The Last Emperor Read online

  The Last Emperor

  by

  Kari Gregg

  Copyright © 2017 Kari Gregg

  Cover by: Lou Harper © 2017

  Edited by: Emmy Ellis, Studioenp

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: This book contains strong language, sexually explicit situations, and may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is for adults only.

  Dedication:

  To knitters with shameless yarn stashes

  The tribes were his to lose…and theirs to regain.

  History taught that rebels executed the imperial family, including young Prince Nika Marisek, and hid the bodies in an unmarked grave. History was wrong.

  Decades later, yarn shop owner Nick Goode reclaimed his identity to see his long-dead family decently buried. He’ll do whatever he must to persuade elders who now rule the tribes…even offer to abdicate. Some, however, seek to capitalize on Nick’s survival. Who better to drag the tribes from corruption into freedoms the rebellion had promised if not the prince who became one of the peasantry in exile?

  Arit hates politics. When Elder Benjic, his estranged sire, shows up with the celebrity prince to fulfill a pre-war mating pact, Arit refuses. He craves strength on strength, the challenge of an alpha mating another alpha. A damaged omega who knits won’t do. Arit will guide them on an adventure tour exploring their wolf instincts; that’s his job. But that’s all he’ll do.

  Except Nick isn’t an omega. He isn’t damaged. And if he seduces Arit to win Benjic’s support, Nick won’t give up his throne, either. He’ll risk everything to realize the ideals of the rebellion…and end his fate as the tribes’ last emperor.

  CONTENT WARNING: palace intrigues, mpreg themes, shifter knotting, and two stubborn alphas who must learn to work together to save an empire

  Prologue

  After a gentle nudge from Averlee, Nika blinked awake to the steady plink plink plink of rain pelting the window next to his pallet. “Into your traveling clothes. Quickly,” she said, already turning to attend to Nika’s brothers and sisters in the attic set aside as the nursery when they’d arrived at Barton House three moons ago. “The rebels are evacuating us.”

  Again?

  Muzzy-headed and yawning, Nika pushed down his blanket and scrabbled into the linen shirt, blue velvet breeches, military-style vest, and overcoat designated as his traveling costume when the rebels had overrun the palace what felt like several lifetimes ago. He didn’t think about the richly appointed rooms he’d enjoyed as a son of the emperor anymore, nor remember the plentiful and succulent meats upon which he’d feasted, or recall the warmth he’d taken for granted as a child of royalty.

  No guards stood at the door to watch them dress and hurry them along, but he nevertheless schooled his features to give no indication of the jewels hidden in the lining of this particular set of clothes. His sisters Lyssandra and Catterin carried most of their secret wealth, rows of diamonds hugging the stays of their corsets thanks to Averlee’s clever stitches, but their parents had distributed the treasure saved from the revolution among each of their nine children in case the rebels separated the imperial family, either to ransom hostages or for their “protection.” Nika had watched Averlee sew a necklace dripping emeralds into the seam of his vest as rebel forces had approached the palace. The weight of his father’s imperial signet ring had been disguised behind decorative buttons on Nika’s coat.

  Once he’d laced his boots, he helped Averlee with his youngest sister Elba who, at only two winters, still cried a lot. Nika wiped her tears and urged her with furtive whispers, “Listen. Do you hear the booms? That isn’t thunder from the storm. Be brave, El. The White Army is near.”

  Soldiers flung open the attic door, and with bayonets glinting in the dim light, screamed demands for haste, which only intensified Elba’s cries to hysterical sobbing. They grabbed Catterin by the biceps and shoved her down the stairs. Their time to dress for the evacuation at an end, Nika snatched Elba’s shoes from the floor. He followed Averlee’s swooshing skirts to the exit. More rebels guided them to the lower floors of Barton House, forbidden to the emperor’s children the past two moons.

  “The stone walls of the kitchen will provide some shelter from artillery,” one of the soldiers said, “until the transport truck arrives.”

