Page 65 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Around the corner, I can hear a light bustle of commotion. I don’t pay much attention to it until a familiar voice floats our way. I brace myself as the sharp sound of heels on hardwood grows louder.

My mother rounds the corner and comes to a stop beside me. She’s wearing a black dress, black heels, and a black clutch. I nearly wonder out loud what funeral she came from, but verbally suggesting anything close to death feels like a bad omen, so I hold my tongue.

“How is she?” Mum asks, her eyes darting sharply over me.

I scoff and turn away from her. “Don’t act like you care now. You hate her.”

“I certainly never wanted her dead, darling. There’s a difference.”

The curtness in her voice makes my teeth grind.

“Roland,” she presses. “I need a word.”

“And I need to stay here,” I argue. “Rory needs me right now.”

“It will only take a moment.”

She has a quiet command in her voice that leaves no room for argument. Ben turns to me. “I’ll let you know if they open the doors,” he says.

I nod with gratitude. I don’t want to leave my spot, but I set my cup down and rise to my feet. Reluctantly, I follow my mum around the corner. There’s no one but nurses and doctors to overhear us here, and in my mum’s world, that makes us as good as alone. Normals are barely people to her, after all.

“I’ve come here to tell you one thing,” she says, cutting straight to the chase.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Speak.”

Her cerulean eyes meet mine. “This could have been prevented,” she states.

“So you’re saying this is all my fault?”

“No. I’m saying this could have been prevented.”

She stares at me with the haughty look of someone who knows they’re right. My stomach tightens at her words. I feel as though the hospital has gotten ten degrees colder.

I know there is truth behind her words. If I hadn’t gone out… if I hadn’t gone to the club… if I hadn’t been such a bloody selfish idiot…

I tighten my arms on my chest.

“Think on it,” she tells me.

“Roland.” There’s Ben’s voice—saved by the Ben. He peeks around the corner, his hand on the wall. “Rory’s awake.”

35

Rory

I’m drowning in cushions. The mattress swallows me like a big, fluffy cloud, and I sink into it. My head is fuzzy, my skull extra heavy, and it feels like a watermelon on a stick when I try to lift it. There’s a bleeping sound, a whoosh, and a woman in a white pencil skirt and folded hat smiling at me.

This is a bizarre resort, definitely.

“Welcome back, Miss March,” she says cheerily.

“Did I go somewhere?” My mouth is dry, like I’ve been chewing on chalk.

“Nearly, miss. How are you feeling?”

I put my hand on my forehead. “Like my head is a balloon with too much air.” When I shift my arm, a sharp pain stabs my gut and bolts up my side. I gasp and move my hand to my hip. I touch the rough edges of a bandage.

“You won’t want to be touching that much,” the nurse explains. “Your stitches need to heal.”

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