Royally Ruined (Bad Boy Royals Book 2)

by Nora Flite

  “Kain and Sammy left for their honeymoon,” he’d explained to me, “and Dad still doesn’t suspect that you’ve run off with the girl he’s looking for.”

  That had been the easy lie. Maverick had contacted me the day after the wedding, asking for an update. I’d explained I was still looking for leads.

  When he’d asked what I’d done with my girlfriend, I’d tensed up. “Heather flew back home. I bought her a ticket, she has no idea about any of this.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.”

  If she’d really been my girlfriend, I would have done exactly that; flown her away and kept her in the dark. The closer you got to people, the harder it was to protect them from who you really are. I’d done my best to make sure I never got close to anyone.

  Until now, I thought, watching Scotch return to me from inside a tiny mall shop. “What’s that?” I asked, nodding at her bag.

  She lifted it high. “Maple syrup. I told Gina I’d bring her some, and she reminded me again when we chatted the other day.”

  The dancer had phoned back within an hour of Scotch’s call. Apparently she’d already gone into hiding, the instant she’d left the Bucket. When she started to tell Scotch where, I’d jumped in, growling that she should tell no one, especially over the phone, where she was.

  “Paranoid,” Gina had called me.

  Careful was more like it.

  Now I walked beside Scotch as we wandered one of the many shopping malls in the state. Everything had been so run run run that slowing down was eerie. Did Scotch feel as unsettled by it as me?

  She was wearing dark jeans, new pink sneakers, and a deliciously tight yellow sweater; I’d bought all of it for her using cash so there’d be no trail. This was the first outfit I’d seen her in that she’d chosen for herself. We passed by a mirrored window, our reflection making us appear like some cozy couple on a Sunday shopping stroll. But I wasn’t sweet; the gun under my jacket reminded me of that.

  From this angle, with our arms hanging between us, it looked as if we were holding hands. An impulse greater than I—one I explained away as an urge to keep us undercover—took hold. Scooping up her fingers, I tangled them in mine tightly.

  Scotch jerked from side to side. “What is it?” she hissed quietly. “What’s wrong?”

  My heart deflated, sinking into my gut. She thinks I grabbed her as a warning. I let her go. “Nothing. I thought I saw something, that’s all.” Fuck, what’s wrong with me? I had to focus on somehow saving this woman from a vengeful mob brat. Not thinking of how warm her fingers were when they wrapped around mine.

  Even if I wanted Scotch—and I did—I’d be the death of her. Unless I decided to be rotten levels of greedy . . . I couldn’t make her mine. Love wasn’t in the cards.

  What about Kain and Sammy? The thought came out of the blue; I tried to chase it off, but it clung. That’s different. HE’S different. Kain had always been blind to the reality of belonging to this family. In his ignorance . . . he was free to fall in love.

  I wasn’t.

  Tiny but strong fingers looped around mine. Startling, I saw she was holding my hand. Scotch kept her eyes forward; her smile was plain as day. “Sorry,” she said, “I thought I saw something, too.”

  Desire and delight rippled up in me so fast I wasn’t able to bury them. I didn’t want to—and they clouded the part of me that said I had to. Scotch had my recently rebuilt walls falling away in chunks.

  “Hey!” she shouted, tugging me toward an array of windows. “Look at that!”

  On the other side of the glass was a large bridge covered in cars, probably belonging to shoppers finishing up their Christmas lists. Beneath the cement beams ran a slow-moving river that had turned the edges of the bank muddy. Sprawling nearby, looking worn by time and weather, was a selection of amusement rides that were more rust than paint.

  “A fair?” I asked, squinting. “In December?”

  “Come on,” she laughed, never letting go as she guided me toward the stairs. Her excitement was contagious. The crisp outdoor air turned her nose bright red, making me remember how she’d told me that always happened to her.

  She said that the night we hid in the motel. The night I’d come so close to kissing her . . . to fucking her raw. Then we’d done all that anyway at the wedding, and somehow the push and pull remained the same between us.

