I had already refused every suitor in the kingdom as too timid, too impatient, or too dull when three masked strangers arrived at my ball and proved a satisfying match was not a fairy story.
Ash was built for war and watched me like a prize, Slade missed nothing with a glib mouth and clever hands, and Wreck had almost no restraint and the endurance to match.
They disappeared at midnight, leaving an oversized boot, a fine glove, and a ferret with no impulse control, so I ordered a kingdom-wide search.
Every eligible man had to try on the boot, and anyone who passed faced a far more personal inspection of size, curve, and staying power.
Eight hundred forty-seven candidates later, none had met the standard.
My perfect matches were not princes at all, but three brothers shoveling pig manure on a farm three miles from the castle, and I kept all of them.
