This story is my final submission for the #WackyDrabbles. My first story for this weekly exercise was Driam, and it only seemed fitting that my last fic is Driam as well. (Thanks to @burnsoslow for the suggestion!)
I have had so much fun over the past practically three years coming up with stories, bouncing ideas, and interacting with the authors and participants, and while I know it’s time to take a bow … I kind of don’t wanna. I’m gonna miss this.
Thanks to all who read this over and bounced ideas with me. Any and all mistakes are mine. Forgive them.
The prompt is: That was really, really good and will appear in bold.
All characters belong to Pixelberry except for Wesley and George.
The two friends settled back in their chairs, snifters of brandy cradled in their hands. Remnants of dinner littered the white china plates before them: Porterhouse steak in garlic butter; baked potatoes topped with butter, cheese, and sour cream; summer squash and onions sauteed in butter. Dessert had been vanilla bean cheesecake drizzled in caramel sauce.
Drake Walker leaned back in his chair, patting a palm against his still-taut stomach. “Damn, Li. That was really, really good.I don’t think I could eat another bite,” he complimented.
Liam glanced up, a forkful of cheesecake poised at his slightly parted lips. “I’ll be sure to pass your praises along to the kitchens.”
Drake’s eyes took in the King’s appearance: his raven locks were still full, although streaked with some gray as was the stubble dotting his jawline; his body was still toned and firm. Dark bags sat beneath his eyes, speaking to nights that were either long or sleepless.
It was still beautiful.
Similarly, King Liam was appraising his childhood friend: Drake’s physique was still broad and muscular, his dark brown hair still worn just a little too long; his nose crooked from being broken when he fell out of a tree at Applewood many moons ago.
A life spent outdoors amongst nature had burnished his skin; that coupled with the gray hairs at his temples had made him even more handsome, if that were possible.
The men had been friends for nearly all their lives, with over half of those years spent with an uneasiness that had become almost comfortable.
But not quite.
“How are you doing after the divorce?” Drake asked quietly as he tipped the glass to his lips.
Liam looked away from Drake, contemplating his dinner plate as he swirled the dark liquid in his snifter. “It was a long time coming, and for the best,” he answered slowly. “The girls seem happier, and certainly the former Queen is.”
Drake nodded. “I’ll bet. People always talk about staying together for the sake of the kids, but I think kids just want to see their parents happy.”
“Wise words from the man who never married nor fathered children,” Liam gently teased.
Drake shrugged. “Hey, life advice is why you keep me around.”
Liam shook his head slightly as he lowered his head to hide the blush blooming on his cheeks.
There are other reasons.
The uneasiness that had lain between them for over 20 years reared its head quickly as if startled from slumber, but both men learned long ago how to navigate around the elephant in the room.
Age 16: The teenagers were in the Palace gym’s shower; bodies that were formerly covered in sweat were now slick with soap and iridescent bubbles. Liam’s eyes had wandered over to look at Drake’s naked physique while the young Commoner was rinsing shampoo from his hair. He was mesmerized by the rivulets of water running freely down Drake’s back to disappear into the cleave of his buttocks.
When Drake caught Liam staring, the Prince quickly averted his eyes, cursing his raging erection., which he couldn’t hide.
Age 17
The two boys were on the balcony off the West Wing ballroom; in their hands they clutched gold and crystal patterned highball glasses filled with vodka, ice, and lemon-lime soda. Liam takes a sip, his expression one of frustration.
“I can’t even taste the vodka!” he complained.
Drake smirked at him. “Because it’s the good shit. Pure vodka tastes and goes down like water, until you’re flat on your ass drunk. That’s why I try to stick to dark liquor.”
Liam stared at Drake, his eyes wide with surprise. “This isn’t your first time?”
Drake sat his glass on the stone parapet, the tinkle of glass against rock swallowed by the music and laughter of partygoers drifting from the open doors. He shook his head as he stared into the gardens below.
“No,” he replied in a voice pregnant with emotion.
His answer hung heavy in the air between them, both knowing he was referring to more than just the vodka.
Liam angrily punched Drake’s arm. “We’re BEST FRIENDS, Drake! We’re supposed to share these things with each other!”
Drake turned, his face a myriad of emotions. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm.
“Share what, Li? That my mom no longer accepts my phone calls? That you and Beaumont were the only ones to remember my birthday? That all I want to do some days is pack a bag and just … go! But I can’t because I’m the only guardian my little sister has now.”
Drake brushed angry tears from his eyes as he turned back to face the balustrade, his eyes blinking rapidly. Liam took a cautious sip of his forbidden drink before stepping closer to his friend. He wanted to take Drake in his arms, kiss his tears away, and promise him everything would get better.
Be better.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he stood next to Drake, looking up at a night sky filled with stars that twinkled mockingly at him.
“What do you need from me, Drake?” he asked softly, knowing he would do whatever Drake asked.
Drake stiffened. “Anything?”
Liam nodded. “Anything,” he affirmed.
“Go camping with me! This weekend, just me and you. I have the equipment, and we can borrow the Jeep from the garage,” Drake’s voice and eyes pleaded with Liam to join him, assure him … be with him.
Before Liam could answer, they were interrupted by Leo, the Crown Prince, clearing his throat. The two teenagers glowered at him, irate at being interrupted.
“Dinner’s being served and heads up … we’re accompanying father to a summit in Switzerland this weekend, so don’t make any plans.”
Liam turned to Drake, his eyes threatening to spill over with tears. His arm reached out, but Drake shrugged him off as he backed away. The Commoner scooped his drink from the ledge, taking a long swallow.
“Go, Liam. Just … go.”
Age 21:
“C’mon, just eat a little of the soup,” Drake coaxed as he lifted a literal silver spoon to Liam’s mouth.
Liam shook his head. “I’m not hungry,” he muttered through the wire holding his broken jaw in place.
Drake sighed as he placed the utensil and bowl of nourishing broth on the bedside table. “You need food for strength and energy, Li.”
Liam’s ebony eyes slid from the open window to meet Drake’s gaze. “So someone can try to kill me again?” His voice was monotone, devoid of any emotion.
That scared Drake more than the physical wounds.
Everything about Cordonia scared Drake now.
When he left a year ago to pursue university studies in the States, the country was peaceful and at peace. Liam was Liam: happy with life and his lifestyle. He was spending time with the Duchess of Lythikos, but everyone knew Olivia was the driving force behind whatever was transpiring.
In America, Drake found fast food, cheap beer, and the star of the wrestling team, Wesley Chiang. Despite Wesley being a different ethnicity, the wrestler reminded Drake of Liam, a lot. Tall, broad shouldered, quiet but with an incredible sense of humor, studious, kind.
They dated.
Then three nights ago Crown Prince Leo and a group of King’s Guards burst into Drake’s dorm room while he and Wesley were cooking pasta for dinner, which was to be followed by a Chuck Norris movie; without a word, the sentries unceremoniously hauled Drake out of his domicile and into a waiting black limousine. A bewildered Wesley gave chase, but the muscle and bulk that served him well on the wrestling mat slowed his movements.
The wrestler had his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath as he watched the car’s taillights disappear into the darkness.
Wesley never saw Drake again.
Now Drake was back in Cordonia, tending to his best friend who had been the target of an assassination attack. He hadn’t left the Prince’s side since he arrived. Drake positioned himself on the bed so he was closer to Liam. His chocolate-brown eyes darted about the beautiful face before him, taking in scars, bruises, lacerations, whelps.
