by Pippa Grant
I startle and look up. Papaya fidgets in the doorway. She’s in a T-shirt she got at school that says something in German, and black pajama pants. Her hair’s a mess on top of her head, and her face is scrubbed clean of makeup.
She doesn’t look like a sullen teenager. She looks like a lost little kid.
I set my laptop aside and pat the spot beside me on the porch swing.
Instead of sitting next to me, she curls up on her side and lays her head in my lap. My entire chest squeezes around my heart, and I have to swallow twice to get rid of the lump growing in my throat.
“I figured out the dot puzzle,” she tells me.
“Good.”
“I miss Viktor.”
And there goes my heart falling over dead in my chest again. “I’m sure he misses you too.”
“Can we go back?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Papaya—”
“I’ll be good. I swear I will. And now that he’s not king anymore, even if I slip up, it won’t be such a big deal.”
“He doesn’t have to quit being king just because we’re not…there anymore.” I can’t say just because I don’t love him, or just because we’re not married anymore, because neither of those is true.
“But he’s not the king anymore. And I thought he’d come find us, but he hasn’t. So we need to go to him.”
“Yes, he is the king—”
“No, he’s not.”
She sits up and grabs my phone with fingers that are entirely too quick. “Have you been learning to pick pockets?” I ask.
“Shush your mouth. I’m typing.”
“Papaya.”
“No. I learned a long time ago, but I quit after I picked my great granddaddy’s spare dentures. Okay? Here. Watch this.”
She shoves the phone at me and hits play on a video before I can stop her.
And then she lays her head on my shoulder.
On the screen, Viktor steps up to a podium. I saw him give a speech here before, right after we got to Amoria, and I realize he’s addressing Parliament. There’s the official seal of the country, with the flag behind him. He’s dressed in a smart suit, because that’s what he’s always worn.
“Good morning,” he says into the microphone, then repeats it in both German and Italian. His voice, so deep and steady—Thor, I miss him. His eyes are shadowed, his hair slightly unkempt, his blue dress shirt straight, and now I’m wondering if he’s wearing those crazy shirt garters.
I miss his shirt garters.
“I’ve spoken with the Prime Minister at length the last two days over an illness sweeping through our nation, and I wish to address it to you this morning,” he continues.
There’s a murmur among the lawmakers.
“When I was a boy, my grandfather told me stories of Amoria, of the neighborhoods he visited. The people he saw sharing vegetables out of the gardens in the summer, knitting baby blankets for the wee ones born in winter, coming together to fix automobiles that had refused to start, and clearing pathways in fresh fallen snow. Those are my people, Viktor, he would repeat. ‘Tis why we were the country of love. We loved our neighbors.”
That lump is coming back in my throat. I hold the phone closer to my face, looking at his face, at the weariness, the hauntedness, the five-o’clock shadow suggesting he hadn’t shaved, which is about as un-Viktor-like as it gets.
He’s hurting.
But he’s still doing his job.
“Love—that is what we wish to be known for, is it not?” He looks around, and when he nods, I assume everyone is nodding with him. “So why is it so difficult for us to give love? What does it cost for us to give love? ‘Tis free to accept our neighbors as they are, is it not?”
There are small murmurings, but they quickly die down.
And I wonder if he’s talking to me, or to his Parliament, because he’s right.
What does it cost me to love?
My pride. My fear. My sense of worth.
“Ah, but what if you are not loved back?” he continues. “’Tis true, it is a risk we take in choosing to embrace the love that our country is known for, but my friend, not being loved back, when you are truly giving your love and not just the specter of it—that is not your failing. Have you ever known a man who loved too much? Have you ever accused another of giving too much? Of caring too much, or of wishing too much good upon another? No? I daresay I have not either. I’ve known men who cared too little. I’ve known men to be self-serving. Arrogant. Neglectful. But I’ve never known a man who would love too much, and I’ve never known a man who regrets offering his love.”
“Isn’t that awesome?” Papaya whispers.
I can’t answer her, because that dang knot is back in my throat, and this time it’s brought its friends, the tears, which are blurring my vision.
“I expect you anticipate my interest in love comes from my personal life,” Viktor continues. “’Tis true that my wife has left the country, and I miss her greatly. But my purpose in talking about love today is not to discuss my life, but to challenge you to examine where your ideas of love fit within the goal of Amoria’s desire to be known worldwide as a country of love. The original country of love. The best country of love, encompassing love as a practice, not love as a theory.”
Papaya pokes me. “See? He misses you.”
I ignore her and try to be subtle about wiping my eyes.
“My purpose in being here today is to tell you that I am not leaving Amoria, but I am abdicating the throne.”
I gasp.
Parliament gasps.
Papaya giggles.
“I took this crown,” Viktor continues, “because I believed in the Amoria of my grandfather. I believed it to be my duty to continue what my ancestors began. But I have not been your king. Every decision I have made, every public word I have spoken—until today—and every project that I have endorsed, I have done on the advice of the man who should have been your king from the moment he set foot in this country. With your vote to legalize gay marriage in Amoria yesterday, you have cleared the path for your rightful king to take his spot. ‘Tis been my honor and privilege to serve you, and I swear upon my father’s and grandfather’s graves, that I shall continue to serve you as I am best able for the rest of the days of my life. Ladies, gentlemen, your king.”
