Her Cowboy King (#1)

Princess Ava must marry a king—but things change when a cowboy takes the throne. . .

Mark Jaroka is content with his life on the ranch, his brothers by his side.

Until he becomes the cowboy king.

Hauled halfway across the world after a royal family tragedy, Mark resolves to be worthy of the title. He’ll learn the ways of a monarch, but between him and his untamed brothers, the marble floors better get used to worn leather boots. Then he falters at an unexpected duty—forming a strategic alliance with the whip-tongued and supercilious Princess Ava Veisi.

Ava’s only chance at happiness is to escape royal life and leave her poisonous secrets behind. The problem? Her parents have demanded she marry the new King Markus. She stoops treacherously low to try make him refuse her, but as her escape plans start to take form, she finds herself falling for the sexy, kind-natured cowboy.

On the brink of fleeing, Ava is torn between claiming her freedom and the love of a king. No matter her choice, it’s going to break her heart.

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BEFORE

Markus Jaroka would never regret that his last night as a free cowboy was spent camping with his brothers. They went up into the craggy mountains of Montana, breathing in the pines and lounging around the flickering flame. A night of bedrolls and beers and in-jokes that had all three men smearing tears off their faces. His brothers were his lifeblood, the land his home. Farewells didn’t get much sweeter.

He knew Tommy wouldn’t regret it either. In town, his brother used his downward-tipped hat as a social shield, adding shadow to his reputation as an enigmatic lone rancher. But Kris—who’d landed the lion’s share of cowboy swagger and a coyote’s ferocity to boot—would likely have preferred to devote his last night of freedom to a woman, making the most of his feral-edged charm.

None of them knew they were about to be bucked from ranching life forever.

They rose before sunrise. Doused the embers, shouldered their belongings, and hiked through wilderness to their ranch in Sage Haven. Routine was to dump their packs at the homestead and hit the stables, but the tread of the three brothers faltered as they emerged onto the back meadow of their property.

Their father, Erik, sat on a wooden stump by the far gate.

Tommy adjusted the strap of his bedroll. “What’s he doing here?”

“No other way to reach us.” Guilt fringed Kris’s voice. Phone reception didn’t follow them into the mountains, and it had been his idea to go camping.

“I’m sure everything’s fine,” Mark said, despite his unease.

“He’s in yesterday’s shirt. Still buttoned wrong.” Tommy spoke under his breath, observant as ever. “He hasn’t slept.”

Kris swore and lengthened his stride.

“He probably just fell asleep in the armchair again.” But Mark clenched his fists as they crossed the field.

Their dad stood as they neared, raising a hand. It tremored, outlined against the dawn sky.

“Morning, Dad.” Kris offered from Mark’s right.

Erik nodded once. “Boys.”

Boys, sure, or twenty-five-year-old men with a profitable quarter horse ranch between them. They stopped a few paces away, planting their feet and swinging their packs to the ground.

Erik’s smile was tight. “Good night out there?”

“Cold,” Mark said. “What’d we miss?”

“Is Mom okay?” Tommy moved in beside Mark, and a moment later, Kris appeared at his other shoulder.

With his brow creased, their father looked at each of them in turn, his features softened by regret. “She’s . . . fine. She’s worried.” He let out a turbulent breath. “We had news overnight.”

Mark’s gut warped as he braced for the worst. Had their father received more test results? Was it bad? No matter what, Mark would hold it together for his parents, for his brothers. Steadily, he asked, “What’s happened, Dad?”

“My brothers and nephew were in an accident yesterday. I’m afraid they didn’t survive.”

Faint with selfish relief, Mark lowered his head. His parents were okay. The deaths of his uncles and cousin were tragic, but he couldn’t pretend to mourn men he’d never met. Men who’d never shown a spark of interest in Mark or his family.

“How?” Tommy’s question was quiet.

“Balcony collapse,” Erik said. “They were banqueting under the night sky.”

“All three of them?” Kris sounded sick.

Mark jerked his head up as his brother’s tone kicked him in the gut. His own nausea rose fast. In one swift tragedy, their father had become the sole surviving Jaroka of his generation. Which meant—God above, it meant . . .

Mark spoke as if a firm word could stop fate. “No.”

“But that—” Tommy choked on his own voice.

