Page 58 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

“Your Highness,” Reginald grumbles with mandatory politeness. “Welcome back to England. Did you enjoy your stay?”

“Quite,” I respond as I step down the stubby ramp and onto British soil. “All except the surprise ending.”

Reginald grunts out, “Very good, sir.”

Rory follows behind me, Ben in the back. At the bottom of the stairs, Rory collides into me with a squeak. She’s like a baby giraffe learning to walk.

“Careful,” I tell her and perch my arm around her shoulders. “I don’t want to have to peel you out from under the plane tires.”

“Careful yourself,” Rory says. I’m not sure what she’s talking about until my eyes fix on the motley crew ahead of us. Three or four secret service agents swarm around my mother, all in black. They look like they’re part of a funeral procession.

My stomach clenches. The look on my mother’s face is nothing short of murderous. Her bloodred lips curve downward like a saber. I remove my arm from Rory and let it fall at my side. The only thing that could make this worse would be flaunting Rory in front of my mother.

“Mother.” I step forward and smile broadly. “What a delightful welcome!”

“Silence,” she hisses. She tilts her chin barely a centimeter toward her bodyguards. “Kindly escort my bratty son and his incorrigible friends back to the palace. We can’t afford any more runaways.”

A full-on militia comes around behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rory shrink and Ben go on full alert.

“After you, sir,” one of the guards grunts roughly.

I may as well have iron cuffs around my ankles. My feet drag heavily through the stone doorway and back to Buckingham Palace.

29

Rory

Ben and I stand outside the closed doors of the sitting room like chastised children. Growing up, I was never grounded—my mom and dad mostly parented out of guilt—so it feels strange to have to huddle out here and wait for Roland. It’s especially awkward when the ruckus from inside the sitting room spills very clearly out.

The queen, who is just about the most composed, quiet woman I’ve ever met, shouts shrilly at her son. “I didn’t know where you’d gone! Or who you’d gone with!”

“I don’t have to give you every bloody detail of my life!” Roland’s voice booms back at her in their explosive verbal ping-pong.

“Yes, you do! You’re the future king of England—act like it.”

“Letting my mum boss me around… that’s kingly, is it?”

I look at Ben. He stares dully at the bare wall across from us as I play with my fingers. “Does this happen often?” I whisper.

“Every full moon,” Ben replies, his eyes unmoving.

“You could’ve been hurt!” the queen cries out. “I’ve already lost your father. If I’d lost you, too—”

“Oh, will you sod off about that!” Even I flinch at that. Roland rails at his mother, “I lost my father, too, and I sure as hell know he wouldn’t want me living like a bloody hermit! I won’t postpone my life because he can’t live his!”

“Roland!”

I jump in my place as the double doors fly open with a bang. Roland storms out, his hair whipping around his shoulders, eyes burning, jaw so tight he looks like he could split marble between his teeth. Ben and I stand to attention, but Roland barely looks at us. “We’re leaving,” he announces curtly.

I pop off the wall, far too eager to be away from here. “Where to?” I ask.

Roland only replies coldly, “A long-overdue family reunion.”

There’s an echo in Windsor Castle’s royal vaults.

Even standing still, not making a sound, the whole place vibrates with a low, whale-song hum. It’s so grand and austere here, with frescoes lining the walls and ceiling that date back centuries, and I find myself barely breathing. Ben stands beside me, forever composed, his hands clasped together in front of his lap. Even royal ghosts don’t spook him.

Roland kneels in front of a long line of ruby-stoned tombs stacked up on the far wall. His palm lays flat on the stone that reads in flowing engravings: PRINCE CONSORT DUNCAN HUGHES.

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