Page 66 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Stitches. Oh. That’s like a splash of ice water. Memories come flooding back—I’m not in a resort. I’m in a hospital. And not by accident, either. I remember his grip on my wrist, so tight it hurt. The scar that ran down his face. His cold knife against my throat. That dry, raspy voice: Be still, little slut. Wouldn’t want to have to stick ya.

My heart trembles in my chest, and I can feel the panic rising. My eyes flee to the door and back to the nurse. I imagine him bursting in here any second, while I’m weak and my bones are too heavy to fight him off. “Is there… um. Does that door lock?”

Her lips press in a sympathetic, reassuring smile. “No one comes in here without our approval. Okay?”

“Okay.” Logically, I know I’m safe here. My heart doesn’t listen to reason, however, and it continues to beat out of my chest. “Roland and Ben… are they okay?”

“They’re just fine, miss. Prince Roland is right outside, waiting to see you. Would you like that?”

My throat tightens already. “Please.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll send him in right away.”

The nurse clicks out with poised steps. I bite the inside of my lip and try to keep my composure when the door reopens.

Roland slips around the door, blond hair in disarray, his grin crooked on his mouth. “Hey, kitten,” he says. “How’re we holding up?”

He calls me kitten and immediately the air leaves my lungs. It’s okay. I’m safe with him here. Cold prickles fizzle through my blood, and my anxiety defuses.

“Oh, you know.” I shrug. “Besides a little stabbing, I’m fantastic.”

A single, abrupt laugh escapes his chest. He shakes his head and sits down on the side of my bed. “Leave it to you to find the humor in any situation.” He pushes my hair back, and I nudge into his touch. His kitten is practically purring.

“The guy… did they get him?” I ask.

Roland nods. “He won’t come after you again.”

“It just seems like such a nightmare,” I sigh and lean against his chest. “When you stood in front of him… I didn’t know what was going to happen.”

“It’s okay.” Roland’s arms go around my shoulders. He hugs me to him. His voice is strong and exactly what I need right now. “Everyone’s okay. That’s the important part. I’m more worried about you.”

He’s not lying about that part. The bright, boyish humor has gone out of his expression. His eyes are raincloud gray and just as stormy.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” he assures me. His gaze fixes on the wall, and his jawline seems sharper than ever. He reminds me of the man I saw when I first met him—a prince locked up in a cage of his own design. A man whose very bones seemed bolted together, every motion rehearsed and robotic.

I rest my hand on his leg. “Hey. Look at me.”

He does and there’s a chip in his façade. For a second, his eyes brighten and his features soften. His throat unlatches slightly, and a sigh escapes. “No,” he confesses. “I’m not okay.”

“So talk to me.”

His lips press together. Such plump lips. I want to kiss them then. I want to kiss every gray cloud out of his day.

“I didn’t want to do this now,” he says. “I was going to… wait. Until after you got better, at least. Didn’t seem right to… rub salt in the wound. So to speak.”

“Salt in the wound?” My head is spinning, and I don’t think it’s from the painkillers. “What are you talking about?”

Then I see it in his eyes. Oh no. No, no, no. It’s that look. Equal parts reluctance and regret. The look of a guilty dog who just ripped up your favorite shoes. Roland—for all his practice—can’t help but wear his emotions on his face.

I sit up straighter against the sturdy pillows. “Roland… are you breaking up with me?”

“This isn’t easy,” he states.

“No, algebra isn’t easy,” I counter. “This is out of the blue.”

“It’s not you, Rory,” he says and rests his hand on my shoulder. “Truly. It isn’t.”

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