It’s not the first time someone’s thrown a black bag over my head, and it’s sure to be far from the last.

What can I say? I’m Percy fucking Owens. I live a decadently disastrous life. And when you live like I do, sometimes you just get kidnapped. It happens. No big deal.

The whole point of throwing a black bag over someone’s head is to either prevent the person from knowing where they’re going, or to keep the identity of the kidnapper a secret until the big, dramatic reveal.

The thing is, these fuckwits already revealed who they’re working for.

They’re preserving the secret location, then.

Which means it’s the first thing I want to find out.

My captors keep talking back and forth in French. They mention Anton’s name and his mother, Queen Estelle, a couple of times, but that’s about all I can make out.

When I get out of this, I need to take some French language lessons. From anyone who isn’t Anton, of course.

I don’t know where I am. I’m guessing it’s an upscale swanky hotel, and I can smell a faint scent of tea.

I’m forced down onto a chair. The bag is pulled from my head.

I whip my head from side to side, trying to remove the hair from my eyes.

I was right. I’m in a swanky hotel.

Across from me is the pretentious monarch of Menage, Anton’s mother, Queen Estelle.

The woman is a cantankerous old hag pushing seventy. She had Anton when she was thirty— I’m sure that’s because her dead husband loathed touching her.

Her hair is as white as a cotton ball. Lines run over her face like a well-traveled road map.

Her lips are as thin as a bobby pin. And just as rigid.

Though honestly, the biggest travesty regarding this woman is her fashion sense. Instead of wearing something flattering, she tries instead to dress like famous counterpart from England does—or did—back in the seventies.

Admittedly, I hold a bit of begrudging respect for the woman. She’s a strong-willed woman who’s run her country adequately, even in the face of those who said she wasn’t capable of doing so. But that’s about the only good thing I can say about the bitch.

“Mmph. I apologize for how my people treated you, Miss Owens,” she says with feigned sincerity. “Black is obviously not your color.”

She leans forward, lifts her cup of tea from the table between us. I look over my shoulders at her men in suits looming over me.

Then I look at my mother-in-law.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re heartbroken over it,” I say with a fake smile.

I lean and pour myself a cup of tea. From the floral and apple smell, I can tell it’s chamomile tea.

I hate chamomile tea. And she knows it.

Regardless. I drink it with a smile, just to spite her.

“I think you’re smart enough to know why I had you brought here, but given your history, I doubt it. Let me tell you, so that there’s no misunderstanding, Miss Owens. Whatever you feel for my son, regardless of whether it’s real or not, is irrelevant.”

She gets right into the insults.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I give the woman absolutely no satisfaction by reacting to it.

Even if I do want to pull her bottom lip over her head and kick her in her dried up, withered box.

“Irrelevant you say? And why is that?”

“Simply put, I forbid it.”

“Ummmm, excuse you?” I blurt out.

“I forbid you from being with my son. Let alone marrying him.”

I set my cup of tea on the table before I lose control and throw it in her face.

The queen takes another sip of hers. Those thin lips curl up into a smile that makes her look like a James Bond villain.

I get it, she loves her son. Fuck, I love her son. Even if I’m currently in the middle of an internal struggle to deny said love.

And I get it, she’s the queen of her own country. She’s used to giving orders.

It’s likely where Anton gets his attitude.

But like I told Anton earlier, I’m not one of her subjects to be just ordered around.

I live my life my way. By my rules.

It may not be the kind of life people like her approve of, but it’s my fucking life to live.

I make no damn apologizes for it either. And I’m not about to have my future dictated to me by the pastel-clad bride of Jack Skellington.

“And pray tell, Highness, just how do you plan on preventing me from being with your son?” I ask with more than a bit of hostility.

I’m pretty certain that her smile has turned into a snarl.

She looks like a predator, her lips pulled high above her gums. Though, not like the proud lioness I’m sure she imagines herself.

No, the woman looks like nothing so much as a scavenging hyena.

It’s unnerving to say the least.

“I’m the monarch of a sovereign nation. I have the authority to annul any and all marriages entered into by a citizen of my country.”

“Oh really? So your son’s happiness means nothing to you, does it?”

“My son’s happiness means everything to me. And he will be happy. Just not with you,” she says sharply.

“Really? Because let me tell you right now, he’s never going to find another woman that can suck his cock like I can,” I say as I lean forward. “And let me tell you, your son actually has a really nice, big cock, too. It requires someone skilled to do that baby justice.”

The high and mighty queen drops her tea on the floor. Her eyes go wide in disgust and awe.

“You know I’ve lost count of how many loads of his cum I’ve swallowed. It’s probably close to the same amount that he’s put in my ass. And your boy just loves to come in my ass.”

One of her henchmen behind me gasps. The other holds back a laugh.

I’m pretty sure that the woman in front of me is about to have a heart attack.

Me? My smile is as wide as the day is long.

“Who do you think you are?” Estelle finally manages to say.

“I know exactly who I am. I am your son’s lover. And nobody makes him happier than I do. Especially in the bedroom. Or when I’m letting him bounce his balls off my face on the dance floor,” I declare as I stand from my seat. “In short, Your Grace, I’m Persephone fucking Owens. And not you, or anyone else, is going to forbid me from doing anything I want to do. Ever. So if I want to marry your son, I’m going to fucking marry him. If I want to do these two henchmen of yours in a pool of cherry Jello, I’m going to do it.”

I turn from her as the color, the little color she has, drains from her face.

The two henchmen move out of the way as I approach.

I look over at the gaunt woman in her chair.

“Thanks for the tea, but next time, can you spring for the good stuff and not the generic off-brand? Tacky, babe. Seriously.”

I breathe a sigh of relief when the door closes behind me.

It felt good—damn good—to put that woman in her place. And the look on her face was priceless.

I just wished her fucking henchmen would have been nice enough to bring my shoes when they black bagged me. I’m going to have blisters by the time I get back to my hotel.

On the plus side, my little talk with Estelle has done wonders for my restless thoughts. I walk down the hall, smiling broadly, a skip in my step.

For the first time all day, I have a sense of clarity.

I know exactly what to do next.

Sadly for Estelle, her little plan has backfired spectacularly.

Because the only way for anyone to truly convince me to do something?

Is to tell me that I can’t.