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  Bastian

  A Crown Prince Chronicle Novel, Book I

  Bastian

  A Crown Prince Chronicle Novel, Book I

  by Piper Collins

  Bastian, A Crown Prince Chronicle Novel, Book I Copyright © 2020 by Piper Collins

  All Rights Reserved.

  This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this work may be used in written or digital form.

  Cover Designer: Gina Clark

  Editor: John Eberhardt

  Technical support: Maria Eberhardt

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 Alana

  Chapter 2 Alana

  Chapter 3 Bastian

  Chapter 4 Alana

  Chapter 5 Bastian

  Chapter 6 Alana

  Chapter 7 Bastian

  Chapter 8 Alana

  Chapter 9 Bastian

  Chapter 10 Alana

  Chapter 11 Alana

  Chapter 12 Bastian

  Chapter 13 Alana

  Chapter 14 Bastian

  Chapter 15 Alana

  Chapter 16 Alana

  Chapter 17 Bastian

  Chapter 18 Bastian

  Chapter 19 Alana

  Chapter 20 Bastian

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Sneak Peak

  Chapter 1

  Alana

  I lost things all the time. Lost, misplaced, moved, call it what you will, but certain things in my life were never to be seen again. So, as I screwed the backings on to my favorite pair of stud earrings, I was pleased with myself that I had upgraded the jacket setting on them.

  My grandfather had given me the brilliant emerald studs when my grandmother had passed, and though they were petite, their meaning and sentiment were anything but.

  Stepping back, I took a final look in the floor length mirror and was satisfied with what I saw.

  “Let me guess,” Zara, my assistant said, breaking my train of thought. “You’re wearing black on black on black, with your favorite pair of black flats and black cardigan?”

  I scoffed at her assessment—one she made through the phone no less—but when I opened my mouth to rebut her, I found I couldn’t. Regarding my appearance, bits of color popped here and there and I clung to those like a life line.

  “Actually,” I began, “you’re only half correct in your rather hasty assumption. I have pops of color: my blouse is black, yes, but it has the most darling green polka dot pattern, and the collar is green—matching my earrings.” I was referring to the Peter Pan collar on my chiffon blouse. It was one of my favorite tops and though I wished I wasn’t as predictable for her to have guessed the cardigan and flats, I lied.

  “My flats are sitting neatly in the closet, thank you very much.” I quickly kicked them off and quietly rummaged around for a pair of pumps I knew I had purchased, but sadly had succumbed to the depths of said closet.

  “Right,” Zara clipped. “Then why do I hear you changing?”

  “I am not,” I replied rather haughtily. Again, a half-truth. I traded the cardigan for a shiny black belt and fastened it around my waist, hoping to accentuate my curves. A pencil skirt completed the look, (yes, it was black also), and as an afterthought, I grabbed a distressed denim jacket for some edginess. Zara would never be the wiser about the cardigan.

  “I told you we should’ve gone shopping,” she complained. “This is important.” She stressed the last word on an exhale.

  “Quite,” I agreed. “However, I believe you and I have very different definitions of ‘important’. This is a grand re-opening, not an episode of The Bachelor,” I informed her, sounding like an older sister rather than her boss.

  Four months ago, renovations had begun on the Devmont National Archives building. An accidental fire had destroyed a wing—my particular wing—and though nobody was hurt, I couldn’t say the same for my work and some priceless archives.

  The Kingdom of Devmont had a rather long, but rich history. So much had happened in its three hundred and seventy-three years, that it became the center of my thoughts growing up. I loved history and all that encompassed it, so much in fact, I had put my curiosity to work, graduated from University with degrees in library science and archive science, and began working at the National Archives soon after.

  It was a dream job, surrounded not only by books, but archaic texts, documents and scrolls. I quickly moved my way up to the lead archivist and currently had two assistants: Mathis and Zara.

  Mathis was an archives technician, or in other words, he located records and often helped the conservators to clean and repair older documents.

  Zara on the other hand was just as valuable, but she lent her knowledge to our specific subject of expertise, which happened to be the department of history. Occasionally she’d assist the public when records were requested.

  I was trying to remind myself that Zara was indeed an important part of our team, but her theatrics over this opening event was leaving me to feel a bit exacerbated.

  “Trust me, if it was an episode of The Bachelor,” she said steering the conversation back to what I was dreading, “your plain outfit would be totally appropriate. But this—this is the prince of Devmont we’re talking about!”

  I sighed, deciding to turn the tables on her. “Well, my lackluster appearance will surely make you shine then. I’m sure you’ll catch his eye and in turn you can save me from the garish small talk that’s inevitable at events like these.”

  The prince—Prince Bastian—was the kingdom’s most eligible bachelor, the center of every tabloid and the talk of every woman who had ovaries. And I could care less.

  However, this was not the case with Zara, as she continued. “I just don’t understand how you could hate him. He’s handsome as hell; I mean, have you seen him?” she asked rhetorically.

