by Pippa Grant
29
Peach
We’re thirty minutes late to Fiona Aurora’s anniversary celebration, but the thing about walking into a fancy shindig with a king is that no one says a word no matter how late you are.
Of course, if they had, I wouldn’t have had any problem informing them that a country dedicated to love can fucking wait thirty minutes since the king needed a blow job.
I’m not entirely certain why he needed a blow job—I don’t exactly hand those out like candy, because I hate being on my knees for any man—but he did. How often is it a guy rips an ugly dress for you to get you out of feeling like an overdressed heart-prom queen wannabe?
And that look on his face when I came out instead in a slinky gold sheath that I picked for myself for an awards dinner last year has anticipation already building in my pussy before we’ve even taken our places in the massive formal dining room.
We’re seated on either end of the table, which isn’t quite the size of a football field. I’ve been in the formal dining room too many times already, but the crystal heart chandeliers seem sparklier tonight. In honor of Amoria’s Love Laureate, hundreds of heart-shaped string lights have been draped across the ceiling to simulate stars. The two massive cracks on the wall behind Viktor’s chair have been patched and the entire room repainted a pink so soft, it’s almost ivory. The family flags hanging from the high ceiling seem to have been washed and pressed and rehung—all of them straight today—and the stained glass windows have definitely been scrubbed since the last time I was in here.
Not my doing. Viktor’s mum has taken full charge of giving the castle a freshening, and the personality beneath the cracks is beginning to show through.
She’s seated midway down the table, in a fluffy navy dress with long lace sleeves, having an animated conversation with an earl’s wife. What is the wife of an earl called again? An earless? No. A countess. That’s right.
I like to call this particular countess Sally May, not because that’s her name, but because she reminds me of Sally May Winchester back in Goat’s Tit. She has the same thick salt-and-pepper hair, the round cheeks, and the smile that’s always too big but you can’t help appreciating it anyway because what would the world be like if everyone always smiled too big?
Other than weird, I mean.
In any case, Viktor’s mum is happily chatting, which is good, because she’s been down a little lately.
She and Viktor’s dad were married for forty years. She knows the old family stories better than anyone, and she’s been sharing them with Papaya and me the last few weeks. I know it bothers her that her husband never had the chance to come home to Amoria.
But there’s no question she’s incredibly proud of both Viktor and Alexander for everything they’ve done here.
I’m just grateful Alexander is seated on my end of the table.
He’s a solid distraction from wondering what Fiona Aurora is saying to Viktor at the other end of the table.
Also, who knew shirt garters were so hot? Or that going down on him would leave me a hot mess of lust wishing this dinner was over already so he could scratch that itch that’s still building between my thighs?
It’s not like we haven’t been having sex.
But there was something different about watching him admire my cleavage in the light of day, as opposed to sneaking under the covers together in the dark of night, or attacking him in the shower when we’re both already naked.
And I thought I was going to split at the seams myself when he touched me.
Or possibly when he just looked at me.
Like I was his.
That’s not supposed to be a turn-on. I don’t belong to anyone.
Maybe I just like being wanted.
“Your Majesty?” Alexander says dryly, and I snap to attention, wondering what I’ve missed.
“Yes?”
He shoots a look down the table at his brother, then looks back at me with a wry grin, like he’s caught me mooning over my husband. I realize everyone else has finished with their soup, while I’m still savoring the taste of Viktor in my mouth.
“Her Grace was asking about wedding plans,” Alexander says quietly.
“Oh. Right. Wedding plans.”
“It will be a large gala, no?” The Duchess of Aragorn asks. Her accent is thick with hints of Italy, and she has the Mediterranean coloring more common along the southern border of Amoria. She’s also in a big fluffy dress, but if she’s horrified that I’m not, she’s been keeping her opinions to herself.
“I’m sure it will be quite large,” I agree.
Viktor’s quite large.
I like that about him.
“You do not know?” the duchess asks.
“I asked my secretary to handle the details.”
I lean back while a server removes my soup and replaces it with a wilted salad. It astonishes me that people actually want to come to the palace for dinner. If I lived in Amoria and wanted to talk to Viktor, I’d be like, “Hey, king dude, how about we do this at my house?” but nobody asked me, and unfortunately the palace chef is what we still have.
Viktor refuses to fire anyone just because they needed to make a living while King Roland was in charge here.
From a business standpoint, he’s crazy.
But from a humanity standpoint, it’s hard to not like him. Because no one would hire our chef if she weren’t working here.
“You’re letting another woman plan your wedding?” the duchess asks once our salads are in front of us.
“We’re already married,” I point out.
“But it’s your wedding.”
“And I’m getting the same husband. That’s the important part, right?” I ignore the quiver in my belly reminding me I’ll have to swear to love and honor and cherish him all the rest of my days in front of a minister and half the country and probably half of America too, because yes, my secretary tells me daily how many interview requests we’ve gotten from the American media.
I should really tell her I don’t want to know anymore.
