by Casey, Ember
My mother glances at me, giving me a weak smile before turning her gaze to Pax. “I’m sure our new son-in-law meant no disrespect to his mother when he changed his name. After all, it was for your job, wasn’t it dear?”
“Yes, absolutely.” Pax manager to glance over at me, searching my eyes. “I’m all about respect.”
“I always sort of hated my name.” Leopold pipes in from the end of the table. “I always thought I’d make a much better Andrew.”
My eldest brother has been strangely silent throughout dinner, but this seems to draw his attention. “Really, Leopold? I always thought you’d have made a fine Tweedle-Dum. Or possibly Tweedle-Dumber.”
“Boys.” The curt tone of my mother’s voice silences them both instantly.
Pax grins, picking up another forkful of the game hen. He glances at me before setting it back on his plate and cutting it into a dime-sized piece and sliding it into his mouth.
“I always fancied the name Rockford myself.” William smiles over at us. “Perhaps I can have my wife make it legal for me.”
“Rockford?” My mother feigns shock. “What in heaven’s name for?”
William shrugs. “I always thought the nickname ‘Rocky’ would make me sound like a champion.”
“I suppose it’s a better nickname than ‘Willy.’” Nicholas mumbles from beside me.
Everyone at the table laughs but my father.
He holds his hand up a second later, silencing us all before he takes another bite of his dinner.
After another moment, my father looks over at Pax again. “Have you thought about what you might do now that you’re in Montovia?”
“Do?” The ruddiness returns to Pax’s cheeks. “I thought I’d be spending time with your daughter. Learning more about her. About Montovia.” He presses his lips into a line. “And, you know, whatever.”
My father’s brow arches, and he gives my husband a steely glare. “Whatever? We all have our roles to play in this family, Mr. Donovan. And I expect you’ll come to me with an idea of yours within the next fortnight.”
Pax
Wait, now I need to come up with a role?
Sophia didn’t warn me about that. Neither did Monsieur Bonnaire. Is this another Montovian custom I don’t understand?
I clear my throat and shrug. “That sounds great.” When all else fails, you smile and nod.
The king can tell I’m full of shit, I’m sure. But I’m not sure what else he fucking expects me to say. The bastard is putting me on the spot on purpose, trying to make me crack. Well, he has no idea who he’s up against. He doesn’t intimidate me.
I keep smiling as I scoop up another bite of food. “I look forward to finding my place in this family.”
The king frowns slightly, but then he quickly returns to his normal, stoic self again. He looks like he wants to go on but before he can, William cuts in again.
“Father,” he says, “I never told you about Justine’s ideas for the Salt Festival this year. She had a few great suggestions for how our countries might collaborate—call it a celebration of friendship.”
I’ll admit it—I zone out a little as William and the king begin discussing this “Salt Festival,” whatever that is. It all gets a little too political for my tastes, especially when I’m having to use half my brain just to remember the excessive number of etiquette rules this country has. I take the opportunity to scarf down as much of my food as I can, since I suspect the king isn’t finished with me yet.
But luck is on my side. Or, I suspect, a few members of Sophia’s family have taken pity on me. William and the queen keep the conversation flowing, keeping the king’s attention off me, and even Andrew and Nicholas don’t seem particularly eager to go back to interrogating me. I’m relieved when the king finally sets his napkin on the table and rises.
Everyone else stands, too, and I follow suit. I scraped my plate clean ten minutes ago, and I’d have licked it, too, in different company. A guy can get used to food like this.
All in all, I’m pretty pleased with myself. In fact, I’m grinning as Sophia and I head back to our suite.
“I thought that went well,” I say cheerfully.
“Hmm,” she replies noncommittally.
I glance down at her. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic. You think that went badly?”
“Not exactly.” She chews on her bottom lip. “But I wouldn’t say it went well, either.”
“I didn’t curse out your father. Or belch at the table. Or set anything on fire. I’d say that was a success.”