  “Toly is ill. May we have a chair for him?” The empress nodded to Nika’s eldest brother and heir to the empire despite the leg deformity that made running impossible and walking difficult under the best of circumstances. Although their healer had remained with the imperial family through the revolution and captivity, Toly had been deprived of medicines and proper exercise, so Healer Kott carried him.

  The soldier sneered. “I’ll fetch a throne worthy of the crown prince.”

  The floor under Nika’s boots vibrated with the shelling from the White Army, which must be close. The barrage blending with cracks of thunder resonated in his sensitive ears, but the humming engine of an approaching truck did not. Nika crouched and slipped Elba’s stockingless feet into her shoes while the nanny held her. His task finished, he stood and started at a heavy hand settling on his shoulder. “Thank you, Nika. You’re so good with your sister.” His father smiled at him, then met the gaze of Averlee struggling to retain her hold on Elba who squirmed. “Give the baby to him. She won’t be easy until she’s under Nika’s care, and you’ll be free to tend the other children.”

  Fortunately, Elba was by all standards a runt. Nika grunted when he accepted her weight from their nanny, but with his sister’s thin arms snaking around his neck and her legs encircling his hips despite her voluminous skirts, Nika managed with only a momentary stumble. Still, Nika wouldn’t be able to carry Elba long. She’d grown that much during the war. Nika closed his eyes, concentrating on Elba’s sweet baby smell as her tears wet his neck. He prayed the fighting would end soon, that his smallest sister would learn life outside imprisonment. At eight summers, Nika had acquired a wealth of memories to rely on and carry him through the horror of this war, but Elba had still been nursing from their mother’s breasts when rebels had stormed the Winter Palace to seize them.

  The soldier returned with a cushioned chair for Toly. “A throne to die in.” He waved at it with an exaggerated flourish.

  His family had acclimated to such petty cruelties, however, and could not be provoked by rebel contempt. Father thanked the soldier while Nika’s mother settled Toly more comfortably.

  “Shh, it’s all right,” Nika murmured into the pink shell of Elba’s ear when her arms tightened around him. “The truck is coming. We’ll leave soon.”

  To where, Nika didn’t know or especially care. He doubted his parents did either, but one prison was the same as the next in Nika’s experience. He was just grateful winter storms had ended and torrential rain rather than pelting snow washed against the kitchen windows. Keeping Elba warm during the harsh cold season hadn’t been easy.

  “You. Stand next to the chair,” the rebel said to Nika’s father. He pointed at Mother. “And you beside him. No one need linger in the rainy wet before climbing into the transport truck if you’ve formed an orderly line.”

  Soldiers directed Healer Kott to stand behind the chair, in position so he and Father could carry Toly in it. Rebels shoved Nika’s older sisters and another brother to one side of the chair. Averlee was remanded to the opposite side to help the youngest children, including Nika and
Elba.

  Once they were arranged to the rebels’ satisfaction, the soldiers withdrew to the arched doorway of the massive kitchen.

  Even then, alarm didn’t bloom in Nika’s chest.

  The truck would pull into the yard and to the kitchen door, out of view of curious peasants on the street. Rebels would lead them out one by one. Once his family had scrambled into the truck bed, soldiers would drive through the night until they reached the next house selected as their gaol. Nika knew the routine, having endured evacuation from approaching battle twice already.

  Fear didn’t explode inside Nika until one of the soldiers stepped forward and said, “Eton Marisek, because of your crimes against the tribes and because your supporters continue to wage war against the people, you have been sentenced to death.”

  Stunned terror froze Nika in place.

  His father’s spine shot straight as he whipped around to face his accuser. He gasped. “What?”

  “You are to be executed immediately.” The soldier barked at the others, “Ready!”

  Each lifted a gun from the folds of their military coats and aimed at Nika’s parents, at his brothers and sisters. At him. Staring at the rebel pointing a revolver at he and Elba, Nika gulped. Fright flooded him, supplanting his shock.