Liam’s eyes followed his suspiciously.
Drake leaned in closely, his lips kissing every aberration. Liam exhaled a shaky sigh, his breath hot and sour against Drake’s face. Lastly, Drake closed his eyes and placed a lingering kiss against Liam’s dry, cracked, and swollen lips.
He pulled away, his eyes gazing directly into the Prince’s blackened ones. “I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. I swear it.”
Age 23
“It’s BULLSHIT, Li, and you know it!” Drake raged as he paced the floor of Liam’s private study.
“I admit it isn’t fair, but what’s done is done,” Liam replied calmly as he poured himself a tumbler of scotch.
“WE are supposed to be going to America in two months! Why the FUCK did you say YES?”
Liam set the crystal-cut glass down with more force than necessary before whirling on his heel to confront Drake. “You think I had a CHOICE? If not me, then WHO? Tell me WHO, Drake!”
“It’s not that simple and you know it. Yes, the Duchess of Lythikos is next in the line of succession if for some reason the Rys bloodline no longer sits on the throne, but she and her duchy are still under suspicion for the assassination attack! If she assumes the Crown, the country is tossed into civil unrest. I won’t have bloodshed on my hands because you want to take a trip!”
Drake’s eyes widened in anger and disbelief. “A TRIP? THIS was our chance to live our lives! TOGETHER! To finally stop dancing around what we both feel, what we both want!”
Liam’s head fell forward; his heartbeat accelerated, and his throat constricted. “The needs of this country come before whatever I may want, Drake.”
His head lifted, his eyes pooled with tears. “I won’t stop you from pursuing your life, your dreams. Leo’s abdication only affects me.” His hand reached out to grasp Drake’s. “Maybe in another lifetime, another universe I could be free to explore with you. But not this one.”
Age 25
Liam stood in front of the full-length standing mirror, nervously knotting his tie. He was doing a poor job of it. His eyes lifted slightly, catching Drake’s reflection. His best friend, his best man was shaking his head, hand against his mouth trying to muffle his guffaws.
“There is nothing funny about this, Drake! Come help me!”
Drake tipped his whiskey flask to his lips before making his way over to the groom. He thrust the flask into Liam’s hand. “Drink up and then stand still.”
Liam followed the directives, licking excess whisky from his lower lip as Drake straightened the silk tie around his collar.
“Thank you for agreeing to be my best man,” he said, running a hand through his hair.
“Stand still!” Drake ordered as he began expertly looping fabric. “I’m honored you would ask.”
“You’re my best friend!” Liam exclaimed. “And … thank you for staying in Cordonia. I know you didn’t have to.”
Drake shrugged. “It’s not every day I can rub elbows with a real-life, honest-to-God King. I won’t find that in America.”
He grinned at Liam before stepping back. “Voila, a perfectly tied necktie.”
He stepped aside to allow Liam to study his reflection. “You really love her, don’t you?”
Liam smiled happily. “I never thought I would be able to have love, but the fates have proven me wrong.”
The two men locked eyes in the mirror; Liam’s smile faltered as guilt flushed his cheeks.
Drake shook his head slightly, sadness filling his eyes and voice. “Another lifetime.”
Drake drained the last of his brandy before looking up at the clock. “Whoa, it got late quick! I’d best be shoving off.”
Liam’s hand reached out quickly, grabbing hold of the Commoner’s wrist. “You can stay overnight here at the Palace and leave in the morning. You can’t hold your liquor the way you used to, and those back roads are quite dark at night.”
Drake stared at the hand circling his wrist, feeling the heat radiating from Liam’s skin and marveling at the goosebumps raising on his arm in its wake. He slowly lifted his eyes to meet Liam’s; chocolate and ebony held gazes.
After so many years, there was no way Liam’s offer was an invitation for anything more.
Drake saw uncertainty and desire in Liam’s eyes; Liam saw the confusion and hopefulness in Drake’s. Silence, heavy and uncomfortable, hung between them.
But Drake held onto the slightest sliver of hope.
Drake broke the quiet with fake laughter and a weak joke. “What are you, the Cordonian Safety Officer now?”
“Iam concerned for your safety, Drake.”
Drake rolled his eyes in annoyance and anger, feeling his heart crash into his stomach. The hope he had felt was now burnt ash on his tongue, clogging his throat as he swallowed heavily.
“How many times over the past 20 years have I been here or Valtoria or anyfuckingwhere in Cordonia, and driven myself home after drinking? And you let me? Don’t be so concerned about me now.”
“I’ve made this offer every time, Drake! Every time. Despite my duties, my responsibilities. Why would this be any different?”
“Because you expect my answer to be different!” Drake snapped harshly as he snatched his hand away. “You think because you’re free from a Queen, I’m supposed to suddenly shift gears and take you up on it? YOU told me 20 years ago that duty to Cordonia came first. I saw you fall in love with the Queen, I watched you raise a family. YOU told me that maybe in another lifetime, we could explore what we felt, what we could have had. And I went along with it! I adjusted, I accepted that.”
He shook his head. “I … I thought that maybe this time … Liam the MAN would ask me to stay, notthe King.”
Liam’s eyes were trained on the tablecloth. He chewed his lower lip as he processed Drake’s words. Over the course of his life, Liam had always put others’ needs before his own. He had let others’ actions dictate the paths he would walk. His wife never returned the love, support and respect he offered her; she was happy to enjoy the rewards of being Queen but shirked all the responsibilities.
And through it all, Drake had been there; accepting Liam’s decisions, and living with Liam’s choices. The lives they found themselves leading were the consequence.
After a few moments, he rose and walked around the table, coming to a stop directly in front of his friend before squatting, his imploring eyes forcing Drake’s gaze to fall upon them.
Drake watched him carefully, unsure of what Liam’s next move would be. He froze as Liam’s palms cupped his cheeks; his heartbeat was a jackhammer, each beat pouring lust and anticipation into his bloodstream. Involuntarily, he leaned in closer to Liam as the King moved in closer to him. Their lips parted, a fraction away from their first kiss when there was a knock on the closed door.
Liam’s motions stilled while Drake uttered an expletive as he let his forehead rest gently against Liam’s.
Another lifetime.
Liam rose quickly, composing his expression before calling for the person to enter. It was his assistant, George. Liam looked at his employee quizzically.
“George, what are you still doing here? I dismissed you before dinner.”
George bowed deferentially. “I realize that, Your Majesty, but wanted to put the finishing touches on the documents for your Monday morning meetings. I was on my way out when the telephone rang, sir; it’s the French President. He says it’s urgent.”
“I’m entertaining company,” Liam argued.
“I told him that, sir. He insists it’s vital he speak to you now.”
Liam nodded his head in resignation. “Tell him I’ll pick up shortly.”
George bowed before leaving the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Liam glanced at Drake with apologetic eyes and flushed cheeks.
“It … it won’t take long, Drake. Please, stay.”
Drake bit his lip, his eyes staring at the tops of his shoes before he rose from his chair. “I’m going home, Li. Maybe another time.”
Liam’s chin quivered, but he maintained a stoic façade. “Be careful. Text me when you get there?”
Drake nodded, his face averted as he patted his pockets. “Hey, Li?”
“Yes?” the King replied, a tad too eagerly.
“When we meet up again in another lifetime, do me a favor. Don’t be royal.”
The sumptuous yet simplistic bedroom was quiet and lit only by a bedside table. A bare-chested King Liam Rys smiled affectionately at the infant with his features laying in his arms; Prince Theodore Edmund Antonius Rhys, nicknamed BB for Baby Boy by his parents and siblings, blinked sleepily in return as he continued to feed from the bottle his father held in one hand.
