How to Catch a Queen (Runaway Royals #1) - Alyssa Cole Page 0,16

at who had wanted what for him, as would Omakuumi and Amageez themselves, if gods could be surprised.

His father and Musoke had bickered endlessly about how to shape Sanyu into the perfect king. In the end, he’d turned out strong, but not the strongest; well-rounded, but lacking the kind of charisma that inspired people; and book smart, but too indecisive to put what he knew into action. It was like using all the right ingredients for a recipe and the final dish turning out mediocre.

Sanyu had always known that he was not a great man like his father, but never had it been more apparent since he’d taken the throne. Then again, his father’s greatness aside, the man had left the country isolated and on the brink of financial ruin, which Sanyu now had to navigate Njaza away from.

He rolled his shoulders, stretching the bands of muscles that still burned after his grueling morning sparring session—exercise being the only way he knew to channel his need for self-flagellation—then refocused his attention on the tiny font of the loan offers from the World Bank that were spread across his desk. He’d printed them out after reading on his computer hadn’t held his attention, but he’d gotten no further with the actual paper in his hand.

Sanyu had read many accounts of the bank’s corruption and the calamity it brought to those it “helped.” A loan would temporarily prevent total economic collapse, but would also come with a million invisible strings that would be impossible to cut. The blade of Njaza’s foreign influence had long gone dull, and now he had to deal with Musoke undermining his every attempt to sharpen it.

If he pushed the council to accept the Rail Pan Afrique deal, or mentioned the benefits of joining the UAN, he’d be seen as caving to outside influence. Musoke had been apoplectic after a single diplomatic visit from Liechtienbourg without his approval. Sanyu had thought it a success since he’d gained funding for a land mine charity and a possible ally in the annoying redheaded step-prince Johan von Braustein. Musoke had seen it as opening the gates to the invading horde.

His entire life he’d been told being king was the most powerful job a man could have and he’d been lucky to be born to it, but it seemed to Sanyu that so much power bound a man more than it freed him. It was like a game of chess where one wrong move would mean the end of Njaza; Sanyu felt safer making no moves at all.

His muscles tightened and the unreachable spot between his shoulder blades began to ache, as it had every day since the crown had passed to him.

Though Sanyu had always known on some abstract level that he’d be king, it hadn’t seemed real until it was, and he discovered that the responsibilities he’d been given as prince were nothing compared to the job of king. He hated this job that he was unfit for, that he would absolutely fail at eventually—how very much he hated it was all he could think about lately, his mind circling back to it when he should be working. He preferred the cloudy fog his mind had been in for weeks after his father’s death, when he’d barely been able to drag himself out of bed for his own wedding and coronation, and certainly hadn’t been able to handle anything close to guiding a kingdom.

He was mentally checked out and he was only a few months into his reign. He was barely able to concentrate on the proposals being presented as Musoke led the advisory sessions, and his brain full-on blanked when he was trotted through the streets like a show zebra to make the appropriate noises at his citizens. He’d been sleepwalking through it all, and it wasn’t until that morning’s session that he’d been shaken out of his slumber, by his wife of all people.

“Sanyu II!” Lumu sang as he danced into the room holding more papers, awakening the earworm that was always ready to wriggle to life in Sanyu’s brain. “You’ve got more work to look o-o-ver!”

“I told you not to sing that,” Sanyu said, pressing at his temples. “Not to hum it. Not to perform interpretive dance of it. No remixes either.”

“Sorry,” Lumu said, wincing, his always energetic body jolting to stillness. “It’s just so catchy. Truly a classic.”

He was tall, dark-skinned, and slim, with his hair newly rebraided into the intricate traditional cornrows he usually sported.