Page 35 of His King Enslaved

“Sindar,” Ambani said gently, touching his arm. “You’ll get through this.”

That gentle touch shredded the last of his dignity. “I’m scared,” Sindar whispered. “What if—I can’t?” What if he couldn’t protect Ardor? What if he couldn’t protect their children? What if everyone was right, and the intense love he felt for his flower was a mirage, a product of pheromones and biology? He’d never been passionate about anything before—what if his passion for Ardor was fake? What if Xandar came back and finished what he started? What if…

Sindar registered the tears only after they dotted the front of his rumpled kingly vestment. The realization that he was crying undid him. All at once, he was weeping.

“Oh, Sindar,” Ambani said, sighing. “You always feel things so deeply.” She folded her pretender king into her arms, and he cried into her shoulder like the hot, worthless mess he was. When he collected himself and collapsed back into his chair, Ambani smoothed his clothes and blotted his face with a silken handkerchief. “You’ve been like this before. Remember Kumari?”

The first girl he’d ever been serious about. She’d been married off to a man she disliked, cutting a deeply emotional and torrid affair abruptly short, and he carried a wound in his chest for months. He nodded bleakly.

“You swore you were dying. I had to drag you out of bed every morning for nearly a month.”

“You think this will pass,” he said bitterly. “That I’ll get over him and stop caring.”

“No. I know you still care about Kumari and want her to be happy. I think your heart is big enough to care for a man you can’t have, no matter how much it hurts. That’s why I stayed by your side, even when things were bad. I believe in you, Sindar. I believe your heart is big enough. That’s what Kysan really needs. Someone with a big heart. I’ve always thought so.”

Ambani was the only person who had ever chosen him unconditionally. That was why he loved her. It only proved what Patty said. He was selfish. His love was selfish. Ardor deserved so much better, and he would never have it.

Sindar buried his face in his hands. “I wish I didn’t feel anything.”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “And neither do I. Now, straighten up.” She tapped the stack of papers expectantly. “There’s work to do.”

And because he loved her, he tried.

He dragged himself through the meetings that day and listened to the briefings, and signed off on things—goddess, paperwork truly was the worst misery of his station—and that night he lay in his enormous, empty bed and stared at the ceiling.

Was there really any harm in asking after the health of the father of his children? He was not supposed to, but… Surely, not even Ardor would begrudge him that. Just a quick visit. A few minutes, nothing more. When Sindar could no longer bear it, he dragged himself out of bed and went to the paternity wing, barely cognizant of the guards silently following him.

The moment the acolyte opened the door, her face fell in quiet dismay, and he knew he was making a mistake. He kept going anyway. “I have to speak to him,” he said. “Please.”

The acolyte hesitated, torn between her duty to her Flower and her obligation to obey a king, and perhaps a bit thrown off by the earnestness in that please. He peered over her shoulder, seeking his heart’s desire, and finally, he found him.

Ardor rose from the window seat, gathering his silk robes around himself.

Before he realized what he was doing, Sindar nudged the little acolyte aside and crossed the threshold. He only needed a moment. Just a word. Just a few—

Ardor held out a hand, his bracelets tinkling. “Stop there. No further.”

Sindar ground to an agonizing halt. He ached to close the distance, but a command from his Flower was unbreakable. His heart seized in his chest. “I can’t go two years without you. I can’t go five months or even a day. Ardor, I need you. I’ll do anything.”

Ardor’s responding frown was like a blade to the gut. Oh, how Sindar despised himself in that moment. He truly was a weak wretch. But not so weak that he would retreat, not when his beloved was so close.

Ardor approached, his steps slow and deliberate. “I don’t know you,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, and there was no doubt what he meant. “I asked you for one thing, to tell the truth, and you repeatedly denied me. How do you expect me to react to passionate and inappropriate overtures from a stranger? Do you understand the position you’ve put me in? This is the best course for both of us.”

Frustration welled up in him. How could this hell possibly be best for anyone? “I can’t,” Sindar whispered as Ardor’s gentle scent filled his nose. Oh, Goddess, being so close was torture, but it was the sweetest pain he’d ever known. Given the choice between suffering eternally or being cut free, he’d gladly endure.

“You say you’re a king in one breath, and claim you lack power in the next.” Ardor hooked the front of Sindar’s jacket, drawing him closer, and Sindar’s heart nearly exploded in his chest. The mere proximity of his Flower threatened to reduce him to a quivering, pathetic puddle. His hands ached to touch, to stroke, to worship… No, no, a thousand times no. Never without permission. He shivered, torn between the ache of desire and the pleasure of obedience.

Ardor’s whispered breath was warm against the shell of his ear. “Last chance. Answer truthfully, or I will never speak to you again. Who are you?”

An ultimatum. Given no choice, he surrendered at once. “Sindar, second son of Kysan,” he rasped, so only his Flower could hear. Tension drained out of him, as if a screw were finally loosened. There. The truth was out. He’d failed to keep the secret, and there was no going back. Knowing this, the rest followed: “We’re twins.”

Ardor did not release his jacket. Sindar risked a glance, fearing the worst. To his surprise, he saw no anger or confusion in those deep brown eyes. Only triumph. His Flower was pleased.

For once in Sindar’s life, he might have actually passed a test.

“You say you’ll do anything,” Ardor said, his voice still a whispering warmth only Sindar could hear. “Become the king your people deserve. Become so adept at wearing his face that even your adviser forgets it is not your own. Don’t do it for me, or because you think I’ll reciprocate your affection one day. Do it to keep our children safe. Show me you’ll protect them. My champion will arrive soon, and she cannot see you like this. She will be suspicious.” He drew back, raising his voice so the guards would hear. “Given time and distance, you will no longer be besotted, and you’ll see I’ve done you a favor. This will pass, Your Majesty.”

Sindar swallowed, throat bobbing. He didn’t want this sweet, honeyed torture to pass. He ached to do and say so many things. To beg and grovel and plead. But this was no time for selfishness. He must prove himself. Ardor, as always, was right. “I understand.”