2018 Top Ten Gay Romance

The Contingency Plan by Addison Albright

Prince Marcelo of Sheburat stared out the window of his bedchamber. The sky was a strikingly vivid azure-blue, broken only by a few scattered billowy clouds. Blackbirds and woodlarks sang their merry tunes, and the blossoms flowering in the grove of plum trees fluttered in the light breeze.

It was the sort of day his twin sister Marcela would have embraced. Yesterday’s beauty would have likely drawn her outdoors to race across the castle’s grounds on her beloved Pepin.

Usually surefooted, she wouldn’t have expected the horse to stumble and throw her. Marcelo could picture his sister’s wide smile as she encouraged Pepin to sprint across the yard, the wind whipping her loose hair into a tangled jumble.

He and Marcela hadn’t been close in years. Not true companions since their nursery days, and not in each other’s confidence at all since his time with the tutors had come to an end. Still, she’d been his twin, and he mourned her passing.

He turned from the window and sat staring at his hands, folded in his lap. How would her unexpected death affect the peace treaty?

Days…they’d been mere days from completing the final component in the treaty their mother, Queen Giselle, had signed eighteen years earlier with King Alnod of Zioneven. The timing of the tragedy, so close to Marcela’s wedding to the crown prince of Zioneven, might have made it suspect. But the accident had been witnessed by advanced riders of the Zioneven entourage as well as trusted Sheburat guards. All agreed there’d been no foul play.

It had been an accident. A particularly badly timed misfortune.

Unlike his twin, who’d been robust and athletic, Marcelo had a delicate build and features more typical of the rare male born into the royal family of this matriarchal sovereignty. With the smooth skin of his face and fine lines of his bone structure, visiting foreign dignitaries might be excused for assuming him to be a woman before taking a closer look. He raked a shaky hand through the silky loose ringlets of his shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair.

The castle was in an uproar with servants rushing to and fro. Doing what, Prince Marcelo wasn’t sure. He recognized the end results of the servants’ hard work but had no idea of the details of how most of it was accomplished. The incessant chatter as they hurried along the stone corridor outside his chamber drove him to distraction.

Of course, there’d been a contingency plan laid out in the treaty because there’d never been a guarantee that Marcela, the third daughter of Queen Giselle and Prince Consort Elmer, would live to see her eighteenth birthday. The two eldest daughters—the heir and the spare—had been excluded from consideration in the wedding arrangement portion of the treaty, so instead of marrying Marcela, the crown prince of Zioneven would now choose from among the younger daughters. Unfortunately, that would cause a delay until the newly chosen bride-to-be turned eighteen, and neither side would appreciate the postponement.

Still, in the larger scope of peace between these two lands, his twin’s death was a mere blip in the process. Queen Giselle, like Marcelo and his sisters, grieved on a personal level, but she had no real worries in regard to the treaty.

A light but persistent tapping on the closed door to his bedchamber wrested him from his melancholic thoughts. “Enter,” he called.

His personal servant, Erich, opened the door and stepped in. “Sir.” With a small bow, Erich announced, “Crown Prince Efren of Zioneven has arrived. You are expected to join your family in the great hall.”

Life went on.

“Thank you.” Marcelo stood and rolled his shoulders as Erich waited. More than twice Marcelo’s age, Erich had patience aplenty, borne of years of experience in service to the royal family. Marcelo briefly closed his eyes while he took a cleansing breath, then followed his servant from the room. Apparently, Prince Efren didn’t want to waste any time working out the details to the modification of the arrangement.

Marcelo arrived at the entrance to the great hall at the same time as his younger sister, Kemble. As the fourth daughter, a year younger than he and Marcela, she was Prince Efren’s likely choice as a replacement bride. Her grim expression confirmed she understood that.

Knowing from birth what her fate was supposed to be, Marcela had grown up coming to terms with her future. With her strength of character, she’d willingly, if not entirely cheerfully, accepted her imminent fate as wife to the future ruler of those boors to the north, often saying, “I’m proud to be the one who will cement the peace that’s finally come over our land.”

Bearing in mind how close they’d come to the wedding sealing the final deal of that long-ago treaty, Kemble was no doubt in shock at the realization that she would be taking her sister’s place in a year’s time. It was hard to say whether she’d use that time to fan the flames of her dread, or to pluck up her mettle.

Marcelo nodded and conveyed what he hoped was a commiserating expression.

She nodded briefly in acknowledgement, then entered the hall as a servant announced, “Her Royal Highness, Princess Kemble of Sheburat.”

Straightening his back, Marcelo stepped into place in the entryway. The servant proclaimed, “His Royal Highness, Prince Marcelo of Sheburat,” and Marcelo strode into the packed room.

The royal family and nobles of Sheburat lined one side, and the entourage from Zioneven flanked the opposite. Being male, he stepped into place at the lower end of the row of Queen Giselle’s offspring, rather than in age-order amongst his sisters.

Surprisingly, considering his whole life he’d heard whispers of what backward brutes the people of Zioneven were, they looked much the same as the people on the Sheburat side of the room. The ambassadors from Zioneven with whom he’d conversed at state dinners had been civilized enough, but he’d considered that an aberration—a skill and front that went with their position.