  They weren’t supposed to die. Father had sworn they were valuable pawns to the rebels, bargaining chips in negotiations with the White Army and its order of nobles. Mother’s family—salted among the monarchies of neighboring lands—would also pay a considerable sum for her safe return and for ransoming her children. A new government would emerge from the revolution, yes, one composed of both the aristocracy and rebels if war propaganda was to be believed. The revolution called for a representative council to lead the tribes rather than an emperor. Nika’s father would never rule again. His family wouldn’t. Until now, only rabble in the capitol had wanted the imperial family dead, though.

  Nika was seventh in line to the throne—he didn’t understand politics and had never been taught such matters. He’d known he would one day marry to strengthen alliances for the empire, but with an excess of older brothers and sisters to govern territories under the leadership of the crown, his parents had deemed training Nika unnecessary. When he reached adulthood, they expected him to marry and vanish into the countryside of his husband’s tribe afterwards. Mostly, his family had been preparing him for his future by tutoring him in the arts.

  Except Nika would not survive to adulthood. No political marriage awaited him. No more piano lessons, painting with the masters, or analyzing poetry. He’d die with his family in this kitchen.

  He angled his body to shield Elba’s with his own.

  The soldiers cocked their weapons.

  His mother screamed.

  “Fire!”

  Chapter One

  “Knit two, purl two. Knit two, purl…”

  Weary satisfaction weighing down his shoulders, Nick smiled at students circling the dining room table he’d repurposed for the Stitchery’s classroom. His mom crouched at Madison’s chair, her warm voice guiding and encouraging the blonde paralegal through the basic rib pattern, the last of three stitches Nick had taught tonight. Twelve students. Nick could add a leaf to expand the table to seat fourteen, but a dozen was the shop’s sweet spot for Introduction to Knitting, one of their gateway classes. Many of these women would return to learn more…and buy the wool and needles necessary for extra classes. The Stitchery’s business model relied on it.

  “You’re all doing an outstanding job. Remember to knit three inches of rib on your sampler scarf before next week. If you run into trouble before our next class, any trouble at all, come into the shop. Mom or I will be happy to help.”

  Since his mom had completed radiation, her energy had begun returning, enough to deal with students who streamed into the shop between classes, which left Nick free to concentrate on managing the business again. Nick wasn’t bad at handling customers. Rosalind Goode had ensured both her sons had learned the skills that supported her shop and could adequately fill her role as teacher in a pinch. Nick had led most of his mom’s classes after her first few treatments and he’d taught when necessity demanded since high school, too. He lacked her charm, though. He’d improved over the past harrowing year, but their students—customers—preferred his mom. Nick didn’t blame them. He was much better at handling the financial books, scheduling events, organizing inventory, and any of the million other tasks running the shop required. Chores his mom had left in Nick’s hands for five profitable years. The division of labor, with Mom finessing customers and Nick focusing on the business angle, had worked effectively and had grown the shop into a thriving operation…until she’d gotten sick.

  Thank God for remission.

  And thank God their customers had stuck by them.

  As students packed their projects into bags, Nick added ordering totes for the shop to his monstrous to-do list. Mom walked Lori, an expert-level crocheter who had decided to learn knitting, from their classroom to the shop floor display of locally sourced, sport-weight wool. Meanwhile, Nick ran the cash register for routine after-class purchases. Most of the twelve women bought notions, yarn, or selected from future classes on the calendar near the cash register. They’d buy totes, too, if the Stitchery carried those items. Customers bringing their own bags would save the shop on the cost of gift bags they used for purchases.

  Tomorrow. He’d start the search for upscale totes tomorrow.

  For now, he worked hard at being personable while he swiped credit cards and bagged merchandise. When the bell on the shop door signaled their last customer departing into the night, he navigated from the payment system on the shop computer to the customer database. Fingers flying over the keyboard, he updated details gleaned from class into each student’s record.

