The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

by Adora Crooks

  “I should warn you, I’m not much of a ballroom dancer,” I preface. “Get them to play Backstreet Boys and we’re golden, but…”

  “Follow my lead,” Roland assures me. “Look at me. Not your feet.”

  “Okay.” Twist my arm. I can’t stop staring at him. His luxurious mane of hair is tied back with a black ribbon, and his brows are primed to make the wild man look more groomed. He smells clean, like mint leaves, lavender, and sandalwood, and I’m tempted to bury my face in the opening of his airy shirt where his chest is left bare and inhale him. My fingers itch with the desire to take off the mask covering half of his face so I can see him in all his glory.

  Roland guides us back and forth with incredibly lithe, graceful movements, and I surprise myself by keeping up with him. He notices, too, and smiles proudly. “You’re a natural,” he says.

  “Or I’m just good at doing what I’m told.”

  A hint of fire in his eyes, a violet flash. “That too.”

  The harpist begins to pluck thin dreamy notes from her strings, and I fall into a trance. I can’t help but take in this place. The chandeliers are huge, like glaciers hanging from the ceiling. The people around us look like old-school marionettes with their extravagant dresses and suits and their wild, bizarre masks. I feel like I’ve fallen through a wormhole into a different time, a different dimension. Surely, something this grandiose can’t exist in the same world where every other sock I own has a hole in it.

  “What are you thinking?” Roland asks, suddenly breaking the silence between us.

  “Honestly? I wish I was livestreaming this. Oscar would love to see this.” I crinkle my nose when I hear the words come out of my mouth. “Sorry, that was… incredibly not romantic.”

  “Don’t apologize. You love your brother.”

  “Very much.”

  “Don’t you think he’d want you to be right here, enjoying yourself, instead of worrying about him? That’s the point of all this, isn’t it? You’re living your life to the fullest in honor of him.”

  I nod. “You’re right. I know you are. It’s just… hard to turn it off.”

  “Luckily for you, you have an incredibly charming, handsome prince standing right in front of you. And he can’t take his eyes off you.” How can someone be so arrogant and so sincere at the same time? I laugh and I want to call him out on it, but when my eyes meet his—well. He’s right. I fall right into them. Those sparkling blue pools are staring right at me, and suddenly, it’s hard to think about anything else but him.

  “Better?” he asks.

  I wind my arms around his neck and draw him in closer. “Better,” I agree.

  I only get to enjoy the strong grip of his arms for a few seconds longer before the song dwindles to its end. The dancers break apart to clap. Everyone but us. Roland tucks me in closer and kisses me. His lips break open my petals, and I’m dizzy for him. I sigh into his mouth and melt against his sturdy chest.

  “Enjoying ourselves, are we?” The crisp female voice sends jolts of alarm through my body, and I break apart from Roland. When I turn to face the onlooker, my mouth goes cotton dry.

  Holy Christ on a cracker.

  It’s the queen of England, flanked by a pair of guards. The queen is dressed to the nines in this gorgeous black-and-white gown that’s tight around her slim waist and then fans out at her hips. Her hair, like Roland’s, is long, blonde, and lush, but hers is contained in braids that wrap around the back of her head like a ribbon and tumble down her shoulders. For a mask, she has nothing but a small eye piece that matches her dress, and she holds it on a long stick between her fingers. After all, what would the queen of England have to hide from?

  Roland swivels to a stop. “Mum.” He winds his arm around the small of my back. “This is my girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?” The word leaves my mouth more of a squeak than anything, and I stare at Roland. I’m his girlfriend now? I like it, but… a little forewarning would have been nice, maybe. He just smiles at me, but it’s a hard smile that says go with it. Then I remember that I’m in front of the queen of England, and I manage to jut my hand out. “Yes. That’s me. Hi.”

  “Rory, is it?” The queen ignores my attempt at a shake, and her ice-hard eyes meet mine.

  I don’t know what to do. Nothing in life has prepared me to come face-to-face with the queen of England after getting caught with my tongue down her son’s throat. I’m sure I’m as red as my hair, and I pull myself together enough to drop my eyes in a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.”

