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

  That’s not going to happen. There’s a lot more rustling in the bunks, a voice in a language I don’t speak, and a second person wakes up. Everyone’s getting up and I don’t want to get caught wet-handed. I discreetly slip my hand out from my panties, roll over in bed, and grab for my phone.

  Distraction. That sounds good right now. My phone died at some point at the palace last night, but it’s recharged now, plugged into the wall outlet by my cot. I flick through to my emails and try to ignore the needy buzzing between my legs. I want to send Oscar an email and tell him all about last night. I can already see him rolling his eyes. I want to hear his dry, sardonic humor. I know how he’d react, too—the older brother, forever chastising me for my bad behavior, all the while doing a poor job of hiding his proud smile. You’re a train wreck, Rory, he’d tell me, lovingly. The thought is enough to make me start grinning.

  As soon as I open my email, however, it refuses to let me send anything. I get a warning message explaining that I’ve used up all my cellular data for the month. How can that be? I’m usually so good at budgeting. I’ll have to call my provider and maybe work out of internet cafés for the time being.

  I sigh, drop my phone, and get up. I have torn jeans folded at the edge of my bed so I don’t have to run around a bunch of strangers in my underwear, and I shimmy them on underneath my blanket.

  Otter-Oscar sleeps beside me, and I pluck him out of bed before I lower myself down the stepladder and to the ground. Nora is still sleeping soundly, her face mushed against her computer, so I try to do everything quietly so as not to disturb her. I unlock my locker and pull out my clothes and toiletries. I take these to the communal bathroom, wash up, and get changed. I crack all my bones in the process—Prince Roland did a number on me. Muscles that I didn’t know existed are sore.

  No. I can’t let my mind drift there again. I have a limited number of clean panties, and I don’t want to have to change out of another pair before the day has even begun.

  Besides. It’s a bad idea to linger too long on the idea of the prince. I know what last night was—a hot fling. Even royalty need to get their rocks off every now and then. I get it, I do. In the words of the famous Roman orator: I came, I saw, and I came again. Prince Roland probably doesn’t even remember my name, but you know what?

  I had sex with the future king of England.

  And oh God—

  So worth it!

  But there was more to Roland than mind-blowingly good sex. He was kind, thoughtful, and generous in unexpected ways. Then there were his eyes. Sometimes violet with desire, sometimes crystal blue, and other times as cloudy and gray as the London sky. Even surrounded by the gilded palace, with literally the world at his feet, there was something sad lingering in the prince’s eyes. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.

  But things don’t make a person happy. With nothing to my name but a backpack and a stuffed animal, I know that as well as anyone. There’s a quiet, nagging part of me that wants to make the prince happy. I want to hug him or send him a toy otter of his own, even though I know both thoughts are impossibly silly.

  There’s free coffee in the rec room. I’m low on money, so I make two to-go cups before slinging by bag over my shoulders and heading out. Brekson—the guy behind the counter with tattoos and huge ear gauges—gives me a nod on my way out. I set one of the cups of coffee in front of him.

  “You’re a peach, Rory,” he tells me.

  “I resent that,” I say and point to my red hair. “I’m clearly a carrot.”

  He chuckles and sips his coffee. I like to make nice with the watchmen—after all, he did let me stumble to bed in the wee hours of the morning.

  “There’s a bloke waiting on you in the lobby,” Brekson informs me.

  I blink. “For me?” I parrot stupidly.

  He nods and points through the double doors. Through the tinted circular window, I see a figure sitting on the bench.

  My heart bangs against my rib cage. What if it’s Roland? I’m not the kind of girl to hope against hope, but maybe, just maybe, Prince Roland will wrap his arms around me, pull me into a kiss, smile against my lips, and tell that he can’t bear to be away from me…

  The pounding of my pulse could scare a flock of birds, it’s that loud. I push through the doors and try not to drop my cup of coffee.

  Ben Tolle stands when he sees me. His face is a mask and his tone as crisp as the London chill. “Rory,” he says. “Let’s chat.”

