Dirty Prince

by Vanessa Waltz

  I pace my beautiful room, wanting to take a knife to the walls. I tear the curtains aside, gazing over the rolling landscape, the stone castle walls rising out of nature, the mist tumbling over the forest. It’s hauntingly beautiful, too cold, and always damp. I miss home.

  He wants me to stay. More than that, he demanded I stay. And there’s no doubt I’m starting to think less and less of Ben and more about Liam. It’s as though he shoved Ben aside, invading my heart like some kind of parasite.

  What kind of life will I have here?

  I imagine even more lonely days inside the castle walls, taking photos and scribbling notes in my journal, maybe keeping a travel blog, updating the Anglefell Royal Family Facebook page, posing for Liam’s selfies. Every now and then, I’d probably make another faux pas and the press would run wild with it. Meanwhile I’d watch as all my friends graduated college and went on to pursue fantastic careers without me.

  Out of sheer frustration, I grab the camera from my desk and sling it around my neck. I will find him and talk to him.

  The tower echoes with my footsteps as I scurry down, admiring how they managed to make the electrical lights look like glowing candles. The guards part as I exit Liam’s tower and walk along the inner walls. This place is huge, and in the months I’ve been here, I fell like I’ve barely scratched the surface. People incline their heads at me as I walk past, and I give them an appropriate bob without even thinking about it.

  Where the hell could he be?

  “Daisy!”

  Lucian stands behind me, his jock features knit into an expression of concern. Unpleasantness stirs in my guts. I don’t know how I feel about him anymore.

  “You must come with me.”

  “Where?”

  He twists his hands together.

  “It’s Liam. He’s distraught.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I need you to come with me,” he says in a clipped voice. “Now.”

  A bump of fear hits me. “What happened?”

  “I’m not exactly sure on the details, but he wants to see us now.”

  My breath hitches in my chest as I walk toward the bustling courtyard, and a car screams to a halt in front of us. The doors fly open.

  “Please get inside.” He places a hand on my back, urging me to get in. There’s a man already sitting in there, a man wearing street clothes.

  “That’s Pierce,” Lucian says quickly. “He’s one of our guards.”

  “Why is he wearing—?”

  “We had to pull him off duty. Please.”

  I duck inside, sitting next to Pierce as Lucian disappears to the front, talking to the driver. What the hell is he doing? He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. He hands it over to the guy. Then he smiles at him and walks back to the passenger side. He bends over and gives me a little wave. The car lurches forward.

  What the hell?

  “Stop the damn car!”

  The driver ignores me as I pound on the partition, and I look to the side as I roll down the window. Lucian is jogging to keep up.

  “Tell them to stop!”

  A smirk pulls at his lips.

  Fuck. I’ve been had.

  “’Fraid I can’t, love. You’re going on a little trip.”

  “The hell I am!”

  I swing myself to the door, but Pierce grabs my arm. “I wouldn’t do that, love.”

  I glower. “Let me go.”

  “I’m sending you away, idiot. You should be thanking me!” Lucian cups his hands around his mouth as the car speeds away. “Bon voyage, Princess!”

  SCANDAL: Daisy Ditched Liam!

  Liam

  Damn. Fucking. Tabloids.

  Daisy Incites Riot, Ditzy Daisy Out of Control: Where is Liam, Royals Run Amok in Harronvale.

  The headlines start to bleed together after a while, but I have to admit that Royal Exposé’s F*CK THE ROYALS was pretty good for a laugh. There’s been little of that lately.

  “It’s a travesty.”

  My father’s voice croaks, and I look up from my phone to see him sitting upright, gazing at me with pain-filled, glazed-over eyes.

  “You’re awake.”

  “Aye, you would have realized that if you looked at me.”

  I have a hard time looking at him, or maybe it’s just witnessing the slow crawl of death over his limbs. His arms are wasted away, and they’re lined with dark, purple bruises. His impressive gray mane is completely shaved from his head. All that remains of the father who used to frighten me is a dying, weak man.

