Page 24 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

A woman exits the bathroom looking more swan than woman—white dress, flowing snowy feathers, and a tall headpiece curling up from her head. She lets the door swing closed behind her, and I reopen it to head inside… but then I stall.

Around the corner, the adjacent hallway has been cordoned off with velvet rope. No doubt the palace’s way of keeping all the partygoers from wandering too far.

I wait until I hear the click-click of swan-woman’s heels vanish back into the party.

You shouldn’t be straying from the crowd, a voice in the back of my head warns me.

But the adventurer in me won’t be quelled. I have to explore.

I let go of the bathroom door and duck underneath the velvet rope. My dress swishes across the floor, and so I bunch it up as I walk to keep from giving myself away.

It feels like I’m walking through a museum. As I walk down the hall, I pass the kings and queens that have reigned throughout the years. Beautiful, giant paintings hang above me, larger than life. My history is fuzzy; I can’t name half of them, but I admire their strong scowls and the proud lift of their chins.

Oscar would love this. He’d be able to name every one of them, the years they reigned, and when and why they died.

There is one portrait I recognize immediately, and I come to a stop in front of it. The title card reads Prince Consort Duncan Hughes. Roland is a near-perfect match of his mother, but there are bits and pieces of his father that he retains. His strong stature. Those deep, intense eyes. The smile. Mostly the smile. All of the other portraits are frowning and solemn, but Duncan stands there, holding a staff, and there is this small Mona Lisa smile on his mouth. As though he knows some grand secret no one else does. It’s charming and warm, and I can’t help but like him.

Roland has his likability. Roland will make a great king. The thought pops into my head suddenly, and pride swells my chest.

Duncan’s eyes seem to be staring at the door behind me.

Well, if you insist, Your Highness…

I continue my adventure and push quietly through the wooden door across from me. The room I enter is completely swathed in crimson red. Red carpet, red walls, red ceiling, red furniture… red. Like someone went Carrie on this room. Red with gold trimmings, gold chandeliers, gold fringe, gold lining the twin chairs at the head of the room. Then I realize… they’re not any chairs. They’re thrones, perched on a platform, where the king and queen can sit proudly above everyone else.

I’m immediately hit with a feeling of awe. I’m standing in the middle of history. Royal leaders were crowned in this room. Out of respect, I take my mask off my head and set it down on the counter beside me. It scrapes a line of dust across the cherry wood. No one’s been in this room for a long time.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” a voice states.

I nearly jump out of my bones. I see her then. She’s wearing a ruby-red dress with a matching mask perched above her head and blends almost seamlessly into the color scheme. It’s Selena’s twin—she has to be. She has the same flowing blonde hair, the same beautiful and strong bone structure in her face. She’s lounging across one of the chaises, her bare feet up on the furniture, and pulling from a long cigarette. The smoke twists and curls in the air above her.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I was… I thought this was the bathroom. I’ll… go.”

“Hold on.” I feel her stare, penetrating. “You’re Roland’s girl, aren’t you?”

Roland’s girl. The implication that I’m his property gives me that shuddery feeling, like I’ve just bitten deep into a sheet of tinfoil. “Roland and I are… a thing,” I say. The words sound worse when they leave my mouth. I should’ve stuck with Roland’s girl. Now I just sound like a wishy-washy teen. I adjust, remember his introduction to the queen. “I’m his girlfriend.”

Yes. Girlfriend. That sounds better the more I say it. It’s growing on me.

“The one in the video.” She draws a fox’s smile. “I like your style, ducky.”

“Thanks.” It’s a weird thing to be praised for. This whole situation is weird. I feel like I’ve caught her in an intimate moment, enjoying a cigarette in the throne room. On second thought—is she even supposed to be here?

Benefits of being the queen’s sister, I guess.

Feeling a little bolder, I step forward, out of the doorway. “You’re the queen’s sister. Princess Iris, right?”

She waves her non-cigarette hand. “Call me Iris.”

Thank God, because I have no idea how to properly address a noble.

“Are you enjoying the party, Rory?” She doesn’t sit up, just rolls her head lazily to face me.

I nod like a child at the kids’ table. “Yes. It’s incredibly… grand.”

Grand. I don’t think I’ve used that word in a sentence… ever. It makes Iris laugh, a purring, throaty sound. “Yes. My sister certainly has a taste for opulence.” She takes a pull from her cigarette, and for a moment, the smoke clouds her face. “Do you have any sisters, Rory?”

I shake my head. “I have a brother. Older.”

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