by Madeline Ash
Damn it all. Kris couldn’t go back and change the moment he’d demeaned his brother; he couldn’t step aside and let Tommy take a crown he didn’t want. But Tommy’s animosity was like silt in their shared waterskin, a slight off taste every time he drank, discoloring their exchanges until the day Kris would tip his head back and have to swallow the lot without objection.
He needed to face this head-on. Clean up the mess he’d made, and quickly.
The parlor doors swung open as Philip entered, tall and thin and impeccable, halting in the center of the room like an erect jousting stick, ready to poke holes in Kris’s approach to pretty much anything. He bowed low. “Good morning, Your Majesty. Your Highnesses.” Straightening, his attention moved around the table. “Darius. Frankie.”
Darius mumbled his hello, clearly not sure who Philip was, while Frankie swallowed her mouthful and said, “Hair looks good today.”
Hanna snickered from her position inside the doors. When Philip shot a glare at her, she lowered her face to stare intently at her shirt buttons.
“I must say how delightful it is to see you all together.” Philip gave a surprisingly genuine smile—until his attention landed on Kris and something hard glinted in his eyes. “Princess Ava, it’s heartening that your statement to the press has been received so positively. I understand you’ve been concerned about your brief return to the spotlight, but might I reassure you that while understandably curious, none of the public’s speculation about Darius runs negative. They’re thrilled that Markus is courting you. In fact, our public relations officer has informed me that you two now have the most fictional works out of any Kiralian Royal Family pairing, which is a positive sign. The nation is rooting for you.”
“Wait, what?” Kris raised a hand, baffled. “What do you mean fictional works?”
“Kristof.” Philip exchanged an amused glance with Frankie. “People like to write stories about you. They’ve been at it since you three strode out of your ranch and into these halls.”
“But . . . we’re real.”
“Real royalty,” his advisor answered. “And therefore, a perfect fantasy.”
Kris looked sideways at Frankie. “You knew?”
She tapped the emblem on her uniform. “We scan any content related to the royal family.”
Intrigued, he leaned closer. “Who have I been paired with?”
“That is beside the point,” Philip said, as Frankie rolled her eyes. “Now, a matter of business. There is an annual pride parade coming up next month. Prince Noel always made an appearance to support the festivities, and it would be an appreciated gesture if one of you three could attend. That is, if you support the—”
“Of course we do.” Kris cut him off. “I’ll go.”
Hanna made a coughing, scoffing sound, and Philip turned to her, his eyes wide with affront.
“Problem, Hanna?” Kris asked.
“No, Your Highness.” She inclined her head in apology. “It’s just—you’re literally the straightest person I’ve ever met.”
He cocked a brow. “That doesn’t mean I think everyone should be.”
Her mouth turned down at the corners, conceding his point. “If you go, would you require me to work that day? Because I signed up to walk with the ace procession.”
Philip actually spluttered.
“It’s fine, Phil. I want my guards to talk to me.” He returned his attention to Hanna. “And no, that sounds important.”
“Agreed, Johansson,” Frankie said, pouring more syrup over her breakfast. “You go. I’ll reassign his security for the day.”
Kris raised a shoulder. “Or I don’t have to go? Maybe . . .” Very carefully and as nonchalantly as he was able, he turned to his brother. “Tommy? You want to do it?”
Tommy’s jaw clenched and he took a long swallow of coffee. His hands were still, but a tremble of the tablecloth betrayed his legs were jiggling. Eventually, he set his mug down and murmured, “The crowds.”
“Fair enough.” Kris’s gaze skimmed over Mark’s in a split-second exchange of disappointment. “We’ll run through the details later, Philip.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. Enjoy your day, everyone.” Philip bowed again. When he straightened, he looked Kris dead in the eye. “I’ll meet you in the tower shortly.”
Anger tightened Kris’s bearing as his advisor swept from the room. No guesses how that encounter was going to play out. Philip would make his disapproval of his relationship with Frankie clear—and Kris wouldn’t tolerate a second of it.
Fun morning ahead.
Before long, Mark and Ava excused themselves to take Darius to the stables, and as the doors closed in their wake, Frankie’s phone chimed from her pocket.
She slid it out and then shot to her feet. “Shit. I’ve got to run.” Jamming her phone back, she looked alarmed as a waiter appeared and drew out her chair. “Oh, ah, thanks.” She stepped away from the table. “Some jackass scaled the palace wall and took the fast route down on the other side. He’s mangled both his arm and the topiary, and the head gardener is pissed.” She then seemed to experience her third and final awkward moment of the morning, hesitating with her gaze on Kris’s mouth, a goodbye kiss in her eyes. She turned away, gave him a light slap on the shoulder and said, “I’ll find you tonight.”
“Stay safe.” He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head and elbows wide, ready to take this chance to talk to Tommy alone.
But Tommy stood abruptly. Without a word—without so much as a parting glance—he swiped up his book and strode across the parlor in Frankie’s wake, leaving his breakfast uneaten.
Confused, Kris rose to his feet. “Tom—”
“Don’t.” Tommy spun around, his voice hard like a staff cracked against the marble floor between them. His features were a mess of pain, uncertainty, and command. “Don’t follow me.”
