Royal Love

by Cristiane Serruya

  “What I need, you cannot provide. Not you, and not your parade of grasping, vapid broodmares. I am finished with this charade, Mother. Leave your candidates where you found them, I will not see them.”

  Her eyes darkened with fury; a fury she contained with icy formality. She recovered herself with practiced efficiency, her expression softening into a mimicry of sympathetic indulgence.

  “We shall see,” she said nonchalantly. “We shall see.”

  7

  Lenox Palace

  Thursday, February 25, 2016

  2:00 p.m.

  The woman wiped her sweaty palms on her pants and pulled her scarf higher on her head. It was not as risky as it felt to take the palace tour; she was but a face among dozens, and the bored tour guide was far too young and stupid to recognize her. She had become like the tapestries, always near, never noticed.

  It was dangerous to join the tour group, but by now she did not care. She was weary to her bones and basking in a room in which she was not usually allowed. The only room that mattered in all of the dozens of endless chambers in the whole glorious palace. The tour wound through the more public spaces, filled with art and history of the ages, each wall bedecked with that godforsaken dragon.

  The guide talked incessantly about inconsequential details. Who cared what the walls were made of, or who had made them? What mattered was who lived within them. She suppressed the urge to push a dragon head bust off of its perch, satisfying herself with the mental image of it shattering to a million pieces beneath her feet.

  “And now we come to the throne room,” the guide kept on in the same dry monotone he had been using throughout the tour. “While rarely used for governance these days, it still sets the scene for many royal ceremonies. These have been immortalized on the walls by the oil paintings you see around you; each Lektenstaten ruler is featured on these walls; our current King.”

  He continued listing the so-called King’s predecessors, but she tuned him out. The throne itself beckoned her; solid and ancient, it towered in the center of the room, beckoning her with its gilded arms.

  Rage lit a fire deep in her core. Her own son should have been sitting there. He should have his portrait on the wall, and burnt the predecessors. Murderers and thieves should not be honored in such a way. The nearness of the throne stoked the power of her desire, refueling her for the tasks ahead. Soon, all would be put to rights.

  She had to be patient, keep the fire under control just a while longer.

  “Ma’am?”

  She looked back at the tour guide, who was beckoning her to the next room, in charge of keeping the group together. She gave the young man a meek smile as she looked at the throne one last time, clenching her fists to keep from reaching out to touch it, to feel the power.

  Soon they would all know the truth, there would be no question as to whom deserved to be on that throne. All her hard work would pay off.

  She just had to be patient.

  8:25 p.m.

  Endless formal dinners filled with ceaseless dry speeches occupied Angus’s days as the voting inched ever closer. He had been fortunate this evening so far, in avoiding conversation with Mircea and his men, but it seemed his luck was about to change; over the heads of the crowd, Javert Romani met his eye.

  He was impossible to miss, and equally impossible to avoid. Javert towered over virtually everyone, nearly matching Angus’s height. He wore his black hair loose, in melodramatic waves down to his waist; a fact which irrationally annoyed Angus. His own long hair had been a personal statement in the cold, formal world imposed by his mother. Javert seemed set on outdoing him, weakening the effect of his own minor rebellion.

  “Angus,” Javert jutted his chin sharply as he approached.

  “Pardon me?” Angus raised a brow at the flagrant disrespect, and nearly turned away. Before he could, Javert stepped closer to glare directly into Angus’s eyes. Which he found excruciatingly unsettling, as the other man’s golden eyes were almost a twisted reflection of what he saw in the mirror every morning.

  “Your Majesty,” Javert corrected himself in a nonchalant undertone and bowed just enough so as not to be disrespectful.

  “Mr. Romani,” Angus inclined his own head. While he didn’t care for the man, he admired the fact he commanded attention, a trait Angus himself enjoyed.

  Having two men that enjoyed that kind of attention in the same room, however, was never a good thing.

  “I must ask why you blocked the Roma representation in Parliament. You of all people should know having the Romani on your side will only benefit the lot of you in the future. On the other hand, having us on the opposite side may create…let’s say…difficulties when it comes to getting your bills passed.”

  “Is that a threat?” Angus raised a brow. He didn’t take kindly to threats, nor did he think that Javert would brazenly throw out such a challenge and not back it up.

  Javert chuckled, straightening the cuffs of his jacket in the process, abruptly looking bored with the conversation. “Of course not. I’m merely making it obvious Dom Mircea should be Prime Minister already.” He leaned forward. “Any other man would already have the position and yet, you proposed a referendum.”

  Angus schooled his emotions as he had been taught at an early age, only allowing a small bit of annoyance to reflect in his features. “We are treating this no different, Mr. Romani. If he is meant to be Prime Minister, he will be.”

  “That’s all I am asking—that he be treated no differently than anyone else,” Javert agreed. “I hope you are not afraid of having a man like him as Lektenstaten prime minister, and making it more difficult for that historic accomplishment of my people to take place.”

  Angus rose from his seat, knowing they could argue all night about this decision, feeling mildly frustrated, he spoke firmly, “It is my duty to make the appointment, but my choice reflects the will of the people. It has nothing to do with my personal desires, or what I might or might not be afraid of.”