They sat in an antique wooden rocking chair that Riley had fed and rocked the twins in, and Liam’s mother Eleanor had rocked and fed him in. Indeed, legend had it that the chair dated back to the reign of Queen Kenna’s mother.
“My littlest Prince,” Liam murmured as he adjusted his arm to lift the child’s head nestled in the crook of his elbow. “I will defend you, your brothers, and your mother until the end of my days.” The King pulled his son closer to his skin. “I love you more than you could ever imagine.”
“Don’t let the twins hear you say that,” his wife and Queen warned in hushed tones as she entered their bedroom through the nursery’s connecting door. “They’ve become quite possessive over us since that little assassin arrived.”
“Our children are notassassins, Riley!” the King admonished.
“Oh, not allof them, she replied as she shrugged out of her robe, revealing Liam’s white silk pajama top and white lacy underwear. “Just that one; the other two are ninjas.”
Liam chuckled softly as he gently pulled the nipple from his son’s mouth before placing a white cloth over his bare shoulder; he then carefully placed BB over his shoulder for the purpose of burping him. The King’s palm rubbed soothing circles against the baby’s back, alternating with soft pats.
Riley nodded towards the infant, her eyes lingering over him with a loving glance. “He tried to TAKE ME OUT, Liam and you know it!” she countered as she began turning down the beddings on their shared bed.
Although the Queen could make light of the situation now, her second pregnancy had been quite problematic: Riley’s health and the viability of the pregnancy were in constant peril. Liam said prayers of Thanksgiving every morning and night that his family was complete, intact, and healthy.
Liam rose slowly, cautiously from the chair before pacing the room, body slightly swaying as he made his way to his wife. The white silk pajama bottoms that matched the top his wife was wearing were slung low across his hips. “Francis and Jonathan are asleep?” he asked, referring to the three-year-old twins commonly known as Fric and Frac.
Riley had dropped the “k” from both nicknames to make them “more European”.
Francis, or Frac, was their firstborn, born at 11:58pm; Jonathan, known as Fric, followed three minutes later at 12:01am the following day.
She shook her head in exasperation. “No! I left those two talking to each other in their secret, world-domination language. But they’ll fall asleep soon; it’s been a full day for them.”
Riley looked up at Liam, her eyes quickly searching his face before smiling and outstretching her arms for her youngest son; Liam tenderly transferred the infant from his arms into hers. Pressing a kiss to the baby’s forehead, she cooed, “There’s my little Theodore! If I had known you were coming, I would’ve named the first two Alvin and Simon.”
The baby gurgled as she settled him on her shoulder, softly slapping his upper back. She smiled softly at feeling tiny fingers dig into the silk fabric and little legs kicking harmlessly against her. Both she and Liam laughed when their child loudly belched.
“How much did you feedhim?” Riley demanded through her chuckles.
Liam jerked a thumb towards the empty bottle on the Queen’s dressing table. “The entire six ounces. He has a good appetite.”
“He’s greedy, like his daddy,” Riley responded.
“You think I’m greedy?” Liam teased, palm splayed against his chest in mock surprise.
“Who said you were his father?” she replied as her fingers experimentally felt along the 4-month-old’s bottom. “Has he been changed?” she questioned.
Liam nodded. “Right before the feeding.”
“Good,” she responded approvingly as she bent over an oversized, Wedgewood blue wooden cradle. “Grab the baby monitors and I’ll meet you in the kitchen? Gonna lay this big boy down.”
Each evening, after the twins were supposedly asleep and Liam had given BB his nightly feeding, the couple spent alone time: Evenings filled with inside jokes, bickering, briefings, updates, and random conversation. Happenstance determined where the evenings were spent: There had been terrace talks with sparkling cider for Riley and cigars for Liam; massages in bed for Riley and promises of IOUs from her to return the favor; poring over agreements, budgets, and intel in the study.
It was their time, be it as husband and wife or King and Queen. All that mattered was that they were alone. Together.
Tonight was the kitchen because earlier Riley claimed a craving for vanilla ice cream.
When she entered the scullery with her thick coils brushed back and away from her face, and wearing the pajama top which put her long, lean legs on display, Liam’s eyes slowly traveled up his wife’s body.
She still stopped him in his tracks.
Riley stood in front of the kitchen island, looking askance at two bowls of ungarnished French vanilla ice cream before raising her eyes, filled with accusation, to meet Liam’s confused expression. Rolling her eyes, she turned on her heel, marching towards the kitchen cupboards. The displeased Queen loudly set bottles of chocolate and caramel syrups in front of her bowl, along with a jar of crushed peanuts.
Liam cut his eyes at her movements. “Riley, you specificallystatedvanillaice cream.”
“KINKY vanilla,” she retorted while squeezing ribbons of chocolate over frozen, sweetened cream.
“That is not healthy,” Liam observed, somewhat heatedly. “You have our child to feed!”
“The ice cream is dairy, so that means calcium; the chocolate has magnesium; the caramel helps with the liver and anxiety, and the peanuts are protein,” the Queen glanced up at her husband with an arched eyebrow. “Any moreobjections?”
Liam shook his head in resignation, rummaging through the drawers for spoons.
Once the couple were settled at the island and Riley had checked the baby monitor screens for the umpteenth time, they dug their spoons into their snack. Riley was savoring her third spoonful when she glanced over, noticing the King was simply dragging his spoon over the tops of his ice cream scoops.
“Hey,” the Queen said softly. “You’ve been quiet all evening. What’s wrong?” she asked as she set her spoon in her bowl.
“Is it that obvious?” he asked with a wan smile, his gaze holding hers.
Riley shrugged. “To me.”
A pause before he answered. “The investigation concluded today, and the evidence is correct. Bastien Lykel is a member of the Via Imperii.” His tone held anger, worry, sorrow.
The Queen was unsurprised. “I nevertrusted him,” she stated in a tone that held the slightest trace of vindication.
“Icompromised in an effort to save our marriage! You thought I was being overdramaticwhen I said separate bedrooms? Your defense of him after what that man did to me in service to his King? You’re both lucky I didn’t stomp mudholes in your asses.”
Riley was pouring more syrup over her ice cream when she abruptly stopped her movements, slowly setting the bottle on the table. Liam noticed; his eyes narrowed slightly, and his eyebrow arched inquisitively.
“Love, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“In. Service. To. His. King,” Riley slowly repeated before slapping her palm against the countertop. “HIS KING!” she yelled, then looked around guiltily. She hoped the twins hadn’t heard her; they would come running into the kitchen and want ice cream.
She wasn’t sharing.
“Constantine didn’t put Bastien up to the scandal!”
Liam’s brow was furrowed as he slid his seat closer to Riley’s. “Both men admitted to it, what are youtalking about?”
Riley rolled her eyes. “Like anyone can believe a word Bastien says anymore.”
A spoonful of frozen treat slid between her unpainted lips. “Thinkabout it, Liam!” Riley spoke excitedly as she clutched his hand. “Neither your father nor Regina were ever members of Via! Neither of them wore the pin, one wasn’t among his possessions, and even Via said a Rys has never deigned to join their ranks.”
She eagerly scooped more ice cream sundae into her mouth before continuing. “WHO wanted Madeleine as Queen, even beforeyour social season? Barthelemy and Godfrey, members of Via!
