by Nicole Snow
“My Prince, I'd advise against that kind of tone. We need our PR working to unify the country. The last thing we ought to risk is more division.”
“Didn't ask for your advice,” I snap, pushing past her. “The country's already divided down to its roots. It's going to take weeding to bring it together again, and everybody in this room knows it.”
Vic clears his throat. “Sire, if you'd like us to put a cap on this, and head for the hospital, I'd be more than willing to summon a car.” He speaks slowly, trying to diffuse the walking bomb I've become.
“No, we have to talk this out,” I mutter, hating what I have to admit next. “Serena's right, damn it. I'll be there immediately if grandmom's condition changes, for better or worse. It's our job to make sure the whole kingdom doesn't go to hell in the meantime. I want her on black out – anything that isn't absolutely necessary doesn't get through. No politics, no drama, no jackals buzzing around her room. We can't risk upsetting her while she's being treated.”
Patricia gives me a sour look. She's never liked me very much. Her first and last duty is to the Queen, sure, but her distaste is personal, too. The prim, proper woman is probably about to lay a load because there's a risk I'm about to become King far sooner than anyone expected.
Including me.
Christ, King. My gaze drifts to the throne.
I can't imagine myself up there, wearing my grandfather's crown, wrapped up in robes made from mountain lions, wild bears, and gold. I see myself surrounded by guards and valets, Victor in Patricia's place, and – of course – Erin at my side.
Then the others vanish. I'm imagining myself on the throne in just my robe. Erin is on her knees, her sweet, smooth skin reflecting the fire's glow. Naked for me, ready to sit on my raging cock and take the sovereign's seed, pump my dick with her luscious cunt until we're dripping all over thousand year old gold.
Fuck. Patricia's talking, but I've been too busy thinking about filthy, ridiculous things to listen.
“We'll take it day by day with her condition. That's all I'm asking, Prince. We needn't consider anything rash, much less any assumptions of royal power, unless it's clearly necessary.”
“Patricia, you know full well what palace protocol and the kingdom's laws say about this,” Victor cuts in. “A country needs a head in the crown. If Her Majesty is incapacitated – briefly, I pray – then all the duties fall on the heir in the interim. His Highness is effectively King, the kingdom's chief representative, and its sole functioning sovereign, until such time as Her Majesty is ready and able to resume her full duties.”
They look like they're about to kill each other. Just what we need – another standoff.
“Vic, come on. I'm ready to do anything I need to while she's down and out. But I'm damned sure not King unless I'm sitting in that chair. I don't need the extra title to sort this out,” I say, nodding to the throne. “George, you tell the assholes in the chamber exactly what I've said. The crown isn't passing to anyone unless my grandmother isn't breathing. God forbid.”
“Certainly, Your Highness. They won't like it – politicians thrive on what's clear cut, as you know. However, they'll live with it.”
Yeah, they will, I think to myself. Because if they don't, I'll find some way to have the son of bitches dissolved and call early elections. Even the Republic First rabble rousers would love to see that happen.
“A sensible choice, Your Highness.” Vic nods politely, but I can't tell if he's being honest, or just blowing more smoke up my ass.
Patricia doesn't say anything. She turns, staring sadly at the empty throne.
That fucking chair is going to decide too many people's futures. I'm tired of seeing it. I want to get out of here.
“Update me on Her Majesty's condition, the second there's any change,” I tell grandmom's valet.
“Of course, my Prince.”
I wave at Victor to follow me, and we're gone, heading into the hallway. We're only a few steps outside the throne room when I hear Serena's heels clicking behind us.
Goddamn. I knew she wouldn't stay muzzled forever.
“Your Highness! Please.” I hear her calling, barely slowing down to let her catch up. “We need to schedule a meeting to address the PR problem. I'd like to talk with you and that girl in private. Maybe go over some talking points we can use with the kingdom, in case the situation deteriorates.”
“That girl?” I stop and look at her. “Is that what you're going to call my fiancee, potentially your future Queen?”
The color drains from her face. Time seems to stop, turning the whole atmosphere electric like a storm around us. Even Vic looks nervous.
“Silas –“
“Your Highness, Miss Hastings,” Vic corrects, glaring at her.
“I'm sorry, of course. It's the stress today, that's all,” she lies. I'm about to lose what little patience for her I've got left. “I want to do right by the kingdom. You have to know, I feel awful about what happened during the press conference. I should've requested more security when I set it up. Let me make it up to you...to everyone. I'll prep three different speeches. One for every scenario we might have to deal with. You choose whichever you like best.”
“How about the one where I throw your ass out and tell you to find a new job?” I growl.
She blinks, surprised. Unfortunately, after fucking me, she's too fearless for her own good.
“That seems...rather uncalled for,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “I'm just doing my job, Your Highness. Forgive me if I've offended you or your fiancee.”
I study her face when she says the last word. Damn if it doesn't look like she's chewing something rotten.
“It's been a rough day for everyone. I'm more than happy to coach Erin with anything I need to. She's the one you've chosen to marry, after all.” Surrender, that's what's coming out of her now.