  12

  Ben

  My mug has a stain on it.

  A rosy, faint lipstick mark right on the rim. I try to keep my lip from curling with displeasure, and I resist the urge to take it to the sink and start scrubbing. Instead, I leave my fingers curled around the handle and let the tea steam on, untouched.

  We’re in some kind of communal living space, surrounded by lumpy, mismatched sofas, a projection screen, a pool table, and a “kitchen,” which consists of a sink, a cup holder, and a filter for hot water. The whole place smells like mold and unwashed bodies. It brings back something familiar, a wave of memories from the docks. I shake it off and refocus.

  Rory sits across from me. She’s clutching my phone, eyes wide, as the scandalous video rolls on in front of her. She either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care that moans are pouring out of the thing. I have to forcibly focus my attention on anything but those sounds to keep myself from getting hard in the common room.

  I keep my eyes on her face. Rory looks like a deer in headlights. There’s a terrible, sadistic part of me that enjoys her discomfort.

  “Oh my God,” she groans. “This can’t be happening.”

  She turns off the video (thank God) and drops her head on the table. Red hair splays out like bloodstains. My palm twitches with the urge to run my fingers through it.

  “Was it a media ploy?”

  She lifts her head from the table. Her eyes blink blearily and refocus. “You think I did this?”

  “You tell me.”

  “No! I would never… this is humiliating. Not to mention, the prince… oh my God. I have to take this off my site. Now.”

  Her fingers start flying over my phone.

  “It won’t matter,” I tell her. “The video has already been ripped and reposted on hundreds of other sites. It’s out now.”

  She drops the phone as though it’s burned her palms. Slowly, her emerald eyes rise to me. “Does he hate me?”

  The question catches me off guard. Her neck is on the line… and she’s asking about Roland? I’m not prepared for the pinch of guilt in my chest. “The prince?”

  “Yes. I need to apologize to him, somehow… I know he probably won’t want to see me, but if I can pass a message through you, maybe—”

  “You can tell him yourself.” I cut her prattling short, swipe my phone from the table, and pocket it. “Tonight. He’s invited you to the royal masquerade ball.”

  She looks like a beached fish, her mouth opening and closing speechlessly before she spits out the words, “But that’s… isn’t that a royals-only thing?”

  “Yes. You’re the first Normal that’s been allowed inside in ten years. So look nice and be on your best behavior.”

  “Normal?” she chirps. I quietly detest myself for using royal talk.

  “It’s what the royals call civilians,” I explain.

  “Charming.” She crinkles her nose at the hubris. I can’t blame her. I hate it, too. “Anyway, tell His Highness I appreciate the invitation, but I can’t go.”

  I blink. I’ve just offered her Willy Wonka’s golden ticket… and she’s declining it? I grind my back molars. “What do you mean, you can’t go?” I ask. Even I can hear my patience waning. I sound like an overworked nanny.

  “I mean… I shouldn’t even have stayed here that long. I’m on my way to catch a bus to the airport. I’m going to Edinburgh and maybe heading to Ireland from there—I’m not sure—kind of see how it goes, you know? Anyway, then I’m gone and I’m out of your hair and…
you don’t have to worry about any of this.”

  Her speech speeds up as she speaks, her words tripping on their way out of her mouth.

  “You’re going,” I tell her. Fuck the nanny. I’ve gone into full-dad mode now. You’re going to do what I say. End of discussion.

  She whines and opens her mouth to complain, but I cut her off.

  “You’re going,” I repeat, “because the prince of England expects you to be there. Maybe you can run from this, but he can’t. You can do him that kindness.”

  Rory’s expression twists in contemplation. She knows I’m right. She’s going to say yes. I can see it written all over her expression. Her bleeding heart. She strikes me as the type of woman who picks worms off the sidewalk and plops them into the grass to keep them from frying in the hot sun. She’s not going to leave Roland hanging.

  “I don’t… exactly have anything to wear,” she gets out. The last feeble protest of someone who has already made up their mind.