“WHO’S credit card was used?? PENELOPE’S!! Emmeline was seeking to rise in both rank and favor within Via, and no way was Penelope refusing mommy dearest.
“WHOhired Sons of Earth? Again, Barthelemy!”
Liam held up a finger; Riley fell silent to allow her husband to speak.
“There is no proof that either Barthelemy or the Duke of Karlington were ever members of Via Imperii,” he pointed out. “It’s all speculation, love.”
Riley waved her arms and hands around, wavy hair bouncing about her head. “SEMANTICS! They did Via’s bidding, didn’t they?”
“But … father confessed,” Liam interrupted quietly.
“HeAGREED with what you said and spouted some malarkey about the monarchy needing a show of strength. The fact remains whomeveryou chose, you would bothbe a newbie King and Queen. So maybe Via had something on him and he took the fall? In any case, Bastien’s “King” here was Eirik, the King of Hidar,NOTConstantine!”
Liam stared at his wife for a few moments before dropping his gaze to his dessert-filled bowl; his fingers combed through his thick locks of dark hair. Riley reached over, pushing the bowl just of reach. “I may want that later, and don’t need your hairs in it,” she murmured in explanation. “You shed horribly, you know that.”
Liam did not know that.
Riley picked up the baby monitors, looking between the two screens: BB was asleep, and the twins were still talking, both children in Fric’s bed. Their mother had both placed and left them each in their own bed.
She set the monitor down, then outstretched her hand. Liam took it, almost gratefully. “How are you feeling about everything?” she inquired.
Liam shook his head, a mixture of acceptance, denial, and helplessness. “I have no idea how I feel. Bastien has been a part of this family … my life since before I was even born! He … he … he helped raise Leo, me, Drake … and to find out he’s been part of the plan to dethrone the Rys line the entire time?”
His jaw clenched; his free hand fisted before harshly pounding the table. “What if he were instrumental in my assassination attempt? What if he was working with Anton and that’s why my guards didn’t arrive until after we had defeated him? They weren’t expecting to take anyone to jail … it was supposed to be US headed to the morgue!”
Riley made soothing noises while awkwardly trying to spoon ice cream into her mouth with her free hand. “Have youtalked to him, Liam?”
Liam quickly shook his head. “I … have nothing to say to him at the moment.” His head lifted sharply, and his gaze fixed on Riley. “He knows every passageway, secret or not, in all of our properties. He has every password. Who knows who else is privy to this information?”
Hearing her husband’s words, Riley’s blood iced over; her stomach turned as she wondered, despite a fleet of guards, how safe were her children actually were. But she couldn’t let Liam sense her fear.
Instead, she cleared her throat. “Do Drake and Savannah know?”
Liam nodded morosely. “Drake spoke with him briefly; unsure what was said, but he left earlier this afternoon headed to Ramsford to speak with his sister.”
“And where is Bastien now?”
“Cells. He’ll be transported to Lythikos tomorrow, where he will join his cohorts Barthelemy and Anton.”
“Hmmmm,” Riley tapped an index finger against her lips. “We’re going to need to sweep the Palace, Valtoria, and Applewood for signs of infiltration. And run background and security checks on every guard Bastien personally hired. Get Rashad and his firm to help with that and ask for a discounted price.”
Liam nodded in agreement. “I have spoken to the very few guards I can trust, and …”
“Not Mara!” Riley interrupted as she pulled Liam’s dessert dish closer to her.
“What do you mean, ‘NotMara’”?I hired her directly, and she is second in command. OF COURSE, Mara!”
Riley’s eyes were inspecting the scoops of melting ice cream, searching for tell-tale dark hairs; there were none. She began combining the ingredients of the two bowls while she spoke.
“You hired Mara for ME! From Day One, she has been MYguard. She has protected me, trained me, and I have STUCK with her. When you were snickering with Drake about how incompetent she was, when you told her she SUCKED at her job … Mara and I were a team. And I stand by my choice. I trust Mara with not only my life, but the lives of our children.”
“I have NEVER told Mara she sucked at her job! I don’t even use such language,” Liam shot back, his tone indignant.
Riley smirked. “I beg to differ with that, Your Majesty. Just this morning the word suck dominated your vocabulary.”
“THAT is reserved for YOUwhen we are having … relations!”
She offered her husband a spoonful of ice cream, which he accepted. “Look, Liam. You’ve been good to me. Raising my kids as if they were your own, letting me wear your clothes and Cordonia’s crown; you don’t pay rent, but your child support is up to date. I would do you a solid anytime,anywhere … but you chose Bastien even after I offered to make Mara the family guard, soooo … too bad, so sad.”
Liam’s expression was thoughtful as he verbalized an inner thought. “Maybe … just maybe he thought he was helping the Crown.”
Riley snorted in derision. “Without telling you?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, my love. IF he was doing you a favor, protecting you … why didn’t he say so? Be like, ‘Hey guys, I’m going to be doing some shady shit but no worries … I’m being a mole for this faction trying to usurp the Crown and I’ll keep you updated on their movements.’ BUT HE DIDN’T!”
Liam shook his head in exasperated frustration as he pushed away from the island. “I want a sandwich.”
“You’re going to fix it?” Riley asked in amused disbelief.
“Yes, Riley, I am. I think I am capable of making a sandwich!” he snapped.
“Iffen you say so…” his wife responded doubtfully.
“While we’re on the topic of guards and security, I’m considering appointing the Duchess of Lythikos as Head of the King’s Guard,” he announced as he rummaged in the refrigerator for food.
Riley was slurping up the last of the ice cream. “You’re WHAT?” she choked out.
“Olivia will be Head of the Guard,” Liam repeated, pulling bread, sliced turkey, mayonnaise, and lettuce from the icebox and setting it on the counter.
“Why? What qualifications does she have?”
“I trust her, for one.”
“Trust and knowledge of daggers are NOTgrounds to appoint Liv to head up the most important job in this country.”
Liam looked at his wife, puzzled. “I thought you would support the decision. The Duchess is our friend, yourfriend.”
Now it was Riley’s turn to look puzzled. “She is! But she has no formal training. At least Mara is expertly trained in hand-to-hand combat, jiu-jitsu, and a ton of other stuff I can’t spell or pronounce!”
“Lythikan blood is warrior blood, and Olivia was trained by her parents who were two of the best fighters in the duchy’s history.”
“Lythikans are bloodthirsty! And her parents trained her to take down the Crown over twenty years ago. Say what you want, she needs to know more than how to hide a dagger.”
“She can handle one as well,” Liam pointed out.
“I’ve never seen it,” Riley said dismissively as she watched Liam attempt to make a sandwich.
What the hell is that man doing with the bread?
With a sigh, she rose from her seat to join her husband at the counter. “Move!” she hip-checked him out of the way. “You’re doing it wrong. Get me some tomato, onion, and jalapeno and slice them, please.”
Liam did as she requested.
The Queen slathered mayonnaise on the bread slices before sprinkling them with salt and pepper. Liam watched as she layered slices of meat, then onion, lettuce, tomato, and jalapeno on both pieces of bread before placing one side atop the other. Riley continued the conversation while plating the sandwich.
“This is the last I have to say on the subject:
“Strike 1: Olivia was our security at the hospital when I was pregnant with Fric and Frac; remember the journalist sneaking into our personal room and taking unauthorized photos of us, which is why we now have private medical facilities on our properties?
“Strike 2: Olivia got herself captured during a stealth operation … trying to infiltrate Via whileBastienWATCHEDinstead of HELPING … which she told no one about because she wants to be all secret squirrel, and we had to go rescue her!
