Viktor

In the weeks since our weekend trip to the northern part of the country, life has been up and down. We’ll have a good week followed by a week where Peach spends much of her time at the school, always dressed quite casually, with little makeup, and I’ve come to realize those moments she’s photographed outside the palace with worry lines marring her forehead, a mug of coffee from a local bakery in hand, her hair a mess and her T-shirt barely covering her arse over her leggings, have resulted in some of the best press coverage of anything in the palace.

She’s not derided for her lack of decorum, but rather praised for being the people’s queen.

It’s both astonishing and a relief. I’d worried she and Papaya would be a liability, but as Eva relayed after Ms. Aurora’s anniversary dinner, the citizens of Amoria relate to a family with everyday issues.

Papaya’s issues are not helping Peach’s cause with the judge in Alabama though. I’ve requested the palace run interference, though I’ve not told Peach.

She’s rather convinced she’ll be unable to return to the States if the judge continues to be the arsehole he seems intent on being. I’ve no wish for her to return to the States, but I’ve no intention of keeping her here against her will either, regardless of how much I fear it shall wreck me when she leaves.

I merely hope by the time I’ve convinced Parliament to update the laws regarding succession to accurately reflect the intent of love, I’ll have given Peach no reason to want to leave.

Or perhaps that I’ll have given her reason to want to stay.

When she’s not managing Papaya’s mischief and school troubles—which seem to be improving as she’s finally clicked with her third private bilingual tutor helping her with math and science—she’s flitting about the palace making plans for fundraisers for troubled youth, explaining the theory of proper social media use to the palace’s small PR staff, and digging through letters in the mailroom—with help from her secretary—to identify the country’s most pressing needs.

The one thing she is not doing is actively participating in any planning of the royal wedding.

Nor am I.

“It’s not for us,” she told me last night when she crawled into bed. “So why do people keep asking me what I’m doing and not asking you?”

“People merely assume I’m incompetent at such things. Also, it’s common knowledge you’re also running the entire country behind the scenes,” I told her, which seemed to inspire her, as she spent the next fifteen minutes with my cock in her mouth beneath the covers.

And I’ve been quite unable to stop smiling most of the day today, despite the headache building from the mountain of paperwork requiring my attention.

And the distraction of snow falling outside.

I feel quite young at heart imagining myself shoving Peach’s head in a snow bank and dodging the snowballs she would undoubtedly aim at my head and my bollocks.

Which is the only thing getting me through an endless stream of appearances and meetings around town today. The hour is quite late, the sun already down, when I finally return to the palace. Alexander has been with me all day, quietly murmuring suggestions when I’ve reached my wits’ end with various issues and nonsense.

“You should be king,” I tell him quite honestly as we trudge through the palace, hoping Mum made dinner tonight.

“’Tis far easier to tell you what to do and let you take the fall should I give bad advice.”

He grins, while I rub at the sore muscles between my neck and shoulder.

“Speaking of advice,” he continues, “I recommend starting a books for children program.”

“Books for children?”

“Yes. A book for every child for their birthday. Have you happened to notice the demographics of your most vocal critics?”

I pause and look at my brother. “I hadn’t paid it any mind.”

“Of course you didn’t.” His lips twist in a wry smile. “Books for children. Funded by either returning or auctioning off your wedding gifts. And you shall be a hero amongst the demographic that matters the most.”

I was asked today to beseech Parliament for funding for science, for the environment, for infrastructure, and for economic development plans.

So very many economic development plans.

Nary a word about love.

Ironic, considering our little country’s claim to fame.

And I realize once again, I’ve slipped and am only hearing from predominantly male citizens.

I text Leonie to instruct her to cancel meetings with anyone for the next two weeks should he be unable to bring his wife, and then Alexander and I push into the apartment.

The first thing I notice is the heavy bass beat of music.

It’s not coming from the atrium, but rather a side chamber. I cast a suspicious glance up at the heart chandelier, which is vibrating in time to the thumps.

Alexander is looking up too. “We appear to be missing a party.”

“I don’t believe I would claim to be missing it.”

He laughs. “Of course you wouldn’t.” He’s whistling to the beat as he crosses to the door opposite the family kitchen. I follow along, wondering if Peach is enjoying herself, or if Papaya has brought in her alpacas and will momentarily accuse me of ruining her life when I insist the animals be taken back outside.

Alexander flings open the door, and we both stop.

