Page 44 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

I knit my eyebrows at that. “What do you mean?”

“You’re always looking for an escape hatch, Ror. Just because they’re into each other doesn’t mean you can slip out quietly one day and no one will ever notice. If they love you like you say they do… then that’s real. You’ve got to give it a chance.”

His words sink into my bones. Somehow, Oscar always manages to see straight through me. He tells me what I need to hear. “I will,” I tell him.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“All right.” He shifts gears. “You want to talk to Mom and Dad?”

“Yeah… sure.”

Oscar wrangles our parents and puts them on speakerphone. Mom brags about how I’m blowing up on “the social media,” and Dad wants to make sure I’m wearing enough sunscreen in Italy. I close my eyes and just listen to the murmurs of their voices for a while, their familiar inflections and loving quips at one another. This trip, my endless adventure around the world, March On… it all would’ve been easier if I hated my family. It would’ve been easier if I’d been raised with an evil stepmother and had only a few mice to call my friends.

But I love my family. I love my brother, above all. It’s harder than anything to leave them. Times like these, I want to buy a plane ticket back and cut my trip short here and now.

Only I don’t. I know what I’m doing is important. I know they’re proud of me for doing it—especially Oscar. It takes all the strength in the world, but eventually I tell them, “Hey… I’ve gotta go. But I’ve got basically… unlimited minutes here, so I’ll call you soon. Okay?”

“Love you, Ror!” comes the wave of voices from the other end of the phone.

“I love you, too,” I say. “Love you lots.”

It’s almost too silent when I hang up the phone. I let out a deep sigh and listen to the waves crashing below, the gulls cawing ahead.

I will not cry, I will not cry.

I miss my family back home like crazy. It helps that I have a bizarre, crazy, loving little family back inside the villa. I didn’t expect Roland and Ben to turn into something, but… here we are. And for the first time in years, I’m allowing myself to depend on these two voraciously loving men. Who knows? Maybe they can even be a permanent fixture in my life. It’s been so long since I’ve had something that lasts… This feels scary, new, and exciting all at once. Like how I felt when I bought my plane ticket out of Michigan with barely enough money in my pocket, a stuffed otter in my bag, a little spunk, and a lot of determination.

I need to distract myself from the emotions rattling around in my chest, so I click through my phone to visit my March On site. Even though I’ve been neglecting it as of late, it’s gotten an insane amount of hits since I last signed in. Apparently, my little unofficial sex tape with the prince of England has made my site go viral. Whodathunk? The good news is that my donation meter for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation is higher than ever. If accidentally showing off my blowjob skills to thousands of VidO views is what it takes to find a cure… then a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

All the same. My page is littered with comments. Some are supportive, but there’s my fair share of anonymous hateful in there as well. It’s time to take my narrative back.

I turn the camera on myself, smile, and hit Record. “Hello and March On!”

24

Ben

The limoncello is important.

I knew it would be the first thing Roland asked for once we got back to his place. The sour, tangy lemon liqueur is strong enough to knock even the prince off his feet, and it’s nearly impossible to find quality limoncello outside of Southern Italy. I knew there wouldn’t be any at Villa Leon d’Oro, and if there were, it would’ve spoiled by now. So I rang the driver up before we left England and told him to have a bottle waiting for us. I have the paper bag in hand now, and when I take the bottle out of the bag and set it on the kitchen counter, it’s still cold. Condensation leaks between my fingers and onto the azure-blue countertop tiles.

Details. The devil is in the details, and one of us has to pay attention to them.

It won’t be Rory, who is as excitable as a terrier, and it won’t be impulsive, spontaneous Roland, who decides at the spur of the moment to announce to all of Italy that he’s here.

So much for discretion. The best-laid plans of mice and bodyguards.

I twist the metal around the neck of the bottle and the cap pops open. I hunt around the cabinets until I find two glasses and rinse them out carefully.

“Aren’t you having any?” Roland pops in beside me as I pour the yellow liquid into one of the small glasses.

“No.”

I don’t look at him; I just continue to pour.

Roland laughs, an airy, bitter sound. “Are you giving me the silent treatment now?”

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