The Rebel King (All the King's Men Duet #2) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,116
is the most inexplicable and yet the most beautiful force in life.
O, how joyous it is to be in it.”
* * *
—Love Letter from Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.
to Coretta Scott (July, 1952)
Epilogue
Maxim & Lennix
* * *
Maxim
“You’re sure about this?” I fasten my cufflinks, catching Lennix’s eyes in the mirror.
“It’s a little late to ask now, don’t you think?” She smiles at my reflection. “With your parents waiting downstairs?”
I haven’t spent Christmas in Dallas with my parents, with my father, in fifteen years. I was here for Owen’s funeral, but this feels different. Then, grief overrode every other emotion, but tonight, they all rise. Under the years of resentment and frustration lies anticipation.
I’m glad to be here. I just wasn’t sure Lennix would be.
“If you’ve changed your mind,” I say, turning to face her and leaning against the dresser, “Owen and I used to sneak out that window.”
I tip my head toward my bedroom window overlooking the backyard.
“There’s a huge oak tree out there.” I cross over to her and splay my hands at her hips. “Me and O used to stretch to this sturdy branch and climb down, and Mom would be none the wiser.”
At the mention of Owen’s name, a familiar ache surrounds my heart. The ache of sorrow, and as much as I try to shake it, guilt.
“You okay?” Lennix peers up at me, her dark brows pulled into a frown. “I know this is rough for everyone, the first Christmas without Owen. I remember my first Christmas without Mama. I’m sure having you here will help your mom get through it.”
“Thank you for setting aside your feelings for my dad to make sure we could be here for her.”
“It’s fine.” She rubs my arm, looks me in the eyes so I know she means it.
“Well, let’s get down there.” I pull back to study her slim-fitting dress in scarlet, long sleeves that mold to her arms and the high heels that mean I won’t have to dip as far to kiss her when we’re under the mistletoe. “Merry Christmas Eve. You look beautiful.”
“Merry Christmas Eve. So do you. You always do to me.” Her gaze drops over my tieless dress shirt and dark slacks, inch by inspecting inch, lingering over my shoulders, chest, and legs. By the time she returns to my face, my body is responding to her blatant appreciation.
Hard. Ready.
I squeeze her waist and bend to whisper, deliberately brushing my lips over her earlobe. “We don’t have time for how I feel when you look at me like that.”
“When I look at you like what?” she asks with a smoky laugh, pulling back to peer at me through an upsweep of lashes.
“I think you know.” I brush a thumb over her cheek. “But don’t worry. I want it, too.”
We grin, and I know we’re both recalling a similar conversation on our first date at Vuurtoreneiland. A night of husky whispers and furtive touches that I’ll never forget.
“Do you ever think how unlikely we are?” she asks. “You, being your father’s son and all that represents, and me on the opposing side. And us meeting again in Amsterdam. Just all of it.”
“We weren’t unlikely, Nix,” I say, no levity in the words. “We were inevitable.”
Her smile dissolves, too, until we’re staring at each other, and I’m feeling the weight of finding your person in a world full of somebodies. In a crowded galaxy, finding your star.
“Maxim!” My father’s deep voice booms up the stairs and bangs on my bedroom door. “Dinner.”
Lennix snickers when I roll my eyes. “Oh, my God. It’s like you’re thirteen.”
“Except I’m not sneaking a girl up here. They actually know you’re in my room.” I take her hand and head for the door.
“Surely you weren’t sneaking girls in that early, were you?”
“Huh?” I ask, pretending not to hear her. “You smell that? I’m starving.”
She punches my arm and we laugh together, but freeze on the landing when we see my father standing at the bottom of the long staircase, his eyes fixed on us. Dad wasn’t home when we arrived, so this is our first time seeing each other.
There’s a subtle softening in his implacable features when he meets my eyes. The thread between my father and me has knotted over the years, tangled with resentment, anger and pride, but there’s no denying he loves me. I’m not sure he’s ever known how to express it without the paternal possessiveness that made him pull the reins too hard—that made him push