Kris turned his back, cursing roughly.

The field tipped, a disorienting slant, and Mark struggled to hold his balance. This wasn’t possible. The mortality of his uncles had always seemed like that of legends—their deaths were unthinkable.

They were royalty, after all.

“This is—” No. “Not happening.”

His dad spoke gently. “It has happened, Markus.”

Kris hadn’t turned around. His body was rigid. “There must be someone else.”

Tommy was stark white and swaying. He held his hat loosely by his side, his other hand deep in his dark hair. “There is no one else.”

“But Dad.” Panic controlled Mark’s pulse, pushing it hard. “Your health. You can’t take this on.” The stress would surely accelerate his Parkinson’s disease. “You need peace and quiet in the country—not a country to rule.”

His father nodded slowly, heavily. “I hate that you’re right.”

“It’s true.” Kris spun around, his lip curling in outrage. “This can’t be expected of you.”

Tommy had stopped moving. His hat lay in the grass by his feet.

“Tell us what we can do to stop this.” Mark could take time off the ranch. They all could. Shock knotted the thoughts in his head, but once it eased, he’d hunt down the world’s best lawyers, doctors, activists. Anyone who would fight for his father against the burden of hereditary monarchy. “We’ll work this out.”

Tommy clamped a hand over his shoulder. “Mark,” he said, his voice strangled.

Mark covered his brother’s hand with his own. “I’ll sort it out. Don’t worry.”

“I know you will.” Their father sagged back down onto the tree stump, features breaking. “Your mother and I discussed this all night. Like you, she forbade me to accept my responsibility. I’d be stupid to ignore my condition.” Remorse filled his sigh as he looked at them all. “I’m so sorry, boys. I’ve decided to abdicate.”

He looked at the firstborn of his triplet sons.

“Mark, the crown will fall to you.”

---

NOW

Chapter One

 Kiraly had a new royal family.

Princess Ava Veisi stared out the luxury car window as the royal convoy of Kelehar navigated the twisted city streets. An entire nuclear family of royalty that had been out of public mind and memory for a quarter century. How had that been possible? She eyed the car in front, catching sight of her parents in the back seat. Her iron-handed, duty-defined parents.

Looking away, she suppressed the scream that lived at the back of her throat. It would convey too much. Envy that the Jaroka family had lived undisturbed for so long. Resentment that their return prevented her annual trip to Monaco. And frustration that it had consequently barred her own escape from the public eye.

She’d planned it. A cover story. A traveling companion. A route of safe houses all the way across the Luxembourg border and beyond. New lines fanned out from her eyes from the sleepless nights she’d spent obsessing over it—the years she’d spent glaring intently at that end goal.

And it had been torn from her just days before she could pull it off.

Her next inhale was shaky. She could handle this.

“Pretty city,” Cyrus murmured beside her.

With ugly memories. She eyed her older brother. He was a national treasure back home, valued for his scrupulous reputation and kind heart as much as his olive skin and coal-black hair. He was a sweet man with genuine sympathy and gentle good looks, and as heir to the Kelehar crown, his future as king couldn’t come soon enough.

“You see beauty in everything,” she answered.

He raised a lush black brow. “You should follow my lead.”

“Not in a place like this.”

His tongue clicked. “You know it’s beautiful.”

She offered a compromise. “It’s a nice city if you like the provincial.”

His lips quirked. “Snob.”

“As I was raised.” She swung her gaze back out the window.

The tiny country of Kiraly folded neatly in between its neighbors, with its one and only city built on the slopes of an expansive mountain range. The whole capital felt jumbled, like the cobbled roads, houses, and buildings all shoved each other aside in a perpetual race to the palace at the top.

It was a magnificent palace. The white limestone exterior was luminescent against the lush green of the rising mountains beyond, and the towers and turrets and balconies gave the Romanesque design a striking asymmetry. She’d once lost her breath standing in the tallest of those towers, staring out at the surrounding peaks and valleys speckled with vivid glacial lakes.

She’d once almost lost a whole lot more inside those walls.

Swallowing bitterness, she looked away.

The streets spun this way and that, a steep maze that led ever upward connected by laneways and shortcuts constructed of more steps than she wanted to imagine climbing. Cobblestone steps fit narrowly between restaurants and cafes, concrete steps ran parallel to roads in place of sidewalks, and wooden steps passed under the latched gates of private homes. Steps, everywhere.

