My Royal Sin

by Riley Pine

“This is what I’d have you do. With your hands. Your mouth. Your cock.” I slide my fingers out, drenched in my own arousal, and swirl them fiercely around my clit. My head falls back, and the arm that supports my weight begins to shake. “I can’t—” I say. “I can’t last much longer. Make me come,” I plead. “Make me fucking come, Benedict!” My voice is not my own. It is something savage, a need I didn’t know existed until now.

  “I cannot,” he says, but the words are a primal growl.

  “Do it!” I command, my eyes on his again. “With your words, Benedict. Just your words. Tell me what you would do to finish me off. They are nothing more than innocent words.”

  He leans forward, hands still glued to the armrests, and I can see that his pupils have grown so large his eyes look black. “Fuck.” He grits his teeth. “Fuck.”

  But he says nothing more. So I collapse on the bed, one hand spreading myself open for him to see, the other sending me over the edge and into oblivion.

  I don’t hold back. I don’t stifle my scream as I fill myself with one finger, then two, then three until I buck against my palm.

  When I finally slide my hand free with a shudder, I lie there, limp and languid from the most perplexing orgasm I’ve ever experienced.

  What does it mean that I enjoyed what just happened...or that I wanted it to be his hands on me instead of my own? I was prepared to give him a good show, but instead, despite the undeniable pleasure of the evening, I’m left wanting more.

  “That was...different,” I say, my voice back to its soft lilt. “I’ve never done anything like that before. I assure you.” I laugh, my eyes still shut, lids heavy as the aftermath threatens to carry me off to sleep before he can respond.

  I open my eyes to gauge the prince’s reaction, to congratulate him on his restraint.

  But the chair is empty. And when I hear the front door slam, I wonder if the first night of our arrangement will be the last.

  Because Benedict is gone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Benedict

  I KNEEL IN front of the high altar of the royal chapel. The tabernacle is open, exposing the Eucharist, the consecrated bread transmogrified into the body of Christ. I need him to see what I have done this night, reveled in lust, taken pleasure in bending a woman to my will, woken my dormant craving for sexual domination. As Ruby undulated in her sheets, her pale skin flush with the intensity of her orgasm, a single refrain played through my mind.

  What would her wet pussy feel like throbbing around my own fingers?

  Would she enjoy it as much as what she’d just done to herself? Would I?

  “No!” I don’t realize that I’ve spoken out loud until the word echoes through the marble-walled nave. Even now, even here, my thoughts are polluted. I cover my hands over my face. How can I be what my duty demands? Why can’t I conquer these urges?

  If I stray from my path, where will it lead?

  A frustrated moan escapes my gritted teeth. I am so fucking weak.

  “Can I be of assistance?”

  I’m on my feet before my next breath, hands braced against the altar rails. “Who said that?” The voice comes from near the pulpit. Could it be the miracle I’m looking for, the gift of salvation? “Lord? Is that you?”

  The low, deep chuckle is familiar. X steps from the shadows. “Careful, Highness,” he says with a wry smile. “You want to give me a God complex?”

  “Where’d you come from?” I snap, embarrassed at my error.

  “Couldn’t sleep, and you were otherwise...occupied.” He shrugs. “So I took a stroll through the catacombs.”

  I blink. “Where?”

  He saunters down the altar steps and sits in the first pew, crossing a foot over his knee. As always, he is dressed in an impeccable suit. It would be tempting to dismiss him as continuing to have fun at my expense, but the dust coating his hair makes his salt-and-pepper locks appear saltier than normal.

  “The ancient catacombs beneath the chapel. As far as I can tell, they’ve been sealed up since the early seventeenth century by your nine-times great-grandfather King Ivor the Protector.”

  I cross my arms. “I haven’t been down there. We were thought too young to attend my mother’s funeral.”

