But someone has their camera out, aiming it in our direction, and I can't tell if it's because they want to take a picture of the two fools who just landed or if they think I'm someone of importance.
I give the camera a tight smile and look down at Ottar, who is a good half a foot shorter than me. "We should probably get this stuff off and head to the boat."
Down along the shore is a sleek, white speedboat with teak trim, the name Elskling written with flourish on the side. The man waiting patiently behind the wheel is Einar, one of my bodyguards and my getaway driver. Like Ottar, he's always nearby, usually trailing me, because I'm trying to lose him. He used to be in the military though, so he's a hard man to lose.
I hear the faint click of a few more cameras coming from the crowd but this time I don’t indulge them with a second glance. I quickly get my gear off and then as Ottar is still fumbling with the straps across his chest, help him too.
There’s a collective “oooh” from the bystanders and I crane my head back to the sky where the next jumpers are descending, three of them in a row. From this distance they look like brightly colored stars that have burned through the atmosphere.
Another click steals my attention.
Everyone is watching the jumpers except for two men.
Men with cameras aimed right at Ottar and I.
Men I should have recognized before but with all the commotion, my mind wasn’t able to focus.
You’re an idiot, Magnus.
“Hey, isn’t that—?” Ottar asks, but he trails off as the two men turn around and start running toward one of the waiting boats.
“Shit,” I swear, wondering how many photos they got.
It’s not that I was doing anything inappropriate, per se, but I had promised my family I would stay out of the paparazzi’s eye for the day, and well, those two fuckers are the bane of my princely existence. The whole reason I came out here was to avoid having my photo taken since usually the paparazzi don’t follow me all the way out to Kjerag.
But these guys aren’t the normal paparazzi. First of all, they’re Russian twins who look an awful lot like the T-1000 from The Terminator. Second of all, they act like the T-1000 too. They’re fucking unstoppable. No matter where I go, those douchebags are there, taking photos and selling them to the highest paying gossip mag or trashy tabloid. I’m not saying that I cry myself to sleep at night over being known as the “hot and sexy single prince,” but it sure makes you a media darling.
“We need to go,” I tell Ottar. “Now.”
Normally I would just let this go, but since these assholes will without a doubt be selling the first photos of me of what will be known as “The Aftermath” followed with the headlines “Suicidal Prince Jumps Off Cliff (His Personal Secretary Tries to Save Him)” and “Not Fit to Rule,” I feel like it’s my duty to care as much as it’s their duty to treat me like I’m an animal in a zoo.
We start jogging across the grass to the boat and throw our stuff on board, then wade into the ice-cold water up to our knees before climbing in. Einar is at the wheel, frowning beneath his aviator glasses that glint violet and blue like they’ve been polarized a million times over.
I step beside him, shouldering the brute out of the way and taking over the controls.
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll drive,” I tell him, glancing over my shoulder at their speedboat which is zooming off, before shoving the gear into reverse and gunning it away backward from the shore.
Ottar nearly falls overboard, holding on to the rail for dear life as Einar grabs the console to steady himself.
“I’m pretty sure your mother would file this under reckless driving!” Ottar yells, trying to straighten back up, only for me to whip the boat forward and take off after the Russian’s boat.
“Pretty sure my mother wouldn’t want me to be paparazzi fodder either,” I tell him with a wink.
“Just let it go,” Ottar says with a sigh that’s squeezed out of his lungs as he falls into the railing again.
But even though I’m pretty fucking good at escaping from my problems, the fact that they’ve followed me here says I’ve got to face them. Head on. Mad Magnus style.
“Let it go?” I repeat. “You’re the one who told me I fucked up just moments before I jumped. I fucked up, so now I have to fix it.”
“Sir,” Einar says, clearing his throat. Even if his psychedelic sunglasses weren’t covering his eyes, I wouldn’t be able to read them. Sometimes I think Einar is built in the same robot factory as the Russians, but his maker decided to give him extra muscle.
“I’ve got it, Einar,” I tell him. “Why don’t you make sure Ottar doesn’t fall overboard?”
Einar doesn’t move, and from the way his mouth is pressed into a firm line, I don’t think he likes it when I tell him what to do. I know he doesn’t. I can order Ottar around, but Einar is just a bodyguard, there to protect me, not anyone else.
I don’t need his protection, but that doesn’t stop him from going everywhere I go. Even when I go on a date with a lady, he’s somewhere lurking in the background. The only privacy I get is when I’m fucking them and I have to hope he’s not spying through a window. Don’t get me wrong, the idea of being watched while having sex excites me to no end, but seeing Einar’s grave, pockmarked face would totally kill the vibe.
That said, in some ways I wish he had
