Guarding His Royal Bride

by C. J. Miller

  She couldn’t lie. “I want this.”

  “Tell me you want me.” His words sounded almost animalistic.

  That was harder to say, but it was the truth nonetheless. “I want you.”

  “Say my name,” he said.

  “Demetrius.”

  “And you, my Iliana, my beautiful, sexy wife, you deserve to come in my arms every night.”

  He moved quickly, flipping her onto her back and stripping her cotton pants and underwear down her legs. He threw the pillow she had been using as a wedge onto the floor. His magic fingers worked her, played with her, built her into a frenzy. She was thrashing and panting when release finally crashed over her.

  As her orgasm eased, she expected he would want her to return the favor. Instead, he moved to lie next to her, dragging her pillow closer and fitting her body into the hard angles of his.

  “This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she said.

  “I know,” he said into her hair.

  “Doesn’t that upset you?”

  “No. You will come around, Iliana. It’s a matter of time.”

  * * *

  “Iliana.”

  Iliana was curled beneath the blankets, tucked against her husband’s body. She arched and stretched. Demetrius kept his desire on a short leash. Alexei was counting on him. He had to find the right words to convince Iliana to help him. Would she give him another chance?

  He was hoping he’d have enough leverage over her that she would consider his situation and comply. She was a good woman with a gentle heart. He wasn’t above playing to her compassion. He spoke her name again, setting his hand on her side. It was too tempting to reach beneath the blankets, down, down, lift her knee, enter her from behind and make slow, thrilling love to her.

  But despite Iliana moving toward him and against him in her sleep, he would take no liberties. Making her feel taken advantage of or exploiting her attraction to him would only work against him in the long run.

  She might not believe they had a future, but he had married her and they would work this out.

  She made a noise in her sleep.

  “Iliana, I have some bad news.”

  “No more problems. Let me sleep.”

  What he had to say couldn’t wait. Perhaps it wouldn’t mean anything to her, but it meant the world to him. For the first time in nineteen years, the strong possibility of Alexei going free existed. “The king of Valencia has died.”

  She tensed and rolled to face him. “How do you know?”

  He’d asked his spies to alert him immediately to changes in the king’s condition. “I was contacted.”

  “What happens now?”

  “We’ll pay our respects in the morning.”

  “His family must be devastated. They had time to say goodbye, I suppose, but I’m not sure there’s any way to prepare for the finality of death.” She swallowed hard, and he knew she was thinking of her parents.

  He hugged her. He had lost people close to him, but he wasn’t good at finding words of comfort. He was a take-action type.

  She brushed her hair away from her face. “I still had questions for him.”

  She sounded devastated. He hated that the first days of their marriage had been disappointing for her. He had planned to court her slowly and get her to the altar in time, but given the king’s rapidly declining health, the timing hadn’t been what he’d hoped. “I will help you find answers.”

  She lowered her head into his chest. The shudder in her shoulders told him she was silently crying. Maybe for their marriage, maybe for her parents, maybe for the father and mother she would never know.

  He didn’t have the right words, so he held her close until she fell asleep in his arms.

  * * *

  “I don’t belong at the king’s memorial service,” Iliana said.

  “He would want you here,” Demetrius said.

  Iliana adjusted her black scarf around her neck. She had her hair pinned back and was wearing a gray dress. It was a somber look in keeping with the memorial service. After Demetrius had woken her to tell her about the king, she hadn’t been able to sleep well. She’d spent the rest of the night tossing and turning.

  The morning was cold and foggy. Traffic was snarled around Saint Felix’s, the largest church in Valencia, located in the capital of Abele, not far from the king’s country home. Security was tight, and she and Demetrius were waiting in a long line of cars. Given Nicholas’s death, every car was being checked and every mourner being patted down and waved with a metal detector.

  Demetrius was typing away on the tablet on his lap. It seemed the man worked around the clock. Running a country wasn’t easy, but did he take time to relax? It didn’t appear so.

  “What do you do for fun?” she asked, wanting a distraction to unknot the tension in her stomach.

  Demetrius looked at her and inclined his head. “You.”

  She cracked a smile. At least he had a sense of humor. “Before me. Don’t say other women, because that will make me...upset.” She didn’t want to think about him being a womanizer and sleeping around. Maybe variety and frequency made a man good in bed, but consistency and building intimacy with one person carried more weight.

  “There weren’t and there will not be other women. There is only you. Before you, there was work.”

  She didn’t believe that he hadn’t dated women. He was rich and powerful. That had a way of attracting a certain type of woman. She rolled her eyes. “Oh, you didn’t tell me you were a virgin before I deflowered you.”

  Demetrius laughed. “Let me rephrase. There hasn’t been another woman of significance in my life. No other woman has had me the way you have.”

  That floored her. Though he was interested in her connection to the king, he was still pretending they were a couple, saying romantic things to her and acting like he had before they’d married. Demetrius had spoken nothing of love. It was an oversight so great, she wasn’t sure why she hadn’t seen it before she’d married him.

  Had she mistaken lust for love? “Do you play sports?”

