Viktor

With the storm brewing and Papaya off our hands, Kristofer has left for the main house to double-check the security system and the backup generators, leaving me alone once again. I text Alexander and ask if he’s found any loopholes while I pull out my own laptop to conduct some research.

His answer isn’t reassuring.

No. And it turns out the horse won’t work. The people have to actually believe you to be in LOVE with your wife. Can you imagine?

For a man completely smitten with his husband, he’s rather gloomy on the subject of love.

Perhaps it’s merely the woman aspect he objects to.

Or possibly his humor doesn’t come through well in text form.

A crack of lightning and the subsequent boom rattling the windows makes the lights in my quarters flicker and die. At the same moment, there’s a pounding on the carriage house door.

Who the devil would be out in this weather?

I race to the door, expecting Kristofer or one of the other team. News that Papaya has dashed off into the storm.

Instead, Peach is on my doorstep, a drowned blond rat with an idea glinting madly in her crystal blue eyes. The rain has soaked her tank top, showcasing her hard nipples and the hollow of her stomach beneath her ribs, and there’s a steady path of water disappearing into her cleavage.

My bollocks stir.

She does rather redefine the definition of wet dream.

Until she opens her mouth. “You need to get married.”

“I beg your—”

She shoves a wet clump of hair off her forehead and barrels past me, which I allow only because this has been quite the day, and I daresay I’d enjoy a good verbal sparring.

“You need to get married,” she repeats. “And as horrible luck would have it, so do I.”

It takes me a full moment to gather my wits. “I don’t believe horrible luck is a strong enough term, my lady.”

“Viktor, that may be the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

A flare of temper licks through my veins. “Then perhaps you should listen better, my lady.”

She presses a palm into her eyeball, as though to stop it from suffering a seizure. “See? This is perfect.” She grits the words out as though they’re battling professional sumo wrestlers to get through her throat and to her tongue. “We get married, you get to be king, I get custody of Papaya, you go live in your magical mountain country without us, and everyone’s happy.”

I briefly wonder if my tea was spiked, because her logic is nearly sound, and this idea is suddenly not nearly as ludicrous as it was moments ago, though it is still rather unappealing. “What has Papaya to do with this?”

“The judge won’t let me adopt her unless I get married.”

My body tenses. “That seems highly unlikely and illegal, my lady.”

“Then you apparently haven’t had the displeasure of meeting His Honorable Liverspot yet. I can fight him in court, but by the time it’s all said and done, Papaya will be done with high school. If she gets that far without a steady parent.”

Her other eye has begun to twitch, and she covers it as well. She’s dripping water onto the vinyl floor, gooseflesh rising down her toned arms to the red tips of her fingernails. The denim of her pants clings to her shapely thighs, and I have to swallow twice before I can speak.

It seems I’m acquiring a stress-induced erection.

There can be no other explanation, as nothing about this situation is remotely inspiring.

“I still fail to see the connection, my lady.”

She drops both hands and sighs at me. It’s a whole-body sigh, the kind that makes her round breasts—and thus her pointed nipples—rise and fall with a slight jiggle while her shoulders droop in direct proportion to the droop in her plump lips. “The fucking judge doesn’t think a woman with a full-time job has the bandwidth to monitor such a creative teenager.”

“That’s quite a gracious description of your sister.”

She sighs at me once more, and for a moment, I wonder if her shoulders might actually droop to the floor. “We get married. You go off to ride your white horse into your new kingdom. I stay here, hire one of Zeus’s old hockey buddies to follow Papaya when I’m at work—if I still have a job after this morning—and we tell people I’ll be following you to wherever you live once Papaya graduates high school. In the meantime, you pass a law to let divorced kings rule your little kingdom, and then we both go on our merry ways. We don’t even have to talk. Just pose for a couple pictures. Zeus has some friend in the romance novel industry. We’ll get him to find someone to write us a good cover story.”

The idea isn’t without merit. It would require some tweaking, but Peach?

Alexander’s horse-in-a-dress idea was on par with the idea of this woman being the queen of anything. I’ve been witness to her overprotective threats of bodily harm to His Highness, to today’s debacle, and to the aftermath of a spider incident she instigated with Zeus Berger.

The woman might walk more on the side of the law than her sister, but she’s still a bloody terror.

And every misstep by her—and by Papaya—whether here in the States or in Amoria, would be captured, scrutinized, and reflected upon the name of the royal family.

