“Your Highness,” one of the workers said, tipping his hat as he walked by. His coworker repeated the gesture. I nodded in acknowledgment, but my powers of speech had apparently left with my oxygen supply.
They were finally all gone. The press, the aristocracy, members of parliament, even my mother and sisters had left with the formal processional. But I needed to see this, needed to stay until he was truly at rest.
“It feels very Game of Thrones down here,” Jameson said, sipping from his flask as he came to stand next to me. In age, my twin was only two minutes my junior. In maturity, there was at least a decade between us.
“It’s a catacomb. How would you like it to feel?” I asked, reaching for the flask.
“Less like the Middle Ages. Be careful there. It’s straight whiskey.”
I took a swig and relished the sweet burn as it slid down my throat, warming the chilled numbness that was my torso. “It was built in the Middle Ages, jackass.”
He took the flask and threw another swig back. “And one day we’ll be buried here, Xander. You, me, Mother, Sophie, Brie, and even your precious Charlotte. This is our future.” He spread his arms out and spun slowly as if I needed a tour of the Generations of Wyndhams buried down here. “You will be married to Charlotte, the leader of our people, and I will continue the life of debauchery only the spare to the heir can have.”
He was right. No matter how I’d fought this destiny, how badly I didn’t want it, this was mine—every cold, bleak, practiced and rehearsed moment. Even Charlotte. As much as I loved her like a sister, I’d never wanted more—even if our parents had betrothed us as children. As if Jameson’s words had a direct line to my throat, it tightened, and I loosened the knot of my tie.
I was supposed to have another decade or so of freedom. A decade to pursue my passions after I’d finished law school and two subsequent years serving in the Ellestonian military—a hard-won career as an international human rights lawyer. Years to learn from my father after I’d accomplished my own goals, to become the kind of leader he was naturally. But death didn’t work on anyone’s timeline but his own.
“We need to get up to ground level with the members of our family who still breathe,” Jameson said, running a hand through his wreck of a hairdo. He took two steps forward and placed his hand over our father’s tomb. “Rest easy, Dad. Xander’s got this.”
He turned and clapped me on the shoulder as he passed. A moment later I heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs out of the catacomb into the cathedral above us.
I walked to my father’s resting place and ran my hand over the smooth marble, my fingers tracing the lines of our family crest.
One by one, I erased the items off my bucket list and tucked them away to the furthest corner of my mind. My hopes of a career, a family that wasn’t in the public eye, a wife who wanted me for my heart and not the title behind my name, or because she’d been told it was her legal obligation. I scraped together every selfish thought I could find, and I buried them there with my father.
From now on, my personal wants and needs didn’t matter.
“I will make you proud.” My voice echoed through the stone structures.
Then I opened my eyes, stood tall, and straightened my tie before turning on my heel to embrace the future I wanted no part in.
I was Alexander Gabriel Edward Wyndham the Fourth, and within the next year, I would be crowned the next King of Elleston and her sixty million people.
Fuck. My. Life.
The Crown—Chapter One
Xander
Six Months Later
“Alexander, I need to talk to you,” Mother hissed in my ear with a smile as she waved to the dignitary from France. Our suite at the Palace was packed to the brim with foreign dignitaries. The cocktail party had been her idea, a way to see everyone in New York City in one event.
“Of course,” I said, mirroring her smile. “Did you see that Nicolai is here?” I nodded toward the Prime Minister of Dronovia. He’d gone toe-to-toe with Damian, our Prime Minister more than once. Of course, Damian hadn’t given an inch. That man had zero moral flexibility.
“Don’t let that tux fool you. He’s a shark under that Armani.” Her voice was smooth and still sharp, which pretty much described Mom to a T. “Let’s find somewhere private.”
I cringed but walked her toward the private office. She’d been trying to get me alone all day after she’d heard my address to the United Nations this morning. Maybe I’d gone off on refugee status and humane treatment by EU nations...maybe it had been too much...or not enough.
I opened the door to the office and led my mother in by the small of her back. She was more than a head shorter than my six foot four, but damn if she didn’t tower over me when she was pissed. And right now...the woman was livid.
I looked out across the crowd to see Charlotte raise her hand with a small smile. Of course, Mom had made sure Charlotte and her father had been invited to the party. As a Duke in our country, he had every right to be here, but I knew her purpose in New York City was for me, not the UN.
I gave Charlotte a small smile and a nod, then rolled my eyes at my brother, who stood by her side, giving me the god-have-mercy-on-your-soul grimace as Mom entered the office ahead of me.
Mom’s smile stayed in place until I closed the door, then promptly fell to a disapproving scowl. “Alexander,” she sighed. Her fingers rubbed the small stretch of skin between her eyes.
“Mother,” I answered, leaning back against the door. “Are you enjoying our trip? I thought two weeks here might be a little much, but it’s a welcome break from the monotony of Elleston, isn’t it?” Any topic of conversation was preferable to what she was going to throw at me.