  “Madison is interested in the intro crochet class,” Mom reminded him. “Lori has teenage girls and she’d sign all three up for a class to knit fingerless mitts if we add it to the schedule.”

  Nick obediently inserted the notes, but as much as he admired his mom’s dedication, he couldn’t ignore her pallor or the dark circles under her eyes anymore. After saving his work, he walked around the antique bar upon which the shop’s computer rested and enveloped one of Mom’s hands in his. “You promised not to overdo.” He guided her to an overstuffed sofa in the casual seating area of the shop floor. “Sit. I’ll finish closing.”

  That Mom settled into her seat was as good as a neon sign of how exhausted she must feel after her first full day back at the shop. She waved to the classroom doorway. “My knitting—”

  “I’ll get it.” He retrieved the heather shawl she was working on and his own project too: a Fair Isle toboggan using worsted wool in a light-cream shade for the main color and a robin’s-egg blue for the contrasting snowflake pattern. Both the shawl and hat would serve as exemplars promoting next month’s classes, and because of a flurry of medical appointments last week, each project had fallen behind schedule. Instead of counting the night’s receipts, he joined his mom. “Tea?”

  Mom arranged her yarn and knitting needles in her lap. “No, I’m fine.”

  She wasn’t, not yet, but she would be. A silk scarf wrapped the crown of her head to mask the ravages of chemotherapy, but short stubble had begun growing back—curly and black now. Her hair had been a thick and straight chestnut brown before. Nick nevertheless welcomed this first hint of his mom’s life returning to normal—or whatever passed for normal after cancer. He sat with her, and the click of their needles soon filled the quiet. The soothing sound accompanied his best memories. And his worst.

  “I’ve been thinking.” He frowned at his yarn as he switched between colors for the snowflake pattern.

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “About your medical bills.”

  When he glanced up, his mom sighed. “If I sell the Caravan—”

  “You’ll need it for our booth when the farmer’s market restarts in the spring.” He thinned his li
ps. “We can’t haul the displays in my Kia, and you already sold Dad’s truck.”

  A stubborn groove furrowed her brow. “You moved home from the apartment over the shop so we could rent it.”

  He nodded. “Paying tenants are the only reason we could afford monthly installments on the hospital bills so far.”

  “Your brother helped too.”

  Stifling his wince, Nick continued knitting. “Winter is coming. His boss always lays him off once the snows hit.”

  Until last year’s diagnosis, Nick—and his mom, in fact—had financially supported his brother during the farm’s off-season. Rolan paid them back when work returned with warm weather, and truthfully, Nick wouldn’t have been able to keep them afloat without extra help from Rolan over the summer when Nick had closed the shop to accompany their mom to weekly chemo infusions. Rolan had taken on side jobs to cover their lost income.

  “You boys have done a lot, and I’m truly grateful.” His mom flashed a strained smile. “I wouldn’t have made it through treatment without either of you.”

  Nick doubted that. Rosalind Goode was exceptionally tough, the strongest woman he’d ever met. When the heart attack took Dad during Nick’s teens, his mom had overcome her grief to open the shop despite naysayers who’d discouraged her from investing insurance money in such a risky proposition. She’d been a stay-at-home parent to a pair of unruly sons, they’d said. What did she know about managing a business? Without Dad’s income, she’d needed work, and knitting was what she knew. All she knew. The war had disrupted her education, but rather than learning a trade like Dad, she’d focused on raising their family once the fighting had ended. As a new widow, she’d recognized an unfulfilled need in the post-war community, though, and capitalized on it. Years later, when doctors had diagnosed her cancer, she’d also faced the disease with steadfast aplomb. She hadn’t complained. Despite chemotherapy that had exhausted and depleted her, surgery, and radiation burning her to a crisp, she’d soldiered on.