“Lastly, Olivia has a title for a reason! She is the SOLE ruler of the country’s oldest and third largest duchy; that’s more than a full-time job alone. Something’s going to suffer if you offer her that appointment: either her people or your life. So no, Olivia will NOT be your head of anything.”
“Are you advocating for MARA to get the job?”
“Oh,HELL NO! Mara is mine, ALL MINE! In fact, consider her snatched from any type of rotation; she is now Head of the Queen and Family security detail, and youareNOTincluded in that.”
She bit into the freshly made sandwich before waving it in front of Liam. “Did you want a sandwich too?”
Liam snatched the food from Riley’s hand, aggressively biting into bread and meat. She held his gaze before leaning in to kiss him softly on the lips. “Hey, let’s go to bed. Tensions are high, and we could both use a good night’s sleep. We’re going to be busy the next couple of days.”
“Weare?” he inquired as he chewed more of the sandwich.
“Oh, yeah! WEand Mara are going to Lythikos, Portavira, and Hidar to get to the bottom of this Via shit and find out just what role Bastien played in it.”
Liam shook his head as he offered Riley another bite. “I’m not allowing you or the children to get involved, Riley.”
“Tough tit. We’re a team, and we’re already involved,” she replied while grabbing her husband’s hand to lead him to bed.
Liam didn’t budge. “I’ll allow you to accompany me and Drake to Lythikos, only on the provision that Regina and Gladys remain here to babysit the children, and Mara guards them. You will not be going anywhere else.”
His tone and expression were serious as he and Riley held gazes.
She opened her mouth to protest but was cut off by her husband. “No, Riley. That is the only offer on the table. Take it or leave it.”
“But …”
Liam bit into the snack. “No.” His voice was quiet but the tone firm.
Riley reached out for the sandwich. “Gimme my food,” she whined petulantly.
Liam held it aloft, out of her reach. “Be nice, and I’ll share. Maybe. It’s a really good sandwich.”
“I am going to bed! ALONE!” she threatened while continuing to tug on Liam’s hand.
“I want the twins to sleep with us tonight,” Liam said through a bite of sandwich as he followed his wife into their bedroom.
Ha paused in front of the alarm system’s keypad mounted on the sleeping chamber’s foyer wall, pressing in the code to arm the royal suite. Automatic locks slid quietly into keyholes, giving the monarchs a slight sense of both security and relief.
Riley nodded in agreement at his suggestion. She needed to feel her babies close to her, breathing in their sweet smells, and kissing chubby cheeks.
The Queen plucked the sandwich from her husband’s hand as they walked through the room, stopping to tuck the infant’s blanket more securely about him before heading into the nursery.
“Your side, though. I don’t need toes in my nose when I wake up.”
This story has taken almost two years to complete and has gone through several revisions and edits; I can only hope that this final product makes sense, isn’t too boring or wordy, and that folks enjoy it.
The premise is simple: What if Maxwell is MC’s husband when Barthelemy invokes the Coventus Noblis? It’s a slap in the face regardless of who your chosen LI is, but it’s got to hit differently when it’s your father declaring you incompetent and kidnapping your child.
Also, I head canon Maxwell differently than most, and especially PB; I don’t see him as the Court Jester, but rather the guy who uses humor and feigns ignorance to deflect attention away from himself, particularly when he was younger and chubbier. He’d rather make you laugh than be laughed at.
THANK YOU to all who read over pieces and parts of this fic.
THANK YOU to all who will read it; your comments, likes, and reblogs are appreciated far more than you know.
Please forgive any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical mistakes. Word Editor only gave me 92% this time around.
All characters belong to Pixelberry. (Rebecca McKenzie is from PB’s Most Wanted)
The prisoner sits on the side of the unmade cot, his hair wet; a damp towel is slung loosely about his waist. His feet are pushed into worn bedroom slippers. With a sigh, he rises stiffly from sheets and mattress, slowly making his way to the mirror; he frowns at his reflection. The hot water and steam have done little to mask the fact he slept poorly the night before.
And the nights before that.
He picks up a comb and begins to pull from front to back, the teeth leaving behind lines throughout his thick brown locks. The silence is a tad too tense to be soothing as he awaits his visitor. His head lifts almost eagerly at the soft shuffling of her house slippers against the stone floor.
There is a clanking of keys before she rolls the breakfast trolley into the cell; she nods gratefully to the guard. Her smell seeps into the dank prison, filling his nostrils with aromas of sleep, neroli, and rosewater. He inhales greedily as their eyes meet in the mirror, but it’s her mouth that he focuses on; the plump pink of her lips currently curved upward in a soft smile. He flashes her his signature grin in return before asking, “Annabelle?” in a hopeful voice.
His wife begins lifting silver cloches before preparing mugs of coffee. “Brought to me last night, just as we were promised. She has a bad case of croup, and a slight fever. I gave her some of the elixir the doctor prescribed, and she’s been asleep since.”
Worry fills his sapphire-blue eyes. “How bad? How long has she been sick?” His body turns so he is facing the Duchess of Valtoria; his lower back presses against the metal basin, a narrow hip jutted to the left. He outstretches his arms, fingers beckoning his wife to him.
Riley leaves the cart to step into Maxwell’s waiting embrace. “Shush,” she soothes. “She’ll be fine. I promise.”
Maxwell shifts uncomfortably at the thought of his baby daughter being ill, at being powerless in the situation … but he recovers quickly. “Well, you haven’t broken a promise yet,” he quips.
Riley kisses him deeply yet briefly, her tongue rolling against his before pulling away to pour them both cups of coffee. “And I never will,” she vows.
Barthelemy Beaumont sat behind his mahogany desk, the lamplight dispelling only a few of the study’s shadows brought on by dusk; his steely gray eyes glared at his visitor in disdain. Unperturbed, the visitor returned the gaze with unwavering eyes. With a sinister smirk, the elder Beaumont pushed his chair closer to the bureau and placed the heels of his hands on polished wood before steepling his fingers.
“You didn’t disappoint,” he observed. “I knew someonewould show up, pleading that jackass’ case.”
“You took away his child. You broke up his family. You went too far, too quickly.”
“Iam King Regent, in addition to being his parent. He put hands on me in violence; that is treason, and punishable by death.”
The visitor raised an eyebrow as a sardonic giggle escaped their throat. “He kicked.your.ass. and the entire country knows it.” A pause. “How’s your nose?” Sarcasm infused their tone.
Barthelemy’s face hardened; when he spoke, his tone was cold. “He BROKE IT! It’s still healing. And you’d best remember that youneedme and show both restraint and respect when addressing me.”
The visitor’s hand slipped inside their pocket. “I’m here to neither grovel nor apologize. I amhere for the child and to demand the release of Duke Beaumont.” The hand came back into view; it held a pistol. “Or you die tonight. Your choice.”
The meal between the couple is quiet; Maxwell isn’t hungry, but Riley convinces him to drink some coffee, and nibble on toast and fruit. His blue eyes, filled with questions and uncertainty, search her brown ones. She frowns slightly.
“What?” she asks as she pulls her fingers through her chestnut-colored mane.
She knows the question he’s going to ask, and she doesn’t have a definitive answer.
“What’s going to happen today?” His voice is soft, yet firm. He has neither fear nor remorse for his actions.
Riley lowers her gaze, blinking rapidly to stop the fall of tears. “I don’t know,” she replies quietly.
