by Nikki Chase
They seem like a nice little family, and he seems to think Rosemary would be better off if she never sees me again.
He’s wrong, of course, but he doesn’t know that.
In fact, I suspect I’m the only one who knows about his daughter’s dirty little secret.
Rosemary
“Hi, beautiful,” a cop greets me as soon as I walk through the glass door and into the police station.
“Hi Graham, have you heard any news about my father?” I ask, ignoring yet another one of his attempts at flirting. I need his help so it would probably be smarter to get on his good side, but I can’t stand the guy.
“No, Rose. I told you I’d come to your house to personally deliver the news if I heard anything,” Graham says.
“There’s no need for that. You know my number. You can just call me,” I say curtly.
“Okay, princess,” he says. He flashes me his rows of pearly white teeth.
I can only smile politely in response. The way he says it makes me cringe.
Sure, Graham has good looks, and some girls go for that. He has also climbed the ranks in the Willowdale Police Department at a young age, although a lot of his progress has to do with his father being the Chief of Police.
But nepotism isn’t why I’m not interested in his overtures. There’s something unpleasant about him that I can’t quite put a finger on.
For example, right now I know Graham doesn’t care about my father. He just likes the fact that I’m dropping by his workplace more often. He thinks he can use this opportunity to hit on me.
And when he said he’d visit me with any news? He’s only trying to get into my home, where my father doesn’t usually allow male visitors.
Yes, my father is more than a little old-fashioned. But he was born in a different land, where values were a lot more conservative, so I can’t blame him. He’s only trying to protect us.
“How long has it been again, since you last heard from him?” Graham asks.
This is a waste of time. I’ve already given him all the relevant information. There should be no need to go through those same details over and over again.
But I oblige. Anything to find my father.
“Three days. He texted me before he left the city,” I say.
“Three days since he left Malvern, huh? It should’ve taken him one day to get through the woods, so he should’ve been back two days ago,” Graham says.
“Yes.” I stop myself from reminding him that he said the same thing when I came here yesterday. This is not new information.
“It has been raining pretty heavily, so maybe he found shelter somewhere,” he says. “The cell reception is bad in the woods.”
“Yes.” I’m familiar with this problem, but I probably shouldn’t mention it, especially to someone like Graham.
Even though I’m already twenty-one, I’m not supposed to leave the sleepy town of Willowdale on my own—meaning without my father—but I’ve done it, a few times.
The first time I came home from the city, I couldn’t sleep from the fear and guilt. But I kept doing it regardless, and I got better at pushing those feelings aside.
I know it’s wrong and I know father wouldn’t approve, but I can’t help it. All my friends go to the city on weekends, and I’m the only one stuck at home.
I mean, I love my books, my home, and my family. But sometimes a girl wants to see what’s out there.
“Thanks, Graham,” I say as I turn around to leave the police station.
“Any time, beautiful,” he says.
Luckily, I already have my back to him, or he’d see me scrunch up my nose.
As the sun hits my skin and warms me up, I pull out my phone from my bag. Still nothing from my father.
I hope he’s okay.
He probably is. Nobody else but me seems to find it odd that he hasn’t made any contact in three days.
Even my sisters tell me he’s probably just lost his phone—considering how absent-minded my father is, that’s entirely possible.
I really hope they’re right.
James
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
Quentin’s plump body jerks from the shock. Obviously, he didn’t expect to be interrupted. He thought he had the whole garden to himself, the old thief.
If it weren’t for the surveillance cameras, I would’ve missed this. Unfortunately for him, I always check the security footage.
He turns around, and I can see the shock in his eyes. “Your Royal Highness,” he says in a squeaky little voice. “I, uh, I was just about to leave, and then I saw the garden, and—”
“And you thought you’d steal from me,” I cut him off. “I have so many plants, so I wouldn’t notice one or two missing. Have I guessed correctly?”
“I’m so sorry,” he says, cowering as I approach. “I really didn’t mean to steal. But I thought you were away, since you said you’d have an early start today, and—”
“And you thought it would be the perfect opportunity,” I finish his sentence for him as I stand right in front of him.
I’m aware of how much bigger and stronger I am than him, and I know how intimidating I seem to him right now.
Despite my royal upbringing, I’d gotten into more than a few fistfights when I was a schoolboy. Older and wiser now, I’ve learned how to subdue an opponent without even touching him.
“No, Your Highness, I swear I didn’t mean to steal anything. I just couldn’t find you or Albert,” Quentin says, his body shivering despite the warm weather. “I would’ve asked for permission otherwise.”
“But you didn’t,” I say in a calm tone that nevertheless makes my indignation known. “Did you know this was my mother’s beloved garden?”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t know.”
“I suppose you also didn’t know that it’s a crime to take anything from palace grounds without permission.”
“I apologize, Your Highness. Please forgive me. I merely wanted to bring something home for my daughter, Rosemary,” he says.