Startled, Kris dropped back into his chair and stared after him.
It wasn’t that Tommy had hardly ever spoken to him like that, or that Kris had screwed up worse than he’d imagined, or that hurting his brother so deeply was like taking a sledgehammer to the walls of his own heart.
Tommy had never sounded more like a king.
Philip marched into the tower study as the morning sun reached the far edge of Kris’s desk. His hands were balled, elbows bent slightly by his sides, but instead of staring Kris down in preparation for the usual battle of experience in royal life versus actual royal person, his gaze flicked around the room like he couldn’t bear to make eye contact.
An odd approach to the argument Kris knew was coming.
“Lost something, Phil?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.
His advisor stopped in front of the desk. Sunlight exposed the grooves beneath his eyes, the lines around his mouth. Did he always look so tired? He didn’t move, just stared at the back of Kris’s laptop with the air of someone daring themselves to speak their mind, but teetering on the brink of backing out.
Intrigued, Kris waited.
“Sometimes, Your Highness,” the man finally said, “your charm and complete disregard for other people reminds me of Prince Noel.”
The accusation struck Kris like a close-range arrow. Complete disregard for other people. That was how he’d treated Tommy, wasn’t it? Blithely shoved him aside without consultation or consideration. He was an asshole and a poor excuse for a brother, and as disgust raided his pride, he rallied sarcasm as a defense. “Loved him as much as you love me?”
Philip paused. A peculiar look tugged across his face as he finally met Kris’s gaze. Then it was another long wait, suspended in Philip’s sad silence, before the man said quietly, “I loved him considerably more than you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Oh,” Kris said, blindsided, and thought, Why the hell didn’t I know this?
Probably because of his complete disregard for other people.
“And he loved me,” Philip said, his shoulders settling beneath that t
ruth. “But unlike Markus’s actions for Ava, Noel never dreamed of defying his position for me. We were lovers for fifteen years—and almost no one knew. Just King Vinci, Prince Aron, and a few members of the household. I kept my own room in the servants’ quarters to avoid suspicion.” He looked down, fidgeting with the silver signet ring Kris had never thought to notice until now. “He was comfortably out, if you didn’t already know, so he didn’t hide our relationship because he feared a homophobic scandal. Not that Kiraly would cause one.” Philip took in a large breath, his brow a wavering line of pain. “He hid me because I was common.”
Stunned and stricken, Kris had no idea what to say.
“I sat at the love of my life’s funeral and no one knew to say how sorry they were for my loss.”
“Philip . . .” Kris blinked back the sudden heat behind his eyes.
Philip focused on him, his gaze fierce. “Except Frankie. She found me in the crowd—risked you seeing her—to squeeze my hand and pass me more tissues.”
God, that woman.
Philip raised a finger. “Don’t you dare treat her the same way.”
Don’t—what? Kris sat forward with a lurch. “But you . . .” He gestured in bewilderment. “You told me that she wasn’t good enough. You warned me against her.”
Philip pulled back, insulted. “I did no such thing.”
“Yes, you did.” And it had made seamless sense with his previous behavior. Months ago, Philip had tried to push Mark into that strategic engagement with Ava in an effort to cultivate the royal line. “That day in the sitting room when we were watching Frankie in the courtyard. You warned me to be careful.”
“I was warning you to be careful with her,” Philip said, indignant. “Warning you not to hurt her.”
Disbelief hung from Kris’s jaw. So . . . so, that meant Philip hadn’t angled for the strategic engagement out of heartlessness—but because personal experience had taught him that marrying within one’s station was a nonnegotiable royal rule?
And he’d since decided that was absurd.
“What the hell, man?” Kris ran a hand over his forehead. “A little less ambiguity next time.”
“Right.” Philip’s knees unlocked and he sagged slightly. “Sorry.”
Kris gestured to one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Sit down.”
The man dropped into it. “Thank you.”
“I would never hide Frankie.” Kris didn’t have to consider what he said next. “But you and Noel were together for fifteen years. Living in this palace together. That’s effectively a common-law marriage. That’s pretty significant.” He paused, and Philip’s frown betrayed he had no idea where this was going. “I’d like to honor your place in the Jaroka family. Move you out of the servant’s quarters and into a royal family suite where you belong. I assume we have more of those. And I’d like you to eat with us, sometimes. I won’t be a jerk. We’ll do Sunday night dinners or something.”
Philip had gone pale; his bottom lip trembled.
“Please,” Kris said, sure he’d never said the word with more conviction.
The man’s next breath was a gulp. The one after that shuddered, and then he turned his face away, covering his eyes to hide his tears.
A yes, then.
Careful not to rush him, Kris pressed his fist to his mouth and turned his gaze out the nearest window. Well. He hadn’t seen this coming. When his shock subsided, Philip rested both hands on the arms of his chair and blinked up at the ceiling. His foot tapped lightly against the carpet, betraying his grasp on control was tenuous.
“Hey, I just realized,” Kris said, aiming to distract him. “If you’d married Noel, you’d be my uncle right now.”
