Viktor

While I’m generally quite competent at reading expressions, I find myself utterly unable to translate the pensive look drawing Peach’s light brows together as the armored stretch SUV in which we’re riding takes yet another turn in the mountains of Amoria.

We’re twenty minutes from Cara Palace in Cherise, the capital city of Amoria, and I fear she might be plotting my demise.

It’s rather easy to read Papaya’s sullen pout and Meemaw’s gasps of delight as she clicks pictures of the Alps at every bend in the road. But Peach—she’s neither sullen nor delighted.

And still ridiculously quiet, as she has been since the moment we set foot on the aircraft in America.

Unlike Leonie, the palace representative sent to fetch me last week, who is still talking. She’s a chirpy girl of no more than twenty-five, with curly black hair, a perpetual smile, and the suppressed energy of a squirrel. She’s spent the past week jabbering at me in near-perfect English, though I’ve also heard her use German and Italian, the two official languages of Amoria.

“The coronation shan’t be for another six months, Your Majesty, as we need to give the country time to mourn, of course. However, as your marriage is new, I’ve taken the liberty of authorizing a wine and cheese garden party next week with the nobility so that they may congratulate you. Before then, you’ll be meeting with several of the European Union’s Heads of State, of course, and Her Majesty will also be—”

“Ill,” I supply.

“Indisposed,” Peach corrects.

From the evening of our hasty marriage until our departure from the States last night, a week later—temporary custody papers signed and rushed passports in hand—I’ve not seen her alone for more than five minutes’ time, and we’ve not agreed on anything in those five minutes, from the necessity of packing pillows—completely unnecessary—to the idea that we might travel separately—ludicrous.

Though I daresay we have a shared low opinion of the judge who failed to request a background check on me or even interrogate me beyond asking if it was true that I was to be the king of a country before agreeing that Peach might continue adoption proceedings for Papaya now that she’s wed.

It rather put Peach’s predicament into a new light, and I suddenly understood why she might have trust issues, with role models such as that judge.

Had he not seemed to consider Peach’s gender a larger issue than her capability, I should have been pleased at his request that we provide regular reports from the Amorian school district about Papaya’s progress, and that we reappear near the holidays for finalization of the adoption should we prove adequate parents.

As the judge has no doubt I will accomplish, as he told us directly.

“I’m free to hang out with everybody,” Papaya announces, her scowl momentarily abating. “I can schmooze with the VIPs. You know, the Very Important Presidents. Do any of them have Very Cute Sons?”

“No,” Peach, Leonie, and I all answer. Meemaw gasps and takes another picture of the mountains. It seems she’s not been outside the southeastern United States in her entire life either.

“Can I get a mountain lion?”

“No,” we chorus again.

“What about a mountain goat?” Danger is now brewing in the girl’s expression.

“Miss, he’d eat all your shoes,” Leonie tells her. She switches to German and says something to one of the guards.

My German is rusty—my father spoke it less and less as he aged—but I’m fairly certain she just asked the guard to confirm the escape route in the north tower has been sealed.

I stare at her as I would anyone I’d caught rifling through His Highness’s—through Manning’s drawers.

She ignores my silent inquisition, which makes me wonder if the palace staff is accustomed to being abused by the monarch, or if she’s merely inept at reading facial expressions. “And I’ve scheduled you with the Italian and German tutors for every morning for the next month.” She continues to go through her phone, spouting off details about meetings, appearances, and ceremonies.

“Have my family arrived?” I interrupt.

She darts a look at Papaya and Meemaw.

Not because she’s confused as to which family I’m referring, I’m quite positive. Rather, I suspect she’s wondering how my mum, sister, brother, and brother-in-law shall take being related to people named Peach, Papaya, and Meemaw.

I’ve had little time to share details with my family this past week, which has honestly been somewhat of a relief, though I know I’m merely delaying the inevitable.

“Your brother and your—er, his—ah—”

“His husband,” I supply.

She touches her neck and buries her head over her phone as though she’s consulting something. “Er, yes, Your Majesty. Your brother and his husband have arrived. As you requested, we’ve settled them into the finest bedroom in the king’s apartment.”

Peach slides an unreadable frown at Leonie.

I’m aware of which laws she wishes for me to address first for changes and modern updates, but I have my own agenda. Hers shall have to wait.

“Ooh, look at all the people. Hi, people!” Papaya hits the button on her window, it rolls down, and she waves at a small crowd of no more than seven squinting at us from the gravel driveway of a chalet. “Do you have a goat I could—”

Peach lunges for the window button at the same time I dive for Papaya and yank her back. The guard in the front seat belatedly moves, sees that we have it under control, and says something in Italian to the driver.

“Is he locking those?” I ask Leonie.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she answers promptly.

“Pray do not fall out the window,” I tell Papaya.

She rolls her eyes.

“Open that window again, and we’ll chain you up in the dungeon,” Peach adds.

“Oh, sweet,” Papaya replies. “Are there skeletons? And spiders? Can I have a sleepover in the dungeon? You’ll probably have to buy me dolls to sleep over with though, since you’re not going to let me have friends.”

