by Nicole Snow
“Do it,” I tell him, taking a long pull from my cup. “And make sure Erin's got something stunning to wear to the palace. Get the ladies up here who handle fashion at the royal bashes. We need to make the best first impression we can.”
“Certainly, sire.” He tips his head respectfully and I watch him head out the door.
I stand up, wash, and then get dressed in my finest suit. Amazingly, my latest hangover is already a distant memory. If that's a side benefit from all this marriage bullshit, then I'm becoming a believer.
Vic sends me a text, letting me know everything should be ready in two hours. I step out into the morning light, feeling the warm sun on my skin, looking down on my kingdom while I fix my tie.
Erin can't comprehend what's at stake. It doesn't matter that I tried to show her, to explain it, to give her some small insight into the crushing, constant duties being born a Prince brings.
Too bad. She doesn't need to understand a damned thing to take my ring.
I need a toy. An actress. Someone to get the bastards in the media to drool all over her instead of my latest scandals.
Someone to make the future King look like one.
Someone to make everyone down there believe that I'm worthy, that I can actually fill grandmom's shoes. Or at least know that I won't ruin Saint Moore forever.
Someone to give me a second chance, for fuck's sake. To let me prove myself.
I'm better than my parties, my drinks, my pussy. Leaning over the edge of the balcony, my fists tighten. I see the kingdom's flags fluttering on the high towers in the distance, the black double-headed eagle grasping the crown in its talons.
That bird isn't ever letting go. Neither am I.
“You're going to find out how wrong you are,” I whisper. “Every last one of you. This girl's my chance to show you that I'm going to be the best fucking King this island ever had.”
Yeah, she is. And if she gets me harder than a rock in the process every time I think about her, much less see her, just like I am now, who am I to complain?
5
Her Majesty (Erin)
I'm barely out of bed, processing the insane thing I agreed to the night before, when I'm picked up by a whirlwind. Rather, three middle aged women.
Two of them lift me off my bed, gently shaking me awake, while another stands next to a rack of clothing that's materialized out of nowhere.
“Hurry, Marissa, she's only got an hour! We'll get her washed up.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I think I can wash myself!” They don't listen. They've pulled off my robe and carried me halfway to the bathroom before I'm able to speak.
“Nonsense,” the oldest one snaps. “It'll be much faster, more efficient, if you'll allow us, madame.”
Jesus, no. This is happening too fast. These manic aides or royal valets or whatever they are will strip me naked in a matter of seconds if I don't say something.
“Stop! I order you. I'm engaged to Prince Silas Bearington himself, and that means you're supposed to do anything I say.”
Does it? I have no clue. I hope it does.
The women take their hands off me, the three of us standing in the bathroom, staring dumbly at one another.
“Engaged?!” The dark haired one looks at her companion. “Mary, I thought she was just a guest. I didn't know we were dealing with the future...Princess.”
She blinks her eyes, totally shocked. Part of me regrets letting the news slip so easily – but not if it means I'm going to get a chance to bathe myself.
“As you wish,” the redhead named Mary says. “But please, madame, you need to finish quickly. Marissa's waiting outside with your clothes and breakfast. You need to be downstairs with his Highness by noon.”
I nod, tapping my foot impatiently. They're out in a few more seconds, and I let my robe drop.
It's been a rough night. I don't bother using the gorgeous bathtub with the gold trim and the waterfalls flowing from the slots in the wall. I hop in the shower and stand underneath what's probably a thousand dollar shower head, beaming me with jets.
The pressure massages me. It feels good, especially after last night.
It hasn't been easy getting used to this.
I'm surprised I managed to get any sleep. No sooner than I got back to my room and laid down, I spent several hours tossing and turning.
Thinking about this role I've agreed to play. All but whoring myself out to a man who's using me to lie to millions of people.
Thinking about dad. Thousands of miles away, battling for his life, and getting a fighting chance at it only because the same asshole who thought nothing of using me as a prop stepped in to help him.