  Angus noticed Mircea’s beady eyes watching from across the room. You had better call off your dog.

  “The people have spoken. The vote speaks for itself!” Javert’s façade faded as his face twisted in disgust. “Meanwhile, your mother seems to be spreading a rumor that—”

  “Should Dom Mircea prove to be the best candidate, he shall have the seat,” Angus told Javert coldly, attempting to end discussion of the topic.

  Javert stepped close and Angus tamped down the need to step back, not willing to appear intimidated. “Sir, I believe you to be fair and impartial. Do not disappoint me.”

  Angus shouldn’t have engaged. It was unbecoming, especially if he were to give in to the urge to punch the arrogant Romani in his sharp nose. But, he was a man as much as a king, and he couldn’t very well let the slight slide.

  “I don’t answer to you,” Angus reminded him, matching Javert in both expression and tone.

  Mircea came up behind Javert, clamping a hand on his shoulder. “Shall we give His Majesty breathing room, my friend? I believe we are due for a drink.”

  “Mr. Romani and I were just…talking politics,” Angus said tightly, seeing the worried look on Mircea’s face. “Just talking.”

  “Of course,” Javert responded coolly, adjusting the lapels of his coat. “A drink you say?”

  “Sir,” Mircea bowed slightly to Angus and towed off his errant prodigy.

  Angus didn’t know if Mircea would give Javert a firm tongue lashing; or shower him with praise. The chance for either scenario was equal. He watched the two men walk away, muttering under his breath. God, they are no different than a bunch of cackling women some days.

  Jaxon Talbot’s house

  11:00 p.m.

  Siobhan squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could blink away the image of Angus and the blonde out of existence. How gullible I have been! How many excuses I made for him.

  She recalled his husky, warm voice in their two or three heated phone calls. She even went through all
of their text messages trying to see if she was wrong in thinking he wanted her. And she thought of the promises he had made, the heat she had glimpsed in his eyes on their night together.

  But how much weight could she put in those words? He’d been out of his mind with pleasure. How could she not be his favorite everything at the time? And really, what had they settled? Other than the interlude was most definitely, unequivocally the best sex they’d ever had.

  A tiny meow coaxed her back to the present and she smiled down at her kitten, Sunny, a precocious stray she’d found one night outside the shed.

  Sunny rubbed her ankles and purred enthusiastically. Siobhan scooped up the furry little creature, hugging him close.

  Sunny rubbed his head against her cheek and curled against her belly.

  Unconditional love, such is the gift Sunny gives me. And love without reservation or subterfuge—pure affection with no dark sides—that was what she wanted from the man she thought she had started a budding relationship with.

  She turned out the lights and settled to sleep but she couldn’t stop thinking about him, recalling how he’d touched her.

  Now in the dead of night, she lay in her simple, worn bed, awake and alone, puzzling over what she had seen, and desperate to determine his power over her.

  Lenox Palace

  11:10 p.m.

  Angus dialed Siobhan’s number once more, but the call went to voicemail.

  “Hello, Angel. I have found myself alone in London once again, and although I’d planned to call on you, I had to come back to Lekten on an emergency.” He paused, glancing at the time. “If you find sleep escapes you, call me.”

  He opened his mouth, unspoken words rolling behind his teeth. I want you, Siobhan. I need you wrapped around me. With a sharp exhale, he ended the call and squeezed his eyes shut.

  He’d witnessed Siobhan in the grip of passion, and she’d been like no woman he’d ever been with or imagined. At the memory of her lust, his cock swelled in his trousers, and he rubbed the heel of his palm down his raging erection.

  All week, he’d been like this, randy as a lad in his first brothel, no matter how many times he took release. He’d hoped to be inside her this night, imagined it a thousand different ways, but now he was back in Lekten and surely it would be a while before he could go back to London again.

  Many men envied his life as a wealthy businessman and king. Angus envied their lives of freedom. He needed more of that special feeling he got from being with Siobhan. Light and free. Something he’d last felt as a young child.

  If only he could find the time to be with her again.

  Friday, February 26, 2016

  8:00 a.m.

  Angus’s morning routine was his cornerstone, the foundation of his day. He had come to rely on it, somewhere deep in his subconscious. For the last few days, however, it had become its own sort of irritant. Every morning, his phone was filled with pressing matters which required his immediate attention; to his growing irritation, none of those pressing matters ever turned out to be a return message from Siobhan.

  Her reservation was entirely unexpected, and somehow turned the comfort of his routine into a burdensome nightmare. It seemed as if each day was merely a repeat of the day before, clicking along in perfect time.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a bit of excitement around here,” he muttered into his tea over breakfast. “Anything to break up this godforsaken monotony.”

  As though on cue, the floor rumbled and shook beneath his feet, causing him to spill his coffee. Cursing, he jumped up from the chair, trying to avoid getting hot coffee all over him, but still a few drops stained his pristine shirt.

  What the hell was that? “A bit early for avalanches,” he muttered angrily, wiping the coffee from his shirt.

  Sirens unexpectedly began to wail, and his bodyguards made their entrance at double-time, freezing Angus mid-swipe.

