Page 72 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

“Can you see?” I ask.

“Yes.” His breath beats against my hair.

I press Play.

It only takes a couple of episodes for Ben to fall asleep behind me. I can tell because his body—normally wound so tight—relaxes against mine and his breathing becomes even, a slow patter on my neck. Ben’s ice pack melts a wet spot in the bed, so I move it from his side and drop it to the floor. People file in and out of the suite, mostly young travelers in their early twenties. They all have that fresh-from-the-club vibe, and most stumble unevenly to their bed and pass out.

I’m wired. I can’t even think about sleep. The stab wound was numb from whatever painkillers they were giving me at the hospital, but now it feels hot and throbbing. They gave me some Vicodin when I left, so I check the time on my phone to see when I need to dose up again. It’s nearly three in the morning—time to take another pill.

I carefully shimmy out of Ben’s embrace, leaving him asleep in bed. Then I rummage through my bag until I find the two little orange prescription bottles, one for antibiotics and the other for the pain. I tiptoe out of the room and down the hall. The hardwood floor stops abruptly at the bathroom and turns into square tiles, which feel cold under my feet.

The communal bathroom is empty, but it is a bizarre time of night to be out and about. I stand in front of a sink and roll my shirt up my side. I let out a small hiss of pain when the fabric of my shirt catches on the dried blood at the edge of my bandage. Crap. This sucks. I take a paper towel out of the dispenser, run water over it, and dab it around the bandage to clean it up.

When I see myself in the mirror, I nearly freeze. Oh my God. I look like something out of a horror movie. Toward the end of the movie, where the heroine has been through hell and back again and hits rock bottom before the exorcist saves her. My hair is a frazzled mess. The skin under my eyes is puffy and blue. And the bandage on my side… it’s huge. A solid three inches of white.

The back of my throat gets saliva thick. I feel sick looking at it. I’ve been stabbed. With an actual knife. I could’ve died. I can imagine that phone call, some officer from Buckingham Palace, maybe. All official and British when they called up my parents and delivered the news. They’d be devastated. And Oscar…

It would kill him.

My heart is pounding, and I feel that flush of heat crawl up my neck. A panic attack is coming on. I quickly shove my shirt back down so I don’t have to look at the bandage. My hands are shaking, and it’s hard to twist the cap off my prescription bottle, but I finally do. I pop my antibiotics and a Vicodin—one less than the doctor prescribed, but my stomach never did well with medications. I flip the tap and bend over the sink to let the cold water dribble over my lips. I wipe my mouth and rush out of the bathroom.

My vision is pulsing, and the hallway narrows and widens with each rapid beat of my heart. I quicken my pace like a child chased by nightmare monsters. I stumble into the room and dive into Ben’s cot.

“Ben,” I whisper.

His eyes fly open immediately. He’s not exactly a deep sleeper. “What is it?”

There are people in the room. Even through everyone seems to be asleep, I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. So I murmur, just loud enough for Ben to hear, “Choke me. Please.”

Ben doesn’t ask. Maybe he sees the panic in my eyes. Maybe he just knows how badly I need this.

“Get on your back,” he commands. In the dark, his voice is low and velvet smooth.

I submit to him and settle on my back. The bed groans as he leans on his elbow and closes his hand around my throat. As soon as his fingers touch either side of my jaw, I feel a blanket of bliss fall over me. Ben tightens his grip and my airway constricts. His arm is like a rope pulling me to safety, and I hold it to me. I hear a soft, grateful hum leave my throat. The lack of oxygen makes my brain feel fuzzy… but I’m safe here. I’m safe. So safe. My fear dissolves in my blood and is replaced with calm, peaceful submission.

I don’t know how long Ben holds me here. When he does finally release his grip, I gasp like a newborn. The air tastes cold and fresh in my lungs.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod. I don’t realize I’ve been crying until I feel my tears wet the pillow. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“Being here. I can barely get through this without Roland…and I miss him so much it hurts. But… I don’t know what I’d do if I’d lost the both of you.”

He leaves his hand on my throat, but his grip is loose now. I love it. It feels like a collar. I’m safe, as long as I’m his.

“I’m not leaving you,” he tells me. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I can see the dark of his irises fixed on me.

“Let’s go away,” I whisper. “There are cheap flights to Scotland from here. We can just… go.”

“I’ll go wherever you go,” he says, and the back of my eyes burn again as fresh tears spring free.

I grab his face and pull him into a kiss. He presses his lips back against mine and roughly invades my mouth with his tongue. I feel so open to him, and my lips part easily. I taste his tongue and my own salty tears.

One touch from Ben and my shackles of anxiety fall away. I’m free. But even this euphoria has a dark undercurrent. I miss Roland so much—and so does he. I can taste it in the way he kisses me. We crush our lips together, forgetting to be gentle with our damaged bodies. We’re missing a third piece and making up for it with a collision of desire.

“Be quiet,” Ben says as he tugs the button of my pants loose. I nod in understanding and hang around his neck. I feel his hand slide down my pants and underneath my panties. My mouth falls open, and I stifle a gasp when his rough fingers slide over my slit. I must be slippery, because his touch glides back and forth, igniting every nerve between my legs. When he finds my clit, he flicks it mercilessly. I almost cry out, pleasure burning through my veins with every touch, but he shoves his tongue in my mouth and extinguishes any sound.

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