Page 1 of Unwilling Queen (Kingdoms #1)

Chapter

One

Colbie

I shove my hands deeper into my pockets as I make my way down the cold, quiet streets toward my bakery. The thud of my sneakers echoes on the pavement. The days are getting shorter, and the temperature has really started to drop in the evenings, even if the days are still sunny. Soon enough, I’ll need my hat and gloves as well as my warm winter jacket, but not yet.

The pale streetlights seem to flicker, the slight fog in the air giving my path a creepy vibe, but I don’t hurry. I’m mostly safe in the neutral zone. Curfew dictates that everyone is indoors or returned to their own side by a specified time. Only those of us with special permission are permitted to be out after curfew. That doesn’t mean people don’t disobey the zones directive, but the punishment of imprisonment if caught seems to do its job in deterring both shifters and humans alike. It helps that the night watch are a visible presence as well, though none seem to be patrolling this particular area at the moment. Made up of highly trained shifter and human teams, the night watch is a formidable deterrent to anyone looking to flaunt the pack and human agreement. Of course, this only applies to the neutral zone, so those who want to party on into the night are free to do so in their home zones.

The yawn that leaves my mouth makes my jaw click, and despite the chill in the air, my mind is still foggy with sleep. I didn’t get home until late, and with my early starts, I’m functioning on less sleep than normal. All the preparation in the lead-up to the shifter royal pack’s retirement has sent many of the businesses in the neutral zone into a flurry, trying to use it as an excuse to boost sales—me included.

I have two recipes for a dedicated royal retirement cupcake special, as well as the cutest little marshmallow animals to float on top of coffee and hot chocolate. For the humans, I have a cupcake with a surprise filling, as well as one with “good luck” written on it, because of course all humans are praying that they become the next shifter king or queen. Well, most of them, because I’m certainly not. I am very happy with my life in the neutral zone, running my bakery, visiting with my mother, and occasionally hanging out with the few friends I have.

Living in the neutral zone and having to obey its curfew doesn’t really lend itself to making friends or socializing. The neutral zone doesn’t have a lot of permanent residents unless you own a business like my mother and I do, but it serves an important purpose.

It came into existence when the humans and shifters were at war. Both sides realized they couldn’t go on like that any longer, so they called a ceasefire, and an amnesty was held to split Aramis into two territories, with a small neutral zone for trade and socialization. This agreement also caught the goddess Amaris’s attention. The creator of both races didn’t believe that would be enough to stop the antagonization, so she declared that the shifters would have a king or queen, who would rule for forty years before a new king or queen would be selected by her magic. This ensured that both races behaved, which they have.

The end of the current King Lucas’s and his three queen consorts’ rule is coming to an end, and everyone is eagerly awaiting the next step. Aramis not only selects the new royal, but she also marks a number of possible mate candidates from the shifter population, and then the king or queen will decide from those selected—hence the humans’ excitement and my bakery’s new desserts. Every human in the human zone of Aramis is on tenterhooks waiting to see if they get chosen.

The whole thing seems a little medieval to me. If and when I decide to marry, I want it to be someone I choose, not because someone has decreed it, but by all intents and purposes, the royals seem deliriously happy. Once they retire, they will become advisors to the new royals for the first few years. They will be known as the former king and queens, and any children from their unions will carry titles but have no ties to the crown.

Apart from that, I don’t know a lot about shifters. I don’t even really know how many types there are. I’ve occasionally seen some in shifted form, since they are allowed to wander around the neutral zone like that, but they mostly take their human form. The only way to tell a shifter from a human is by their eyes, which glow with an inner light, unlike that of a human.

I hurry across an intersection, not bothering to look either way. It’s starting to drizzle, and I’d rather get to my shop without being soaked by the deceptively fine rain. Traffic isn’t allowed in the neutral zone, apart from electric scooters and public transport specifically to prevent shifters from being hit by cars, so I don’t have to wait for lights to change.

While adult shifters are usually pretty safe from that fate, they occasionally bring their children over in shifted form, and nobody wants to hit a shifter child. Shifter children are considered precious, since their birth rate is low because they have such long lives, and harming a child, whether human or shifter, is considered a crime punishable by death.

I pull the key out of my pocket as I get closer, wanting to get out of the rain as quickly as possible. I turn down the alley that sits between my store and the one next to it—a quirky bookstore that caters to the romantics in both races. When Brock decided to open the Romance Nest, he and his partner Niles installed a cozy little downstairs reading room. People are encouraged to bring food and drinks and settle in to read their purchases. Luckily for me, instead of opening their own café to compete, we came up with an agreement to offer them a discount with proof of book purchase, and so far, it’s been working well for both of us. Brock and Niles are shifters, but I don’t know what type of shifter they are. It’s rude to ask, and I’m not as close to them as I wish I was. They seem like such a sweet couple, and I think they would be fun to hang out with, but in the six months they have been open, I haven’t worked up the guts to ask them.

As I put my key in the door leading to my kitchen, a noise at the end of the alley catches my attention. I turn to look, peering into the darkness. I wonder if it’s just a rat shuffling around in the dumpster, but then a small, keening sound reaches my ears. I drop my keys back into my pocket and pull out my phone, turning on the flashlight so I can see as I step farther into the alley. There’s nothing down here but a dumpster and a stack of cardboard boxes, but I keep going farther into the darkness, and I can’t stop the surprised gasp that leaves my lips as the boxes tumble over, revealing the cause of the noise. A small black and orange tiger cub is curled up behind the pile, shaking like a leaf. I would bet my last dollar that this is no run-of-the-mill tiger cub, but what is a shifter child doing here in the dark early hours of the morning on its own?

