It’s sweet how Delphine and Zar huddle, laughing withtheir inside jokes as queens. It’s cute how Delphine and Jace gang up on Grant and give him shit. Or how Nick laughs at Zar, who’s teasing Sire about becoming his second king tonight.
This is a room full of love, and I feel left out.
For meandfor Alena.
The only brother who must know how I feel is Axel. He stands, stoically, no doubt remembering how his queen was our first. How he tried to love her, but she left him.
It makes me understand his icy edges. Underneath, he’s hiding a warm, wounded heart.
“Where’s Nash?” I murmur to Jace, appearing beside me.
“Watching Wren.” He sets his shot glass down on the credenza, laden as a Zakusi table—a traditional Russian spread of salads, caviar, pâte, breads, pickled vegetables, and more.
“Watching Wren?” I parrot my brother.
“Yeah.” With a toothpick, Jace stabs a marinated mushroom, chomping on it, explaining, “Sire won’t leave Wren unguarded. I think he’s jockeying for Nash to be her second king. So, it makes sense.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, worried my plan is already shot to shit. “So, Nash is missing an initiation?”
“He’ll be here later. Once Sire initiates Zar and goes home to Wren.” Jace shoves another shroom in his mouth, chewing like a cow with its cud, reading my worry. “Why? Where’s Alena?”
“With Mom at The Mercier.”
Jace nods. He gets it. Of course, Mom’s subterfuge to protect Alena while all the kings are busy involves a weekend spa getaway.
“How’s your little secret?” Jace asks, half giving me shit, half caring deeply.
“About as well as yours.” I pop a blini—a thin pancaketopped with caviar and sour cream—in my mouth. “Eck.” And spit it back out into a napkin. “Goddamn, that shit is nasty.”
Jace laughs. “You’re not a real Russian.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, hiding my twinge of pain, of all the ways I don’t belong. “Tell that to our dickhead father. Then maybe he’ll leave Alena and me the fuck alone.”
Jace elbows me, and I glance around, making sure no one overheard.
They didn’t. They’re too busy preparing for the ceremony. It’s inspired by a Russian Orthodox wedding.
I sit on my throne, the last and seventh in a line of intricately gilded wooden chairs with black velvet seats. They blend in with Axel’s penchant for antique furniture in his office.
No one would know their true purpose as we watch Axel and Sire perform the ceremony uniting Nick, a king, with Zar, his queen.
It makes Nick tear up as they recite their sacred vows. It makes Zar cup Nick’s scruffy cheek, reverently joining our family.
I get over myself, entranced by their love, then, aroused when they consummate it.
Nick’s my brother. His nudity means nothing to me.
But Zar? When he strips his suit off, I’m man enough to admit when another is beautiful. And I’m a Dom who can’t hide my kink for anyone’s pleasure.
Zar’s is obvious. He lies, moaning, naked on his back, his legs open, his cock soaring hard with each ferocious thrust from my brother, who’s fucking him on the boardroom table.
When Zar sees us, watching him being made into our queen, there’s trust in his eyes. An intimacy. An intensity. An indelible bond we’re forming without a touch.
“Whose ass is this?” Nick kisses him, taunting with his fuck.
“Yours, my king.” Zar’s words are strained. “Oh fuck, it’s yours. Harder. Oh fuck, baby, you’re making me come.”
“I’m gonna shoot my load so fucking deep in you,” Nick vows. “Show them. Show your kings how much you love me.”