It all looked like too much work. These people needed hiking boots just to buy fruit and flowers.

Market stalls claimed any corner or curb wide enough to balance a table. Cafés were slotted in poky storefronts, customers spilling onto the pavement beneath colorful shade cloths, while upmarket establishments offered large umbrellas to mask outdoor settings from the spring sunlight. She caught sight of appetizer platters and wine, and her stomach shifted as she momentarily forgot her nerves.

It was a culture of shared food and bright clothing. She’d never admit how much she adored the way these people dressed—fitted coats of butterfly blue, skirts of violet, and turmeric yellow scarves. In color, at least, she might fit in.

“Who knows?” Cyrus spoke again, his voice low. “This new American king might be nice too.”

Markus Jaroka might also be a snake. “I don’t do wishful thinking.”

“I heard there are five brothers, all born together.”

“Five?” She’d heard two.

“And that they knew nothing about their lineage until last week.”

She eyed him. “That seems unlikely.”

Cyrus smiled. “I also heard the princes grew up spoiled on Hawaiian beaches.”

Why didn’t that surprise her? “So, they’re beach-party brats.”

He elbowed her. “The other story is they grew up in New York. Lawyers, all of them.”

“That bodes well,” she said, her voice dry. “Train men to think without feeling, then put them in charge of a country.”

“Cynicism doesn’t become you, Ava.”

Yet she had become cynical. She held down a heave of regret. She’d tried to ignore the rumors—they put a rotten churn in her system. She looked back out the window, apprehension tight around her middle. The one consistent fact in a fog of speculation was that their father intended to abdicate due to ill health, passing the crown to his firstborn son, Prince Markus Jaroka. She knew nothing about Markus, but his name circled her like a torture master.

He posed a very real threat to her future.

“I don’t care who Markus is or where he was raised,” she said. “I want nothing to do with him.”

Cyrus didn’t answer.

“I’m just here to reconnect with Zara,” she finished, quieter, and battled nerves the size of monsters at the thought alone. There would be no just about that visit. “You’ll still help us?”

Her brother didn’t hesitate, but his whisper was sad. “Of course.”

Longing scraped down her ribs. She missed Cyrus—missed being able to talk openly with him. Conversations such as this were painfully rare. Years back, he’d distanced himself, making an outward show of his disapproval, his disappointment in her. Their parents could never suspect he was on her side. Nor did they, for just months ago, they’d granted him additional responsibilities as Crown Prince and thus the power to help her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, looking at her lap.

Again, he said, “Of course.”

Hands clenched, she returned her attention outside. The city was officially in mourning—though the black banners lining the main streets appeared to be a formality only. In contrast to the dark fabric, the atmosphere was buoyant, excited, as the people prepared for the arrival of their new royal family.

She couldn’t blame them.

She’d been to Kiraly once before, three years ago, accompanied by her parents, who’d sought a marriage between her and the heir apparent at the time, Prince Aron. The prince had been briefed on her visit. It would be an advantageous match for both kingdoms and pressure came from all angles to form a union. At just twenty years old, she had already been devastated by the expectations of the crown. Crushed and without the reserves to fight, she’d seen no way out of her duty.

Then she’d met the prince. Had he been courteous or cool-mannered or even half-mad, she’d have stayed coddled in her numb stupor and done as she was told. But at their first meeting—a moment of alone time staged so blatantly by their families that she’d felt sick—he’d stroked her cheek in greeting and allowed his fingers to graze her breasts on the way down.

Yes, plural. His hand had zigzagged for maximum coverage.

“Marry me,” she’d said, because duty came before dignity.

Then she’d spat on his cheek.

It’d had the desired effect.

Humiliated and furious over Prince Aron’s rejection, her parents had aborted their pursuit of a strategic alliance—until one week ago, when all known Kiralian royalty had died in an architectural crumble, and out of the wreckage strode fresh game for her parents’ matchmaking hunt.

Officially, she was here to attend the funeral. But she had been left under no illusions. She was a pawn once again.

Cyrus nudged her.

She kept her shoulders back and stomach tucked in, her eyes locked on the city outside. “What?”

“Hold out your hand.”