And that’s before any consideration of the amount of contact we should have were we to indulge in this crazy scheme.

Per Alexander, we would have to be convincing in acting as though we were in love.

I reach into the fruit bowl on the counter, snag a paring knife, and slice into a peach while I mull the idea. There would be complications of such a union, but having been witness to Peach’s discouragement of Miss Gracie in getting involved with royalty, I rather suspect she has as few other options as I do.

Namely, zero.

Unless she’s a hypocrite and has secretly always longed to be royalty, and merely objected to Gracie having a prince whilst she was still a commoner.

Though I rather believe her disdain for royalty was real.

And still is.

I pop the slices off the pit and into my mouth one by one. Peach’s brows are lowering by the minute, as though she’s irritated by my silence.

“Are you trying to make a point?” she demands.

“That I think before speaking?”

“That you’d like to slice me up and eat my bones,” she replies, her angry gaze dipping to my mouth.

I pause with another peach slice resting on my tongue.

That’s not anger flashing in her eyes.

That’s arousal.

Hidden behind bold words and a sassy tone.

I slip the fruit into my mouth and chew the sweet flesh slowly, never breaking eye contact with her. I don’t answer until I swallow. “No, my lady.”

She crosses her arms over her breasts. “This isn’t ideal for me either, but it gets us both what we want.”

“Both your and your sister’s antics would be a clear liability for a newly-installed king living under intense scrutiny.”

“That stick up your ass doesn’t appeal to me either.”

“I daresay my stick would be quite useful to you at the moment.”

Her gaze drops to my trousers. Her pupils flare wide, and she catches herself licking her lip as she snaps her eyes back to mine. “That’s enough with the innuendos, Viktor.”

The gods help me, I am not immune to this woman. Which would be quite the problem. “Is it? Because were I to be discovered in a sham marriage, my own fate would be far worse than the exile my grandfather endured, and I suspect your custody of your sister would be in far more danger as well.”

Her jaw opens, then closes, and her gaze meanders down the length of my body as though she’s sizing up a purchase.

Bloody hell, not even the idea of being weighed as nothing more than a piece of meat can stop the increasing pressure in my parsnips.

“You’re lying,” she finally says, though there’s no heat or conviction in her voice.

More like hope.

“Would that I were, my lady.”

“What happens if you don’t get married?”

“Then the two highest ranking noblemen shall split the country in a battle to claim the throne. In theory Parliament would intervene, but as Parliament is also split, most likely the country would erupt in civil war.”

She shudders. “All over a king?”

“Amoria calls itself the country of love, but I rather think my brother’s description of it as the country of passion is more apt.”

For once, she merely gapes at me.

“And have you no other options for a husband?” I press.

“If I did, do you think I’d be here?”

“Considering I come with armed guards, and I’ve met your sister a time or two, yes.”

“Considering I’ve met you a time or two, I’d think you’d know this is sheer desperation and not ideal for me either.”

I’ve obviously reached my wit’s ends, because I’m warming up to this idea. “If I were to even consider your proposition, I should require you and Papaya to accompany me to Amoria. I’ve no idea the caliber of training the Amorian guards have received, but I trust they’d be better suited to deter her unique brand of adventure and limit-testing than leaving her here to be guarded by a retired hockey player with possible brain damage.”

She makes a weak noise of protest, but I hold up my hand.

“It does not escape my notice that marrying into a royal family would provide you with some legal advantages given your current predicament as well.”

“I don’t give a rat’s patootle about those charges against me,” she fumes. “You know what they would’ve done to Papaya if they caught her in that balloon? Do you know what a juvenile detention center would do to her?”

Patootle? These people and their words. “Possibly instill a sense of consequences, my lady.”

“It would break her. And I won’t—” Her voice cracks. She sucks in a loud breath through her nose while color rises from her collarbone to her hairline. “My mama was sixteen years old when I was born. My meemaw raised me, because my mama wasn’t old enough. She still wasn’t old enough when Papaya was born, but I stuck my head in the sand and I told myself she was. That Papaya had two parents and a steady home and love and discipline and all that other stuff kids need. Except she didn’t. And it’s too late for me to fix it by myself.”

Something deep in my chest splinters.

When my grandfather fled Amoria, he changed his family’s name and found himself a quiet position as a private aide to Prince Manning’s grandfather. My father was able to attend university and married his soul mate, and I was born into a comfortable home life with two parents who loved me, who each worked jobs they loved, and who taught me right, wrong, loyalty, and integrity.

