Change of Plans
By Addison Albright
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2021 Addison Albright
ISBN 9781646568383
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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Change of Plans
By Addison Albright
Chapter 1: Forget-Me-Not
Chapter 2: Married?
Chapter 3: Honey’d Dreams
Chapter 4: The Royal Family
Chapter 5: Distracted
Chapter 6: “I Underestimated You”
Chapter 7: Waylaid
Chapter 8: Utterly Merciless
Chapter 9: News from the Realms
Chapter 10: “Not that, then”
Chapter 11: Plans
Chapter 12: Change of Plans
Chapter 13: Surprise!
Chapter 14: Making the Most of this Glorious Evening
Chapter 15: A New Leaf
Chapter 16: The Wheels Turn
Chapter 17: Fallout and Motive
Chapter 18: A New Life Together
Chapter 1: Forget-Me-Not
Efren, present day
Efren, the crown prince of Zioneven, blinked himself awake and studied the soft curls of beautiful strawberry blond hair haloing the head of the young man slumbering in his arms. Seemed like Efren should have a headache if he’d drunk enough spirits to forget bringing this one home to his bed.
But his head didn’t ache, so his personal servant, Dru, must have brought the man in after Efren had fallen asleep. Except, Dru had only ever brought him a gigolo upon request before this, never as a surprise.
He blinked again and shook the remaining cobwebs out of his head. He’d probably forgotten about an earlier solicitation he’d made to Dru when he had drunk more spirts than he should—a habit he needed to break despite his desire to “forget” about his upcoming wedding.
Odd that Efren hadn’t woken up, but his subconscious must have known he was safe. Likely he’d come half-awake or worked the action into a now-forgotten dream. Obviously, he’d done enough for Dru to feel safe leaving the man with him.
Heat swirled through Efren’s bloodstream as his gaze traveled the length of that lithe body. He wasn’t fooled by the lean physique; strength and a combination of agility and flexibility likely simmered in those beautifully toned limbs.
A lovely surprise to wake up to. He would have to give Dru a bonus…along with a caution to verify Efren was truly and fully awake before leaving a man in his bed. He drew in a lungful of berry-scented hair mixed with a clean, masculine scent.
“Wake up, my lovely.” Efren gently shook the man’s shoulder and landed a light kiss to his forehead.
The man’s eyes didn’t open, but the movement of his lids gave the impression of blinking without actually taking a peek, and his body stiffened. Perhaps he wasn’t a professional, and waking up in a stranger’s bed, he would be scouring his memory, processing where he was and how he’d come to be here.
Efren ran a finger along the man’s jaw, then tipped up his chin for a proper, although still light, kiss. “Come, my lovely. Let’s make the most of this glorious morning, hmm?” He pressed his arousal against the man’s own to augment his words.
Stunning blue eyes that would beautifully reflect the Zioneven summer sky snapped open and stared in horror as if he were shackled in a Proye dungeon with Efren approaching, wielding instruments of torture.
Efren smiled reassuringly. Perhaps the young man had drunk more spirits than he was used to when he’d allowed Dru to coax him to Efren’s bed and couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here. But no, Dru would never bring him a man who was visibly drunk, so the man must be able to hold his liquor well, even if it eventually affected his recall.
“You are in friendly hands, my lovely. You are free to stay or go, whichever you’d rather.” Efren held his breath and cut off his desire to plead for the man to stay.
With wide, stricken eyes, the man pushed away and scrambled out of bed. Efren huffed a heavy sigh and ran a hand over his face. He hefted himself to a sitting position as the young man stumbled to where two sets of clothing lay folded across the backs of chairs.
What had Dru been thinking? Efren gave a mental shrug. This man must be one of those whose personality changed completely when he’d been drinking to be so horrified upon realizing what he’d agreed to while under the influence.
The man sifted through the garments as his breaths grew louder and quicker. His head swiveled as he searched Efren’s bedchamber. “Where is my clothing?” His voice wafted out from between quivering lips in a breathy whimper.
More beauty than brains, perhaps? “My lovely, I’m sure they must be the smaller of those two sets.” Efren’s tone was more sardonic than he would have liked, but it was too early in the morning to deal with this level of rejection before his first cup of tea.
The man shook his head. “Not mine.”
But he picked them up anyway and quickly but jerkily stepped into the smaller set of leather leggings before slipping the tunic over his head. His brows came together as he peered down at himself as if perplexed by the perfect custom fit.
Efren snorted, stood, pulled the bell rope to summon Dru, then stepped into his own pair of leather leggings. He held his shoulders back although his inclination was to slump. He was weary of this disappointing scene.