Thinking about the Prince. Everything he's gotten me to agree to should worry me.
But my mind goes somewhere else whenever I think about Silas.
His heat, burning beneath his skin each time he touches me, his breath drifting across me like smoke.
His power, his strength, the arrogance in every movement. He's grabbed me more times than I can count, something no man ever did before.
Always without asking. Always with superhuman confidence, like he already owns me, and we haven't even signed this stupid contract. Always with the glint in his ocean blue eyes that says everything I fear most about this insane arrangement.
I can fuck you, love. Anytime. Any place. Any way I want.
And you'll love it, Erin. Fuck yeah, you will.
You won't stop me. You'll beg because it's that good.
And once we get started, we won't be stopping until you've soaked the sheets.
“Madame?” A loud, desperate knock at the door breaks me from my filthy daydreams.
I look down at the aching, wet mess between my thighs. My hand went there without me even realizing it, my fingers drifting over my clit, stroking it while I imagine what would happen if the Prince and I threw that 'no sex' rule to the seven winds.
“Coming! Hold on, just a second,” I grunt, standing up straight, flattening myself against the wall.
I don't know if she backs away from the door. I don't care.
It's dirty and depraved, but it's the release I need. It's the tension Prince Hung is strangling me with.
Is he really as hung as his nickname implies? Or is it one more lie he's fed to the media to make himself seem like a god?
I want to believe. I want to think about how huge he is because I need my release if I'm going to survive today.
The kind of sweet release I've never, ever gotten as a sheltered virgin, who always thought she'd save herself for her husband. For a good man, a noble man, someone closer to my level, sexually and otherwise.
Not the Playboy Prince, who's probably fucked hundreds, the one who doesn't even want me for real, the man who makes me want to tear out the 'no sex' clause in our non-existent contract with my bare teeth.
Oh, God. Oh, fuck.
Silas!
My thoughts are off the chain, surrendering to the filthy hulk I want bending me over, fisting my hair, slamming into me so hard I can feel my hips shaking my shoulders. He really is Prince Hung and so much more in this fantasy. He's about to push me over.
“Madame? Are you all right?” Mary sounds extra nervous in that not-quite-English accent. She jiggles the doorknob, but I can't stop now.
“Coming!” I scream again, this time a little more breathless.
Yes, coming.
Coming for the bastard, the player, the Prince. Coming so hard I feel myself gush all over my hand, something that rarely happens. Grinding my teeth, heaving my lungs, pushing myself up into the jet stream so the waves lap at my nipples like tongues.
I'm coming the way I've wanted to since I climbed into bed last night.
Coming, coming, coming while I think about him grabbing my wrists the next time we're face-to-face, pushing me against the nearest wall, and ripping off my panties...
My knees are shaking when I finally pull my hand away and turn the water off. By now, two of the women are in a f
ull blown panic. I hear one slamming herself into the door like a battering ram.
“Jesus Christ. I'll be out in just a minute – I'm drying myself now!”
The commotion stops. I hear them angrily chattering away behind the door while I rip the Egyptian cotton towel off its golden clip.
Recent pleasure aside, I'm hating Silas even more. His lies are rubbing off on me, and so is his dirty, evil charm.
This has to be some kind of black magic. Saint Moore, like any other European country, has its legends about sorcerers, witches, and other crazy things. I think I'm cursed. The fact that I'm pulling on fresh underwear after masturbating to a man I hate makes me wonder if all the myths are true.
“Okay. Sorry about that, ladies, I sometimes have allergies and like to breathe the steam to clean my sinuses.” Another lie.
Mary and Charlotte glare at me. Fortunately, the more chipper Marissa steps between them, yanks me forward, and sits me down in front of three huge mirrors. She blow dries and combs my hair, humming an odd sounding tune.
I'm allowed to gulp down a thermos of strong black tea and something that tastes like waffles stacked high with a fantastic spread of fruit and cream drizzled over it. Delightful.