I still have a business to run. And I’ve started suspecting Joey’s lying to me about how well things are going. She still hasn’t answered my questions about the results of a few contracts we bid on.
“I cannot imagine not being involved in planning my wedding,” the duchess says.
I look to Alexander. “Did you plan yours?”
He’s shoving his salad around his plate, and I realize I’m not sure if those are tomatoes or beets on top of the lettuce, but I should be able to tell the difference.
Papaya needs to get in trouble again so she can give the chef cooking lessons.
“We planned our wedding together, and it’s a bloody miracle we survived,” he tells me.
I smile, because I can’t actually picture him fighting with Samuel over anything. “Where was it?”
“In the gardens at the palace in Stölland, as a matter of fact. Viktor asked the king for special permission. It was quite small—family only, and three of our very best friends—but quite lovely.”
My chest is getting goopy and warm. “That was sweet of them both.”
“Mum and Dad both cried, though Samuel’s parents did not entirely understand the significance of a palace wedding.”
“How long have you been married?” the duchess asks.
“Six years. And you, Your Grace?”
“Twelve, though some days it feels like a hundred.”
They share a secret smile.
No one is eating the salad.
No one except Viktor and Ms. Fiona Aurora.
It occurs me to that Viktor shouldn’t be a king.
He should be a saint.
Because that’s possibly exactly what he is.
“I hope you’re always able to look at him like that, Your Majesty,” the duchess says to me over her wine goblet.
I start.
Alexander gives me another look.
And I realize it’s entirely
possible I’m starting to fall for my husband.
“Your Grace, are you aware of the queen’s initiative to promote small businesses in Amoria?” Alexander asks.
“I am, and it’s high time someone’s taken an interest, if you ask me. We’ve had numerous bakeries and specialty shops go out of business in our village within the last five years alone, and I fear we’ll lose more as more and more of our citizens become reliant on ordering over the internet instead of supporting their neighbors.”
“We’re working to get economics classes back in schools too,” I tell her.
She smiles widely. “Your Majesty, Amoria has needed you.”
Oh, good. More blushing. I just love blushing.
And none of this was my idea, exactly. Alexander set me up at dinner one night shortly after Joey’s wedding, talking about a local arts and crafts shop going out of business. Papaya and I had bought some yarn there, and the owner had gone out of her way to help Papaya master some knitting stitch she’d been struggling with, even though neither of them spoke the same language.
And as a small business owner myself—Weightless was not my first company, though the first three were training for it—it was impossible to hear that a local businesswoman was struggling without wanting to do something.
And Joey was right—I’d be a total asshole if I didn’t try to do some good while I’m here.
However long or short that is.
Alexander is going on, praising my ideas to the duchess, when the double doors at the center of the dining room swing open, and Papaya marches in.
She’s in a Goat’s Tit High cheerleader uniform—where in the hell did she get that?—with her long legs sticking out and her boobs straining the front and her belly button showing, and she’s leading a pack of four alpacas into the dining room.
And by alpacas, I actually mean creatures that are probably alpacas, but who are all four wearing the rainbow legwarmers she’s been knitting, tutus, and unicorn horns.
Conversation in the hall stutters to a stop.
A server wheeling in a fresh cart of coffee trips and sends it flying, the llamas all hum and prance nervously in place.
Viktor’s on his feet before I’ve finished wincing. I try to scoot my chair out too, but it weighs about four hundred pounds because it’s this thick carved wood thing that’s taller than I am when I’m standing up, with velvet heart cushions and giant heart-claw feet.
“Did we miss dinner?” she asks. “Is it edible tonight?”
Everyone is staring.
Viktor reaches her side about the time I finally climb out of my chair and dash their way. Several of the palace staff are also congregating in the doorways, though none of them seem certain if they should help or if they should serve more food to distract the guests.
“Well, slap my butt and call me Shirley, y’all are having a party, aren’t you?” Papaya says loudly. “Where’s this matchmaker lady? I need to talk to her about my future.”
I finally trip over to her side. “Papaya, you know Fred and his friends aren’t allowed in the dining room,” I whisper.
“But we’re more fun,” she replies. “And I want to know if this boy I met—”
“No,” Viktor says shortly.
“Papaya—” I start.
“What, because I’m too young?” She turns on Viktor while the palace staff attempts to herd the alpacas out of the dining room. “My mama was sixteen when she had Peach, so I’m not too young for anything.”
That’s us.
Bringing class to the palace.
Viktor’s eye is twitching almost as bad as mine.
“Papaya, we can talk about this later,” I whisper.
She snags Fred’s leash—yes, leash—when a footman attempts to move him out of the room. “The matchmaker won’t be here later. You just don’t want me to talk to her so I can’t tell her you only got married because of me.”
Yep.
The whole room just heard that.
“If you wish to participate in formal events, you shall be required to have formal training,” Viktor informs her.
“Like that’ll go well,” I mutter.
He shifts a glare at me. “She’s not even wearing shoes.”
So much for the post-BJ glow.
“What happened at school today?” I ask her. Because she finished her stable duty yesterday, so either she wants to be in trouble again, or something set her off.
