

Knowing Oliver, it could be for anything from a stink bomb studio to a microbrewery. He tended to respect his whims, doing as he pleased just because he could. If it were Oliver being shipped off to boarding school, he’d probably hire someone to attend in his place or use the campus as ground zero of a revolution.

Ollie angled his arm, subtly adjusting my posture until proper. “My parents bought me a new horse, who seems to shit his own weight every day. Plus, it’s on the water, and Seb’s dying to practice there.”

“Is he still ridiculously good at rowing?”

“I think he’s headed to the Olympics.”

“And polo?”

“Polo’s been good. We won the national championship.” Ollie brushed his accomplishment off with a shrug. “What about you, Cuddlebug?” He winked. “Break any hearts this year?”

I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or teasing me. Surely, he knew I had no friends to speak of, not to mention admirers.

“I’m taking Latin and Mandarin now. My parents say it’ll pad my college apps.” I rummaged through my brain for something that wasn’t completely nerdy and depressing to impress him with. “Oh, I also made this dress myself. I messed up a stitch or two in the back, but overall, it’s pretty neat, right?”

“It’s perfect.”

I kicked a leg back, then forward. “Thank you.”

He dipped us into another twirl. “So are you, by the way.”

I tipped my head back, laughing. “Now you’re just saying that.”

“I never just say things.” His features sobered, his lips tapering into a flat line. “I’m dead-ass serious, Cuddlebug.”

We slowed to a stop just before the song ended. Enthusiastic claps echoed between my ears. I peered around in a daze. A human circle had formed around us, gifting us a private space to dance. I scoured the blur of toothy smiles for my parents’ faces and came up empty. Meanwhile, Felix and Agnes von Bismarck admired their son with tender gazes. My heart bashed against its cage. Where were my parents? Why did they never take pride in me?

Oliver snatched my hand. “Come quick. I want to show you something.”

We pierced the thick crowd, crept past a private entrance, and ran down a narrow, cobbled stairway. Like all medieval mansions, the good weather did nothing to fight the damp air and frosty chill.

“Slow down.” I tugged my skirts up so I wouldn’t trip on them on the steps. “I’m wearing heels.” They weren’t high, but still. I couldn’t match Oliver’s pace with our fingers laced together, him half-dragging me to our destination.

“Dude, you’re slower than a dead sloth.” He swiveled around and picked me up honeymoon style like I weighed nothing, barreling down the stairs two at a time.

I looped my arms around his neck. “Okay, first of all, rude.”

His chest rumbled with a chuckle, but he didn’t answer me.

I dropped my voice into a whisper. “Second, where are we going?”

“Seb found the alcohol stash, and it is glorious.”

He whirled down another flight of stairs. It wasn’t the first time we’d stolen booze during a summer party. We’d started the second I’d turned eleven and accidentally drank Mom’s wine instead of my apple juice. We never got truly drunk, but something forbidden always tasted the sweetest.

Six flights of stairs later, we burst out the entrance. Ollie set me down and reclaimed my hand. We charged toward a vineyard, snickering between gasps of breaths and tripping over our own feet. Yellow torches guided us in the dark. Powerful music rattled the ground beneath our feet, dirt caked the hem of the dress I’d spent weeks on, and somewhere along the way, Ollie lost his bow tie.

I trailed him, my hand still secured in his.

“Just wait till you see it.” His words danced in the wind, the music and lights dimming the further we ran. “He also found a crate of old-ass books.”

“He took books?”

“Yeah.”

“He doesn’t even read.”

“We’re hoping for some smutty scenes.”

We ran for a few minutes until we reached the deserted stable on the far end of the property. Far enough from the party – from my parents – that I could breathe again. Well, once I caught my breath.

Ollie didn’t seem winded at all as he flipped his phone and led the way with its flashlight. “Oh, shit. I forgot something first.” He shoved his phone into his mouth, held it by his teeth, and produced a crumpled, coral rose from his tux’s inner pocket. With a grin, he tucked the trimmed stem into my hair, dropping the phone back into his hand. “A rose for Briar Rose.” He winked. “Didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”

I shook my head. I knew he wouldn’t forget. He never did. Without fail, Oliver started every summer by gifting me a rose to remind me of who I was. A pact we’d shared since I tried to run away from home at seven to meet my grandparents. Mom and Dad never let me. They called them bad influences, gold-diggers, and “white trash.”

Oliver pried open the sliding barn door with his shoulder. Dusty concrete and a row of open stalls welcomed us. The second we stepped inside, aged wood and dried urine clung to my nostrils.

“Seb?” Ollie’s voice echoed through the walls.

“Right here.” The playful lilt came from the last stall.

We found Seb slouched against a wooden wall, nursing an open bottle of wine. A blazer draped across a moldy bale of hay, discarded without a care for its price tag. He’d left his crisp dress shirt completely unbuttoned, revealing a golden chest, lean and tan from years of rigorous rowing. While Oliver could be mistaken for a Greek god, Sebastian resembled a renaissance painting.

Ollie’s mom once explained that the name had beckoned her during her babymoon to Tuscany. They’d made an emergency landing in Great Britain and decided to make a pitstop in London. Fate had brought her to the famous Martyrdom of St. Sebastian painting, where she stared into the tortured saint’s eyes, tormented and steadfast, and decided to name her son after him.

Without the muscles and hulking frame, Sebastian would almost be girlishly pretty. He treated his long lashes, playful flaxen curls, and big eyes the color of a clear summer sky like tired accessories. That was the thing about Seb. There was always something tragic about him. Just like the saint. An arrogant stubbornness that made me worry for him.

“Hi, BR.” Seb aimed his flashlight on my face. “I see you got rid of those awful braces.”

I winced at the brightness, noticing a crate full of books next to him.

“If you want to keep your teeth intact, you better watch how you talk to her,” Ollie warned.

“Come, come.” Seb ignored him, patting the dirt next to him with his Berluti Oxfords. “Might I interest you with a …” He turned the wine bottle by its neck, squinting at the label. “Domaine Leflaive Montrachet Grand Cru?” He hiccuped. “Or whatever’s left of it, anyway.”

I loosened my hand from Oliver’s. “Umm … sure.”

“You started drinking without us?” Ollie stormed the stall and snatched the flashlight, pointing it in his brother’s face. “What is your problem?”

Seb squinted. “A healthy mix of debilitating anxiety, self-doubt, and delusions of grandiosity.” The bottle swallowed his yawn. “What’s yours?” He always managed to sound like a thirty-year-old divorcee on the brink of an early midlife crisis.

Oliver shook his head. “Jesus, you are trashed.”

Seb shrugged, taking another pull of his wine. He plopped down onto a mat of crunchy leaves, laughing. “I prefer the term comfortably numb.”

“Let’s see about your comfort levels when your face spends the night inside a toilet bowl, and you throw up through your mouth, nostrils, and ears.” Oliver righted his brother up. “You reek of wine. Mom and Dad are going to shit a brick when they see you.”

His words hit me right in the chest, piercing it with vicious, cloying jealousy. First – because Ollie and Seb had parents who actually cared about them enough to make a stink about private underage drinking. There would be punishments, and talks, and consequences. Maybe even tears. Second – because I knew it would never get to that. Ollie would never let his parents find out. He’d hide Seb and nurse him back to health himself. Take the blame, if need be. Oliver and Sebastian were fiercely loyal to one another.

“Are you even listening?” Ollie kicked Seb with the tip of his pointed shoe.

The latter responded with a loud, audible snore that confirmed he’d fallen asleep. Oliver sniffed, unfurling Seb’s fingers from the wine bottle.

He turned to me with a shrug. “Shall we?”