  Her warm hand clenched mine, forcing me to follow her through the fairgrounds. There were a surprising number of people inside. A long line of kids waited for the guy in a Santa suit, who looked miserable, even if he had to be warmer than any of them.

  “Do you like roller coasters?” she asked me, staring up at the wooden rails curling overhead.

  Shielding my eyes from the winter sun, I shrugged. “I haven’t been on one since I was a kid.”

  “I love them,” she gushed, finally letting me go. “Will you ride it with me? It’s no fun alone.”

  This isn’t helping me figure out a plan. I warned myself of this even as I followed her onto the half-empty ride, handing a ten-dollar bill to the bored teen running the machinery.

  The coaster rattled like ancient bones. We sat at the front, clicking upward and unable to see what waited for us. “Oh gosh,” she laughed, her voice all high and tight like the sound of a balloon losing air.

  “Are you scared?” I asked, reaching over to take her hand. When I did, she clutched it tight.

  There were luminous stars in her eyes as she strained to see over the nose of the coaster. “Kind of,” she admitted. She faced me, and I could count every freckle on her cheeks. “But I like being a little scared.”

  I was caught up in her honest smile. I didn’t see us crest the rise, I only felt my stomach drift upward with the momentum of our fall. I was too busy studying Scotch—how her caramel-rich eyes lit up around her pinprick pupils when she got excited, how her lips formed a perfect O.

  Even with the wind whipping my skin, blurring my vision, I never looked away from her.

  “Holy shit!” she squealed, clutching my fingers, throwing our hands up into the sky together. Behind us, the few other people on the ride roared. Their voices mixed with the rushing white noise until, for just a little bit of time, I could pretend Scotch and I were the only two people alive in this world.

  Her skin was pink as a grapefruit. She started laughing on the second turn around the course. Over the banging wood I realized I was laughing, too.

  Was this what it was like to have a simple life? One where I didn’t have to worry about my father, my bloodline, or the darkness tainting my heart that came from ruling a city with fear and money?

  Unbidden, I imagined Scotch beneath a rose archway. People cheered as her lips locked on mine, our hearts exposed for everyone to witness.

  A tiny voice whispered in my ear. It was the same voice I’d heard over the years as I gazed longingly at kids skipping off to public school, watched commercials about birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese’s, and imagined having friends who would invite me to slumber parties: You don’t get to have a normal life.

  I’d always listened to that voice.

  This time, with our laughter drowning it out, I didn’t.

  “Have you ever done one of these?” she asked, pointing at the booth with all its targets and pellet guns. The night had come, and the fair was swarming with the electric pulse of life. Families ran around under the stars, children giggling with peppermint cotton candy in their teeth.

  Looking over the booth, I shook my head. “I’ve only seen these in movies.”

  Her eyebrows wriggled together. “What? But you said you’d ridden a coaster before.”

  “Yes.” A prickle of hot shame moved through me. “My parents had one built for my twelfth birthday party.” They’d invited a select few kids—all belonging to local, powerful families, the whole event meant to expand their power and reach. It was better than having just my siblings there, I guess.

  Her face shifted into a familiar expression: one of dis
belief. Next comes disgust. People hated hearing how rich my family was. That, or they wanted to use it against me.

  Scotch’s eyes softened. “You really did grow up in a different world.” I waited for her to follow that up with something hurtful. But she didn’t. “Here,” she said, offering me one of the guns. “If this is your first time, it’s only right that you go first.”

  Hefting the toy, I frowned. “It’s not my first time with a gun.”

  “I know.” She pointed at a big fluffy purple rabbit. “That’s exactly why I expect you to win that for me. Get going.”

  People had demanded things from me my whole life. My father wanted perfection; a firstborn son who would rule like a literal king, the way he’d learned to. Strangers wanted money or favors. All Scotch wanted was some ridiculous-looking doll.

  I longed with every atom in my body to get it for her.

  Closing one eye, I hardly had to aim. If I was good at anything, it was shooting bullets. The trigger was fragile; I expected it to break off when I squeezed. Metal beads bounced against the bottles—click click clack. Not a single shot missed.

