Page 17 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

I brush Ben off, ignoring him completely, and push through the double doors to stride into the dining hall.

My mother—the reigning queen of England—sits at the head of the table. At forty-six, she shines brighter than any diamond in the palace. The press can say what they will about the Pennington reign—that our dynasty has been at times cold, aloof, and, back in the day, downright cruel—but what we’ve done, we’ve done in style. Queen Selena is every ounce a Pennington specimen, from her golden hair pinned back behind her head to the swanlike slope of her neck. Then, of course, there’s the legendary strong Pennington jawline. For all her delicate femininity, her dramatic makeup and polished nails, there’s no hiding the lioness’s bone-crunching jaw.

Princess Iris sits beside her, spreading grape jelly over a scone. Even though they’re twins, Iris has filled out where my mum’s gone gaunt, and her skin seems warmer somehow, brighter. The spring to my mum’s winter. She’s always been a second mum to me, and when I step in, she gives me that cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile.

I step behind the two and lean over to give them a customary peck on the cheek. “Good morning, Iris,” I tell her.

“Isn’t it, Prince Charming?” she smirks. She’s hiding something behind that goading smile, and it’s not yellow feathers.

When I go to kiss my mum, she swivels her chin just slightly out of my reach. “Sit,” she commands.

Her tone is cold and hard. She’s talking to me as queen now, not my mother. I obey and take my seat beside her.

“You are aware that tonight is the annual masquerade ball. The ball that I’ve worked very hard to pull together, mind you.”

“I’m aware.” A plate of over-easy eggs, sausage, and beans appears in front of me—magic—and I pick at it.

Once a year, the palace throws a charity ball to support the military. My father had started it years ago, and the queen took it upon herself to continue the tradition even after his private plane hit dirt and took him down with it.

The people loved my father, Duncan. Although he was only in-lawed into royalty by marrying my mother, he had such grace and charm that the press took to calling him “King Duncan,” and the name stuck. They tolerated uptight Queen Selena and me, her royally spoiled son, but they loved my father. The yearly ball was a way of reminding them why they’d once adored the royal family… even if you had to be a member of the press, a noble, or incredibly, independently wealthy to afford the price of admission.

But—Queen Selena always stressed—it was a charity, after all.

The corners of my mother’s mouth are tight and curved downward now like the lines of a scythe. “Then you can understand my confusion,” she continues, “when I found this story making headlines instead.”

She pushes her tablet over to me and taps the screen. For a moment, it’s a still image of Rory and me. The pinwheel spins and the video starts playing.

The image rolls and yesterday’s Roland gestures like a buffoon, praising her brother. I hate watching myself played back. No matter how sincere I am, it always seems practiced and forced. I see flaws all over my smile. It makes me cringe.

I focus on Rory instead. She’s a natural and innately charming. I feel a grin twitch the corner of my mouth.

Rory March, March On! Rory signs off, smiles for the camera, and taps the screen with her finger.

“This is nothing,” I tell her. “A request from a fan.”

“Keep watching,” my mother instructs.

“The ending is… positively thrilling,” Iris cackles. My mum shoots her a stern look, and the other woman shuts her mouth.

I watch.

The video doesn’t stop there. Instead, the angle turns upward. There’s a small clatter as Rory sets her phone down on the side table. This close, the arm of the chair cuts off the lower halves of our bodies. I can see Rory’s face very clearly, however. She looks emotional. Touched.

My heart picks up against my chest. The video keeps going, and I feel the cold fingers of dread sliding up my skin.

Are you all right? I come into focus again on the screen.

You’re incredible. There’s the tremble in her voice that broke my heart.

I’m not, video-me tells her. You, on the other hand. You’re remarkable, Rory.

We’re kissing now. The memory of her lips sends a spark of pleasure shooting through my blood. I dig my nails into my palms to keep myself focused.

The video keeps rolling. And rolling. When Rory takes off her top, my mother mercifully taps her manicured nail over the screen. We remain like that, frozen, tangled in one another.

“It goes on like that,” she says, “for forty-seven minutes.”

“This was an accident,” I explain quickly.

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