Viktor

I’ve never wished to live in a palace. Perhaps because I’ve served in a palace, or perhaps because I was raised with the stories of my grandfather being banished from this palace, I’ve always preferred simple lodgings. I require a bed, a comfortable chair for reading, and access to a toilet and a basic kitchen. No more, no less.

I’ve suddenly inherited much, much more.

All of it in need of attention.

And if this is the state of the palace, what, exactly, is the state of the country? Alexander expressed belief it was in need of help, but I daresay even he was unaware of how much work might be required.

“Are you sure there are men who would go to war over this? Or did you trick me?” Peach murmurs as I assist her from the car.

“Never underestimate a man’s desire to outrank another.” I rather suspect she’s correct. It seems unlikely there would be any duels fought over the palace, and I’ve seen enough of the country’s finances to know it would take a madman to want to fight for this.

Although, if I’m saving my grandfather’s country from madmen, then I’ve already done more than I thought I might. And setting foot on the ground that he once walked and ruled has an odd nostalgia rising in my bones.

Would that my father could be here instead. He missed his own opportunity by mere months.

“Good thing you don’t have to worry about Manning having palace envy if you ever need his help,” Peach adds softly, grounding me firmly back in reality.

Something is clearly amiss, because she’s just referred to Prince Manning with nary a smirk or lip curl. “Are you quite all right, my lady?”

“Jet lag,” she replies shortly.

“Jet lag assumes your body is on a normal rhythm to begin with,” Papaya counters, bordering again on sullen. “Since you haven’t slept in a week, it’s biologically impossible for you to have it.”

“Leonie, Papaya would like her room decorated in pink with bunnies and lambs painted on the wall,” Peach says.

“Leonie, I want my walls painted black and skulls lining my shelves.”

“Peach always wanted black walls and skulls too,” Meemaw says.

Papaya frowns at her sister. “No, she didn’t.”

“She did. And we had a hell of a time covering it up when she decided red was more her style.”

“The color of blood,” Peach says with a smile.

Papaya frowns. She’s in a black dress with red trim. “Can we go jet skiing on that lake in town?”

No one answers, because the rotund gentlemen I recognize as the king’s—as my senior butler steps forward with a bow. “Your Majesties. My ladies. Welcome home.”

Fred the alpaca emerges from the back of the SUV with the help of one of the guards, and he makes a mooing sort of hum.

Thomas blinks twice. “And you’ve brought your own farm animals. That’s…excellent, Your Majesty.”

“Just Fred,” Papaya says. “He’ll need a bed in my room. And I need a book on alpacas since I’m not allowed to touch electronics under penalty of being hung up by my ankles in the dungeon.”

While Thomas and Leonie share a look and mutter to each other in Italian, their tones suggesting alpacas in the castle would be irregular, even for this castle, Meemaw pulls out her phone, pretends she’s being discreet, and snaps a picture of Thomas.

Peach squeezes her eyes shut.

I’d tell her she’s lovely in her ivory pantsuit, but I suspect she’d view the compliment with suspicion, as would I if she were to tell me this bloody tie makes me look extra tall.

And it would hardly aid our ruse of newlywed lovers were I to tell her the bags beneath her eyes make them appear extra blue, though she would most likely appreciate the honesty.

And I am rather captivated by that shade of blue, regardless of its cause.

“My lady, perhaps you should see your accommodations before we decide the best location for your…Fred,” Leonie suggests to Papaya.

“Leave the alpaca outside,” I tell her.

She opens her mouth to argue, but Peach wobbles and sways into me at that moment, as though jet lag and pure exhaustion truly are catching up with her, and I seize the opportunity whilst tucking Peach’s arm into my elbow. “The longer we discuss this, the greater chance of your sister fainting at all our feet.”

I’m reasonably certain Peach will attempt to shave the shape of someone’s genitals into my hair for that, but Papaya’s stubborn mask drops long enough for genuine concern to shine through. She bites her lips and glances between her new pet and her sister.

“If anyone absconds with your alpaca, I’ll order his head off,” I tell her.

She fights a smile and wins, but she also nods. Leonie clears her throat, and Thomas’s eyes have swollen nearly out of their sockets.

Peach squeezes my arm.

It’s a subtle gesture, one that she would undoubtedly deny or blame on being overcome at the events of the past several days, but it warms my skin and causes an irregular bump in my chest, not to mention what it does to my knob.

“To our chambers, please.” I nudge Meemaw, who jumps as though she’s unaware that I’m aware of how many pictures she’s taken of the royal butler. “And if that ends up on Instabook or Twittergram or whichever social media site you prefer, I’ll have your telephone privileges revoked as well,” I say softly.

Peach narrows her eyes at me as we’re led through a door in need of a carpenter and into a hallway in need of a flamethrower.

“Would you like palace staff posting pictures of your sister on the internet?” I inquire.

She grimaces and stays quiet.

And she doesn’t pull her arm back.

Quite fascinating. One might actually mistake us for a normal, functioning couple.

Which is the point. But she’s already acquired what she wanted from this union—guardianship of Papaya.

I quite wonder when she’ll disappear from the castle in the dead of night, leaving me to play the role of broken-hearted king. Despite the final paperwork being left to do, she’s been allowed to leave the country with Papaya. What need has she of me now?

Leonie and Thomas guide us through the side wing of the castle and out to the center courtyard, which is desperately in need of a pruning. “You can access your apartments through the castle proper, of course,” Leonie tells me, “but there’s a tad bit of work going on in both wings, and we thought you’d like to see the flowers and shrubberies.”