A smile flickers across her lips and disappears again. “Maybe you didn’t set anything on fire, but I don’t think you impressed my father.” Her frown deepens. “He’s up to something. I wish I knew what.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He asked you to choose what your role will be. That’s a test.” She looks up at me.
“How do most royal spouses respond to the challenge?”
“That’s just it,” she says. “Most of them never have to answer that question. Most of them are told what’s expected of them.” A little groove appears between her brows.
“Well, I’ve already been told that I’m not allowed to have a title or any responsibility. Can’t I just say that I’m fine with being your husband?”
She shakes her head. “That’s exactly why he asked you this—he wants to know what sort of assumptions you’re making.”
I shrug. “Okay, so tell me what he wants to hear and that’s what I’ll say. I don’t care about any of this royal stuff, Sophia. You know that. I just want to be with you. I’ll say whatever I need to say.”
“That’s just it,” she replies. “I have no idea what he wants you to say. If you try to claim too much responsibility, he’ll think you’re overstepping yourself and resent you for it, especially after he’s refused to give you a title. But if you claim too little responsibility…he’ll think you’re lazy and irresponsible, or that you’re just using me for the perks of being a royal without any of the work.”
Now I’m frowning, too. “So what do I do?”
She shakes her head. “I have no idea. But we’re going to have to come up with something. And soon. He only gave you two weeks.”
“I thought he said I had a fortnight.”
Sophia raises an eyebrow at me. “That’s what a fortnight means—two weeks.”
I shrug. “Don’t look at me like that. How am I supposed to understand all your fancy royal speak? I’m just a normal guy from California.”
“Not that normal,” she says, the hint of a grin returning.
“I’m glad you think so.” I pull her closer to my side as we walk. “It means I haven’t completely lost my touch. I was beginning to wonder.”
“Don’t worry,” she says, her smile widening. “You’re still one of a kind, Pax.”
I grab her and swing her around, and she squeals as I pull her up against the wall with me. Before she can say anything, I kiss her.
I feel some of the tension leave her body as my tongue slips along her bottom lip. But before I can get too excited, she pushes me away.
“Not here,” she says. “Remember what happened last time. I’m surprised my father didn’t bring it up at dinner. I can’t believe Stephan wouldn’t have told him.”
“Then let’s hurry back to the room before that little weasel shows up again,” I say, grabbing her hand and tugging her down the hall.
We hurry toward our suite. When we get there, though, I notice her frown has returned again.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her, pulling her into my arms. “I’ll win your father over. It’ll just take some time.”
Her gaze slides to the side. “You say that now…”
“What lesson is on the schedule for tomorrow?” I ask her.
“Well…” She still won’t look at me directly. “I was thinking we’d start with horseback riding in the morning. Then maybe a dance class in the afternoon.”
I must mak
e a face, because she rushes on.
“My father loves horseback riding. I wouldn’t be surprised if he invites you on a ride soon, just to make you uncomfortable. And the State Dinner is coming up soon, which means you’ll need to know how to dance—”
“Wait, what’s the State Dinner?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you know everything before the big day.” She rubs her forehead, and I can hear the words she leaves unspoken: If we make it to the big day.
I pull her closer to me, hoping to put a smile back on her face.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell her. “I already know I’ve got a sense of rhythm, so the dancing should be a breeze. And I’m sure riding a horse will be easy.”
“I don’t think—”
“There’s no reason to talk about it now, anyway,” I say, lowering my face toward hers. “We’ll worry about that in the morning. Right now, I think it’s time to go to bed. What do you say?”
She doesn’t look completely convinced, but she must realize there’s no reason to worry about this anymore tonight. I scoop her up in my arms and carry her into the bedroom, and she throws her arms around me and kisses my neck.
Tonight is about each other, I think as I lower her into the bed. The rest of the world can wait until tomorrow. Either way, I’m not worried. I’ve got this completely under control.
* * *
As I stare down the enormous horse the stable master picked out for me, I begin to question everything.
