Chapter Twenty-Three
Dare
Royal banquets suck. Sure, the food’s gourmet and we get out the best crystal, but inevitably I’m stuck sitting next to some prosy bore and that’s before the speeches and the small talk. Plus, wearing a sword all night chafes, particularly since I’m not allowed to stick anyone who annoys me.
I’ve got a long list of people who’ve annoyed me and who deserve a good pricking. That’s a boner joke, get it? A good, hot rogering would definitely improve the mood of the present company. Luca slouches next to me. He seems too large for the gilt chair on which he’s sitting and I’m secretly betting he ends up on his ass before the night is over. It can be our halftime entertainment.
Nik’s on my other side, watching as Queenie politicks with various crowned heads of state. His wineglass sits untouched in front of him, as does the other seven glasses lined up like good little soldiers. Nik has a perpetual frowny face and a scar and he’s still a million fucking miles away even though he’s sitting right next to me. I’ve christened him Holy Saint Nik because his memory’s got more holes in it than Swiss cheese and he still hasn’t remembered he’s the goddamned king-to-be.
It’s been two weeks since I left Vegas and I’m no closer to figuring out a plan than before. Queenie hasn’t asked me again what my plans are for Edee. After we flew back to Vale and he took me to see Nik, he’s been focused on work. I know he’s brokered at least two international deals, because I was in the room.
Listening. Learning. I don’t think he’s given up on his plan to make me king.
Someone pauses in front of our glum trio. I force myself to paste a polite smile on my face because I actually like my cousin. He’s from one of the mountain tribes and they spend most of their time riding like demons and killing things. I’d rather not be their target.
“Your Royal Highness.” He says it mockingly, because another thing about the mountain tribes? They’re not big on authority. They’re much more into might makes right. Playing King of the Mountain with them growing up was highly educational.
“Taz.” I nod. My brothers follow suit. We look like fucking bobbleheads.
“Thank you for the invitation to the ball.”
“We’re having dancing?” Luca groans. “Fuck. Queenie promised tonight was dinner only.”
Taz winks. “The betrothal ball in two weeks.”
Say . . . what?
He pulls a cream-colored envelope out of his pocket and drops it in front of us. Damage done, Taz saunters off. Thank fuck he’s not interested in the throne.
We stare at the envelope for a long moment, then Luca pounces. Fucker always did have the quickest hands. He’d slap the shit out of us when we played War and he spotted a pair. He reads and I try to wait patiently. Who the hell sends paper invitations instead of email? Or one of those Punchbowl or Evite thingies?
“Gentlemen.” Luca shoves upright and the chair gives a protesting creak. “It appears someone has forgotten to invite us to our own engagement party.”
I hold out a hand and he tosses me the invitation.
King of Vale requests the pleasure of your company blah, blah, blah . . . betrothal ball for Their Royal Highnesses Princes Nikoloz, Darejan, and Luca. It’s got little gold crowns and goddamned pink roses on it.
I stand up. “Excuse me while I commit regicide.”
Nik slings his arm around my shoulders and bears down while Luca moves to block my path to Queenie. Apparently they’re not voting in favor of regicide, even though their names are also on the invitation. Fine. I look across the room and my gaze meets Queenie’s. He knows I know, and now he’s waiting to see what I do next. Still looking at me, he gestures to the other guests. Right. Crowned heads of state. Influencers. People who can be Vale’s best friend—or worst enemy. For God and country. I should get it tattooed on my ass, embroidered on a goddamned pillow. I can’t have Edee because she’s an American and as unroyal as they come. If I marry her, I can’t be king. I can’t be who Queenie needs me to be.
What Vale might need me to be.
I decide to take a temporary leave of absence and make my way out of the banquet hall. I need air. Time. A bloody miracle.
Luca falls into step beside me. “Tell me you have a plan.”
“You mean a not-get-married plan?” There’s no way he misses the note of incredulity in my voice.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “That plan. Bonus points if it covers the three of us.”
Apparently evading Queenie’s marital trap is a Three Musketeers endeavor in Luca’s mind—one for all, all for one. Maybe we should make a break for the border with our swords drawn and wearing ridiculous plumed hats.
“I’m already married,” I point out.
“Not in Vale,” he counters. “So there’s nothing stopping you from going to this ball with a ring in your pocket.”
“Other than personal inclination?”
“That, too.” Luca shrugs. “But that’s more of a hope or an aspiration, while the situation calls for a solid plan.”
“Too bad I don’t have one.”
“Think.” My brother smacks me on the shoulder.
Running is out. I tried that—and it’s the wrong thing to do. Unfortunately, it’s also what I’m best at—that and making a scene. Trying to solve this problem with flight and flair, however, seems like trying to MacGyver two matchsticks and a piece of tape into an atomic bomb. It’s a great attempt, but doomed to failure.