  He gives me a look of sympathy. “Many of the tunnels are in disrepair, and I encountered a rat the size of a cocker spaniel. That’s when I exited through a secret passage here beneath the high altar beside the statue of Saint Everly, the patroness of our realm.”

  X has been a fixture of the castle since I was a teenager. And yet he is an utter mystery to me. “What were you doing there if it is so dangerous?”

  “The more interesting question is whether you are enjoying the company of Miss Ruby. You might not be aware that she comes from The Jewel Box, a Rosegate pleasure house valued for its discretion but also quality. All the girls there go by the names of precious stones.” He gives his chin a musing rub. “I’ve had the good fortune to while away many a pleasant afternoon with a most diverting escort named Pearl. She used to insist on wearing nipple clamps and would do anything to get a chance to go under my flogger.”

  I am ashamed to realize that I know little about Miss Ruby. I can describe every inch of her perfect body, but I haven’t the first clue about her actual life. I clear my throat, deciding to hide my discomfiture behind a question. “You consort with escorts regularly?”

  My bodyguard is an enigma. I knew my brother was a favorite of the ladies, but apparently, when it came to his most trusted bodyguard, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

  Not for the first time, I wonder why he requested a transfer to my security detail.

  X’s laughter is amused, not unkind. “I consort with women regularly. Some of them are escorts. Some are not. All of them are quite skilled at...consorting.”

  I stare blankly for a few seconds, struggling to process his words. Again, I can’t help but wonder, Who is this guy? Like Ruby, I have never wondered much about X’s past. He was my brother’s bodyguard, but it seems there is more than meets the eye. The tabernacle bores into my spine, the eyes of the Lord waiting to judge my next move. I have questions that require answers, but I can’t ask them in here.

  “We will continue this conversation out of the church.”

  I stride toward the thick carved doors as X replies, “Very good, sir.”

  Outside, the night air is crisp. The wind blowing over the surrounding snowcapped peaks cool my heated face, but I won’t lie to myself. My shiver has nothing to do with the temperature.

  “You do not tie yourself to one woman?” I know not everyone believes in monogamy. My elder brother, Nikolai, certainly didn’t...until he met his Kate that is.

  X adjusts his tie, his expression blank. “I am not opposed to...tying,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirked into a knowing grin. “But I’m normally the one who makes the knots.”

  Envy hits me with blunt force. “The stories you could tell,” I mutter, but my tone does not escape him.

  “I know you are well-read, but there is something to be said for experience, for true knowledge. You aren’t a priest yet, Your Highness.”

  Though X is overstepping, I do not call him on it. Instead, I swallow hard at the idea. I have so many questions. They press against my skull, threatening to crack the bone.

  I want to know more, but I need to resist.

  “The choice of celibacy is not one to take lightly,” X says, his voice firm. “You can yield to her. There is no harm in seeing what you’d be missing.”

  But I can’t afford to give in to the bonfire of my sexual urges. If I do, I might burn down my carefully scripted future. Instead, I turn wordlessly and escape back to my tower that tonight feels more like a prison than ever before.

  Ruby

  The drowsy aftermath of my orgasm is replaced by something unsettling, something tha
t not only keeps me from sleep but drives me from the cottage altogether. The summer night is cool, but my body is still alight from the mere thought of Benedict’s touch, so I wear nothing but a long silk dressing gown, another gift from Monique Mantissa.

  Thanks to X’s coaching this afternoon, I’ve learned my way out of the maze—well, with only having to backtrack twice. I’d say that’s pretty impressive for my first day. Though the sun has long set, the brilliant moon lights the palace grounds in a soft glow. I make my way to the gardens behind the palace itself, not sure what I’m hoping to find. Benedict on an evening stroll, trying to clear his thoughts just as I am? But all is quiet but for the guards on patrol. I stare up at the tower where I know the prince resides, and for a second I consider climbing that spiral staircase and knocking on his door.

  For what? He does not want to see you. That is why he left.

  Yet I cannot deny that I wish to see him.