Philip’s attention snapped to him, and after staring in apparent consternation, he made a show of recoiling. “Ghastly thought.”
Kris pulled a face. “Yeah.”
But perhaps not quite as ghastly as either of them pretended.
“Okay.” Philip withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his face. “Shall we move on to the issues of the day?”
An hour later, they wrapped up their most harmonious meeting yet, and Philip bowed before moving to see himself out.
“Philip,” Kris said.
His advisor turned at the door. Their gazes connected.
Kris rose, swallowing the ache that returned to his throat. For fifteen years, this man had been concealed by his lover like a dirty, common-bred secret. He’d loved Prince Noel; he had been loved but not respected in return. He’d been head of personal security before Frankie took over the role, which meant he’d have been in charge of keeping his own relationship a royal family secret. For all that suppressed humiliation, Philip had still lost his life partner and hadn’t been free to openly grieve. He’d thrown himself into the task of training cowboys—who’d arrived clueless to fill the position of the man he’d lost.
If Kris had been wearing his hat, he’d have taken it off and held it to his chest.
Instead, he placed a hand over his heart.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
13
The investigation sucked Frankie into a time-lapse of interviews, research, and theorizing. She kept the folder of Tommy’s attackers on her desk, dragging it open every time she had a spare second. In between organizing security for Ava’s bridal shower and Mark’s bachelor party, she visited the Bull’s Quest pub where the anarchists had met—showing photos of the men in question to the proprietor, and learning they’d been meeting with a group in the rear function room for years.
“Twice a month, without fail,” the man said. Sweat clung to the roots of his thinning brown hair, either from the summer heat thick in his office or the presence of a senior member of the royal guard who’d declined his offer to sit down.
“What’s the group?” Frankie asked.
His brow buckled nervously. “What?”
“Chess? Goat yoga? Cuddle parties?” She arched a brow. “What do they do in there?”
He looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or beg her not to hurt his family. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Disclosing their activities isn’t a requirement of booking, ma’am.”
“Huh.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not avoiding telling a royal guard that you host anarchists in your fine establishment, are you?”
He sank into the chair with a cringe. “All they do is talk. And, you know, drink a hell of a lot.”
“How lucrative,” she said. “Do new people join or has it always been the same members?”
“Uh. The group used to be bigger years ago, but about half the members just stopped turning up. Sometimes I notice new faces, so they must take on new members.”
Good. “How about you introduce me at the next meeting? I can be a Bull’s Quest patron with views that you’ve recently learned align with theirs.”
“Of course.” His nod was eager. “Actually. There’s a jeweler in Ledge Square that sells those silver pins. If you wanted to seem enthusiastic, you could get one made ahead of time.”
“Thanks.” She’d do that. “When’s their next booking?”
“Uh.” He typed on his laptop, pressing backspace more than any other key. “Next Sunday night.”
“Call me if that changes.” She stepped forward and wrote her number in the margin of an invoice on his desk. Then she showed him photographs of Tommy and Jonah’s attackers. “Did these men ever attend? Years ago?”
He considered each face carefully, and when he looked up, his frown was wary. “Is there a problem, ma’am?”
Would she be here if there wasn’t? “Answer my question, please.”
“Yes, I think so. But they were alright. And the men who still meet here—they seem like decent people.”
Jeez. Her father would string this guy up like a paper chain and shake the money from his pockets. Probably already had.
“Yeah.” She turned to leave. “That’s wh
ere they get you.”
On Wednesday morning after breakfast with Kris, she received confirmation that the men under surveillance had not just worked on the west wing renovations, but more relevantly, on the balcony construction. Closer. As she dug into progress reports, time logs, and purchase orders, searching for red flags, she couldn’t shake the feeling these men were soldier ants. If they really had contributed to the balcony’s shitty structural integrity, who had planned it? Who’d been so sure the royal family would dine up there at all?
And did they have new plans now? Instructions to harm Kris or Mark or Tommy?
Or all three at once?
Focused to the point of fixation, it wasn’t until midafternoon on Thursday that she read the memo from housekeeping informing her that Philip Varga was being relocated from the servants’ quarters to a royal family suite at the order of Prince Kristof.
She was out of her office in seconds.
“Johansson,” she said, a hand over her ear. The door to the security suite sealed shut behind her as she raced toward the nearest staircase. Her skin prickled; her head felt too light. “Report your primary’s location.”
“Summer drawing room,” came the woman’s reply. “Third floor.”
“Alone?” Frankie’s shoulder protested as she swung hard around the bottom post of the bannister. She launched toward the first floor, her boots taking every second step.
“Meeting with several members of parliament. Another half an hour at least.”
“Get him out.”
Hanna’s voice turned hushed with concern. “Is he in danger?”
“No.” Pressure spread across Frankie’s chest, a metal breastplate secured too tightly under her skin. “I need ten minutes. Say he has to sign something as a matter of urgency.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
By the time her footsteps pounded down the arched corridor toward the third-floor drawing room, her brow was damp. Hanna slipped inside the room at her approach, and a half-minute later, emerged with a bemused Kris in tow.