My Royal Sin

by Riley Pine

  My shoulder blades slam together. “You have proof?”

  A sob escapes her. “Only the truth in my heart. There is no proof. No motive. Mother died not long after my birth, and all I had after Father was my brother. J-J-J-Jasper.” As the name leaves her tongue, her weeping grows.

  “Jasper Vernazza.” I frown. “This name, it’s familiar to me.”

  “His fate wasn’t as dramatic as Father’s. He still lives, if you can call being locked in a cage like an animal a life. He was a minor news story this past year until we lost his case and they locked him up. He was an art historian caught stealing a painting from my father’s collection in the Musée des Beaux-Arts. They say he wanted to sell it to a black market dealer in Hong Kong, but my brother reveres museums and Father’s legacy. It doesn’t make sense.” She wipes her eyes. “The portrait he was accused of stealing was another angel, actually. My father painted a whole series of them.”

  “And each one is superb. I’ve studied his works.” I’ve seen most of them over the years. They are all of Ruby’s dreamy, heavenly face contrasted with a different hyperrealistic dystopian cityscape.

  “My brother was set up, I just don’t know why.” With one shuddering inhalation she composes herself. “Anyway, this is not your concern. I remember your library. Art is not the only thing you study. You are fascinated by tales of pleasure, as well. I swear on my life you know more about the erotic arts than Madam herself.”

  I nod. “I seek to understand beauty, for to know beauty is to know the face of God.” Strange. Until this moment I’ve never articulated this idea, either in thoughts or words.

  She ducks her chin, a little shy, and stares up between her curtain of golden hair. “And to you, pleasure is beautiful?”

  “I believe there is a sacred union of the body and soul when it comes to sex.” I begin to pace, assuming the tone of the professor, not a stretch considering I hold a PhD in Sacred Theology from the University of Edenvale. “Sexuality has the power to be as explosive as dynamite, and when used properly, it can be a tool that moves mountains. And if used improperly, it can grow volatile and wreak untold destruction.”

  Her brows knit. “Yet you deny yourself.”

  “I have what you could call an arranged marriage,” I say wryly. “My intended bride is to be the church.”

  She lets out a frustrated huff, opening the door and disappearing for a moment. There is a rustling from the bathroom, and she emerges clutching a small vial. “I found arnica.” She uncorks the lid and takes a tentative sniff. “It appears to be mixed with lavender oil.”

  “A medicinal ointment.” I nod my head. “Useful to treat all manner of aches and pains.”

  “Let me do this.” She clutches the bottle, eyes wide. “Heal you.”

  I take a step backward and find myself in a corner. “Why do you want to?”

  “Because I think you are a good man. And the marks on your back make me want to cry. They also make me angry at God because why would He demand you to punish yourself for feelings that you admit are natural?”

  “Sacrifice is holy,” I tell her, repeating the lessons I’ve been taught my whole life.

  “If lust is an impulse that must be literally beaten from your flesh, then you are giving God something that is unclean, unholy. Why would He want such an offering?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, impressed at the depth of her impassioned response. “You’d make quite the scholar, Miss Vernazza.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she snaps. “Not anymore. Now I am simply Ruby.” She strides forward, pouring ointment into her open palm. “And you are trying to distract me from my task like a naughty patient. Sit.” Her tone brokers no dissent.

  I move to a wooden chair and sink to the seat.

  “Let’s see how extensive the damage is.” She peruses my back, her long hair tickling my bare skin. Her silence stretches for the length of a minute. “Benedict,” she says, my name a sigh from her lips. “So much pain.” Her fingertips press on my throbbing skin, the welts from the whip. The lavender scent of the ointment floods my senses, but is nothing compared to the intense vibrations sent out across my flesh from her soft, circular massage.

  “Let’s see if we can make you feel better,” she whispers in my ear.

  Ruby

  His skin is like fire under my touch, the raised welts tearing at my heart as my fingers travel over each one.

  “Benedict,” I say, but I don’t know what comes next. His name falls so easily from my lips, yet I know the skin I touch blazes not only with the heat of desire but that of intense, overwhelming guilt. It is the skin not just of a man but of royalty; a world in which I do not belong, save for my likeness hanging on his wall.

  His head droops.

  “Have I hurt you?” I ask, afraid I am doing more harm than good.

  He gives his head a soft shake. “The way you say my name,” he says.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I meant Your Highness.”

  “No,” he assures me. “It is not that.” I listen and continue to massage the salve over his wounds. “The way you say Benedict, it makes me feel...known.”

  “Oh,” I say, my hands pausing but never leaving his skin. “I’m not sure what to do with that,” I admit.

  “Nothing.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Only God can truly know me,” he says. “That is my chosen path.”

  I step around the chair to face him, and he lifts his head.

  “Did you really choose that path, Benedict? Or was it chosen for you?”

  His green eyes are a storm of emotion, yet his words are the picture of calm.

  “How I got here is of no matter,” he says. “This is my path, and I shall not stray.”