  “I run. I lift.”

  Both solitary activities, and that didn’t surprise her. She had seen him in social situations, and, while he was proficient, he kept things professional and focused conversations around others. He was secretive about himself. “Some couples golf together. Serena and Casimir play tennis.”

  “Hitting a ball into a tiny hole doesn’t interest me. Hitting balls at you doesn’t appeal to me, either.”

  “Come on—give me something.”

  “I will give you almost anything you ask for,” he said.

  “Tell me your favorite game.”

  “Chess.”

  “I don’t know how to play that,” she said. “I’ve played checkers.” Chess had too many rules and she hadn’t been patient enough to learn them.

  “Checkers is a good start. I will teach you chess. It will help you.”

  Help her how? To think ahead? To see around corners? “Is that how you played this relationship? Thinking a hundred steps ahead?”

  “I did not play you, if that’s the implication. I chose you and I pursued you. I won you. I know I am close to losing you, and I will work to keep you. That is all.”

  She laid her head on his shoulder, and he slipped his arm around her. He continued working on his tablet with his free hand, reading emails. Some were in English, others in another language. “Speak to me in Italian.”

  He did.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “It means, ‘Do not worry, wife. I will take care of you.’”

  He was sweet and had a way with words. When he spoke like that to her, it was a chink in her armor. She didn’t know why he had chosen to keep secrets or what exactly he wanted, b
ut she felt close to him, a kinship, as if it was her and Demetrius against Valencia. Though Serena would have sided with her over these matters in private, as queen, Serena had to play politics. Demetrius didn’t seem to care about politics. He did what he wanted and what he thought was best.

  She settled on his shoulder and waited for their car to reach the front of the church. When it was their turn, Demetrius stepped out of the car. His servicemen flanked him. He reached for her hand, helping her onto the curb. The servicemen stayed close to her as well, but it was Demetrius’s touch that made her feel safe.

  Security checked her handbag and ran metal detectors up and down their bodies. A squawk sounded as security brushed the wand over Demetrius’s hip.

  “Sir, you cannot bring your weapon into the church,” the security officer said.

  Demetrius stared at him. “What?”

  That single word had the man lifting his hands and glancing around nervously. “You’re free to go inside.”

  Iliana pointed to his gun at his hip. “This is a church. You don’t need that here.”

  “You can’t know that. Not everyone has respect for the sanctity of this space.”

  She and Demetrius hurried up the stairs and through the large wooden doors to the church. Their servicemen stayed close, and Iliana was certain they were also carrying weapons.

  Inside Stella was greeting guests. Standing next to her were the king’s sons and daughters. Iliana recognized them from their pictures. Did they recognize her, as well? She fought the urge to turn and run. This would be unpleasant. Her siblings were hurting and grieving, and meeting them today was not ideal. She hadn’t considered the family would be greeting mourners.

  She wouldn’t be intimidated. She was the cousin of the queen of Acacia. She was friends with the king of Rizari. She was married to the president of Icarus. She understood how to conduct herself with poise and dignity. Holding her head high, she offered Stella her condolences.

  Stella was wearing a hat with a dark veil over her face and long black gloves to her elbows. She’d nailed the widow-in-mourning look. Iliana kept her snarky comments to herself. She was carrying around residual anger for the woman from their interaction yesterday. Putting herself in Stella’s shoes, she imagined the other woman was deeply saddened and grieving. She didn’t need extra attitude from Iliana piled on top.

  Stella was standing ramrod straight. “You’re still in Valencia.”

  “I was planning to leave today. I wanted to pay my respects to the king.”

  Stella pursed her lips. “You hardly knew my husband.” She glanced at Demetrius, giving away that she felt unsure.

  “I would have liked to know him better,” Iliana said.

  Beneath the black veil, Stella narrowed her eyes. “Many people thought my husband could help them or give them something. What is it that you wanted him to give you?”

  “Good day, Stella,” Demetrius said.

  There were a number of things Demetrius could have said, and, given that he spoke his mind without regard for other’s feelings most other times, he was showing remarkable restraint. Maybe he was holding back because this was a service for Stella’s husband or he was tempering his bluntness for Iliana’s sake.

  Demetrius nudged her along, and Iliana came face-to-face with Emmanuel Floros, her eldest half brother. He had lost his brother Nicholas and his father in the span of a couple days. He didn’t look well, and his eyes were red rimmed. Iliana’s heart went out to him.

  “My deepest condolences for your losses,” Iliana said. When her cousin Serena had lost her father and sister, she had struggled to cope with the loss. Iliana wouldn’t wish that hurt on anyone.

  Emmanuel nodded at her, but nothing in his face indicated he knew who she was. Iliana received a similar reaction from Maria, Emmanuel’s younger sister.

  But Spiro, the king’s younger son from his second wife recognized her. “You’re the long-lost heiress. Showing up at the end to make sure you get yours.” He sneered at her.

  She started and felt Demetrius’s hand on her lower back, calming her and letting her know he was there to support her. “The king requested my presence in Valencia before his death. I only found out recently who I was.”

