1. Cole

I stood at the window, watching the soldiers march back and forth, their feet crunching over the gravel.

"Why does it have to be gravel?" I'd asked my father, the king, as a child. "And why are the soldiers stamping their feet? Are they going somewhere?"

As an adult, I knew the answers to all three questions.

1) Father liked the gravel because the noise was so distinctive.

2) Because soldiers never walked anywhere, or ours didn't.

3) No. It was all for show. If we were invaded, I had no idea if they knew how to use their weapons or if they'd run off, leaving me to defend my father and our heritage.

I flopped onto a settee, not a sofa or couch. Father insisted on it being called a settee. It could be worse. We could live in a drafty old castle and go to bed with bed warmers under a thick quilt. Though if the bed warmer was an omega instead of a long-handled metal thingie with coals inside it, I'd be up for that. Part of me was up now just thinking about it.

Instead of the castle my family had lived in for generations, my great-grandfather built a gaudy palace to show off our wealth. It was him who insisted the gravel driveway be maintained after his death.

Monarchies were full of traditions that were just that: traditions that had to be kept up. And that included marriage.

Mating, my bear insisted.

Yes, but we don't know any shifter families that are rich or important enough for the likes of Father.

Putting my feet on the settee, I thought back to the day of my tenth birthday when my father had sat me down and explained that even though we were shifters—I hadn't met my beast at that age—I was expected to marry to ensure the continuation of our dynasty.

I'd been in awe, imagining an omega riding in on a white horse and scooping me up. At that age, being a prince was still a novelty. I got to ride in a car or a carriage and wave at people lining the street.

My parents had brought in a hand-waving tutor to teach me how to swivel my wrist just so. I dutifully followed his teachings until I got older and fed up with being a prince. Now I often flicked my wrist or worse, flapped my hand, much to my parents' horror.

Dragging my thoughts back to arranged marriage, I steepled my fingers and sighed, because the time for my betrothal was nearing and Father hadn't given any hints as to who my intended might be.

It had to be someone filthy rich and they had to wield power, or their parents did. There'd be no point to the marriage if the boxes in those columns weren't ticked.

Being happy or in love wasn't a consideration for a prince. But once the ceremony was out of the way and my omega husband produced a child or two, we could ignore one another and find someone we loved to share our bed and our life. We'd appear together for important ceremonies, smile and pretend to enjoy one another's company. But behind the scenes it would be all business.

My parents lived like that, but they couldn't pretend they liked one another, which was why I was usually at Father's side during official engagements. Maybe when I was younger they got along, but as the years passed, instead of rubbing along together, they scraped like sandpaper. My dad's favorite expression when Father said something was to roll his eyes and mutter, "Oh, for heaven's sake."

A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, and our housekeeper, Molly, popped her head in. My grin was genuine because she had been constant in my life when nannies and governesses had passed through. As a kid, she read me bedtime stories and tucked me in when we were between nannies and my parents had either forgotten it was my bedtime or they were wining and dining some bigwig.

"I made chocolate cake, and I've got coffee brewing."

I leaped up because anything chocolate always got my attention. "Yes, please."

"Here or downstairs?" she beamed.

"You know the answer." I tucked my arm in hers, and we skipped down the long winding staircase. But when we reached the first floor and were about to head to Molly's private "suite" as she called it, which was a tiny apartment in the basement, the main doors flung open and Father strode in.

He froze on seeing us, as though he wasn't certain who we were or he thought he was in the wrong place.

"Cole."

Oh, good, he remembered my name.

"Where are you off to?"

"It's cake time."

"Oh." Father waved his hand, a dismissive action because he couldn't fathom why anyone would get excited about a sugary, buttery, floury concoction when there were deals to be made.

He strolled toward his study, one security guy in front, the other at his heels, while his private secretary raced along at the rear, tapping at his phone.

Molly and I both let out a breath as the study door closed and peace reigned. I galloped down the stairs, not only because cake awaited but Father hadn't dragged me into the study and told me to get measured for a suit to wear to my wedding. The inevitable had been put off for at least one more day.

The cake sitting on the table had lashings of thick chocolate frosting, and I bounced in my seat like a kid while Molly poured the coffee and cut a thick wedge of cake while slicing a smaller piece for herself.

I studied the light, airy cake and my mouth watered. The only positive thing about being a prince was sharing time with Molly. She understood that if I'd had a lousy day, time spent on her old sofa watching TV together while eating whatever yummy dish she or cook had made, soothed out the wrinkles.

My phone beeped, and without looking at it, I knew it was Father. He was the only one who used that app, and the sound always made me bang my head on the nearest wall.

"You've been summoned," Molly noted.