My ears prick up with interest when he mentions her name, even as anger continues to simmer in my blood.
“Did she tell you to steal, too?” I ask.
“No, she would never do anything like that,” Quentin says. “When I left for the city, I asked my daughters what they wanted me to bring from the city.
“Since my truck got stuck in the mud, I figured it would take days or weeks for me to get it into town. And the gifts that I originally bought for my daughters would’ve been destroyed by the time I can retrieve them, and that’s only if they haven’t already been stolen.”
“Is there a point to this story?” I ask impatiently. I was expecting him to tell me more about Rosemary, and instead he’s talking about mud.
“My youngest daughter, she wanted me to bring home a rose. I bought her a bouquet of roses in the city, but at this rate the flowers would’ve wilted before I got a chance to bring them home,” he says.
“Your daughter, she likes flowers?”
It seems like a strange request to ask for flowers from the city. Judging by Quentin’s story about closing a particularly big deal in the city, he probably could’ve afforded better gifts on this trip, like branded handbags, designer gowns, or even jewelry.
“Yes, Your Highness. She’s a florist and she takes very good care of my late wife’s garden,” he says. “Please, I’m just a father trying to make his daughter happy.”
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you stole from the kingdom. Your daughter wouldn’t be very happy if you were imprisoned in the dungeon.”
Quentin falls to his knees, staining his khakis with damp soil. “Please, Your Highness, don’t throw me in the dungeon. I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” I ask.
This could be interesting.
James
Last Month
When my gaze first lands on her, she's on the other side of the big hall.
&
nbsp; But I can see her clearly. It's like the crowd has parted to give me a clear line of sight. It’s like there's a spotlight shining on her and following her around.
I know the lighting technician wouldn't do that, though. I hired him myself and made it clear how important privacy is for my clientele. He knows I’d fuck him up if he ever violates my rules.
The spotlight should only ever remain on the stage, on the performers and the handful of guests who probably get off on public attention. Like me, the rest of the club prefers to remain anonymous.
The difference is, they get to take off their masks as soon as they step out of this club. Me, I normally wear mine home.
It's easier to blend into the crowd wearing a party mask than it is to just walk down the street as myself. As the crown prince, I’m often recognized when I’m out and about, which is why I prefer to stay inside the palace.
I can’t afford to have my pictures plastered all over the gossip tabloids again, especially when my presence here at The Dungeon is somewhat related to a past scandal. This is why I only visit The Dungeon on Masquerade Night, a monthly event that requires all attendees to—you guessed it—wear masks.
The men wear black, unadorned masks that cover the upper part of our faces. The women’s masks have the same shape, but many of them are made of sparkly materials, and some have colorful bird feathers stuck on the,.
But she doesn't need these tricks to stand out.
Even amongst a sea of people, my eyes always find her.
At first, I notice the dress. It's a little too conservative for the venue, but it's irresistibly sexy.
It's a yellow off-the-shoulder number that nips in at her narrow waist and follows the curve of her hips. The way the dress displays her dainty shoulders and elegant neck makes me want to rip it off her body and see what secrets she's hiding underneath.
Her body starts to sway seductively to the music. But she seems uncomfortable, like she's worried she's doing something wrong. She’s probably new and not sure what to expect here—and I’d love to be the one to show her the ropes.
My gaze travels down her slender arm and to her wrist, where I see a white band. Her other band, a pink one, tells me she doesn't have a master. She's a free agent, which means I can claim her. But what's that—a collar?
I move with the crowd, keeping my gaze locked on her lovely form, even though I don't fully understand this pull toward her. I can always watch her from my private booth upstairs, but that won't be close enough.
It's bizarre; she's a beauty, but I see beautiful women all the time, and none of them has this kind of an impact on me. She gets me excited—my heartbeat is faster than usual—and it's been a while since the last time that happened.
By the time I find a good spot to watch her, the host has gotten up on stage and announced a new show. I don't care, though. Not now. Not with her in the crowd.
I’ve traveled all the way to Malvern to watch this show live, but even that doesn't seem appealing anymore.
From up close, she’s even more stunning. Her eyes are so big they're almost cartoonish. Her hair catches the light from the stage, making it seem like she has a glowing halo around her—it makes her appear even more out of place in this club full of depraved people.
I take a closer look at the thing curled around the graceful column of her neck. It doesn't seem to be a collar, but a choker necklace with a small gold pendant.
Arousal rises within, kindling a flame inside me. She’d look so good on her knees with a real collar—my collar—around her neck and nothing else.
She obviously needs a master. Even without her saying anything, I can tell she’d do well and even flourish, with the right master.
Just watch her. Really watch her. The tell-tale signs are subtle, but they're there.
On stage, a man has tied up a woman to a wooden post on the floor. The bottom part of the post looks like an inverted Y, spreading her legs apart. A horizontal piece tops the post, keeping her wrists spread and restrained. She has her knees on the ground and her ass in the air.