The men and women varied in size, and although the details of the styling of their clothing was distinctive, the basics were the same: long, silk-trimmed tunics made of a finely woven cloth with a colorful strong fabric belt. Coming from a chillier climate, their trousers were tailored tighter than those worn in Sheburat, and were leather rather than linen, but the leather footwear was much the same. Their cloaks were fastened at the left shoulder by a round brooch.

Marcelo scanned the faces on the other side of the hall. The tranquil openness of their expressions suggested honesty and integrity. Certainly, an individual could excel at feigning a disposition that didn’t reflect their true nature, but an entire body of people? They were doing the same, sizing up the nobles of Sheburat. Marcelo stood straight and tall and lifted his chin. They would find no sign of weakness in him.

The man in the middle of the Zioneven lineup was a little taller than average, but not in the same league as the intimidatingly large warriors who had accompanied them. He had short dark brown hair and piercing dark eyes. His bearing set him apart from the rest. The proud tilt to his head, the authoritative demeanor that stopped short of appearing pompous. This regal man had to be Crown Prince Efren. And he was staring directly at Marcelo.

Marcelo blinked in surprise, but tightened his jaw and held the look. He refused to avert his gaze first. After a long moment, one corner of the prince’s mouth quirked up, and he nodded faintly before turning away.

Marcelo’s youngest sister, Suky, standing beside him, peered oddly at him. “That was…interesting,” she whispered.

Perhaps. Curious that the crown prince would take note of the member of the royal family with the least status, but nothing of particular importance. All-in-all, he felt a little less concern on Kemble’s behalf.

With everyone now in attendance, Queen Giselle stepped forward. “Your Royal Highness, Ladies and Lords, and people of Zioneven, please accept our warm welcome to Sheburat, and I hope you’ll accept our sincere apology for the chaos in which you find us today.”

Prince Efren inclined his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. On behalf of Zioneven, I offer our heartfelt condolences on the loss of your beloved daughter.”

“Thank you,” Queen Giselle replied. “Sadly, our loss yesterday affects more than simply causing us private pain.”

“Indeed.” Prince Efren kept his reply short, perhaps diplomatically leaving it to Queen Giselle to either further the conversation toward whether or not he was ready to choose his alternate, or to wait for a time when her grief would be less immediate.

His mother would put diplomacy first, Marcelo didn’t doubt that. The conversation may or may not happen today, but it would occur during this visit. Diplomacy always came ahead of personal concerns.

“Although disappointment caused by the cancellation of the wedding we’d expected tomorrow is unavoidable,” Queen Giselle said. “I hope you’ll find a small comfort in knowing that you may now make your own choice of your future bride from among my younger daughters rather than the arrangement made on your behalf at the tender age of five.”

Again, Prince Efren inclined his head. “Sibling.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Sibling. The terms of the treaty specify I may choose an alternate from among Princess Marcela’s younger siblings. It didn’t restrict the choice to daughters.”

Marcelo stiffened. What in the world could Prince Efren mean by that? Men didn’t marry men. At least, he’d never heard of such a thing occurring in Sheburat. Marcelo wasn’t alone in his bewilderment. Everyone on his side of the room stilled. None of the faces opposite them exhibited confusion. Was that an acceptable option in Zioneven’s culture?

It was only by mere minutes, but Marcelo did qualify as a younger sibling to Marcela.

For the first time in Marcelo’s recollection, his mother faltered. “Do…surely…but…”

Marcelo turned his head toward her, his wide eyes silently imploring her to voice an objection. Kemble may have recently grown complacent thinking herself in the clear, but she’d at least spent her life knowing she was the likely backup plan.

As a royal son in this matriarchal society, Marcelo had grown up knowing he would never marry. Never. Royal sons did not marry. Period.

He’d been perfectly happy with that knowledge because he’d never experienced the attraction that men outside the royal family felt toward women. In fact, he’d enjoyed knowing he would not have to merge his life with a woman’s with the expectation of having to bed her.

His gaze flicked back and forth between Queen Giselle and Prince Efren before settling on the prince. Prince Efren had kept his eyes locked with the queen’s, but as if sensing Marcelo’s scrutiny, his head turned to reflect Marcelo’s regard.

Marcelo’s heart thudded so vigorously in his chest, surely everyone in the room must hear it. His respiration quickened. That single word uttered by Prince Efren had shattered Marcelo’s understanding of everything he knew about the world and had expected in his life.

Queen Giselle remained frozen for a few more moments, her brows drawn together as she processed the unexpected direction of this discussion. She cast a brief, apologetic glance toward Marcelo, then lifted her shoulders in a barely visible shrug. “The treaty does indeed use that word. Prince Efren, the choice is yours.”

Marcelo’s stomach dropped as her words echoed through the silent hall even though he’d known in his heart that she’d put Sheburat before her son’s individual concerns. So, he felt no personal betrayal. It was who is mother had to be.