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  “Sorry,” he sputters. “You’ll be a lot more sorry if you don’t get rid of that damn wife!”

  Fuck. I tried prohibiting the nurses from bringing him any papers from outside, but one of them must have succumbed to the king’s threats, or my lovely brother could have brought something in and rubbed it in his face. I can just imagine him shaking one of those fucking tabloids under my dad’s nose. You see what he’s doing?

  “I’m not getting rid of her, Dad.”

  “You realize, you insipid toad, that I am still your king. While I breathe, I still have the power to strip you of your titles.”

  I really doubt he’s in any shape to do anything.

  “Dad, is this really what you want to do during your last days?”

  He makes a face, shutting his eyes. “I’ve been watching the telly, and I’ve been keeping up-to-date with everything you and that harlot have done.”

  Cold fury hits my chest, and I drop my hand from his. “She is not a harlot.”

  Father sucks in a breath, his eyes glazed over when he stares at the ceiling. “Please, God, take me now. Take me so I do not have to witness my son make a mockery of my country.”

  “You’re the one who made a mockery of us. You. You sunk that American vessel twenty years ago and never apologized, causing a cold war that’s lasted decades, and you’ve had a fist around the UK’s balls with the oil you keep holding over their heads.”

  “If it weren’t for the offshore drilling, they would raze our country.”

  “You’ve killed this country. People are sick of the royals—they’re sick of you. Daisy and I have given them hope, and I won’t deprive them of that.”

  “I regret nothing!” he says in a hoarse scream, his eyes rolling in his head as though he’s a living corpse. “Nothing!”

  I stand up from the chair, knowing this will probably be the last time I ever see my father.

  “May God have mercy on your soul.”

  “Piss off!”

  He was always such a prick. I turn my back on the king and leave the hospice room. My guards immediately fall into step behind me, moving like shadows. They ripple over the walls.

  Am I no different than him?

  I told him the reason was because the people loved her. The truth is I’m a selfish prick, and I want her for myself.

  It’s fucked up. You can’t force her to stay.

  But I want her, and she wants me.

  She wants to use you for a fucking story, that’s all.

  The hard edge of the car door digs into my palm as rain pelts down in icy sheets. I duck inside the car, and my faithful shadows shut the door and drive me back to my cage on the hill.

  Bit melodramatic, are we?

  It’s hard not to envy her freedom. The moment I saw her, I knew. I wanted it for myself, and if I couldn’t have it, well, I would take hers.

  I need Daisy. I don’t know what I’ll do when I find her, but I can’t leave things the way things are. She’s got to know how I really feel before she makes her decision.

  The castle is a beauty at night. Lights illuminate the rough walls around the perimeter. Anglefell’s flag ripples in the wind, the spotlight punctured by hundreds of raindrops. Finally, we stop at the courtyard, and I leave in search of my explosive wife. Vincent, the guard who was playing Candy Crush all those weeks ago, jogs toward me.

  “Sir, there’s a matter that requires
your immediate attention.”

  “Is it Shadowfax again?” The poor beast keeps getting colic.

  “No, we can’t find her,” Vincent says.

  “You… lost my horse?”

  “No, we can’t find your wife!”

  Daisy.

  “What do you mean you can’t find her?”

  He runs a hand over his thick beard. “She’s not in the castle.”

  “What about the guards assigned to her protection?”

  My throat burns with acid as he shakes his head. “They said she got into a car hired by Prince Lucian and left nearly eight hours ago.”

  Sweet brother.

  “Eight hours? Are you fucking joking? Why wasn’t I notified?”

  “W-we thought it was with your approval. Prince Lucian said—”

  “Prince Lucian is not your commander. I am. For the love of Christ, where is she?”

  “As I said, we don’t know.”

  Fuck!

  Where is he, then? Where is my gloating bastard brother—ah—there. He stands nearby, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he wears an incredibly smug smile. I’m pleased to see that fucker still has a bruise on his cheek.

  “What the hell did you do with my wife?”

  You already know.