There’s a large fountain being choked by the aforementioned flowers and shrubberies, though the water isn’t working and one of the cherubs is missing an arm. And possibly a bucket or a bowl.

But the two men standing behind it, one gesturing animatedly, the other standing still and pensive, are such a welcome sight that I smile my first honest smile in days.

Alexander smiles back at me. “Ah, Your Majesty.” He sweeps a low, exaggerated bow. “We were just discussing having your face sculpted onto this fountain so that you could spit water at birds for all of eternity. That will be all, Thomas. We’ll take it from here.”

“Your Majesty—” Thomas begins.

“Thank you, Thomas. That will be all,” I repeat.

“Your three o’clock—” Leonie starts.

“Is still an hour away.”

“And you’re in need of food and a change of clothing, Your Majesty.”

Alexander’s smile is half-grimace, half amusement. “’Twould be my honor to escort the queen and her family to their new home whilst you’re occupied with your kingly duties,” he tells me. He gives me a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Good to see you, old man.”

“You too, you pain in the arse.”

He’s laughing as he bends to press a kiss to Peach’s cheek. “Welcome to the family, you poor thing. I’m Alexander, but you’re welcome to call me your favorite brother-in-law.”

“Trying to outcharm your brother already, are you?” Peach replies with a smile.

“I do that merely by breathing, my lady.”

“Your Majesty,” Leonie says again.

Alexander pulls Peach away. “Come, let’s get you rested so that I can decide if you or my brother got the worse end of this marriage. Vodka, wine, or would you prefer some of the finest Stöllandic mead that mere commoners such as myself must smuggle into the country in our suitcases?”

She smiles broader, and an overwhelming irritation claws at my gut. I clear my throat.

Alexander lifts a brow at me, his own lips twitching higher. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I’ll thank you not to steal my wife before I kiss her goodbye.”

Her eyes momentarily flare wide before she catches herself and forces a pale smile. Alexander swipes a hand over his mouth, clearly amused, and releases her.

The crisp, fresh Amorian air must have infected my brain, because I’m actually anticipating kissing Peach again.

To throw her off-kilter, I tell myself, though it’s a lie.

I close the two steps between us, and this time, I don’t fumble with pulling her into my arms. She visibly shivers, but she doesn’t break eye contact.

And despite the dark circles, despite the rigid set to her jaw, there’s heat lurking in the depths of her eyes. Her fingers settle on my biceps, and she tilts her chin up.

“This is so gross,” Papaya mutters.

Peach doesn’t flinch.

I lower my head until our lips brush.

There’s no need to make the kiss long, but the idea that she expects a short, sweet, for-show-only kiss has me quite put out.

I’ve no options of kissing another woman for at least a year, possibly longer, should Papaya take well enough to Europe that Peach wishes to stay until she’s of age to attend university.

Why should I not enjoy a kiss from the only woman I’m allowed to kiss?

She gasps when I lick the seam of her lips, and I take advantage of them parting to suckle her lower lip between my teeth. Her fingers dig into my arms, her nails sharp and dangerous, but her tongue touches mine, her breasts press into my chest, and I realize I’ve awakened a beast.

She intends to make me break first.

Well then.

We shall see who can outkiss the other.

I stroke up her back whilst I stroke into her mouth with my tongue. She retaliates by gripping my tie and pulling it tight. I trail my hand back down her spine to cradle her arse cheek. Her tangy scent blends into the mountain air, her hot hands electric in the sunshine, her plump lips silky and welcoming.

I should not want to kiss this woman. She’s been contemptuous and mouthy since the moment we met.

Yet I can’t resist seeing how far I can push her.

At the risk of my own enjoyment.

She sucks on my tongue and makes sparks explode behind my eyelids and sends every nonessential blood cell in my body—and quite a handful of essential cells as well—careening into my twig and berries.

The gods have mercy, she may well win this round.

I press her hips hard to the swollen thickness of my cock, and I feel her smile against my lips.

As though she’s tasted victory.

As though my instinctive reaction to a woman’s touch is her doing.

Which I very much fear it may be.

Yet I still can’t bring myself to stop touching her. Kissing her. Holding her.

‘Tis a matter of principle.

And appearances.

And—

“Quit sucking my sister’s face, you asshole.”

A shower of cold, musty water rains down on us. Peach gasps and sputters, leaping back. I spin toward the danger, and find Papaya standing wide-legged with the broken vase of the cupid from the fountain dripping in her hand. She points it at me. “Keep it in your pants, you dirty old man.”

“Miss, you’re not to speak to the king that way,” Leonie bristles.

“’Tis a family matter,” I tell her. I look to Peach, whose hair is dripping, her wet suit slicked to her breasts as she murmurs something to Papaya. When her gaze shifts to mine, I nod to her. “And I shall see you this evening, my lady.”

She doesn’t blink, but instead, holds my attention captive. It’s a struggle to not look down.

It’s also a struggle to not toss her over my shoulder and order the palace empty so that I might consummate my marriage, our agreement be damned.

“I suppose you shall,” she murmurs.

“Hoo, mercy, it’s hot out here,” Meemaw says, tugging at the collar of her wildly colored and quite loose dress.

Peach grabs both Meemaw and Papaya by their elbows. “Did you say something about beds?” she asks Alexander in that Southern accent that seems to stand out brighter here amongst the mountains. “These two need naps before they’ll be fit to be introduced to anyone, especially family as charming as you.”

I fear I need a nap before I shall be fit to do anything.

Or perhaps another bucket of water to the head.

I married Peach so that I might save my grandfather’s country.

Not so that I might lose myself in becoming obsessed with my wife of convenience.

I’d do well to remember my priorities.