  Now that introductions have been made, the queen ignores me completely. She turns to her son and says, “Roland, may we have a word?”

  Her tone is tight and leaves no room for debate. She’s calm and collected, as cool as an ice sculpture, but there’s a tightness to her lips that gives me the impression that she’s capable of unleashing the fires of hell when angry. When Roland looks at me, I can see the apology in his eyes. He looks utterly mortified, but I’m not an idiot. I know better than to get mixed up in family drama, especially when it’s the royal family of England. I take a step back. “I’m going to check out the buffet table,” I tell him.

  “I’ll find you.” He brushes his lips once more against mine. Leave it to Roland never to miss a second to claim me. I’m stiff now, though, anxious, and I can barely meet his kiss. My heart is going rabbit fast in my chest. His hand is firm, secure at the small of my back. Selfishly, I want to beg him not to let go of me.

  But he does. The guards close ranks around the prince and queen, and I’m cut out of the circle.

  I flounder like a fish cut from the line and let the crowd swallow me. I suddenly feel incredibly out of place, surrounded by nobles with lifted chins and thousand-dollar smiles. I’m an imposter in this world, woefully out of my league. They have rules. Traditions. Propriety. I have a semipopular blog and a stuffed animal. I ate a bowl of dry granola in the common room this morning for breakfast. In my pajamas. Without milk, because milk was one pound and the granola was complimentary.

  I can’t even fathom the way these people live.

  I twist my way off the dance floor, through the crowd, and sneak out of the ballroom. My feet flop aimlessly on the ground, and the sound echoes down the tall halls. I need to find a bathroom to hole myself away for a second. I haven’t been this antisocial since high school prom. I want to find a plate of cookies and shove them in my mouth one by one until the confidence of a sugar high kicks in.

  A woman exits the bathroom looking more swan than woman—white dress, flowing snowy feathers, and a tall headpiece curling up from her head. She lets the door swing closed behind her, and I reopen it to head inside… but then I stall.

  Around the corner, the adjacent hallway has been cordoned off with velvet rope. No doubt the palace’s way of keeping all the partygoers from wandering too far.

  I wait until I hear the click-click of swan-woman’s heels vanish back into the party.

  You shouldn’t be straying from the crowd, a voice in the back of my head warns me.

  But the adventurer in me won’t be quelled. I have to explore.

  I let go of the bathroom door and duck underneath the velvet rope. My dress swishes across the floor, and so I bunch it up as I walk to keep from giving myself away.

  It feels like I’m walking through a museum. As I walk down the hall, I pass the kings and queens that have reigned throughout the years. Beautiful, giant paintings hang above me, larger than life. My history is fuzzy; I can’t name half of them, but I admire their strong scowls and the proud lift of their chins.

  Oscar would love this. He’d be able to name every one of them, the years they reigned, and when and why they died.

  There is one portrait I recognize immediately, and I come to a stop in front of it. The title card reads Prince Consort Duncan Hughes. Roland is a near-perfect match of his mother, but there are bits and pieces of his father that he retains. His strong stature. Those deep, intense eyes. The
smile. Mostly the smile. All of the other portraits are frowning and solemn, but Duncan stands there, holding a staff, and there is this small Mona Lisa smile on his mouth. As though he knows some grand secret no one else does. It’s charming and warm, and I can’t help but like him.

  Roland has his likability. Roland will make a great king. The thought pops into my head suddenly, and pride swells my chest.

  Duncan’s eyes seem to be staring at the door behind me.

  Well, if you insist, Your Highness…

  I continue my adventure and push quietly through the wooden door across from me. The room I enter is completely swathed in crimson red. Red carpet, red walls, red ceiling, red furniture… red. Like someone went Carrie on this room. Red with gold trimmings, gold chandeliers, gold fringe, gold lining the twin chairs at the head of the room. Then I realize… they’re not any chairs. They’re thrones, perched on a platform, where the king and queen can sit proudly above everyone else.