  A rising, sick feeling bubbles to my throat as Lucian opens his iPhone, showing me a grainy photo of a woman walking on a slimy street, her face white and scared. Daisy’s face. The headline at the top: SCANDAL: Daisy Ditched Liam!

  The Anglefell princess was spotted in Edinburgh at 6:00 BST. No word yet on how Prince Liam is taking this latest blow.

  “It was taken an hour ago. Sorry, mate.”

  The phone scatters on the marble floor as I grab that fuckwit’s collar and yank him close enough to see the cruelty lining his face. “What the fuck did you do?”

  “I gave her freedom. She begged me weeks ago to help her escape, and I was only too happy to help.”

  She begged him?

  My fingers go slack around his collar.

  “I’m sure you were, you treacherous bastard.”

  “That girl never belonged here. Everybody knew it but you.”

  Lucian moves his head to the side and my fist crunches into the wall. The pain jars my knuckles, searing into the bones of my hand. He shoves me away, smirking as my guards stop me from smashing my brother’s face in.

  “I set her free, Liam. Even you can’t fault me for that.”

  No, but I can still hate you for it.

  She’s gone.

  “Bartender.”

  I wave at the old man, who thinks I’m too drunk to see him rolling his eyes at me.

  I see you, old bat.

  “Yes, Your Highness?”

  “Liam.”

  The last thing I want is to be reminded of that now.

  “Liam, then. What do you want?”

  His tone is a bit clipped. I can’t blame him for keeping the pub open long after closing hours.

  “Another pint. Please.” I tack on the please a little too late, but the bartender grabs my empty glass and refills it with the same draft.

  The pain is sharp, like a sword through my chest. Daisy just left without even saying good-bye. I know she’s American, but that’s really fucking rude.

  “It’s more than just breaking up with a girl I liked,” I tell no one in particular. “Of course it’s more. She’s my fucking wife—pardon me.”

  Royals must not swear. I remember the rule Daisy threw in my face.

  The bartender sighs loudly.

  “I mean she was a complete embarrassment, wasn’t she?”

  He shrugs.

  “She was constantly pissing me off. I’m sure you heard about the whole football incident, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  I nod. “Yes, well. That was particularly egregious.”

  I still enjoyed the punishment I gave her. Very much.

  God, look at me. What in the blazes am I doing here? Why the fuck am I getting drunk over some girl?

  “I don’t miss her at all.”

  Memories of Daisy flood my head. Daisy’s tits in my hands, the way her body looked stretched out on the beach, the sound of her laughter, the way she said my name in that insistent tone. “Liam, please. Liam, more!”

  I grind my teeth, staring at the full pint of beer I no longer have any desire to drink. I started drinking to numb myself. It’s not bloody working.

  “All right. You win. I’m gone.”

  I reach into my pocket for my wallet, and I pull out a thick wad. Fuck it. I just leave the whole thing on the counter. He can’t complain. There’s at least five hundred there.

  The world swims as I climb off the stool.

  “Thanks. Do you want me to call for a cab?”

  “Fuck it. I’ll walk.”

  No security, and I’m almost too drunk to be able to walk. If Lucian wants the throne, all he has to do is sit back and watch the disaster. The doors fly open, and a dozen cameras flash in my eyeballs. I push through the crowd as they pester me with questions about Daisy, my errant wife. Soon to be ex-wife.

  You lost her.

  I walk up the hill, ignoring the flock of people surrounding me. I don’t think I’d give a damn if they yanked me to the ground and beat on me with their fists, but surprisingly, they don’t. They just hover around me like hundreds of really annoying flies.

  Finally, I reach the lower gate, and the guards let me squeeze through. The sounds of the paparazzi drop away as I keep walking. My legs scream as I climb, and I relish in the pain. There’s nothing but the sound of crickets and the grass. I see where the grass is beaten down from Daisy’s disastrous tea party, and a swell of emotion rises in my chest. I want to scream into the wind and let the world hear some of the pain inside me.