She did, confused when his fist moved in and cool metal thudded onto her palm. His fingers slid over hers and forced them closed.

“A ring?” The band was thick and unadorned.

“It was our grandfather’s wedding ring.” His shoulder pressed against hers as he pretended to look out the window beside her. An act in case their parents should somehow see them. “Dad said I should have it.”

She opened her palm. “And you should.”

“Our parents are fixated on your marriage, not mine. Why should you deal with that pressure without a family heirloom for your troubles?”

She inhaled around hope and fear. “I’m planning on getting something much more rewarding.”

He tilted his head. “I still want you to have the ring.”

“And do what with it?”

“Propose to someone you want to marry,” he said.

Affronted, she glared at him. “Are you mocking me?”

Curse those long, dark lashes that embodied his innocence.

“You know what I intend to do here, Cy.” Sabotage her parents’ plan to offer her hand to the new king of Kiraly. She’d done it once without thinking. With her mind on the task, Markus would be running from her before spring had finished settling. Then she would shed royal life, once and for all. “Wearing a ring is not on the list.”

Her brother’s gaze was gentle, but he tucked his hands firmly in his pockets when she tried to give the heirloom back. “That’s why you need to be on the giving end, Sister.”

She was sure her nostrils flared. “Instigating something I don’t want isn’t empowerment.”

“I didn’t say to offer it to the new king.” Sympathy coated his reprimand. “Offer it to anyone you choose—whenever you choose.” Hand out of his pocket again, he encased her fist. “By this token, the crown of Kelehar supports your choice.”

Oh. That wasn’t fair. Her breath caught, and she swallowed hard at her brother’s big heart. The ring dug into her palm with the thorns of bad memories. “Even if he’s an accountant? Or a gardener? Or a carpenter?”

She didn’t say violin tutor. But it hung in her silence.

“Especially then.”

“Oh, Cyrus.” She almost pressed her forehead into his shoulder. “I wish you were king already.”

That impossibility was a waste of a wish, for their father was fighting fit. Unless a tragedy befell the king of Kelehar, Cyrus wouldn’t ascend for decades. The ring changed nothing—if she married, it would have to be blue blood. Her parents would tolerate nothing less. Her only freedom lay in never marrying at all, and she clung to that with everything she had.

Cyrus still held her hand and she remembered, back when her heart had bled fresh, he’d once said to her, “It kills me, Ava, that I can’t figure out a way to make you happy that doesn’t involve faking your death and smuggling you away across the seas.”

“Could we try that?” she’d responded. “I’m all for death by leopard attack, if you’re short on ideas.”

His hollow laugh had echoed with sadness.

Now, he whispered, “What are you thinking, Sister?”

She lifted her head as they approached the palace gates. Something inside her reared up at the sight, a captive yanking violently against her chains, wild-eyed and powerless. It was the entrance to a world she’d finally been on the verge of escaping.

“I’m thinking,” she said, turning back to him with a composure that only went skin deep, “perhaps Kiraly has leopards.”

 

***

 

The people of Kiraly were in for a shock.

After a life spent surrounded by ranchers and small-town folk in Sage Haven, Mark hadn’t considered how strongly he and his brothers emanated cowboy. Sitting in the private jet that shot them away from home toward an unfamiliar city in the middle of Europe, it struck him that they’d suit royal life like muddy boot prints on a silk carpet.

The flight attendants seemed startled by their rough-edged presence, honed from long days and brutal work. Their hardened bodies made a mockery of the lushly padded reclining chairs, for they could just as easily find comfort in a bedroll on a flat patch of earth. Country-tanned skin jarred against the sophisticated white cabin, their dark hair was untamed, and then there was their sheer strength of will that meant they refused to be anything other than who they were—royal expectation be damned.

Thank God his brothers were coming with him.

Earlier that morning, their mother had suggested they wear suits. Kris had outright refused. Their shirts already had buttons and collars, and they were cowboys, damn it. If that meant arriving in denim and leather and hats, so be it.

“They want their princes back,” he’d said, “this is what they get.”

Mark had almost pointed out that their arrival was a matter of duty, not public pressure, but duty demanded they show up, not dress up, so his brother’s point stood.

Tommy took a couple of tablets a few hours in, the medication downgrading his quick-breathed anxiety into a fidgety unease.

