The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance Read online

  “When I was seven,” I murmur against the shell of her ear, “my parents got me a bunny rabbit.”

  A grin crawls up at edges of Rory’s mouth. “Did it have a name?” Her voice is rusty with sleep, and I love it.

  I answer, “Lord Fluffywinkles.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Obviously. Lord Fluffywinkles would hop around the palace freely, leaving little gifts for Mum to step in. After a while, the rabbit vanished. My parents told me it escaped, but I think Mum cooked it up into a stew. I mourned that rabbit for a full month.”

  Rory lifts her head from my chest to look at me with those shimmering emerald eyes. “What made you think about that?”

  “I thought I’d never love anything more than I loved that rabbit, up until I woke up next to you just now.”

  I didn’t think her smile could stretch wider across her face, but it does. “I love waking up next to you, too,” she says. Rory presses her lips against mine in a hard, enthusiastic kiss. My dick begins to wake up, but I ignore the low throb. I just want to kiss her. I love kissing this woman. She tastes like sleep and warmth and Rory.

  “Your world… it’s insane.” She grins. “Lord Rabbits, masquerade balls. Kinky threesomes.”

  “Is it too much?”

  She shakes her head. “No. But… I want to show you my world.”

  I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Your world?”

  “Yes. Let’s go somewhere. Anywhere. We can book a cheap hostel, go hiking off a waterfall, or pet a water buffalo. I think? I don’t know, the last one might be illegal.”

  I can’t help it. She makes me smile. “I’m sure they’d make an exception for the prince of England.”

  “It’s a deal, then.”

  I heave a sigh and drop back against the pillows. “I can’t. Leaving the party last night was one thing, but… leaving the palace is something else entirely. Mum would have a cow.”

  Rory sits back on her haunches and looks at me. I’m trying not to get distracted by her pert tits. “How old are you?” she asks.

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Then the way I see it… your mother can’t make you do anything.”

  “She is the queen of England.”

  “And you could be the future king of England.” Her hand slips over my chest. “What kind of king are you going to be? The kind of king that does whatever his mommy tells him… or the kind of king who takes what he wants?”

  Her question weighs on me heavily. I’ve known for a long time that it’s wrong to keep me here. That no good can come from being locked up like this. I don’t want to disappoint my mum. I don’t know to put her through more hurt after she’s already been through so much. And yet…

  Secretly, I know I’ve been itching for someone to take me away from all of this. And then there’s Rory, my knight in ginger Goldilocks curls… how can I resist?

  I kiss her, because her rosy lips look like they need to be kissed. She sighs and folds her naked body on top of mine.

  “We’re not sleeping at a hostel,” I decide. “My family has a royal estate off the coast of Italy in Sorrento. Have you ever been?”

  “No. But I’d love to.” She’s excited as a schoolgirl now, and she clings to my shoulders. “So we’re doing this?”

  “We’re doing this. And we’re taking my private jet.”

  She gawks. “Your what?”

  The RAF Airbus A330 is a hell of a way to travel.

  The sleek, eggshell-white jet was originally built to fit nearly two hundred Normals, but it’s since been renovated. Now it fits sixteen more-than-comfortable royals. It’s equipped with a dining room, a bathroom and shower, and a king-size bed in back. Total unapologetic luxury.

  It’s a plane fit for a king. They call it the “Heircraft” for a reason.

  Getting to the hangar was easy. I packed a duffle bag, threw on a large coat and a hat, and snuck out of my room with Rory and Ben at my side. Ben knows the schedules of every palace guard, when and where they’ll be, so Rory and I hung back and giggled like naughty schoolkids while Ben stepped first around every corner before letting us know that the coast was clear. Truthfully, we probably could have walked right past them without an incident. I am, after all, the prince of England. The guards were never the thing keeping me back.

  It’s always been my mum. The fear of disappointing her. I left a letter for my mum in my room. Couldn’t figure out what to say, so I simply wrote I’m fine. I’m safe. Don’t worry. Love you. I signed my name at the bottom, folded the letter in half, and tented it on my pillow.