  I had. In pictures, on television, in magazines, the internet. It seemed you couldn’t escape him. I supposed on paper he was quite a catch: he was tall, well built, piercing eyes, had a military background, the heir to the throne…you name it, he had it.

  He also had quite the reputation as a lady’s man and he always came across as smug and entitled in all of his interviews. No thanks.

  What he did in his spare time was none of my business, but when each high-profile relationship was documented in the tabloids, it just became abhorrent.

  Every woman in the country was caught up in the possibility of becoming a princess, fitting the proverbial glass slipper. They all hung on every word he said, behaving like he was a deity.

  So, when Zara asked how I could hate him, I responded truthfully. “I never said I hated him. I dislike his morals and don’t respect the way he chooses to live his life.”

  “And if you were in his shoes, you wouldn’t be living it up, a different man on your arm for different events, enjoying your multiple vacation castles, the jewels, the outfits…”

  I was growing bored of this topic and fast. “Wealth and power only complicate things, Zara. And I thought you knew me better than pining after a materialistic, status-driven lifestyle. I am not made of princess material, as you so kindly pointed out with my choice of clothing only moments ago. Plus, I don’t know why you care so much about me meeting him.”

  Prince Bastian was scheduled to cut the ribbon and make a small speech this afternoon. The possibility of meeting and speaking to him was there, and I supposed if it happened, it did.

  But unlike Zara, I did not spend all of last night lying awake, planning everything down to the type of eyeliner I’d wear.

  “Because he’s a prince,” she emphasized, as if that erased his bad behavior. “And you so totally could be princess material—with my fashion sense that is.” A metallic sound came through the phone, and I could tell sh
e was sliding her clothes back and forth in the closet, undoubtedly choosing the perfect outfit for Prince Unworthy. “Fine,” she said, finally, “if you don’t want to meet him—which you should because you represent our department and all—then I’ll meet him and chat him up.”

  Finally. “Please do,” I said. “I have several other un-princess things that need to be done, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you at work in a bit.”

  “Ok,” she conceded, “but do me a favor and do a red lip, hmm? Chapstick is not considered lip gloss.” She hung up before I could even protest.

  I turned around, regrouping after our conversation that was completely unimportant. The denim jacket was on the end of the bed, and deciding I really didn’t need to do anything further to my outfit, I swapped it for my signature cardigan. Sorry, Zara, I thought, but I really wasn’t sorry.

  It was mid-April and the temps had been pleasantly warm. Instead of driving, I opted for my trusty bicycle. The capital of Slaždin was a charming city that had many modern aspects, but kept its old-world charm with original architecture and even cobblestone streets in old town.

  The buildings were comprised of various limestones, weathered over the several hundred years of their existence.

  I threw my pumps in the front basket, (I had changed to my flats for the ride), and took off. The sun warmed my back and the scent of local blooms filled my nose as I passed by quaint little shops in town before coming to the old building that housed the country’s entire history.

  It was already starting to get busy, people resorting to parking on the narrow street, the lot being full already.

  Grabbing my shoes, I secured my bike to the metal grate and made my way in.

  Mathis was already at his desk, typing away.

  “Morning,” he greeted, taking a long sip from his coffee mug.

  “Good morning,” I said cheerfully, enjoying the fact that Mathis would never berate me with a conversation about the prince. “It’s getting crazy out there already,” I commented.

  “Ugh, I know. Buckle up because the crazy train hasn’t even left the station yet,” he said in his slight Canadian accent. “So, how ready are you to get this back to normal so we can continue on in peace?”

  Mathis was a lot like me, solitary, but social at work, and preferred a quiet atmosphere to one of chaos.

  And speaking of chaos, as if on cue, Zara came in and plopped herself down at her desk, opposite Mathis.

  I felt her eyes assess me as if they were lasers dragging down my body. Saving myself the lecture, I kept eye contact with Mathis as I expertly changed from my boring flats to the pumps I had packed.

  “I hear there’s going to be food too,” Zara said conversationally, checking her perfect lipstick in a makeup compact.

  “Yeah, I guess they pulled out all the bells and whistles, seeing as the prince will be here for all of four minutes until he’s done with his speech.” I knew I should be more professional and indifferent about him, but I was struggling to keep the bitter tone from my voice.

  “Three and half minutes if we’re lucky,” Mathis said under his breath. He was as much a fan of him as I was. Although, Mathis’ disdain for the prince was due to what he was born into. Never caring for fairy tales and the like, Mathis was more interested in watching grass grow.

  “Could you two be any worse? You’re such kill-joys,” Zara huffed. She stood, fluffing her loosely curled hair. “Now,” she said, posing dramatically, “how do I look?”

  “I’d hit it,” Mathis deadpanned.

  I gave him an admonishing look, he knowing full well that intra office dating was prohibited. He just shrugged at me, saying he wouldn’t actually act on it, but he was a man with eyes after all.

  Zara was a beautiful girl, with curves for days and the most flawless sun kissed skin. I relaxed, comforted by the fact that she would eclipse me in a heartbeat and I could go back to my work after today was over.