I never knew horses could look murderous, but I’m pretty sure this one has it out for me. I couldn’t tell you how, but I sense it in the way he’s looking at me. This horse is hungry for my blood.
“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” Mr. Ingleton says. I’m pretty sure that as the stable master he’s required to like all of his horses, but I’m also starting to wonder whether he gave me the Murder Horse on purpose. Maybe the king ordered him to do it. Maybe they’re planning some mysterious “accident” in the woods for me. It would probably be the easiest way to get rid of me.
No way in hell I’m getting on that horse.
“We’ll start with letting him get to know you,” Mr. Ingleton says. “Here—why don’t you try feeding him a carrot?”
He shoves a carrot into my hand before I can stop him.
“Uh, that’s okay,” I say.
He smiles. Mr. Ingleton is a tall, thin man with a slim mustache, and every movement of his lips makes that tiny mustache twitch.
“There’s no reason to be afraid,” he says. “Old Cinnamon here is a sweet boy.”
“I’m not afraid,” I snap, holding the carrot toward the horse. Almost immediately, the damn creature tries to bite off my fingers. I curse and drop the carrot as I jerk my hand away.
“Easy, there,” Mr. Ingleton says. Cinnamon has already grabbed the carrot I dropped, so the stable master hands me another one. “This time, hold your hand flat. Like this.”
He shows me, and I begrudgingly try again. But I keep my eyes trained on the horse’s, ready to react to any sudden movements. I won’t be outwitted by a damn horse.
“Good,” Mr. Ingleton says. “Now he likes you. Try stroking him like this.”
This is not the kind of ‘stroking’ I was hoping for today, I think glumly, glancing toward Sophia. She’s at the far end of the little corral, watching me. I wonder if she realizes her father is trying to kill me with a horse.
“Just like this,” Mr. Ingleton says, grabbing my hand and placing it on the horse. Cinnamon snorts and shifts his weight from foot to foot. He’s probably getting impatient and waiting for the murdering to start.
I pat the damn horse, reminding myself again of why I’m doing this. For Sophia. To prove to her father that I’m good enough for his daughter. I’m not going to let a horse beat me, and I’m not going to let that stuffy king have his way. He may be trying to scare me with this two-ton murderous beast, but I won’t be intimidated.
“Good, good,” Mr. Ingleton keeps saying. “I thought today we’d start with the basics—mounting and dismounting, proper posture in the saddle, and basic guiding. What do you say?”
Bring it on. “I’m ready when you are.”
Mr. Ingleton gestures toward the saddle. “Mounting is simple, though sometimes it takes a couple of tries at the beginning. You want to put your right foot in this stirrup here and then pull yourself up. Swing your left leg over the back of the horse.”
Sounds easy enough. I grab the saddle where he shows me and swing myself up into the saddle.
And it’s even easier than I thought. I mount without a hitch, and Mr. Ingleton claps his hands together.
“Good job, my boy,” he says. “Now let me show you how to sit.”
As he pokes and prods me, forcing my back into a rigid position, I look around. I definitely feel a lot higher than I thought I would. Good thing I’m not scared of heights. Still, it’ll hurt like hell if I fall off this damn thing. It would be way too easy to break my neck.
“Easy, there,” Mr. Ingleton says, patting my leg. “Don’t squeeze with your knees. You’re confusing Cinnamon.”
“What?” I wasn’t aware I was squeezing anything. I glance over toward Sophia. Her brother Andrew has joined her at the fence, and now both of them are watching me.
Just what I need—a bigger audience.
“Stop squeezing so hard,” Mr. Ingleton says. “Trust your seat. You won’t fall off. Put your weight down into your heels.”
I’ll show those snooty royals, I think, following the stable master’s directions. They think I’m some uncultured heathen or something, but what’s so hard about riding a damn horse?
Cinnamon jerks his head, shaking it side to side.
