Page 20 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

“You’re a peach, Rory,” he tells me.

“I resent that,” I say and point to my red hair. “I’m clearly a carrot.”

He chuckles and sips his coffee. I like to make nice with the watchmen—after all, he did let me stumble to bed in the wee hours of the morning.

“There’s a bloke waiting on you in the lobby,” Brekson informs me.

I blink. “For me?” I parrot stupidly.

He nods and points through the double doors. Through the tinted circular window, I see a figure sitting on the bench.

My heart bangs against my rib cage. What if it’s Roland? I’m not the kind of girl to hope against hope, but maybe, just maybe, Prince Roland will wrap his arms around me, pull me into a kiss, smile against my lips, and tell that he can’t bear to be away from me…

The pounding of my pulse could scare a flock of birds, it’s that loud. I push through the doors and try not to drop my cup of coffee.

Ben Tolle stands when he sees me. His face is a mask and his tone as crisp as the London chill. “Rory,” he says. “Let’s chat.”

12

Ben

My mug has a stain on it.

A rosy, faint lipstick mark right on the rim. I try to keep my lip from curling with displeasure, and I resist the urge to take it to the sink and start scrubbing. Instead, I leave my fingers curled around the handle and let the tea steam on, untouched.

We’re in some kind of communal living space, surrounded by lumpy, mismatched sofas, a projection screen, a pool table, and a “kitchen,” which consists of a sink, a cup holder, and a filter for hot water. The whole place smells like mold and unwashed bodies. It brings back something familiar, a wave of memories from the docks. I shake it off and refocus.

Rory sits across from me. She’s clutching my phone, eyes wide, as the scandalous video rolls on in front of her. She either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care that moans are pouring out of the thing. I have to forcibly focus my attention on anything but those sounds to keep myself from getting hard in the common room.

I keep my eyes on her face. Rory looks like a deer in headlights. There’s a terrible, sadistic part of me that enjoys her discomfort.

“Oh my God,” she groans. “This can’t be happening.”

She turns off the video (thank God) and drops her head on the table. Red hair splays out like bloodstains. My palm twitches with the urge to run my fingers through it.

“Was it a media ploy?”

She lifts her head from the table. Her eyes blink blearily and refocus. “You think I did this?”

“You tell me.”

“No! I would never… this is humiliating. Not to mention, the prince… oh my God. I have to take this off my site. Now.”

Her fingers start flying over my phone.

“It won’t matter,” I tell her. “The video has already been ripped and reposted on hundreds of other sites. It’s out now.”

She drops the phone as though it’s burned her palms. Slowly, her emerald eyes rise to me. “Does he hate me?”

The question catches me off guard. Her neck is on the line… and she’s asking about Roland? I’m not prepared for the pinch of guilt in my chest. “The prince?”

“Yes. I need to apologize to him, somehow… I know he probably won’t want to see me, but if I can pass a message through you, maybe—”

“You can tell him yourself.” I cut her prattling short, swipe my phone from the table, and pocket it. “Tonight. He’s invited you to the royal masquerade ball.”

She looks like a beached fish, her mouth opening and closing speechlessly before she spits out the words, “But that’s… isn’t that a royals-only thing?”

“Yes. You’re the first Normal that’s been allowed inside in ten years. So look nice and be on your best behavior.”

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