When Viktor turns to welcome Alexander to the podium, I give up any hope of stopping my tears. Both men are misty-eyed, two brothers hugging before the world.
Papaya pokes me again. “He gave up his kingdom for you,” she squeals. “You have to go back.”
I shake my head, because he didn’t give up his kingdom for me.
He did what was right.
Because that’s what Viktor always does.
He always does what’s right.
And it’s about time I do what’s right too.
Not what’s easy.
What’s right.
45
Viktor
There are reminders of Peach everywhere about the palace, and if not Peach, then Papaya. The suits of armor being cleaned. The heart furniture being removed from the tower for transport to the abbey, as Peach suggested.
The bedroom, where we talked and laughed and made love.
The family area, where we talked and laughed and made love.
The tapestries and the crumbling plaster walls. So much character, she’d said one day as I groused about the unsightliness as we made our way to one of the formal dinners she detested, yet attended anyway.
The news from the stable that Fred—yes, Fred—was believed to be in labor. Of course she’s a she, Your—er, sir, the stablehand had said.
I can only imagine what Peach’s reaction should have been. Papaya, undoubtedly, would be thrilled.
Especially when the news comes that the baby alpaca had been delivered safely, and is a boy.
I spend the weekend with the head of the royal guard, combing every inch of the palace for structural and tactical weaknesses. Though I’ve become quite sentimental
in these past four months, and possibly softer, I’ve not become a fool, nor have I turned a blind eye to the ways of the world.
Alexander is in far more danger as king than I would have ever been, and I would not have turned the throne over to him had I any intention of abandoning him when I’m well-trained to protect him.
I also set appointments with every last member of the guard for interviews and background checks.
“I understand your desire to stay busy,” Alexander comments over dinner Sunday evening, “but I fear you’re going overboard.”
In a true testament to his rightness for the job, he’s managed to straighten the royal kitchen in a single visit, and this evening we’re dining on moist chicken, crisp beans, and soft rolls.
Which does not change my opinion of what I need to do in the least. “There’s never an excuse to neglect thoroughness in safety matters.”
“Agreed,” Samuel says. “He can rest next weekend.”
“No, next weekend is the small business owners’ summit,” Mum interrupts.
I flinch, because the small business owners’ summit is not a job I’d prefer to do.
But in the absence of Peach, I appear to be obligated to attend. “I know no more of running small businesses than I do of giving birth,” I grouse. I’ve become quite adept at grousing this week. I look at my brother. “And where shall you be?”
“Firing everyone within the palace caught holding pins small enough to compromise condoms,” Alexander replies.
My shoulders tighten.
I’ve seen Papaya’s friend Katrin and her parents thrice this week. And I suspect I shall be seeing her many times more in the coming months, as she seems to be leaning toward continuing the pregnancy.
I cannot fathom facing such responsibility at such a young age.
And I’m once again thinking of Peach. Of her own near-miss. The wrongs perpetrated on her by men who claimed to have her best interest in heart.
If I had the first clue how to prove to her that I would not abandon her for any reason, I would be on my way to Alabama already.
But I fear she’d see my intrusion as exactly that—an intrusion.
An attempt by me to control or steer her life.
To fail to take no for an answer and to respect her wishes.
“Viktor, what has the fork done to you?” Eva asks.
I drop my now bent utensil with a clatter. “Apologies,” I murmur.
“The lake is nearly frozen solid,” she muses. “I hear predictions it should be safe to skate on soon. Should be good to get out some of your pent-up energy.”
Pent-up energy is not my problem.
Having a problem I’m unable to solve is my problem.
I rise. “Pray excuse me. I need to—”
The dining room door bursts open, and I instinctively leap between the door and Alexander.
Three things strike me at once.
One, the palace staff is woefully inept at keeping farm animals out.
Two, women make such noise.
And three, Peach has come home.
My heart pitters to a screeching halt as her eyes land on me. Her hair is disheveled, her face bare of makeup. Her fingernails are sans paint, and her blouse is streaked with dirt. Her lips part, and—
“Fred’s a girl and she had a baby! I’m an alpaca mama!” Papaya shrieks.
She’s hugging the alpaca about the neck, crying and laughing.
Peach gives a small shake of her head as she smiles affectionately at the girl, then turns her gaze back to me once more. “I’m an idiot,” she announces.
“Quite right,” Alexander mutters.
“Shove it, King Stuffy,” she retorts. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Dear gods, I’ve missed this woman. Two simple sassy phrases out of her mouth have just done more for my stress levels than two hours punching bags in the gym.
“If you’ve just now realized you left your purse, we’ve already scavenged through it for your driver’s license and spare change,” Samuel offers.
“You hush up too, Dr. Prince. I’m trying to tell a man I love him, and that’s terrifying and not really my thing and you might be doing some CPR on me in a minute if I can’t get it out. Hoo boy, I just said that, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Alexander confirms, “and I regret to inform you that while I hold you in moderate esteem—yeeaaaaah!”
