How to Catch a Queen (Runaway Royals #1) - Alyssa Cole Page 0,34

apologize when I can’t or don’t do either of those things well. That’s it.”

The thought of doing all that made Sanyu’s heart beat too quickly. It was against everything his father and Musoke had taught him, in word and in action. It wasn’t how a king treated anyone. Not his child. Not his subjects. Most certainly not his queen. Maybe if he’d truly escaped when he was younger, or when he’d shamefully run from his father’s death bed, he could entertain the idea of that kind of relationship. But now, as king . . .

“Isn’t such deference weakness?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Lumu sighed deeply and ran his hand over his cornrows, then made the curled fingers gesture of annoyance common amongst much older Njazans. “You are always talking about this weakness. Love is weak! Kindness is weak! Understanding is weak! I know why you speak like this. But ask yourself, what is it for a man to be so worried about appearing weak that he’ll deny himself every pleasure in life to prove his strength? I know what I would call it.”

Sanyu popped an antacid before meeting his friend and advisor’s too-knowing gaze.

“You will be late for Matti and Zenya’s meeting, Lumu. You may go.”

Lumu came around the desk and placed his hand on Sanyu’s shoulder.

“I hope you know that what I said today comes from a place of caring, not judgment,” he added, and those words were a balm for the embarrassment Sanyu still felt. “You are my king, and you are my friend. What you are not, and don’t have to be, is your father.”

Sanyu made a gruff sound in response and Lumu clapped him on the back before leaving.

Sanyu didn’t know what to call the constant need to prove his strength to his people. All he knew was that he was failing badly at it.

In any event, he was glad the minister had chanced seeing him. This meant that he had no reason at all to go speak with Shanti to discuss Njaza’s financial matters. He could now return to his original plan—ignore her and wait for her to leave.

It was the smart thing to do.

SANYU HAD CREPT around the palace at night often as a boy, when he’d still been curious about things. Sometimes, it had been to sneak out and look at the stars. Sometimes, it had been with the intention of running away, of finding his mother and asking her how she could leave him.

He knew which crevasses hid him from view of guards doing their rounds, and the best tapestries to hide behind if you heard someone approaching.

He was still creeping around the castle like a child up past bedtime, hiding from his royal retinue, even though he was king. Even though he had told himself he would not go to see her.

Iron fist, my ass, he thought as he turned down the corridor that led into the queen’s wing. The guard there looked at him again in surprise.

“Is there a problem, Your Highness?” Kenyatta asked.

Sanyu paused, wondering what would cause a guard to have the audacity to question him not once but twice. “Why would there be a problem with a king visiting his queen?”

“It is unusual, and I have to note unusual things in order to best do my job, Your Highness.”

“While I appreciate your dedication, there is no problem.” Kenyatta nodded, but he felt her eyes on him as he walked toward Shanti’s door, as if he were an intruder.

He knocked on her door only once. She opened it like she’d been waiting for him, and his greeting caught in his throat.

Though she had her usual red lipstick on, she wore pajamas: a yellow velour camisole and matching pants that clung to her hips and thighs and belled out around her feet. She looked soft and plush, like a naughty Pikachu. Sanyu was horrified that such a cursed phrase had ever formed in his mind, but . . . it was accurate.

“Hello, Husband,” she said, then smiled. She looked pleased to see him, as if he were there for a social visit. “I’m glad to see you.”

“If you show a wife kindness, they’ll always expect more from you, like a stray cat you throw a scrap to that then returns every morning.”

His father’s words played in his head but they were an automatic reaction—he’d spent a lifetime breaking the bones of his own instincts, his own needs, resetting them to fit the mold laid out for him