  “What is it?” he placed the napkin on the table and ignored the stains on his shirt with as much dignity as he could muster.

  “Apologies, Your Majesty, but we need to get you to the shelter immediately.”

  They flanked him, herding him out of the room with respectful insistence.

  “A bomb went off on the steps of Parliament,” the guard informed him.

  Where I would have been, if Mircea hadn’t called off our meeting. “Terrorist attack? Who is responsible?”

  “Too early to tell, Sir.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Three wounded, none dead. We need you downstairs until we know more, Sir.”

  “Of course,” Angus fully understood they would be handicapped in their duties if he demanded to be involved at this stage. He dutifully followed them all the way down into the basement shelter and allowed himself to be locked in.

  The palatial room would have been luxurious regardless of its purpose, but it was particularly stunning for a bomb shelter. The full kitchen was hidden behind the extensive wet bar. Beyond that was a bedroom which nearly rivaled his own, flanked on either side by bunker rooms, all decorated and furnished in high style.

  The primary room was as functional as it was beautiful, though the function was discreetly disguised. Draperies covered television screens and the decorative clocks on the wall which showed the local time of every time zone in the world.

  Gadgets, gizmos, and a veritable arsenal were also hidden from view behind the artistic decor, but none of these interested him. As the lock slid into its sheath behind him, Angus made a beeline for the wide Cherrywood conference table in the center. Its polished surface hid several monitors from view, disguised by the geometric carvings on the tabletop. With the push of a button, Angus made a panel spin to reveal a screen.

  “Password, retina, password,” Angus murmured as he went through the steps to boot the computer up. Sliding his headphones snugly over his ears, he connected to the proper frequency.

  “Update,” he demanded authoritatively. “Who are we dealing with?”

  “Hard to say for sure, Your Majesty,” the squad leader answered. “Might be a frame job. Someone went to a lot of trouble to pin this on the Romani’s.”

  Mircea. The name flashed into his head instantly. He could not fathom a reason for the attack, but perhaps the man was behind the crime. “Or perhaps the perpetrator merely takes pride in their work and heritage.” Angus’s cool tone disguised the burning fury in his chest, “Keep me informed.”

  Signing off, Angus steepled his fingers and glared pensively at the screen.

  With nothing to do but wait for updates, he indulged in a recent fantasy, one where he wasn’t a king, had no responsibilities to his ancestors, no politics in his life, and spent his nights luxuriating in the ecstasy that was Siobhan.

  8

  Jaxon Talbot’s house

  Monday, February 29, 2016

  9:00 a.m.

  Siobhan attended two craft fairs that weekend, and her failure to sell a single one of her jewels lowered her already unusually low spirit. She was working long hours and her usual energy seemed strangely absent.

  In recent days she had made more than her fair share of costly mistakes while she worked.

  But then her emotions were eating her up because she was still so angry with herself for sleeping with a man like Angus.

  Meeting Angus and falling victim to his charms had forced her to accept she had more in common with her birth mother, Margaret Faulkner than she had ever wanted to know. Margaret had been very prone to following casual impulses with men she’d never taken the time to get to know, and she had called those urges, love, and their fulfilment, spontaneity.

  In comparison, Siobhan was less kind with her labels and over the past week and a half she had at various times called herself terminally stupid, reckless, and naive.

  But she couldn’t get him out of her head, day or night. It was as if she had caught a virus for which there was no cure.

  A firm knock at the door shook her from her reflections. Her heart leapt; co
uld it be him? No, that was ridiculous. But ridiculousness seemed to be the order of the day lately, and she pressed a hand to the warm butterflies which suddenly filled her gut as she hurried to the door.

  “Oh! Allen!” Her heart dropped like a stone, heavy with disappointment and trepidation. What on earth is he doing here?

  “Siobhan,” he said with a curt nod. “May I…?”

  “Oh, yes of course, come in,” she said quickly, trying to recover her footing.

  Her cozy space suddenly felt claustrophobic. Allen wasn’t a big man, but the energy he exuded felt heavy and suffocating. She offered him a chair and he sat for a mere second before rising to his feet again. He shoved a hand through his hair and paced like a caged animal, setting Siobhan’s already fragile nerves on edge.

  “Would you like anything?” she asked, to break the silence. “Water? Tea?”

  “No,” he said sharply. Then, as an afterthought, “Thank you.”

  Siobhan sat, making herself as small as possible, folding her hands in her lap as she waited for him to work his way around to why he was there.

  “I consider myself a patient man,” Allen finally began. “A good boss. Tell me, Siobhan, have I done anything to you? Offended you in some way?”

  “What? Of, of course not,” she stuttered.

  “Then maybe you can explain why you have set out to ruin me.” He stopped pacing and turned to her, a dark and pained expression on his face.

  “Why…what?” Her brain wasn’t processing. A cold terror blocked every thought from connecting—the sort of terror which had filled her each time her life had been upended.

  “You left the party,” Allen filled in for her. “No word, no note, nothing. Just left. Not to mention that embarrassing display at the wedding. Really, Siobhan. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to get sacked.”