He reaches for her hand and their fingers intertwine. “I wish Belle could’ve come to breakfast.” His voice breaks slightly.
Riley nods. “Me too, but she would only be fussy and cranky.” She pauses to lift his hand to her lips, kissing the Duke’s knuckles. “Belle knows we love her more than everything.”
Maxwell nods in agreement.
Riley looks around, almost furtively. “I’m not even supposed to be down here.” Her eyes dart about the cell before squeezing her husband’s hand a little harder. “You’ll see her later this morning.”
With his free hand, Maxwell lifts his coffee mug, or so he thinks. He grimaces at the sweetness and creaminess of the beverage: He’s gotten his wife’s mug. “How do you drink this stuff?” he complains.
Riley laughs softly as she reaches for her cup, but Maxwell lifts it into the air and out of her reach. “I like it,” he says softly before leaning in for a kiss. Clumsily, he sets the coffee cup back onto the breakfast cart, where it sits precariously on the edge of the metal tray.
Their lips meet, tongues greeting each other as if they had been separated for a lifetime. Noses bump, teeth scrape against the other’s; hands and fingers fall in hair, roam across backs, ghost planes and curves.
Breath, hot and harsh, whispers against skin.
He sighs when her nails rake across his back; she whimpers when the pads of his fingers splay across a silk-covered breast and begin to knead the pliant flesh. Maxwell slowly, gently leans Riley back against the cot’s mattress, angling his body above hers as his knee pushes her thighs apart.
The clinking of keys stops them. The only guard they can trust has returned. Reluctantly they pull apart, the Duchess not bothering to straighten her hair. She sits upright, placing her palms against her husband’s cheeks; the kiss she presses against his lips is hard, swift.
Fierce.
She stands, gathering mugs and saucers to stack onto the trolley. When the guard arrives at the cell doors, Riley gives them a quick nod and walks out, pushing the cart before her.
Barthelemy sneered at his visitor, “Put that away before you get hurt.”
“Methinks you’ll be the injured party here, Your Lordship.” The visitor’s voice is calm, collected; their gloved hand keeps the pistol trained on Barthelemy’s chest.
“You do realize there are cameras? That you have been filmed entering the property?”
A shrug. “I’ll take my chances.” No need in alerting the noble that his surveillance system had been disabled the night before because his Chief of Security had been bought off.
The visitor’s eyes took in every nuance of the King Regent’s movements; they narrowed when one of Barthelemy’s hands began to slide down the table, towards a desk drawer. With a lightning quick move, the visitor’s free hand shot up, holding a jeweled dagger.
By the time the elder Beaumont registered what was happening, the dagger was embedded in the back of his hand, pinning him to the desk’s top. Blood, thick and hot, spurted from the puncture. Barthelemy’s eyes widened with pain and surprise as a primal scream ripped from his throat.
His guest sat back in the leather armchair. “I wouldn’t make any sudden moves if I were you,” they warned.
Riley sits in the rear of the black, bulletproof limousine carrying her, her child, and the country’s King; they’re headed to Duchy Valtoria, her newfound Cordonian home, generously bestowed upon her by the man whose marriage proposal she rejected.
The man seated next to her.
They were following an armored truck with no back windows; inside the truck was Maxwell, handcuffed and shackled.
Her choice of outfit looks deliberate but has been haphazardly thrown together: ankle-length black skirt, sheer black blouse, and a pearl-studded black cardigan. Ivory-colored heels shod her feet. She feels as if she’s dressed for a funeral.
Or a death sentence.
Her head is bent as she smiles down at her 18-month-old daughter. Annabelle’s cheeks aren’t as flushed as they were when she was returned to her mother last night; the cold syrup must be working. Riley’s daughter is still sleepy, the lids over her blue eyes … her father’s eyes … drooping. Her chubby hands are fisting her mother’s clothing. Her chestnut curls, which had been neatly brushed back when the trio entered the car, were now springing riotously from her tiny scalp.
“He’ll be unshackled once we reach Valtoria?” Riley asked Liam in a hushed tone.
The monarch nods. It is a question she has asked daily since the new Duke had been carried away in shackles that fateful evening. “You will walk into the Council Chamber as a family,” he reassures her.
Riley stares at the man who had offered her both his heart and his country. She wonders what would have happened if she had said yes to him instead of the 6’2” man-child who had captured her heart.
Nothing.
Maxwell had won her over long before Liam had even thought to propose. It was Maxwell who invited her along on an adventure, it was Maxwell who woke her in the mornings and guided her through her days. It was Maxwell she had fallen in love with, and the young Duchess often wondered how she ended up with a monarch of a different sort: The King of the Breakdance.
And then she wondered why she hadn’t fallen sooner.
Cordonia had expected the suitor from America to marry Liam; hell, Liam expected Riley to marry him. But stolen moments weren’t enough to hold her attention or fill her heart. Whatever she and Liam had and could build upon would have to be done in secrecy, as evidenced by their first dance.
If not Liam, Drake Walker was the obvious choice: They spent time together, he was there for her whenever she needed him, and the Commoner had taken a bullet for her. Yes, Drake Walker would have been the perfect choice.
But what people failed to realize was that Maxwell had been there for Riley as well, and from the very beginning: If it weren’t for Maxwell, Riley would still be in Brooklyn. Maxwell’s was the first face she saw every morning. Maxwell was the one who worked with Bastien to track down Tariq. Maxwell was the one who told her to follow her heart, not knowing he already held it in the palm of his hand.
Liam’s voice, soft and sympathetic, speaks into her ear. “Your Grace, we’ve almost arrived.”
Roused from her thoughts, Riley turns her face towards his and nods stiffly as she pulls her daughter closer to her bosom.
“YouIMBECILE!” Barthelemy howled in rage and agony, his eyes slitted as he locked gazes with the person on the other side of the desk. “My guards shall execute you upon sight!”
A knowing smirk curved the visitor’s lips. “Where are your guards? I’ve been here over 20 minutes, stabbed you, and pulled a gun. Yet, we’re still all alone …”
Though fogged with pain, the elder man’s eyes gleamed dully with realization. “What … what … where are they?” he sputtered.
His guest settled back in their chair, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. “You really should pay your people more money, Bart,” they advised in a jovial tone.
“YOU.WILL.PAY.FOR.THIS!” Barthelemy hissed through gritted teeth.
“Where’s the child?” The guest leaned forward in their seat ever-so-slightly.
“I’ll never tell you!” The Beaumont’s face was twisted in pain.
“It’s in your best interest,” the visitor replied, their eyes steely with resolve.
“You’ll kill me either way. I have no incentive,” Barthelemy countered.
The caller nodded slowly as they lowered their weapon. Their eyes contemplated the firearm, waiting to feel remorse, guilt, a sudden benevolence that would make them abandon their mission.
There was nothing but a burning need to end the circle of betrayal caused by the man seated across from them.
“You’re right. You don’t.” The gun raised again, quickly, and two shots rang out in rapid succession.
Barthelemy’s upper body jerked erratically before he slumped over the desk, dead. His pale gray eyes stared unseeingly at the blood-stained desk.
The visitor rose, eyes quickly traveling over the room, searching for signs that they had been there. There were none. Their eyes fell upon the corpse. “Fortunately, I know my way around,” they said before leaving the room, shutting the door quietly behind them.
In the armored van, Maxwell Beaumont sits in the back seat, staring out the windshield through the caged gate separating him from the driver. His ankles are shackled, and handcuffs encircle his wrists. He is incongruously dressed in his electric blue squid suit, the last outfit he was wearing before being hauled off to the cells at the Palace.