  But I don’t. I keep walking that torturous ascent, all the way up my tower where I know she won’t be. The emptiness swallows me.

  I barge into her room, the surroundings swimming. She must have gone in a hurry; half of her stuff is here.

  I don’t care about what she left behind, or what she didn’t. There’s no note. I expected a note.

  Wait.

  There’s something on the laptop.

  It’s a fluttering piece of paper, or some sort of newsprint. I take it, waiting for my eyes to adjust. God, I’m drunk.

  ROYAL EXPOSÉ

  Prince Liam’s Gallant Rescue

  She kept a tabloid rag in her bedroom? After I read the title, my eyes focus on the large picture. It’s one of us, when I “saved her” from drowning in the lake. She was smiling. Beautiful. Her skin contrasted starkly with her dark hair. She clung to my neck and kissed me. It was spontaneous. It was a moment of pure happiness. And she kept the memory of it in her bedroom.

  It doesn’t mean anything. Girls fancy things like this.

  If it had meant something, she would’ve taken it with her.

  I look at the photo until my eyes blur over, pain pounding at the very center of my chest.

  I loved her.

  The realization crashes through me. The tabloid falls from my hands and drifts to the floor like a dead leaf.

  She has to be free to make her own choice, and she made it.

  I love her, and I’ll let her go.

  Dirty Scots Steal Princess!

  Daisy

  I bend over the railing of the boat as a yellow stream of vomit blasts from my mouth. The dark waves swallow it up, and I straighten. The relief from my nausea lasts minutes, and it creeps back into my mouth. I clutch my stomach as the boat bounces on the waves, up and down, and I can’t see the water, which makes everything worse.

  I fucking hate boats.

  Lucian’s hired goons laugh at me as I grasp the railing, another surge of vomit rising in my throat. The floor keeps rocking up and down, and then a pair of legs rocks into my view.

  “We’re almost there, lass.”

  Pierce, one of my kidnappers, as he hands me a bottle of water.r />
  “It’s poisoned, isn’t it?”

  He laughs. “Our orders were to get you out of the country, not to harm you. For God’s sake, take the water before you puke your guts out.”

  I snatch the bottle out of his hands. The seal isn’t broken, so I twist it off and drink a mouthful of water. My stomach churns.

  “What do you plan to do with me?”

  “I’ve told you. We’re dropping you off and leaving.”

  “So you’re just dumping me somewhere in Scotland. I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “What did you think we’d do?”

  “I don’t know, take me out back, shoot me, and dump me somewhere in the North Sea? That’s usually how kidnappings go.”

  He gives me a slightly offended look and continues in his deep Scottish accent. “Perhaps you should consider getting therapy.”

  Then he turns around, glancing back with a weirdly judgmental look as if I’m the one with problems. Maybe I’ve read too many Abigail Graham books, but I expected something a little more complex from Lucian. Really? Just dump me in Scotland? What’s stopping me from hiring a boat to go straight back?

  It’s pitch-black by the time we reach the piers where I’m supposed to be dropped off. Pierce and the others gather for an awkward we kidnapped you but now we need you to get off the boat farewell. He hands me a fist full of British pounds and gestures toward the harbor.

  “Get yourself back to America.”

  I want to say thanks, but that doesn’t seem like the appropriate response to someone who forced you to take a journey, so I just get off and watch as they reverse the motor to hightail it out of there. I watch them disappear into the darkness, fighting the urge to scream an insult over the waves.

  Then I walk off the pier onto wonderfully solid ground, still clutching the handful of pounds, shivering in my hoodie. It’s really quiet, and the nausea is starting to unclench my stomach. It’s a quaint little town, a typical European city. There’s a long stretch of lawn to my left, and what looks like apartments. I cross over the grass and walk on the road, looking for signs that’ll tell me where these jackasses dumped me. I find a main road with a decent amount of traffic and walk. There are stores everywhere, a Subway, Chinese takeout, but nothing that tells me where the hell I am until I see a tour bus with blackened windows: Edinburgh Tours.