Deck the Palace (A Duched Series Holiday Novella), page 1
Deck The Palace (A Duched Series Holiday Novella)
By Xavier Neal
©Xavier Neal 2025
Cover by Dana Leah
All Rights Reserved
License Note
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization from the author. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in a court of law. This author expressively prohibits any entity from using any part of this publication/body of work for purposes of training AI (artificial intelligence)/AI technologies. This author reserves all rights to license use of this work for generative AI training and developmental machine learning/language models.
This book was written by A HUMAN. This book is NOT AI Generated. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or again, used fictitiously/for fictional purposes.
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Contents
Yule Be Sorry
Treemendously Romantic
The Snuggle is Real
Best in Snow
Stock It to Me
Bonus Epilogue…
Other Works
Gratitude
Follow Me
Full List of My Works
Dedication:
To The Universe…Thanks for decking my career in the most festive ways.
WARNING:
This novella is a STANDALONE holiday novella that CAN be read on its own. HOWEVER, for the best experience and understanding of the characters (most of which were introduced in the original trilogy) as well as the timeline, you may want to begin your reading journey with Duched (Duched Series #1) or with the FREE PREQUEL!
https://bit.ly/FreePrequelForDuchedSeries
This novella contains foul language (from both men and women), explicit sexual content (including some that may differ from your own), and adult situations. Some readers may find the content/subject matter that is covered in this work to be irritating/annoying or triggering or disagree with it entirely.
This novella ALSO takes place in a fictional country (although you may have come across it in my other novels) which is why some of the word choice is different than the English you may be accustomed to as well as why LESS contractions are used throughout the piece of work. (This is the style specific to their country)
This novella is intended for readers over the age of 18.
This novella – WHEN FEATURING BRIE AND KELLAN - will break the 4th wall and “talk” directly to you as a reader. These are “private” conversations that they are having with you “individually”. (Think looking directly into the camera, talking to the audience style.)
They are in bold print and italicized to indicate the breakage. This particular style can take some adjusting to, so please proceed at your own risk.
Again, this style will ONLY be used for BRIE AND KELLAN to maintain the continuity of their original works.
Thank you.
Enjoy!
Playlist Selects
Here are five songs from the Duched Series playlist!
Feel free to follow the playlist on Spotify to find more songs I felt related to the book.
1. Conversations with my Wife – Jon Bellion (Indie) (Kellan & Brie)
2. Our Kind of Love – Lady A (Country) (Trenton & Paislee)
3. I’ll Be Home – Meghan Trainor (Pop) (Cliff and Katherine)
4. My Favorite Things – The Supremes (R&B) (Kris and Sophia)
5. Show Me That You Festive – RuPaul (Pop) (Kellan & Brie)
More songs: https://bit.ly/DuchedSeriesPlaylist
About Two Years AFTER Royally Duched Up Epilogue…
Yule Be Sorry
(Starring Kellan Kenningston & Brie Kenningston)
Kellan
Ohbloodyhell. My wife is going to be asking Santa for a divorce this Christmas.
Father seems unbothered by my gawking. “You are certain?”
“Yes.”
“How certain?”
“Very.”
My arms fold themselves across my white button-down dress shirt at the same time I press, “As in absolutely?”
“Positively,” mocks my older brother, Kristopher Kenningston, shit eating grin growing to reach his ears. “It is your family’s turn to decide on all of the holiday decorating, color schemes, stationary invites, menus, and activities for the season.”
Frowning is instant. “That cannot possibly be correct.”
“Oh, it is,” Kris cheekily chortles from the dark leather couch in Father’s first level, palace office. “And because it is,” he extends one of his wine colored, thin sweater covered arms alongside the backside of the furniture, “I am quite certain that Santa will not be the only bloke emptying his sac this season.”
Irritation pushes me to tauntingly point to his stomach. “You mean not the only chubby bloke.”
Come off it. He set me up for that one, plus he is beyond amused by my very real pain. Do you recall the nightmare that became our wedding planning prior to my romantic taking over of the entire situation? Yes, I agree, that was one of my more romantic moments indeed; however, I cannot exactly replicate it in this instance. Nor am I certain I want to. This is much more pressure. Pressure I do not need, might I add.
“Kellan, stop bullying your brother,” Father fusses, redirecting my crystal gaze to his. “You do not have time for it.”
“I disagree.” An impish grin wriggles into place on my tan face. “There is always time for that.”
“The more time you spend needling your big brother-”
“It must be a hefty needle.”
“I have not put on that much weight!”
“Your belt would beg to differ.”
“It is simply new!”
“New to being stretched that far.”