Kris leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, frowning into space. Eventually, he asked an attendant for food. “Surprise me,” he said, passing back the menu. “I’m not fussy.”

Mark sat, jaw tight, holding the envelope containing his father’s official letter of abdication.

When the plane landed at a royal private airport, they were told the angle of the palace grounds forbade an airstrip, so they were respectfully relocated into a helicopter. Before long, the chopper closed in on Kira City—the beating heart of a kingdom otherwise occupied by farmland, mines, and mountains.

He’d thought it wouldn’t be so bad. They could still live among mountains.

But the Alps were nothing like the Rockies.

His mountains were rugged—dry, with a high-desert kind of sparseness. Hiking at home was rough. Nature gave no handouts, sometimes throwing in a bear to keep up the challenge. But the mountains outside the chopper were lush, bright green, and bursting with spring. The angles were sharper, more vertical in their ascent from deep valleys, and they rose around him like prison bars.

None of it looked like home.

The city was scattered down the bottom end of a particularly vast mountain, constructed like someone had dropped a collection of streets and buildings and left them where they’d landed. A turquoise lake glinted at the base of the slope, while above the city, a thick forest ascended into snow.

This was the nation that, according to the news he’d read online, eagerly awaited the arrival of the Lost Princes.

His skin chilled. Right in the center, above the city and below the forest, was the palace.

“It’s a beast,” he observed over the sound of the chopper.

“Sprawling,” Kris shouted back.

“Not sprawling.” Tommy looked out the window as if it might shatter all over him. His large fists were curled on his thighs. “Dogs sprawl in the sun. Drunks sprawl on benches. That place . . . it dominates.”

Tall with a great throne hall and rising turrets, the building’s architecture was a statement of wealth and power. Ostentatious, built to both spellbind and intimidate. The white exterior blazed in the sun, stinging his eyes, contrasting the dramatic shadows cast from surrounding towers. He couldn’t judge the size from overhead, but his father had told him that it once concealed an army of men and horses, and observers had been none the wiser. The royal property fanned outward with extensive gardens, garages, fountains, stables—

He looked away, repulsed. His horses had been his riches, plain and simple. This was too much.

And too soon, the helicopter descended behind the palace.

“There are people lined up.” Agitation pinched Tommy’s words. He’d pulled back from the open hatch. “Hundreds of them.”

Kris clasped Mark on the shoulder. “Your lead, man.”

Mark sought strength from his brother’s grip. He wasn’t ready for this. But he nodded, sliding the crumpled envelope into his bag as he stood. He’d free-fallen through the past forty-eight hours since his father had delivered the life-altering news. Now he felt on the verge of the impossible.

Head spinning, he slung the bag over his shoulder and disembarked.

The air smelled different. Clean, empty, with no familiar waft of warm earth or musky bite of leather. With his heart burning, he settled his old black hat on his head and focused on the man awaiting them clear of the chopper.

Tall and elegantly thin, the man wore a traditional suit of deep blue, edged with a thick gold braid. He stood with his hands behind his back, his head lowered respectfully.

“Your Royal Highness,” he greeted, bowing, and then repeated the greeting to Kris and Tommy as they settled in beside Mark. “I’m Philip Varga. I was the late king’s royal advisor and have been acting as regent during the interregnum.”

“Philip.” Mark extended his hand, his mouth dry. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Pain flashed across the man’s face. “Thank you.” He shook Mark’s hand. “I knew your father. I’ve missed him a great deal. You are—all of you—his spitting image.”

They nodded, silent, not so much out of their depth as in the wrong ocean.

Mark cleared his throat, but the reluctance lodged there didn’t budge. “This is from our father,” he said, reaching into his bag and drawing out the envelope containing the letter penned by Prince Erik of Kiraly, irrevocably renouncing the throne to immediate effect. It had been dated, signed, and witnessed by his three sons and a lawyer from Kiraly who had flown over for that very purpose. That single piece of paper with a few simple paragraphs would shift the weight of power forever.

“Ah.” Philip eyed the envelope, the fold between his brows suggesting he knew exactly what it was. “Perhaps this isn’t the appropriate time. Such a weighty matter might warrant a touch more ceremony than at the foot of a helicopter.”

