Royal Pet

"INTRODUCING LORD VIRIDIAN, and Lady Anvaere, friends of the Crown and..."

I zone out the trombone of the speaker. The man's been at it now for three hours. The courtier of the royal house. Apparently it's a tradition to host an open house at the Castle twice every month where citizens get the chance to present gifts and air grievances. Like a judicial hearing—only more ostentatious and with more partying than actual debating.

It's a slow evening. And I'm tired. I want to hear them out, I do, but they are mostly showing off—an effort to outperform the other. Frankly, the circle of aristocracy and affluence is a lonely place. I sit at the edge of the golden throne, resisting to urge to fling my Crown at the smug face of Lord Viridian. His eyes are on my cleavage.

I turn to my left, glancing at the stoic pose of Yennara.

"Save me," I mouth to her.

She stares straight ahead but I know she's heard me from the slight tipping of her lips. The ghost of a smile.

It's been two days since my visit to the glass pyramid. I haven't had time to fully think on the Spiritflame. My nerves have been shot since coming within a breath of the equivalent of the A-bomb. The days flew past with me indulging the bath pool more times than I care to count. I'd been looking forward to a particularly long, hot dip this morning, perhaps with an oiling from my favorite masseuse—I blush, thinking of Yennara's nimble fingers. And so imagine my agony waking up to a horde of the kingdom's finest tailors, lorded about by Miss Chandle, as they dressed me up for this occasion. Only to listen to a mostly rich crowd ooh and aah over which Lord or Lady fell behind in fashion.

The thought of my missed date in the pool sends fumes shooting out my ears.

I'm just about to roar silence to the appalling spectacle of laughing, drinking voyeurs when a sound clap booms from my left. The conversations fade to murmurs. Yennara steps forward, taking position at the dais before my throne. I'll be the first to admit the view from behind isn't at all bad. Infact, it dulls a great deal of my fury. She claps twice again and complete silence falls over the hall. I should mention that the throne room is spacious as a mini stadium and capable of seating over a thousand.

Still, everyone falls quiet.

"Good Lords and Ladies," Yennara begins in her silky voice. That she is being heard at all speaks to the fact that no one is talking in the hall except her. No one.

It's as if someone pressed Pause on the whole arena.

I'm impressed. Go Yen!

"I apologize for the intrusion to your... debacles," she continues, nodding convincingly. "But I'm afraid the Queen has to take her leave."

Everyone turns to stare at the other. Murmurs threaten the silence. But Yennara quickly lifts her hand in a hushing wave. "Please, please, Lords? Ladies?"

They quieten and I'm wondering what excuse my Lady-in-waiting has concocted.

"It's sudden but the royal hounds are... sick." She finishes flatly.

Hounds? Royal pets? Sick?

It's a damn good excuse.

Lord Viridian begins nodding from his position at the foot of the throne. He peers back to the gathered Lords and Ladies. They in turn share understanding looks and before long, everyone is urging me on with nodding heads. Before a single one of them can find the untruth in Yennara's pronouncement, she grabs my hand, leading me off the dais.

Raincheck, suckers!

We make it all the way to an abandoned court garden before we burst out laughing among blooming rosebushes. Between us, it's a shared knowledge of mischief. Oh! The faces of the Lords when Yennara had mentioned the hounds. Dumb as sheep. They couldn't discern the truth even if a polygraph was involved. It was so comical. I double over, my ribs hurting as I place one hand to my belly and the other by the side of a large square vase housing a spill of rhododendrons. I'm so into it I don't notice the footfalls until a great shadow falls over the both of us. Lancelot appears in our view, having followed closely from behind. We stop for a second, stare at him, share a quick glance, before we burst out laughing again. He stands unruffled, his golden helmet clasped in the crook of his arm.

"I–I'm sorry." I lift a hand from my belly towards him when I can finally catch my breath.

Oh, sweet heavens! I'm sure my face is red all over.

