The Rebel King (All the King's Men Duet #2) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,117

when he should have let me find my own stride. He made the mistake of trying to break me, like a wild horse he needed to tame. I was too much like him for that and had to leave, but I’m home now. My own man with my own woman.

He shifts his glance to Lennix, and the line of her body stiffens beside me, her fingers tightening on mine. I’m not sure if she’s seeking or offering reassurance, but the contact reinforces our solidarity. My father pins his stare to our joined hands.

“Lennix,” he says, his voice polite, if not warm. “Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you for having me,” she replies, sliding her arm through the crook of my elbow. The claim she stakes on me is not subtle, but that’s something she’s never been. I’ve never needed her to be anything except who she was from the moment I met her—a bold, beautiful battle cry.

A wry grin of acknowledgment lifts one side of Dad’s mouth.

“You still take for-damn-ever, son,” he mutters, slides his hands into his pockets and walks off toward the dining room. “Food’s getting cold.”

Lennix’s eyes follow his broad shoulders in the expensively tailored sports jacket when he walks away. From behind, not seeing the lines on his face or the gray at his temples, he could be me.

The last name she used to see as a curse I hope she’ll soon take. I haven’t revisited the proposal. I may not win and the implications of the presidency are a bridge we may never have to cross. We could wait and see, but there’s something in me—everything in me, if I’m honest—that doesn’t want to wait. I want to be the risk she takes. I want us to jump off this cliff overlooking the water together, certain that as long as we have each other, we won’t drown.

“Ready?” she asks, a relaxed smile on her pretty red lips. I want to kiss her, but don’t want to ruin it, so I press my lips to her hair and we walk down the stairs.

My mother doesn’t do anything in half measures, especially not the holidays. The house is always fully decorated the day after Thanksgiving. On our way to the dining room, we pass one of several massive trees throughout the house, glittering with warm light. I pause, seeing not the empty living room, but the floor littered with bright wrapping paper, two boys riding brand-new bikes into the hall, my father chasing us, my mother yelling for all the King’s men to come eat breakfast on Christmas morning.

I grip Lennix’s hand, struggling to master my emotions. She leans into me, but she knows I’m leaning on her. If it’s this hard for me, how difficult is it for my parents?

“I’m right here,” Lennix says, squeezing my hand back. “And I love you.”

I glance down at her, my spot of sunshine in the lingering winter of grief, and manage a smile.

When we reach the dining room, my mother crosses over and hugs me right away and tightly. When she pulls back, tears swim in her blue eyes. “It’s so good to have you home for Christmas, Maxim. Thank you for . . .” She bites her lip for a second before offering her warm smile. “Thank you for coming.”

Shifting her glance to Lennix, she reaches for her hand, her smile warming even more. “Thank you for coming, too. For bringing him home.”

“He wanted to be here,” Lennix says softly. “Thank you for having me.”

We make our way to the long table, and Lennix sits beside me. My father sits at one end of the table, and my mother at the other. When my father picks up his fork, we all take that as our cue to do the same.

It’s silent for a few moments, the only conversation the clang of silverware with fine china. I glance up to find my father’s eyes fixed to the seat across from me, the empty one Owen always used to occupy. My fork freezes in midair, and the turkey turns to sawdust on my tongue. Dad swallows convulsively, obviously wrestling with demons dressed as memories. A single tear slides over one hard cheek, and his mouth goes tight and thin.

I’m at a loss. I’ve never seen my father cry. Not at the funeral or in the days that followed, even when I knew he was hurting. He’s never shown any weakness, and maybe that was always our problem. Too much strength, not