Page 71 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

I get up and leave the room. I know these hallways by heart by now, and my feet lead the way. I put a couple of coins in the bathroom dispensary, and it spits out a hand towel. Then I pop down the winding staircase to the kitchen, where I crack the ice tray and dump the cubes into the towel. My hands and feet move on their own, mechanically. I like having a task, something to keep my idle hands busy.

I know if I stop moving, I’ll start thinking about Roland again. And I can’t seem to keep myself from crying when I think about him anymore.

It feels so strange to be back here. The last time I was in the hostel, I was full of boundless energy, ready for the next adventure around the corner. Now, I feel like I’ll shatter apart if someone so much as looks me in the eyes for too long. I don’t like this. I don’t like feeling weak.

I busy myself some more. I rummage around the kitchen and find a rubber band. I twist it around the towel and— voilà. A handmade ice pack.

When I come back, Ben has stretched himself out on the cot. It’s comically small underneath his tall frame, and his feet hang off the foot of the bed. His eyes flick toward me when the door opens, and I hold up my palms. “Only me.”

I sit down on the edge of the cot and roll his shirt up again. Ben helps, peeling it over his head and tossing it to the side.

It looks bad, and I cringe just staring at the bruise. “Okay… tell me if it hurts,” I say and very gently lower the pack of ice onto his purpling bruise.

Immediately, Ben sucks in a sharp breath and hisses through his teeth, “Ah… fucking… cunt.”

I flinch and retract the ice pack immediately.

“No,” he says quickly, “I wasn’t… calling you a cunt. It hurts, that’s all.”

“Do you want to use a safe word?”

He scoffs a pained a laugh. “Just put it back. Sorry. I won’t call you names again. Promise.”

I twist my lips together dubiously, but I lower it to his ribs once more. He swallows so hard I can see his Adam’s apple bob and his fingers curl around the bedsheets, but he doesn’t swear at me again. Anxiety bounces around in my stomach. I don’t like hurting him, but I know it’s for his own good.

“Okay,” Ben says after a second. He replaces my hand with his and cups the ice pack to himself. “It’s numbing out. I’ve got it now.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods. “Thank you.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Is there anything I can do?”

He lifts his good arm, opening a spot in the bed for me. “You can get comfortable.”

I lower myself into bed and press a kiss to his jaw. Ben holds his ice pack to his side with one hand and wraps the other arm around me. His fingers nudge under my shirt, and I wince when he brushes against my bandage.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“No, it’s okay. Just… higher.” He rests his hand on the small of my waist instead, and he draws little circles there. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”

“Definitely,” he says.

“Would distraction help?” I ask.

“Please.”

I have a couple of shows I’ve downloaded to my phone for times of crisis. I’ve seen them all about ten million times, but they’re classics.

“Are you a Friends fan?” I ask.

Ben shakes his head. “A what?”

“Seriously? Friends? It’s like… American Harry Potter. I mean, they’re not wizards, but… popularity-wise.”

“I’m dying with anticipation,” Ben says dryly.

I reach into my bag. I pull out headphones and Otter Oscar and tuck him behind my iPhone. The otter angles my phone up, and I snuggle back against Ben. I plug in the headphones; one bud for me, the other bud for Ben.

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