The large, heavy couches have been pushed from their strategic positioning about the fireplace, and are now against the far wall, opening the rug-covered space as a dance floor.

Or a…something.

A familiar song blasts from a docking station atop the intricately carved marble fireplace featuring two naked cupids kissing beneath a gilded mirror, all of which are missing an arm or a leg or a corner. Peach dances in the center of the room, clad in hideous pink and green dinosaur pajamas, holding an imaginary microphone whilst she lip syncs to the lyrics. Something about an American sweetheart, sung at octaves only boy bands can reach, which explains the lip syncing.

Papaya, Mum, Eva, and Samuel are clapping to the beat from their perches on the red velvet cushions of the wood-carved palace furniture.

Peach wiggle-jiggles her body in some contortion that makes her seem as though she’s attempting to squash an elephant. Her arms flap, and she moves her head from shoulder to shoulder without tilting her neck, which is quite the most disturbing thing I may have ever seen.

She’s making quite the ninny of herself, and she’s also completely, unmistakably adorable.

Possibly she’s imbibed too much wine.

Or possibly she’s lost her grip on her sanity.

Or possibly she’s the fun that my life has been missing, and the blip in my pulse has nothing to do with exhaustion, or stress, or worry, and everything to do with home and family and love.

Standing there watching her shake her hips, bopping about and miming the lyrics to a boy band song, I’m struck dumb with the realization that I love this woman.

From the edges of my heart all the way to the depths of my soul.

I’ve never questioned my own strengths. My abilities. My loyalty, my determination, my integrity.

Yet I’ve never considered the value and importance of choosing to love someone unconditionally.

I love my mum unconditionally. My brother and sister, and Samuel by extension. I’ve had friends in the royal guard in Stölland, but never close friends.

Not the way Peach has Joey and Gracie. The family she’s made, rather than the family she was born to.

She’s suffered rejections. Injustices and indignities. Inequities.

And she’s not only risen above her circumstances, she’s shone. And quite brilliantly at that. Yet she gave it all up for the sake of poising her sister for success.

And despite all the reasons she dislikes patriarchal rule and tradition, she’s embraced the country of my ancestors and is working alongside me to better it as well.

All while adding this—laughter, merriment, a home—to my life.

She glances our way, but doesn’t stop dancing.

No, the diabolical woman crooks a finger at us.

At me.

Alexander chokes and sputters as he attempts to stop a belly laugh.

“Go on, Viktor,” Papaya calls. Her eyes are alight with amusement, her lips spread in as wide a smile as I’ve seen on her. Happiness. “Show Peach how to get her grind on.”

I tuck away a surprised smile of my own. “I don’t believe she needs my assistance.”

“If I can ride the surfboard, you can too,” Peach replies.

“Dear gods, is that what she’s doing?” I murmur to Alexander.

“Loosen up, Viktor,” Samuel says, smiling his own reserved smile. “I performed the Macarena with Meemaw. Certainly you can grind with your bride.”

“I missed the Macarena?” Alexander puts a hand to his heart. “I insist on a repeat performance.”

Samuel winks at him. “Later.”

Peach turns and twerks her luscious booty at me. “C’mon, Viktor. You know you want to show us all how it’s done.”

“There’s nothing a kingdom of love loves more than seeing a king dancing with the love of his life.” Alexander lifts his phone and switches to the camera mode. “Or a man being completely real with his horrible dance moves, yet dancing with the love of his life anyway. So very relatable to the massive portion of the population without rhythm.”

I’ve no idea if my brother is mocking me or pushing me along in my realization, but he’s quite right.

Peach’s arse is still shaking, and there’s a sensation growing in my knob that wouldn’t be unpleasant at all were it not for the company.

She looks over her shoulder, her face mostly shielded from the couches, a smirk and a challenge marring her lovely features.

Her gaze holds a teasing accusation of chicken.

Bloody hell, I’ve pulled my tie off, and I’m striding the seven paces necessary to reach her side.

I’ve no idea how to dance. Dabbing and flossing and twerking are not taught in defense training. But I sway my shoulders and shimmy my hips, because it seems that’s what’s expected of dancing.

Papaya shrieks with laughter, which makes Peach’s smile blossom brightly with unfiltered joy. My mum and Eva join in the laughter, and Samuel and Alexander share a look that suggests they’re each trying stoically for my sake to not laugh.

My face flames, but Peach grabs me by the hand and turns me. “Like this.” She puts her hands upon my hips and attempts to guide me, but having her hands on me serves to inspire parts of me more than others.

