Page 90 of Kneel Before Me

Maximus had gritted his teeth and stared into her wild eyes, her pupils blown wide with adrenaline. This was not how this was meant to go. None of this was happening the way it was supposed to. They were supposed to be married first, then have children. They were supposed to live long, happy lives together and make his father angry for many years to come.

But it was not to be. Lilibet continued to bleed. The midwives continued to whisper. And by the time Maximus was holding his daughter in his arms, there was no choice to make. Her mother was already dead.

“Do you have a name for her, Your Highness?”

Maximus said the only name on his tongue, the only name he ever wanted to say again. “Lilibet,” he whispered. “Lilly for short.”

From then on, time had ceased to function properly. Maximus did not see Lilibet’s body moved from his bedroom. He only saw her in a dingy room on the edge of the maze, where he was allowed a final moment with her before she was lowered in the ground in the family crypt. Maximus had fought tooth and nail for her to be buried there. His father had wanted her buried in the village, in the very graveyard where they’d used to meet. That was unacceptable to Maximus. She belonged here, next to his own future grave. Finally, his father had relented, perhaps because he knew Maximus would never forgive him if he didn’t.

There was no one he had loved more than Lilibet. It had been an honor to be with her, to love her, to watch her belly grow with his child. He still remembered the night he’d found out he was going to be a father—how his entire life had changed with just two breathless words: I’m late. He’d been nothing but thrilled. They both were. It didn’t matter that they were unmarried, that his father didn’t approve, that the competition for Maximus’s hand was supposed to occur when he turned twenty the very next year. All that mattered was their future child.

The months had passed in a blur. Maximus had performed his duties. He’d sat in on meetings, hosted parties, attended dinners. None of it mattered to him; none of it was remotely of importance. The whole world had gone dark. It felt as if the sun would never rise again. Maximus spent his nights curled up in Lilly’s nursery, watching her like a hawk, sleeping on the floor next to her crib simply so he could hear her breathing. Some part of him was paranoid that her mother would somehow drag his daughter away too. Kora had taken Lilibet—why would she not take Lilly? Why not leave him with nothing?

It was difficult. But Lilly got him through it. Every day he woke up to her beautiful shining face. Every night he fell asleep to the same. Her mother lived on in her. Maximus had expected it to be painful, to resent the child for taking her mother. But somehow it felt like the opposite. Lilly felt like a gift from Lilibet, and Maximus treated her as such every day of her life. He often wondered what Lilibet would have thought of her daughter. They had the same curl to their hair, the same beautiful laugh. She would have loved her just as much as Maximus did, of that he was sure.

Now, on the beginning of the supposed most important week of his life, Maximus could not help but think it would be no different than every other week of his life. This year’s festival could not possibly be more impactful than the one when he’d met Lilibet.

Then again, this year was different. This year he was on the cusp of becoming king, and the festival would culminate in the Passing of the Crown, where his father would symbolically pass the responsibility of ruling on to Maximus. The actual exchange of power would occur when he was married—a fact Maximus had increasingly begun to worry about. His arrangement with Daphne had been made with the understanding that she would save him from having to marry anyone. Now he was changing his mind.

It wasn’t that he was over Lilibet—he probably never would be—but he could not deny that he was developing feelings for Daphne. It was a strange feeling to have another person in his heart, although not an entirely unpleasant one. Thinking about Daphne felt like drinking champagne—light and sweet. Full of possibility. In the beginning, he’d planned to use her as a shield against his father’s wishes. Now he wanted something else. Why shouldn’t he choose her as his wife? Why shouldn’t they get married? She’d told him herself that she was not already taken by someone else. Even if she were, how could she resist the future king? Most girls would kill to be the object of his affections. Surely Daphne felt the same.

Maximus spent the day in Lilly’s room, hiding from his father and playing with his daughter. She was beginning to talk now, although not in words he understood. Instead she cooed and giggled, making delighted noises whenever he picked her up or swung her around. He spoke to her in return, assuming the words would permeate even if she couldn’t understand them. He told her about Augustus, about the competition, about Daphne. Lilly burbled through it all, oblivious to the problems of her father. She would be a princess one day, and Maximus knew she would be a good one.

As the afternoon came to a close, a butler knocked on the door. “You are wanted in the foyer, Your Highness.”

Maximus sighed. In a matter of hours he would be on a stage, kissing each remaining girl for the entire village to see. It was the inaugural event of the festival, and the entire point was to give the villagers a chance to cast their vote. It was one of the more ridiculous parts of the competition, and it was one he had begged his father to forgo. But Augustus wouldn’t listen.

“The villagers deserve a say,” he’d said. And that had been the end of it.

Did the villagers deserve a say? Maximus understood that they wanted input on who might be their future queen. But the only person who truly deserved a say in who Maximus would marry was Maximus. Never in his life had he bowed to a crowd of strangers, and he was not about to start now. Besides, he knew quite well who they would vote for. Constance was the clear choice, for both Augustus and the villagers. They would know her father, the shipping merchant who provided most of their goods through the long, cold winters. They would support such an opportune match.

