by Jessa Kane
King Sized
Jessa Kane
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
1
Rex
I wasn’t raised to stand by silently while a girl cries.
No sir.
Growing up, I was the oldest of six children—and the only boy. Do that arithmetic. It means I had five younger sisters and they did all manner of wailing. All the bleeding time. It led to a lot of experimentation on my part, trying to figure out the secret formula to make them stop. After thirty years of being a big brother, I finally discovered the answer.
The answer is: there is no answer.
Sometimes they just want to carry on until they’ve emptied the well of tears and a man just has to sit there and nod until it’s over. Occasionally, sugar or alcohol helps, but that’s a gamble. If you give them something nice, it can make the crying even harder and then you are up shit creek, my friend. Best bet is to sit silently and nod in understanding. And—this is key—if they’re crying about a man, every man is to blame. That means me. All men are bastards.
God knows I feel like one right now, standing guard outside the princess’s bedchambers while she weeps brokenly for all the Kingdom of Downsriver to hear.
It’s a black day for our homeland.
The king and queen were murdered today. By thieves. On the road back from a diplomatic meeting in the neighboring kingdom of Northstream.
Come to think of it, that makes Princess Britta…the new queen.
And here we are, the fourteen men of the princess’s guard, standing around like a bunch of fucking lumps on a carrot while Britta cries her heart out on the other side of the door. As we’ve been trained, all of us stare straight ahead, like we’re the victims of taxidermy.
Jesus, it’s pathetic.
As usual, I’m the first to break character. I’ve never understood the reason we can’t move or speak while guarding the royals. As if showing any signs of life makes us less effective.
“Honestly, though,” I say, dropping my rigid posture. “No one is going in there?”
Hamish, the bloke standing next to me, jolts like I’ve just shocked him with an electrified pitchfork. “What are you doing?” he whispers furiously out of the side of his mouth. “Quiet, now. Stand up straight. We’re on duty.”
“We’re a useless pack of idiots holding up the hallway walls.” Britta lets out a particularly pitiful sob and I feel it down to my toes. This is torture. “One of us needs to do something.”
“We’re paid to stand here,” Hamish points out, as if the purpose for which I’ve been hired never occurred to me. “To guard against harm.”
These guys take themselves way too seriously. It’s one of the reasons they’re so easy to rile up. “What if the girl cries herself to death? Have you thought of that?”
Some of the men seem nervous now.
“Well I, for one, am not going in there,” one of them says in a shaky whisper. “I tried to comfort a crying girl once and she poked me in the eye.”
“Oh now, how did you survive?” I deadpan, appealing to the rest of the group with a raised eyebrow. “Is that it, then? You’re all scared of a crying girl?”
“They get so nasty,” Hamish breathes. “When they’re all overwrought like that, they find your weakness and exploit it. Carve the manhood right out of you, they do.”
The rest of the guards nod at this profound observation and I shake my head. I can’t believe I quit my job as a blacksmith to come work with these sorry excuses for men.
Actually…I can believe it.
The reason I joined the palace guard is breaking her heart crying in her bedchamber.
But I try not to think about my useless infatuation. Because that’s exactly what it is. Useless. I’ve been guarding Britta for months and she’s never once glanced in my direction. Which, to be honest, is a little surprising. Most people look at me. I’m very hard to miss. Six foot five inches tall and big as hell. I like to eat and it shows. It shows a lot. Not to mention, I’m an ugly motherfucker, all ruddy skinned and scarred. A crooked nose. So it’s a little odd that Britta breezes past me without the tiniest acknowledgement, day after day.
Not that I expected any kind of relationship to develop if I joined the guard.
Jesus Christ no.
I’m not delusional.
I just wanted to help protect her. I couldn’t seem to sleep or eat or shape iron properly after the first time I saw her, lying awake at night worrying for the pretty, young princess and her angelic smile. Never one to attend any of the royal appearances, it was only by chance that I happened to catch the procession going past my home. A week of restlessness later, I applied for duty. They took one look at me and decided I was built to take a blow, if needed.
I am.
But I am not built to listen to girls cry. And definitely not this girl.
“Right. Fine.” I take off my helmet and set it down on the stone floor. “I’ll go.”
Hamish blanches. “Are you mad? You’re the scariest one of us all!”
“Thanks.”
I lift the metal breastplate over my head, leaving it near my helmet. Out of the corner of my eye, I see several of the men cross themselves. But I ignore them, wrapping a hand around the heavy brass knob and entering the princess’s—now the queen’s—bedroom.
It’s dark inside, mostly, with a handful of sconces flickering on the wall.
I’ve never been in here before, but I expected it to be much bigger. On one end of the room, there are three windows showcasing the starlit sky, on the other is an enormous bed. The tiny figure crying in the center of it makes the piece of furniture seem even larger.
My heart protests the sight.
Poor girl.
My sisters never had anything so tragic happen. I’m totally unequipped for this.
Not to mention, the guards were right. I am scary. I’ve been told since childhood that I’m unlikely to marry. A woman will have to cook from sunrise to sunset to keep you fed! That is one of the more popular insults. When I started working in the palace, there was serious debate about posting me outside of the walls to ward off attacks. They really considered it.