  “Dare I say that I’m relieved you have the intellectualism to back up your looks? You have a deadly combination, Zara,” I said truthfully.

  She air kissed me and sat down to get to work. That girl…

  The morning went on as normally as it could with the media showing up, the catering company flitting in and out and the staff abuzz with anticipation.

  “Oh, oh, he’s here!” one of the conservators squealed.

  The place erupted into a frenzy, waiting for him to enter. Staff I wasn’t sure I’d even seen before today gathered around the podium, creating an impressive crowd within minutes. Zara was front and center with a small gaggle of other ladies, each alight and eager to be so close to him. Mathis and I slowly made our way to the throng of people, and seeing it in its entirety, I was actually quite impressed.

  The stage had been constructed in front of the circular librarian’s station that sat in the center of the building’s interior, and the country’s flag was erected on the left and right with the royal family’s crest of a multi-branched tree with mirrored doves above it.

  The podium was draped with a simple, but elegant banner, again with the family’s crest embroidered in the center.

  Suddenly, the crowd hushed and two body guards could be seen flanking the prince. He made his way to the stage and took his place behind the podium, extracting a folded piece of paper from his suit jacket pocket.

  “Yasss girl,” Mathis hissed, mocking everyone in close proximity, grabbing my arm for added effect.

  “Shh,” I scolded, but giggled all the same.

  Prince Bastian cleared his throat and glanced down at the now unfolded paper.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” he said smiling, gauging the crowd. Even from where we were standing in the back, I could hear Zara sigh with adoration. Quickly learning he had a small harem gathered at his feet, he winked at them and continued with his speech. “Thank you so much for inviting me to this ceremony, but if I’m being honest, I’m honored to be here. Devmont’s history and legacy lies within these walls, and when some of our past was destroyed by the fire, a part of our country’s history was lost as well.”

  He paused, glancing at the crowd, before referencing his notes once more.

  “The work that is done here is utterly important on so many levels. Cataloging, documenting, and preserving our nation’s story is not something to be taken lightly. I see a crowd of scholars and archivists before me who have dedicated their work to the Kingdom of Devmont and for that, not only am I grateful, but let me take this moment to say thank you on the behalf of the entire royal family.”

  I looked around, bemused with the expressions of enrapture. He had them hook, line and sinker. I found myself paying more attention to them as opposed to the heir apparent, though I’d have to say, he was much better looking in person. It could be the Monet effect though; perhaps he was a bit of a mess closer up.

  “And as part of our thank you to help with your continued efforts here,” he continued, “I want to present the Devmont Department of History with this check.”

  That was my department and he had one of those obnoxiously large checks to present to us. Even from here I could see the amount on the right-hand side and gasped.

  Everyone in the crowd began exchanging looks, glancing around looking for something. Mathis nudged me and said in an even voice, “He’s waiting for you to accept the check, boss.”

  No, no, no. It’s not that I wasn’t grateful for the donation, but I didn’t want to have to be in the position to accept this in front of everyone, from the prince no less.

  Within moments, everyone had seemed to find me and began to make a part in the crowd.

  Once the crowds had parted like the Red Sea, I had a direct line of sight to the prince and he was staring at me. Waiting for me. Patiently. I literally had no choice.

  I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and prayed I wouldn’t trip on my way up to the stage. All eyes were on me, and I had never felt more uncomfortable in my entire life.

  The life of a scho
lar was quiet and unassuming. And now I was on my way to meet the prince. You can do this, Alana, I told myself. He’s just a man, he has to put his pants on the same way as anyone else, he’s human…

  My inner monologue worked until I reached the stage and caught my first real glimpse of him. Just a man…but a man that was better looking than any man I had ever encountered up until now. His angular jaw was covered in a well-trimmed beard, and up close, I noticed how piercing his green eyes were—like a lagoon. Fine, he could have his looks, but I had to remind myself the reasons I didn’t respect him.

  And why does it matter how he spends his free time behind closed doors when all you’re here to do is shake his hand, take the check and disappear into the crowd once more? I asked myself.

  I ascended the stage and made my way over to him, my feet feeling like lead, but moving on their own volition.

  I was now standing next to him.

  He smelled amazing.

  He looked amazing.

  And when he shook my hand, he felt amazing.

  “I’m Bastian,” he said simply, his warm hand continuing to envelop mine.

  I know who you are, I thought dumbly. “Er, hi,” I managed to say. “Thank you,” I said, finding my voice. “The department will put this to good use; your generosity is much appreciated.”

  Not expecting him to say anything further, I turned to the jubilant crowd, and offered a tight smile. I hadn’t realized he had slid closer to me until he leaned down and whispered, “I have no doubt you will.”

  An immediate shiver raced down my spine like a lightning bolt I hadn’t expected. I couldn’t tell if I was flustered from his close proximity or the ambiguous nature of his words.

  “Shall we cut the ribbon?” he asked the crowd, acting more like a Rock ‘n Roll headliner than a prince, and was met with raucous cheers.

  I hiked the check under my arm and beelined myself off the stage before I spontaneously combusted from embarrassment.