MARCUS
The Truits were everything the Abdiels were not.
Loud and boisterous, they talked over each other. Finishing each other’s sentences, layering jokes on top of stories until their eyes watered from laughing so hard.
They were a whirlwind of affectionate chaos that swept Eloise and Marcus into their fold. And Marcus loved them for it.
Having never cooked a meal a day in his life, he’d found the kitchen mayhem foreign but exhilarating. Mrs. Truit could give Mrs. Gillies a run for her money with how skillfully she orchestrated the meal coming together. Gently nudging each of her adult children with timing or next steps for prep.
Seemingly unbothered by any task that his wife asked of him, no matter how menial, Mr. Truit had done more than his fair share of cooking and cleaning. With an ever-present and amused smile, he’d chuckled at his family’s antics as he helped wherever needed.
Fred and George had turned their tasks into what they referred to as “Culinary Ninja Warrior”. Instituting point systems and additional obstacles to everything they or their sisters did. While Eloise, Grace and Sofia had laughed and danced their way through meal prep once they set a speaker up to blast out Christmas dubstep.
And Marcus had simply enjoyed it all.
Allowing himself to put aside the mantle of “other” that had isolated him his whole life.
Easy to do when Sofia’s siblings were irreverent and unimpressed by his title.
Even easier when Sofia smiled at him or brushed against him as she handed him the whisk to mash the potatoes. She’d smelled of sugar and sunshine, and her presence invigorated him. Enlivened by her family’s company. Marcus was certain he hadn’t stopped grinning since the hand-break.
Once the meal was ready and packed for transport, the family had loaded into the motorcade and made their way to a nearby hospice. Where they’d spread out the feast in a common room and then spent hours visiting with the patients that didn’t have family with them.
The nature of hospice had been somber and sobering. But the Truits had brought with them an abundance of joy and an ability to make patients, visiting families, and staff feel seen and appreciated.
It had been wonderful and bittersweet.
Witnessing how Mr. Truit had a soft word for a frightened man, or how Mrs. Truit sat quietly playing Rummikub with an older woman too frail to leave her room, gave Marcus insight into Sofia’s heart for others.
Her parents weren’t flashy about how they served. They just seemed to see the ones who needed to be seen and stepped in quietly to do something about it.
All the Truits did.
Fred and George had spent their time entertaining a group of young children so that parents could have quiet time with ailing grandparents. And Grace, with Eloise’s help, had given half the female hospice patients fresh manicures while pulling stories from the women’s withering memories.
Marcus had manned the buffet with Sofia. Putting plates together and delivering them to patients who were too sick to join the festivities in the common area. He’d watched as she’d patiently fed those too weak to feed themselves or encouraged those who seemed broken in spirit.
The visit had given him a valuable glimpse of the worth she would bring to the princess consort role. Her humble openness and compassionate care of strangers affected him deeply.
Made him want to do more. Be more. For others.
He’d known, of course he’d known, that waiting for death took a toll on a person. But he hadn’t realized until he’d witnessed the Truits in action how much impact purposeful companionship could have on fear and loneliness. And Marcus had vowed to himself to spend more time with granny, in the time she had left.
Somehow, Burton and their security had maintained confidentiality with hospice staff, patients, and visitors alike. And they’d stayed for hours without the press catching wind of the royal visit and showing up to ruin it.
When the Truits had packed up the empty dishware and made the rounds to say their goodbyes, Marcus had stayed by Sofia’s side. Thoughtful as he observed her farewells and promises to visit soon. As she sincerely prayed for strength, courage, and comfort with each patient who wanted to pray with her.
Something he would’ve scoffed at mere weeks ago. But surrounded by the specter of death that filled the hospice, and the joy the Truits radiated, he didn’t dare.
Instead, he’d stayed silent during the prayers. Offered his hand to shake with an encouraging word where he could.
The Truits had been uncharacteristically reserved when they piled into the motorcade.
Even Fred and George had been subdued. Sofia had snuggled next to him in the back seat, and he’d held on to her to reassure himself that she was there. That as long as she stayed, he’d never be alone again.