  Instead, I decide to give him space. Back at the cottage, I can call Camille to check in, see if we have any new leads on Jasper’s case. This, I remind myself, is why I am here. For my family.

  So I make a hasty retreat. Once there, it takes me only one try to get through the maze and to the cottage. I only now realize there is no guard on patrol at this hour, and once I’m inside, that unsettling chill returns. Though this time it is different.

  Something is different. I can feel it. And it is in my room where I find it.

  I flip on the light, the space brighter than it was before, and then realize Benedict and I were lit only by the moon. The rocking chair, the one from which he watched me—was it not closer to the window before? Benedict himself had leaned forward for a better view, but had he actually moved the chair?

  I circle the benign piece of furniture, sure that there was no room to step behind it before, and a floorboard creaks, a sound I should have heard had Benedict rocked against it.

  I bend to examine it, and the wooden slat comes up easily in my hand.

  I scramble backward, gasping at what cannot be real, but I peek over into the open space again and see not the foundation of an architectural structure but what looks like a cavernous hole with no end.

  Then, as if from the bowels of hell, comes the terrifying yet distant sound of a woman’s triumphant laughter.

  Without another thought, I am running—out the door, through the maze and straight to where I swore I would not go. I don’t even remember climbing the stairs when I’m already pounding on his door. Maybe I hallucinated it. Maybe the sound was just the wind. But my skin is covered in goose bumps and my heart is threatening to crack my sternum.

  “Benedict!” I cry, no time for propriety. “Benedict, please. Open the door!”

  In seconds he is there, bare but for cotton pajama pants, his chest beaded with sweat, but I’m too frightened to react to his body the way I know I would have only a short time ago.

  “Ruby,” he says, his eyes widening. “What is it?”

  I hug my torso, shivering now—from the chill in the air? Fear? I’m not even sure.

  “Did you go to the cottage?” I ask, hoping for logic to rearrange my frantic thoughts. “Did you go to my room?”

  His brows furrow, and he shakes his head.

  “I—After you left, I went for a walk. And...” I take a shuddering breath. After what my life has become these past two months, I’m starting to trust that things will only get worse. “I think someone broke in while I was gone.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticks. He looks over his shoulder and then at me.

  “Come in,” he says. “You are safe here.” He steps aside and closes the door. “Follow me.”

  He moves in front of me, and I gasp as he leads me from the entryway, as my eyes rest on the raised welts that cover his back.

  He says nothing until we are in a modest bedchamber. The walls are bare but for a crucifix on the wall by a lone window. The bed is large but without any trappings of royalty. Just plain white sheets and a quilt. He sits me on the edge of the bed and moves a good distance from me, crossing his arms.

  “Tell me what happened,” he says, not bothering to acknowledge the new elephant in the room.

  “Tell me what happened to you,” I say.

  He sighs. “Nothing,” he says softly. “Nothing more than purging myself of my guilt.”

  My hand flies to my mouth as I stifle another gasp.

  “My tormented soul isn’t your concern, Ruby. I hired you to do a job, and you performed as expected. Now tell me what you are doing here.”

  His words bite, though I know they shouldn’t. They are nothing more than the truth.

  “When I got home,” I tell him, “something felt wrong. And when I went to my room, the chair—your chair—was not where you’d left it. At least, I don’t think it was.” As I speak, I realize I sound less convincing by the second. But then I remember the floorboard. “There was a squeaky piece of wood in the floor behind the chair, and I thought it odd that it hadn’t sounded when you were there, because I swear your chair was right over it, so I pulled it up and—”

  “Let me guess. And you found the catacombs?” He raises a brow and grins.

  I stand up in a huff. “I just ran here frightened for my life, and you’re joking around?” I ask. The idea of laughter seems too ridiculous to mention. It must have been the wind and my own overactive imagination.

  I turn to storm out, realizing I won’t find comfort here, but Benedict grabs my wrist.

  “Wait,” he says.

  I face him but say nothing more.

