Viktor

Peach is lovely in a pale lavender pantsuit. She’s taken so long to get ready that I’ve missed half my Italian lessons for the day already, though I find I don’t much care, as the opportunity to be next to her is continuing to flood my senses with her unique tangy scent, and I have to restrain myself from touching her hair.

She’s pulled it back into a loose bun, exposing her slender neck. There are gentle waves against her scalp, and I’ve realized her hair is not simply uniformly blond, but a variety of shades from nearly white to a soft gold, and the texture fascinates me.

I’m also still imagining her writhing in pleasure atop our stiff white sheets, her lips parted, a natural flush covering her bare skin, the slightest sheen of damp perspiration touching her forehead, her breath coming in gasps and moans.

We’ve arrived in the king’s receiving room, and I’ve given Leonie instructions to make the duke wait five minutes more. I force myself to concentrate on the candlestick missing its candle atop the fireplace mantle, which is pulling itself from the wall.

Renovations should be in order, but the monarchy’s coffers are quite bare. I glance at Peach, which risks viewing the slightest hint of cleavage at the top of her blouse. “I’d no idea you were interested in gardening.”

She doesn’t meet my gaze, but stares somewhere about my left ear. “Oh, I’m not. But it’s been fun taking a whack at it in a place I can’t do much damage. I might try my hand at painting next. When the paperwork from Weightless slows down a little. Joey’s dealing with new hires. And the PR specialist. It’ll get easier once…well. Soon.”

Once her job functions have been covered and the public fallout over the hot air balloon incident has abated, I assume she means.

The charges against her have been dropped—the influence of the Amorian government, though she was quite unhappy about it—and ‘tis my understanding Zeus Berger bought the peach field that was damaged to try his hand at finding what he’s supposed to do with his life now that he’s retired from hockey.

Though he’s being pressured to consider an offer from Manning’s team, where Zeus’s twin brother, Ares, also plays.

I should be quite curious what advice Ares would have given, but as the man communicates exclusively in odd animated pictures, I doubt I would’ve fully understood.

“There’s still bad publicity in America?” I inquire.

She shrugs. “I don’t ask, and Joey doesn’t tell.”

“You’ve not been watching the news?”

“I filter it.”

Probably for the best. I have been watching the news, along with getting daily updates from Leonie about requests for official palace statements about the balloon incident still, though the requests for gossip about the balloon incident are being rapidly replaced by requests for exclusive candid interviews about our marriage.

Peach focuses on something well behind me now, and a soft smile touches her lips.

Soft and Peach are so rarely put together that I turn and look.

The tapestry behind me bears an image of three male tigers standing upright with over-enlarged phallic members sword-fighting with each other’s tails. It’s disturbing at best, though the tigers are wearing quite rapturous expressions on their furry faces.

“You like tigers, my lady?”

“You inherited the weirdest kingdom, Viktor.”

“I understand the previous monarch had eclectic taste.” One of the maids stopped me yesterday to quickly whisper that her mum had worked in the castle when my grandfather was king, and that rumors suggested old family portraits had been hidden away in attic and dungeon spaces. Searching for them seems a task I shouldn’t delegate, but rather suggest to my mum and Eva upon their arrival.

There’s a sharp rap at the door, and before I can voice an order to enter, it flings open upon creaky hinges.

A broad-bellied, beet-faced man in brown suit pants buckled at his navel bursts into the room. He appears to possess the temperament of a bull, the body of a sea cow, and the uniform of a cartoon princess movie with all of the trimmings and trappings and military decorations, though Amoria’s army is quite small and I sincerely doubt the duke has ever served.

“Your Majesty, we have a problem,” he barks.

I don’t reply, because even when I was a mere bodyguard, the only person allowed to speak to me in that tone was the king himself, and only when I deserved a good dressing-down.

Which I assure you was never necessary.

Instead of responding to the duke’s declaration, I stare the man down.

Peach shifts beside me. I don’t look away from the duke, but I am ever so aware of the quickening of her breath and the subtle shift of her body toward mine.

