2. Alejandro
ALEJANDRO
IFOUND MYSELF glaring at the television as I watched a replay of yesterday’s ceremony, of King Nicholas Valemont standing at the altar across from the man he’d chosen.
The expression on his face was one I’d never seen before.
The king I’d met all those months ago was composed, closed off, had a cold politeness about him that never let you get too close.
As he smiled softly at Noah Bennett, the footman standing in the place I was supposed to be, it was hard to reconcile how different he seemed now. Happy. In love. Two things that shouldn’t have annoyed me, but had my jaw clenching tight.
I didn’t know why I’d bothered watching at all, other than wanting a glimpse of the spectacle. I’d missed the actual ceremony when it was live yesterday, but with the way it was splashed all over every channel, it was hard to avoid, so I’d finally given in on one of the many replays.
The wedding was beautiful, of course it was, because Valoria did everything by the book, down to the finest detail. The cathedral was bathed in blue and ivory, sunlight pouring in through the windows and shining down on the two men making their vows.
It was a romantic scene out of a storybook, the entire world celebrating “true love,” a whole prince-and-the-pauper storyline that most seemed to adore.
How utterly nauseating.
The espresso in my hand remained untouched, and I glanced down at it, wondering if I should trade it in for wine even though it was still relatively early.
But I’d done enough sulking over the failed situation I found myself in, and I lifted the small cup to my lips, draining it in one swallow.
It had gone cold, but I needed the caffeine hit.
As I lowered the cup, I caught my reflection in the mirror and turned my head from side to side, admiring the view. I looked exquisite, but that too was irritating.
If a man was going to be publicly pitied by the world, he should at least have the decency to look terrible. Pale and hollow-eyed and tragic-looking in a way that invited sympathy.
Instead, I looked like my stunning self, my cream linen shirt open at the collar, my black hair swept back off my face. I’d let my facial hair grow a little, but according to the press, that only gave me more of a “seductive edginess.”
I looked nothing at all like a man whose entire identity was in turmoil.
Good.
A happy sigh from the commentator had me glancing back at the screen, where Nicholas and Noah had finished their vows.
“Here it comes,” the woman said, her voice low and wistful. “The kiss we’ve all been waiting for.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes, but continued watching as Noah smiled up at the king he’d just bagged. Nicholas’s hands moved to Noah’s face, and he leaned in, kissing his husband tenderly as the chapel erupted into applause.
“This,” the commentator said, “is the fairytale the world needed.”
I turned off the television.
The screen went black and the room was plunged into silence. No more applause or music or swooning commentary, thank God.
I stood there for a moment, the remote in my hand, my reflection staring back at me from the dark screen.
Crown Prince Alejandro de la Vega of Solterra. Former almost Prince Consort of Valoria but now just a footnote in someone else’s love story.
My fingers tightened around the remote. That was the part that sat under my skin like a splinter. Not that Nicholas had chosen Noah. I wasn’t in love with Nicholas. Hell, I hadn’t spent sleepless nights wondering what our wedding or our life would be like.
Sure, Nicholas was handsome and intelligent, but composed to the point of exasperation. Maybe we would’ve built something respectable in time, and surely our countries would’ve benefited from our union. That was the whole point.
Now? I was the discarded match, the most suitable man for the job, passed over for love. For a footman.
That was the headline, the one that would never go away, not even in the decades to come. I would always be the almost in every story, the poor prince who was tossed aside.
Tossed aside… No such thing had ever happened in my thirty-five years on this earth. And then Nicholas had had the nerve to invite me to come watch? While everyone around gossiped about how gracious it was that I’d shown up, but secretly laughed behind my back?
Absolutely the fuck not.
Frustration rode me hard, a need for an outlet making my fingers twitch. I tossed the remote aside and headed out of my chambers, heading to the one place that would help ease my irritation.
The fencing salle sat on the opposite wing of the Solterran Palace, and I took the quickest route, heading outside and rounding the Olympic-sized pool with its fountains and lush greenery. It was a warm day already and would only get hotter, but the sun felt soothing on my skin.
It was a good thing I hadn’t married myself to Valoria. Nicholas’s main palace was cold and grey half the year, while Solterra enjoyed sunny days and mild to hot weather year round. I much preferred my palace, so it was no small consolation to stay here.
When I reached the salle, I swung open the door and stepped inside the vast space. Swords were mounted on the walls, the sunlight gleaming off them as well as the polished floors. I took a deep breath, the familiar scent of steel and aged leather filling my lungs.
This was exactly what I needed.
“Your Highness,” Diego, my master-at-arms, said, stepping out from the changing rooms. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“I know. But if you have the time, I’d like to”—stab something—“burn off last night’s dinner.”
The excuse was a poor one, but he wouldn’t dare question it.
“Of course. I’ll ready our equipment while you change.”
