Viktor

It’s been seven days since Peach and Papaya departed Amoria, and I’m quite upside down in my own skin.

Perhaps the weather has prompted my dark mood.

Or perhaps politics are catching up with me.

Or perhaps there are underlying emotions at welcoming my mum to the palace that should have been her home, where my father should have been the king.

Or perhaps, were I being honest with myself, I could admit that on top of my worry over my mum, I’m quite worried Peach won’t return.

And that I would be quite put out—I daresay even hurt—should she not.

The day Peach is due to arrive home, amidst a terrific bout of what I’m attempting to convince myself is a digestive disturbance due to this morning’s overcooked heart bacon and rubber eggs, and not worry, Leonie alerts me to a complication in my progress toward unseating the Duke of Prievia.

“He’s requested Parliament open an inquiry into the validity of your marriage, Your Majesty,” she reports as I’m attempting to make my way to a lunch meeting with Alexander after my language lessons. Samuel has also departed to tie up some loose ends in Stölland, though we’re all aware he shall return as soon as he is able.

My brother’s marriage is quite solid.

“And what proof would he seek?” I inquire.

“Some would say a pregnancy—”

I stop her with a look that used to be quite effective when I used it against those who attempted to gain unauthorized access to Prince Manning.

Leonie merely shrugs. “An heir on the way would be indisputable.”

“I believe I have a newly-repaired wall which would suggest I’m doing my part,” I say dryly.

Have I any wish to spread salacious gossip?

No.

But I have even less wish to inform Peach we must provide an heir. Especially as I’m not entirely convinced she’s actually returning.

“The other option, Your Majesty, is to proceed with a formal Amorian wedding.”

“Her Majesty is not fond of dresses.”

Leonie grins. “I know. She’s quite refreshingly charming in her own way. But if she truly loves you, she’ll wear one.”

“Would love not dictate accepting one another as we are, without the pomp and circumstance?”

“Only if one is not the king,” she replies pertly.

“That will be all, Leonie.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

I slip into the family wing and find Alexander, Mum, and Eva in our private kitchen, which smells so utterly heavenly, the crooked cabinets and cracked sink fail to raise my blood pressure with the reminder of one more thing that needs repairing.

Alexander is gorging his face with lamb stew and a thick slab of rye bread.

Eva is watching with undisguised amusement. “A man moves into a palace and becomes an animal.”

He lifts both middle fingers before diving back into his lunch.

Eva laughs, dimples popping out of her round cheeks. Two matching dark brown braids hang over her shoulders, with long bangs that don’t fit into her braids tucked behind her ears.

Mum swats Alexander on the arm. “Manners.”

Her gray hair is swept out of her face in a short, curly ponytail, and she has a dusting of flour on the back of her dark sweat pants. I wrap my arms about her and kiss the top of her head. “Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite person in all the world?”

“You just want my lamb soup.”

“And you’re my favorite person in all the world.”

“Kiss-up,” Alexander says through a mouthful of bread. “Oh, dear gods, Mum, we’ve missed you.”

Mum’s blushing as she passes me a plate. “Eat, eat. A king needs his nourishment. Has your bride arrived home yet?”

There’s that indigestion again. “The roads are unpredictable at this hour.”

I join Alexander in making quite a pig of myself—perhaps I’m not suffering from indigestion exactly, as I’m easily able to ingest two bowls myself—while Mum and Eva debate the best colors to use in repainting much of the palace. If your bride agrees, of course, they add every sixth or seventh color and room suggestion.

“I daresay she prefers the look of a castle that has been lived in,” I say when I come up for air. “Alexander is right. Mum, you may never leave us again. By the gods, I’ve missed good food.”

“Doesn’t your Peach cook?” she inquires.

Does she?

I assume she must, though I’ve yet to see her in a kitchen.

“Viktor, I heard the most awful rumor this morning,” Alexander says smoothly, as though he’s not saving me from yet another inquisition about my marriage. “And then I confirmed it for myself. There’s a bill up for debate in Parliament to fund renovations of a small number of private estates. Millions of dollars for three of Amoria’s aristocrats.”

“I was informed this morning. I’ve a meeting with the Prime Minister this afternoon.”

He frowns. “You’ll want to tread lightly. If you shut it down, you’ll be accused of wanting to save money to renovate your own palace. If you don’t, you’ll have an uproar from the lower classes demanding to know why you’re wasting their tax dollars on the rich.”

“And if I shut it down, I’ll also be accused of aiming to destroy the aristocracy.”

“Taking aim at the Duke of Prievia was quite the ballsy move.”