“Oh, you poor, sweet thing. Where did you come from?” I crouch down and inch closer to it. It whimpers and shuffles backward under the boxes. I pause, not wanting to scare it, worried that it will make a run for it. I rack my brain for a solution. I’m not just going to turn my back on it and leave, but I also don’t want to be scratched if they aren’t happy with me picking them up. My eyes catch on one of the cardboard boxes, and I scrunch up my nose. I really don’t want to catch them like a wild animal, but I have too much work to do today to have to worry about seeing a doctor if the cub injures me.

I purse my lips as I look between the box and the cub. How is this cub even here? I didn’t see anyone on the walk from my apartment to the bakery. Not a single person was out on the streets, and certainly not a frantic shifter parent looking for their child. I’m surprised the streets aren’t filled with worried shifters searching for this little one, curfew be damned.

Sighing, I reach for the box, knowing this is probably going to traumatize the child even more, but I slowly lift it and quickly bring it down over the shivering animal. A small, adorable snarl is muffled by the cardboard, and I feel them scrape at the walls of the box with their tiny sharp nails. Yup, glad I decided to protect myself. Looking down at my hands, I grimace, wishing it was cold enough for gloves. I know I’m probably not going to be able to get out of this without an injury or two, but I’m also not leaving the cub here. I slide my hand under, and in one quick movement, I flip the box. More snarling sounds, louder this time now that it’s not muffled, and when I peer down, the cub is glaring up at me with bristled fur, but it has stopped fighting.

“Come on then, let’s get you warmed up,” I tell it and tuck the box under my arm, using my phone to light my way to the rear bakery door. I turn off the flashlight, shove my phone into my pocket, and retrieve my keys, opening the door to my second home. A rush of warm air brings the scent of yeast, flour, and yesterday’s sweet treats with it. I don’t bake a lot of bread, mostly just pastries and savory treats to have with coffee in the café, but I do make all the rolls we use, as well as bagels. I flick on the lights and slide the heavy box full of tiger cub onto the counter before turning the ovens on. It won’t take long for the kitchen to heat up.

“Just stay there for a moment, and I’ll find you something to eat,” I tell the cub, who has settled and is now looking up at me with intelligent eyes. I’m not sure how old the child is, but it seems to understand me, so I’m praying it isn’t an infant. Shifters are understandably tight-lipped about their children’s development.

I slide my jacket off then hang it on the coat hook in my office, replacing it with a clean apron that covers my simple leggings and T-shirt. Work clothes aren’t anything fancy for me. I’m just going to get dirty, and once I start prepping for the day, I won’t be cold at all.

I pull out some towels I use when I want to shower before going home—my office has a small, attached bathroom—and then I return to the kitchen. The cub has done as I asked, staying in place. They are resting their head in their paws and waiting patiently. I put my hands on my hips and look down at them, smiling gently.

“Well then, I appreciate you listening to me. How about we dry you off and find you something to eat?” I suggest, and their ears twitch like they are listening to me. “But you need to keep your claws and teeth to yourself. I don’t want to drop you by mistake if you hurt me, okay?” I ask, and the cub’s little head tips to the side like they are acknowledging me.

I breathe out a sigh of relief and reach into the box, sliding my hands gently under the cub’s tummy. It’s not as rounded as I expected, and I frown. Surely a growing cub should be fed well to help with their growth. Slowly picking it up, I move it onto the towel I spread out on the bench, then I use the towel to vigorously dry them off. It yowls and squirms but keeps its claws and fangs to itself.

Once I’m happy it isn’t going to shiver to death, I pull away. “Right then, I’m sure you’re probably hungry and thirsty. Let’s get you something to eat. My name’s Colbie, by the way. I guess you can’t really tell me yours, so I’ll just call you cub for now.” The cub’s eyes widen, and it quickly nods its head. I’m not sure if that’s in acknowledgment of the name or wanting food, but I’m going to go with the latter.

“Can you shift?” I ask it, and it tucks its body in defensively, its tail sagging and its ears flattening against its head. “I’m going to take that as a no. How about I set you up a little nest and you can wait in there while I fix you some food?”

I take the other dry towels I have over to the side of the oven, which is starting to warm up nicely, and arrange them in a cozy little nest. “Right, so don’t touch the metal, because it might be hot, but this should chase away the rest of the cold,” I tell the cub gently, then I lift them up and transfer them to the pile of towels. Before I can pull my hand away, it bumps into it with its head, and a chuffing sound comes from its mouth. I give them a little pet on the top of their head, marveling at how soft it is. I expected the orange and black fur to be bristly, but it’s not, it’s like feather down. A little tongue swipes roughly across my wrist, and I smile. “What would you like to eat?”

Standing up, I go over to the industrial fridge and open it. I grab a bottle of milk and pour it into a little saucer before checking what other offerings I have that might be suitable for a tiger cub. There’s a large roast beef I have been planning on cooking for rolls and sandwiches, but I’m happy to sacrifice it to the small creature, hoping it’s old enough to be eating this kind of food.

Shrugging, I head back to the prep table and pull out a cutting board and knife before I cut off a chunk of the meat, dicing it into small, cub-sized pieces. I wrap the rest up and return it to the fridge before grabbing the offerings and placing them on the floor in front of the cub. It looks between me and the food with wide eyes. “Go on then. Eat up. I need to clean and start getting ready for the day.” I turn around, but I smile when I hear the greedy sounds of the cub scarfing down its food. “Not too fast, you don’t want to be sick,” I caution, cleaning up the mess on the prep table and wiping the surface with cleaner so it’s ready to go.

I need to think about calling the night watch to come and get the cub so they can find whom it belongs to, but first, I need to get my initial batch of muffins in the oven.