  I kneel and place my hands on his thighs. He takes a ragged breath, and I expect him to push me away. But he doesn’t. So I decide to push. Not because of what the Madam assigned me to do and not to push Benedict toward failure if, in fact, this is not what he wants. The entire realm envies the royal family, yet I wonder what anyone in a position such as Benedict—or any member of his family for that matter—gets to choose.

  “If you had a choice right now,” I ask, “if you could have something you wanted that you thought you didn’t deserve, what would it be?”

  He leans against the chair and winces. He is in more pain than he’s letting on.

  “Is this more truth or dare?” he asks, forcing himself to smile through the pain, but his feigned attempt at levity does not work on me.

  “No games,” I say. “We already did that, so I’m technically off the clock. I want you to choose something for you.”

  He places his hands atop mine, his fingers circling my wrists.

  “To voice such a thing would be selfish.”

  I laugh even as tears prick at my eyes. How many times have I wanted something just for myself only to give it up for someone else? To have the luxury of acting on one selfish wish? I would take it in an instant.

  “Then be selfish, Benedict. You are not a priest, not yet. And from what I know of your religion, until you take your final vows, you may do as you please. This is a new millennium. You’re young, fairly easy on the eyes.” I grin. “You could have any woman you want, and yet you deny yourself. Why?”

  He grips me tighter, lifting my palms from his legs.

  “To save myself for God,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t believe that. After what you had me do tonight, I know you want. I know you are tempted. Why not act on those temptations while you can?”

  Now he does throw my hands from him, and he springs from the chair, pacing the length of the room. He runs a hand through his hair, tearing at it as he does.

  “Benedict,” I say, standing and heading toward the wall. “Benedict, you’re scaring me.”

  He stops before me
, chest heaving and his emerald eyes wide.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to burrow into the wall to escape whatever is coming. I have forgotten myself tonight—forgotten who I am and what it is that I do. I have forgotten that this man, this prince, is nothing more than my client, and a displeased client takes his frustrations out on the whore. I have heard the stories. I have seen the aftermath. It’s more than a surprising slap across the face from the Madam.

  I just didn’t think it would happen to me so soon.

  “Ruby,” he says, his voice as gentle as a whisper, and I open my eyes. My hands are still balled into fists, and I realize I’m holding my breath. “Heavens, Ruby, no. Did you think—I could never—”

  A tear escapes the corner of my eye, my fear finally getting the best of me, and he swipes it away with a thumb. Only then do I exhale.

  “Madam leaves punishment up to the client. If he is not satisfied...”

  But I also factor in her own dissatisfaction—what she will do if I don’t let her know about the painting now that I know where it is.

  He brushes my hair from my face, each stroke of his hand telling me that he is different. That I am safe.

  “I am not a client,” he says. “Not for the rest of this evening.”

  I exhale. “But you were so angry. And it happened so quickly, I thought... I mean, I was getting myself ready for the worst.”

  He raises his head to the ceiling—or, most likely, the heavens—and whispers Latin words I do not understand. Then his eyes find mine again. The storm is gone. He is once again the picture of calm.

  “There are two reasons why I deny myself the pleasures of the flesh though I’ve not yet taken my vows. I would like to tell them to you.”

  He is so close, his woodsy, earthy scent intoxicating me. If he is not a client right now, then what is he? Why is it that in his presence, I long for him to know me, as well?

  I nod.

  “First,” he says, and his hand skims the silk sleeve of my robe until he finds my clenched fist. I relax and let him take my hand in his. “To maintain my virtue until my vows—it is the ultimate test of strength and will. I want to be strong enough for this. I want to give myself to the Lord wholly and completely, which means I will not give myself to another.”

  “Okay,” I say softly, accepting that this is a choice he gets to make, and if anyone can understand that, I can.

  “The second reason,” he says, his head dipping toward mine, “is that I am terrified to know what I am missing.”

  “Oh,” I say, eyes wide.

  “I will not give you my virtue,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “But for just a moment, I do want to be selfish.”

  “What do you want, Benedict?” His nearness is almost too much to bear.

  “A kiss,” he says.

  I know without asking that I will be his first, and I know the slippery slope down which this could lead.

  But I want to be selfish, too, just for a moment.

  “Take what you want,” I tell him.

  “First tell me your name. Your real name.”

  And because I want to be known, too, if only for tonight, I say it.

  “Evangeline.”

  “A beautiful name.” He grins. “My angel, Evangeline.” And with that, his fingers circle my wrists again, sliding my arms up the wall so he holds my hands over my head. I am captive to my prince, and yet I’ve never felt more free.

  My nipples harden beneath my silk dressing gown, and I cannot ignore the throb between my legs.

  His head dips farther until I can feel his warm breath against my skin, and when his lips brush hesitantly against mine, I thank whatever God there is that Benedict is holding me in place, because my knees give out. I whimper, and my prince takes what he needs.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Benedict

  I PRESS MY forehead to hers. Evangeline Vernazza. I kiss her again, deeper this time and more urgent. She responds with a hunger not unlike my own, her sweet tongue flicking and caressing mine until I groan. My hands leave hers to tangle in her silky hair. Our breath mingles, feverishly hot.