When the motorcade had stopped at their next destination, the Christmas Market, Marcus had asked if the Truits would rather return to the palace and rest instead. But the mood had lifted when Grace exclaimed, “And miss the chance to spend your fortune on kids’ toys? Not a chance BIL.”
Fred and George had perked up with the revelation of their next mission and had exited the vehicle, disappearing under the burgundy canopies that shaded artisan stalls lining the square, before Marcus had the chance to ask, “Bill?”
Sofia had patted his thigh and supplied, “Brother-in-law,” before she followed her parents, sister, and Eloise out of the royal SUV.
When he’d emerged, he noticed Sofia had waited by the vehicle until Vance gave her a nod, signaling that the perimeter was secure. Their guards had fanned out to create a circle around the royal couple and moved with them at each step.
Those simple actions had brought him back to reality.
There, in the open streets of Ducklenburge, he was a crown prince. Sofia his princess consort.
Their anonymity gone, they’d had to content themselves with strolling slowly, beset with citizens eager to meet her and shake his hand, offering condolences about his father.
Something that normally would have chafed him.
But watching Sofia effortlessly relate to and charm everyone they met inspired him to respond in kind. Although they hadn’t been able to peruse the artisans’ stalls, or sample the mulled wine, Sofia had seemed happy, excited even, to draw stories from Ducklenburge’s citizens.
To hear what they loved most about their country. To ask what they needed.
She was a natural.
Watching her in action was like taking a deep breath of fresh air after a lifetime of suffocating. And it gratified him to see that he wasn’t the only one affected by her sincere approachability. It seemed Ducklenburge loved her.
Her siblings and Eloise had understood the assignment and by the time the paps had shown up, over two carloads of toys and gifts for the children at Ava’s Angels had been purchased.
The Truit family had been ushered back to the motorcade by Vance’s team amidst the click-pop-flash of the cameras and the reporters’ shouted questions. Sofia and her siblings had seemed unaffected by the press, but Marcus had witnessed a knowing look of concern pass between her parents.
Mr. Truit had caught Marcus’s eye when a particularly nasty barb was thrown in Sofia’s direction as she climbed into the vehicle.
Marcus had held the man’s stare, willing him to understand that any attempt he made to defend Sofia would only aggravate the maliciousness in the clickbait article that was sure to be online before they made it back to the palace.
The unlimited shopping spree for the children had put them all in good spirits and the ride back had been a return to the joviality that he’d experienced with the family in the kitchen.
When they’d arrived at the palace, the Truits, Eloise and Marcus had enjoyed a simple lunch filled with more stories interrupted by laughter, vastly different from the lonely meals he’d experienced growing up, before the jet lagged family had retired for a late afternoon rest.
With a renewed sense of purpose, Marcus had checked in on the Queen. He’d found her in bed, enduring a “bad day” as she’d summarily dismissed it. Her energy had been fluctuating as the doctors had warned, but that hadn’t stopped her from eagerly gleaning every detail of the first Truit-Abdiel Thanksgiving from Marcus.
He'd been hesitant to bring up his concern about the treaty negotiations, but she was still the ruling monarch, and it was his duty to keep her informed. Granny had listened, then surprised him by asking what he thought should be done, instead of offering council from the decades of her own experience.
Something she’d never done before. And something his father would never have done.
The simple act of trust, combined with fragments of the stories he’d heard at the market, had given Marcus the courage to suggest something radical.
And the Queen had given her blessing. Though, she’d been too tired to continue the visit after that, and Marcus had retired to his own suite to issue the direction they’d decided upon before he got ready for the evening he had planned with Sofia and her family.
***
Marcus paced the parlor that adjoined his office. The grand room was the nucleus of his suite in the north wing, meant for entertaining visiting officials and dignitaries. It was designed to impress.
But after a day spent with the Truits, he was self-conscious about the ostentatious trappings that he’d had no hand in selecting. He wanted Sofia’s family to like him. Wanted them to keep treating him like a person and not a prince.
With nothing he could do about how they’d see his gilded cage, Marcus continued walking the room, ensuring the staff had fulfilled his requests.
A large, bare Christmas tree, placed in the center of the room. Check.
Ornaments and decorations in containers ready to be placed on said tree. Check.