“Nothing,” she lies.
Viktor’s lips are pressed so tightly together they’re white at the edges.
I grip her by the arm. “Come on. Let’s talk.”
“How old are you?” a wobbly voice interrupts.
All three of us turn to Ms. Aurora.
“Fourteen,” Papaya says with all the petulance of a fourteen-year-old who thinks that being fourteen makes her wise beyond her years.
“Quite old enough for finishing school,” Ms. Aurora observes.
Viktor doesn’t answer, but I can see him pondering military boarding school.
“We need to get her through high school first,” I say. As politely as possible, of course. “Excuse, us, we—”
“Does Darian Ricci like me?” Papaya demands. “Because Soriana Espisito was whispering in German all morning and she knows I can’t speak German, except I understood half of what she was saying anyway, and Darian kept shoving his friends and getting all red in the face and they kept pointing at me at lunch and I want to know if he likes me.”
“Are you a decent cook?” Ms. Aurora asks.
“Is she what?” I sputter.
“And capable of doing laundry?”
“Excuse us, Miss Aurora,” Viktor interrupts, now grabbing me by the arm as a red haze clouds my vision. “’Tis a family matter.”
“You’re not my family,” Papaya hisses.
“Ah, teenagers,” Viktor’s mum says with a happy sigh as she, too, reaches our little group. “Better you than me, my dear. Miss Aurora, have you met my son-in-law? Some days I love him more than my own son. But I never had to deal with Samuel’s teenage years.”
Papaya’s fighting a footman for Fred’s leash. Viktor’s pressing me toward the door. I’m trying to pull Papaya toward the door.
“I’ve got her,” I hiss. “Go back to dinner.”
“Until the barnyard animals have been removed from the palace, I rather fear no one has anyone,” he replies.
“Do you remember being a teenager?”
“No.”
Of course he doesn’t.
“Go back to dinner,” I repeat.
“I want dinner,” Papaya says.
“You may eat in the stable with Fred,” Viktor informs her.
“Child abuse.”
“Eating is child abuse. Visiting your ridiculous animals is child abuse. I suppose bathing and dressing will be next on your list of complaints?”
“And sleeping.”
We finally get all of us out in the hallway. I yank my arm away from Viktor the same way Papaya yanks her arm away from me.
Fred sneezes on all three of us, and then the unique sound of an alpaca breaking wind echoes in the high-ceilinged entry hall.
“The stables,” Viktor repeats, “or Fred shall be forced to find a new home.”
I suck in a breath.
Papaya bursts into tears.
And six palace staff members pretend they haven’t seen anything.
“Go. Back. To. Dinner,” I grit out between clenched teeth.
Viktor’s dark eyes turn on me, and for half a second, I feel like I’m betraying him.
Making him go clean up our mess. Again. Deal with all the formal baloney.
But that’s the price of being the king, isn’t it?
30
Viktor
By the time the ridiculous dinner is over for the night, my head is pounding, my chest is aching, and I wish I could talk to my father once more.
‘Tis a desire I’ve ignored for the majority of my time in Amoria, a
s wishing to speak with the dead is wasted energy, but gods, I miss him.
The grief is sneaky. It’s neither logical nor rational, but it still is.
“Quite lovely speech,” Alexander tells me as we enter the grand foyer of the private apartments. “One would never know all this love is a thorn in your side.”
“I have no objections to love. I have objections to the corruption of the word for the purpose of seeking power and fortune at the expense of others.”
Peach spins and gapes at me.
She’s stopped beneath the heart chandelier that my mother insists would have given my grandfather palpitations of the organ it’s designed after, a bowl of gelato in hand, spoon in her mouth, in long sleeve pajamas decorated with peaches that inspire movement below the belt, despite my best intentions.
“Wha dih yu jus ah?” she asks me. She’s stiff, with guarded eyes that seem to be begging me for something, though I’ve no idea what.
Gods above, if Papaya’s caused some kind of mischief in the stables, I’ve no idea what I’m to do with her.
“I said I have no use of men who corrupt the idea love for their own gain,” I reply.
Her chin wobbles and her eyes go shiny.
I freeze, because what the dickens have I done now?
“Guh,” she whispers, and without another word, she dashes for the stairs.
Though I’m quite certain she would deny the dashing part.
I look to Alexander.
“I daresay she’ll be quite good for Amorian fashion,” he says cheerfully.
“Perhaps so, but what the devil was that?”
“I’ve no idea. You should’ve married a man. We’re much simpler to understand.”
With a grin, he saunters toward the voices in the kitchen, where it seems Mum and Samuel are having quite a lovely time debating the best course of dinner.
Whilst I take myself upstairs.
To my wife.
Or possibly my doom.
‘Tis difficult to predict which I shall find.
Eva’s door is cracked, so I pause and knock softly. She smiles from her chair in front of her fireplace, where she appears to be sketching something. She’s removed her fancy dress, and I feel a pang of jealousy over her sweatshirt and loose cotton pants.
