Page 11 of His King Enslaved

“Of course,” the king said quickly. “I won’t touch you without permission. I promise.”

Ardor assessed his consort with even more care now. It was as if another man wore Xandar’s skin. Perhaps he was finally taking good advice, but this transformation seemed much more than that. “I also prefer no curfew.”

Surprise momentarily flickered in the king’s eyes. “Then you shall not have one.” His tone was disapproving. Again, Ardor was puzzled. Hadn’t the curfew been on Xandar’s orders?

The strangeness of it all made him bold. “Am I finally trustworthy, Your Majesty? Your cock has taken a new liking to me, but nothing else has changed between us. Do you normally use that instrument to determine matters of national security?”

The king’s jaw dropped slightly, but he quickly closed it and said, “We need to produce heirs, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. Tell me what you want, and consider it done. But as for trust... I think it is I who must earn your trust.”

Ardor almost asked, “Who are you?” His confusion must have shown plainly on his face, because the king immediately straightened and added, “I’m a man of my word. I’ll uphold my end of the contract, and you’ll uphold yours.”

Ah. It was an act, and to the man’s credit, he had it half right. The superior tilt of his head; the sharpness in tone. But he did not have the bearing of a man who is always right and knows it. There was a softness to him, an eagerness to please.

Ardor’s agile mind swiftly rifled through the evidence: the behavioral changes, the new tics, the changed sperm count, their strange encounter in the hallway...

This man was not Xandar of Kysan.

As soon as the thought passed Ardor’s mind, he wondered if the stress of being sent to an enemy kingdom and positioned to fail had finally driven him mad. What an insane notion. Of course, this was Xandar. Who else could he be? And yet...

I’m not who you think I am.

Ardor trusted his intuition. It kept him alive this long. This man was not Xandar. Somehow, as incredible as it seemed, he’d been replaced.

“Your Majesty!” Lord Patel hurried up to them. He bowed fully to Ardor. “Your Eminence. Forgive my intrusion.”

The clever little man always showed him courtesy, and Ardor returned it automatically, inclining his head. “Lord Patel, your presence is never an imposition.”

“Your Majesty, we must discuss the matter of the trade agreement,” Patel said. “If you please.”

“Don’t you and Bani have that taken care of?”

Ardor noted the odd familiarity in his consort’s tone as Patel quickly said, “Lady Ambani and I require your signature on several items, Your Majesty. If you please.”

His consort’s cheek twitched. “Ah. I see. I bid you leave, Eminence.”

“I bid you well, Your Majesty,” Ardor replied. He watched as Patel hurried the consort away, his guards obediently following.

It is I who must earn your trust. It was an acknowledgment of wrongdoing, and one Ardor longed to hear, but from the lips of another man.

The king had been replaced, and his closest adviser was in on it. The motive was clear enough. Kysan desperately needed heirs, and Xandar wasn’t providing them. But how had they done it? Some nations espoused “magic,” but Kysan was not one of them. Their technology and surgical techniques lagged behind their neighbors, and even Pavar’s finest cosmetic surgeons couldn’t craft a likeness that uncanny.

If Xandar wasn’t wearing the king’s clothes, attending the king’s meetings, and lying in the king’s ceremonial bed... then where was he?

NEED

SINDAR HELD HIS tongue until they were alone, but as soon as the door to the king’s office was safely shut, he whirled on his mentor, shedding what little royal decorum he had like an old skin.

“Patty, what the devil did he do to my Flower? Why isn’t the Champion staying with him? Why doesn’t my—the Flower have royal guards? Why is only one acolyte attending him? I checked and all Flowers have Champions! All of them! What kind of hospitality is this?”

Patel dragged a stool in front of the liquor cabinet and climbed onto it. “You’re besotted. I can’t decide if I’m thrilled or horrified.”

“I’m not besotted,” Sindar spat. They said besotted royals were hopelessly smitten with their Flowers. As youths, they’d always heckled and tormented those who were getting married, teasing them about what lovesick fools they’d become.

He might be lovesick, but he was no fool. Ardor was incredible. He’d be a fool not to love him. “He’s beautiful, and he’s perfect, and he must be treated with dignity and respect!”

Patel poured a shot, reconsidered, and made it a double. “Sit down. Calm yourself.”

Sindar sat, still bristling when Patel brought him a whiskey. His adviser settled into the short-depth chair Sindar had sent for and nodded his approval. Sindar waited until Patel was comfortable before persisting. “Where is his champion? That’s the worst part. Explain yourself.”