“Right.” Ranch living demanded things get done the moment they needed doing, but he put the envelope away.

“I will arrange for an assembly of witnesses this afternoon.” Philip spoke quietly, yet the words howled in Mark’s ears. The moment that letter was opened, the instant his father’s abdication was officially received, Mark would be named as king.

King Markus of Kiraly.

Self-preservation rejected the title on instinct. He wasn’t a king. He’d tried. For the past two days he’d tried to believe it, stretching the concept in his mind, but it had come no closer to fitting him. Disbelief formed a crater low in his gut, a hollow sensation he couldn’t get around. How could his life of ranching be over? He’d never realized it had been secured by the same quick-release knot he used on the horses—one easy tug and it all unraveled.

“The funeral is the day after next.” Philip moved the conversation on. “The late king, heir, and prince are currently lying in state.” When the brothers didn’t respond, he lowered his voice with a wince. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m struggling to tell you apart.”

“Markus,” Mark said, his voice numb. His name didn’t sound like his own.

Kris gave a one-sided smile. “Kristof.”

Tommy seemed to take advantage of Philip’s power of deduction and said nothing.

“I see.” Philip gave the same smile of apology that the brothers had received all their lives. It betrayed he had no confidence he’d be able to tell them apart if they so much as swapped places. “You look stunned. How do you feel?”

Mark gave a tight smile. “Fine.”

“Popular,” Kris said, surveying the rows of people.

Again, Tommy didn’t answer. He eyed the steep forest at the edge of the palace grounds, his hat tilted down to shadow his face.

“Obvious question.” Kris tucked a hand into his front pocket, lowering a shoulder. “Are the deaths of our family being treated as suspicious?”

“Not at all!” Philip looked horror-stricken. “The police extensively assessed the site for signs of tampering. The only evidence they found was of poor workmanship. Please, don’t even think on that. Now.” He clasped his hands together. “Is there anything we can organize to make you feel more at home? This must be quite disorienting.”

“Some time alone,” Mark requested on Tommy’s behalf, “to ground ourselves.”

“And maybe a sandwich.” Kris returned his attention to the lines of people. “Thanks.”

“Consider it done. Now please meet your household.” Philip angled himself and gestured to the welcoming party. Two immaculate lines formed a walkway from helicopter to palace, both rows two-deep, presumably with the lower-ranked positions concealed at the back. “From the chief of staff and house manager, to advisors, guards”—he pointed farther down the line—”and on to the chefs, grooms, and valets.”

All stood erect, gazes fixed on the stone paving at their feet. Every single person held a bouquet of indigo flowers.

“Bluebells.” Philip met Mark’s eyes steadily. “Our national flower.”

Unlike the streamside bluebells back home, these were more delicate, scattered along the stem instead of bunched. Even the things that should be the same were different.

“Gifts to honor their future king,” Philip finished.

Mark nodded and slipped further into the crater of disbelief. Then he forced a smile at his brothers. “Let’s say hello, shall we?”

 

***

 

“They’ve arrived, Princess.”

Ava glanced up from her laptop as her personal guard, Gul, poked his head around the door to her private guest chambers. Physically, he intimidated. Wide-shouldered and bulky with muscle, he stood above most people and made no effort to reduce his impact by softening his stance or ducking his head. The glow of his personality was concealed behind a severe face and impassable gaze, a matter of discomfort for many, and the very reason he fit the role of her protector and companion.

Now, Gul’s black eyes shone, and his lips pressed together, kicking up in the corners. She knew that look.

He wanted to talk.

Sighing, she snuggled deeper into the armchair. The fireplace was lit beside her, unnecessary for the warming spring weather, but she was on edge and nervousness made her cold.

“They’re not what we expected.” He had a subdued voice, at odds with his large physique.

“Then you’d better restrain me.” She returned her attention to her screen and typed a few words. “I’m about to run. Stop me or I’ll dash right into Markus’s arms and embarrass us all.”

“You master everything you do, Princess,” he said, “off-the-cuff sarcasm included.”

She threw him a half-smile and let him get away with that.

After a pause, he said, “There are three of them.”

“Really? I’d heard—”

“Three,” he repeated firmly. “You want to know more, but I won’t share unless you look up.”