  Now that we’re at the hangar, it looks like a ghost town. The place is nearly empty, save for the impressive bird and a handful of very confused airline personnel. One wide-eyed man approaches us, bends at the waist, and then fumbles over apologies. “Your Highness. The queen didn’t mention you were coming.”

  “Is it the queen’s job to tell you everything?” I ask. You can get away with a lot with an air of lofty entitlement.

  He murmurs another apology and then asks, “Your Highness… I must ask. Is this a matter of national security?”

  I check his name tag. Reginald. Reginald is an older gentleman with a balding patch at the top of his head, and he’s been waiting for nearly ten years for a royal to step through the hangar doors. By the look of him, maybe he’s been waiting his whole life. This is his lucky day.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “I assure you, Reginald. It’s a matter of life and death. How quickly can we get that bird in the air?”

  Reginald’s eyes look like they might pop out of their skull. He looks equal parts excited and terrified. A look of solemn duty sweeps over his face, and he says, “Right away, Your Highness.”

  “Good man.” I reward him with a pat on the shoulder, and he immediately pops off to bark orders at his men.

  Rory appears in his place. She’s clutching the olive straps of her backpack and staring openmouthed at the jet. “Is that for us?”

  Impressing her doesn’t get old, I’ll admit that. She’s just so damn sweet about it, and I can’t help but smile. “It is. Do you want to explore?”

  Those are the magic words. She bites her lip and races up the short ladder. As soon as her flaming red hair vanishes into the plane, a boulder of anxiety that I’ve been keeping at bay rolls freely in my chest.

  Ben stalls beside me, his eyes on the body of the jet. “Are you sure about this, sir?” he murmurs lowly so no one can hear him question the prince of England. He’s holding me back like a stubborn dog pulling at its leash, its floppy ears scrunched around the taut collar. Ben has always been my conscience when I least want it.

  “I’m sure,” I say firmly and toss my bag over my shoulder.

  I talk a big game, all right. But the second my foot hits the steps, my muscles go paralyzed. Suddenly, I can’t climb the rest of the way. I can hear my mum’s warnings, as clear as if she were whispering in my ear: We’re not like other people. Normals go to the pub, get a cuppa, or take a stroll without looking over their shoulder. We’re not normal, dear. We’re royals. And royals get killed.

  My heart abuses my rib cage with hard, thumping beats. A cold sweat breaks over the back of my neck. A sniper could be on me. On us. Right now. Any second, a bullet could rip through my forehead. Or a sniper could shoot us out of the sky. Like they shot my father down.

  Through the haze of my thoughts, Rory’s hand appears. She’s offering it to me with a large smile plastered over her mouth. “Come on,” she says excitedly. “The stewardess said they’ve got Cadbury chocolate in there. For free!”

  She’s like a child in a candy store, so full of innocence, so damned easy to please. Her enthusiasm rubs off on me. It’s infectious, and my worry slides off my shoulders like a limp scarf.

  “We can’t keep that sweet tooth waiting,” I tell her and take her hand. It’s soft and warm, and her touch sends tingles through me. Rory needs me to be strong. I can do this. Linked hand in hand, we board the jet.
/>   It smells strongly of mint in here, and it chills my sinuses. A stewardess with a plastic smile helps us with our bags and then offers a flute of champagne. I take it and tilt it to my lips. Bubbles burst and explode on my tongue. It’s barely noon, but I need the liquid courage.

  They’re preparing the jet for takeoff, so I take my place in one of the plush white seats. The wide belly of the jet sits three across, and I instinctively take the middle. Ben would tell me it’s because I need to be the center of attention at all times. Truthfully, I’m more insecure than that; it’s a primal comfort to be pinned in on both sides. Is it possible to crave fresh-aired freedom and the tight security of a confining space simultaneously?

  I try to breathe. Rory’s fingers entwine in mine, and she squeezes.

  Ben boards after both of us. When he takes his seat to my left, I notice that the front of his shirt is spotted with sweat as though he’s been jogging. “Everyone’s been vetted,” he reports. “The personnel has been checked out. I did a loop around the hangar. There’s no one for miles.”