  She’s not lying. Her jeans are ripped at the knees, her shirt baggy, and there are mud stains on her Converses. I doubt she has a matching pair of socks, let alone a palace-ready dress.

  “A representative from the palace will come by tonight to drop off a dress and pick you up.”

  I stand. So does she. Rory’s fingers wrap around my wrist to keep me there. The touch of her fingertips sends a jolt of warmth through me. “Ben.” There are those eyes, wide and forest green. “Will you be there?”

  Most everyone knows better than to put their hands on me. Everyone except Rory. She’s as naïve as a blind kitten, looking to me for protection. She sticks her hand in the mouth of a starved wolf and trusts me not to bite her.

  But how I want to. I want to suck a welt into her snow-white throat, bend her over the rickety table, and make her ours. The spoiled prince took her without me. I want to even the playing field. My need is throbbingly fierce now, and for a moment it nearly blinds me.

  I take a breath. Force my heartbeat to simmer down.

  “I’m the prince’s bodyguard,” I tell her. “I have to be.”

  There’s that smile, soft and warm on her plump lips. “Good. Maybe you can keep an eye on both of us. The last thing I want to do is embarrass him… you know. Again.”

  “You’ll be fine.” My voice sounds quiet, gentle, and utterly foreign in my ears. It doesn’t sound me like me. It sounds… domesticated.

  It’s placated her, at least. “Thank you, Ben.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Really. Don’t.

  I rip my away from her touch. I turn my back on her and push out the double doors. The cool London air chills the sweat on my neck. My heart is hammering by the time I reach the town car and let myself in. Wordlessly, the driver takes me back to the palace.

  I swipe my fingers through my hair. My hand is shaking. Like a little girl with a bloody crush.

  Get it together, Ben.

  13

  Roland

  Buckingham Palace is alive.

  The ballroom has been cleared in preparation for the masquerade tonight. Everything has been dusted, polished, and cleaned. Sunlight hits the chandeliers, and they glimmer, it seems, for the first time all year. The ballroom is suffocated by royal reds and highlighted with bands of gold. There are buffet tables along the walls, filled with plates containing whole salmon, saddles of mutton, plump woodcocks, plovers, and trays of deviled herring and cream cheese. The bar is stocked with the king’s reserve, and staff in simple ruby and gold masks waltz around handing out small glasses of champagne, which will be swapped out with port at the end of the night. Bodyguards are posted every couple of yards, and I wonder if there’s less security in a prison yard.

  The doors have barely opened and already the place is bustling.

  I linger at the fringes of the party. My years of solitude have made me introverted. Furthermore, I can keep a close eye on the doorway from here. Every time the doors open for a new guest, they’re always backlit with a flash of camera light as reporters cram up against the gates to get a glimpse of the palace’s elite guest list. I know what they’re really hoping for, though, is a shot of the secluded prince himself.

  Every time the doors open, my hopes go up, and every time they’re dashed when I see another masked face without an explosion of ginger hair behind it. I wear my father’s signet ring—a gold reminder of him with the image of a reared lion pressed into the soft metal—and I twist it back and forth impatiently.

  “Presenting the duchess of York!” the presenter announces at the top of the steps. A blonde in a dress layered like a wedding cake pulls back her Renaissance mask to reveal a pinched face underneath. Another champagne socialist. She finds me with hawk-like precision and winks at me.

  If I have to keep this smile on any longer, my face will surely crack. “Rory isn’t coming,” I mutter between clenched teeth.

  “She is.” Ben, my shadow, lingers behind me. Like the other guards, he’s dressed in his familiar black-and-white uniform so he’s not mistaken for a partygoer. Not that anyone could mistake that perpetual frown. “I made sure of it myself.”

  “Angelia, do you hear that buzzing?” I ask the waitress next to me. “Very strange.”

  “Most strange indeed, Your Highness. Champagne?”

  “I’ll need it.”

  I take the flute and down it. The bubbles pop and fizzle on my tongue. Ben curses under his breath, so low he must think I can’t hear it.