Prince Efren continued to stare at Marcelo as he firmly stated, “I choose His Royal Highness, Prince Marcelo. The wedding will proceed tomorrow as planned.”

Marcelo swayed as the blood drained from his face. How could this be? How did such a marriage work? Would he be expected to—

“Marcelo?” Suky’s whispered tone voiced her concern. “Are you unwell?”

She repeated the words, but from farther away. Or did her voice only seem distant? He wobbled as the people around him faded, and then, thankfully, this nightmare all went away.

* * * *

Marcelo stretched, then stilled. This didn’t feel right. He was on his bed, but wore his daytime clothes and lay atop the coverlet. He opened his eyes. The sun was far too high in the sky for him to be lying abed.

“Marcelo.”

He turned toward the source of the deep voice. Prince Consort Elmer sat in the chair adjacent to the bed.

“Sir? Father?”

Why was his father in his bedchamber? His salon, perhaps, would have made sense, but even that was rare. Visits with his parents took place in their suite or in the public rooms. No one except Erich or servants under his direction ever entered Marcelo’s private bedchamber.

“Are you injured? In any pain?” Father asked. “You didn’t appear to hit your head as you fell. Kemble made it over to you in time to support you during your collapse.”

“Kemble…”

Marcelo’s muscles stiffened, and his breath hitched as memory of the events in the great hall rushed into his mind. “I choose His Royal Highness, Prince Marcelo. The wedding will proceed tomorrow as planned.”

That had actually happened.

“Collapse? How…how…?” Marcelo trailed off, unsure what he wanted to ask. How could such a marriage be possible? Instead he sat and reached for the metal cup on the small bedside table.

“How did you come to awaken in your bed?” Father queried. “Prince Efren carried you. He said it was the least he could do after shocking you into a dead faint.”

The cup slipped from Marcelo’s hand and clattered to the stone floor, spilling water as it rolled, clinking across the room. And now Prince Efren had shocked him a second time. Naturally, Marcelo had assumed servants had carried him.

An unfamiliar tingle raced through his body at the thought of being held by the prince in such an intimate manner. Or was it caused by remembering the curious half-smile when the prince had let Marcelo “win” the stare-down, or the way he’d looked confidently into Marcelo’s eyes when he’d announced his choice?

Marcelo cleared his throat and shook off the strange feeling. “Father, I don’t understand. How can this be? Men don’t marry other men, and royal sons in Sheburat don’t marry anyone.”

“Men can and do marry other men in Zioneven. Likewise with women. It’s not the norm, but it’s done. In Sheburat, there are no laws forbidding it, but nobody has yet come forward to try. With this precedent, that will probably change.”

“But royal sons…”

“Again, there are no laws forbidding it. It’s a tradition borne of a long history of royal sons who’ve shown no interest in marrying.”

“I had no interest in marrying.”

“I know.” Father nodded. “But, although royal sons never married, some did take lovers.”

Tilting his head to the side, Marcelo stared blankly at his father. There didn’t seem to be any logic to these traditions whatsoever. “Why wouldn’t they have married their lovers? Did no one tell them it wasn’t forbidden?”

Father took a deep breath before continuing. “Some took lovers, but those lovers were never women.”

Marcelo’s lips parted, and he turned his head to gaze out the open window. How sheltered he’d been. Ignorant and sheltered. Ignorant of the ways of the world, at any rate. Why had no one told him such things weren’t forbidden? Or would they have done so if he had ever shown interest in making a match?

Royal sons were pampered, but not celebrated in the way that daughters were. He’d had full access to the library and had made good use of it. Although his formal education had ended earlier than that of his sisters—there’d been no need to continue beyond the basics as he would never be a statesman—he’d always had a thirst for knowledge. Clearly there were many things to learn that nobody had ventured to put into print.

So, a man could bed with another man, and presumably Prince Efren would expect that as part of their marriage. A shiver ran up his spine, and he rubbed the back of his neck. Did he actually welcome the thought?

The prince had looked at him from across the hall, sized him up, and decided Marcelo would make an acceptable partner. Prince Efren would be a hundred times worldlier than Marcelo, and probably knew that history about Sheburat’s royal sons better than he, who actually was one.

But what of Prince Efren? He’d been prepared to marry Marcela. Would he have preferred a woman? Was his desire to complete the terms of the treaty sooner rather than later more important to him than his personal choice for a spouse? And more importantly…

“Why doesn’t he care that he can’t have any legitimate heirs if he marries me?”

“Perhaps he is satisfied with letting his younger siblings and their children carry on the line.”

Marcelo stared at the fallen cup that had rolled toward the fireplace. He had so many questions, but most he would be uncomfortable asking his father.

“I don’t have a choice in this matter, do I.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No. I’m sorry, but you don’t.”

* * * *

Marcelo closed the heavy tome with more vigor than necessary and scanned the vast walls of books in the castle library. Not only had he been sheltered from commonplace knowledge, but apparently, he shouldn’t have confidence in everything written in books either. He trusted the evidence of his own eyes, and that contradicted everything he’d heard about the people of Zioneven, and much of what he’d read in this book.