Sparkling chandelier lights shone down brightly on the guests gathered in the Valtorian Great House’s formal dining room. Murmured chatter and soft chuckles filled the air; expensive liquor filled crystal glasses. The hosts, the Duke and Duchess of Valtoria, circulated amongst the throng, greeting familiar faces with smiles, anecdotes, and promises of a dance-off after dessert.
The nobles were gathered to celebrate their monarch’s second year of rule; three months earlier, they had come to celebrate Annabelle Louise Beaumont’s first birthday. Valtoria was quickly gaining a reputation for being the party house, but the Valtorian Duke constantly vowed the infamous Beaumont Bashes would still be held in Ramsford.
Maxwell Beaumont was making his way through the crowd, headed for one of the many bars erected throughout the dining hall; he paused frequently to exchange hugs, handshakes, and high-fives with his comrades, the sequined squids on his suit sparkling and glittering beneath the overhead lights. Upon reaching his destination, he saw the man of the hour, King Liam, standing alone as he sipped scotch while people watching.
“Li!” the young Duke greeted before requesting a glass of wine from the bartender.
The King turned, smiling in acknowledgement. “Duke Maxwell, it’s extremely kind of you to throw me such an extravagant party. Unsure what I’ve done to warrant such an occasion, but it is deeply appreciated.”
“You deserve this and so much more,” Maxwell replied as he joined his monarch and friend in crowd gazing. He nodded towards the center of the room. “Olivia looks amazing tonight,” he not-so-subtly hinted.
The Duchess of Lythikos was indeed a vision: her dress was a column of white silk that skimmed her swells and angles; rubies glittered at her ears and wrists. Her signature red hair lay low at the nape of her neck in an elaborate Grecian braid. She was conversing with Queen Amalas, the fingertips of one hand resting lightly on the royal’s upper arm. In her other hand was a glass of gin.
Liam chuckled softly. “I’m seeing someone, Max. And it appears the Duchess is as well.”
Maxwell’s head turned quickly at the announcement. “WHO?” he demanded excitedly.
Liam shook his head slightly. “We’re keeping it between us for now.”
“Is she a member of Court?” Maxwell persisted.
“Not yet,” Liam smirked.
Maxwell rolled his eyes. “I cannot believe you’re dating someone and haven’t introduced her to your friends!”
Liam tilted the tumbler to his lips while looking pointedly at the new Duke. “Have you forgotten what happened with the last woman I introduced to my friends?”
Maxwell’s face colored deep pink at Liam’s words. He had never expected Riley to return his feelings, much less choose him over the freaking King of Cordonia. But she had. There had been feelings of guilt and fear when he spoke with Liam regarding his plans to wed the American suitor, but never regret.
Before the Duke could reply, he observed his father, Barthelemy, stride up to the podium at the far end of the room, his fingertip tapping the microphone to garner the guests’ attention. Liam noticed as well; both men’s brows furrowed in puzzlement as they stared at each other before returning their attention to the elder Beaumont, who was now addressing the crowd.
“My son certainly knows how to throw a party, huh?” he asked, a jovial smile on his face.
The gathering whooped and cheered in agreement.
“Unfortunately, that is ALL he knows to do.” A scowl replaced the smile. “He is an irresponsible scamp who lucked up on a suitor and took advantage of his King’s stupidity!”
Awkward silence from the crowd, bewildered expressions mirrored on their faces.
“A woman in the lowest level of service work possible charmed and seduced both the King and my son, and now she sits as Duchess with a child of reputable DNA on a throne of lies. And the King allows it! Hell, he OFFERED it to her! There is much, much more to both uncover and discover, which is why I am invoking the Conventus Nobilis to take over Cordonia as King Regent.”
Gasps of shock and alarm filled the room, broken by the Valtorian Duchess’ shrill scream. “The HELL YOU ARE!”
She strode through the crowd, flanked on either side by her husband and King Liam, both men grim-faced and with clenched fists. Riley’s face was distorted with rage, her body trembling with emotion. “It is because of ME your House has had its reputation restored, and because of MAX your coffers are full! LEAVE MY HOMEAND MY DUCHY! IMMEDIATELY!”
Barthelemy’s expression was one of amusement as he watched the trio make their way onto the dais. “When a clown moves into the Palace, he does not become King; rather, the Palace becomes a circus, which is what you and my son have done. You have rendered the King a useless puppet, and the same shall not happen to the heiress you presume to call a Beaumont. I will leave once the child is safely in my possession.”
The implication of the older man’s words was a slap in the face to the young parents; however, before either of them could make a move towards Barthelemy, Liam strode forward until he and the Lord were nose to nose.
“Your Lordship, I make no claims to presume to know what you are attempting here, but I suggest you leave. NOW. We can have a discussion about your … claims in the morning,” the King hissed.
“I’ll leave once I have what I came for,” Barthelemy countered.
“GUARDS!” Liam yelled
But only Mara and a handful of sentries arrived at his summons. An incredulous look around the room showed Bastien and the majority of King’s Guardsmen coming down the spiral staircase, one carrying a wailing Annabelle. They all kept their heads down and eyes averted.
The King’s jaw dropped as his body stiffened with angered realization.
Riley’s eyes were both wide and wild with fear and panic as she raced through the dining hall to rescue her daughter.
Maxwell stepped up to his father and without a word, hit the elder with a fierce uppercut. Barthelemy Beaumont crumpled to the ground like a felled tree.
Maxwell had no idea how long he beat his father, how much of his father’s blood, hot and gushing, splattered his face, his hands, his suit. He saw nothing but a haze of red as every insult, every slight, every punishment the man beneath him had inflicted powered his punches. He remembered being grabbed and pulled off the older man all too soon, and handcuffed. He looked around, his stomach dropping.
The Great House was in pandemonium: Screams, screeches, and yells filled its halls as guests tripped over each other in an attempt to leave. Riley was manhandling the guard holding their daughter; his eyes narrowed and filled with murderous rage when he saw her pushed roughly to the floor.
His last look at what was once a party was his wife on the floor, the skirt of her gown spread out about her as she sobbed unconsolably; the blood on his father’s face as guards helped him to his feet; and his daughter looking around frantically, fat tears falling from her blue eyes as she searched for a familiar face before being carried through a doorway and out of his sight.
The armored vehicle rolls to a gentle stop in front of the Great House. His home. It isn’t lost on Maxwell Percival Beaumont that he is entering his residence as a prisoner of the Crown, and that this may the last time he sees it. Or anyone he loves. He wants to take it in: stone, flora, grass, water but his limited view is obstructed by the throng of curious citizens and paparazzi, all eager for a glimpse of the rogue noble.
At least his suit had been cleaned during his 90 days of imprisonment.
He sits still as a guard begins the process of removing the chains and shackles that traverse the length of his body from wrists to ankles. He murmurs, “Thank you,” when the metal clanks against the floor of the vehicle. The guard nods in acknowledgement before instructing the Duke to exit out the driver’s side. Maxwell does as he is told, squinting against unfiltered sunlight as he patiently waits for the detail to assemble a formation around him so they can escort him to his fate.
Inside the Council Chambers, it is almost like old times: Maxwell is holding his daughter, her head laid against his chest; Riley is by his side as they chat quietly with Bertrand and Savannah. The couple are aware of eyes surreptitiously watching them before their daughter comes under scrutiny. But no one approaches them.
Bartie toddles around the room, making his way to his Uncle Drake.