Character is formed in childhood. I was born at an advantage in a world that forgives little and remembers wrongs long after it has forgotten rights, merely because of the chance of to whom I was born.

Why do you not hate King Roland? I asked my grandfather once in my early teen years after spending an hour listening to tales of the glory days of his rule in Amoria.

Hating him would do nothing to improve the world, had been the answer.

I have no wish to be king.

But not being king, when the country my grandfather loved and wished to save again should crumble further into disrepair were it left to fate, would do little to improve the world.

And while I cannot save every child born into circumstances less ideal than my own, I have it within my capacity to save one.

And to save the closest thing she’s ever had to a parent at the same time.

“Your only wish is to provide a stable home for your sister?”

“If you won’t marry me, maybe Gomer Smith will. Now that I think about it, I haven’t asked him yet.”

The desire to smile takes me by surprise. I’ve no doubt Peach could succeed were she to decide Goat’s Tit’s randiest resident and owner of the world’s most annoying duck would make a decent co-parent to Papaya.

I’ve also no doubt he would make a worse husband than would I, and I’m reasonably certain I’ll be in no position to be a decent husband should I agree to this.

But Peach may very well be the only woman in the world who would prefer it this way.

“I shall require you to move to Amoria,” I repeat. I set aside the fruit and lift a hand before she can object. “I’m quite certain accommodations can be made to allow you to continue to function as needed with regards to your occupation. Should you wish to travel Europe and make business connections, that can also probably be arranged.”

“And where would Papaya go to school?”

“She shall be taught by the ninja mountain goats, as have every generation of Amorian children before her.”

Peach’s eyes bulge for a moment before her lips settle in a grim line. “You are not funny.”

“Your opinion on the matter does not bode well for the unique brand of relationship you’ve proposed, nor our requirement that we convince an entire nation of our utter and undying devotion to one another.”

“I could murder you in your sleep,” she mutters.

“And then Papaya would likely ascend to the throne, as exceptions are made for the marriage requirement when the incoming monarch is under the age of eighteen, though she would be required to marry—for love, mind you—by her twenty-first birthday or risk the country tumbling into civil war to find a successor.”

“Oh my lordy, I need a paper bag.”

“So you see, ‘twould be in everyone’s best interest for all of us to continue breathing, should we proceed with your plan.”

“Forget the plan. I wasn’t here. I’ll just—I’ll borrow Zeus. Or Manning. We’ll get hitched just long enough for me to get custody, then we’ll get divorced so they can get back to their lives.”

“Has Papaya been to the Continent?” I assume Peach has traveled extensively, as one can hardly co-own a flight adventure company and not fly away for adventures from time to time.

“She’s never even been to Mississippi.” She sags against the counter and gives me a wary look that’s far more dangerous than when she shoots daggers from her eyeballs. “Can you change the law? So you don’t have to be married? You’d be king, so you could do whatever you wanted, right?”

“Changing the laws would require an act of Parliament.”

“Then you better get crackin’. Because once I have custody of Papaya and you’re king, we can figure out how we’re going to unhitch ourselves.”

“And if it takes years?”

Her face goes ashen beneath her still dripping hair. “I’ll give you one year.”

“Papaya needs stability.”

“She needs a reason to care about the consequences of her life decisions. If it takes me more than a year to help her see the opportunities she has if she’d just stay out of trouble, then it won’t matter how much stability I give her.”

I would argue the point, but I suspect she knows her sister better than I do.

She knows herself better than I do as well. From what I’ve gathered about Peach, when she sets her mind to something, she accomplishes it.

Which makes me wonder if her objections to moving to Amoria were a ruse to get me to insist on such a thing.

My blood pressure rises at the idea that I’ve been played. “You’re forgetting something, my lady.”

“You want a prenup.”

“I require proof you can adequately pretend to have affection for me.”

“Shoot, Viktor, I can act with the best of them.” She smiles and bats her eyelashes at me, but it causes the entire left half of her face to twitch, and the smile appears more like a dying shark’s last gasping breath than anything resembling true happiness.

“We’ll be required to touch one another.”

“In public.”

“And when palace staff may be watching.”

There’s a flash of fear, and for a moment, my personal amusement at her twitching turns to guilt. But she squares her shoulders and juts her chin, pursing those red lips, and I see the same woman who just last week asked to speak with His Royal Majesty, King Tor, about negotiating use of airspace over Stölland for promotional videos that could be used for both the country and Weightless.

