Chapter 3
He knows there is someone in the throne room before a Dora Milaje ever finds him to relay her concern. He knew from the moment that someone stepped over the threshold—not because of some preternatural sense or a Kingly awareness of his domain. The truth is much simpler, and more than a little embarrassing.
Shuri had sent him a picture of herself, bored and sprawled in the seat that’s been his for a year now. She had captioned it ‘keeping it warm for you’ and M’Baku had to take a moment to compose himself in the midst of a conversation with Eskender. He had hurried through finishing business with the River Tribe leader, knowing that Shuri was waiting patiently for him.
The Dora surround him as they approach the throne room. He waves off Ayo and her concerned underlings, though only the latter leave.
“My King,” she says, “it may not be safe.”
M’Baku sighs. “It is just Shuri.”
Ayo’s eyes widen slightly, then narrow. Her brows pinch together, a surprisingly endearing furrow on her strong face. “My King…”
M’Baku refuses to blush in front of his general. He refuses to blush at all, typically, but especially not in front of Ayo. Ayo will tell her beloved, who will tell Okoye, who will never let him live it down.
“She has been gone for some time.”
Though he knows her tone is leading him like a rhino to water, M’Baku answers anyway. “She has. She has been sorely missed by her kingdom.”
“Indeed. Yet none of us knew of her return.”
“Nor did I, not until recently.”
“Hm.” Ayo stands up straighter, arms clasped behind her back. “I will remain outside, my King. Just in case.”
He knows better than to argue with Ayo. Where Okoye was loyal to the throne and prone to deference when appropriate, Ayo is different. She isn’t disrespectful, but she’s certainly… snarky. It’s why she and M’Baku work so well together. It’s also why she’s an absolute pain in his ass.
He nods. She turns away from the door and stands stiffly as M’Baku moves past her. He doesn’t push the doors open completely; instead, he opts to slip inside and let them fall silently shut behind him. The room is empty save for the small frame occupying the enormous throne. M’Baku’s steps echo heavily as he crosses the room to where she waits for him.
She’s living up to her namesake, he thinks as he approaches. She looks like a cat, sprawled in the throne, soaking up a ray of sunlight. Her head is tipped up like she’s drinking in the warmth. Her smile is gentle and relaxed. She is as beautiful as ever.
“About time,” she chides once he’s finally near enough. “You’ve kept me waiting.” She tsks at him.
“You’re one to talk,” he retorts, though they both know it’s only teasing. Shuri has been gone from Wakanda for a year, but she and M’Baku have stayed in close contact. The bracelet that sits around his wrist has come in handy. Sharing pictures, little messages, phone calls when they could—they’ve kept him sane as he balances not only leading his tribe but a nation.
She called the night after she left, just as promised; her voice was wet and hushed, throat sore, as she told him of the child prince and swore him to secrecy. It was the first of many calls. He called one random morning, when the thought of getting out of bed and sitting on the throne all day was too painful to bear.
Over and over again, they turned to one another. He’s cherished her comfort this last year and in turn treasured being the one to soothe her.
That said, the calls and texts and silly pictures hardly hold a candle to seeing Shuri in the flesh. Finally.
He comes out of his slight daze to find her staring up at him. Her eyes are wide, searching. Her lips are parted slightly. She looks worried.
Without hesitation, M’Baku drops to one knee and bows his head. “My Panther,” he breathes and lets his nerves leave with his exhale. He glances up at her, takes great pleasure in her shocked and flustered expression. “How I’ve missed you.”
“Oh,” she chokes on a soft gasp, “you asshole.”
Then she’s wrapped tight around his neck. She nearly sends them toppling to the throne room floor; while M’Baku wouldn’t mind, he knows the sound would alert Ayo. The last thing they need is the Dora barging in to discover the King and former Crown Princess in a tangled mess on the ground.
He winds his arms around her and holds her close. She perches herself on his knee, far too close to be appropriate. Yet, though her nearness fills him with heat, he’s mostly full of relief. Hearing her speak and seeing her words written are nothing like holding her in his arms. He can feel her life beneath his touch: racing heart, heaving chest, trembling limbs. He has missed this.
He always knew she was safe—with Nakia and then with others, when she inevitably had to leave Haiti. He has heard numerous tales, of friends and travels, and never wondered long about her safety. They hardly went more than a week without speaking, most times.
But knowing she is safe and seeing it are two different things. Feeling her safe in his arms is another beast entirely.
“How long are you staying?”
“A few weeks.” She laughs at the surprise on his face. Her palm when she cups his cheek is even rougher than it was last time. “I have missed my lab terribly, though Riri let me make use of hers in Cambridge. Many friends to visit, too, you know. Ayo and Aneka, of course. Okoye. Ross will pout if I don’t grace him with my presence.”
M’Baku hums, though part of him wants to growl. He knows she would only tease him for it. Worst of all, he’d deserve the teasing.
“I think I am forgetting something, though.” She whispers it to him. A secret conspiring between them.
“Are you, now?”
Shuri nods and leans into him. She still has one arm looped around his neck, her fingers drawing lazy symbols onto what skin she can reach. Her other hand still cups his cheek like there’s nowhere else she’d like to be. “Perhaps you can remind me.”