Her sharp blue eyes could have cut a hole through my head. I missed her smile. The one she had before Dad died. The one she shared with Jameson, ever the rogue with his dark, constantly messed up hair. Mine was always respectably tamed. Though we were identical, it was as if our styles had taken on aspects of our personality—mine always within the limits of propriety, and Jameson’s as wild as he was. And though our Mother expected me to be the epitome of every etiquette class, she loved Jameson more for that wildness he was allowed to keep.
“Enough. Alexander, it’s been almost six months since your father passed—”
“I’m well aware.”
“And though I don’t mind being Queen Regent, you can’t be crowned until you’re married. That’s clear in our Constitution—”
“Which is clearly outdated.”
“That’s not up for debate. The women must stop. Charlotte knows what’s expected of her, and it’s not like you two don’t get along fabulously.”
“As friends,” I said softly. “And it’s not like I have women in and out of the palace like Jameson does.” I liked women. Hell, I loved women. I just had more respect for them than allowing anyone I spent the night with to be the subject of tabloid speculation. There was such a thing as discretion.
“Jameson is not the heir.”
“And there you have it.”
“Alexander, what you have with Charlotte is real. Friendship can be the base for an amazing marriage,” she answered, her eyes pleading. “If you’ll just announce that you’re engaged, that will appease Parliament for the meantime. A short engagement, and then we’ll crown you the day after the wedding if need be. It’s not like the plans aren’t already in motion, anyway.”
“And if I want love? Or at least passion?”
“You love Charlotte, I have seen how you care for each other.”
“Like a sister,” I responded with a little bite. “We’ve never even dated. We both agreed to date other people as we wanted until the time came.”
“Well, the time has come, and royal marriages have been made of less. You love her, and you’ll be passionate about your country. That’s far more than some have had.”
“Far more than you had?”
She blinked, then patted back an imaginary strand
of her salt and pepper hair. “I was lucky to love your father. It is my deepest hope that you’ll find the same happiness in your marriage. But if not...then duty before all else.”
“I am twenty-eight, and I’m still learning everything I need to rule this country. Now isn’t the best time to throw a marriage into the mix.”
The noise of the party behind us made our silence all the more poignant.
Mother smoothed her designer gown, and then looked up at me with a calm determination. “I give you three months to announce your engagement, or I’ll do it for you. That’s the longest we can wait before we flirt with the constitutional deadline. Already, there are cries to disband the monarchy, and we must show that you are ready for the role of King, which according to our laws, means marriage. The time for...play has passed, and though I know this was never the path you wanted, this is the path you’ll take.”
I stepped aside, and she swept through the door like the queen she was, regal and composed. I knew she suffered under that carefully placed mask, knew how much she missed my father, but she never showed the outside world her pain.
Before I could swing the door shut, Charlotte glided in, her pink gown elegant against her pale skin and dark brown hair. She was a classic beauty, but what made her even more breathtaking was the heart she had to match.
“Hey,” she said softly, shutting the door behind her. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, making my way to the rolling bar in the corner. I poured myself a finger of whatever was in the amber container and took a sniff. Brandy. A little too hoity for my tastes, but there wasn’t a beer in sight.
“What’s going on, Xan?” Charlotte leaned a hip against the back of the winged chair that faced a desk.
“We’re supposed to announce our engagement in three months.” I said it with all the excitement of a trip to the guillotine.
“Oh,” she whispered, standing up straight. “Are you ready for that?”
“Do you want that?” I fired back.
She glanced away, then brought her green eyes back to meet mine. “I want whatever you need.”
“Jesus, Charlotte. You deserve more than this. Than a guy who sees you as a sister. Don’t you want more?” She had to want more because I sure as hell did.
She bit her lower lip. “I’ve been told since I was five that we would marry. That I would help you rule our country. I gave up on romantic love years ago.”
“That’s sad. I love our country, too. I’m ready to King, but this is an asinine law.” I raised the glass to my lips but was interrupted when Jameson walked in.
“So this is where the party went.” His eyes flickered to Charlotte, who rolled hers. “What’s wrong, Charlie? Did I interrupt anything important?”
“Don’t call me that,” she seethed.
I tried to hide my smile and failed. Jameson was the only one who ever ruffled Charlotte’s feathers. In fact, I was pretty sure he poked at her just to see the biggest reaction he could get. The pair had been at each other’s throats since we were kids.
“You look like you need to get out of here,” Jameson said, his eyes narrowing in my direction.
“I would in a heartbeat.” A heartbeat. That’s what a three-month deadline felt like.
Jameson produced a set of keys. “Take her.”
“For fuck’s sake, did you buy another car?” I asked, examining the Maserati key.
“Yeah.”
“Like you needed one here in New York?”
“It was green,” he said with a shrug as if that was the only reasoning he needed.