Purposefully jumbled strands of Christmas lights waiting to be disentangled. Check.
Marcus had never decorated for Christmas before, and he’d been looking forward to making this memory with Sofia and her family all week.
Sure, he’d been a part of the annual photo op with his granny and father, placing the final ornament on the massive tree displayed in the palace’s entry, but that was for the public. He’d never had the pleasure of decorating from start to finish, surrounded by what he was certain would be a great deal of merriment and, if Fred and George had anything to do with it, shenanigans.
The antique grandfather clock tolled the hour, and Marcus resumed his pacing. Moving to the table set up with the toys for the children. Along with every style of wrapping paper, bows and ribbons imaginable.
He’d never wrapped a present himself either. Well, maybe he had. Once.
He had the faintest memory of his mom taking him to the Christmas market. That fuzzy remembrance had been what prompted the additional stop with Sofia’s family.
Marcus picked up a toy drone from the gift table, idly inspecting it as he summoned the courage to stare into the past.
He must have been four years old, or younger maybe, because the memory was fragmented. Leaving him with glimpses of cheerful lights, merry music, and the brilliance of his mom’s warm smile as they moved from stall to stall.
Focusing, Marcus recalled her laughter as she played hide and seek, ducking behind different displays before reappearing and sweeping him up into her arms.
The joy of the memory cut like shards of glass, and an ache settled in his chest.
Marcus forced himself to take deep breaths as he struggled to reconcile the warmth and love of that mom with the one who had deprived him of a last hug and a tender farewell.
Turning the toy over in his hand, Marcus recognized it’d been easier to blame his father. Maybe that was why he’d still been unable to read her letter.
Because what words could possibly undo the pain her choice had caused?
A raucous shout from the hallway gave Marcus enough warning to shake off his melancholy and set the drone down before George burst into the room with Fred in a headlock. “I win. Your desserts are mine.”
Fred grappled with his twin, twisting to break the hold, and retorted, “Au contraire, my spatially depth challenged broskie. My head was extended past your body, so I win.”
“Just because you have a gigantic head doesn’t mean you won.” George shot back, and both twins looked to Marcus for a determination as Sofia and Grace entered in a more dignified manner. Eloise, Mr. Truit and Mrs. Truit brought up the rear.
“The photo finish shows… a draw.” Marcus declared. But his gaze was on Sofia. Just the sight of her helped him take a deeper breath.
He longed to have her in his arms after the unsettling trip down memory lane. But he didn’t want to rush her, or push, so he contented himself with taking her lead. Especially in front of her family.
“Weak sauce. You’re gonna have to learn how to pick sides, now and then, if you want to survive in this family, BIL.” Fred stated as he crossed to the trolley laden with sweets. “Grace says you’re getting her an orange sports car for officiating. Can I get a truck?”
“Knock off, we haven’t been here a day and you’re already begging gifts off our old-new bro?” George playfully punched Fred’s shoulder and grabbed the honey cake from his twin’s hand, popping it into his mouth. Speaking around the bite, George continued, “But if horsepower is the theme of this year’s Christmas gifts, I love Yamahas. The faster, the better—”
Mrs. Truit started to speak, but George rushed on, “And don’t let mom or Gracie guilt trip you into talking me out of motorcycles. If the good Lord didn’t want me to go faster than a bat out of hel—heck—He wouldn’t have given me the desire to break the sound barrier.”
Mr. Truit’s eyebrow had raised with the almost profanity. And Mrs. Truit shook her head, with a murmur that sounded like, “Can’t take them anywhere.”
Being petitioned for expensive things wasn’t new to Marcus, but what was novel was the loving, playful, and joking way the twins asked. Like they didn’t really expect Marcus would deliver. “You’re not worried about Sofia trying to influence me against getting you a bike?”
“Be hypocritical if she did. Since she’s usually the one racing him.” Mr. Truit said as Sofia finally crossed to Marcus and gave him a hug. He was glad that with her head resting on his shoulder, she missed the horrified look that flitted across his face. But Mrs. Truit caught it and chuckled.
“See? Marcus doesn’t like you riding crotch rockets, or whatever you kids call those horrible death traps, either.”