“Easy! Easy!” Mr. Ingleton says again. “Don’t grip the reins so hard. And be careful with your heels. You want to keep the weight down but you don’t want to accidentally kick—”
With a sudden jerk, Cinnamon leaps forward. I cling to the reins for dear life, and Mr. Ingleton has to leap back to keep from being trampled.
And Cinnamon runs.
“Pull back on the reins!” Mr. Ingleton shouts as I’m bounced around on the saddle, clinging to anything I can. “Pull back!”
I do. I jerk the reins hard, and Cinnamon reacts by stopping and rearing up on his hind legs, throwing me from the saddle.
And all I can think as I fly through the air is that the damn horse was a much better murderer than I ever imagined.
Sophia
Pax hits the ground with a thud, landing on his behind.
Andrew and I race over to him.
Pax looks a bit dazed, and I extend my hand. “Are you all right?”
“That horse…it tried to kill me.” He continues to sit on the ground, ignoring my offer of helping him up. “This is bullshit.”
“I sincerely doubt Cinnamon was trying to kill you.” Andrew frowns down at Pax. “He’s among the gentlest of the horses in the stable. If he bucked, it’s because you did something to him.”
“Fuck you,” Pax mumbles as he slowly rises to his feet. “You all have it out for me.”
“Perhaps he could try riding Apricot first?” I look up at my brother. “I know it isn’t ideal…”
Andrew lifts a brow, a smirk on his lips before he turns to Pax. “Yes, perhaps that might be best. Would you rather learn to ride horseback on my sister’s pony?”
Pax glares at my brother. “Why do I have to learn how to ride a stupid horse at all? It isn’t like this is useful.”
I try to take Pax’s hand again, but he swats it away. “Maybe you don’t, Pax. Maybe you could learn something else.” I turn to Andrew. “Chess? Father does love to have a rousing game—”
“It would take years to get him to a level to give Father even a reasonable challenge.” Andrew lets out a sigh. “Horseback riding is probably easiest. Though we could also try to teach him to fence. Father always enjoyed watching us spar. It might be worth a try—”
“You want me to learn to
fence?” Pax looks between Andrew and me as he rubs his back. “Why? So you can embarrass me at that, too?” He shakes his head. “This is bullshit, and we all know it. It’s like you planned this shit out or something—every single thing I suck at to make me look like an idiot.”
“That isn’t true, Pax, and I’m sure you know it.” I frown at my husband. “We want you to have the best chance possible to impress Father. Even Andrew approves—”
“He wants to make me look stupid. So I run off in shame, right? Leave Sophia because learning this…this…life is impossible.”
“Clearly, it isn’t impossible. My siblings and I have all learned exactly what you’re learning.” Andrew’s tone is even, almost calm. “And if we’d have wanted to get you to run off in shame, we would have already done it by now.”
Pax glares at my brother, but says nothing.
“Did you not hear a thing that went on at dinner last night?” Andrew continues as though Pax isn’t trying to shoot daggers at him with his eyes. “My brothers and I all stood up for you. Why, Nicholas practically defied our father right to his face.” Andrew cocks his head. “Do you honestly believe that is a typical occurrence at our family dinners?”
“That didn’t happen.” Pax works his jaw. “If anyone had stood up for me last night, none of this would be happening.”
My brow furrows. Why is he acting like this? Andrew is right—Nicholas may has well have called our father a liar to his face, listing all those artists who were untrained. And all of my brothers tried to deflect attention from Pax. Every last one of them—even Andrew, who I would have guessed would have been the last to do so.
“Pax…” I touch his forearm, and he flinches away. “I love you.” I look over at Andrew, who gives me a nod of encouragement. “I don’t know how else to do this.”
“Perhaps you should talk to Eleanor.” Andrew pauses, frowning. “I wouldn’t say she entered the family under similar circumstances, but she was also given similar lessons to learn her role—”
“Really?” Pax tilts his head, giving Andrew a plastic smile. “And what role is that? She’s a princess, isn’t she? I’m nothing, remember? Not even a fucking musician.”