  I’m immediately hit with a feeling of awe. I’m standing in the middle of history. Royal leaders were crowned in this room. Out of respect, I take my mask off my head and set it down on the counter beside me. It scrapes a line of dust across the cherry wood. No one’s been in this room for a long time.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” a voice states.

  I nearly jump out of my bones. I see her then. She’s wearing a ruby-red dress with a matching mask perched above her head and blends almost seamlessly into the color scheme. It’s Selena’s twin—she has to be. She has the same flowing blonde hair, the same beautiful and strong bone structure in her face. She’s lounging across one of the chaises, her bare feet up on the furniture, and pulling from a long cigarette. The smoke twists and curls in the air above her.

  “I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I was… I thought this was the bathroom. I’ll… go.”

  “Hold on.” I feel her stare, penetrating. “You’re Roland’s girl, aren’t you?”

  Roland’s girl. The implication that I’m his property gives me that shuddery feeling, like I’ve just bitten deep into a sheet of tinfoil. “Roland and I are… a thing,” I say. The words sound worse when they leave my mouth. I should’ve stuck with Roland’s girl. Now I just sound like a wishy-washy teen. I adjust, remember his introduction to the queen. “I’m his girlfriend.”

  Yes. Girlfriend. That sounds better the more I say it. It’s growing on me.

  “The one in the video.” She draws a fox’s smile. “I like your style, ducky.”

  “Thanks.” It’s a weird thing to be praised for. This whole situation is weird. I feel like I’ve caught her in an intimate moment, enjoying a cigarette in the throne room. On second thought—is she even supposed to be here?

  Benefits of being the queen’s sister, I guess.

  Feeling a little bolder, I step forward, out of the doorway. “You’re the queen’s sister. Princess Iris, right?”

  She waves her non-cigarette hand. “Call me Iris.”

  Thank God, because I have no idea how to properly address a noble.

  “Are you enjoying the party, Rory?” She doesn’t sit up, just rolls her head lazily to face me.

  I nod like a child at the kids’ table. “Yes. It’s incredibly… grand.”

  Grand. I don’t think I’ve used that word in a sentence… ever. It makes Iris laugh, a purring, throaty sound. “Yes. My sister certainly has a taste for opulence.” She takes a pull from her cigarette, and for a moment, the smoke clouds her face. “Do you have any sisters, Rory?”

  I shake my head. “I have a brother. Older.”

  “I see. Let me guess… he’s the golden boy?”

  I shift from one foot to the other. “Sort of. He’s been sick my whole life, so… he got a lot of the attention when we were little. Not that I mind.” I add the last sentence quickly. I’ve spent a lot of my life apologizing for my brother. I don’t want to sound ungrateful. He needed the extra attention. I’d give anything to make him better.

  “Funny, isn’t it?” Iris says. “How much of our lives is decided for us at birth. Selena and I are exactly four minutes apart. Four minutes. If I had just shouldered my way through the womb, that crown would be on my head. But no. Selena has always been the more bullheaded of the two of us.”

  Her eyes drift toward the thrones. The edge in her voice sends a chill through me. She flicks the edge of her cigarette and lets the black ash embed itself in the carpet fibers. I find myself wishing I hadn’t left the party. “It is bizarre,” I agree, lamely.

  Her eyes fix on me again. “Come closer,” she says. “I won’t bite.”

  I don’t want to. But I do. I step forward until I’m standing across from her.

  Iris sits up. She cups my face in her hand. Her skin is incredibly soft, but her fingers are bony and they latch around my jaw. “You’re such a pretty girl,” she says. “Roland is a sweet boy… I love that man like a son. But he has his mother’s arrogance. Don’t live in his shadow, understand?”

  “Yes, Princess,” I say. My bones have gone rigid.

  Her lips curl into a sneer. I’ve said something wrong. Was it the princess comment? She drops her hand from my face. “We should rejoin the party, shouldn’t we?” she says.

  By we, I can tell she means me. She’s over me.

  Fine by me. I’m eager to leave. I skitter backward. “Have a good night,” I try.

  But she’s already ignoring me again. Curled up on the chaise, cigarette to her lips. I leave her there, staring at the throne with half-lidded eyes.