I've seen that hurt, puppy dog look on women I've fucked a hundred times. This has to be the first where I'm feeling absolutely no remorse.
Victor's looking at me. Waiting. He's got one hand on his phone, ready to call security if I decide to kick her to the curb this very second.
Lucky for her, she's too damned good at what she does. I can't risk an untested specialist working the kingdom's media if grandmom's health goes to complete shit.
“I don't have time for this. Go write.” I'm flying down the hall without a second glance behind my shoulder.
Vic trots after me, struggling to keep up. I don't slow down for a damned second.
I'm alone for the next few hours, stuck in my office. I've got to make a few more phone calls. Contingencies for the worst clusterfucks I can imagine for myself and the kingdom.
First, I talk to the generals and admirals. Their loyalty to the crown means everything if the kingdom falls into total chaos.
Then I'm on the line with the leaders of both major parties. George has already told them what I said this morning, spelling out my role while my grandmother takes the longest break she's ever had from royal duties.
Fifty fucking years holding the scepter. I can't imagine it, but I'd better start. I'm next in line.
I answer the tense, probing questions from the men who depend on lofty promises to win votes for power.
“Everything is fine,” I tell them, over and over, wondering if I'll believe it after I say it enough times.
It's a phrase of the day fit for Robby the Talking Horse to sing a song about, if he could, the main character on the nation's kids' show. I sung with him, once, when I was about nine, and they wanted to bring the Prince on as a special guest.
I mangled the stupid ballad about ten times before I got it right in the last cut. Singing hasn't interested me since.
Whatever mistakes I've made before in my life, there's no room for new ones.
Deflect, spin, and promise. That's what I do with the ministers and party leaders before I get the hell off the line, faking a call coming in from the royal hospital.
I'm not
even stretching the truth that much. It's the last and most stressful call of the evening. When I get Her Majesty's physician on the line, I look out the window, and it's dark.
Thousands of little lines glowing across the city's skyline, melded with fuchsia and burgundy. Several hundred royal purple candles sit flaming in windowsills, praying for grandmom's recovery.
“Well, how is she?” I ask, ripping open my drawer. The bottle of scotch I've stashed for emergency situations is still there.
“We have more assessments to finish, Your Highness. Tests so far have been inconclusive.”
There's a word I hate. It takes a long, fiery swig of booze to quell my frustration enough to finish this conversation.
“So, what? Is it a stroke, or not?”
“We don't know, sire. We're doing our best. I promise you, we'll know more in the morning. She's being monitored around the clock.”
“Give me two scenarios, best and worst.” I pop the bottle open and take a long pull while the doctor clears his throat, closing my eyes as sweet, calming fire splashes my stomach.
“Best case? We find the event was limited, hasn't done any lasting damage, and she's discharged within the week. As for the worst, well...she's eighty years old, Your Highness. Worst could mean a lot of things.”
He won't tell me she could die. Nobody has the balls to say it, to even think it. Not when this woman has been on the radio and TV since most of the kingdom was in diapers, a comforting presence in the troubling times.
“Call me if anything changes. Don't care if it's the middle of the night. You call, doctor.”
“Understood, Prince Silas.”
I slam down the phone. There's a schedule in front of me, glowing on the screen, everything the Queen had lined up for the next week.
Tomorrow, there's supposed to be afternoon tea with the Russian ambassador, and then a late dinner with the emissary from the States. Our kingdom's longtime neutrality and grandmom's generosity has put us front and center, mediating a territorial dispute in the Baltic.
I don't know where the negotiations are at. There's a good chance I'm going to turn over the table if we can't get the Russians and NATO to shake hands, accidentally starting World War III.
Fuck.
I stand up, bottle in hand, barreling around the office. I'm looking for a glass so I can really lay down the scotch. When I finally find one, I stop just short of filling it.
My stomach turns, staring at the liquid gold in the glass.
It's...revolting.
Double fuck. The day I've always feared has arrived. Booze won't help me anymore. It won't do anything except cause a disaster if I'm sucking on the bottle as King, and starting tonight.
Growling to myself, I push the cap down on the bottle.
I'm growing up. The fucking, the drinking, the parties with supermodels and spoiled rich kids from across Europe, they're in the past. I can't indulge them anymore. I don't even want to because they're not going to take the edge off.
There's only one thing that's made me feel human since I found out the brutal news this morning.
Erin. My Princess with benefits.
She's waiting for me in her chamber, probably pouring over the news breaking online. Wondering what kind of man she's going to see when I return.
I have a chance to show her it won't be a stumbling, horny drunk. To show myself that I can take the reigns without falling off my horse.
My father would be a drunken, weeping mess right now. Probably running for the nearest bar with another slut at his side.
Never me. I grit my teeth, staring at my reflection in the empty glass. No, fuck, I'm better than that.
If I can fix this kingdom in its darkest hour, then I can damned sure fix myself. And that means this crazy thing I've got with my Princess could be more than pretend.
Am I ready for that? Ready to settle down, to love, to act like a man with his wife-to-be instead of just a carefree fuck with a dick bigger than his crown?
I don't know, but I'm about to find out.
11
Open Revery (Erin)
It's late.