Lance doesn't seem bothered. I read his face through teared-up eyes. He seems to comprehend the reason for our outburst. However, only an emotionless mask coats his handsome face. Perhaps his poker face was what had driven us to fresh laughter. Lance doesn't look fooled by Yennara's excuse, and though she herself is still bent over another vase, struggling to end her fit of giggles, I manage to pull on a straight face.

I don't dare to meet her eyes though, fearing any visual contact would send me rolling on the ground. I keep my eyes to the golden knight, the one who isn't laughing.

"Seriously though," I rasp, my lungs filling with much needed air. "Do I have royal pets?"

I direct my question at Lance. He nods once, shifting his stance—the red plume over his helmet breezing mildly in the wind—before going statuesque again. I keep my eyes on his so he knows to explain. Lance has always being the strong silent type. Even at a young age, he rarely talked during classes. Biology experiments with him were like sitting in a Library.

"Yes, Your Grace, you do have pets," he says. "But not hounds." I try not to focus on the hard edge to his voice. Anytime he speaks, it's like he's visibly taking control of all my senses. A commanding voice that makes his officers shiver. I know he tries to go softer in my presence but there's no taming that bass.

"So no hounds?" I lean in more, aware of the incline my eyes have to climb to keep his gaze.

"No. I suggested some of my best." He shrugs. "Bloodhounds grievous as wolves, loyal to the death, capable of protecting you when—"

"There's a cat." Yennara's voice stops his unbridled virility.

...trust Lance to get me Bloodhounds for protection—his words. The sheer name of the dogs makes me think of Cerberus, the pets of the Underworld. He can be so dominant even when he doesn't want to. In my former life, for my twelfth birthday, Lance had gotten me a Pitbull. I'd screamed seeing the puppy alone, just lying there in the open white box, tongue already air-borne and eyes sizing up prey. But even back then, I'd understood. Lance's way of saying you're a woman now, there's gonna be pigs, this pitbull is gonna be you're big bad wolf. It was the sincerest present ever.

It's the thought that counts. And Lance had absolutely, obviously given me a lot of thought to warrant getting me a Pitbull for my birthday.

But of course after that came the flowers—loads of them—and my first ipod player. The Pitbull was the true gift though. Lance didn't think in a straight line. It was weird, but I love it so much about him. Even now. Wanting Bloodhounds as royal pets for me is a totally Lance move. His mind is generic, and figuring him out is like unwinding a stuck antique clock—always worth the trouble when you get to fuss over it in the end.

I named the Pitbull Hades—which in thinking back is not the best pet name I guess. Hades died within a year...defending me in a moment only someone like Lance could forsee. I'm just about to relive the moment when Yennara speaks over my thoughts.

"Besides the aviary that is," she adds in light of her words earlier.

Oh, so I've got a cat and a house full of birds.

That's nice.

And totally something a medieval Queen would have.

I look between Yennara and Lance. She still has the pools of light humor in her eyes. He stands confident, by his word that Bloodhounds would be perfect royal pets. At least for me.

"What's its name, the cat?" I ask.

"Milan," Yennara says softly. "Her name's Milan."

Now that's how you name a pet. I wonder though if either of them realize that the name given to the royal pet is an actual city in another reality. A football club too I think. Lance had been huge on Sports and so I'd glanced a few things from him.

All things considered, Milan is the kind of name I'd give to the cat belonging to a queen. It also speaks for the mild similarities between alternate realities. Milan doesn't exist as a city here. But it does...as a cat.

Yennara walks closer to where I perch beside the dusky petals of the flame tree. She takes my hand gingerly. "We should head back to your bedchamber, Your Grace."

"Uh!" I sigh, thinking of the hallways and the literal hike between the gardens and my bedroom. No wonder these maidens have nice athletic legs. Walking from one end of the castle to the other alone is a morning jog.

Speaking out on a whim I say, "I wish someone would just carry me there."

And just like that, my wish comes true. But this time, it's not the magic of a fairy godmother. It's the chivalry of a knight.