Approaching the princess in the dark like this might not be wise, but I can’t see any other choice. There’s no one else to console her.
“Princess Britta,” I say, forgoing the title of queen. After all, she hasn’t been crowned yet and it could be a jarring reminder of the crimes against her parents. “Might I…be of some assistance?”
She gasps and flies into a sitting position.
An invisible fist hits me in the chest, winding me.
Dear God, even with a puffy, tearstained face, she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on…and I need to stop noticing that so much. This girl with the long, raven-black hair and emerald eyes is royalty. I’m a humble guard. A man of low birth. I have no right to be ogling her. None whatsoever.
“Wh-who are you?” she croaks, swiping at her delicate nose.
But she doesn’t seem scared, thank God. Maybe the tears have blurred her vision and, combined with the light, she can’t see me properly.
“Rexington Monroe, Princess.” I bow. “You can call me Rex. I’m one of your guards.”
She blinks. “What are you doing in here?”
“Beg pardon, Princess. But I thought you could use someone to cry at.”
A beat passes. “Cry…at?”
I nod once. “I have five sisters. It seems to help them when there’s something on hand to absorb a little
bit of the misery.”
Britta huffs an awed sound. “Five sisters. That must be lovely.”
“Begging your pardon, it’s not. They’re frequently unhinged.”
“Oh.” She sucks in a breath. “I almost laughed just there.”
Something warms in my chest. Something that’s never warmed before. “It’s okay to laugh,” I say, chancing a step toward the bed. And from this new angle, I can see her shapely bare leg peeking out from under the white coverlet, the nightgown drooping down from one smooth, feminine shoulder. Stop looking. “You’ve likely got a lot of crying ahead, Princess, so allow yourself the happy moments.”
“Who knew I had such a wise guard?” she murmurs, sounding a little hollow. “How long have you been working in the palace, Rex?”
Jesus God, she said my name.
Don’t make a big deal out of it.
“A few months, give or take.”
A line forms between her brows. “I’m sorry we haven’t formally met. I’m…well, isn’t it just embarrassing that one girl has fourteen guards? As if you men don’t have more important things to do than follow me around, watching as I paint landscapes and take violin lessons. I’ve been afraid to look any of you in the eye, for fear I’ll witness your disdain. And boredom.”
Her ramble is so adorable and unexpected, I feel compelled to jump out the window because nothing will ever top such sweet honesty, so I might as well end my existence. The only reason I don’t is because there’s more.
“And you guards can’t even swat at a fly if it lands on your noses. How awful. It makes me feel so terrible that I’ve learned to ignore you lot, which is probably worse. At the very least, I could have offered to swat the flies. I’m very sorry, Rexington. What a fantastic name. And even after I’ve ignored you, here you are, offering me sympathy and comfort. I shouldn’t accept it after being so unkind.”
“You should accept it,” I manage around the ball of yarn in my throat. “There is nothing to apologize for. And truth be told, Princess, it’s kind of funny watching the other guards try to wiggle flies off their noses. You can’t put a price on that kind of entertainment.”
She laughs.
But it quickly turns into a hiccupping sob. “Then I should very much like to cry at you.”
“Right so.” I hesitate only a moment, before sitting down on the corner of her bed. “I’ll just be here, nice and quiet. Do what you have to do.”
The princess does something I never could have expected.
She pushes off the coverlet and crawls toward me on the bed, the white nightgown enveloping her petite frame, moonlight bathing her shoulders, her tearstained cheeks.
And she curls up in a tight little ball, right beside my hip.
“Okay, here goes,” she sniffs, launching into another crying jag.
At first, all I do is sit there, my chest burning like the fucking devil. But eventually, my hand seems to sort of move on its own, my calloused, unworthy fingers stroking over her long, raven locks. I ought to be whipped for taking such liberties. She doesn’t stop me, however, so I do it with a little more confidence each time.
But I freeze when she scoots closer and lays her head on my thigh.
What do I do now?
Surely this is inappropriate. I shouldn’t be in here in the first place, let alone acting as her pillow. It just isn’t done. She’s an unmarried royal of eighteen and this breach in decorum would be a scandal. Especially because I’m a lowly guard. A former blacksmith. Not worthy of this future queen on my best day.
“Would it be presumptuous of me to ask for a hug?” Britta whispers into the darkness.
Oh, now we have entered dangerous territory. I am growing stiff in my uniform pants and I’m pretty sure that makes me a monster, since she’s been sobbing for hours on end. Ironically, my dick is kind of a…dick, however. It doesn’t much care about things like sympathy. It only knows this soft, gorgeous beauty wants to get closer. And as a protector by nature, having the chance to wrap the princess in my arms makes my blood move fast. Fast and south. “Not presumptuous, no,” I say finally, my voice ominously thicker. “But it wouldn’t be proper, Princess.”
She sits up and swipes at her eyes, visibly trying to pull herself together. “I’m sorry. You’re quite right.” She sniffs. “Do you give your sisters hugs?”