  Lowering the gun allowed me to see how both Scotch and the booth runner were gawking at me. “Wow,” the man said as he adjusted his hat. Without any fanfare, he handed me the bunny.

  “You’re amazing!” Scotch laughed, the words popping free as if she’d been holding her breath.

  I offered her the bunny. “All that time not having fun paid off.”

  Scotch took the doll, her unease coming off her in waves. “You really weren’t allowed to have fun?”

  I’d wanted it to be a lighthearted comeback. My shoulders hurt from how every muscle went taut. “It was my responsibility to learn everything it would take to lead my family. My father kept me busy.”

  “That’s . . . really sad.”

  I hadn’t thought of it as sad, just as my reality. Her pity didn’t sit well with me. “As harsh as he was, my father taught me how to fight, how to lead, and how to protect those close to me. He’s the reason you’re alive today.”

  “No,” she said, reaching for the gun. I let her have it, watching her tuck the bunny under an arm so she could aim. Scotch closed one eye and fired rapidly—four hits and a miss. Way better than I’d expected her to be. She lowered the gun and smiled softly. “You and you alone have kept me safe, Costello. You’re the entire reason I’m alive.”

  Her words were sweet, but I was taken aback by something else. “Who taught you to shoot like that?”

  Biting her lip, she set the gun on the booth and backed away. “No one. I’m just a lucky shot. Hey, let’s go get some corn dogs. They’re calling my name.”

  I wasn’t stupid; she was hiding something. My instincts screamed at me to figure it out. But watching how she bit into her batter-covered hot dog, mustard spilling on her cheek, I found it too easy to ignore my worries. I didn’t want to distrust Scotch.

  After all I’d done to justify keeping her safe . . . I couldn’t handle learning something bad about her. So instead I joined in, chewing a corn dog and strolling through the carnival. Our feet carried us toward a quieter section, farther from the mall. The river was in front of us, the bridge overhead, sparkling with headlights. Even the cars made the world seem extra festive.

  “You have ketchup on your chin,” she said. I went to wipe it away, but she beat me to it, smudging it from my skin. I was hot where she’d touched me . . . like she’d set off fireworks in my blood.

  I marveled again at how close we were in height, how close our lips were when we faced each other. “You, too,” I whispered, cupping her cheek.

  She swallowed. “Me what?”

  “You’ve got ketchup on you.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, laughing nervously. “I don’t even like ketchup.”

  My leaning closer made our noses brush. “Are you sure?” I spoke with a shadow on my tongue, everything tingling with a rush of wild need. “Maybe I’ll check anyway. How does that sound?”

  Her arms swept around my back; her nails couldn’t reach me through my jacket, so she slid them beneath, seeking my firm muscles. “Okay. All right.” We weren’t talking about mustard or whatever anymore. Both of us knew that, but we clung to the pretense even as it crumbled around us.

  I kissed her more softly than a bee lands on a flower. She didn’t taste like ketchup; she was pure, unadulterated static electricity. My hair stood on end. I clung to her and looked for every space in her curved form to fill with my own body.

  Running my fingers through her hair, I rubbed my face in it. “Fuck,” I growled. The air turned white from my steam. Up the slope was the distant rumble of people enjoying the fair. Between them and the dark river, we were existing in a single strip of limbo.

  Sweeping her palm around my ribs, she touched my hip—my gun. All my senses flashed into predator mode. Grabbing her hand, I trapped her fingers on the weapon. She looked at me with wary disbelief. Then she tugged at the handle. “You don’t need this, not here, not with me.”

  I considered the bridge overhead. “There’s always a chance I’ll need it. It stays on.”

  “Don’t you feel safe?”

  My head swung from side to side. She released my gun, but I held on to her wrist. “You feel safe out here?” I asked, studying her face and trying to read her mind. “In the dark, where anything could be hiding?”

  She exercised her jaw, catching her words and reconsidering. “Yes,” she said slowly. “With you here . . . I feel safer than I ever knew I could.”