Maximus did not support it. There was only one girl he wanted to kiss tonight, and he had no idea whether she would let him do it. He didn’t dare hope that she would. If he allowed himself to hope, he opened himself up to heartache. Daphne didn’t bother with convention on a good day—he doubted she would bother with it even when faced with a crowd. Still, he was only human, and the hope grew. It propelled him as he tucked in his daughter, chugged an anticipatory glass of wine, and trailed down the stairs to the foyer to find his father waiting. By the time they were seated in the carriage, Maximus was tight with adrenaline. His entire body was tense; it felt as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff, staring out over the precipice. His mind was empty save for a single thought, repeated over and over as they barreled toward the town square: Will she let me kiss her? Will she let me kiss her? Will she—

“Son.” His father broke him from his thoughts as the carriage halted. “We have arrived.”

Maximus stared numbly out the window. The villagers were already gathering in the square, which was decked out in decorations. Gold flags spanned the air above them, and rooster feathers hung from the eaves in fluffy bushels. Maximus scanned the crowd as he exited the carriage, following his father onto the stage. He didn’t see Daphne. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t here. She had to be here. Augustus stayed back while he ascended the stage, standing in the middle alone. Maximus had eliminated three girls after the Frisky Sixty. The remaining six ascended the stage, forming a single-file line along its edge.

It was bitterly cold, and an icy wind played at his neck. Maximus felt like an animal in a cage. Everyone was staring at him. Eventually, the crowd quieted as the knot in his stomach twisted tighter.

Veronica was the first in line. Maximus didn’t even bother stepping forward to meet her—her lips were on his before he even had a chance to blink. He kissed her back mechanically, barely registering the way her fingers groped at his hair, hardly noticing when she pressed her body against his. He didn’t care about any of it. Normally such a kiss would make him immediately hard. Now he found himself counting the seconds until it was over, and when Veronica finally pulled away, Maximus breathed a sigh of relief. Behind her, the crowd cheered. Not as loudly as they would surely cheer for Constance but loudly nonetheless. The next girl stepped forward, and on it went.

Seconds passed, but it felt like hours. It wasn’t until Constance was walking up to him that Maximus finally saw the only girl he cared to see. She was last in line, her arms crossed, her hair a cascade of loose curls down her back. He couldn’t read her mood from here—her usually expressive mouth was clamped shut against the cold. Just the thought of kissing her was enough to do what none of the other girls could: harden his cock. Inconveniently, the next girl in line was not the girl he wanted to reap such a reward.

Constance walked toward him with a smile, which persisted even as Maximus audibly groaned. He had no interest in kissing her. Could he refuse to kiss Constance? But that would be unprecedented. If he refused to kiss a girl—Constance specifically—it would be a disaster. His father would never forgive him. The villagers might not either. Even now, he could see their shining, eager faces in the crowd. They wanted this. But Maximus only wanted her.

Constance was upon him. He wanted to flee. Instead, he stood perfectly still as she pressed her lips to his. Maximus closed his eyes, if only to block it out. But nothing could block out the roar of the crowd as their lips met, and he knew immediately that the villagers had cast their vote for her. Maximus could hardly blame them. His life would have been so much easier if he wanted Constance. Instead he wanted Daphne. She was all he could think about—her hair, her skin, her lips. She was so close he could smell her, the familiar scent of salt caressing him with each gust of cold autumn wind. He wanted to shove Constance aside, to grab Daphne by the face and kiss her until she fell in love with him. What would his father do if he did that? Perhaps kill him on the spot. Perhaps kill her. Maximus felt an undeniable thrill at the thought of defying him so publicly. He would fuck Daphne on this stage in front of the entire village if she let him. Imagine what his father would think of that.

Finally, Constance stepped aside, and Daphne was before him.

She looked radiant—her cheeks pink beneath her freckles, her curls windswept in the cold autumn air. She was wearing an enormous knitted scarf that enveloped her entire upper body. Maximus wanted to tear it off her.

“You’re here,” he breathed.

“I’m obligated to be.”

Perhaps she’d meant it as an insult, but Maximus didn’t care. All that mattered was she was here, in front of him, and the rules of the competition dictated that they kiss. If it were up to him, they would have done so already. But it was not up to him. So Maximus raised his hand slowly, using just one finger to tilt Daphne’s face up to his. Even now, he was afraid she would run away. Even now, with the eyes of the entire village upon them, somehow he was sure she would push him away. But she didn’t. Instead she met his eyes, gazing at him calmly as the crowd behind her grew restless. Maximus doubted there would be any cheers for them. It didn’t matter. She was here.

He stepped closer, placing his other hand gently on her waist. “May I kiss you?” he whispered, ignoring the crowd, ignoring everything but her gorgeous brown eyes, which held his with utter conviction.