But this one did.
So yeah, Dad had taught us the value and in-value of money, because he’d had none of it and then more of it than he’d ever know what to do with. Mom viewed wealth and privilege the same way he did — that it was a responsibly, not a gift. Having it meant helping those who didn’t, not lording it over them.
And this, to make a very long story short, was why I did things like tip $200 for two drinks at an open bar.
“I assure you, sir, it's not necessary.”
“I know,” I said with a smile. “But humor me.”
“Sir—”
“Please keep it.” I shook my head. “It's not charity, I just like rewarding hard work.”
I sipped the bourbon. “Fantastic pour, by the way.”
The guy grinned. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
I turned back to my brother as we strode back down the gilded always of Lucian’s castle towards the sounds of crowds and music coming from the ballroom.
Was I ready for tonight? Not really, but here we were.
“The bourbon’s good, at least.”
I snorted at my brother. As if the King of Avlion was going to be serving cheap shit. I hadn’t caught the label, but I had no doubt the bourbon we were drinking was nothing short of priceless — collector’s vintages, or a private label or something. The truth was, neither of us were ready for tonight. It’d been a hell of year, and that was putting it lightly. Twelve months ago, our father had finally lost his battle with cancer. Fuckin’ cancer — the fight even a guy as much a fighter as him couldn’t win. A few months after that, we’d had to step up hard in order to squash a power-grab for the throne from within the advisor’s council.
Marland laws being what they are, our parents had ruled together — equal power as both king and queen. My parents had been loved as king and queen. People loved their love story, loved the way they ruled, and loved the way they’d been “of the people.” But of course there’d always been those who hated my father for not being “royal by blood,” and for “soiling” the bloodline.
Fucking idiots.
But some of those people had been on the royal council. With our father’s death, my mother took over as full regent and these dickwads had decided to act. Mom was a strong damn woman, but the internal betrayal hit her when she was still grieving and when she wasn’t expecting it. Caspian and I had stepped in and squashed that real quick. But shit, it takes a lot out of you to physically and legally defend your mother’s claim to her titles from some idiots waving arcane, ancient laws on “birthrights.”
So, first a death, then fighting for our own legacy. And then, there’d been Emilia. The betrayal that cut the deepest.
Twins are close. I know you’ve probably heard that, but let me tell you, it’s truer than you know. Caspian and I thought the same thoughts most of the time. We liked the same music, read the same books, and wanted the same things.
Including women.
When we were younger, it’d driven wedges between us. Back when we were teens, we’d squabbled over it more than once, when both of us had crushes on the same girl from school, or when some pretty young thing fell for both of us. We’d fought physically on more than a few occasions, before finally, something had clicked.
Why, when we shared everything in life, were we fighting over which one of us got the girl?
After that, things got a lot easier, and a lot more fun. And not to be vain, but we got it. I mean, we were fabulously wealthy, young royalty. We were blonde, blue-eyed, and handsome — the beauty from our mother and the brawn of our mechanic father.
And we came as a package deal — believe me when I say there weren’t a whole lot of girls that said no to that.
And I won’t lie, we’d had our fun. But as time went on, we got bored of it. We got tired of the meaningless. We started wanting something more. But “more” was something that was harder to share. Sharing just sex for an evening or two with the two of us was one thing. But asking a girl to share her heart with both of us? Well, yeah, good luck with that. We’d tried, once or twice, and it’d been disastrous. The girl either couldn’t wrap her head around having more than just something dirty and physical with two guys, or if she was looking for more, it certainly wasn’t with two men. No, that sent them running.
Until Emilia, better known as the Duchess of Ames.
Emilia had started as a fling. We’d met her at some function, drinks had been drunk, and one thing led to another, which led to us tearing her clothes off and taking her together in the back of her limousine. But the fling had continued. It’d just kept going, until it wasn’t so much fling as it was relationship. And for a while, we thought we’d found it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the closest thing to perfect we’d found yet. She wanted us both — all of us. She wanted the physical, and she also seemed to want the emotional too.