Page 44 of Dark Romeo

“His son?”

“Word on the street is, since Jacob died, the youngest son has been recalled back into the fold. The prodigal son has returned and there’s a new heir to the throne. The new Prince of Darkness has come home.”

ROMAN

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I woke up with rough hands shaking me, then a slap on the face.

“Fuck you,” I muttered to my assaulter. “When I wake up properly, you’re dead.” Fuck, my head hurt. What time was it? Hell, what day was it?

I attempted to open my bleary eyes. My cousin, Benvolio, was glaring at me like I was a petulant child late for school. He looked like the rest of us Tyrells, a generous crop of dark hair, strong jaw, dark hooded eyes and a permanent snarl to his lips. “Wake up, fucker,” Benvolio slapped my face again. “Have a shower and get dressed.”

I shoved him back so he couldn’t hit me again and sat up, rubbing my face. Sometime last night I had passed out on the couch in the living room of my new apartment, all three bedrooms of opulence, cold and impersonal like a hotel. My foot kicked at an empty bottle of Jack across the plush cream rug. “Where’s the fire?” I grumbled.

“The cops are coming to take you to the station.”

Cops? A shot of adrenaline rushed through me. Now I was awake. “What?”

Benvolio rolled his eyes. “Shower. Now. A Tyrell never goes in public without wearing suitable attire. Reputation is everything.” He pointed to the fresh suit still in its dry-cleaning plastic, hung across the back of a straight-backed dining room chair.

Reputation is everything. I snorted. “You’re sounding more and more like my old man every day.”

Benvolio’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re not sounding enough like him.”

I gritted my teeth. For a long moment, we glared at each other, Benvolio hating me because I was next in line to the Tyrell throne, me hating him because he wasn’t.

Benvolio pointed towards my bathroom. “Shower. Go.”

“What? You’re not going to wash my ass for me?”

“I don’t get paid enough to wash your fucking ass. Why don’t you get one of your groupies to do it for you? Speaking of groupies, why are you alone? Shouldn’t you have a naked girl or three draped over your dick?”

I snorted. “What the fuck do you know?”

“Please. Your sordid reputation in Europe even reached us in Verona.”

I didn’t answer him. I got up, walked to the bathroom, and tried not to barf all over the pristine cream marble tiles. In the shower, I let the hot water run over me. I felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to my body. My muscles ached. My head throbbed.

What hurt worst wasn’t physical. I felt raw and torn, a mere cavity inside me where my soul had been, where hope had once lain. Not even that pretty and willing blonde from the other night could soothe me.

After I got her back to this apartment, Rachel, or whatever her name was, had begun to undress. I’d stood there drinking straight from the bottle. I kept comparing her to Julianna. Her tan was fake, not like Julianna’s smooth, natural glow. Her body was too skinny and I could feel her ribs when she pressed up against me, not like Julianna’s soft, warm flesh and perfect natural curves.

I reached for the blonde’s lips anyway, praying that they would quiet the noise in my head like Julianna’s had.

They hadn’t. The world still whirled around me, the voices—mine, my mother’s, my father’s—all yelling at me in my head. I needed peace and peace was in Julianna’s touch.

But I couldn’t have her. Not now. Not anymore.

I tore my mouth away from the blonde and let out a growl of frustration as I pushed her off me. She let out a whine of disapproval.

“I can’t do this,” I told her.

She stared at me, wide eyes looking pained, then she glanced down. I was totally flaccid. “You drank too much?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. Let her think that. I hoped it would make her feel better when I kicked her out.

She wouldn’t take the hint. “I can fix that for you.” She pressed up against me, her hand shoving down into the front of my pants. Even in her palm, my dick was limp.

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