  At last I give in and allow myself to cup one of her perfect breasts, soft as rose petals, and her body bows. So responsive. So passionate. I growl my approval, unable to get enough.

  I’ll never get enough.

  How many times have I flicked through dusty leather-bound books of poetry, scoffing at the overinflated metaphors and purple prose? Now...now I finally understand those poor poets, and pity everyone who attempted to capture this feeling of two souls merging with mere words.

  I dip to kiss her arched neck, trace my tongue along her pulse. Every inch of me burns, but this does not feel like hell.

  No.

  This is a heaven I never could have imagined.

  Even though my control hangs by the barest thread, I refuse to let it snap. Tonight I have glimpsed what can exist between a man and a woman.

  This moment must be enough.

  As much as I want to forget the world and burn in her arms, I am bound to my duty, my destiny as the second son to Edenvale’s king.

  Ruby...no—Evangeline...my sweet angel and unexpected jewel, opens her eyes.

  “Why did you stop?” she whispers, brows knitting.

  Because if I didn’t, I’d be inside you to the hilt. I would throw away my entire future.

  But I don’t say that. Instead, my features settle into a familiar mask. I might not look much like my youngest brother, but suddenly I understand the hard smile, the shuttered eyes that Damien used. My gut twists in understanding. My little brother hid the secrets of his heart just like I hide my own now, for I am falling for a woman whom I pay to tempt me. Common sense would say this feeling is nothing but lust.

  But fuck common sense.

  There is more to heaven and earth than what meets the eye, and the saints, I am sure, are laughing their holy asses off.

  My lips twist into a bitter smile. Of course I’d imagine myself falling head over heels after a mere two days. If she touches my cock, I might propose marriage.

  “Go to bed,” I bark, ignoring her questioning gaze. It’s not fair. But it is my right. I am Prince of Edenvale. My word is law here.

  She senses the authority in my voice and dips her head. “As you wish, Highness...but...” She dares to glance between her thick fringe of lashes, a glitter of mischief, as if she’s not as subservient as her posture might pretend. “Don’t you want to join me?”

  She’ll be the death of me.

  “I will check on you later. For now, get some sleep Find some peace. One of us deserves that much.”

  Before she can ask another question, I turn on my heel and stalk from the room.

  When I enter the library, I’m surprised to find the antique lamps are lit. X glances from his perch in a leather chair. He assumes a more casual pose than I am used to seeing, one of his legs slung over the chair’s arm, and for once in his life, he looks startled.

  “Benedict!” He bounds to his feet and clicks his heels. “Did I or did I not see Miss Ruby enter your bedchamber?”

  I incline my head. “She is in my bed this very moment.”

  “And yet, you are here?” He does not ask the question he wants answered most, yet I know it hangs between us. “Have you gone mad?”

  Perhaps I have.

  I relax my shoulders, grateful for an opportunity to unburden my chaotic mind. “I needed space from temptation.”

  “Forgive me.” His mouth purses. “But is that not the whole point of having her around?”

  “I don’t know!” I snarl through gritted teeth, then whirl and punch the wall. “I know nothing.” The pain steadies me, so I do it again, three times in quick succession.

  “Feel better?” X asks, the corner of his mouth
curling up in amusement.

  “No.” I open and shut my hand a few times. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  He smiles lazily, but I swear I sense a troubled soul lurking behind his hooded eyes. “I am your personal bodyguard. And tonight I decided to do a little light reading while you were otherwise...ahem...occupied.”

  I cross the room and swipe the book from his chest. “The Asca Mountains: A History. What’s this about? Do you plan to do an overland hike into Nightgardin?” The Asca Mountains provide the ancient border surrounding our old enemy to the north. In fact, the forbidding peaks have long kept Edenvale safe from the various feuds across Europe. Back when the great Carthaginian General Hannibal crossed the Alps during the Second Punic War, he ransacked the Romans because he wasn’t able to breach the perilous Ascas.

  “One can never know too much about local geography,” X says enigmatically. “How about you? What brings you here when you have a willing woman warming your bed? Back before he met Princess Kate, your brother Nikolai would have disappeared for a week if he had struck upon such good fortune.”

  I set my jaw. “I am not my brother.”

  “No, you aren’t.” X appraises me with a shrewd eye. “You have too much of your mother in you.”

  My throat constricts. Perhaps if she’d lived, none of what has occurred in my family would have ever happened. Damien wouldn’t have grown reckless and self-destructive from carrying the crushing burden of guilt for her death. Nikolai would have been saved earlier from his wanton bad-boy behavior. Perhaps she’d have even softened Father to my existence, encouraged me to walk a different life path despite my duty to serve the church.

  But daydreaming about what-ifs is a luxury not afforded a member of the royal family. “You knew my mother?” I ask.

  “She was a wonderful and kindhearted woman who loved her children more than life itself.”

  “How about my father?” I don’t know where this rush of anger comes from, but it hits me with a tidal-wave force. “Tell me. Did you happen to be acquainted with the Captain of the Guard?”