“Go,” Charlotte said quietly. “We’ll cover for you. Just get out of here and breathe a little, Xander.” She stepped closer and leaned up to whisper. “And be happy. No matter what is expected of us, I want you to be happy, and if that means we shake up the plans others made for us, so be it.”
“Charlotte…” I whispered, aware that she was telling me she was willing to walk away from our parents’ arrangement.
“You’re right. I love you like a brother, and there’s a future coming for us that is...well, asinine. Go find some happy.”
I kissed her on the forehead and strode out of the room, my steps eating up the distance quickly. Jameson ran ahead of me, knocking over an entire tray of champagne flutes, and I slipped out while security rushed to help him. They were preoccupied keeping people out, not in.
A quick trip to the valet and I was behind the wheel of Jameson’s new Maserati, which I noticed was the same color of Charlotte’s eyes. I made it out of the city in good time and headed north.
Where the hell was I going? Unlike my perfectly planned out life, I had no destination in mind. I rolled down the window and was hit with a blast of freezing January air. Ripping off my tie, I turned the music up and settled into the soft leather. I had a full tank of gas, so did it matter if I didn’t have a destination? I had no obligations for the next couple of days. Letting my mind wander, I let the car put as many miles between me and my fate as I could.
Ruling Elleston was something I could do. I’d been raised to the role, trained, educated and prepared in every way possible. But marrying Charlotte? Sharing my life—my bed—with someone I couldn’t picture sexually?
How the hell was I going to do that?
I liked sex. Scratch that. I fucking loved sex. Every nuance of it, from the tastes, the sounds, the consuming pleasure—it all added up to phenomenal. I’d never cheat on Charlotte once were married—hell, once we were actually together—engaged. But I wasn’t sure I could fuck her, either.
I drove for hours, and then the first snowflakes hit the windshield.
Slowing, I watched in fascination as the sky went from crystal clear to blinding white. I’d heard storms moved in fast in this part of the country, but damn.
Another twenty minutes north and the roads were covered. The snow rose high on either side of the highway—this region was no stranger to the fluffy white stuff.
“Shit,” I muttered to myself. It was time to turn back, or at least find a hotel for the night. I pulled off the highway at the nearest exit and went to loop back to get on the Southbound side...but there wasn’t one.
“You seriously pulled off at the only fucking exit in Upstate New York that doesn’t have a return?” I asked myself. Fumbling with my phone, I cursed when I saw it was down to one percent.
I committed as many of the directions to the next on ramp as I could to memory and wound the Maserati through the forested, hilly curves of the Catskills. I slid a few times, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. But if this kept up, the depth was going to be an issue.
I glanced at the road sign telling me the next onramp was in one mile. When I looked back to the road, a deer bounded out of the forest and onto the street.
“Shit!” I shouted, slamming on the breaks. The car slid, and I downshifted, trying to turn away from the animal. I missed the massive buck by only a few feet, sliding off the road, and into a snowbank.
The car slammed to a halt, and the seatbelt stopped my forward momentum with a snap, but not before my head hit something as the airbag deployed.
A fine powder filled the car from the airbag, and I threw open the door, coughing as I stepped into the night. I felt a warm trickle and pulled my fingers from my forehead to find a light stream of blood. Great.
Leaning back into the car, I grabbed my phone.
The fucking thing was dead.
“This is what impulsivity gets you,” I muttered.
The car was buried in the bank past the first set of tires, and the back had no traction on the snow-covered ground. There was zero chance I was getting it out of there.
“Couldn’t buy an SUV, could you?” I cursed my brother instead of my own stupidity. I was in nothing but a tux and dress shoes, about to walk a mile in sub-zero temperatures to the highway and pray that someone stopped.
At least it would make for an interesting story.
I put my hands in my pockets and started walking
down the side of the road, ignoring the cold that seeped through my dress clothes and shoes. As I passed a smaller road, I looked up the hill and saw lights through the blowing snow. That was my best bet if I didn’t want to freeze to death.
I trudged up the hill, thanking God that I didn’t fall on my ass.
The house was white, with lights streaming out from the glassed-in wrap around porch. More than the appearance, I cared about the smoke billowing from the chimney. They had heat.
Correction. She had heat.
I paused, the snow up to my knees on what I assumed was her sidewalk. She was beautiful. Her wide, blue eyes narrowed as she looked out over the snow through her window. She was petite, but perfectly curved—from what I could see—her blonde hair falling just around her shoulders. As she brushed it back, I caught the color underneath. Pink. It was pink. No...purple. Holy shit, the underlayer of her hair was dyed like a unicorn. More than beautiful, she was exquisite. Maybe I was going into hypothermia because she had to be a hallucination.
But I desperately needed her to be real.
I stumbled up the steps, having lost the majority of feeling in my feet, and rang the bell.
“Please be real.”
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Blocker (Seattle Sharks Book 5) Page 22