M’Baku, for all his confidence and bravado, halts. He stiffens in her hold and holds himself terribly still.
Shuri waits him out.
“My Panther,” he breathes.
“Yes, my King?”
And oh, she must know what it does to him, hearing his title spoken from her lips. May the gods grant him mercy should she ever say it in their native tongue; he’s not sure he’d survive.
There were moments, with Shuri traveling and M’Baku mired in duties at home, where they almost tipped over the edge of this mountain they’ve built together. A mountain made of emotions and unspoken words and so much tension, two lesser folks might have crumbled under the weight. Not M’Baku and Shuri, though. They held strong, even when it would’ve been easier to give in.
Nights full of stress, when simple pleasures like a hand shoved into their pajamas, panting into one another’s ears from millions of miles away would’ve eased the ache. Early mornings full of anguish that could’ve been soothed by quiet and heartfelt confessions. Bone-deep regret, grief, guilt festering like open wounds on their souls—wounds that would’ve healed if only one of them dared to bridge the gap between them.
Neither of them did, though. While those times may have been easier, none of them were right. None of them were what they truly wanted. Screens and messages pale in comparison to this.
This is right.
He kisses her, lets her guide him with the hand on his cheek until their lips slot together. It’s a little clumsy, a bit crooked, and it is everything M’Baku has ever wanted. Chaste, yes, but fills him with a heat he forgot he could feel. Shuri is inexperienced, hesitant, and M’Baku is more nervous than he knew was possible. It is perfect.
Their kiss breaks and Shuri presses her forehead to his. She’s panting like they’ve just sparred and her cheeks are flushed prettily. M’Baku can only imagine what a mess his own face must be in, and decides it’s better left alone.
“I am glad to be home,” she tells him quietly.
His heart thuds heavily. Home. Even after her year traveling, even though he knows she plans to leave again far too soon, she still considers this place home. It shouldn’t surprise him, not really. For all her ways of breaking tradition and shafting the rules, she’s always loved her nation. Yet, it soothes something in him he didn’t even realize was growing restless.
The odds of M’Baku ever leaving Wakanda for more than diplomatic meetings are rare. He has little interest in the outside world. The various wars waged against his country have only solidified this feeling. There is nothing outside of Wakanda’s walls he needs or wants.
Except for Shuri, of course.
“What will you do first?”
Shuri shrugs. “I’m here for a couple weeks, I have time.”
“Okoye has missed you.” M’Baku drops his gaze.
It’s true, because the former general brings it up often in that wistful sort of way. Okoye has come a long way from the militant woman who refused to adhere to anything other than tradition, but she still misses times long passed. She and M’Baku commiserate over it on occasion, usually with a stiff drink in hand. Okoye has missed Shuri just as deeply as M’Baku, though in a much different manner.
“And I’ve missed her,” Shuri says. She speaks slowly and patiently, as though to a child. “I’m not with Okoye right now, though.”
M’Baku nods. “No, you’re not.”
“Who am I with now?”
Her needling thrills him, not that he’d ever admit it. “Your King, Shuri. You are with your King.”
She hums and presses a kiss to his stubbled cheek. “My King,” she echoes. “I’d like to see J'Abariland.” The if you’ll have me is unspoken but loud regardless.
“I would be honored, my Panther, to welcome you to my tribelands. We’ll prepare a feast.”
“Will I have to wear my royal garb?” She frowns at him preemptively.
One day he might convince her just how stunning she is in traditional clothes. Seeing her swathed in beads and harvested animal bones and bright colors is always a masterpiece; she wears her heritage well, even if it drives her mad to do so. Briefly, M’Baku entertains the thought of wedding wear—and quickly pushes that thought aside.
If Shuri knew what she did to him with only one kiss, he’d resign from the kingdom out of embarrassment.
“No,” he tells her, “not your royal garb, at least. Those clothes are far too cold for J'Abariland’s climate.” He doesn’t tell her how much he likes seeing her skin, nor does he mention that he had a traditional set of Jabari furs crafted for her not long after she left. If anyone asked, he claimed it was in the spirit of working together. The tribes were not so separate anymore, why shouldn’t their country’s protector wear furs and leather from J'Abariland?
The truth is much simpler: M’Baku just wanted to see her in the clothes of his homeland. He knows she will be stunning in those as well.
She’s stunning now, too, as she smiles at him. “This feast, will there be meat?”
He laughs at her and takes her moment of indignance to stand. It’s easy to hoist her into his arms and she barely shrieks. Instead, she opts to glare at him, her ears burning the sweetest pink.
“Our cooks are very skilled. You won’t miss the meat,” he tells her seriously. He is not ignorant to his own innuendo, but she doesn’t need him to do more than speak. It would be unbecoming to do something like waggle his eyebrows, or god forbid, wink.
Her gaze is heavy as it trails down his body; she can only glimpse as far as his stomach, and even that’s covered in his usual armor. Heat still rushes through M’Baku.
“I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see, won’t I, my King?”
M’Baku sighs against her lips in the ghost of a kiss. “I have much to show you, my Panther.”
“I look forward to it.”