Liam is in a far corner, deep in discussion with Olivia and Madeleine; Drake, Rashad, and Hana mill about the buffet table which holds an array of light snacks and refreshments.
Almostlike normal, but not quite.
The conversations aren’t light and breezy. Friends and allies of the Valtorian noble couple are wondering about the wild cards on the Council: Godfrey, Neville, Kiara, Landon. The entire room knows Barthelemy wants the harshest punishment possible inflicted; being that he is King Regent, it could mean death.
The cell guards keep their eyes trained on Maxwell but make no moves. They expect nothing less; the Duke has been a model prisoner.
Riley looks up at the clock, and a frown creases her brow. “Where’s Barthelemy?” she asks. The tardiness, while giving her and Annabelle more time with Maxwell, worries her.
Before anyone can answer the question, the doors to the Chamber open; the doorway fills with Bastien Lykel, who has sided with the King Regent and Officer Rebecca McKenzie, the chief constable of Duchy Ramsford. Maxwell’s eyebrows rise slightly, and he pulls Annabelle just that much closer to him. He feels an icy fear in his chest, not knowing what fresh bullshit law his father has unearthed.
The officer and the guard part ways once they enter the room: Rebecca practically stalks her way to the King, her steps quick and determined; Bastien heads forlornly in Godfrey’s direction. Maxwell’s eyes follow the constable; she’s speaking with Liam in low, urgent tones. Maxwell sees Liam’s expression as he stares at the woman before him: a hybrid of surprise, consternation and tenderness; his eyes are soft with emotion, yet hard with anger.
Maxwell sees how Liam’s fingers touch loose tendrils of the reddish-brown cascade that is her hair as if it were the finest silk before tucking them beneath her uniform hat. He notices how her hands and fingers frequently touch Liam’s arm.
A quick glance around the room shows Maxwell he isn’t the only one noticing these things.
Mindful of the eyes upon them, Liam moves swiftly, deftly; with merely a hand cupping the officer’s elbow, he has reversed their positions: It is now the King with his back to the crowd, and he has walked his companion backwards, so her back is pressed against the wall and there is slight distance between their bodies.
Propriety.
The King leans in, his lips brushing her earlobe as he whispers to her. Her gray eyes widen briefly before skepticism floods her expression, yet her narrowed gaze as she stares at Liam is filled with trust and adoration.
The Duke of Valtoria knew then that he was looking upon Cordonia’s next Queen.
His eyes travel the room, landing on a sheepish-looking Bastien being berated by a nearly apoplectic Godfrey. Bastien’s hands gesticulate, and his cheeks redden; he and Maxwell lock gazes briefly before Bastien once again gives the Duke of Karlington his full attention.
What the hellis going on? And where is his father?
Max looks down when he feels Riley wrap her hand around his arm; her face is tilted upwards at his.
“What’s happened?” she asks, not expecting an answer.
Maxwell shrugs and pulls his wife into his side, his palm rubbing soothing circles across her back as they watch Liam stride quickly to the dais, tightly holding the hand of the chief constable; she struggles miserably to keep up with his steps.
“Will the Council please join me up here?” his smooth baritone asks once he is behind a podium emblazoned with the Cordonian coat of arms. “Guards, please escort the accused to his seat.”
Maxwell’s eyes lock with Riley’s; alarm and unshed tears threaten to fill both pairs. Maxwell places a gentle kiss in his daughter’s hair before transferring the sleeping toddler to her mother. He pulls his small family into an embrace, a false smile of bravado crossing his lips when he notices the tears tangled in his wife’s eyelashes.
“Hey,no tears. Whatever happens … we have each other,” he whispers.
His lips snatch hers in a kiss that is passionate, searing, and all-too-quick before his arms drop to his sides, and he takes his seat at a table placed in the center of the room and exactly six feet away from the rostrum. The Duchess looks longingly at her husband before taking her seat on the platform. She nods and smiles listlessly in greeting towards her fellow Councilmembers, her stomach knotted so tightly she fears she’ll be ill.
Their eyes and expressions are filled with unease and awkwardness as they return her salutation.
Riley’s eyes briefly close while she murmurs a prayer. When she arrived in Cordonia almost three years earlier, she had no idea what she wanted nor hoped to find … but ithad found her. It hadn’t been easy, but oh, so worth it. And now it lay in tatters and shambles, all because of one man. Her father-in-law.
Family.
She finishes her prayer just as the King clears his throat before announcing Chief Constable McKenzie has an announcement of great interest to everyone. Liam nods tersely at the officer, then adjusts the height of the microphone for her before stepping aside.
Chief Constable McKenzie walks forward slowly, deliberately; for the briefest of moments, Rebecca feels the weight of every eye in the room on her. She takes in facial expressions and body postures and poses. The constable is a former LAPD detective and can read body language just as well as the King.
Her facial expression is impassive and her tone neutral as she addresses Cordonian leadership.
“Good morning Lords, Ladies, and Your Majesty. I’m afraid I have rather unpleasant news to share with you: His Lordship, Barthelemy Beaumont, was found deceased in his residence, House Beaumont, at 6am this morning. Cause of death was gunshot wounds. The Ramsford Constabulary will be working closely with the Cordonian Ministry of Criminal Investigation to bring about both resolution and closure to the case.”
There is no need for her, or anyone for that matter, to state that charges against Duke Maxwell Percival Beaumont of Valtoria would be dismissed given the turn of events. With no plaintiff to pursue charges, the Council would have no choice but to acquit the Duke of Valtoria.
Chief Constable McKenzie steps back slightly from the podium, hand hovering above her holster, gauging people’s reactions. Many are shocked, and murmurs of “murder” pass between the nobles. Except for a few; those were the ones Rebecca watched.
Godfrey and Bastien look at Riley.
How did she get possession of the heiress?
Maxwell’s eyes fly swiftly to his brother Bertrand, as his fists clench.
He had promised Annabelle would be returned to them before the hearing.
Riley’s eyes go directly to King Liam.
He was the one who had delivered her daughter to her.
Bertrand’s eyes are on the Duchess of Portavira, who is texting on her phone.
She had told him she would talk to Barthelemy to ensure Bertrand kept his promise to Maxwell and Riley.
The Duchess raises her blue eyes to meet the gaze of the constable before a slow smirk curves her pink-painted lips; an eyebrow arches as her gaze swiftly moves to the man standing beside Rebecca.
Slightly unnerved, the officer turns her head slightly to look at the King.
The King stares straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back. His posture is rigid, and expression stoic.
By my calculations, it is still March 31 in at least three USA time zones. The story below is my submission for @moodmusicmonday’s #LuckoftheDraw writing challenge where a song is assigned to/selected for the writer in the hopes of sparking inspiration for to create.
The song I was given (no idea who submitted it or who selected it for me but THANK YOU!) is 1950 by King Princess; one of my favorite songs by one of my new fave artists. I went with a story that has all/only original characters, so no TRR crew or Cordonian characters.
Also, the ending is nothing what I said it would be.
THANK YOU to everyone (read: everybody I know) who listened to me, bounced ideas with me, and read totally unsolicited snippets I jammed in their inboxes and DMs.
THANK YOU to all who will read this piece. Please excuse any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. It’s late, I’m tired, and rushing to meet this deadline. All is a recipe for mucho mistakes.
Another heart-wrenching submission by the lovely @dcbbw ! Get those tissues ready for this original fic! Thank you so much, girlie, for participating in LOTD and sharing your inspirational story with us!