“The more time you waste doing this,” his finger waves to the situation, “then the less time you have for decision making,” scolds the man who despite the years that have passed, barely looks it. “The team needs your answers by the end of the day.”
“The end of the bloody day?!”
“You did this to yourself,” he insists prior to pushing a tablet across his long desk that’s centered in the middle of the room. “You were the one who insisted on postponing this meeting in August and September and October – and earlier this month to simply nap on the couch with the twins to cartoon animals-”
“They like kangaroos!”
“-which is why you now have to make quite a number of arrangements very quickly.”
And why Mrs. Kenningston is most likely going to write Santa a “Let Me Explain” letter rather than a wish list. How do you think she’ll execute my demise? Death by tie? Is that a real ancient torture technique or just a haunting tale told by tailors to ensure you provide adequate care for your suit accessories?
Frustration rears its unfortunateness once more in my voice, “This is ridiculous.”
“This is tradition,” corrects Father in a sterner tone.
“Which we have been parting from for quite some time now,” I swiftly remind.
“Not this one.”
“Why not this one?”
“Kellan,” Kris quietly attempts to reprimand.
“Never this one,” he declares without spoken reasoning.
“Why never this one?”
“Kellan,” my brother states a second time, a little louder than the first.
Ignoring him is easy.
It always is.
“What makes this holiday hell extravaganza so bloody important?” I push alongside a step forward, frame gradually moving away from the roaring fire behind me. “Why on bloody earth must we – and I mean any of us – partake in the planning of this pageantry?”
“Kellan,” escapes yet again in a pressing manner.
“Is that not the literal job of the royal marketing team?” More stomps of outrage are taken towards him. “Is it not literally their responsibility to plan and puppet us through these red and green theatrics?”
“Mygod, I wish you would listen to reason for once in your life,” he murmurs as he noticeably soars his jean bearing lower half to the edge of the couch.
“Why must we take our focus away from things that actually need our attention?” I defiantly drop my palms onto the edge of his desk. “Why must we pause the differences we are truly trying to make in this society – nigh –”
“Nay,” hisses Kris.
“- the differences we are trying to make in humanity in order to give our unneeded opinions about decorative ribbon and eggnog flavors?”
“Your. Mother.”
One reference. That is the one fucking reference guaranteed to always silence me.
My lips press firmly together to prevent another word from escaping.
“Your mother was quite adamant about sharing royal privileges when it came to the branches of this family.” He casually leans back in his leather chair after rotating it to better face me. “She believed that she and I should not be the only Kenningstons who determined how holidays were to be spent simply because we were King and Queen. She believed each member of this family had a voice that mattered and should be heard. ”
Yes, she really was incredible. It’s why I am. I know that’s what you’re thinking.
“She signed a decree-”
“Because of course it was a bloody decree,” escapes in a muted mumble.
“-that entails those that are not currently sitting on the throne,” Father gestures to himself, “those that are not next in line to sit on the throne,” he motions to my brother who cheekily waves, “yet those in direct connection to the throne,” the movement is made towards me, “are to be periodically responsible for holiday revelry to ensure they are not only seen as active members of the aristocracy – by those that are watching – but are actually allowed to behave as such.”
I know that is quite an admirable thing – downright fucking saintly – however, must her good will towards men equal me having a bahumbug moment? There is already so much pulling my attention away from Brie and our children that adding staged holiday merriment just feels like an open invitation to roast my bullocks over an open flame. And before you even begin to try to give me shite about work, life balance nonsense, I swear I am very much trying. Some seasons are simply better than others. Unfortunately, homelessness among youth is steadily growing, and our ability to provide adequate access to have their basic human needs met continues to vastly under pace it, despite the amount of donors who throw money at the problem without understanding that that notion is more of a happy sticker on top of bullet wound type of thought process.
“Your uncles have done it, Kellan.” His hands fold tightly together in his lap, a wordless declaration, this is not a discussion. “You will do it.” He lets his larger but well-built frame fold forward. “And you will do it well. And with grace. And with honor as though your mother herself were going to be in attendance.” The lifted eyebrow he presents has me swallowing the large, lump of dread wedged in my throat. “Have I made myself clear?”
It’s impossible to do anything other than nod.
Honestly what else is there do? It is a mandate. And if that within itself is not enough, it is a proclamation that comes from the only woman in the world there is no arguing with. Mum wanted to present us with the opportunity to host the Christmas of our dreams regardless of our line to the throne. It was meant to be a gift not a curse. I understand that. I just hope my lovely wife comes to understand that too.
Brie
I’m sorry. I thought it was one ring to rule us all, not one duck to destroy my sanity.
“My princess ducky!!!” Kendall Kenningston, my five-year-old, shouts alongside a dramatic stomp of her bare, light-latte covered foot. “Mine!”
