Page 61 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Ben is easy enough to find at least. He sticks out like a sore thumb, the three-piece suit at the far end of the crowd. His gaze is askance, eyes caught on something else when I come to him.

I throw my arm around his shoulders. “You having fun, mate?”

Ben goes rigid. His jaw is tense. “No.”

I already feel better in his presence, though. Safer, even from my own hallucinations. “We’re here to have a good time,” I persuade him. “So lighten up.”

I’m messy, I’m drunk, and I’m absurdly brave. I lean in and brush my lips over his.

Ben? He nearly rips my bloody arm off. He grabs me, shoves me off him, and hisses, “What the hell are you doing?”

“What’s your problem, mate?” I snap back.

His jaw is tight. “You’re drunk,” he states. “We’re going home.” Ben’s eyes swim over the club. “Where’s Rory?”

“She went to the bar to grab a water or something…” I’m stumbling, my alcohol content catching up with me fast, and the ground feels less solid under my feet.

Ben’s eyes never settle. “No,” he says. “She’s not.”

My heartbeat picks up in my chest again, old anxieties prickling my skin. “What do you mean, she’s not?”

I’ve never seen Ben panicked. When the strobe lights flash across his face, I can see that he’s gone white as a sheet. “She’s gone,” he states.

32

Rory

The edge of the bar bites little indents in my forearms as I fall forward against it. The sonic boom of dance music rattles my brain free from my skull. Normally, I’m a fan of loud music—Oscar can attest to this, for all the times he’d had to bang on the wall between our rooms to get me to turn down my music. I always said his grandpa was showing. But this makes even my ears pop.

I’m sweaty and my skin sticks when I bend my arm to wave down the bartender. “Can I get a water?” I shout over the din. I don’t know if it’s my second cocktail or the endorphins from dancing with Roland, but the room feels crooked under my feet. It was fun dancing with Roland—the prince can’t dance, not really, but damn, does he look good trying. Who am I to talk anyway? My signature move is jutting my lips forward, turning my arms into wings, and flapping around. There’s no point in dancing if you can’t have fun, after all.

And Roland needs fun. Heck, we all need fun. Italy was amazing, and I think we’re all just… reeling. Trying to find our footing again in the real world.

I can’t imagine what this must be like for Roland. A taste of the outside world for the first time. I’m reminded of every time (and there have been multiple times) when I had to serve as the DD for a twenty-first birthday. Somehow, I always became the designated driver, designated decisions maker, and designated don’t send that picture girl. Freedom can be a double-edged sword, and I’ve held back enough ponytails to attest to that.

If I have to hold Roland’s hair back at the end of the night—so be it. A rite of passage, in my opinion. Why doesn’t the prince of England get to have a crazy, judgment-free night every now and then?

But there’s a nagging in the back of my head. The responsible voice (which sounds oddly like Ben?) murmurs, Because you know he’s hurting.

The whole thing makes my head spin. The bartender slides a glass of ice water over, and I have the good sense to add, “Actually, can you make that two?”

I pluck the paper covering from the straw and take a sip. The cool liquid feels good going down my throat and washes some of the fuzz away from my brain.

For his effort, I reach into my pocket and pull out a couple pence. It’s the least I can do. As I’m rummaging around, a voice behind me crystallizes in the cacophony.

“You’re here with the prince, aren’t you?”

The voice is gravelly, but the words are polished, articulate. He’s short, stout, with an egg-shaped bald head. Middle-aged, maybe—he looks even more out of place than we do as he moves next to me.

I have no idea who this man is. A reporter, probably. Someone trying to dig up some dirt on the royal family. I shrug and keep my answers short. “I guess so.”

My gaze veers away to the bartender, who is still filling my glass. Damn that slow water drip.

“Rory, right?” he says conversationally, as though we’re old friends. “Rory March. You have that little… blog of yours.”

I blink at him. Unease rolls over my skin like fish scales. There’s something…off about him. “How do you know me again?”

He turns to me and smiles, an eerie jack-o’-lantern smile. A pink, fleshy scar runs lengthwise from his ear down his jaw. “Because I’ve been looking for you all night, Miss March.”

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