Pretender to the Throne. Maisey Yates

The alcohol barely burned anymore. It didn’t make him feel good, either. Stupid alcohol.

      “Where are you?”

      “Monaco. Yesterday I was in France. I think that was yesterday. It all sort of blurs together, you know?”

      “You make me feel old, Xander, and I am your younger brother.”

      “You sound old, Stavros.”

      “Yes, well, I didn’t have the luxury of running out on my responsibilities. That was your course of action and that meant someone had to stay behind and be a grown-up.”

      He remembered well what had happened the day he’d taken that luxury. Running out on his responsibilities, as Stavros called it.

      You killed her. This is your fault. You’ve stolen something from this country, from me. You can never replace it. I will never forgive you.

      Damn.

      Now that that memory had surfaced another shot or four would be required.

      “I’m sure the people will build a statue in your honor someday and it will all be worth it,” Xander said.

      “I didn’t call to engage in small talk with you. I would rather strangle myself with my own necktie.”

      Xander stopped walking, ignoring the woman who ran into him thanks to his sudden action. “What did you call about then?”

      “Dad had a stroke. It’s very likely he’s dying. And you are the next in line for the throne. Unless you abdicate, and I mean really, finally, abdicate. Or you know, chain a concrete ball to your neck and hurl yourself into the sea, I won’t mourn you.”

      “I would think you’d be happy for me to abdicate,” Xander said, ignoring the tightness in his chest. He hated death. Hated its suddenness. Its lack of discrimination.

      If death had any courtesy at all, it would have come for him a long time ago. Hell, he’d been baiting it for years.

      Instead, it went after the lovely and needed. The ones who actually made a difference to the world rather than those who left nothing but brimstone and scorch marks in their wake.

      “I have no desire to be king, but make no mistake, I will. The issue, of course, lies in the production of heirs. As happy as Jessica and I are with our children, they are not eligible to take the throne. Adoption is good enough for us, but not sufficient per the laws of Kyonos.”

      “That leaves...Eva.”

      “Yes,” Stavros said. “It does. And if you hadn’t heard, she is pregnant.”

      “And how does she feel? About her child being the heir?”

      “She hates it. She and Mak don’t even live in Kyonos and they’d have to uproot their lives so their child could be raised in the palace, so he or she could learn their duty. It would change everything. It was never meant to be this way for her and you know it.”

      Xander closed his eyes and pictured his wild, dark-haired sister. Yes, she would hate it. Because she’d always hated royal protocol. As he had.

      He’d taken her mother from her. Could he rob her of the rest of her dreams, too?

      “Whatever you decide, Xander, decide quickly. I would ask that you do so in two days’ time,” Stavros continued, “but if you want my opinion...”

      “I don’t.” He hung the phone up and stuffed it into his pocket.

      Then he walked toward the dock. And he wondered where he might find a concrete ball.

      * * *

      Layna Xenakos dismounted and patted her horse on the neck. Layna was sweaty and sticky, and the simple, long-sleeved shift she was wearing didn’t do very much to diffuse the heat.

      But she was smiling. Riding always did that for her. Up here, the view of the sea was intoxicating, the sharp, salty ocean breeze tangling with the fresh mountain air, a stark and bright combination she’d never experienced anywhere else.

      It was one of the many things she liked about living at the convent. It was secluded. Separate. And here, at least, lack of vanity was a virtue. A virtue Layna didn’t have to strive for. Vanity, in her case, would be laughable.

      She pulled her head scarf out of her bag and wound her hair up, putting everything back in place. The only thing she could possibly feel any vanity about—her hair— safely covered again.

      “Come on, Phineas,” she said to the horse, leading the animal up to the stables and taking care of his tack and hooves before putting him in his stall and walking back out into the sunlight.

      Technically, that had probably been a poor use of meditation time, but then, she rarely felt more connected to God, or to nature, than when she was riding. So, she imagined that had to count for something.

      She walked toward the main building of the convent. Dinner would be served soon and she was hungry, since her afternoon’s contemplation had been conducted on horseback.

      She paused and looked over the garden wall, noticing tomatoes that were ready to be picked, and diverted herself, continuing on into the garden, humming something tunelessly as she went.

      “Excuse me.”

      She froze when a man’s voice pierced the relative silence. They interacted with men in the village often enough, but it was unusual for a man to come to the convent.

      For a second, right before she turned, she experienced a brief moment of anxiety. Would he look at her like she was a monster? Would his face contort with horror? But before she turned fully, the fear had abated. God didn’t care about her lack of outer beauty, and neither did she.

      And moments like this were only a reminder that she did have to worry about vanity having a foothold. That it was an impediment to the service of others.

      That, in a nutshell, was why she was a novice and not a sister, even after ten years at the convent.

      “Can I help you?” The sun was shining on her face, and she knew he could see her fully. All of her scars. The rough, damaged skin that had stolen her beauty. Beauty that had once been her most prized feature.

      The sun also kept her from seeing him in detail. Which spared her from whatever his expression might be, whatever reaction he might be having to her wounds. He was tall, and he was wearing a suit. An expensive suit. Not a man from the village. A man who looked like he’d stepped out of the life she’d once lived.

      A man who reminded her of string quartets, glittering ballrooms and a prince who would have been her husband. If only things had been different.

      If only life hadn’t crumbled around her feet.

      “Possibly, Sister. Although, I’m doubting I’m in the right place.”

      “There isn’t another convent on Kyonos, so it’s unlikely.”

      “I find it strange I’m at a convent at all.” He looked up, the sun backlighting him, obscuring his features. “At least, I find it strange I haven’t been hit by a lightning bolt.”

      “That isn’t really how God works.”

      He shrugged. “I’ll have to take your word for it. God and I haven’t spoken in years.”

      “It’s never too late,” she said. Because it seemed like the right thing to say. Something the abbess would say.

      “Well, as it happens, I’m not looking for God. I’m looking for a woman.”

      “Nothing but Sisters here, I’m afraid,” she said.

      “Well, I’m led to believe that she is that, too. I’m looking for Layna Xenakos.”

      She froze, her heart seizing. “She doesn’t go by that name anymore.” And that was true, the sisters called her Magdalena. A reminder that