Lance's hands lift up the golden helmet. It slides down his head, framing his wolfish looks perfectly, the red plume above proud as a rooster's crown. The design of his armor is stunningly Roman. He is a Legatus. My Achilles of Troy. Before I can think anything of his sexy movements, he bends low, dipping to a bow. His hands flow out and I barely make out his intent before I'm suddenly up in the air, clasped to the hard metal ridges of his golden armor by strong warrior arms.

Wait! What the hell?

"Hey, Lance?" I squirm in his grip. "Drop me this instant!"

He begins walking silently, leaving the garden with me in his arms. I look to Yennara. She is not surprised or beet-red as I am. And I'm thinking, Is this a normal thing you guys do?

"Lower your Queen, Sir Lancelot." I try again. But my voice is not so sure anymore. The comfort of his arms is too much. The solidness of his chest. Our proximity. His smell...

Sweet Jesus!

I gape in pure horror, embarrassed at my own femininity, as Lancelot carries me across the hallway, forging past stone statues and statuesque guards who don't give us a second glance. A group of apron-wearing stewards who I assume are the castle chefs pass by us, pausing to give a collective bow. Their heads remain lowered until Lance barrels past. I spy the only man in the group subdue the urge to gape.

So this isn't normal I guess. Until it is.

As if reading my thoughts, Lance peers down at me through the hollows of gold framing his face. Blue eyes the color of Antarctica ice meet mine.

"Your wish is my command, Your Grace. Your command, my oath."

In the space of the three seconds his gaze holds mine, he conveys a profoundness of words I've never seen before. I have no doubt this man will battle a dragon for me.

Sir Lancelot Grimm carries me the mile and twenty two steps to my bedroom. And doesn't break a sweat. Not even a bead of it. He hesitates by the huge maple-red doors. The two guards flanking the double doors nod once to him, bow when they see me—the bundle with white ponytail—held up in his arms, then turn and stare straight ahead. I gaze up at Lance since I have nowhere else to look. He seems unsure, not knowing whether to go in. But then Yennara steps forward and pushes open the doors.

With a subtle incline of her head, he strides gallantly in.

He reaches the bed in moments, making me wantonly think how much faster he'd move if he were encouraged by say...me?

Like I'm a Faberge egg, he drops me softly at the edge of it. I dip into the scarlet sheets, my hands loosening around his neck. I didn't even know I'd been gripping. He lifts once more to his full height but doesn't leave. He stares me down, his eyes a killer frost. I fold my hands in my lap. Beside us Yennara is quiet. Watching. The door is locked. I don't know if either of them feel what I feel, but I sincerely hope they don't. Because what I feel right now is seven shades of sin, hotter than hell, and chemical as fireworks.

This is awkward. But mostly...sexual.

If someone doesn't say or do something soon...

Lancelot walks closer to the bed in his full armor, a gladiator of the arena, gold his emblem of destruction. His helmet radiates the soft scarlet light of the room, and as his piercing eyes roam over my body, I see nothing of obedience in it. What I see is pure lust. I may be the queen, but in this moment, he is the master.

In the desire darkening his blue eyes black, I am his pet.

His Royal pet.

As he draws closer to the edge of the bed, I spread my legs to grant him more access. He lifts a hand to my neck, slowly trailing to my mouth. His thumb caresses my upper lip. And I part them for him. His thumb dips in and I hear Yennara's breath hitch from a feet beside us, by the bed's poster.

Her whimper breaks the deadly spell.

Letting Lance's finger fall out my lips with a wet sound, I glance at Yennara. And though I want to tell them both to dispose of all clothing, instead I say to her,

"I think the evening's ripe for a dip in the pool."

She catches my drift instantly and with a sultry shimmer—which she can't hide—in her brown eyes, she heads for the corner of the bedroom leading to the bath pool.

Lance is vanished before I turn away from Yennara.

The sound of the door locking is the only proof he was even here in the first place.