“Very good.” I hurried into the changing rooms and quickly stripped out of my clothes, then pulled on the white breeches, the plastron over my sword shoulder, and the fencing jacket hanging in my personal locker.
After tying my shoes, I grabbed my glove and mask and headed back out into the salle, where I found Diego inspecting the foils we’d be using for our match.
“Will this one suffice for today’s spar, Your Highness?”
I tucked my mask under my arm and took the piece from him. It was lightweight, elegant, and would allow quick, precise hits.
“Yes. This will work.” Truth be told, the gleaming swords hanging on the wall would’ve been even more satisfying. But Diego wasn’t the person I wanted to gut like a fish.
“Very good, sir. Then let’s begin.”
We pulled our masks on and took up position in the center of the salle, where I saluted and called, “En garde.”
Diego barely had time to position himself before I moved.
Three quick steps, and a sharp beat attack knocked Diego’s blade aside. A lightning-fast lunge. Touch.
We reset. And went again.
Diego attacked first this time, but after years of training with him, I knew exactly what to expect. I retreated, two steps back, then caught the blade with a clean parry four before driving home an effortless riposte to the chest.
Touch.
Diego rolled his shoulders, a sure sign he was smarting from being bested twice in a row. But when we went another round and steel rang through the salle, he began to understand that I wasn’t here for a light practice today. I was here to work out the frustration thrumming through me.
Diego tried to feint high. I didn’t bite. He disengaged beneath my blade and lunged, but I slipped back just beyond his reach. Before he could recover, I went on the attack and landed a clean hit to his shoulder.
Touch.
Diego ripped off his mask, breathing hard. “Sir, do you want to—”
“Are you forfeiting?” I said, interrupting what I knew was going to be a question about whether I’d rather talk about my feelings than taking it out on him. But no. This was much more satisfying.
“No, sir. Of course not.” He lowered the mask then moved into position.
We saluted.
“En garde.”
Diego came at me then, aggressively attacking, forcing me backward, clearly understanding what I wanted in that moment, and it wasn’t fucking therapy—not the verbal kind, anyway.
My feet moved quickly and nimbly, my skill close to that of Olympians in this sport. The only person who could usually best me was the man opposite me. But not today. Not with the amount of irritation I’d been bottling up.
I was waiting for the right moment for it to explode—like now.
With sure feet and a steady hand, I began to advance on Diego.
One step, two, then fleche.
I exploded forward, my blade finding its mark before Diego could move.
Touch.
My breathing was coming hard now. But I was just warming up. I moved into position, ready to go another round, when the door to the salle was pulled open and Elena, my personal secretary, stepped inside.
Diego pulled his mask off as the click-clack of her Louboutins came to a stop.
He ran his fingers through his hair, swiping it back off his face, as I slowly turned to see her standing just inside the salle in a red silk blouse and black A-line skirt, her midnight curls cascading over her shoulders, as her dark eyes assessed the two of us.
She looked pristine. We looked like a hot, sweaty mess.
“Your Highness.”
“Elena,” I said, pushing my mask up on top of my head.
“A sparring match was not on your schedule today.”
“It was spur of the moment.”
“Do you know how long it took me to find you?”
I tried to remember when I’d decided it was a good idea to let my staff be so…mouthy with me. But that was a problem for another day.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Twenty minutes,” she said, walking over to us. “Twenty minutes in which I could’ve been doing a number of the other things on my to-do list.” Her eyes flicked to my master-at-arms. “Morning, Diego.”
“Miss Elena,” he said softly, and lowered his head like some shy schoolboy—which was laughable, since he could probably kill a man with his bare hands.
“Okay,” I said, finally pulling my mask off, my adrenaline from moments ago now well and truly gone. “Well, here I am. What’s so important that you had to break a sweat?”
“I did not,” she said, but tested her cheek with her fingertips just to check. “We received correspondence this morning.”
“I imagine we receive a lot of correspondence, Elena. What’s so different about this?”
“It’s, um”—her eyes flicked to Diego and then to the blades in our hands—“a message from the House of Valoria. The King of Valoria.”
My fingers automatically tightened around the hilt of my sword as red-hot fury colored my vision. My jaw clenched.
“What did it say?”
“That he’s sending Prince Gabriel as a diplomatic envoy to Solterra in the hopes of mending any discord that may have arisen between the two kingdoms.”
That presumptuous bastard.
Discord? Discord. I’d give him discord.
Of course Nicholas was sending his brother because he was too busy on his damn honeymoon.
“Sir?” Elena said, and waved a hand in front of my face.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked how I should respond.”
I knew how I’d like to respond. But I was also aware that my mother and father would disown me if I rebuked the olive branch the king was foolishly trying to wave under my nose. But maybe, maybe there was a better way to get my revenge.
Nicholas wanted to send his brother in his place, did he?
Well, two could play that game.
“Let him come,” I said, a sly smirk tipping my lips. “Accept his request. And ready the palace for our guest.”