Page 3 of Back to Claim His Crown
‘I decided against plastic surgery,’ Lucian said calmly. ‘I have no desire to hideanyof the wounds I’ve suffered.’
Gasps rippled through the cathedral. Anders looked greenish now. Wide-eyed, he remained half hiding behind his bride. Of course.
She hadn’t moved either. That perfect princess still glittered in the light. The one he couldn’t help looking at.
He’d endured that decade of banishment, waiting for this—the most public moment to reveal himself. To have his revenge on the man-child who’d tried to take everything from him and who’d succeeded in some ways Lucian still couldn’t bear to acknowledge. He couldn’t be distracted and fail now. So he welcomed the cold anger that rose in the wake of memories too hideous to allow. Anger was the best emotion of all.
‘Allow me to show you.’ Lucian steadily unbuttoned his jacket.
It hadn’t been made by the tailors of Monrayne palace but those of King Niko of Piri-nu—no less valid, frankly more soft against his hardened skin. Finally unfastened, he let the jacket slide down his arms. With a soft swish it slipped to the floor. There was another collective intake of breath.
He’d deliberately worn nothing beneath it—a perfectly normal choice for the temperatures on the Pacific Island kingdom where he’d lived out this time, but here in Monrayne the cold bit. He refused to let it penetrate.
He also wore no bulletproof vest. In theory, someone could step up behind him and make an attempt, but his hearing was attuned. Plus he’d brought one guard with him, who was watching his six right now. If a sniper wanted to take him they’d go for a headshot anyway. But they wouldn’t want blood spattered on the bride’s beautiful dress. Not in front of an audience of millions. He’d counted on that.
So he stood in the centre of the cathedral. Bare-chested. His not-so-ceremonial sword at his side.
But, after all this time, it wasn’t his enemy he watched. It was her. She still hadn’t moved but her gaze dipped. He saw her curiosity. But something else bloomed as her gaze raked over the skin that he’d barely shown anyone, let alone the entire world all at once. For a flash he felt vulnerable. He was never this exposed. Her attention lingered on his tattoo. Then moved to the scar he’d had for most of his life. The scar the whole of Monrayne knew he had.
As her focus slowly slid even lower his entire body tensed. He was battered and scarred but he needed strength now and as he stared at her he felt it surging within him. All that should matter wasbeyondher. Yet he couldn’t take his eyes off the ethereally beautiful bride. Her lashes lifted and for a second he thought he saw heat in her eyes. Surely not. Not a woman about to wed another man.
But then she nodded, almost imperceptibly, and it gave him the impetus he needed.
‘You’ll see the scar from the ice-skating accident I had when I was three.’ He lifted his voice for all to hear—all anger and authority and using more words than he sometimes spoke in a day. ‘And, as you can see, I’ve acquired a few more since.’
Everyone knew about the ice-skating accident. The permanent scar on his ribs had been documented in embarrassing paparazzi photos of him as a youth.
‘Does anyone here desire to draw my bloodagain?’ he asked coolly.
It was a direct, deliberate challenge. An unsubtle hint that the accident hadn’t really been anaccident. He’d become aware that there’d been rumours and speculation in the kingdom for years, and of course his body had never been found. But hehadbeen declared dead and his cousin Anders pronounced heir. But Anders’s guardian and uncle, Garth, had become the Regent, despite not being in the royal bloodline, because Monrayne liked its kings mature. Garth hadn’t dared meddle with the ancient laws of succession. Besides which, it had suited him to retain power for as long as possible. But twenty-five was mere days away for Anders now.
‘Naturally I will provide a sample for a DNA test. We will live stream that draw and put a tracker on the sample. We will keep the world’s eyes on it while it is tested.’ Lucian finally looked at Garth again. ‘Won’t we, Garth?’
There would be no mix-up or loss of his sample. Garth now understood this was no bluff and he didn’t like it. He paled but inclined his head in mute agreement.
‘I understand how much of a shock this is.’ Lucian allowed his gaze to slide to the groom. ‘Especially for my young cousin Anders.’
Anders hadn’t moved a muscle. They were dressed in identical ceremonial attire. But Anders had no right to wear the sash of the Crown Prince. Not then. Not now. Notever. He might be next in line to the throne but Lucian would do everything required to prevent that from happening.
It was the woman who broke the tableaux. He watched as she glided closer in that sparkling dress. Her gaze was locked on him and once more he found he couldn’t tear his own away. It was wrong. Peripherals were important. The soldier within—mercenary really—knew prioritising her was foolish. But once more the world around them disappeared. She stopped a foot away. Her full focus on him this close was like an unbearably soft caress on his bare skin. And to his astonishment—and even more astonishingpleasure—she gracefully dropped into a deep curtsey.
‘King Lucian.’ She pitched her voice perfectly so the cathedral acoustics picked up her words. There wouldn’t be a person present who wouldn’t have heard her acknowledgement of his identity.
He didn’t know her name. He should have, of course. He’d worked hard to restore his mental acuity and hadn’t slipped in years. So this was vexing. He gritted his teeth and quickly covered the lapse.
‘Princess.’ He inclined his head.
He knew there were allies here. Those who did not wish to see Anders take the Crown. Those who knew something of the truth of the man. Lucian had done his research. But there were things he could learn only by being here on the ground and he had not expected Anders’s bride to be the first to acknowledge him.
After a moment an army general left his position at the end of the second row and marched towards him. Lucian’s intelligence had kept him apprised of the factions within the court and this older soldier had long been a servant of Monrayne. A sheen of emotion glistened in the older man’s eyes. He didn’t bow. He knelt in front of Lucian. His bones almost creaked with the effort.
‘King Lucian,’ he echoed huskily. ‘Long live the King.’
Because Lucian was more than twenty-five. He was twenty-nine. Thus he was automatically King, whether he’d been officially crowned or not. He should’ve been the King for years already. But he’d been presumed dead. And he’d been hiding, biding his time for this rarest of opportunities.
Everyone in the cathedral was already standing but now his citizens bowed from the waist. The rulers of other nations nodded in acknowledgement at least.
‘King Lucian.’ The chant rang through the cathedral. ‘Long live King Lucian!’ Over and over and over again.
