Page 42 of Modern Romance June 2025 1-4

King, Enemy, Husband

Jackie Ashenden

To Soraya. I miss the GIFs already. :)

CHAPTER ONE

Tiberius Maximus Benedictusof the House of Aquila, in approximately five minutes from now the newly crowned and rightful King of Kasimir, strode down the wide hallway to the throne room, a flock of men consisting of his aides, guards, one general and a priest following on his wake.

The coup that had finally ousted the Accorsi tyrants hadn’t been as bloodless as he’d wanted—there had been casualties, though thankfully no civilians had been hurt—but at least his strategies had paid off.

Finally, after twenty years of Accorsi rule that had nearly brought the country to the brink of collapse, the Accorsis had been defeated. And now they were gone. For good.

The one black spot in his otherwise unblemished victory was that unfortunately the Accorsis had managed to evade capture, and the last report he’d received was that they’d fled Kasimir entirely. Much to his fury.

He’d hoped to bring Renzo Accorsi and his advisors before the courts here, to answer for their crimes, but sadly that was not an option. Still, the international authorities had been notified. Renzo would be brought to justice in time, Tiberius had no doubt.

First, though, and most important, was the crown.

He wouldn’t be King until it was on his head, and only once it was could he start with the vital work of rebuilding the country that years of mismanagement and civil unrest had torn apart. Nothing was more important than that. Nothing.

The empty hallway echoed with the sound footsteps on the ancient parquet of the floor as Tiberius and his entourage swept into the throne room.

Or at least what remained of the throne room.

It had been home to the rulers of Kasimir in various iterations for centuries. The Accorsi coup that had ousted his parents and caused the death of his mother had occurred when he’d been a baby, so he had never been inside it himself…

Until now.

Growing up in Italy, hidden and forgotten, his father would often bring Tiberius to the mountains that looked over Kasimir. There had been a scenic lookout spot where tourists could pull off the road and take pictures of the picture-perfect European castle and jagged, snow-capped mountains that surrounded it.

‘Thatis your legacy, boy,’ his father would tell him, pointing at the castle spires. ‘Thatis yours.Thatis where you belong.’

Well. Now he was here.

In the castle that had been taken from him and his family years before.

His true home.

Tiberius paused in the doorway, then scowled.

The throne room was a bloody mess.

In their rush to leave, the Accorsis had somehow found the time to get their soldiers to desecrate the Kasimiran throne room.

Most of the tapestries had been torn down and were lying in heaps near the walls. Centuries-old paintings were scored and cut with knives. The panelled oak that lined the walls had been kicked in and spray-painted with obscenities, and someone had even tried to light a fire in one corner with the remains of an ornate chair. Smoke drifted across the pitted parquet as one of Tiberius’s own guards hurried to douse the fire with water.

Tiberius scanned the mess, trying to rein in his fury at the mess. Because a good strategist never let his feelings get in the way and certainly neither did a king. He turned to one of his aides, issued some sharp orders to get the clean-up started, then strode towards the dais and the huge carved oak throne that sat on top of it.

It was ancient, that throne, the wood smooth and dark with age and wear. The cushions that had likely been on the seat lay slashed open and scattered around the dais, feathers dusting the wood.

Tiberius ignored them as he climbed the stairs of the dais and kicked the remains of the cushions aside. A throne wasn’t meant to be padded or comfortable, because once a king was comfortable that was where corruption lay. He wouldn’t fall into that trap.

Slowly he turned and sat on the throne.

Finally.

After so long, a Benedictus sat on the throne once more. Now the ghosts of his parents could rest.

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