Peach’s cheek twitches, and the scents of guilt and regret waft through the interior of the extended SUV.

“You’ll make plenty of friends,” she says quietly. “And if a sleepover in the dungeon is what you want, then I’m sure we can make that happen.”

“Right. Until it’s too dark, or too musty, or too unguarded.”

“Papaya—”

“Stop!” Papaya shrieks. “Stop the car!”

The car slows. Leonie says something to the driver in Italian, the front seat guard answers, and Papaya bangs her shoulder into the door, yanking on the handle that thank the gods appears to have been disabled from the inside. “Stop! That poor thing! He’s hurt! And we’re just leaving him there!”

“Who?” I demand.

“What?” Peach adds. “Where?”

The car slows again. Papaya’s still banging on the door, attempting to go through the metal. “Stop,” I tell her.

“Back up,” she yells. “Back up!”

“Papaya—” Peach starts again.

“You take me from my home and you drag me halfway around the dadgum world and Fred’s back there hurt and scared and needing me and you won’t back up!”

“Fred?” I signal Leonie to have the driver turn around, though my instincts tell me I shouldn’t. How in blazes would Papaya know a man’s name?

Still, if someone’s hurt—

Peach shoots me a look I can’t read.

It might be thank you.

Or it might be excellent work, numbskull, you’ve just failed your first parenting test.

Whatever it is, it’s definitely not Once we’re at the palace, I intend to corner you at the first opportunity, rip your clothes off, and see if we can replicate that kiss from the night we wed, because I’ve been unable to think of anything but your hands and your mouth and your body since.

Not that I’ve had any such notions.

I’ve had precious few moments of enough peace to allow them.

And I like to think I have a few more bits of sanity left that would prevent such thoughts.

But it seems I have no say in the matter, as my mind occasionally has a mind of its own.

As does Peach.

Which is one of the things I find so utterly fascinating about her. She all but rolls her eyes at every mention of royal this or palace that in private, yet she’s dressed smartly as a queen and hasn’t pulled out a single one of her nonsensical Southernisms, nor has she threatened anyone’s kneecaps, manhood, or faces within earshot of Leonie or the Amorian palace guards.

Perhaps I have found a suitable stand-in for a wife.

Though as she intends to leave me, ‘twould be in my best interest to spend as little time dwelling on her as possible.

We backtrack a kilometer, and Papaya once more tries to break through the door as we approach an animal tied to a mail post at the end of a gravel drive leading up the side of the mountain.

“Oh, dear heavens,” Leonie murmurs.

“What does the sign read?” I inquire of Leonie. The item in question is homemade, crookedly sticking out of a clump of overgrown grass, with something scrawled on it in Italian in dark, bold letters.

“It says Fred’s starving,” Papaya replies.

“Is that a goat?” Peach asks.

“Neck’s too long. Maybe some kind of Amorian dog with a skin condition?” Meemaw suggests as she snaps pictures of it.

“Looks like a miniature camel crossed with a giraffe,” Peach muses.

“Camels have—ugh—humps—oof—and Fred—erp—doesn’t,” Papaya informs us all primly while she attempts to yank the door handle out of its hinges and dislocate her shoulder with the glass of the window.

Ah, to be young again.

The animal in question appears to be a tan sheep with a long neck, crooked ears, and thick black fur obstructing its eyes over a heart-shaped nose at the end of a short snout.

The rest of its fur is coming out in clumps, one of its legs is bandaged beneath the knee, and it keeps opening its mouth as though it’s attempting to snatch flies from the air.

“It’s an alpaca,” Leonie informs us all.

“Oh, a llama,” Meemaw says. “He’s so broken, I missed it the first time.”

“An alpaca,” Leonie corrects. She attempts to say more, but I shake my head at her.

We’ve no time for picking up every stray animal alongside the road, and though I’ve known Papaya only a short time, I suspect this is another attempt to see how far she can push things.

“To the palace,” I order.

“No!” Papaya shrieks.

“The sign says it’s free to a good home, Your Majesty,” Leonie murmurs. “And the palace has stables.”

Peach twists to face us, blocks her mouth from Papaya’s view, and adds quietly, “And it’ll most likely be dead in three days by the looks of it.”

Papaya shoves her in the shoulder. “Not if I take care of him.”

“How do you know it’s a him?” Meemaw inquires. “I can’t see any dangly bits.”

“You can’t see anything at all under that furry bush,” Papaya replies.

Peach cringes.

I sigh.

Meemaw nods. “That’s a decent point, young lady.”

Papaya turns her blue eyes on me. “Fred needs me. Haven’t you ever had a pet? How would you have felt if your parents had tied it to the side of a road for any old stranger to come along and grab it? What if someone makes him into alpaca burgers?”

And now Peach is watching me.

Studying me.

Judging me.

“Have you ever had a pet?” she asks in a quiet tone that suggests she has, and she’s never quite recovered from parting with it.

I open my mouth, and then I do the one thing has never ended well.

I hesitate.

And ten minutes later, Fred is snuffling at my neck from the cargo space behind me.

Welcome to Amoria, Your Majesty.