Page 23 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

“Follow my lead,” Roland assures me. “Look at me. Not your feet.”

“Okay.” Twist my arm. I can’t stop staring at him. His luxurious mane of hair is tied back with a black ribbon, and his brows are primed to make the wild man look more groomed. He smells clean, like mint leaves, lavender, and sandalwood, and I’m tempted to bury my face in the opening of his airy shirt where his chest is left bare and inhale him. My fingers itch with the desire to take off the mask covering half of his face so I can see him in all his glory.

Roland guides us back and forth with incredibly lithe, graceful movements, and I surprise myself by keeping up with him. He notices, too, and smiles proudly. “You’re a natural,” he says.

“Or I’m just good at doing what I’m told.”

A hint of fire in his eyes, a violet flash. “That too.”

The harpist begins to pluck thin dreamy notes from her strings, and I fall into a trance. I can’t help but take in this place. The chandeliers are huge, like glaciers hanging from the ceiling. The people around us look like old-school marionettes with their extravagant dresses and suits and their wild, bizarre masks. I feel like I’ve fallen through a wormhole into a different time, a different dimension. Surely, something this grandiose can’t exist in the same world where every other sock I own has a hole in it.

“What are you thinking?” Roland asks, suddenly breaking the silence between us.

“Honestly? I wish I was livestreaming this. Oscar would love to see this.” I crinkle my nose when I hear the words come out of my mouth. “Sorry, that was… incredibly not romantic.”

“Don’t apologize. You love your brother.”

“Very much.”

“Don’t you think he’d want you to be right here, enjoying yourself, instead of worrying about him? That’s the point of all this, isn’t it? You’re living your life to the fullest in honor of him.”

I nod. “You’re right. I know you are. It’s just… hard to turn it off.”

“Luckily for you, you have an incredibly charming, handsome prince standing right in front of you. And he can’t take his eyes off you.” How can someone be so arrogant and so sincere at the same time? I laugh and I want to call him out on it, but when my eyes meet his—well. He’s right. I fall right into them. Those sparkling blue pools are staring right at me, and suddenly, it’s hard to think about anything else but him.

“Better?” he asks.

I wind my arms around his neck and draw him in closer. “Better,” I agree.

I only get to enjoy the strong grip of his arms for a few seconds longer before the song dwindles to its end. The dancers break apart to clap. Everyone but us. Roland tucks me in closer and kisses me. His lips break open my petals, and I’m dizzy for him. I sigh into his mouth and melt against his sturdy chest.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” The crisp female voice sends jolts of alarm through my body, and I break apart from Roland. When I turn to face the onlooker, my mouth goes cotton dry.

Holy Christ on a cracker.

It’s the queen of England, flanked by a pair of guards. The queen is dressed to the nines in this gorgeous black-and-white gown that’s tight around her slim waist and then fans out at her hips. Her hair, like Roland’s, is long, blonde, and lush, but hers is contained in braids that wrap around the back of her head like a ribbon and tumble down her shoulders. For a mask, she has nothing but a small eye piece that matches her dress, and she holds it on a long stick between her fingers. After all, what would the queen of England have to hide from?

Roland swivels to a stop. “Mum.” He winds his arm around the small of my back. “This is my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” The word leaves my mouth more of a squeak than anything, and I stare at Roland. I’m his girlfriend now? I like it, but… a little forewarning would have been nice, maybe. He just smiles at me, but it’s a hard smile that says go with it. Then I remember that I’m in front of the queen of England, and I manage to jut my hand out. “Yes. That’s me. Hi.”

“Rory, is it?” The queen ignores my attempt at a shake, and her ice-hard eyes meet mine.

I don’t know what to do. Nothing in life has prepared me to come face-to-face with the queen of England after getting caught with my tongue down her son’s throat. I’m sure I’m as red as my hair, and I pull myself together enough to drop my eyes in a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.”

Now that introductions have been made, the queen ignores me completely. She turns to her son and says, “Roland, may we have a word?”

Her tone is tight and leaves no room for debate. She’s calm and collected, as cool as an ice sculpture, but there’s a tightness to her lips that gives me the impression that she’s capable of unleashing the fires of hell when angry. When Roland looks at me, I can see the apology in his eyes. He looks utterly mortified, but I’m not an idiot. I know better than to get mixed up in family drama, especially when it’s the royal family of England. I take a step back. “I’m going to check out the buffet table,” I tell him.

“I’ll find you.” He brushes his lips once more against mine. Leave it to Roland never to miss a second to claim me. I’m stiff now, though, anxious, and I can barely meet his kiss. My heart is going rabbit fast in my chest. His hand is firm, secure at the small of my back. Selfishly, I want to beg him not to let go of me.

But he does. The guards close ranks around the prince and queen, and I’m cut out of the circle.

I flounder like a fish cut from the line and let the crowd swallow me. I suddenly feel incredibly out of place, surrounded by nobles with lifted chins and thousand-dollar smiles. I’m an imposter in this world, woefully out of my league. They have rules. Traditions. Propriety. I have a semipopular blog and a stuffed animal. I ate a bowl of dry granola in the common room this morning for breakfast. In my pajamas. Without milk, because milk was one pound and the granola was complimentary.

I can’t even fathom the way these people live.

I twist my way off the dance floor, through the crowd, and sneak out of the ballroom. My feet flop aimlessly on the ground, and the sound echoes down the tall halls. I need to find a bathroom to hole myself away for a second. I haven’t been this antisocial since high school prom. I want to find a plate of cookies and shove them in my mouth one by one until the confidence of a sugar high kicks in.

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