“As I said, my lovely, you are not a prisoner here. You need not panic so. I have plenty of enthusiastic partners available, and I feel no desire to force myself upon unwilling lovers who’ve changed their minds.” Efren waved a hand toward the door. “No doubt Dru knows to bring tea and toast for two in case you’re inclined to break your fast before rushing out, but you may leave now if you’d rather. Dru will show you out if you don’t remember the way.” Efren’s tone possibly conveyed his preference for the latter option, but basic civility and deeply ingrained diplomacy demanded he at least make a passing offer of refreshments.
The man’s breath quickened further, and he spun before rushing to the window to throw open the heavy draperies. The sun was reflecting off Zioneven’s majestic mountains to the northeast with the sun just clearing the horizon south of where the range tapered off.
Objectively a beautiful sight, but the man recoiled with an alarm that had ratcheted up several notches. He wobbled as he whirled in place. “Where—?” He gulped. “Who—?”
A twinge of concern prickled Efren’s neck. The man’s distress went beyond what one would expect from waking in a stranger’s bed.
Far beyond. He’d reacted as if the scenery was com
pletely unfamiliar.
“Where are you from?” Efren asked.
“Where am I?” the man countered.
The door swung open, and Dru and another servant whom Efren didn’t recognize entered, bearing trays.
“Erich! Thank goodness!” The young man expelled a breath that also deflated some of the terror that had stiffened his slight frame.
“Sir?” Erich sedately placed his tray on a small table, and his brows raised in a manner that conveyed a calming, “How may I be of service,” rather than a reflection of the man’s panic.
“Yes, thank goodness.” Efren rolled his eyes and turned to Dru. “I appreciate the effort, Dru, but next time, please find a bed-warmer who isn’t so deep in his cups he won’t remember how he came to be here.”
Dru halted with his laden tray halfway down to another table. “Sir?” Dru’s brows, unlike Erich’s, came together over widened eyes. In fact, Erich’s countenance now mirrored Dru’s. They both stared at Efren with a concentration that brought Efren’s twinge of concern back to life…and amplified it.
Dru carefully laid the tray on the table and took a deep breath. “You don’t know one another?”
The worry in Dru’s eyes clearly conveyed that they should. They should each recognize the other.
Efren’s blood chilled as he and the mysterious man both shook their heads. Surely it wasn’t…no…it couldn’t be. That toxin was strictly outlawed, and nobody had dared use it in years.
Dru gulped and yanked the bell pull three times, signaling an alarm.
“No,” Efren whispered as he sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Dru’s eyes mirrored his words. “I fear you’ve both been dosed with Forget-Me-Not.”
Forget-Me-Not was banned in all four realms with a very stiff penalty to anyone caught using it. It had originally been developed in Sheburat, but the formula had been discovered and also used by the monarchies in Zioneven, Gagel, and Proye. It hadn’t taken long for each to conclude that they were better off if they all agreed to ban its use.
Forget-Me-Not wiped a couple moon cycles worth of memories from its victims, activating during the first sleep after dosing. Those memories were never regained.
If a couple months had gone by since Efren’s last memory—which had been mere weeks before his journey to Sheburat for his upcoming nuptials—then he should be married to Sheburat’s Princess Marcela by now, sealing the final agreement of the two sovereignties’ peace treaty.
Efren shivered and stared at his hands. Sure enough, a ring was missing from his pinky finger, replaced by a new, unfamiliar ring.
He frowned. He was married. His shoulders did slump now, although he couldn’t complain too much about remembering neither that tedious journey nor the ceremony he’d been dreading. Dare he hope she was already with child so he no longer needed to force himself to go against his nature?
Still, who was this young man with the beautiful strawberry blond curls who stood with his clenched fist holding the top of his tunic closed. “What…what is Forget-Me-Not?”
The question seemed rhetorical, because the intelligence he’d written off too soon seeped out from behind those brightly shining eyes as the man’s mind worked toward the answer. An inevitable conclusion considering their current state of confusion, despite the drug’s name being a bit of a misnomer since forgetting was precisely what it accomplished.
With a gasp, Efren stared at the ring gleaming from the man’s third finger as he continued to grip the fabric at his neck. This man was wearing the ring that used to adorn Efren’s smallest finger.
There was only one possible explanation for that.
Efren stood, straightened his back, and neutralized his features, hoping to appear unthreatening as he crossed the room and took the man’s hands in his own.
“You must be Prince Marcelo,” Efren said. Apparently, Princess Marcela had died at some point during the month before the wedding, and the contingency plan had been put into place, allowing Efren to choose from amongst her younger siblings. Marcelo was a rare son—Marcela’s twin, younger by mere minutes—born to Sheburat’s matriarchal royal family. Unlike his sisters, eighteen-year-old Marcelo had been kept deliberately naïve and uninformed.
Efren ran his thumb over the ring on Marcelo’s finger and gestured to the ring adorning his own finger, which he expected Marcelo would recognize. “And I am Efren, the crown prince of Zioneven. It appears we are married.”