  It’s as though he’s read my mind. As paranoid as I am, Ben is twofold, and I bloody love him for it.

  Yet I feel inclined to rib him about it. “A bit of overkill, don’t you think?”

  He looks at me blankly. “You’re safe.”

  Ben will go to the ends of the earth to protect Rory and me. That’s all that matters.

  The jets begin to roar, and the flight attendant announces that we’re preparing for departure. My stomach clenches when the wheels roll forward.

  Rory, on the other hand, squeals and keeps her eyes peeled out the window. “This is my favorite part.”

  Her thrill for adventure is charming. I finish off my glass of champagne, tilt my head back, and close my eyes. “Wake me up when we’re there.”

  Cheerio, good old England.

  23

  Rory

  Sorrento is a fairy-tale town on a cliff.

  Brightly colored houses slope down the side of the hill and stop only when they reach the flat, blue-green waterline. Gulls call out overhead, and even from the top of the cliff I can still smell salt water in the air.

  As soon as the jet touched down in Italy, a black car swallowed us up and swept us away toward the royal estate. We almost didn’t stop here until I clambered over Roland’s lap at the view and begged to be let out.

  Worth it. It’s breathtaking. We’re perched on a platform overlooking the town, a stone wall separating us from the drop down below. There’s nothing but thin, winding alleyways that hug the cliff and steep climbs between houses. Navigating this town is like playing a real-life game of Chutes and Ladders. It gives me vertigo to look down and see the roof of someone’s house, and then the roof of the building below that, and below that one, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

  Roland folds his elbows on the stone wall and hunches over it. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “It’s incredible.”

  “I haven’t been here in years. Since I was a boy.” His irises seem to drink up the color of the sea, reflecting the Mediterranean aquamarine. He was pale on the plane, but now that we’re back on solid ground, he seems reinvigorated in a way I haven’t seen before. The sea breeze messes up his thick hair. Even his eyes have gotten brighter since we left the palace. They look longingly over the town when he says, “When I see something like this… it makes me wonder what else I’ve missed over the past ten years.”

  There’s a small gap between our bodies, and I fill it to bump my shoulder against his. “Stop worrying about the past. Look where we are. Right now.”

  A grin warms his face. “I like this now.”

  “We have company,” Ben says, and I look over my shoulder to see him standing behind us, his arms tightly crossed.

  Sure enough, we’re starting to attract attention. There’s already a small crowd of ten or fifteen forming around the town car. They all have their phones out, cameras pointed at us. Most are calling out in Italian, words I don’t understand, but I’m thrown when I hear my name.

  “Principessa Rory!” A grinning, sun-tanned Italian waves at me.

  I blink at Ben. “Are they… calling me a princess?”

  “Yes,” he says, unaffected as always.

  “But I’m not. I’m… I mean… not that.” Now that I think of it, I don’t know what to call myself. Am I Roland’s girlfriend? Ben’s girlfriend? Both? Neither? The redheaded tourist who got swept up in these two insatiable, love-starved men?

  “Princess Rory.” Roland sweeps his arm around my middle. “I like the sound of that.”

  He kisses me fully on the mouth. Because Prince Roland is shameless and never holds back. And me—the girl who should know better about falling for English royalty and making a display of herself in front of the entire world… I melt like butter on a hot day against his lips.

  Ben interrupts us, the voice of sanity in our ears. “We need to get moving.”

  We make our way back to the car, but Roland pivots at the door.

  “What’s he doing?” Ben asks, and I can hear the note of fear in his voice.

  “Buona sera!” Roland says to the crowd as he approaches them.

  “Shit,” Ben growls under his breath. He shuts the door hard and dashes after the prince. I follow after him, confused.

  Everything seems perfectly fine to me. Roland is grinning ear to ear and shaking hands with every person there. He’s speaking Italian—I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does—and it pours from his lips melodically, fluently. I guess with all that time spent stuck in a house, I would learn a language or ten, too. I watch as he crouches down and plays a trick on a little girl that I don’t need Babelfish to understand; he pulls a euro out of her ear and presents it to her. She giggles, delighted, and clutches it.

