Page 5 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

“When we get inside,” I inform her, “you’ll have to sign a form that says you won’t steal anything during your visit, and that what happens at the palace, stays here.”

“So like an NDA?”

“Not like.” No, not like. It is, pure and simple.

“So are there a lot of… uh… unmentionable things that go on around here?”

Rory asks a lot of questions. So I spout a couple of sordid facts clinically. “Our master of the household gambles, Queen Selena curses out the staff, and if you’re lucky, you may see Princess Iris stealing liquor from the basement. You know. The usual.”

Rory’s jaw nearly hits the floor. “What about Prince Roland? What’s his sin?”

I don’t answer, but the corner of my mouth twitches in a near-smile. She’ll find out herself… soon enough. “This way,” I motion her, and we turn in to the palace.

3

Roland

It’s her.

I only catch a glimpse of her from the window. A short, slim figure hovering in the shadows near Ben. I’d recognize Ben’s lanky silhouette anywhere. The ballroom has been mostly cleared for the event tomorrow, and the yawning cavern of tall hardwood ceilings and full-wall windows gives me a perfect view of the outside. I’ve lingered here in the dark for the better part of the last hour. Waiting. Pacing. When I see her, the book I’ve only been half reading tumbles from my hands. I press myself against the cool glass of the window.

As their figures cross in front of Buckingham Palace, I follow them. I flit from window to window, peeking through the curtains like a caged animal. I’m desperate to catch a hint of my woman tonight. Before she vanishes around the bend and out of my line of vision, she steps into a puddle of lamplight.

Red hair. There’s a flash of it and then she’s gone, but it’s enough to make every vein in my body ache.

Ben knows I have a weakness for gingers. Then again, Ben knows a lot about me. He knows how I like my tea. He knows how I like my women. He knows when I’m about to blow a casket. He knows exactly how to tame me.

That’s what this redhead is. A sacrifice to the beast inside me.

I’ve been born and raised a Pennington. Second in line for the throne after my aunt. Every move is calculated. Every aspect of my life is controlled by the queen. I can’t so much as leave my own house. I haven’t, not in nearly ten years. Not since my father’s jet suspiciously malfunctioned and dragged him to an untimely death. Now, all that exists of the Pennington line is me, my mum, my aunt, and a smattering of cousins. Paranoid that someone was gunning for royals, my mum locked me up in the palace. Yet as much as I try to play by the rules and do what’s expected of me…

There’s a nagging inside of me. A dark itch that needs to be scratched, or else I’m liable to rip the paintings from the walls and light the whole bloody palace on fire. I need human contact. I need flesh. I need the warmth of a woman—a real woman, not these painted-up dolls the palace provides as subservient entertainment. I need to feel her trapped between Ben and me. I need those soft, begging eyes fixed on me. I need her to moan for her prince.

These perverse ménages are the only things that get my blood moving anymore. I know it’s wrong. Every time, I tell myself this will be the last time. I’ll stop this indecency. This isn’t how I’ve been raised. This monster instead of me is not the prim and proper prince my mother has trained me to be. I know that I’m inviting danger in every time I open the palace doors. I know I’ve been kept locked away for a reason. I know it’s not fair to continue to tease myself with something I cannot have…

And yet I want it. Badly. And when Ben makes it so easy… I find it hard and harder to deny myself.

She’ll be here soon. The thought makes me dizzy, and my blood roars with lust.

My shirt collar is too tight, and I unbutton the top button to give myself some breathing room. This waiting will make me crazy. My hands are trembling. I need to busy the idle things until I can get them on her warm, bare skin.

I leave the room and vanish down the hall. The night guards are posted along the walls, and every now and then one of them murmurs a bored sir to me. I approach my mum’s room, and my feet stop at her doorway. The queen’s bedroom door is pearly white, delicate filigree patterns carved into the wood. If she finds out what I’m up to tonight, I’m up a creek. She’ll lock me in my room and throw away the key for sure.

Quietly, I knock on her door. “Mum?” I whisper.

My heart is lodged in my throat. I press my ear to the door.

Nothing. The queen is dead asleep. Relief fizzles through my blood.

The palace is mine tonight.

And so is my ginger angel.

4

Rory

I’m glad I had the foresight to use the bathroom at the pub, otherwise I would’ve peed myself with excitement.

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