He trailed a finger along its spine. In the book, even where details were possibly factually correct, they were presented in such a fashion as to make Zioneven’s policies appear misguided or dangerous. But when he thought about it, Sheburat’s arguments against educating the commoners appeared self-serving and coldhearted. Zioneven’s policy seemed more benevolent, and likely to cultivate a more civilized society. He took heart in knowing that his family and ancestors didn’t go so far as to forbid educating the masses, but they did nothing to encourage it or make it easier to achieve.

Could this be why his people had deemed the kingdom of Zioneven to be backward? Because their common people had the ability to rise above their station at birth? Because the children of the humblest of field workers could elevate themselves to a learned position in life…maybe even a diplomat? He’d thought it was because men were allowed to rule in Zioneven even though they were considered to be generally more aggressive than women. Possibly it was a combination of these things.

True, he had yet to personally interact with any of them beyond the occasional ambassador over the years, but they’d appeared every bit as civilized when assembled in the great hall as the people of Sheburat, and their crown prince had taken it upon himself to carry Marcelo to his bedchamber after his fainting spell. That little smile kept popping up in his mind, catching him off guard, warming his heart to the man.

Allowing people with same-s*x attractions to marry each other felt like the humane thing to do, so once again, the rulers of Zioneven seemed more principled than Sheburat’s. Marcelo had accepted that he would be alone and celibate because it had simply never occurred to him that there could be another more palatable option.

More palatable. He sniffed and shook his head. Mere hours ago, the thought of marrying Prince Efren had alarmed him to the point where he’d passed out rather than deal with the thought of it. Unbelievably, he was coming around to the idea that his life might actually improve with this marriage.

It made sense that his sisters had been dismayed at the thought of moving away from a land where they were the highly respected rulers to one where they would instead have to accept the reign of a man in a land where rule passed to the oldest child without regard to that child’s gender. But for Marcelo, that concern didn’t apply.

This matriarchal society was all he’d ever known. As a royal, he was indulged, but he would have never enjoyed the status of his sisters. Would his standing be elevated in Zioneven? Would he be treated with respect? Would his opinions be valued?

A discreetly clearing throat sounded behind Marcelo, and he turned to acknowledge the person wishing to gain his attention.

Erich bowed his head. “Sir, dinner is served.”

“Thank you.”

Perhaps he could get answers to a few of his questions. It wouldn’t change the fact that he must marry Prince Efren tomorrow regardless, but it would help relieve his unsettled state of mind. He rose and set out for the great hall.

Marcelo wiped his palms on the sides of his tunic and settled his breathing before stepping into the room. Inside, the long tables stood along the center of the chamber. At the head sat his mother with his father at her right hand. His six sisters and a mix of nobles from both Sheburat and Zioneven flanked the sides. Prince Efren sat at the foot, with the seat at his right hand remaining empty.

With his shoulders back, Marcelo strode to the chair reserved for him. His face heated with the knowledge that all eyes were on him as a servant pulled out the chair. A quiver zipped up his spine as he sat so close to Prince Efren he could smell the clean musky scent of the man mixed with a whiff of a lightly floral cologne. The quiver was alien, but not unwelcomed. It was…reassuring.

He nodded respectfully to Prince Efren, but waited for the higher-ranked man to speak first. Prince Efren chose to study him for a few moments, but Marcelo kept his head high and held the gaze. As when they’d first set eyes on one another hours earlier, the result was once again for the prince to twitch up one side of his mouth. However, this time he didn’t turn away.

“Prince Marcelo, I trust you’ve fully recovered from your shock?”

Marcelo returned the slight grin. “Your Royal Highness. Thank you for asking. Indeed, I have.”

Prince Efren inclined his head. “I’m happy to hear it.”

“I hope you understand, sir, that my swoon was truly caused by my utter astonishment, and that you won’t be facing an antagonistic partner. Apparently, I’ve been shielded from the realities of life to a far greater extent than I knew.”

Prince Efren’s grin widened. “I surmised as much, but thank you for reassuring me.”

“If you don’t object, I’d like to take this opportunity to learn from you what will be expected of me. What is my role to be in your household? In your kingdom?”

“Excellent questions. I am encouraged by your interest in such matters. It would appear my diplomats’ analysis was accurate.”

“Sir?”

“Sheltered as you were, I’m sure you were still aware that since the treaty was signed, ambassadors from each of our lands have visited back and forth.”

“Yes, sir, I’ve spoken with them.”

“One of their objectives was to learn as much as they could about the characters of Princess Marcela’s younger siblings so a contingency plan could be in place should the worst happen. It was decided years ago that you would be the best choice both as a partner for me personally, and for Zioneven overall.”

For me personally. That answered one of Marcelo’s concerns. Somewhat. He still wasn’t sure if the prince would have been equally happy with Marcela, but sadly, the answer to that no longer mattered. “Is it because we shared a birthday, and there need not be any further delay?”

“That was a factor, yes, but not as important as other considerations. Although none of your sisters were found lacking, our diplomats felt you had the most empathetic temperament and an inquisitive nature, and those characteristics are highly valued in Zioneven.”