For extra measure, I add another ounce of pressure to that point in Alexander’s shoulder, and he continues to writhe and whimper helplessly.
Peach bends over and breathes out short whiffs of breath. “Hold on,” she huffs out. “I got this. I do.”
“She loves you, but she’s terrified since men are generally assholes,” Papaya offers. “Can I have my old bedroom back? Or are you getting kicked out of the country since you went all I don’t want to be king anymore?”
I release Alexander and cross toward the open double doors where Peach is near to hyperventilating. Footmen and servers are peeking in, but they all scatter as though fearful for their jobs.
I squat before Peach so that I may peer up at her face. She’s quite pink in the cheeks, and her eyes are squeezed shut in what I daresay is terror.
She’s bloody perfect.
“Are you quite all right?” I inquire softly.
“Oh my god, I’ve missed you,” she whispers, her eyes still clenched tight.
Her hair is falling out of its ponytail, her shirt gaping just so to give me an unobstructed view to the pink lace bra holding her lovely breasts.
I do have such an obsession with her lovely breasts.
“Is there anything I might do to assist with this particular affliction, my lady?”
Her eyes blink open, and she huffs out a laugh. “You are so obnoxious.”
“’Tis a gift.” My heart is near to bursting. I’m certain she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t wish to see me—she did have to travel across an ocean and several time zones to burst into the dining room—but I need to hear her say she wishes to stay. “And you do bring out the best in me.”
“Viktor,” she whispers.
My name on her lips is sweet music. “Peach?”
“You’re going to make me do this, aren’t you?”
I tangle my hands in her hair. “Take your time. I’ve no intention of going anywhere.”
She laughs again, a short breathy sound that makes my berries ache.
There’s no substitute for her.
Not in my bed.
Not in my arms.
Not in my life.
“I’ve quite missed you too,” I confess.
She drops her forehead to mine, and I arch into her touch when she rests her hands on my shoulders. One simple touch, and I’m ready to slay dragons for this woman.
“I should’ve been here for you this week. I’m so sorry I ran away.”
“I should have told you how very much I love you.”
“I wouldn’t have listened.”
“’Tis no excuse to have not told you.”
A droplet lands on my cheek, and I realize her eyes are leaking. I scoop her up and stand. She buries her face in my neck. “I love you, Viktor,” she whispers.
As though she’s afraid of the very words.
But her arms are tight around me, and I’ve no intention of ever letting her go.
I pin Papaya with my best terrifying glare. “Stay. Put.”
“Are you going to kick me out if I don’t?”
“No.”
She pouts. “You’re supposed to say yes.”
“We’ll keep her out of trouble,” Alexander tells me.
I stride out of the dining room and across the hall to a rarely-used drawing room. Peach is peppering my neck with kisses. “I love you,” she whispers between pecks. “I’m so sorry.”
I set her atop the heart-shaped grand piano so that we’re nearly at eye level. Her hands cup my cheeks, her lips claim mine, and it takes superhuman strength to pull back from her kiss. �
��Peach—”
“Ssh. No talking. You smell so damn good.”
She’s kissing me again, her legs gripping my hips, and I cannot help but kiss her back. Touching her smooth curves. Tasting her hot mouth. Inhaling that sweet tangy Peach scent.
“I—cannot—so bloody perfect,” I rasp out between kisses.
My hands find their way beneath her shirt, and soon I’m caressing her heavy breasts in the delicate lace. She whimpers and deepens our kiss, clawing at the buttons on my shirt.
“Peach—”
“Just love me, Viktor. Please love me.”
‘Tis remarkable how easy it is to love her. “Always, my lady.” I lick along her jaw while her hands drift lower. “Peach, I cannot leave Amoria for some time—”
“Viktor.” She grips me by the belt loops and pulls me against the cradle of her thighs, but she lifts her head to look me straight in the eye. “You could tell me we had to go to sub-Saharan Africa, and that wouldn’t change a damn thing. I. Want. You.”
The simple sentiment seems to have put a speck of dust in my eye. And possibly my throat. “That’s quite the adventure you’re volunteering for.”
“I trust you,” she adds, softer.
I cannot imagine what that confession must cost her. “I swear on my honor, I shall do everything within my power to always keep that trust.”
She blinks twice, and a soft smile teases her lips. “You’re just saying that because you’re holding my boobs.”
I look down, and I feel a smile of my own. “I suppose ‘tis possible. Perhaps I should hold your fanny and see if I feel compelled to make the same promise.”
She’s laughing as she pulls me in for another kiss. “I fucking adore you,” she whispers.
“As you should.”
That beautiful laugh rings in my ears, and I realize this is what my life has been missing.
The fun.
The relief of relaxing.
The beautiful side of unpredictability.
I stroke my thumbs along the edge of her bra. “I knew I missed you, but I daresay I had no idea how much until this very moment.”
“You might be a little crazy,” she whispers.
“Indeed.”
“I saw your speech to Parliament. It was beautiful.”