While she was calming baby Sophie during one of these blasted thunderstorms, no less.

“I can fake it if you can,” she declares. “Let’s go call us a judge and get the courthouse opened for a wedding.” She blanches whiter than snow and sucks in an unsteady breath. “Hoo. You’re a lucky man, Viktor. Wasn’t planning on pledging this set of brains and beauty to anyone. But you better believe this is a marriage on paper only. We’re getting us separate beds in the palace.”

Once again, I’m tucking in a smile. She’s all bravado, and it’s oddly reassuring to know that she has doubts.

That she is, in fact, human, and worries deeply about her sister enough to put her own life on hold for the betterment of the girl.

I pull my phone from my pocket and send a quick message to Alexander.

If I should fall desperately in love and wish to marry someone, would you join me in Amoria?

His reply takes only moments. Of course, though Samuel and I should require the largest bedroom in the palace. And we’d have to bring Mum along. You know I cannot possibly get along without her.

Any other day, that would be amusing. Neither of them can get along without the other, though they both complain about the silliest of things about each other.

I shall see you in a week then, I reply.

I tuck my phone into my back pocket and ignore the sudden persistent buzzing of the phone whilst I search the drawers for a notepad and pen.

Undoubtedly my brother demanding to know how I found a bride so quickly.

“Are you asking your mother permission to get married?” Peach asks. “Or are you asking Manning?”

I ignore her and write my terms on the paper.

Move to Amoria.

Security decisions for all to be made by Viktor.

Peach shall refrain from attempting to run the country, and shall only speak with members of the royal staff as approved by Viktor.

NO ONE shall know this is not a love match.

I hand it to her.

She skims it and rolls her eyes. “Afraid I’m going to embarrass you?”

“I’ve no idea the climate of the palace, my lady. It’s entirely possible none of us shall be welcomed with open arms.”

She purses her lips.

Of everything I’ve ever thought of Peach, unintelligent has never been on the list. Impulsive, yes. Irritable, yes. Trouble, yes.

But ignorant to the ways of the world, no.

Her pen tip hovers over the second line as though she intends to smear it out.

“Your options are my conditions or Mr. Gomer Smith, my lady.”

“You know no one here is going to believe this.”

“Won’t they? Some would say there’s such a fine line between love and hate.”

She purses her lips and looks again at the list, then lifts the pen and moves it to the bottom of the paper where she scrawls No sex, Talking for appearance’s sake only, Papaya’s needs come first, We separate after one year, and What happens in Amoria stays in Amoria.

“That’s all, my lady?”

There’s no request for assistance with her legal troubles. No addendums regarding income or queenly attire or first pick of the palace jewels. No insistence that she shall be granted land or a title.

“No, wait.”

She pulls the list back and scribbles three more lines.

Viktor will relegate all parental decisions regarding Papaya to Peach, and will relinquish parentage of her upon our divorce.

Meemaw is welcome to come if she wants.

Peach and Papaya will travel out of the country for holidays, weddings, and other family events as necessary.

“That’s it,” she declares.

I eyeball the last line. “If you intend to use traveling as a loophole—”

“I’m fixin’ to have a heart attack about this later, and if you repeat this I’ll deny it to my dying day, but leaving Alabama might be the only thing that can save Papaya from herself. She’s probably gonna hate me, and I’m already two seconds past regret that we’re even having this conversation. So you can argue with me, or you can take my terms.”

She pinches her lips shut as a tremble sneaks into her voice. She blinks away the shine in her eyes, and it occurs to me just how much she would be giving up as part of our bargain.

Her own home. The business she’s built from the ground up. Her friends nearby.

All for the sake of giving her sister an opportunity for a better life.

‘Tis a nobility I hadn’t expected in her.

“You don’t wish for intervention from the Amorian government in relation to your troubles today?”

“I can hire my own lawyers. And I’m changing my will. If I’m poisoned or die of unnatural causes over there in your little country, the whole world will find out our agreement. Just so you know.”

“I’ve read far too many mystery novels to use something so mundane as poison, my lady.”

“If we didn’t dislike each other so much, Viktor, we might actually have some fun with this arrangement.”

I fear she’s entirely correct.

“Speaking of disliking one another, there is one last requirement I must insist on.”

She eyes me with the wariness of an injured captive. “What?”

This is sheer madness. An impulsive, insane proposition that very well might destroy not just me, but an entire country and my ancestors’ legacy. “I must insist upon a kiss.”