  “Principessa Rory?” There’s my name again, catching me off guard with the title. I turn and see a group of teenage girls. They’re in summer hats and sarongs, and they’re the kind of pretty, lithe girls who wouldn’t have given me the time of day before, but now they’re waving their phones at me. “Possiamo… ah… selfie?”

  Selfie, yes. Everyone speaks selfie. I’m floored, but I nod and open my arms. “Yeah, of course!”

  Their expressions light up, and they quickly flock around me. One of the girls holds her phone in front of us, and we all smile against the beautiful backdrop. They thank me in rapid Italian before scattering away like a startled flock of gulls.

  When I glance at Roland, Ben is already at his side, hand on his arm, murmuring in Roland’s ear. Roland nods and gives his last handshake and smile before he ushers me over and we go back to the car.

  Ben looks visibly rattled when we pile back into the car. “So much for being inconspicuous,” he huffs.

  “If I’d wanted my mum here,” Roland snaps, “I would’ve invited her.”

  The boys are having a tiff. Again. I let them work it out.

  I have to admit, I didn’t quite understand the gravity of being with a royal until now. The way people flock to Roland… that was expected. But me? I’m no one. I’ve been on my own for so long, I can’t remember the last time someone told me what to do or where to be. Roland is chauffeured, kept at a distance, and gently coddled, as though he’s a carton of eleven eggs and one unpinned grenade.

  There’s a nagging unease gnawing at in the pit of my stomach as I turn my attention out the window. The coastal town whisks by, each house more colorful than the last, like seashells swept out with the tide.

  Unsurprisingly, the Pennington Estate is picturesque. The “Villa Leon d’Oro,” as Roland corrected me, is styled to be part Moorish, part Venetian, which gives it a Gothic, old castle feel. It sits at the very edge of a sheer cliff face and looks like it could topple down at any moment. The villa remains sturdy, proud, and it’s not until we get closer, winding up and down the curving cliff side, do I see the imperfections. The white paint has chipped and cracked, no doubt battered by the seaside storms. Bits of tree
and foliage have overgrown around the sides, bursting out at odd angles. It strikes me then that Roland isn’t the only one who hasn’t been here in ten years—no one has so much as touched this place since the royal family tragedy.

  The driver drops us outside the front. I come face-to-face with a black iron gate with a lion’s head twisted in the metal, propped up between two white columns.

  “Home sweet home,” Roland says, his tone saccharine as he climbs out of the town car and shuts the door soundly behind him.

  The lion imagery doesn’t stop there. Once we’re through the gate, I spot twin stone lions lounging on either side of the entrance. They’re decrepit now, and one even seems to be missing an ear.

  Roland scales the steps in twos, unlocks it, and throws open the double doors. Particles of dust blow upward when he drops his bags.

  “It hasn’t had any upkeep in a while,” Roland adds as a side note. “So pardon the dust. Literally.”

  “I’ll have a maid come by,” Ben says, already on his phone.

  “We can fix it ourselves,” I murmur. “It just needs a little loving.”

  I step inside and look around in awe. The curtains are pulled as though the house is in mourning, and the sunlight from outside leaves bleary yellow splotches against the fabric. A white marble staircase winds up to the second floor. The den is a patchwork of old lounge chairs, landscape paintings, and antique vases. A beautiful decorative rug depicting Dionysus’s followers hand-feeding him grapes from the vine takes up an entire wall.

  There’s something incredibly romantic about an extravagant villa abandoned by time. I can’t help but fall in love with it.

  “There’s a pool outside, if my memory serves me right,” Roland says. “I say we break open a bottle of limoncello and start there.”

  “Rory.” I’m so into exploring the house that Ben’s hand on my arm startles me. When I turn, he holds out a phone for me to take. “A gift for you. It’s prepaid. From the palace. Perks of being a principessa.”