My Wild Prince

POV Leo

Three months at Harvard, and I'm still mentally reciting the same two rules my security detail drilled into my skull before shipping me off to America.

Rule one: Keep your head down and your identity buried. Leo Brennan, rich kid from nowhere special—not His Royal Pain-in-the-Ass.

Rule two: Stay safe. No one-night stands. No getting messy with people who might remember your face when you're sober.

Simple. Clean. Bulletproof.

Except bulletproof plans don't account for Thursday night basement parties where the bass rattles your organs and freedom tastes like cheap beer.

"Leo! My dude!" Tyler-or-Trevor from Econ crashes into me, beer sloshing. "You're looking way too sober for a Thursday night. This is a tragedy that needs immediate correction."

"Working on it," I laugh, raising my red Solo cup. "Though whoever bought this beer clearly harbors deep resentment toward human taste buds. I'm pretty sure this violates several Geneva Convention guidelines."

"That's the beauty of it though," he grins, already wasted. "After your third cup, your taste buds just give up. It's like Stockholm syndrome but with more regret in the morning."

The crowd's thick, sweaty, perfect.

Nobody here gives a shit about my posture or which fork I use. I push toward the backyard to escape the Axe body spray cloud.

That's when I spotted him.

Dark hair, pretentious scarf, leaning against the porch railing like he stepped out of a cologne ad. Something about the way he holds himself, confident but not trying too hard, makes my brain short-circuit and my pants unexpectedly tight.

God, he’s hot. And he’s checking me out as well.

Okay...

"Not a fan of the sardine can in there either?" His voice cuts smooth through the party noise. "Or are you just out here having one of those deep, drunk philosophical moments? Like pondering why hot dogs come in packs of ten but buns come in eights?"

Rule one: Keep your head down.

Rule two: No hookups.

But his smile is crooked in this perfect, devastating way, and suddenly my carefully constructed rules feel like suggestions written in disappearing ink.

"Actually, I was calculating exactly how many brain cells this beer is murdering."

I moved closer, because apparently my survival instincts died somewhere over the Atlantic.

"But your theory has merit. Though I have to say, the view out here just got significantly better than any philosophical crisis."

He laughs, genuine and unguarded. "Okay, that's either incredibly smooth or incredibly cheesy. I'm genuinely torn between being impressed and concerned for your game."

"Why choose? I'm all about defying categories." Close enough now to smell his cologne—definitely not drugstore variety. "I'm Leo, and yes, I'm using my real name at a sketchy house party because I like to live dangerously."

Real name. Well, fake real name, but still. Already breaking rule one.

"James," he grins as his hand lands on my jaw, tracing soft circles with his thumb.

Two rules, two rules, two rules…

Before I can catch myself from falling into another possible problem, his lips are already on mine and we're kissing like the world's ending in five minutes.

Fuck it.

We crash into the shadows behind overgrown bushes. His mouth is hot against mine—demanding in a way that girl from last night's party definitely wasn't.

What was her name again? Something with an A.

God, I love Harvard. Zero accountability, maximum debauchery.

His hands slide under my shirt, and I grab his hair, rougher than I mean to.

"Jesus fucking Christ," James gasps against my neck. "Where the hell have you been hiding all semester?"

I laugh, breathless. "Library, lecture halls, having existential crises in the quad at 2 AM—you know, the usual."

His thigh slides between mine. This is what I came to America for—the freedom to kiss whoever makes my pulse spike without some royal advisor calculating the diplomatic fallout.

Back home, every attraction comes with a risk assessment report: which gender would trigger fewer tabloid meltdowns, which family has the right bloodline.

Here? I get to map the contours of my sexuality in real-time, messy and unfiltered.

That's when I feel it. That prickle at the back of my neck, the same warning system that kept me alive through nineteen years of palace intrigue.

"Hey, what's wrong?" James pulls back. "You just went all rigid. If I'm moving too fast or—"

"No, it's not you." I scan the yard and freeze. Someone's by the back fence, half-hidden in shadow but not actually trying to hide. Dark clothes, straight posture, features cut sharp enough to slice the night air. Weirdly hot in that "might be dangerous but I'm into it" way.

"I think we have an audience," I mutter, skin prickling. "And not the casual kind."

James follows my gaze. "Okay, that's weird as hell. Friend of yours?"

When I look back, the figure's vanished. Gone like smoke.

"I... no. Maybe. Fuck if I know." My paranoia's doing Olympic-level gymnastics now. "Sorry, too many true crime podcasts. I'm being weird."

We exchange numbers with promises we both know we won't keep, and I spend the rest of the night trying to shake that watched feeling.

Two days later, I'm in the library when I spot him again. Same dark clothes, same eerie stillness, three tables away with a book that's definitely just a prop.

"This is getting fucking ridiculous," I mutter.