Masked Prince - Nikolai Andrew Page 0,18

sure I had a safe and happy upbringing, even if it was in secret. This was the man who had made it clear that, bastard or not, masked or not, I was his heir.

This was my father, the man I loved with my whole fucking heart. This was the only man who had ever shown me any love. This was the king. And the king was dying.

He smiled at me, trying to look like his old self, but death’s shadow was coming upon him close and fast.

“There’s my son,” he said, reaching out to grasp me by the forearm. He always used the Roman handshake with me. Our secret signal, ever since I was a kid.

I remembered how massive his forearm had felt when I was young. And I noticed how thin and weak it felt now. “What the hell happened to you?” I asked.

He grunted. “A bunch of bullshit is what. I’m not long for the world. And we need to talk.”

I sat down on a chair next to his bed. “You were fine the last time I saw you.” I poured him a cool glass of water from the pitcher at his bedside and he took it from me. For a second, I thought that bitch of a queen might be poisoning him. But I suspended judgment for the time being.

“My heart,” he said, coughing a little as he swallowed. “Leaking blood, they tell me. I said it broke when your mother died. But the doctors said otherwise.”

“What the fuck do they know?” I said, knowing full-well he had the best care in the land. “Let me take you to Elaina. You yourself say she’s the best healer that there is.”

My father laughed softly. “She raised you to be as blunt as she is, and I’m glad. Your mother would have been happy to know her best friend had become such a good substitute for her own presence in your life. But no, son. Not even Elaina can help me now.” He clasped my hand. “I need you to get ready to step forward as the heir. I need you to prepare yourself for your duties, not as my son…but as the king.”

I growled. We’d had this conversation a thousand times. He knew how I felt.

I didn’t want the kingship and never had. I had thought about telling him to make it simple—write up a device for succession that named the queen as his heir. But as many times as I’d had that idea, I’d scrapped it.

Over the years, due to the circumstances of my birth, there were stories and rumors that she was responsible for my mother’s death, and my disfigurement. My father had fallen in love with my mother, a low born who grew herbs and flowers that were delivered to the castle. Their affair resulted in my birth, and as was considered proper, it was kept as quiet as possible. The queen, however, was certainly made aware, and since she’d never produced an heir—whether by design or simply chance—I was a threat from the moment of my birth.

My father had always refused to listen to the whispers of the queen’s hand in the death of my mother, or of her being behind my injuries. For him, what mattered was that their marriage secured the crown and our family line, but she was a cruel and dangerous harpy of a woman. For the royal family, the kingdom came first, even when it broke your heart.

If any part of the rumor was true, and she could order an infant set on fire, she’d fucking destroy my father’s legacy and revel in watching the kingdom burn.

But that still didn’t mean I wanted the job. “There’s got to be someone else.”

My father deadpanned me and flared his nostrils. “Ah, yes. One of my thousand other sons fathered out of wedlock. I’ll just send a flock of carrier pigeons and give the crown to whichever one shows up first, shall I?”

It was good to see that even though he felt like shit, he hadn’t lost his acid sense of humor.

I blew out a long breath and stood, walking over to the window. This fucking life of mine. I had just started to figure out a balance between being a faceless royal and a man who could live and love. I had just started to let myself begin dreaming about a life with Iris.

And now this. Motherfuck it.

It broke my goddamned heart—not just my father’s illness, but what it meant for