“Not even for that.” Nick shook his head. “I expected and prepared for an assassination attempt, though. Just not one endangering innocents and destroying a historic landmark.”
When they completed their path around the debris piled at the corner of the transept, Deban and Belia shouted encouragement at an ocean of protestors gathered in the square in front of the ruined Hall of Kings. Relief filled Arit because, for capitol elites, the pair hadn’t seemed too bad. He was glad the bombing had spared them.
Belia lifted a megaphone to his mouth and shouted, “There he is!”
The crowd’s celebratory roar vibrated through Arit’s lungs, shook the ground under his feet. He tightened his grasp on Nick, fear for his mate supplanting his shock. His panicked gaze swept the protestors, searching for the barrel of a long rifle in the masses that would finish what the mortars had started, but only happy faces and triumphantly raised fists met his stare. Anxiety rabid inside him, Arit edged closer. “Nick,” he murmured into his mate’s ear.
“It’s all right.” Nick patted their clasped hands and then lifted his to wave at his people, who shrieked giddy delight. “They don’t want to hurt me.”
“Your enemies could have planted snipers.”
“Maybe.” Nick shrugged, pulling Arit along when Deban waved an invitation for them to join he and Belia atop a truck. “I’m harder to kill than most. C’mon.”
Benjic helped Nick climb onto the tailgate, and once Nick had steadied, he pivoted to haul Arit up to stand beside him. When Arit held Nick’s hand again, reluctant to let his mate go, Nick raised their joined hands and then pointed to a nearby building, a wall upon which someone had projected an enlarged livestream of the truck.
The shifters roared their approval.
“Crown him.” Belia shoved the megaphone to Benjic. “Before they tear the city apart.”
Arit gawped at Benjic when he laughed. Waggling his eyebrows at Nick and Arit, he lifted the megaphone. “When I first met Nick Goode,” he began, screaming to be heard over the thunderous chanting, “I tried to snare him in a trap of his own lies.” The crowd booed. “Because I couldn’t believe anyone could be strong enough to survive the imperial family’s executions or intelligent enough to hide in the lands of men for long.” He grinned at Nick. “I was wrong.”
Arit gulped, nervous energy streaking through him.
“He taught me his strength by returning to the tribes on his terms, with dignity and a selfless desire to lay to rest the bones of family lost in the war.” The gathered shifters yelled out their approval. “He showed me his intelligence when he rejected the offer of a broken throne and a showy title that would have signified nothing except fame and celebrity. He proved his wisdom by sharing with me his dreams for the tribes—dreams his parents gifted to him before their deaths—of an empire jointly governed by a self-sacrificing leader and a parliament comprised of representatives elected by the people and guided by the hard-won experience of tribal elders who had struggled alone with the burden of ruling the tribes.”
Linked to Nick by their clasped hands, Arit jerked in surprise and pivoted to face Nick, who only smiled at the crowd, his features a bland mask.
“On the memories of the family he loved, Nick Goode swore to end hereditary monarchy. He promised he would never agree to the restitution of another emperor—be the crown worn by him or his future sons and daughters—without first winning the respect and support of the peoples.” Benjic raised his fist. “Do you accept him?”
The crowd’s responding roar resonated through the capitol.
Through Arit’s mate, trembling next to him.
Through Arit.
“Do you accept him?” Benjic repeated, his words a battle cry, and while the gathered marchers screamed raucous demands for the emperor they’d chosen, Benjic grabbed Arit and yanked him to his side. “Then let his mate give the high alpha whose strength and integrity are beyond reproach the crown and title he deserves.”
Shuddering, eyes so wide Arit wondered they didn’t pop free of his skull, he stared in dumbfounded shock at the teeming crowd.
Benjic shook him from his paralyzed stupor. “Crown him,” he said, his chin jerking to Nick. “Or the riot and bloodshed will be on your head.”
Fingers tightening on the hard links of the diadem, Arit swallowed the anxious knot lodged in his throat. “I don’t know how. What I’m supposed to say and do.”
Nick brushed his silky mouth on Arit’s temple. “The people don’t care about ceremony.” He dropped to his knees and looked up, stare steady on his mate. “Rituals don’t matter. Just results.”
Heart pounding, stupefied wonder filling him, Arit unfurled his fingers and stretched out the chain mail of the Founder’s Diadem. When the embedded sapphires caught in the light, sparkling, the crowd hushed. Anticipation built.
Nick bent, tipping his jaw down. “Do it.”
Stiffening his spine, Arit refused the nervous worry coiling in his belly and instead, smiling, he slipped the diadem onto Nick. He leaned to kiss the top of Nick’s head. “Rise, Your Majesty,” he said, affection and warmth for Nick surpassing his anxious concern, his fears—everything. “Rise and greet your people.”
Chapter Fourteen
“The militia Rolan and Lydia brought from the Urals have been stationed at the exits and at each of the windows. Points of access to this part of the palace were boarded up or sealed with bricks after the war to discourage squatters, but until we’re certain all the traitors have been arrested, wisdom demands rigorous security. None of us can be too careful.” Benjic, flanked by soldiers on both sides, released the padlock shutting away the private rooms for the imperial family. He threaded the dusty chain through the handles, piling the chain on the floor in a mound of rusting iron links. He tugged on one of the doors, which didn’t budge. He frowned, at Nick or the stubborn door Arit didn’t know. “Are you sure?”
Beside Arit, Nick stood tall, his muscles stiff as granite. Gray powder from plaster the mortars had disintegrated still dusted his golden hair, oddly contrasting the jeweled Founder’s Diadem Arit had placed on his head. A random tear in the cloak Nick had selected earlier in the morning to walk through the staging of the state funeral spilled gold threads. Grimy soot coated Nick from head to toe. His features remained a cool mask, though, calm. Regal. None save Arit would ever guess the emperor’s worry and turmoil.
But Arit knew. The wound prickling his neck that Nick had torn into his flesh hadn’t scarred yet, but it would, just as Arit’s bite on Nick’s forearm would leave Arit’s mark. They still had a lot to learn about each other, a great deal to discover, but that would come in time. The physical demands of their mating had no less finished. The strong link forged between them made Nick an open window to Arit, who sensed his mate’s troubled mind clearly now.
“He’s sure,” Arit told Benjic.