Page 21 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

“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.

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