“I see.” Marcelo’s chest expanded with pride. He’d never been anyone’s first choice for anything. His whole life he’d been last in line. Last considered. Cut from lessons his sisters continued.

As it turned out, being deprived of the political lessons as told from Sheburat’s perspective had possibly worked in his favor in this particular matter.

Discussion halted as servants came around with the first course, greens mixed with chopped and shredded raw vegetables. He used the time dining to sort his thoughts.

Or tried to. Prince Efren’s proximity had an odd effect on his ability to reason. Beyond the persistent tingles affecting various parts of his body, a peculiar fluttering in his belly couldn’t be explained by hunger. His whole body warmed, and he had to pointedly abstain from doing something so uncouth as fanning himself at table.

He put down his fork when Prince Efren did and waited for the prince to again open their conversation.

“To answer your question regarding your role in Zioneven, I would say your first project should be to spend time with our tutors to expand your education. Then, as your particular interests and abilities surface, we will revisit that subject.”

It was only Marcelo’s good breeding that kept him from sagging into the chair in relief. He hadn’t realized that, as much as he desired a purpose in his new life, he also felt woefully underprepared to take one on.

“Thank you, sir. I would dearly love to continue my formal education.”

Staring into Prince Efren’s eyes reminded him of something he’d first noticed when he’d come across Kemble speaking with one of the eligible lords. Besides the…less-than-prudent smiles that had adorned their faces, the pupils in their eyes had been enlarged. The uncharacteristic grins had cued him to their mutual attraction. The expanded pupils, he’d concluded, were an involuntary bodily reaction that no amount of good manners could eliminate—one he’d observed in multiple instances since then, although never directed toward him.

Prince Efren’s pupils had grown since Marcelo had first sat next to him. The crown prince of Zioneven was attracted to him. Were his own pupils doing the same? Evidently, a physical attraction to Prince Efren was behind the butterflies in his stomach, and the pleasant shivers drifting over his skin.

He gasped quietly when Prince Efren’s soft-leather-clad foot brushed against his own. Deliberately. It had to have been an intentional maneuver.

And then the half-smile that always seemed to short-circuit Marcelo’s brain appeared. The prince must have liked whatever he’d seen in Marcelo’s reaction.

How Marcelo made it through the rest of that dinner without embarrassing himself by forgetting every rule of etiquette he’d been taught since birth was a mystery.

* * * *

The rasp of the heavy draperies swinging aside on their rings woke him. The sun was thankfully behind a cloud or he’d have endured the added discomfort of being blinded by the bright light.

“Good morning, sir.” Erich’s voice wasn’t as cheery as it would typically be, despite it being Marcelo’s wedding day. The wedding would be in the afternoon. His sister Marcela’s burial would be this morning.

One servant started a fresh blaze in the fireplace, while a veritable army of servants trooped in, first placing a large copper tub in front of it, then filling the bath with bucket after bucket of heated water.

He sighed, threw off the covers, pulled off his nightshirt, and moved behind the screen to relieve himself in the chamber pot. Then he stepped into the tub and allowed Erich to prepare him for this eventful day. A day that would begin with sorrow and end with fresh hope, for himself and for all of Sheburat.

Clearing his throat first, Erich uncharacteristically interrupted their silent ritual with a question. “Sir, I’ve been tasked with asking if you intend to take me with you to Zioneven, or if you’ll acquire a new personal servant there.”

Resisting the impulse to state his own inclination—to have the comfort of keeping at least one person from his present life with him—he instead replied, “Which would be your preference, Erich?”

Erich gently kneaded suds into Marcelo’s hair. “I have no family tying me to Sheburat, sir, and I’ve enjoyed serving you. You’ve always treated me well. I’ve spoken with some of the servants from Zioneven, and believe I’d like it there.”

The tightness that had developed in Marcelo’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m glad to hear that. I’d very much like to take you with me.”

Erich expelled a soft breath. “Thank you, sir.”

“Have you…?” Marcelo paused and closed his eyes. He disliked encouraging personal gossip, but…“Have you heard anything from the Zioneven servants regarding Prince Efren’s disposition?”

“I’ve heard he’s fair-minded and even-tempered, sir.”

Marcelo nodded. “Thank you. That agrees with my own observations, but I imagine servants are best placed to know truths that might be successfully masked from outsiders.”

“Indeed, sir. I’m assured you need not worry.”

No, he’d already begun to feel secure in the knowledge that he would at least be treated with benevolence. But the more time he spent in the man’s company, the more he realized that he wanted more than simple kindness. The feeling was so new, it was difficult to analyze precisely what it was he wanted.

And at the same time, his gut churned when he thought of the physical aspect of their relationship. s****l relations was one of the categories where his formal education was severely lacking, but he’d spent time in the stables and touring farms in Sheburat, and he could extrapolate parallels to humans—at least in regard to relations between men and women.

His apprehension was at odds with the strange new sensations he experienced in Prince Efren’s presence. A slight smile crept across his lips. Not only in the man’s presence—simply thinking about the man brought it on.