It takes me a minute to recognize the tune. It's King of All Things, the elegant overture Saint Moore adopted as its national anthem. It's also the song that plays every time one of the royals steps into a public setting.
It's about a great King, Queen Marina's grandfather, I think. Of course, it's loud, arrogant, and probably caused a few composers to wag their fingers angrily when it was written about a hundred and fifty years ago.
Yeah, the longer I'm here, the easier it is to see why such cocky, manipulative crap runs in Silas' blue blood.
“Stand up, please, madame! We're on a very tight schedule, you understand. Pardon the hurry.” Marissa beams me a tense smile.
No sooner than I'm on my feet, she's wrapping me in several layers of the softest, most expensive clothes I've ever worn on my body. It's a long, flowing, very traditional dress. Very red – blood red. Complete with a sweet smelling flower she tucks into my hair, giving it a final push in the mirror.
“There, there. You look just lovely. What do you think?” She puts her hand on my back and spins me around.
It takes me a second to recognize myself. God.
I've been transformed. Completely. Unrecognizably.
Even in my best formalwear, I never looked like anything more than a smart, savvy student from a very American college. Now, I look like I belong on a theater stage, re-enacting some play from a hundred years ago.
Or else in the royal palace on this insane island. The place I'm supposed to wind up in less than thirty minutes.
“It's good, I guess,” I tell her. “Uh...shoes?”
“Of course!” She snaps her fingers and dives down on the floor, grabbing my feet and stuffing them into wooden clogs with gold and rubies.
The heels are surprisingly high. I hope I can actually walk in this getup without tripping all over myself. I don't stop to think about what a pain it's going to be if I have to use the bathroom.
“Just perfect, madame! Your Prince is waiting downstairs. Shall we go?”
“We shall,” I say, leading them out the room, straight to the elevator.
When we're on the first floor, the boys take over. Silas' valet, Victor, nods respectfully and walks me out to the waiting SUV tucked into its motorcade.
“His Highness is already waiting for you in the rear, madame. Please don't be afraid to grab my arm if you need some help on these stairs.”
I thank him, but intend to take them myself. I could use the practice. I manage, slowly and haltingly, careful not to go tumbling down in a flash of reds.
The SUV's door opens. I slide in next to Silas, or that's what I mean to do, except suddenly I'm stuck.
“Jesus. Look at you,” he says, lowering the expensive shades he's wearing.
It's a look that's way too similar to the imaginary smile Prince Hung just gave me in the shower.
I'm embarrassed. Victor comes running up to save my skirt from tearing on the metal. I swear, if Silas is about to hit me with some snotty remark, I won't hesitate to give him the slapping he deserves. Prince or not.
“What?” I say, narrowing my eyes.
Finally. The skirt comes free and I clamber up on the seat next to him, grabbing my seat belt.
“You're gorgeous, love. Looks like it was made for you.”
Surprise. Compliments aren't what I expect.
I bat my eyes a couple times and turn away from him, trying not to think about what he made me do in the shower this morning.
“Well, I think this would be much easier if that were the case.”
“I'd say you'll get plenty of practice, but you'll be happy to hear occasions this formal tend to be rare. You can go back to your thongs and yoga pants when we're done. Just be sure you wear something halfway decent when we're in front of grandmom.”
Thongs and yoga pants? Thanks, asshole.
Without thinking, I reach over and sock him on the arm. He laughs, grabs my wrist, and brings my hand to his lips.
I hadn't noticed how insanely hot it is underneath all this. Naturally, I do when he kisses my skin for the first time. It only lasts a second, more than a gentle peck. It's forceful, a little wet, and haughty as everything else about him.
“If you really want to cause damage, you'll have to punch me a whole lot harder next time. That swing just turns me on. You get rough with me, I'll eat it up and spit it back ten times harder.” He brings his mouth to my hand again, this time sinking his teeth in, a gentle bite igniting a flash fire in my body.