  A calcified lump broke inside me. It shattered all over my heart and warmed me through my center. How could she say that? How could she . . . feel that? About me, of all people.

  Tell her she’s wrong.

  Tell her she’s a reckless fool.

  Tell her . . . tell her . . .

  I didn’t find my voice, just my mouth colliding with hers. This wasn’t a tender kiss; it was fueled by my edgy confusion. I thought she was completely insane and still, fuck, I wanted to ride that insanity until I could pretend she wasn’t wrong to feel the way she did.

  That I wasn’t wrong.

  “Costello,” she moaned into my throat. Her tongue danced on mine; I nipped it, then I bit her earlobe. Scotch shivered as her head lolled back. Bracing her against me, I undid the top button of her jeans without looking. My finger traced the rough edge of the denim, following it around under her belly and to her hip.

  Deftly I slid inside her coat until I was within her shirt; the hooks in her bra snapped apart. The coat dropped to the grassy dirt. I never stopped kissing her, never changed my pace. I’d learned her body in such a short time. I’d mapped her out and discovered her secret roads, her delicious landmarks. I might not know what was going on in her head, but I understood how to make her whimper.

  Finding weak points was a skill of mine.

  Dipping my hand into the front of her jeans, I brushed the elastic of her panties. Just feeling that thin barrier made my cock swell painfully. “Christ,” I murmured into her lips. I closed my eyes, leaning away. When I opened them again, she was watching me through heavy lids.

  There were tiny rows of goose bumps on her shoulders; I could feel them under her shirt. I unzipped my jacket and wrapped it around us both. “I don’t want you getting cold,” I explained, not pointing out that it was I who’d removed her coat a second ago.

  Scotch pushed off my chest, creating a small gap. “I’m melting. Trust me.” Then she lifted my shirt from my pants, exposing my torso. The lust that made her pupils dilate had my heart thumping. I didn’t even care when she palmed my muscles and touched my crown tattoo.

  I hadn’t known how to react when she’d told me she knew I was a prince. The newspaper gossip rags had lots to say about us being “Mafia Royals,” but there was a difference between being a Mafia prince and having actual blue blood.

  The magazines hadn’t mentioned anything about real royalty. I knew because we had people assigned to read those
things for us. So . . . how did Scotch know? She worked at the Dirty Dolls, I reasoned through my fog. Maybe Thorne got drunk and bragged. He’d been known to.

  She scratched my sternum with her nails and erased my thoughts. Shutting my eyes, I pushed my molars together and groaned. That made her do it again, each motion rocking through my blood and into my shaft.

  I wanted my control back. I knew how to get it.

  “Ah!” she gasped as my hand slid under her panties. I stopped right over the little “w” shape that her pussy made from this angle. One fingertip sank lower; I dipped it inside, dragging the slippery liquid over her very awake clitoris. “Oh, holy hell,” she mumbled, falling against my shoulder.

  Rubbing her softly, I carefully guided her to the hard ground. Sand and browned grass made a poor bed, but neither of us cared. With ease I rolled her on top of me.

  Something soft caught under my back. It was the stuffed rabbit I’d won for her. Thoughtlessly I threw it aside, not wanting to think about the target shooting, about Scotch with her steady hands and quick aim.

  Peeling her shirt over her loose bra, which barely hung on by the straps, I breathed across her firm nipples. Her eyes fluttered; I kissed her soft skin and purred like a tiger against her plush body.

  Unable to wait any longer, I pulled her jeans and panties down her ass, just enough to make room for us in between. She fumbled to get my pants out of the way; my cock pushed against my waistband before she exposed it to the night air.

  I was so hot I kept waiting to see billows of steam swarming off my body. Scotch glanced down, just once, as if she wanted to make sure she was lining herself up right with the fat tip of my prick.

  Then she gazed down on me, and I could have been lying under the sun itself. Basking in her glow should have melted the crusted ice around us . . . should have melted me. Was being with her karmic? Did I deserve a sliver of good in my life after all?