  15

  Ben

  I’m a shadow on the fringes of the party. No one sees me, no one notices me. I maintain a clear vantage point to the prince. The last time the palace had this many people in it, we lost Sir Duncan. I need to make sure we don’t lose another royal tonight. Everyone at this party has been vetted, down to the bakers making miniature quiches in the kitchen. I keep my eyes peeled all the same. I recognize a lot of familiar faces, mostly noble houses. The royal staff is here as well.

  I watch when Roland takes Rory in his arms. They sway together. Smiling. Staring into each other’s eyes.

  They’re having fun. Relaxing. That’s not in my blood.

  Then the music stops. I hear a snicker of laughter to my left.

  “Check it out. Royal disaster is hitting the dance floor.”

  There’s a duke and his lackeys standing beside me, their eyes on Roland and Rory.

  “Have you seen the video? Polished his knob like a pro.”

  They chuckle. My blood pressure rises.

  “Prince and the Slut. Think Disney wrote that one.”

  They holler with laughter. All right. Maybe I’m allowed a little fun.

  As the duke passes by, I jut my foot out just enough. It’s all it takes. Gravity does the rest for me. He lurches forward, loses his balance, and tumbles straight into the buffet table. As he hits the floor, a full tray of shrimp comes crawling after him. His friends grab him and fuss over each other as the staff quickly sweeps the whole thing under the rug.

  I watch on, enjoying the fruits of my small but satisfying victory when my eyes catch a man in the corner. He’s wearing the red-and-gold uniform of the event staff, but when everyone else rushes to clean up the duke’s embarrassing spill, he shies away from the scene. He’s stocky and tall with wide shoulders. I don’t recognize him. I follow him with my eyes. His face is half-covered with a masquerade mask, but I can see a small pink scar poking out from the mask and curving underneath his chin.

  “Ben!”

  I jump in my spot. Rory has materialized in front of me. I recognize her voice in the nick of time. She has no idea how narrowly she missed getting twisted up in a headlock.

  “What?”

  Her irises bounce back and forth. She looks frantic. “Where does a girl go when she needs to escape an awkward situation? Maybe you have one of those secret tunnels lying around? Oh! Or a bookcase that leads into a secret room?”

  I look over her head and find the p
rince. He’s trapped in a conversation with the queen and looks like he wants to sink into the floor.

  “You met the queen,” I state.

  “I wouldn’t say we met. Meeting requires two people interacting. We exchanged words around each other. And then I found Princess Iris. She’s… interesting. Are these for anyone?”

  Rory reaches out to pluck a champagne flute from one of the walking trays. She puts it to her lips and tilts her head all the way back, downing it.

  I can’t leave her like this. I chance a final glance toward the prince. He’s with the queen. He’ll be fine.

  “Come.” I take Rory by the wrist. I drag her through the sea of people until we hit the terrace. Rory tries to grab another champagne flute along the way, but I take it from her and set it down on another table. It’s like escorting a child with sticky fingers.

  “You can’t get drunk,” I tell her. “On your best behavior. Remember?”

  “I’m not getting drunk,” she sighs. “I’m just trying to take the edge off.”

  It’s dusk now. The pale sun sets over the perfect manicured royal garden with its topiaries and gas lanterns.

  There’s a couple lingering on the terrace when we get there, but they spot Rory, murmur to each other, and then leave quickly, their eyes avoiding us. Rory is the party pariah. Between the video, her low-class slouch, and her American accent, she never stood a chance in this crowd. Anger burns in my chest for her.

  If Rory notices, she doesn’t seem to care. She goes to the edge and leans her elbows on the stone rail. I take the spot beside her and pull a pack of cigarettes out of my blazer pocket. I offer her one, but she declines with the shake of her head. “I don’t smoke.”

  “Suit yourself.” I light up. I need this small creature comfort. We watch the garden in silence for a moment. There are goose bumps on her bare shoulders. I want to offer her my blazer, but the words stick like gum on my molars.

  “We used to be friends,” Rory says out of the blue and turns to me, her brows knit. “What happened?”