Bastard! I can't let him play with me like this. I won't, I tell myself.
He's never polite, even when he says nice things. He just wants me to let my guard down.
“No sex,” I tell him, jerking my hand away.
“Please. I haven't forgotten,” he says, pushing his shades back over his beautiful eyes. “I'm practicing my most gentlemanly kiss. We can't be like ice, Erin. You'd better believe the tabloids will pick up a frigid marriage if they get so much as a breeze.”
“Really? Is that why you're hiding behind those sunglasses?” I stick out my tongue.
“This is pure style for a bright day, love.” He grins. “Same brand the late dictator Mesaru wore in North Africa. I've heard his collection of designer shades is the only thing that survived when they ransacked his palace and stabbed him a hundred times a few years back.”
“I know all about the Arab Spring,” I said, confident I knew a lot more than him. “Didn't know you took fashion tips from dead tyrants.”
“Hey, the man was a sick fuck, no doubt about it. Sometimes even the assholes know how to look good.” He lifts his eyebrows, a gesture that lets me know he's practically eye fucking me behind his lenses. “We need to be in our Sunday best, and on our best behavior, too. You've only got one chance to make a first impression on Her Majesty.”
Damn it, he's right. I tense up, folding my hands in my lap, very conscious that I'm about to meet a Queen, a ruler, a billionaire, and one of the most beloved elder stateswomen in the world.
“Love, don't spill your spaghetti now,” he says, barely hiding the amusement in his voice. “It's going to be fine. Trust me, I've visited her before with enough mud dripping off me for the both of us. Unless you drop the dress and prance in naked or something, nothing you do will ever one up me in the scandal department.”
He's right, of course. So, why the hell isn't that any consolation?
The worst part is, he senses my nerves coming undone. That's probably why he reaches over, clasps my hand, and holds it like he cares.
We share a slow, tense look. Then he cocks his head, looks at me over the tops of those shades, and says something that makes me believe he isn't just an asshole for about a minute.
“You can do this, Erin. You've got family, life and death on the line. That'
s as valuable as an entire kingdom.”
“I'll do my best,” I say softly, promising both of us that I will.
“Yeah, you will, Princess. I wouldn't take on anybody who half-asses it. Not even a pretend bride.” That smile on his face erupts into a full panty-melting grin. “Half-assing anything isn't in your nature. I know because every inch of what you're sitting on is too fucking fine for half measures.”
Oh. My. God.
Here I am, decked out in this dress that's worth more than the luxury vehicle we're riding in, and he's commenting on my ass. I can't take it anymore.
I lean in, let my hand fly, and give him what he deserves. Silas' royal stubble burns my palm when it explodes across his cheek.
Pulling back, my fingers are trembling, wondering if I've just blown the whole thing.
No, he's still smiling. I should've known, after what he said about liking it rough. The idiot on top of the world next to me likes this.
“Hope you're feeling better,” he says, as if I just sneezed. “I'll take a blow like that anytime if that's the price to pay for complimenting one of the finest asses I've ever seen.”
I don't say another word until we're at the palace. He takes off his shades, steps out before me, and comes to my side to help me out. I take his hand angrily, catching his dizzying blue eyes for a second before I look away.
I can't let him get to me again. This is too important. I'm already feeling light headed by the pomp and glamor adorning every inch of this incredible building. It's only my second time here since the disastrous interview, since the unthinkable became my reality.
Silas stops in front of a regal looking man in a suit that's almost as nice as his. “Where is she?” he asks.
“Throne room, my Prince. She's waiting for you, having finished with the Belgian trade minister a few minutes ago.”
“Damn,” he says, turning to me as he leads us on, his personal entourage trailing behind us. “I'd have hoped for some place more casual for an introduction. Whatever, it's a test. If you can get through this when she's there, perched in all her splendor, you can get through anything, love.”