Best to put that thought out of his mind for now. It would hardly be an appropriate preoccupation for this morning’s somber event.

* * * *

Prince Efren and the nobles of Zioneven stood respectfully to one side of the open grave while the royal family and nobles of Sheburat stood on the other. Marcelo stayed with his family, and seeing the earnest sorrow on the faces across from him helped chase the chill from his heart.

The anecdotes shared by his sisters served to drive home how aged many of his own happy recollections of his twin were. How had he not known that she’d rounded out her political training and love of the outdoors with a recent interest in painting landscapes? The Marcela he remembered as his friend and close companion had been but a memory for years, and had she lived, it was likely they’d never have seen each other again after her wedding today. Still, knowing she was no longer enjoying life saddened him.

He pushed away the melancholy thoughts, the same as everyone appeared to do once the subdued mood of the funeral breakfast had passed. The castle’s occupants seemed to welcome the excuse of that afternoon’s wedding to lift the atmosphere in a more optimistic direction.

He escaped to the privacy of his rooms while chaos once again reigned as preparations were made for the ceremony and celebratory dinner. He spent the time pacing, pausing now and then to stare out the window.

Fidgety actions he couldn’t get away with in the public rooms were loosed. His fingers drummed against his thigh. He just didn’t know for sure what to expect. He hated not knowing.

He paced again through his bedchamber. Marriages were consummated. Something needed to occur between two men to that end. “But what?” he whispered. He didn’t know with any certainty what to expect, but he could surmise based on what he knew happened between men and women.

Erich’s familiar presence in the background of his pacing—packing and putting the finishing touches on Marcelo’s long, silk wedding tunic—had a calming effect on his nerves, but did not completely alleviate them.

He stopped at the opening to his dressing room and grimaced, hating to put forth such a…personal inquiry. “Erich?”

“Sir?”

Marcelo sighed. “I don’t even know how to put this to words.”

Ever patient, Erich waited silently with a calm expression that was probably as much training as it was true serenity. Nevertheless, it had the same effect.

“I find myself unduly anxious about…things that will occur later tonight, after the celebration. My anxiety is rooted in not knowing what will happen.”

“I see. I don’t have any personal experience in such matters either, but…”

“But?”

“I know that there’s a lubricating oil involved, and that men who prefer men do repeatedly seek each other out, so the experience must be one that both parties consider pleasurable.”

A lubricating oil. Marcelo pressed his lips together. That likely confirmed his suspicions, but Erich’s observation helped to ease his fears.

“Thank you, Erich. What would I do without you?”

A small smile played at the servant’s lips as he bent over his embroidery. “I don’t know, sir.”

* * * *

When the time came, Erich helped him into the bright blue silk tunic, exquisitely embroidered with chains of white and pink flowers. While cut in a more masculine fashion, it was decorated similarly to the tunics he’d often seen on brides. He fastened Marcelo’s curls at the nape of his neck with a strip of silk with matching embroidery.

Together they walked to the courtyard, where the ceremonial portion of the wedding festivities would take place. Marcelo held up his chin as he stepped through the archway. He, the son no one had thought could contribute anything meaningful to their society, was fulfilling the terms of the peace treaty. He was the first royal son to marry, and the first citizen in all of Sheburat to marry another of the same s*x, setting a new standard. His mention in history books would now be more than a mere citation of his name.

Prince Efren waited in the sunshine, under the wide expanse of blue sky, and held out a hand to welcome Marcelo to his side. When they joined hands for the first time, Marcelo’s eyes widened as his heart skipped a beat.

His earlier fears vanished in that warm touch, replaced by restrained anticipation. Their gazes locked and held as Queen Giselle approached.

She smiled. “I think the answer is clear to all, but I must ask—do each of you enter willingly into this marriage?”

“Yes, I enter into this marriage as a willing participant,” Prince Efren replied in a firm tone.

Marcelo echoed Prince Efren. “Yes, I enter into this marriage as a willing participant.”

“You may proceed.” The queen stepped away.

Marcelo removed a ring—a bejeweled band that had belonged to one of his ancestors—from one of his fingers and placed it in Prince Efren’s palm. The prince pulled a ring off his smallest finger and placed it in Marcelo’s palm. The heat from the ring melted Marcelo as he slipped it onto the fourth finger of his left hand.

The modest ceremony was almost complete. Only one action remained to fulfill the requirements.

Prince Efren ran a finger along Marcelo’s jaw and tipped up his chin. Marcelo held his breath as Prince Efren lowered his head. A small sound escaped him as the prince’s warm breath wafted over his lips right before their mouths came together for a light, brief kiss.

Marcelo’s knees wobbled, but the prince’s other hand at his waist held him in place. With that one mild kiss, the curb on Marcelo’s anticipation slipped away, replaced by unlimited eagerness. Whatever pain might or might not be involved in the act would be worth enduring to be held in this man’s arms and thoroughly kissed.

With that, the ceremony ended. They were officially married. People milled about congratulating them before filtering into the castle’s great hall for the celebration dinner.