I haven't seen Silas since we returned to the palace. I've been in his chamber all day, watched around the clock by Dean and several other guards.
They've been whispering into their phones and radios all day.
I hear the same words over and over.
Her Majesty's health. Chaos. Damned rioters.
Silas. Prince. King.
Every time I hear that last one, it makes me swoon, and get so lightheaded I want to throw up. I've barely gotten a handle on this Princess thing. I never imagined I'd be a Queen in my wildest dreams – even a pretend one – and I'm scared. I'm in too deep.
The way they say King Silas makes me worry, too. It's said with tension and humor, the way a person talks about a silly hypothetical, something that won't really happen.
I'm sitting by the window, watching the capital's lights wink on below. It seems like half the windows are filled with royal purple candles lit to pray for Queen Marina's health.
Their glow splashes everything like smooth wine. I wonder if I'm watching the last time the kingdom will know peace.
I'm so lost in my thoughts, I don't hear him come in. There's a hand on my shoulder so thick, firm, and confident it can only belong to one man.
I look up, placing my hand over his. He takes my fingers like he owns them, squeezes, then lifts them to his mouth.
His lips make me feel better instantly. Whatever else is happening out there, I know where we stand in this room.
“Hey,” I whisper. “What's the latest?”
“Hell,” he says, a one word answer heavy as ice on his tongue. “Nobody knows what's going to happen. We just have to take it day by day, love. Do everything we can to settle the nerves rattling this kingdom. That's what royals do.”
I stand up, facing him, sliding my hands over his shoulders. He pulls me into his arms. I'm scanning his eyes, falling deeper into ocean blue. I want to understand how he's so calm with the weight of the world – or at least a whole kingdom – hanging around his neck.
“How can I help?” I ask, running one hand across his cheek.
God, his stubble feels good. He hasn't had time to shave all day. It's rough like rest of him. I'm still discovering what I enjoy in a man, but I love when things match, bound together in a single gorgeous package.
“You really want to know?” he asks, that sly quirk pulling at his lips.
Swallowing the expectation in my throat, I look at him, and nod.
“Don't fight me when I rip off that dress. That's going to help a lot.” It's the only warning he gives.
His hands are on me. Moving, tearing, pulling. He's quick, ferocious, a wild animal who needs to get me naked this fucking second.
When I'm down to just my panties, I turn toward the hall leading to the bedroom. Big mistake.
Silas jerks me into his arms, slamming me against his chest, resting his forehead on mine.
“No. We'll save the sheets for later. We're going to fuck in front of this glass, beautiful, where anyone can look in and see. I want transparency, love. Let the people see their future King and Queen, in lust, with nothing left to hide.”
I'm taken aback. More importantly, both my wrists are in his fists, and he guides me to the huge window pane. My back slides against it, cool as a sheet of ice.
Warmth, fire, and glacial cool collides in my bloodstream. It's strange, conflicted, and oh so wrong.
But I'm getting used to wrong feeling right – especially when he moves his head down my breasts. My nipple disappears into his mouth, and my knees start shaking.
“Oh, God!” I whimper, losing myself in the pleasure when his teeth form a tight little ring.
He eases off after several seconds, just long enough to make the wet spot on my panties three times bigger. Clenching my ass, he pulls me into him, then moves one hand around my thigh, sliding to the middle.
He slip
s his fingers in me hard, never taking those blue eyes off mine for a second. “Silas,” he growls.
“What?” I can barely speak when he starts to move, stroking that spot in my pussy that's going to make me see stars.
“Silas. That's the only thing on your lips when you're coming, love. That's the man who's strumming your whole body, making your wet little cunt sing. That's who wants to own you. Body, mind, and soul.”
His thumb finds my clit and brushes against it.
Oh, God. Oh, yes. Oh, Silas.
I'm trembling, putting my hands against the glass, hoping my legs don't completely buckle when he makes me come.
I can't think about the people behind the glass. Hell, I won't let myself wonder what kind of message this is sending either. This manic, animal rush to sex when a whole country is hanging by its nails...
“Move that sweet ass. Fuck my fingers,” he growls, pulling them away, making me grind down against his hand.
I'm twisting like a whore. It makes me flush, sweat, and get even wetter. Just standing in this palace, with what looks like a crystal chandelier more expensive than a house hanging over us, its edges reflecting every filthy, desperate face I'm making each time he pleasures me.
How can he stroke so deeply like this? So good? How can he know exactly what gets me off?
It's because he's slept with like half a million women, and I've only had him.
One.
For a second, through my haze of ecstasy that makes me grit my teeth, I'm jealous, and disappointed with myself for falling so hard, so quickly, to this man who's had a king's feast of pussy. It shouldn't be this hard to imagine myself in another man's arms.
But when Silas lifts his hand away, dragging my panties down my legs, there's nothing I want more than having him inside me again.
Him, and only him. My Prince with benefits that make my eyes roll wild.
“Step aside, love, so I can get these fucking things off.” I lift my leg, and he swings them around, throwing the sopping wet mess behind his shoulder.
“Turn around,” he growls, standing up, towering over me.