  Spiro snickered. “I don’t buy the innocent act. Don’t show up here with the president of Icarus and pretend to be doe-eyed. If you’re shacking up with this guy, you know what’s what.”

  Iliana set her hand against her husband’s chest. Demetrius had kept his temper with Stella, but Spiro was pushing his luck. “I am not familiar with the terms in this region. Is shacking up the words you use for married?” Demetrius asked. His voice was flat, but there was no mistaking the danger. He was like a cobra set to strike.

  Spiro glanced at Demetrius.

  Theodore, Spiro’s older brother, stepped in front of Spiro. “Please excuse my brother’s rudeness. I am afraid you are not seeing us at our best.”

  “Even when times are bad, I don’t take well to someone insulting my wife,” Demetrius said. “I won’t warn you again.”

  Spiro nodded and swallowed hard.

  Iliana moved past her half siblings. This wasn’t how she would have liked to meet them, and she was rattled by their contempt for her.

  “No matter what they say to you, I am here for you. I will not let harm come to you,” Demetrius said quietly into her ear.

  “They would like to see me disappear.”

  “It’s too bad for them that it won’t happen. I need you around,” Demetrius said.

  But why did he need her? What would happen to her once he had what he wanted?

  * * *

  It was hard to shake the feeling of being watched. Though some eyes were on him and Iliana out of curiosity, Demetrius knew that much of the attention had to do with the looming inheritance battle. Emmanuel the Second would get almost everything of importance, according to Valencian law. After the will was read, he would take his father’s place as king.

  But Demetrius had read Valencian law carefully, every last word, and he knew of ways for others to make a play for the crown. He hoped Emmanuel had plans to secure his position. Having overthrown the former dictator of Icarus, Demetrius had experience in these matters. In a stable government, the lines of succession were clear. In an unstable one, the death of the king meant his position was in the air, and whoever got to it first—by jumping, shoving others or outright cheating—was the winner. Demetrius didn’t care who was named king. He would find a way to get along with Emmanuel or Stella or whoever else took over.

  But Iliana would be named marchioness. No exceptions and no negotiations.

  Demetrius had another powerful enemy in the room, although that enemy wouldn’t know Demetrius was present. Octavius Drakos, the baron of Aetos, was seated in the center pews near the front of the altar. He was wearing dark glasses and clutching his walking stick. The glasses were for vanity. The baron was blind and couldn’t control his wandering eyes. He lived as a hermit, trapped by his paranoia and dislike of most others. He trusted no one, which worked to Demetrius’s benefit.

  The baron’s fondness for torture may be the only reason Alexei was alive, or perhaps the baron wanted him alive for another purpose, like baiting Demetrius.

  Demetrius’s revenge against the baron of Aetos had been years in the making. When it was time for Demetrius to collect, the baron would be destroyed.

  Iliana touched his wrist. “What’s wrong?”

  His anger at Drakos was white-hot. Were his emotions showing? “I will tell you later.”

  He would need to confess his past with the baron when the time was right. Though it was a topic he didn’t discuss—he didn’t think even Casimir knew about his ties to Drakos—Demetrius would come clean with Iliana, tell her the story and hope she followed her good heart and did what was right.

>   “You look as if you want to kill someone,” she said.

  The baron, among others. “Just anyone who tries to hurt you.”

  Iliana shifted. “That might be a lot of people in this room. I don’t think my family was happy to see me.”

  “It doesn’t matter how they feel. You exist and you have a claim. The king expected me to keep you safe and I will.”

  Deafening music from the pipe organ filled the space. Demetrius didn’t like the sound; it reminded him too much of a horror movie. Demetrius had seen death many times in his life, and facing it with a bad soundtrack made it worse. When he died, he hoped trumpets and flutes played merrily. Life was too short to wallow in the deaths of others.

  The procession down the center aisle was led by a minister in ceremonial robes. Clerics carrying candles on gleaming brass holders followed.

  The king’s casket was carried by his sons, Emmanuel, Theodore and Spiro, and dukes and barons who had been close to the king. No marquesses in the group. That title was reserved and hadn’t been used in eleven decades. Iliana would be the only living royal of that rank.

  Demetrius wasn’t surprised he had not been chosen to escort the king “into heaven.” He and the king had discussed it, and they had agreed it was better for him to keep a low profile. Though Demetrius’s presence was tolerated, too many people feared him to believe him to be good and kind. Rumors didn’t bother Demetrius. He did what he believed was right and he didn’t need the approval of others. He was beholden to no one.

  As the procession moved past him, Iliana sat still, her face inscrutable. One of the clerics moved away from the group, and Demetrius tensed. Any aberration from the norm worried him. Demetrius was accustomed to pervasive threats. Since he was born, someone had been gunning for him, someone had been trying to steal from him or someone had been trying to hurt him. Now it seemed someone had it out for his wife, doubling his readiness.

  The clerics fanned out to move down the aisles, flinging holy water over the churchgoers.

  Demetrius continued to watch for threats. Vigilance was key.