Heir in Exile (30 page)

Euphoria spread throughout the country on the heels of mourning the death of the King. In a state of exultation at achieving their goal, the people of Latvala gathered en masse on Sander's coronation day, crowding pubs, restaurants with rooms for television, and in the streets to celebrate. They realized the power lie with the people when they chose to flex their collective muscle.

Thousands had turned out for Aksel's funeral services, paying their respects despite the circumstances. Sander, his siblings and the former Queen Helina displayed varying stages of grief. Although Aksel had plotted and condoned murder, he was still their father and his passing, ruled a suicide due to effects eventually found in his chamber, hit them all hard.

The official story, of course, was spun much different in the media. Aksel perished from a heart attack, not suicide by poisoning, and that's the way the story would stay. Some of the King's more dastardly deeds would never see the light of day, buried beneath leaden tongues and the burden of keeping secrets.

Chey would have preferred the entire world know every horrible detail. It wasn't her place to decide, or to say, so she remained cordial and quiet and supportive of her intended. In the course of ten days, everything changed: their movements were tracked to and from all locations, they were never without escort, even outside to the bailey or for short walks to the stable and back. Someone was within sight, ready to defend the new King. Chey hadn't understood just how suffocating it could be until she experienced it firsthand.

By the third day of it, she'd wanted to ditch the lot of them, steal Sander back to Pallan, and hide away until his coronation.

It wasn't to be.

For two days before the event, Natalia had thrown a tantrum of all tantrums, inconsolable about the death of her father and the knowledge Chey would one day become Queen. The walls shook with her wrath until finally, fed up and disgusted, Sander stalked the halls to her room and had it out.

In the aftermath, a pall fell over the castle.

Sander, shouldering meeting after meeting and interview after interview, sought Chey's company whenever he had the chance, burying himself in her softness and sweetness, relinquishing his tension and brooding nature for the Sander she'd met in the woods one fall day. He made no secret of the joy he took in her pregnancy, a joy he exposed in the quietest of times, only to her.

Worried about the image she presented to the world, Chey chose her attire for his coronation carefully. The dress, beige in color, with ivory embroidery on the collar and wide cuffs, buttoned down the front and had a hem that reached her ankles. Of a heavy material, the dress flattered her figure and disguised the faint thickening at her waist. She chose low heeled shoes the same color as the embroidery and fastened her dark hair away from her face, a classic style of twists ending in a small clasp of pearls.

The effect, she hoped, was elegant and cultured without being too droll. Tomorrow, she knew, a thousand critics from a thousand cities would pick apart everything from the application of her make up to the color of the dress to whether or not her lips were too thin.

As ever, the truest test was Sander, who paused to stare after attendants came and went to 'polish' his uniform. They had made sure no lint hung anywhere it shouldn't, that all wrinkles were gone, and that his shoes bounced his reflection back.

Sander's open praise was all the confirmation Chey needed that she'd chosen well. A handful of her own attendants—a thing Chey was sure she would never get used to—had argued endlessly about every detail. In the end, she made all her own decisions and stuck to her guns even when the head attendant complained there wasn't enough color.

Chasing everyone from his chambers, Sander stood before Chey and held her eyes for long minutes. Hair combed back into the usual low tail, he exuded a regal air fitting for today's ceremony.

“What?” she finally asked, lifting a gloved hand to smooth back her hair. Maybe a piece was sticking out.

“Nothing. Just admiring. You wear that color very well,” he said.

“Thanks. I'm glad you like it. You look really,” Chey paused to run her gaze along his military uniform. “Noble. The most handsome King I've ever seen.”

“You're biased,” he said, a note of humor in his voice.

“Of course I'm biased. You're still the man who tackled me off a horse and then taunted me about it, you know. Long before you were a King, or even a Prince, you were a thorn in my side.”

He laughed. The first real laugh she'd heard out of him since before Laur's death.

“Now I'm just a--”

“Don't get coy and cocky,” she said, cutting him off. The corner of her lips trembled with a subdued smile. It was good to banter a little, take the edge off the tension.

He arched a brow, imperious. “Are you deigning to tell your King what he can and cannot do?”

A laugh bubbled in Chey's throat. Sander pulled off imperious well. If they hadn't just been bantering, she might have been a little intimated. “Yes, and I'll be telling you what to do again later, when we retire for the night.”

It took him no time to discern the lascivious tease in her 'threat'.

He barked another laugh and scooped her closer with one arm, lowering his mouth to within a breath of her own. “Little minx. No wonder I love you like I do.”

Chey basked in his attention and the sentiment, which made her heart soar. A sentiment she had waited so long to hear. Trailing a gloved finger along the smooth angle of his jaw, she said, “That's right. Don't you forget it.”

He tilted his mouth to her cheek and brushed a warm kiss there. Then he whispered, “Lipstick.”

“You're so afraid someone is going to see you with color and gloss on your mouth. You have a lipstick phobia,” she said with an amused smile.

“PeachyKeenPerfection”, he said, obviously making up a fake lipstick name. “Doesn't go with primary colors. What will all the fashion experts say?” Sander struck a feigned look of horror.

Chey gave in to another bubble of laughter. “Did you ever stop to think you could just wipe it off?”

His brows arched, as if her suggestion had only dawned on him right that second. The gleam in his eyes gave his game away. Then he swooped in to claim her mouth with a kiss, so thorough that he transferred some to his lips and smeared the rest off her own.

