Page 62 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Every bone in my spine goes cold. I grab my water and twist away from the bar. “I have to go—”

“Yes. You do.” His meaty hand wraps around my arm like a vice. In his other hand, he flashes an item under his long coat. A gun glints in the flashing lights, and fear hits me like a lightning bolt.

I want to scream. I want to shout for Ben. Roland. But I can’t. Between his threat and my fear, my voice has dried up in my throat.

“You’re coming with me,” he informs me. He shoves me to the exit, the muzzle of his gun pressing sharply against the small of my back.

33

Ben

I see her.

Rory.

Her hair blares siren red at the door.

She’s not alone. There’s a man with her. Stocky build. His hand is on her arm, and he pulls her outside. She turns before she goes, her hair fanning out behind her.

Panic in her eyes.

A knot tightens in my stomach.

“Door,” I tell Roland and start toward the exit.

He stumbles behind me. “Rory—”

“Someone’s taken her. They just left.”

I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time to explain myself to a drunk, royal pain in the arse. I shove my way through the bumping and grinding bodies and burst out the door. I didn’t realize what a bloody sauna it was in there until I’m licked with a rush of cool nighttime air. Sweat has caked on the back of my neck, underneath the collar of my shirt, and under my arms, and I feel it blaringly now.

My vision focuses on the cars parked on the side of the road, waiting for one to light up. The club coughs up Roland with a gust of hot air. “Who would take her?” he asks as he runs his hands through his tousled hair.

“Someone after you, I imagine.”

“Shit,” Roland sighs. “I cocked this up, didn’t I?”

I perk up when I hear her. A scream cut short echoes down the alleyways.

“This way,” I say. I’d love to shove the prince away, keep him protected in a locked car or a quiet space, but that’s not going to happen. I don’t know how many of them are out here. For all I know, Rory is just a clever distraction to get to the prince.

So he has no choice but to tag along with me.

There are very few people out and about this late. A businessman shuffles home. A couple walks hand in hand. Neither seems to be moved by the scream—that’s London for you.

I jog down the street and flatten against the wall. Roland takes the hint and comes to a quick stop. When I look around, I see two shadows vanish around the corner.

I gesture Roland forward and we move quickly, quietly after them. He’s taking her away from the cobbled side streets and narrow, twisting alleyways. I don’t understand why he’s still on foot. If this were a true hostage, he’d have a getaway driver. A quick exit. But this—

It’s almost as if he wants us to catch up with him.

We’ve come to the end of the main street. The Thames sloshes nearby. I follow the twin clicks of footsteps to a bridge that crosses over the river. Adrenaline rushes through my blood. I’m blade sharp and focused. I reach into my jacket to grab my sidearm and pull back the hammer, disengaging the safety.

“Stay here,” I murmur to Roland. “And don’t make a noise.”

He crouches in the bridge’s shadow. I step off the brick ledge, point my gun forward, and step through the tunnel. My shoes click on the walkway. I’m not hiding anymore.

Neither is he. The kidnapper stands in a yellow pool of light from the streetlamp. Rory, stiff as a board and wide-eyed, is clamped in a headlock. He holds a long blade underneath the soft skin of her throat.

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