“Is he giving you trouble again?” he asked.

“He?”

Johan glanced at her phone, somewhat smug in the fact that she had forgotten the existence of whoever this mystery man was, at least for the moment.

“Oh! No. It’s not that. Some people are not happy that I am here,” she said quietly. Her gaze darted out to the crowd near the stage, and he understood how this was working even before he saw the cluster of people glancing up at her with cruel smiles—in sitting at a table of honor, she was also being put on display for those who had not forgiven her father, like the men he’d eavesdropped on.

Rage mingled with a sudden intense desire to shield her from their blatant insults. They were trying to make her feel unwanted, at the wedding of her cousin, at an event meant to celebrate love. He was used to this aspect of life among the rich and wealthy, which was magnified in small kingdoms like Liechtienbourg and Thesolo. Some people enjoyed looking down on others and making them feel less than—he knew that truth in his bones.

“Hey,” Portia said, snapping to get his attention. He understood then why they were eating with linked arms—they were blocking Nya from the gossips’ line of sight. “Are you trying to murder those people with your brain? Please tell me you can. I’ve been trying with no success and Tav won’t let me use the sword I made as a wedding present.”

“It’s okay,” Nya said. Her hands dropped into her lap and her gaze followed them. “It is to be expected after my father’s crimes.”

“It’s not okay, Nya,” Johan said. “You did nothing wrong. You’re not your father.”

“The man knows what he’s talking about,” Tavish said, waving his fork.

Nya sighed. “Thank you, everyone. I’m not feeling well, though. I’m going to lie down for a bit, but I’ll be back.”

“The reception will probably go on until morning, there’s plenty of time for a power nap,” Portia said reassuringly. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. Stay and enjoy yourself.” She was trying to keep her voice light and cheerful, but it rang false to Johan, as did the way she wouldn’t meet anyone’s eye. He remembered then, why he had first started watching Nya—because she had done something wrong in trying to counter Ledi’s poisoning instead of stopping it.

What must she feel like now, at this wedding of people she loved but had hurt by her inaction, where half the guests thought her evil and the other half thought her foolish? Thabiso and Ledi had forgiven Nya, but she’d sat and taken the abuse of strangers because she thought she deserved it.

I’m used to it.

“Text if you need me,” Portia called out. “It might take me eighty-four years to get to the guest wing, with these long-ass hallways, but I’ll be there.”

Nya nodded and turned to leave the dais. Johan’s gaze trailed after her as he searched for an excuse to follow, catching on something that was a more-than-valid reason. He’d wanted to shield her, and now he would.

He stood smoothly from his seat and sidled up behind her, so close that he was almost touching. It was the practiced move of a playboy on the prowl, which was at least somewhat less attention grabbing than him wildly flailing up to her. She made to turn and face him, but he placed his hand on her waist, holding her in place while trying not to touch her any more than necessary before explaining.

“What are you doing, Phoko?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder, brows knit in annoyance.

“You have something on the back of your dress,” he said. She shook her head and turned to walk away, so he decided to be more direct. “It’s a monthly something, tied to the moons and tides? I’ll walk behind you so no one sees.”

People were already being cruel to her; he wouldn’t allow them anything else to hold over her.

“Oh no.” She stiffened beneath his light hold, her shoulders hunching. She shook her head. “I haven’t had . . . I can’t remember the last time I . . .”

“It’s fine,” he said, in his best carefree-prince tone, even though the shame in her voice made him want to hold her close—closer, rather.

“You don’t have to . . .” Her voice faded into a humiliated whisper and she tried to step away from him. “Your suit might be ruined if you come too close.”

He tightened his hold on her waist with one hand, then took her hand delicately in his other one, something he’d learned in the dance lessons required at his boarding school.

“I’ve already told you that bodily fluids don’t scare me,” he said near the exposed shell of her ear. It was true, though not because he was a playboy as he’d led her to believe. Johan had been visiting hospital wards since he was a child, at his mother’s side and long after she was gone. “Come, Sugar Bubble. You should know by now that I don’t do anything because I have to. I do what I want, and right now, I want what you want. Do you want me to shield you?”

He couldn’t see her face but knew she stared at the ground because the column of her neck was exposed to him. Her fingertips closed more tightly around his hand and she nodded.

“Then I will,” he said and began moving them along the edge of the crowd. He followed in her footsteps carefully, trying to stay close enough to block her but also leaving enough room to prevent any . . . friction.