“Shake it, Viktor!” Papaya yells.

Eva whistles. “Take it off!”

This is the most undistinguished act I’ve performed since playing the part of a leprechaun’s pet pig in my second year of schooling.

Yet Papaya’s continued joy and laughter have lit Peach from the inside, and I should be quite happy to mortify myself for hours should it please them.

The song winds to a close, and Peach stops dancing with an out-of-breath laugh, then drops a horribly inept curtsy to the wildly clapping audience. I’m rather unsure what to do with myself, so I give a short nod.

Alexander is still aiming his phone at us. Eva whistles shrilly once more, and Papaya leaps to her feet. “My turn! My turn! I want that Half Cocked Heroes song!”

I angle toward the corridor that will lead me to escape, but Peach grabs my hand. The contact of our skin and the grip of her fingers send a jolt of sheer longing from my fingernails to my chest.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she says. “Not until the judges declare a winner. I had half a chance until you showed us your moves, but then, your mum hasn’t gone yet either.”

“I’m quite—”

“Stiff with that stick up your rear, I know, but sit. Some fun will do you good.”

I try—and fail—to stifle another smile.

Though why should I stifle it at all?

Everyone is happy. We’re home. We’re making ninnies of ourselves, but we’re doing it together.

I let Peach drag me to the embossed velvet couch. And then I take a stand.

Or rather, a seat.

I claim the open spot between Samuel and Mum before Peach can utter a word, and then I snag her about her waist and pull her down onto my lap.

That is how a man madly in love with his wife sits.

I’m quite positive. I’ve witnessed many a man in love this past year, and all of them are quite freely affectionate and touchy-touchy, as it were.

And I find myself utterly unable to let her go.

She twists in my lap and peers at me, her lips parted and plump, and there’s that stirring within my twig and berries again.

She’s not the same woman who took such joy in being a thorn in my side in Alabama.

Viktor, if you don’t let me into this house to make sure Prince Happypants is being good to my Gracie, I’ll have your nuts where your ears go before you can say boo.

Did a fire ant crawl up your butt, Viktor? Because I haven’t threatened your precious Prince Puckhead in at least a week, but you’re still insisting on practically doing a strip search to let me in this house.

Smiling’s good for constipation, Viktor. You should try it sometime.

Is it any wonder I enjoy baiting this woman so much?

She’s utterly baitable.

And stubborn.

And strong.

And utterly perfect.

She doesn’t speak now though. No, she’s putting too much energy into plotting something.

Her eyes are darkening and her breath quickening. There’s a stubborn set to her mouth that she always has before sass slips from those remarkably kissable lips.

She reaches out a delicate hand and caresses my hair. “Missed me that much today?” she inquires softly enough to be intimate, yet loudly enough to be overheard.

“And more, my lady,” I reply with bald honesty.

“I missed you more.” Her voice drips with honey and temptation, and for a moment, I allow myself to believe her.

“Rather unlikely.”

Her smile is growing wider, her eyes sparkling brighter. “We should play the I love you more game.”

“Y’all should shut up and quit being gross,” Papaya replies.

“I’m rather enjoying this,” Alexander tells her.

“You’re gross too,” she replies. She fiddles with the phone tucked into the docking station, and the hard strains of rock and roll shatter the relative peace of the room.

She strides to the center of the room, even more full of sass and confidence than her sister. After a quick flip of her hair, she cocks a hip, lifts an imaginary microphone, and mouths the first lyrics with all the intensity of the lead singer and his gritty voice.

Peach squirms in my lap, rubbing her arse cheeks against my hardening knob. She pauses only a moment, with a quick smile of triumph aimed at me, before turning her attention back to her sister.

But not before looping an arm about my neck and tickling me at my hairline.

By the gods, her fingertips are exquisite, sending electric sensations skittering across my neck and scalp. My eyes drift shut, my knob hardens, and everyone around me laughs and shrieks and cries in amusement.

“She’s quite good,” Samuel says.

“She gets it from me,” Peach replies, which causes a snort of laughter from her sister. Peach responds with a laugh of her own, her body shaking against me, and I drop my head deeper into the cushion of her bosom. I tighten my arms around her and sigh in contentment as her fingers drift into my hair and her fingertips lightly brush my scalp.

The last thing I remember is Peach shushing someone.

And then everything dissolves in a peaceful soft blue light, about the color of Peach’s eyes.