Page 4 of His King Enslaved

As he contemplated crossing that forbidden threshold, a gentle floral scent filled his nose. Sindar turned at the sound of gently clinking metal, and before him stood a vision of such loveliness his breath was stolen away.

A man stood at the entrance to the apartment next door, his elegant hand lingering on the handle. Equally elegant golden bracelets dangled from his wrists. He was willowy and graceful, his white face partly obscured by long platinum hair that shone like silver. His brown eyes were wary, his mouth a neutral bow. Elegant eyebrows, elegant hands, elegant everything... Sindar had never seen such an exotic and lovely creature before.

A petite older woman with a shaved head peeked out from behind him. She wore an acolyte’s robes and was missing an eye. Acolytes only served the goddess and her kind. That meant…

This man must be a Flower, a descendant of the goddess D’ruth. Flowers were impervious to the curse and ensured the continuation of royal bloodlines.

Sindar had never met one before, and now he understood what the fuss was all about. Flowers were truly as incredible as they said. Sweet angels, this man was gorgeous. The devil of it was, Sindar wasn’t even interested in men. Or at least he hadn’t been until now. The Flower’s scent teased at his nose, sending heat and warmth down his body all the way to his toes.

“Your Majesty,” the Flower said, bowing slightly. His voice was deliciously deep, with the barest hint of a Pavarian accent.

Good Goddess, he was more than lovely. He was heavenly. Sindar’s tongue was thick and dumb in his mouth. His mouth was watering. His cock was trying to do things. He ached for something he had no words to describe. What the hell was happening to him? He blurted, “I went riding,” and immediately wanted to slap himself.

The man’s slender brow raised the barest fraction, and even this was lovely; Sindar’s knees threatened to give out entirely. He couldn’t stop staring at the gentle curve of the man’s mouth, the elegant line of his neck, the silver curtain of hair begging to be parted so he could better see the beautiful face beneath it. His cock pulsed.

Desperate to escape before he made a complete fool of himself in front of such an extraordinary creature, Sindar yelled, “Good night, then!” and marched into the king’s apartment. Once safely inside with the door closed, he sank into a chair.

He’d been “king” for less than an hour. Little surprise he’d already bungled it.

CEREMONY

SERVANTS SOON ARRIVED, and Sindar was liberated from his filthy riding clothes. They thoroughly scrubbed away all the grime and washed his hair. His skin crawled a bit as they dressed him in his brother’s clothes, and he studiously avoided looking in the mirror. The embroidered silk robes felt weirdly cool against his skin, a far cry from the warm and slightly scratchy wool he normally bundled up in.

Once they were gone, sleep proved elusive. Sindar lay in bed, staring up at the gilded ceiling. Xandar was married to a Flower. Why hadn’t Patel warned him?

Arranged marriages to Flowers were political unions foremost, but how could any man be married to someone like that and keep it political?

Well. Xandar could. Xandar didn’t care about anyone, and no one knew that better than Sindar. He’d been forced to watch the beheading of his dearest friends, and he’d never forget the cruel bite of steel against his own neck. Xandar executed sixty people that day, and Patel was the only reason that number hadn’t been sixty-one.

Sixty. The number haunted him. Xandar was the eldest by sixty seconds. That fated minute determined who was heir and who was spare. When he was younger, Sindar would hold his breath and count those seconds, feeling the crush of the meager space between them.

Was Xandar really the oldest? They were physically indistinguishable as babies, and during the confusion of birth, who could say which came out first? But his mother, Goddess rest her soul, was a Flower and the ultimate authority in such matters. Xandar meant “first son” in her native Amarian. Sindar meant “second son.” Regardless of who came out first, she’d made the choice.

Royal twins were unheard of, and for good reason. Flowers were supposed to guarantee a smooth transfer of monarchical power, not complicate it. There should have been five or six heirs to the Kysanian throne, modestly spaced apart like royal stepping stones in an unambiguous line of succession. Instead, his mother had only borne two, and their closeness in age and likeness pitted them against each other as soon as they were out of childhood. She died before Sindar was old enough to appreciate the gravity of what she’d done, let alone ask why.

In his childhood memories, his mother’s dark brown face was angelic, the cloud of tight curls about her head a halo. She sang to him at night. She loved him. Why had she doomed him to this fate? He turned those memories over, examining them from all angles as he searched for any insights. As usual, he found none. Eminence Heavenly’s motivations would forever remain a mystery.

Finally dawn arrived, bringing a manservant with her. Sindar politely endured as he was dressed and bathed once more. A breakfast spread was set out, and shortly after Patel arrived with an old friend.

Lord Ambani was now Lady Ambani, and she was a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. As youths, they’d wrestled and studied and ridden, and Ambani was undaunted by Sindar’s increasingly dangerous acquaintance. The young aristocrat’s support remained steadfast, even when it was perilous. Even when Sindar was moody and irritable, hopelessly mired in his lot. Even when heads rolled.

Ambani could not say she was glad to see him, as that would imply she was glad Xandar was indisposed, which was a deadly charge. Instead, she said, “It’s about bloody time you got back here,” and Sindar was warmed head to toe. At least someone missed him.

But once the pleasantries were over, and they settled into the meat of running a kingdom, Sindar soon wished he was back at the horse stables, sunk in the mud. The minutiae of governance had always bored him. People interested him. Bureaucracy, not so much.

Ambani, knowing him well, finally cleared her throat and said, “Adviser Patel and I only require the king’s approval for a few items. You may simply show up and nod. We’ll take care of the rest as your proxies. No one will be the wiser.”

“Very well,” Sindar said, not fully convinced.

“There’s one more matter to discuss,” Patel said. “The breeding ceremony.”

Sindar’s fork clinked against his plate. “The what now?”

Ambani shot Patel a look and smoothly stepped in. “Your Highness, what do you know about Flowers?”

Sindar’s brain was still stuck on the word “breeding,” but he firmly wrenched his thoughts back into order. “I know the one next door is bloody gorgeous,” he said, not liking where this was going. “Thanks for warning me about him, by the way. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw him.”

Patel frowned. “You met Eminence Ardor?”