“On occasion, yes.”
In a softer, hesitant tone, she says, “Couldn’t you pretend I’m your sister?”
At that, I almost laugh the palace down. “I very highly doubt it.”
My answer seems to confuse her, but I’m definitely not going to elaborate.
“I understand, Rexington,” she says, bravely.
I grunt, willing my chest to stop hurting.
“My parents never gave me hugs. Only kisses on the cheek. I don’t think I’ve ever had one at all, come to think of it.” Her nose wrinkles. “Although there was one time when I was learning to swim and sank to the bottom. My instructor had to wrap her arms around me and kick to the surface, so I suppose that counts, doesn’t it?”
That leap out the window is looking better and better.
“You’re killing me here, you know that?” I drag a hand down my face. “Come here, then. I’ll give you a hug. Just one, though. Don’t get crazy.”
“Really?” She scrambles onto her knees, wringing her hands for a moment, as if she doesn’t know the proper mechanics of a hug. So I open my arms and she smiles, falling right into them—and that’s it. I’m ruined. I already had a sneaking suspicion she was going to hold my heart in her hands for the rest of my life, but this seals the deal.
How could she fit me so perfectly?
I’m more than thrice her size and yet her face falls right into my neck, like it has been there a million times. Her small breasts crush against my pecs, her slim torso curling around my extra-large belly. We lock right together in a way I fear will be addicting.
“This is wonderful,” she whispers, her arms securing tighter around my neck.
And then she climbs into my lap.
I almost hit the ceiling.
No. No, no, no. I’m a gentleman. Always have been. But I can’t pretend her delicious rump in my lap isn’t making me think terrible thoughts. Like how Britta is a virgin. Between her legs, between her ass cheeks. She’d be tighter than a knot in both places.
She’d squirm underneath me, all that soft, golden skin on mine.
Whimpering my name.
Enough.
And yet my arms tighten around the innocent princess, rocking her in my lap. “Just a few more minutes now, love. All right?”
Love?
Are you out of your fucking mind, calling the princess “love”?
Britta looks up at me, her eyelids at half mast, and it’s not lost on me that she’s finally stopped crying. That I helped. It fills me with a solid block of pride. “Lie with me for a little while, please?”
“I can’t do that,” I rasp, my pulse slamming into my eardrums.
“Oh. I know.” Her face nuzzles deeper into my neck and she sighs with feminine satisfaction, making my dick throb. Painfully. “That was a silly thing to ask.”
Don’t say what you’re thinking. Don’t do it. “I suppose you could order me to lie down with you. Then I wouldn’t have much choice.”
She sucks in a breath and I think she’s going to scold me, smack me across the face, throw me out of the palace. Instead, she says, “That’s a fantastic idea!” She wets her perfect, bow-shaped lips. “I hereby order you to lie in my bed and hug me until I fall asleep, Rexington Monroe.”
Sensing my own doom, I run toward it like a love-struck idiot. “Anything for the princess.”
Britta bounds off my lap, her ass taunting me with sexy swishes as she crawls on hands and knees back toward the pillows, throwing herself beneath the covers and gesturing me to follow. It’s humiliating how the bed creaks and groans beneath my weight, but I manage to make it to the headboard without breaking the furnitur
e, slowly laying my head down on the pillow beside Britta’s.
“I’ll stay on top of the covers,” I say hoarsely.
“Okay,” she responds cheerfully, green eyes sparkling.
And then the princess, the future queen of the entire bloody kingdom, snuggles right up against me, tucking her little hands between my pecs. I put my arms around her and she smiles up at me with teeth, ruining me for any other woman on the planet, and drops into a dead sleep, her breath warming my throat.
“Congratulations,” I mouth into the darkness. “You are fucked.”
2
Britta
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
That’s what they say—and it’s true.
Because this crown weighs around seventy pounds.
Honestly, I’m going to have the neck of a gladiator in a week’s time. Something has to be done. Perhaps I can wear a crown of daisies? Or no crown at all? Now that would be preferable. I could just give the garish, bejeweled thing to someone else and let them make all the hard decisions. Spend my days wading in the river and writing sonnets.
I’m sitting on the throne my mother used to occupy.
An hour ago, I was hastily ordained queen in a private ceremony.
Now the palace advisor, Richard, is standing before me with many questions. I have the answers to none of them.
I am a smart girl. I think. My tutors have said as much. I’ve sat in this great hall my whole life and listened my parents make decrees, judgments, give opinions. My inability to focus probably has a lot to do with the giant guard stationed by the wall. He stares straight ahead, as always, not a hint of the gentle understanding he showed me last night. No character, whatsoever. But I know it lurks under his armor. I’ve witnessed his humor and compassion and the greatest hugs in the known universe.
No matter that I’ve only experienced one hug.
I don’t need to test other embraces to know he has the best one. All warm and cushioned and safe and cherishing. Right before I dropped into the deepest slumber of my life last night, I swore his mouth ghosted over my hair and that simple gesture gave me…dreams. Dreams that stain my cheeks red in the light of day.