From the half shelter of his arm, Sofia met his gaze. An impish grin on her face as she said. “More power, ar ar ar.”
Her brothers took up the chant of “ar, ar, ar.”
Probably a reference to an American show, but one he couldn’t place at the moment. Not when the mere thought of Sofia injured while racing bikes paralyzed him with fear.
Was this what love was?
Feeling like his heart was walking around in another person’s body? Knowing that if anything happened to her, he couldn’t bear it?
The twins continued their argument as Marcus fought to find his equilibrium, struggled to shake the horrible mental picture of Sofia hurt or worse...
“Why do you get a bike?” Fred asked. “You didn’t even do anything.”
“And you did?” George fired back.
“Without my glasses fix, how else would he have been able to see his ‘wuv, true wuv’ standing in front of him?”
“Shove off.” George said and stole another honey cake from Fred. Ducking away from the playful punch that Fred threw in his direction. “Blue with gold racing stripes would be metal.”
Sofia examined Marcus thoughtfully. But he realized, with relief, that she’d misread the concern he was still trying to conceal when she assured him, “They’re joshing. You are not obligated to buy any of these dillweeds expensive gifts—”
“Speak for yourself.” Grace said with a wink.
“Acting like we raised you kids in a barn…” Mrs. Truit said, but the softness in her tone belied the affection she had for her brood. “… should be ashamed of your manners, the lot of you.”
Marcus lost the thread of conversation, still working to shake off the panic that had welled within him at the thought of Sofia hurt. He’d run the mental calculus of adding additional security to Sofia’s detail, considering her shared adrenaline junkie tendencies with her brothers. But not even twenty-four-hour security was fail-proof.
Anything could happen to her. At any time.
His heart hammered in his chest at the slew of mental images that cropped up new fears when Mr. Truit caught his eye and his train of thought. “Nobody’s promised tomorrow, son.”
Sofia glanced back up at Marcus, keyed in now to the fact that something was bothering him. “Hey… you okay?”
Marcus squeezed her shoulder and released the breath he’d been holding. “Yeah. Yeah, just processing that I married into a family of daredevils.”
She smiled sweetly at him, her ever-present hint of mischief just beneath the surface. “Wouldn’t want to bore you, prince.”
“I have a feeling life with you will never be boring.” Marcus said in a huff of a laugh as Mrs. Truit grumbled her agreement. “You got that right.”
“Marcus, you didn’t!” Eloise exclaimed, drawing their attention to a tangled strand of lights in her hand. “Did you really have some poor staff member purposefully knot these?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny…” Marcus said, eliciting a groan from the siblings, but Mr. Truit perked up. “Wonderful. Who wants to help me untangle the lights?”
“Nope, nu-uh. I’m wrapping presents.” Grace said, taking the lights out of Eloise’s hands and shoving the jumbled cords at Marcus. “All yours, BIL. Consider it your Truit family inauguration.”
“Seconded!” “Thirded!” The twins called as they predictably shadowed Eloise to the wrapping station. “Neat drone.”
“Don’t you dare, those are for the kids…” Sofia reprimanded as she moved towards her brothers, throwing a quick wink at Marcus as she left his side.
“Come on, son.” Mr. Truit reached for the lights, and Marcus released them with a stiff smile. It was still strange to hear “son” applied to him so many times in one day. More than he’d ever heard it from his own father.
It had bothered Marcus at first because he hadn’t earned it and didn’t know how to respond. But Sofia’s father didn’t appear to require a response. It was just stated with confident assurance, as steadfast as the way the man had calmly shepherded his family throughout the day.
And Marcus wasn’t ready to admit, even to himself, how good it felt to be claimed as a son, for fear that it wouldn’t last. And it wouldn’t.
Because deep down Marcus knew that once Mr. Truit got to know him better… the man would discover, and disapprove of, all the shortcomings that had kept Marcus’s parents from loving him.
Better to keep his hopes focused on earning Sofia’s love and hope that, for her sake, in time, her family could look past his inadequacies when they discovered them.
Mr. Truit studied Marcus, then clapped a reassuring hand onto his shoulder. “Let’s show ‘em how it’s done and set a record. What do you say?”
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