The duke notices her and does a double-take. “What the devil is she wearing?” the duke demands. “Queens wear dresses.”

He’s neither young nor old, though he most likely has me by at least a decade. His graying hair is combed over what I can only assume is a balding patch of scalp, and the smell of cigar smoke chases him into the room.

“Your Grace, one bows before the king,” Leonie murmurs behind him.

He spares her as much of a glance as he’s probably given his kid all these years before lowering thundering eyebrows at me. “I expect certain proprieties—”

“Bow,” I order.

Softly.

I have no wish to lord my position over anyone, but any man who thinks he may walk into my home and assume he has the right to all the power shall quickly be proven wrong.

No matter my title or station.

A shiver passes through Peach, and I detect a hint of aroused woman.

Good.

I quite like knowing that I am not the only one affected in this relationship.

I also quite like watching the duke realize I intend to take none of his abuse, and I wonder what sort of arrangement he might have had with my predecessor. He freezes as an overgrown squirrel might when faced with a vehicle bearing down on him, his cheeks mottle, and he stiffly bends at the waist.

First to me.

And then to the queen.

“Now,” I intone, still deadly calm, “what is so very important that it requires you to arrive unannounced before breakfast?”

“We have a problem with that—that—that trollop of a ward of yours.”

I daresay I’ve never met a more unpleasant person, nor one so unpleasant as to cause both a red haze to enter my vision and my tongue to momentarily be stunned useless either.

“Viktor, hon, what’s a trollop?” Peach asks.

Quite as sweetly as her name would suggest she should be capable of asking. With a meter’s worth more twang than she generally puts into her sentences.

I’ve seen Miss Gracie pull off this trick, and I confess, I’m both anticipating and dreading what might come out of my wife’s mouth.

“I believe the duke just questioned your sister’s cleanliness, my lady,” I reply.

“Her physical cleanliness, or is he implying something about her spreading her legs?”

“You would have to ask him.”

I suspect the smile my wife turns on the duke would simultaneously make a beauty queen jealous and scare the excrement right out of a tiger.

“Were you insulting my sister’s appearance or her character?” she inquires.

He ignores her and looks at me. “That girl—”

“The queen’s sister,” I supply.

Peach’s lip curls. “You will speak to me, Mister…?”

“His Grace, the Duke of Prievia,” Leonie murmurs.

“Mister Prievia,” Peach finishes.

The duke’s face goes positively purple. “You let that girl run wild about town, tempting my son—”

“Oh, no, sir,” Peach interrupts. “If you haven’t taught your son to not touch everything he sees, we have a bigger problem, don’t we?”

“—and she’d probably have him with his pants down about his knees,” the duke continues as though Peach hasn’t spoken.

“Your Grace,” Leonie interjects.

“Mister Prievia, how big is your douchery—ah, pardon me, your dukery?” Peach inquires.

Gods above, this was a terrible idea. Yet I’m still inordinately amused in a manner in which I’ve no right to be amused. “Quiet,” I order.

The duke mutters something in German that I’m easily able to translate, as young boys never forget their favorite profanity, regardless of how rusty the rest of their language skills might become.

“Viktor, I think you should do the kingdom a favor and cut both their heads off.”

“Is this how you negotiated your business dealings?” I ask her softly.

“I never did business with blowhards who stick their dicks in anything that moves but put bad names to the women they need to sleep with. There’s no negotiating when it comes to bullies and assholes.”

The duke’s face goes beyond purple. “Did you just—”

“Silence,” I order, “or I shall have your title and lands removed and your family banished to Antarctica.”

“Could you do that?” Peach asks.

“Quite easily, my lady. And with a great deal of pleasure.”

“Is he invited to our reception?”

“Not anymore.”

“And not just because he’s going to have a stroke and die right here on your carpet?”

“Correct, my lady.”

“I can hear every word you’re uttering,” the duke growls.

“Are you married?” Peach asks.

“He is, Your Majesty,” Leonie answers for him.