  “There is a chance I may have moved my chair closer to you.” His expression darkens. “I don’t remember. You bewitched me with that show you put on—inserting me into your fantasy. I probably couldn’t have told you what day it was while I was in that room, let alone whether or not I moved a chair.”

  “But the catacombs? That dark hole under the floor?”

  He nods, a soft smile taking over his features. “There is not only a maze above the ground but one beneath it, as well. They run from under the palace to the far reaches of the grounds. I assure you that is all you saw beneath the cottage, and I can almost assure you it was I who moved the chair.”

  I sigh, and he finally drops my wrist. “I guess that all makes sense.” And it does, though I’m still uneasy. “I guess...I’ll head back and go to sleep.”

  He reaches for my cheek but stops short.

  “You are still frightened.”

  I nod.

  “Then you will sleep here.” He gestures toward the bed. “I was going to sleep on the floor anyway,” he adds.

  At this, I want to reach for him, to ask him to forgive himself for nothing more than wanting what he cannot have. But I know that will only cause him further distress. And because I do not want to be alone in what now feels like too strange of a place, I agree.

  “I do have one condition,” I say, and he bows his head slowly. “You need to let me tend to your wounds. There are so many bruises.” For a moment I wonder if this is the hardest he’s punished himself yet. “I don’t want you marred on my account.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I shake my head. “Let me—let me do something good,” I say.

  His shoulders relax, and he points toward the direction from where we came. “The bathing room is on the left. You will find supplies in there, healing salves and such.”

  I smile and turn toward the door, and that’s when I see what’s on the wall...what wasn’t in my line of sight when we entered the room.

  This is what I was sent to find, but now that I see it, I realize that whatever the story is behind the painting, it’s more than I anticipated.

  It is not only the image of an angel...but it is one who wears my face.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Benedict

  THERE IS A loud thump as my bedroom door slams shut. I
whirl around to find Ruby crumpled against it, hands pressed to her face, her cheeks drained of all color.

  “What is it?” I demand. My heart is in my throat. She seemed fine a moment ago, composed even.

  “The portrait...” She keels forward as if to swoon. “You own one of Vernazza’s Guardian Angels paintings?”

  I blink slowly, unable to comprehend the depth of emotion in her voice. “You’re a fan of Giuseppe Vernazza’s work?” Vernazza was regarded as the great artist of our age until his unfortunate death a decade ago, losing control of his car and wrapping it around a tree along the Nightgardin border. A waste to lose such a gifted prodigy before his time.

  Her laugh is without humor and goes on and on, the hysterical edge slashing my peace of mind. “You could say that,” she gasps. “Vernazza was my father. Look closer at the painting. Tell me, does it remind you of anyone?”

  I transfer my gaze from her beautiful face to that of the angel, the one that has so often served as both my temptation and my salvation—and my heart gives a dull thud. What a fool I have been not to see what was right under my nose. Ruby’s face...the angel’s face, good God, they are one and the same. No wonder she appeared so familiar the moment she removed the wig. My insides churn.

  “He painted my features as he imagined they would one day look. His imagination came close to the truth, right?”

  It’s as if my world has flipped its axis and down is up and up is down. “I didn’t know.”

  How could I have been so blind?

  “Of course not.” She winds her arms around her legs, hugs her knees to her chest. “Who would imagine the daughter of Europe’s most famous painter since Pablo Picasso would make a living by selling her body?”

  “Why do you work for The Jewel Box?”

  Her eyes darken. “My father died.”

  “Rest his soul.” I make the sign of the cross. “A terrible accident. I shall pray for him.”

  “Accident?” She pushes herself to standing, her features fierce, shining with hidden fire. “My father drove that same route between Nightgardin and Rosegate at least once a week to deal with patrons. He took expert care of that car. No. That wasn’t a mere accident that claimed his life. The weather was calm. The sun shining. He was murdered. Someone tampered with his brakes!”