“Kris has a point about not agreeing to the proposal.” Mark had sat in an antechamber, privately listening in on the summit while Kris had filled his place at the table. “I was thinking the same thing.”
The plan was to keep Mark’s intended abdication and Kris’s ascension private while Kris learned the ropes. No need to get the public in a tizzy about the royal family shuffling power like a deck of cards. Not so soon after the tragedy that had killed the late ruling family and hauled Kris and his brothers here in the first place. Mark would continue to attend meetings and appearances as himself, as would Kris, but there would be events that expected the king in attendance and would just happen to receive Kris instead. Not his fault if they couldn’t tell him and his brother apart.
The only people who knew were Kris and his brothers, their personal guards, Ava, her friend Zara, and Philip. The household staff who attended Mark and Ava at their mansion believed their king had simply relocated for Ava’s privacy.
His advisor sighed. “Politics is about picking your battles.”
“Then I pick this one.” Kris held his advisor’s unimpressed gaze. “That man was trying to sell us snake oil.” A minister for agriculture, trying to convince all countries in attendance to form an agreement to use new pest-resistant seeds for their farming crops. A supposed protection against pests and plant disease from spreading across borders—but when Kris had asked for information on the existence of such threats, the man had failed to produce evidence. “I’ll bet mega corp lobbyists are paying him a mint to show up here and convince us all to start buying this miracle product.”
Philip frowned. “The modification is designed to protect the crops, Your Highness.”
“From what?” Kris dragged his feet off the desk and stood. He gestured out the tower’s eastern-facing window toward the lush farmland far below, bright green in the summer sunlight. “That’s some of the healthiest damn farmland I’ve ever seen. Rich soil, high crop yield. No tilling, and earthworms aplenty. You know we wouldn’t just be buying the seeds—it’s the fertilizers to go with them, the soil blends . . . The whole thing was a sales pitch disguised as a solution to a problem we don’t have.”
Philip blinked. “But he said—”
“I’ve visited our agriculture communities. Talked to the families who’ve been running Kiraly’s farms for generations. They’re good, hardworking people.” Farmers always were. “They know what’s best for their crops. If they want these seeds, they’re welcome to buy them. But I’ll shoot myself in the foot before I sign anything that mandates where they source their supplies.”
Philip breathed in loudly through his nose, running a hand down the front of his blazer. He cleared his throat. Then, tugging at the hem, he answered in a level tone, “Don’t walk out next time.”
Kris sat back down. “Fine.”
Mark caught his eye, shaking his head with the hint of a smile.
“It seems we’re finished for the day.” Philip’s arms came to rest by his sides, his chin level with the floor. “If you agree, Your Highness?”
Recognizing the embedded request, Kris gave him a nod. “Sure.” Then he paused, and picked up a thin folder from his desk. “I’ve been meaning to ask—is this all the security briefing I get? This is basically an itinerary of our days and corresponding security measures.”
“What are you hoping for, Your Highness?” Philip’s brows rose a fraction. “Espionage?”
Kris tilted his head wryly. “Security incidents.”
“The royal guard handles any incidents with precision and discretion. We don’t concern our king with such matters.”
“Let’s change that.” Kris let the folder fall onto the desk with a little slap.
With a small frown, Philip inclined his head and turned to leave.
“Thanks, Philip,” Mark said.
“Your Majesty.” The older man stopped at the door and cast a frown at Kris over his shoulder. “Speaking of security incidents—what are your plans tonight, Your Highness?”
Kris clicked his tongue, holding back a grin. Here we go.
“Oh, you know,” he answered, stretching with a hand behind his head. “Might head into the city.”
Philip’s features hardened. “Do not slip your guards again.”
He quirked a brow. “Why would I do that?”
“Kris,” Mark said in warning.
“I don’t slip them.” Since Kris had arrived in Kiraly, he’d made a habit of getting out of the palace a few times a week. He needed the relief of being surrounded by normal people, and in a crowded bar, he could settle back into his old cowboy skin and forget the royal he’d become. Philip’s problem was that very occasionally, Kris would just . . . leave the bar. “They choose not to follow me.”
Philip’s lips thinned. “From what I’ve heard, you work hard to take that choice away from them.”
“I need you to try, Kris.” Mark leaned forward, elbows on his knees, blue gaze steady. “If you’re serious about being king, you can’t mess around anymore. Respect protocol. Please.”
Sobering at the plea, Kris raised his hands in surrender. Mark’s future with Ava depended on Kris doing this properly—for if Kris wasn’t prepared by the coronation in three months’ time, Mark would put Kiraly over his own happiness and take the crown.
“Alright,” he said. “I promise to do the right thing.”
A clever verbal loophole even if he did say so himself.
Mark gave a nod. “Thank you.”
Satisfied with that, Philip bowed to them both and left the study.
Kris blew out a breath and ran a hand along the back of his neck, fingers digging into muscle. “Summits, hey,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Do we get a lot of those?”
Mark gave a laugh. “No idea.” He stood, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. “How’re you holding up?”
Honestly? His life had been upended and everything that had once brought him comfort and peace had tumbled away. Horses and back porches and big skies were all out of reach.
“Hard to know,” he said.
A sturdy upbringing in Montana couldn’t have prepared him for daily life as a monarch. This life was bait for all species of predatory stress.
The sharp-toothed stress that preyed on responsibility. His smallest choice could have far-reaching consequences, and that pierced deep into his conscience.
The stress of dramatic change. It was always there: a million crawling wrongs throughout the day. Every time he woke to find his manservant setting down his morning coffee, it stung him. Every time his guards fell into step behind him, sting; every time someone called him ‘Your Highness’ with a bowed head, double sting; and every time he reluctantly handed the reins to the stable master after a ride because he had somewhere else to be, he stung all over his capable cowboy body.
And dwelling in the shadows of his mind was the stress that he was in over his head. That he might not be able to pull off this king thing and would cause the end of Mark and Ava’s relationship.
His only defense was to give his attention to everything Philip and Mark taught him in his daily training. It had been less than two weeks, but he was trying his best. Kira City looked breathtaking at night—he knew, because he often stayed late in this tower study, revising notes, reciting what he’d learnt, memorizing names and agreements and political relationships. He might not be a natural leader like Mark or a natural learner like Tommy, but he’d be damned if he messed this up through lack of trying.