“What would you have done?”

“Had the man walked into my home and insulted Samuel and his brother? Quite the same, as I’ve not the stomach for chopping a man into small pieces and feeding his entrails to the goats.”

“That’s disgusting,” Eva interjects.

“’Tis nothing compared to what Viktor and Peach smelled of after their reception at the abbey. Have you been yet? Beautiful building. Gardens too, when there aren’t any polecats and hypocrites about.”

I sigh.

Papaya swore up and down—once she was free of the suit of armor—that she had nothing to do with the polecats. Peach chose to believe her.

I’ve set the royal guards to making quiet inquiries about who in the kingdom might have means to facilitate such an odd attack, but I fear my guards are still in need of more training, and possibly not as loyal as they ought be, which is why I was unable to pointedly direct them to interrogate the Duke of Prievia.

“I intend to tell the Prime Minister I shan’t sign off on any spending bills benefitting any less than the majority of Amorians.”

“Don’t be too hasty. Amoria has a shortage of skilled labor. They should put a bill forth to fund scholarships for trade and apprenticeships instead. Now, now, hear me out. At first, it seems to only benefit those who might go into carpentry or plumbing or wiring, but a greater pool of skilled labor will ultimately result in more construction, more jobs, and more improvements to all of the country.”

And this is why Alexander should have been king.

Country of love, my arse.

I am the king, and I have yet to bring the love back. I’m failing quite spectacularly. But not for long. My meeting with the Prime Minister will be quite unfortunate for him, I dare say. “Brilliant. And until such a bill is put forth, I shall eject anyone from Parliament who indicates a willingness to fund this renovation nonsense in any other way.”

“You’re quite good at making enemies, Viktor.”

“’Tis never been my job to make friends.”

“Yet you still managed to marry to a woman with a brain and a conscience.” Mum pats me on the cheek. “Well done, son. Your father would’ve been so pleased.”

I’m spared from the titters about the heat gathering in my face because at that precise moment, a cacophony of feminine voices erupts in the entry hall.

My heart leaps, relief floods my veins, and I stand so quickly I upend my chair.

Alexander lifts a brow.

Eva and Mum both squeal and dart out of the kitchen.

I follow on their heels, as I know an ambush when I see one.

“Oh my god, girls!” Papaya squeals.

Peach winces.

They’re pulling their own luggage, which I assume they’ve accomplished by beating the staff back with a stick and shrieking unique Southern threats. Both women are sporting fresh tans, and I find the utter relief that Peach has returned has put that thick glow back in my chest, along with a tightness in my turnips.

I missed her.

Even though she most likely would have spent the last week driving me mad with her obstinacy, I missed her.

“Please tell me you’re not a big ol’ stick in the mud like Viktor,” Papaya babbles to Eva. “How old are you? Like voting age, or drinking age? Do you like alpacas? Ohmygod! Fred! I have to go check on Fred!”

She drops everything on the floor and grabs Peach’s arm. “We have to go check on Fred.”

“We will—” Peach begins.

“Right now.”

I wade into the madness, my feet moving of their own accord, my hands too as I cup Peach’s cheeks and bend to press a kiss to her lips.

Her soft, plump, delicious lips.

I’ve not kissed her since we fell through the wall, and I’ve no shame in taking advantage of our circumstance of needing to feign love to reacquaint my body with hers.

She sighs softly and grips my shirt, parting her lips and leaning her hips into mine.

I’m instantly hard as diamonds.

What is this woman doing to me?

“Oh, god, already? You two are so gross.”

Peach is yanked away. She blinks in surprise, and I growl.

“’Twould be my pleasure to escort you to the stables,” Alexander interjects smoothly. “Eva, this is Papaya—the louder one—and Peach—the older one mad enough to marry our brother. And I’ve been derelict in my duties in failing to introduce you yet to Fred.”

“Hello—” Eva starts, but Alexander grips her by the collar of her crisp striped blouse and steers her toward the door.

“’Tis best we run before they continue getting reacquainted,” he says loudly enough to be annoying.

As though he shan’t behave as a lovestruck puppy when Samuel returns from putting his medical practice to rights back in Stölland.

“We—” Peach starts, but I don’t give her time to finish.

Instead, I toss her over my shoulder. She shrieks. “Stay if you wish,” I tell my family. “We’ve an appointment. Papaya, welcome home. Mum, Eva, excuse us. Introductions can wait.”