Either way, Chey wasn't complaining.

. . .

Hung with royal blue silk, a gilt throne front and center on a shallow dais, the throne room was a sight to behold. Chey, standing in her spot to the side of the elaborate chair, surveyed the sparkling chandelier that hung from a high ceiling, the rows of chairs lined up like pews to either side of an aisle, and the collection of faces, cameras and photographers hovering both in the seats and along the sides of the seating. Many council members, ambassadors and other people of importance were in attendance. The royal siblings sat front and center, dressed immaculately for the occasion.

Feeling conspicuous and on display, Chey wished she was one of the photographers standing out of the spotlight behind a piece of equipment. Sander, after their heated kiss in his suite, had easily agreed to pose for her later in his royal uniform and crown so that she could snap a few shots of their own.

The historical importance of what she was about to witness, and become a part of, did not escape her. She found it all but impossible to wrap her mind around what it meant, and what her future might hold. Not just her upcoming wedding to Sander but their child and his role in the Latvala lineage.

A hiss of doors opening pulled Chey from her reverie. Sander, framed in the arch to the throne room, entered as he was announced by a liveried man standing next to an official carrying a pillow with a crown nestled in the center. Another bore a scepter, and still another a long blue cape with silver trim and a silver crest embroidered on the trailing hem. Those men stood in front of the throne, awaiting while Sander made his way to them.

He went to a knee as the ceremony got under way, head bent, looking as regal as any King should. Chey regarded the proceedings with no small amount of awe, tears stinging the back of her eyes, stomach tight with pride and anticipation. To bear witness to one of Sander's greatest moments was a highlight of her own life, an event she would never forget.

Lifting his head at the end of an intonation, he went still as the cape was draped around his shoulders and clasped across his throat. The next man handed him the scepter, a beautiful thing with jewels along the shaft and the complicated wolf's head at the top.

Last came the crown, stunning with its carved silver peaks and blue sapphires inset at intervals. The piece glittered as the man placed it on Sander's head. In the final gesture, a silver sword with matching sapphires in the pommel and rune carvings on the blade touched Sander's shoulder one time each. His coronation ritual complete, the blade passed off to one of the attending officials, Sander rose to his feet.

In English, coming after the Latvala verse, the official ended the ceremony.

“I present to you the new King of Latvala, Sander Darrion Ahtissari.”

Applause broke out in the room as Sander passed between the officials, who stood aside with their heads bowed, and took a seat on the throne. He dominated the high backed, ornately carved chair with the sheer power of his presence and charisma.

Chey, a bundle of nerves, wasn't sure if she was supposed to applaud or not. Was it proper? Or was she supposed to remain still, as if she knew this was his due? A glance at Mattias proved the siblings were not applauding with the rest. Taking her cue from that, she held her hands together before her, as demure as she knew how to be.

Flashbulbs popped from both sides of the room, had been for the last twenty minutes, immortalizing the event for all time. Video rolled, people cheered, and the officials signed a document that must have had to do with the coronation. They displayed it aside the throne when they were done, then carefully placed it before Sander, who signed last.

Removing the document, they posed for more pictures with Sander's signature scrawled across the bottom, before carrying it away through a small, guarded door at the back.

Ten minutes was all the military allowed the guests to remain. Row by row, people filed out of the throne room until there was only Chey and Sander left. As the door closed and silence descended, Chey met Sander's eyes.

“Was I supposed to go out with the rest of them?” she whispered, worried cameras were rolling somewhere and that she might have breached protocol already.

Sander laughed. He stood up from the throne, scepter in hand, the cloak trailing behind his feet. Descending the shallow steps, he came her way. “No. This was my first order as King. I told them all to leave us when the ceremony and the pictures were done.”

Chey couldn't tear her gaze from his face. Even in low heels, he towered over her, taking her breath away. If not for the wicked twists and terrible turns it took them to get here, she would have thought this was all a fairy tale. Too many memories of funerals and the recent pain of loss assured her it was anything but.

He cupped her jaw with a gloved hand, the cloak whispering around his body as he came to a halt.

“I'm at a loss for words,” she confessed, embarrassed.

“Don't be. I'm still the same man you read the riot act to, the same man whose face you've slapped—what? Two times now? Three? I've lost count.”

A startled laugh escaped before Chey could contain it. Of all things for Sander to say. “You're not supposed to bring that up at a time like this.”

“Of course I am. You know what comes next, right?” he asked, dragging his thumb over her lower lip.

“I'm not sure, but I suspect it involves redoing my lipstick again, and you washing your glove,” she said. There was a peachy stain across the pristine white.

The grin he bestowed on her was riddled with rakish charm. He handed her the priceless scepter, which Chey was hesitant to take. Wrapping her hands around the middle, she held it aloft like it might shatter any moment.

Sander scooped her up in his arms, cradled her against his chest, and struck out for a different door to the side of the room.

Laughing, helpless with amusement, she tucked the scepter against her body and put her lips on his jaw.

Let the sweet torture begin.

. . .

About the Author

Born and raised in Corona California, Danielle now resides in Texas with her husband and two sons. She has been writing for as long as she can remember, penning works in a number of genres. To date, she has published fourteen novels and nine short stories. Her interests vary wildly: reading, traveling, photography, graphic art and baking, among others.

There is a black cat named Sheba involved who thinks Danielle's laptop is her personal grooming station.

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www.daniellebourdon.com