Smoke and Mirrors : Royal Angels I

Flowers and losers

~Daniel~

"Happy birthday, Xavier."

Darius walked into my room, his resting bîtch face suggesting anything but happiness. He dressed like a king, spoke like a ghost and looked like a god.

And seeing as I'd woken up exactly six minutes ago :

I was in my underwear.

King or not, if you enter my sacred space without knocking, just prepare to be scarred for life.

"Please make yourself at home, Darius." I muttered, running my hands through my hair. "I'll just look for my pants now."

There was a small crack in that icy exterior as Darius tried not to smile.

"Should I come back later?"

"Just wait outside." I was still under the sheets.

The minute he turned his back on me, I got dressed faster than you could say "underwear".

Because nothing is more manly than purple boxers with little paw prints on them.

"Come in." I said. Darius came inside with caution this time. "And will you be mentioning this little incident again?"

"Yeah, I'd rather die, thanks." He said, meaning it.

Darius sat down, and lit a cigar. He took the liberty of pouring me a glass of whiskey, despite it being 7 AM.

If his knuckles hadn't turned white over his staff, I would've mistaken that gesture for companionship.

Darius was the only Royal I'd ever seen without bodyguards. That staff wasn't just to make him look like a rich ässhole.

Although it did add some flair to the job description.

"I need to talk to you, Your Highness." He said, evenly.

"As do I." I replied. "I need to go home."

See, a good friend of mine (whose birthday is coincidentally today) just trashed the most iconic building in Europe. So it would be totally awesome if I could go congratulate him for giving me a migraine again.

"I'm afraid you can't. The city is under lockdown. No flights in or out."

"Right."

That wasn't entirely true. I knew some of the other royals who'd flown in had left.

The simple truth was that Darius wanted me here. And there was nothing I could really do about it.

"Now who is that friend of yours and that lovely lady with red hair?" He asked, accusingly. "She looks an awful lot like the assassin we presented at the trial."

I was hoping we wouldn't have this conversation.

"He's my financial advisor, Andrew Hilton." I said, lying as best as I could. "And I don't know her. He brought her to my house as a visitor."