“They’re so disgusting,” Papaya whines as I carry a still gasping Peach toward the stairwell. “How old are you? Eva, right? I’m fourteen, but everyone always mistakes me for eighteen. So we can hang out wherever you want to. Do you have a cool accent too? Have you ever been to Alabama? I got to meet Dax Gallagher at the wedding. Do you know Half Cocked Heroes?”

She’s still yammering as the door closes behind us.

I expect Peach to insist upon being put down once we can no longer hear Papaya, but instead, her entire body seems to sag as though she’s happy to let me carry her burdens.

“Your travel was uneventful?” I ask as I turn us into the hallway.

Is it my imagination, or is she stroking my back?

“Papaya didn’t take any unplanned trips on the baggage carousel, end up earning herself an orange jumpsuit, or try to run away with the Bergers’ teenage cousins, so I think that counts. And Meemaw decided she wanted to visit friends back home in Alabama for a few weeks, so I only had to track one of them through the airports.”

“That does sound rather successful. And how was the wedding?”

She snorts with laughter. “Are you serious? You’re carrying me like a caveman and asking about the wedding?”

“I beg your pardon, my lady. One would rarely mistake you for a caveman.”

She laughs again, though she seems to be trying to stop herself. “You—”

Before she can finish, I enter our rooms. The door lists open, and it takes two tries before I successfully latch it shut. I settle her on her feet beside the four-poster bed. When I glance up, she’s gone from happy to wary.

The feeling is utterly relatable.

Her attention dips to my mouth, and everything inside me ignites.

“I feared you would not return,” I tell her softly.

“I keep my promises,” she whispers, her eyes still on my mouth.

“So you’ve returned for your word only?”

Her pulse is fluttering in her neck, rather as quickly as mine is. “I have a confession.”

Her voice is so soft I have to lean closer and strain to hear, which gives me an opportunity to inhale her tangy-sweet scent. “Shall I call the guards? Or are you hoping for a royal pardon?”

She doesn’t roll her eyes or tell me I’m not funny, and my heart surges into my throat.

I lift a brow, though I fear I’m failing to hide my own anxiety.

Did she enjoy the company of another man whilst she was gone? Commit an unspeakable crime? Confess to a reporter that our marriage is a sham?

“I…” She drops her eyes to the floor. “…missed you.”

My heart is once again pounding, but this time, I feel the beat surging below my belt. I swallow twice as my mouth has gone quite dry. “That’s quite the bold confession, my lady.”

“I just wanted you to know that I maybe…don’t dislike you…anymore.”

Her face has gone a lovely pink, and she’s tugging at the end of an errant lock of hair that’s fallen from her ponytail, still unable to look me in the eye.

“I quite missed you as well,” I tell her honestly.

“It doesn’t count if you have to wait to say it until someone else has already said it.”

She’s such a lovely contradiction of strength and sass and sensitivity. “Perhaps not, but ‘twas I who kissed you first upon your return.”

“You had to, or your family would’ve thought it was weird.”

“And if I kiss you now?”

“Then you’re just trying to prove a point.”

She’s retreating so quickly from her feelings, I wonder what could have possibly transpired in her life to make her fear them so desperately.

I take her hand and bring it to my lips, gently pressing a kiss to each knuckle. “Am I, my lady?”

Gooseflesh races up her forearm. She’s gained more freckles in the sun, an entire galaxy of stars mapped out on her skin.

“You’re cheating,” she whispers, which is a ridiculous argument meant to prick at my honor.

I ignore it, because I rather suspect baiting me is her intention. I lift her hand and kiss her palm.

She doesn’t pull away, though her entire arm does vibrate and tremble. Her pert nipples are standing erect and straining the thin cotton of her white blouse, and the sight makes my bollocks ache.

I wonder if she’s quite wet between her legs.

“You thought of me while you were gone.”

“O-only when M-manning’s new guard st-strip searched me.”

Despite knowing she’s lying, a surge of jealousy and possessiveness rips through my core and makes my cock swell harder. I move my kisses to her wrist, holding her dark gaze captive. “Ah, that must’ve been a joy for him. Pity I had to miss it.”

“You d-don’t care that another m-man saw me naked?”

“I assume you endured it while imagining he was me.”

Her lips twitch into a smile despite her obvious efforts. “You—” she stops with a gasp as I lick at the juncture between her palm and wrist.

“You missed me,” I remind her.

She hooks her free hand behind my neck and pulls me to her lips, devouring me with her mouth, hooking a leg about my hips. I lift her so that she can wrap both her legs around me, and sweet heavens, having her body nestling my aching cock once more is so bloody perfect.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she rasps out.

On the contrary, we’ve already changed everything. “Of course not, my lady.”