“Poor woman. Should’ve sent her. Don’t you worry about Papaya tempting your son anymore. Wherever he ends up at school, you can bet she won’t be there. And if I hear about him causing trouble for any other young ladies you’re fixin’ to blame for his poor raising, you can bet your last dime there won’t be a school in this entire nation who will willingly take him. You’re dismissed, Mister Prievia.”

He opens his mouth.

“I said, you’re dismissed.”

“But—”

“Oh, lordy, we’re gonna have to do this the hard way, aren’t we? Leonie, hon, call in the guards.”

The duke looks at me.

Leonie hesitates only a moment before stepping to the door and motioning in a guard.

I don’t blink as I stare back. Though I do picture his entrails being pecked by rabid chickens. Or possibly that migrant duck that kept tripping the alarm wires back at Prince Manning’s manor in Alabama.

“This is utter rubbish.” He’s still shrieking as two guards drag him from the room. Threats. Promises. Insults to my family.

“Have his title stripped,” I tell Leonie.

“And give it to a single woman who’s made something of herself despite her circumstances,” Peach adds.

She’s still smiling, but there’s hard, seething anger glittering in her eyes, and her cheeks are redder than any of the hearts about the castle.

“Your Majesty,” Leonie says haltingly, “the duke was quite the loyal supporter of King Roland.”

“King Roland who attacked the palace with mortar shells until my grandfather fled into exile because of a rumored plan to ink a deal with Italy to cooperate on tourism efforts? Do you recall details of the supposed deal? Something about bringing more attention to both countries as idyllic escapes for lovers, rather than being out-spent in the global advertising markets by our neighbor to the south?”

She clears her throat. “I don’t recall the exact details, Your Majesty. I shall start the paperwork as requested. Your German lesson—”

“Will still be there tomorrow,” I interrupt. “A moment, please.”

She curtsies and flees the room.

I have to wonder if I look quite as mad—both angry and beyond the reaches of my sanity—as Peach appears.

“Are you quite all right?” I inquire once Leonie has successfully shut the door, which takes her three attempts, because the latch is as broken as the rest of the palace.

“I’m fine.” Peach paces to one of the three windows overlooking the inner courtyard, where three workers are scratching their heads over the broken fountain.

“He was rather out of line,” I hedge.

“He’s an entitled ass, raising another entitled ass. Important because his father told him he was important, and he probably pays his maids and his cooks half of what they’re worth and I’d bet half my salary he’s paid off at least one of them to keep quiet after he seduced her. Probably called another one some terrible names for turning him down, and then fired the first under the pretense of not having sluts work for him. Asshole.”

I sit upon the edge of the carved mahogany desk in the corner of the room, because the weight of the world is suddenly too much to bear while standing.

“And it doesn’t matter if his little prickhead son won’t be there at school with Papaya, because there’ll be another one to take his place. No one’s ever taught her what she’s worth, and so she goes wherever it’s easiest to get approval. She likes the trouble. But I’ll be damned before I let her be the only one who gets in trouble for it.” She rubs her temples. “And now you have a new enemy.”

“He’s long been an enemy, I was merely unaware until this morning. Do not add that to your list of concerns.”

“I want to dump honey all over him and roll him on a fire ant bed.”

“It continues to astonish me that women do not rule the world.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m quite serious. You’ve no use for bullies, and you’ve no hesitation to solve problems most efficiently.”

She turns still-suspicious eyeballs on me. “Really.”

“I should insist all men bring their wives to meetings with me. I daresay we would have more straightforward solutions to many of our problems without the egos involved. What room have we for egos and bullies in a realm of love?”

“I can’t decide if you’re mocking me or if you’re seriously hot right now.”

“Should there be any chance of you believing me to be seriously hot, it would seem my best course of action would be to not offer an opinion on the subject.”

She squints at me.

I refuse to let my lips quiver one way or another, though when she tips her head back and laughs, I do allow a victory smile.

A small one.

I’ve many battles to face yet today.

“I might have misjudged you,” she tells me as the smile fades from her face.

“Highly likely,” I agree.

And there goes the smile again. This time with an exaggerated eye roll that reminds me of Papaya.

One more small victory.

I shall happily take it.