Page 59 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Roland’s head is bowed, his hair pulled back with a violet ribbon. He hasn’t said anything in a long while. Well. Minutes, maybe? But even thirty seconds of silence makes me uncomfortable. I keep a respectful distance for as long as I can, but… finally I can’t let him suffer in silence.

I kneel beside him and cross my arms in front of me. “You must miss him,” I say.

“Yes and no,” Roland replies. His voice is soft, somber. Apparently, he saves the shouting matches for his mother. “I don’t remember a lot from that time.”

“What do you remember?”

“The timbre of my father’s voice. Racing toy boats with him in the pond behind the palace. He always let me win.”

I can see it in my mind’s eyes, the handsome king and his little prince, decked out in a tailored sailor suit, pushing their tiny boats along. The image makes me grin. “He must have loved you very much.”

“Bizarrely… I miss my mother more.” Roland’s gaze lifts from the floor and flickers across the gravestones. “The way she used to be. Something in her died that day and never came back. I used to think that if I just did what she wanted… if I stayed inside, kept up with my studies, if I could even just get her to smile… then maybe we’d be a family again. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

His hands dangle at his knees, so I reach across and take one of them in my own. He doesn’t pull back, so I squeeze. “You have a family now. You get that, right?”

Roland finally looks back at me. Some of the warmth has returned to his eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile. “Let’s go out,” he says. “I can’t stand the thought of going back to my mother right now.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” There’s Ben—the quiet party in the back. Our conscience, only occasionally chiming in to remind of things like reason and responsibility.

Roland releases my hand, rises to his feet, and steps away from the tombs. “Lighten up, Ben,” he says and pats the other man on the chest. “You look like someone died.”

Just like that, Roland is back to his old tricks. Shoving his damage under the rug and masking it with good humor. Who am I to say anything? We’re two animals with the same laugh-so-we-don’t-cry instincts.

Ben looks less amused. His lips crease with disapproval.

“He’ll be fine,” I assure him. I try to sound confident enough for the both of us.

“Right,” Ben says, but his eyes never leave the prince.

“Posse, assemble!” Roland calls back, his voice echoing in the cavernous halls. “To the pub!”

I swallow. The prince is falling apart, the bodyguard is at the end of his tether, and I’m frantically trying to keep us all in one piece… How can this go wrong?

30

Ben

We end up at a club called Liberation, and I’m trying not to lose my shit.

Rather than slip in inconspicuously, Roland strolls right up to the bouncer and shakes his hand. The poor bloke looks like he’s seen a ghost. There’s a line around the block, and everyone whispers and snaps pictures on their phones as the bouncer ushers the three of us in.

Now everyone knows we’re here. In the palace, I have a roster of permitted guests, background checks, and access to security cameras. Here, I’m blind. The club is a maze of dimly lit rooms, a wide dance floor, and strobe lights. The sofas and bar tables are all outlines in gaudy neon colors, so they pop out from the shadows. If they ran a black light through this thing, I doubt it would pass health code.

Roland, naturally, is as happy as a clam at high water. First a couple of people notice him and want to take a picture. Then a couple more want autographs. Before long, he’s amassed a small crowd and they’re lining up shots.

I hang in the corner of the bar where I can keep an eye on Roland. A crowd of gutter punks and hippies create a semicircle around Roland and a beefy Irish bloke. They stand at either side of the table, hawk eyes on each other.

A leggy blonde stands at the middle—she’s clearly designated herself some kind of referee. “First to the middle gets the lime! And…” She throws up her arms. “Go!”

Immediately, Roland and the bulldog start to down shots, starting from the end of the table and working their way in. The crowd cheers as they flip over each cup, racing toward the center.

In the chaos, Rory appears beside me. “What’s he doing?” Rory asks. She’s holding a blue-tinted drink, her second of the night.

“Mourning,” I answer.

“He looks like he’s having fun,” she tries.

Roland gets to the middle first and bites the lime. The club explodes in cheers. “God bless the bloody queen of England!” Roland shouts.

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