Her lips part and she stumbles a half-step back, but recovers quickly with that chin jut. “And why in blazes would you go and do something like that?”

“If we can’t fake a simple kiss, we shan’t fake an entire marriage.”

“I can fake a kiss. I can fake a kiss better than any fake kiss you’ve ever faked.”

“Let’s get on with it then.”

She shakes out her hands as though she’s preparing to compete in some kind of Olympic weight-lifting sport. “Sure. Whatever. Fine. Let’s do it.”

“Pray don’t be so eager. I fear my heart could not take the teasing.”

“Shush. You can’t kiss and talk at the same time.”

“Are you nervous, my lady?”

“Does a cow have a unicorn horn? No, I’m not nervous. I’m working up my gumption. Plus, it’s not easy to kiss a man when I keep thinking about my sister.”

“Ah. I daresay I should have that problem as well, were I to think about my sister. Have you perhaps considered contemplating liverwurst and boiled cabbage instead?”

“No, but now I’m thinking about you getting your kidneys pecked out by crows, and I think I might be getting warmed up.”

I suppress a smile. If she’s aiming for bite, she’s missing it entirely.

“Shall we, then?”

She shakes her body once more, causing some jiggling in her breasts before she settles into a wide-legged stance, arms tensed as though she’s anticipating catching a ball. “Go ahead. I’m ready.”

There’s a half-meter between us.

She makes no move to close the distance.

Seeing as this is my brilliant idea, I suppose it’s up to me.

The theory is sound—if we are to continue along this questionable course of action, we do need to be able to fake affection. But I bump her arm awkwardly as I reach for her hip, and as I lean down toward her lips, we both twist our faces so that our cheeks smoosh together.

She makes a glerg kind of noise. Her skin is cold, her wet hair smears against my ear, and when I turn my neck to attempt to reach her lips again, she ducks her head, rubbing cold rainwater across my chin and mouth.

This won’t bloody well do.

I cup her ears, lift her head, and smash my lips to hers. Our bodies line up, the soft, wet pillows of her chest pressing into my ribs, her belly nestled against my hips, and then the most remarkable thing happens.

She loops an arm about my waist, and she parts her lips.

Her tongue makes a tentative stroke at my lower lip.

Her free hand slides up my arm, fingers splayed as though she’s testing the width of my biceps.

And all of my better sense flees my body.

My berries tighten. My twig strains. My mouth parts, my base instincts take over, and I lift her onto the counter.

Her legs clamp around my hips, a tight grip that could be either warning or wanting.

Her tongue strokes mine, a power play or a pleasure play?

Her fingers scratch at my scalp beneath my short hair, and an electric wave of sheer lust courses down my spinal cord.

I’ve suddenly no care if this is a war or foreplay.

I taste summer and sin, temptation and torture, and I want more.

Much more.

I’ve not kissed a woman in months, which is hardly unusual—my schedule and commitments do not lend themselves to much downtime—but I’ve never kissed a woman I would’ve considered marrying.

For any reason.

She bites my lower lip. I tighten my grip on her wet hair, pressing harder into her with my entire body.

Want.

More.

Her hips jerk against my aching flagpole, and I thrust my tongue deeper into her mouth to compensate for that hazy voice insisting thrusting anything else into her should be a mistake.

She digs her nails into my arse cheeks and yanks my rigid cock harder against her center, and warning bells ring out in my brain.

I’m kissing Peach Maloney.

We’re discussing marriage.

Moving across the pond. Together. With her hellion of a sister, and the gods only know what her Meemaw might be capable of.

I dimly register a hot, damp breeze rustling through the kitchen.

Voices.

Exclamations.

Peach and I leap apart. She cracks her skull against the cabinet. Her lipstick is smeared about her mouth, her legs still clamped around my hips.

I stumble, but only briefly.

“Oh, Your Majesty, this is such a relief,” a cheery voice announces in an accent I’ve not heard since my grandfather passed. “The palace advisors were concerned you were decidedly single. They’ll be delighted to see their concerns were unfounded.”

I belatedly realize the dark-eyed woman with Prince Manning is speaking to me.

No, not merely speaking.

Beaming.

Peach makes a strangled noise and finally unclamps her legs, scurries off the counter and snags our agreement from the table.

Our eyes lock, and despite never having concerned myself much before with the inner workings of her brain, it’s clear we’re sharing thoughts in this moment.

Our problems have only just begun.