Minstrels played zinks, flutes, crumhorns, and lutes. The music was lively, and the food plentiful—course after course of it. Greens, warm breads, soups, and venison, all washed down with the best wines Sheburat had to offer.

Prince Efren—his husband—fascinated him with stories and descriptions of the lands of Zioneven. “Each summer during my formative years,” he explained, “Father journeyed with me to all corners of our kingdom. The majestic mountains in the northeast, the thick green forests in the northwest, lush rolling hills and charming meadows throughout the central and southern regions dotted with rich farmlands.”

“It sounds beautiful,” Marcelo said.

“It is. On each and every excursion, Father always made sure I knew to stop and talk, and most importantly, listen to what our people had to say. Hear their concerns and their suggestions. It’s the only way to effectively serve them.”

Marcelo blinked at Efren’s choice of word. Serve them, not rule them. It was no small wonder Erich had liked the idea of emigrating.

“I look forward to seeing it,” Marcelo said. “And to meeting your wise father.”

“And I look forward to being your guide,” Prince Efren replied with a smile.

* * * *

When darkness fell, Erich appeared at Marcelo’s side. Prince Efren’s dark eyes smoldered as Marcelo stood to leave. Marcelo grinned before shyly turning to follow his servant upstairs.

Erich led him not to his own set of rooms, but to the suite that had been given to Prince Efren. The heavy draperies were closed, and a blaze burned in the fireplace. The bed had already been turned down.

First, Erich scooped a small amount of tooth-cleaning paste onto a bit of linen and handed it to Marcelo. Marcelo rubbed it over all the surfaces of his teeth, then spit into a cup Erich held out. He then rinsed with water from another cup and spit again.

Erich put away the tooth-cleaning implements and removed the tie from Marcelo’s hair. Then Marcelo lifted his arms so Erich could remove the tunic. He folded it carefully and placed it over the back of a chair, then knelt to help Marcelo out of his footwear and short hose.

As Erich took care of those items, Marcelo undid the fastenings on his trousers and let them, and his loose linen braies, drop to the stone floor. He stepped away, and Erich knelt to retrieve them.

Nodding toward the screen on the other side of the room, Erich said, “You’ll find the chamber pots over there, sir.”

He obeyed Erich’s implicit instruction. When he emerged, Erich waited for him next to the bed, a small vial in one hand, and a pipette dropper in the other. Marcelo swallowed around the lump in his throat and approached the bed.

“Sir, I’ll need you to bend across the mattress with your legs spread about two feet’s length apart.”

Marcelo’s face heated. As used as he was to receiving intimate care from his personal servant, this act eclipsed all others in degree. But clearly Erich had received some instruction, and this was necessary to ensure a successful consummation of his marriage.

So, he took a shaky breath and did as he was told. He strove to remain relaxed as glass clinked behind him. He squeezed his eyes shut and blew out the breath he’d been holding when one of Erich’s hands spread his cheeks, and the pipette slipped into him to deliver the oil where it would be needed.

“All done, sir.” Erich busied himself placing the closed vial on the small bedside table next to a stack of folded cleaning cloths, then stepped back. “May I be of any further assistance?”

“No. Thank you, Erich. That will be all.”

Erich bowed out of the room, and Marcelo nervously shook out his hands as he stared at the bed. His husband would soon join him.

“Please let it be worth enduring that indignity,” he muttered. He closed his eyes and tingled afresh at the thought of the fleeting kiss that had concluded the wedding ceremony.

His lips formed into a smile, and the tension drained from his body. Yes, he wanted this. He wanted to be held in Prince Efren’s arms, and to be kissed again. He slipped under the covers and clasped his hands behind his head.

He didn’t have to wait long before Prince Efren and his personal servant, Dru, entered the bedchamber. The prince shot a wide grin in his direction, but remained silent.

Dru moved quickly, assisting Prince Efren through his tooth-cleaning process, then stripping the clothes from his master. When Prince Efren stepped behind the screen, Dru put away the implements and garments.

Marcelo’s breath caught when Prince Efren stepped out, standing tall and proud. His clothing had concealed his muscles, and the sight was glorious from his well-defined chest and bulging biceps, down his taut belly, past his splendidly rigid manhood, to his strong thighs. Marcelo’s eyes were drawn to the dark matted hair on his chest that tapered to a thin line leading toward—

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, Dru.” Prince Efren kept his eyes on Marcelo as he approached the bed. The door snicked open and shut as Dru left them.

When he arrived at the bedside, Prince Efren reached for him. Marcelo flipped back the covers and stood, taking the offered hand. His own body was lean and toned, but nothing like that of the crown prince. He had no body hair outside of his armpits and pubic area. He didn’t even need to shave his face. But the dark intensity of the man’s eyes as he raked them up and down Marcelo’s body told Marcelo he liked what he saw.

Marcelo’s arousal made it obvious he was likewise pleased. He stopped himself with his free hand hovering close to Prince Efren’s chest. He’d unthinkingly reached out to touch the man without permission to do so.

“Prince Efren, my apologies,” he whispered, dropping his hand.