The intense focus that had overtaken Marcelo’s eyes as Efren approached him faded, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Efren’s heart leapt, but he managed to inelegantly catch his husband before the man’s now-limp body could drop to the floor.
After hefting Marcelo properly into his arms, Efren carried him to his—their—bed and carefully laid him on the mattress as the sound of many sets of running feet filled the castle’s corridors.
Efren trailed his fingers across Marcelo’s forehead and tenderly shifted wayward strands of hair that had fallen across his eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat and murmured, “I hope you’ll forgive me for that ignominious second beginning to our relationship. Surely I was more respectful first time around.”
He sighed, and backed away, letting Dru explain as security personnel filed into the room.
Chapter 2: Married?
Marcelo, present day
Marcelo kept his eyes closed as he came awake. Something wasn’t right.
The background noises, the scents of the room, the bed, the pillow, and even the weighty blanket covering him…all were unfamiliar. And at the same time, vaguely familiar because these surroundings matched the dream. That disturbing dream.
It had been a dream, hadn’t it?
Was the dream repeating? Not precisely, because this time, the handsome sleep-ruffled man wasn’t holding him. The naked handsome sleep-ruffled man.
Vividly naked and taking such liberties! Marcelo’s face flushed as he recalled the press and slide of the man’s intimate parts against his own.
How had Marcelo come up with such a high degree of detail for that dream? That magnificent well-defined chest. That deliciously musky scent. The sleep-tousled short, thick, dark waves of hair. Those bulging biceps. That piercing dark gaze. The taut belly and strong thighs. Marcelo’s breath caught as he remembered the dark matted hair on the man’s chest, tapering to a thin line leading toward his splendidly rigid manhood.
What was so disturbing was how arousing that vision had been. Still was. And at the close of his dream, he’d labeled the man as his sister’s future husband. Neither was normal, was it?
And that absurd ending to the dream. The man—Crown Prince Efren—claiming they were married. To each other. Yes, Marcelo was of age. Barely. But two men married to each other and sharing a marital bed?
Apparently willingly sharing a marital bed, considering how Marcelo’s dream-self’s sleeping body had wrapped itself around Efren’s. And even though dream-Efren hadn’t recognized the man in bed with him, he’d been eager to “make the most of this glorious morning.”
Marcelo knew next to nothing about Zioneven, other than that its people were backward brutes, but he did know that such absurdities were not the norm in Sheburat.
Or were they? As sheltered as his life was, he couldn’t say with certainty what was or wasn’t typical behavior. Or typical desires even if acting upon them wasn’t socially acceptable…or possibly even outlawed.
So what could have triggered his imagination to come up with such nonsense? The dream was simply too absurd to have been real, despite the vividness and elevated level of detail.
And yet…
The bed and sounds of the room where he now lay were the same as in the dream. The scent was different because that man was no longer lying beside…er…half under him. Could the similarities merely be the dream carrying over to his semi-wakefulness?
He should pluck up some courage and open his eyes. He swallowed, and his breath hitched.
> “Prince Marcelo?”
Yet another unfamiliar voice, but with a kind tone. Marcelo swallowed again and forced his eyes to open. He blinked a few times before focusing on the face of an older man with a gentle smile.
“Good morning, Prince Marcelo. My name is Brandyn Brookse, and I’m a physician. I regret to inform you that you’ve been drugged. I want to check your physical condition to see if there have been any adverse effects other than the expected one.”
“Drugged?” Marcelo croaked. He craned his neck and scanned the room.
“We’re alone, sir.” Doctor Brookse widened his reassuring smile. “And yes, you’ve been drugged.”
The doctor didn’t elaborate, and Marcelo pushed down both his strange feeling of disappointment that no one else was in the room, and the urge to pursue the question. He was being such a coward; it wasn’t as if his ignorance would change the facts.
Doctor Brookse proceeded to poke and prod Marcelo’s body as reality filtered into his groggy brain. He was once again naked in the room from the dream. And Doctor Brookse had stated that he’d been drugged.
One of three things was going on. Either he was still dreaming and expanding upon that earlier dream, or he was going mad, or this was real. And by extension the “dream” had also been real.
Marcelo quivered as he quickly discounted that first possibility. This wasn’t a dream. And he didn’t feel mad, but then insane people probably didn’t recognize their own lunacy, so that didn’t necessarily preclude that option.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath before reopening them as Doctor Brookse manipulated his left shoulder. “You said I was drugged. That wasn’t a dream? When I awoke earlier?”
The doctor turned his focus to Marcelo’s face. “What happened in this suspected dream?”
Marcelo’s face heated. “I was in this room, and another man was here with me. He didn’t know who I was, either, but he did seem to know where he was. Or at least he wasn’t alarmed by his surroundings. The rest…well…” He glanced at the unfamiliar ring adorning the fourth finger of his left hand that the man claiming to be Crown Prince Efren of Zioneven had pointed out to him. “It’s just too absurd to be true.”
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