“I’m trying to forget why I’m here.” And she’d been succeeding by writing an email to Zara to schedule a meeting for the following day. She met Gul’s frustrated gaze and her temper softened. None of this was his doing. He was one of the few friends she had, even if she couldn’t decide whether or not she could trust him. “I’ll meet these three brothers soon enough, Gul, and then I won’t be able to unlearn what I know. Please don’t talk about them prematurely. You know my position.”

Inclining his head, he fell silent and clasped his hands behind his back. He glanced around her suite, features curious as he popped his lips quietly. Then—“They’re not what we expected at all—”

“Please, don’t.” She shook her head. “Not yet.”

Whether he remembered his place or heard the sadness in her voice, he yielded. “Of course. My apologies. Please don’t hesitate to ask if you require anything further.”

As he backed out the door, she said, “Gul?”

“Yes, Princess?”

Her shoulders dropped a little. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

His smile was gentle. “So am I, Princess.” With a nod, he closed the door.

She looked into the flames beside her. Three brothers: two princes, one king.

She had to get out of here.

 

***

 

“You greeted everyone.” Philip’s narrow face was red as he rushed into the parlor. The doors closed behind him and one look at his openly dumbfounded features told Mark the man intended to be formal in public only. “Literally, every single person!”

Mark shared a look with Kris, brows raised. Half an hour earlier, they’d been escorted to this immense parlor and granted solitude and sandwiches. The route had stunned him—expansive halls and endless corridors, marble floors, picture-perfect courtyards—and he’d reeled at the reality that this palace was his new home.

He and his brothers had to live here.

Mark rested a hand on the back of an emerald velvet armchair and addressed Philip. “They were there to welcome us, weren’t they?”

“Ceremonially speaking.” The man put a hand to the side of his face. “A few nods here and there would have been adequate acknowledgment. Oh, the city’s going to go mad with this.”

Kris set his coffee on the table beside him, stiff with insult. “Were we out of line?”

“As royalty, you set the line,” the man said, attention moving from brother to brother. His gaze lingered on Tommy, who kept his back turned as he studied the collection of books displayed in a grand case. “But this is certainly unprecedented.”

Mark straightened. “We’ve always made time for our employees. That’s not going to stop now.”

Philip covered his mouth, muffling a sound of disbelief.

“We’re hardly about to ignore those who serve the crown.” Kris leaned his hip against the table edge and crossed his arms.

“Hardly,” Philip echoed. “The palace is in uproar about the identical dark-haired, blue-eyed princes who look servants in the eye while asking their names.” Mark frowned as the man’s voice hitched with a hint of . . . was that excitement? “And not just one, but three. That’s three times the likelihood of seeing any one of you in the palace on a daily basis. The corridors will be teeming with staff trying to catch sight of you. It’s already a frenzy out there. And they’ll never know which brother they’ve seen, because I can’t even tell you apart.”

Dutifully, Mark and Kris recited their names.

Thanking them, Philip assessed each of their faces—the usual hunt for clues that might help him tell them apart next time. Not that Mark had ever understood the difficulty. Their differences seemed obvious. Tommy’s introverted tension and the chip in his front tooth when he actually opened his mouth. The perpetual tousle Kris gave his hair and disheveled posture to match—he sauntered on the move and lounged when at ease. And Mark, well, he’d been told he was their grounding force.

“Add to that,” Philip continued, “the saviors look like they’ve stepped out of a Wild West film.” He threw his hands in the air and muttered, “No one within our borders is going to get any sleep tonight.”

There was a room-wide pause.

“Wild West?” Tommy looked over his shoulder, brows high.

“The hats, you think?” Mark asked.

“Boots?” Kris kicked out a heel.

“The shirts, the jeans, the sun-browned skin.” Philip’s gestures darted between them. “The accents, the strut, the complete lack of superiority toward people who would never in a million reigns expect you to speak to them. The gracious acceptance of I-lost-count-how-many bouquets of bluebells . . .”

Mark eyed the table and the huge pile of woodland posies.

Tommy turned fully, lifting his chin. His eyes glinted with an edge that proved soft-spoken did not mean mild-mannered. “You think we should have stayed in Montana.”

“No, Tomas.” At that, Philip’s shoulders sagged and his face split into a relieved smile. “I think you boys are exactly what Kiraly needs.”