“Just Efren. No need for titles. At least not when we’re alone in our bedchamber.” Marcelo’s lips parted when Efren ran a finger along his jaw. “And no need to restrain yourself from touching. Your touch will always be most welcomed.”

Marcelo didn’t need to be given that direction twice. He placed his hand over Efren’s heart as the man’s mouth came down on his.

Efren moaned into the kiss. He pulled their bodies together. Grabbing at Efren’s shoulder, it was all Marcelo could do to keep himself from collapsing from the sensation overload.

Last night, when he’d dreamed of coming together with Efren, his imagination had fallen far short of this reality. The hairs on Efren’s chest rasped over his sensitive n*****s and brushed along the length of his body, sending quivers of delight racing across his skin.

Breathing heavily, Efren lifted his head and steered Marcelo toward the bed with a gentle push. Marcelo climbed on and scooted over. He lay back when Efren moved over him.

Marcelo wound his arms around Efren’s waist and clutched his husband’s back as the weight of that magnificent body pressed against his…ground against his. He pushed upward, his legs separating as he bent his knees to gain traction.

This time when Efren kissed Marcelo, his tongue slipped in. Marcelo moaned and instinctively did the same. He pulled Efren closer, while at the same time, pushing his body against him, wildly trying to gain maximum contact.

When Marcelo’s breathing sped up to a pant, Efren pulled back and reached for the vial next to the bed. More oil was needed?

Efren stared at him with a passionate intensity as he slicked the oil over his own manhood as well as Marcelo’s. Marcelo gasped at the warm, firm, slippery slide of Efren’s hand. Ah, yes, he could see the advantage to an external application of the oil to supplement the internal one.

Marcelo trembled when Efren hiked back his legs. He fisted the sheets in anticipation of the coming penetration. His heart pounded, and he bit his lip to prevent an entirely undignified giggle from escaping his lips. He wanted nothing more than to be owned, body and soul, by this man.

Efren nibbled at Marcelo’s neck, then whispered, “My darling, please accept my advanced apologies as I might cause you some initial pain.” He kissed Marcelo again on the lips. “You’ll need to bear down to let me in.”

Marcelo did so and gasped when Efren pushed slowly but steadily against his entrance, scrutinizing Marcelo’s face as he went. Efren paused when Marcelo winced at the slight burn, then pushed again when it ebbed, apparently reading his face correctly.

When Efren was fully seated, Marcelo felt so incredibly full. He gaped at Efren with wide eyes and smiled. A sense of peace warmed him throughout. His worries had been so utterly misguided.

“All is well, my darling?”

“Entirely.”

Efren huffed a laugh and kissed him.

When Efren began to move, Marcelo’s body soared with an energy he’d never before imagined possible. Nothing existed outside this moment. Nothing else mattered.

Efren drove into him, changing tempo and angles with regularity, driving Marcelo wild. Marcelo moved his hands to Efren’s biceps, reveling in the play of muscles as they flexed, then to his hips, and around his back to grip his shoulders as if holding on for dear life.

He arched upward desperately and returned Efren’s kiss with a fervent frenzy as blood raced through his body at a feverish pace. He never wanted this to end, yet sensed the finale fast approaching. He fought it and strove toward it with equal measures.

Perhaps Efren recognized the reason behind his frenetic actions and had better control, but his movements turned frantic, mirroring Marcelo’s, barreling them toward a shared climax.

Marcelo threw back his head and groaned as he shot his release into the sweaty press between their bodies, then Efren stiffened and shoved into him three more times before he pressed in and shuddered to a halt.

They remained in place, trembling, as they caught their breath. The giggle Marcelo had fought to suppress earlier pushed past his usual reserve.

Efren grinned and murmured, “What is it, my darling?”

My darling. That was the third time Efren had called him that. No doubt Marcelo’s smile looked as silly and loopy as the unrestrained giggle had been, but he was beyond caring.

“Life is so strange. Two days ago, I was perfectly content knowing I would remain forever unmarried and celibate. Now…I would be utterly desolate if I were to lose you.”

* * * *

Marcelo awoke to the muffled thuds of the fireplace being stirred and fresh logs being added. He opened his eyes and stretched languidly in Efren’s arms. He lay with his head nestled in the crook of his husband’s shoulder, his hand resting over Efren’s steadily beating heart.

Dru was the culprit stoking the fireplace, while Erich lit candles from the coals and placed them around the still-dark room. The draperies remained closed because it was clearly still dark behind them. Erich glanced their way, and his smile seemed contented and perhaps a little relieved.

They would get an early start in their travels today. It would take more than a week to reach Efren’s castle in Zioneven.

Efren rubbed Marcelo’s back. A slow trail of fingers up to his shoulders, then down to his waist. Over and over. It mesmerized him.

Marcelo sifted his fingers through the short, stiff, and altogether fascinating hairs on Efren’s chest. After all, the man had said, “Your touch will always be most welcomed,” just last night. The slow grin spreading across Efren’s lips confirmed he’d meant those words.

“Are you ready to begin your new life?” Efren asked.

Marcelo kissed the warm skin beneath where his face rested. “More than I ever thought possible.”

THE END