We know it’s not really about the duck, right? Okay. It’s about the duck a little. She loves that damn thing to an almost unhealthy degree because it was the last toy that Cliff gave her before leaving to the states for college, but it’s more so about the fact she has entered her “hating” having siblings phase of existence. You know, the one where they try to ask Santa can we give them back – that was last year – and take every innocent toy touching as a declaration of war. And they are innocent actions at this point. The twins aren’t even technically two yet. They damn sure aren’t plotting hostile playtime takeovers in the bathtub. That’s very Pinky and The Brain shit they’re not quite at the level of. At least not yet.
Kalum Kenningston, the first-born twin by just a mere minute, continues chasing the bubbles around the water completely unphased by his older sibling’s high-pitched screeching.
Which makes one of us. I am very fucking bothered. And very much in need of a day pint. Hm? Yeah. I now say pint sometimes. Blame it on spending most of our time in this country. But you know what I don’t and won’t do? Call them chips. Because they’re fries! Long live the freedom fried potato!
“He nots supposed to have it, Mummy!”
Killian Kenningston – our child that looks the most like his dad and not just because of his dirty blond hair – locks his eyes on his sister, defiantly picks up a wet paintbrush, and furiously rubs it across the creature’s face.
“He painting it!”
“It’s water,” I defeatedly argue from where I’m sitting on a round, yellow rug, directly in front of their corner tub, mentally evaluating if I got off all of the green paint from our post lunch holiday project.
“Dirty water!”
“Inside voice,” sharply leaves me prior to beginning one final inspection for cleanliness.
Look, I know kids are supposed to be messy and get messy – especially when it comes to art – but I’m pretty sure Kalum is just generating paint from his pores at this point. I swear to God, Kendall was never this difficult to get clean. Not even after her Unicorn Slime Party. You know, Kellan refuses to let me ever forget how much he hated looking like he was attacked by Tinker Bell for those next three days.
“Yes,” my husband’s voice unexpectedly agrees, pulling my attention over my shoulder to where he’s leaning against the doorframe of their brightly colored bathroom, “you most certainly should be using your inside voice with your mum.”
“Daddy!” immediately exclaims our bright blue-eyed daughter during her rush to his side.
“Dabaaaaaa!” the twins echo in excitement.
Don’t worry. They get this excited to see me too when I’ve been gone all day for whatever reason. Sometimes it’s work – conferences and re-certification courses are something we take very seriously at Hannah’s Hope – sometimes it’s fun – I swear the most incredible exhibits always come to our country – and sometimes it’s a royal requirement – stupid tea sessions have unfortunately been replaced by garden parties which are not that much better. Definitely hotter. And filled with more bugs.
“I do not approve of your tone,” he continues to parent while swooping her up into his muscular arms. “I will most certainly be reporting this to Santa – who just so happened to send me an email.”
Kendall heavily frowns in disapproval. “He did not.”
“Right here.” The tablet in his possession is dangled into her view. “A message from the jolly man himself.”
An overly theatrical gasp instantly escapes our daughter at the same time she snatches the object into her possession. “So. Many. Words!”
“Of course, baby girl,” cheekily states my husband with a crooked grin. “He is indeed always watching.”
To prevent our wavy-haired tyrant seeing me roll my eyes, I turn back towards the twins who – of course – don’t understand the threats their dad is making.
Do I approve of his methods? Not always. Do they tend to work? More often than you’ll ever hear me admit out loud. According to him, the reason his success rate is so damn high with our daughter is because he had plenty of practice before she was born. With. Me. Yeah. Fuck him for that. And double fuck him for probably being right. She is sooooo sooooo much a mini me that at times I just feel compelled to call my mom – out of the blue – and apologize.
“Poooonieeee,” grouses Kalum in tandem with shoving his tiny fingers in my face.
He loves bath time – no matter when it happens – because he doesn’t like to be dirty unlike his brother who doesn’t like to be clean. Getting him into the tub required bribery…in the form of a rubber animal…No more questions.
“You are pretty pruney,” I warmly smile prior to pulling the plug to release the water.
“Nomonvinnishhed,” Killian pouts on a point to the water.
“We are finished.” My grin shifts to a much sterner expression. “Put down the toys.”
An unmistakable gleam twinkles in his crystal glare as his tiny blond curled head cocks to the side in a challenge.
This little royal rebel is going to be the death of us. I just know it. He somehow got all of our combined stubbornness – which is way too much for a single soul to possess – all of Kellan’s irrefutable charm and every ounce of my self-sufficiency. It’s like if Expressionism and Fauvism had a love child. Colorful, captivating, and chaotic. Soooooo fucking chaotic. And a little sprinkle of spiteful.
