Page 14 of Crowned for His Son

Urgency propelled him down the corridor, and one bodyguard swiftly opened the elderly woman’s door. He entered the apartment and saw him—Max—tucked into a highchair, carefully setting down a cup that contained what looked like milk.

A plastic plate containing the remains of cut-up pancakes and fruit sat on a coloured mat decorated with prancing fish. His chin, mouth and cheeks were liberally sticky with some sort of syrup, but it was the cheeky grin of enjoyment on his face that wedged Azar’s breath in his solar plexus.

His son looked up. Azar saw the hint of a cleft in his chin, deepening the certainty in his soul that he was looking at his son and heir.

The urgency of that mandate pounded harder—to do better than had been done to him. To ensure his flesh and blood lacked for nothing emotionally. And, yes, he wasn’t entirely certain how he would achieve that, seeing as he’d often been referred to as ‘the Cold Crown Prince’, and hadn’t entirely rejected that moniker, especially when it served his purpose. But didn’t he thrive on the direst challenge?

He’d suffered a cold and distant mother who, despite being Queen, had been determined to wage a war of attrition on the woman she’d seen as her rival, and a father seemingly unwilling or unable to mediate in that war, resulting in his sons, especially Azar, being perennially caught in the crossfire. And hadn’t there been times past when he’d wondered whether the fallout of those battle wounds had ever healed? Enough to overcome his bitterness long enough to forge a half-decent marriage when the time came?

Only to conclude that it wouldn’t matter in the end. That all he needed was to ensure any prospective spouse and queen understood there would be strict intolerance of melodrama or vitriol.

If that directive had to be adjusted now, in respect of how he believed he’d tackle fatherhood, at the unexpected appearance of his flesh and blood, then by God he would rise to the challenge.

He dragged himself from the past to see Max’s grin had begun to slip—until he looked past Azar and it re-emerged.

Azar didn’t need to look behind him to know Eden had followed hot on his heels. She zipped past him, sending him a wary look before she positioned herself defensively next to her—their—son.

‘Mama! Pancakes!’ the boy exclaimed.

She brushed her hand over his curls and leaned in to kiss his cheek. ‘They look yum-yum! Are they good?’

‘Yum-yum,’ he concurred.

Azar made a note to supply him with as many pancakes as he could handle. The boy picked up a plastic fork, speared one square and started to offer it to his mother—then froze at Azar’s stare.

‘Maybe you should sit down? Let’s take the…tension down a notch?’ her shrewd neighbour said, her gaze darting between them.

As much as he wanted to scoop up the boy and hightail it to his private plane, he took a beat and paced away exactly three steps. He couldn’t stomach a greater distance.

He might be able to call upon his diplomatic immunity status for many harmless things, but he was certain the authorities would frown upon him prising his son from his mother’s arms. Not to mention the scandal and stress it would cause his homeland and his ailing father.

The father from whom Azar couldn’t quite maintain his customary cold detachment, despite the unsettling dysfunctionality that had marred his formative years.

So he curbed the urgency rampaging through his blood, pulled out a chair that didn’t look as if it would support his weight and sat.

‘Coffee?’ the neighbour asked.

About to shake his head, he met her steady stare and changed his mind. It was obvious she cared about Max. This might go smoother if he chose sugar instead of vinegar.‘Sí, gracias.’

Her eyes widened at his response, then her cheeks flushed lightly as she rose to fetch a cup.

Eden glared and he curbed the smile, welcoming the tiny distraction. Until his son’s gaze found his again and he was thrown into a vortex of unfamiliar emotion.

He wasn’t sure how long he stared. At some point his coffee was placed before him. He sipped it, smoothly hiding his grimace at the poor taste.

But everything and everyone else might have ceased to exist, for all he cared. Well, everyone bar Max’s mother. Her mother hen act was hard to ignore. Not to mention the allure that had captivated him three years ago, which remained potent enough to drag his gaze repeatedly to her.

That was how he knew she was stretching out the moment. Delaying the inevitable.

He put an end to that by draining his cup five minutes later and staring pointedly at her.

A faint flush rose in her cheeks as she grabbed a napkin, cleaned the boy up, then started to gather the dirty plates. At his nod, one of his bodyguards stepped forward and relieved her of them, took them to the tiny kitchen.

Azar rose. ‘Thank you for the breakfast, Mrs Tolson. We’ll take our leave now.’

‘No thanks needed. Max is adorable. Eden’s doing a great job raising him.’

The clear warning and pointed endorsement triggered a dash of admiration and respect for the old woman.

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