  With every second that ticks by without Rory, my mood only grows darker. I feel like a bloody jester. My face is pasty with powders and foundation, half of it covered in a white mask ornamented with glimmering gold and silver lace. My hair is so slick that a pence could float on top of it, and I’m stuffed in these tight black pants that leave little to the imagination. My shirt overcompensates with frills and poufy sleeves. I cringed when I first saw it, but my mum positively fawned over it, and I knew I had to pick and choose my battles with her today. At any minute, she could revoke Rory’s invitation, and as the minutes fly by without hide nor hair of my girl, I’m beginning to fear that that’s exactly what happened.

  I’m picking irritably at the lace at my sleeves when the presenter’s bored voice booms out again. “Presenting Miss Rory March, ah…” The old geezer never stumbles over his words, but he seems to be struggling with it now as he reads off a slip of paper. “Lady of Detroit, Michigan.”

  I see her and my heart stops. Her auburn hair cascades in rivulets down her shoulders. Her dress is the same color of her lips, carnation pink. It’s strapless and hugs the swells of her feminine form before falling to the floor in a bounty of sheer lace. She’s wearing a simple, black mask around her eyes, and it frames her face with bold, dark raven feathers. For all her delicate beauty, her smile is still crooked, still wild, still Rory, and I find myself transfixed by it.

  I’m frozen in my spot. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. I hardly notice the tremor that ripples through the crowd as our guests murmur amongst themselves. Perhaps they’re wondering who she is. Worse—perhaps they already know.

  I don’t care what they think. I can’t take my eyes off her.

  My God. She’s beautiful. An angel straight out of one of Raphael’s frescoes.

  When she spots me, her eyes light up. She glides down the steps and makes her way over to me. Immediately, she gives me a grin, lowers her eyes, and lifts her dress in a curtsy. “Your Highness. Thank you for the invite. This is…” She laughs. “It’s insane!” She waves to my bodyguard behind me. “Hi, Ben!”

  “Lady Michigan,” Ben replies. “What the hell is on your feet?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She kicks out a foot to reveal her black combat boots underneath. “I didn’t want to trip coming down those steps, so… the heels were a no-go. Sorry. Does it look too weird?”

  I didn’t think my heart could get any bigger, but it does. It swells so much I’m certain the engorged organ is crushing the very breath from my lungs. “It’s very
you,” I tell her. “It’s perfect.”

  I take her in my arms then and cover her mouth with mine. I don’t think twice about it. I want her and I claim her with my lips, my hands, and my tongue. She yields with a soft mewl, and her body molds against mine. She gives herself to me effortlessly, and her willing submission makes my blood grow hot.

  I break our kiss to murmur in the shell of her ear. “I want to take you. Right here. In front of everyone.”

  She shudders like a baby bird in my arms. She can’t hide it. She wants it, too. But she puts her hands on my chest to give us some distance and says, “Technically, you’ve already taken me for the world to see. So. Let’s do something we haven’t done.” She winks and offers her hand. “Dance with me?”

  I take her soft hand in mine. “It’d be an honor.”

  14

  Rory

  I can feel eyes on me wherever we go. Some guests shoot me looks and whisper about me in the open, and I know they must have seen the video. Others glare at me for hoarding the prince’s attention. I even catch some confused, squinted expressions flashed my way, as though to say, What is the Normal doing here?

  Roland pulls me onto the dance floor, and not for the first time tonight, I think, Thank God for sensible shoes. In heels, I would’ve probably twisted my ankle by now, and I don’t need to give them another reason to stare.

  The dance floor is sectioned off with a large patch of polished wood. Roland sweeps me against him and draws me close, an arm around my back, his other hand still in mine. We’re not alone on the dance floor; a couple of others have decided to sway to the melodic music, but they give us a wide berth when we approach. I’d thought the music was coming from the speakers, but when I look over Roland’s shoulder, I spot a full band: a grand piano, a couple of violins, flutes, and even a huge arching harp.