“You understand why I’m punishing you?” the man asks as he menacingly raises his whip.
“Yes, Master. Because I talked back to you, Master,” she says in a voice that betrays her fear and anxiety. With a blindfold over her eyes, she can't tell what's going on around her. She can't even see the hundreds of people watching her in her most vulnerable state right now.
“That's right.” The man swiftly brings down the whip, the leather slicing through the air with an audible sound.
As it lands sharply, the woman cries out. “Thank you, Master!” she adds quickly, afraid delayed gratitude would earn her more blows.
I don’t even have to look at the couple on the stage to know exactly what’s going on from the sounds alone.
How can I watch something as mundane as the show, when there’s a captivating, innocent-looking angel in front of me?
Her brown eyes widen when the whip hits the sub’s ass again. Her mouth opens with a gasp, and my cock stirs in my pants as my imagination goes wild with all the filthy things I can do with those full lips.
With every lash, she flinches like most of the audience, but the way she bites her bottom lip tells me she’ll fantasize about this scene when she goes home and lies alone in the dark, her naughty little fingers in her panties.
All around us, men in suits and masks hold leashes that are connected to their subs’ collars.
One man up in the booth has his sub kneeling on the floor between his thighs, pleasuring him orally as he watches the show.
A few feet behind me, a man leans back against the wall as he puts one hand around his sub’s neck and another hand down her skimpy panties.
My hands have never felt more empty. I want to take off her stupid choker and replace it with my collar. I’ll take her with me to the club and show off her obedience and her commitment to my pleasure.
I squint to take a better look at the gold pendant hanging between her clavicles.
Is that...a rose?
I almost burst out laughing, but I stop myself just in time. I may be wearing a mask, but I still can't afford to draw attention to myself. It's too easy for someone to recognize me.
Me, caught in a BDSM club? That would be a paparazzi’s wet dream. The tabloids would have a field day.
But a rose. That is too fucking perfect. It's like she has already been branded with my family crest, like she's already mine.
I have to talk to her.
As if she can hear my thoughts, she whispers something in her friend’s ear and leaves the crowd, making her way to the ladies’ room.
Her friend is wearing a collar. I can't see the end of the leash from where I'm standing, but it's safe to assume she's here with the guy beside her.
I wonder if that makes my little rose feel lonely, being the third wheel. Maybe she yearns for a firm hand to take control of her. Judging from how much she enjoys the show, she probably does.
I follow her and find a spot by the restrooms where I can wait for her.
My mind wanders to imagine what she's doing right now. I wonder if her panties are soaked, if her pussy is throbbing with desire.
After a few minutes that feel like hours, she appears.
She's teetering on her high heels, her hips swaying sensuously with every step she takes. She stops as she faces the crowd, craning her neck to find her friend.
I step in front of her and block her view.
“You must be new here,” I say to her bewildered face.
Her big brown eyes grow even bigger as she tilts her head up to look at me. “Uh...yeah,” she says.
She's so small I can just throw her over one shoulder and take her home right now, kicking and screaming, but that wouldn't be much fun.
I’d rather train her slowly and watch as she blooms before my eyes. I’d love to see her shed that self-consciousness and replace it the quiet confidence of a submissive, secure in the knowledge that only her master’s
opinion matters, and her master is pleased with her.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. There's still a long way to go until she becomes my perfect submissive. But as I watch her, I know she's a diamond in the rough.
“I trust you’ve already been told to never make eye contact unless explicitly requested,” I say.
Her lips part in surprise, but no sound comes out. Instinctively, she starts to raise her eyes to look up at me again, but she catches herself and directs her gaze downward instead. “Sorry,” she says softly.
“And you’re supposed to address men in the club with respect,” I add. I take another step closer to her, until there are mere inches between us.
The proximity between us excites her. Maybe she likes it that I’m invading her personal space without asking for permission. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm calling her out and putting her in her place.
Whatever it is, she's responding to me—at least her body is. Her breathing picks up, and her face grows warm with color. She even squeezes her legs together, the muscles in her toned legs tensing.
She's getting aroused, and all it takes is a few words from me.
“Sorry, Sir,” she says, correcting herself.
The sight of her in that state, combined with the way she has just addressed me, sends blood rushing through my veins. My cock jumps in my pants.
I want to see how she reacts to my hand pulling her hair, and my lips all over her smooth skin. I want to tie her up with her legs parted wide and bury myself balls deep inside her.
For the second time tonight, I wonder how wet she is.
But judging from the white wristband and how unfamiliar she is with this environment, she's not ready yet for something like that. If I move too fast, she might run away like a scared little hare.
No, an exquisite treasure like her requires careful handling.
“Good girl,” I praise her.
She seems taken aback by my words. Obviously, she has never been addressed like that before. And evidently, she likes it.
