The Royal's Pet

by Adora Crooks

  Now everyone knows we’re here. In the palace, I have a roster of permitted guests, background checks, and access to security cameras. Here, I’m blind. The club is a maze of dimly lit rooms, a wide dance floor, and strobe lights. The sofas and bar tables are all outlines in gaudy neon colors, so they pop out from the shadows. If they ran a black light through this thing, I doubt it would pass health code.

  Roland, naturally, is as happy as a clam at high water. First a couple of people notice him and want to take a picture. Then a couple more want autographs. Before long, he’s amassed a small crowd and they’re lining up shots.

  I hang in the corner of the bar where I can keep an eye on Roland. A crowd of gutter punks and hippies create a semicircle around Roland and a beefy Irish bloke. They stand at either side of the table, hawk eyes on each other.

  A leggy blonde stands at the middle—she’s clearly designated herself some kind of referee. “First to the middle gets the lime! And…” She throws up her arms. “Go!”

  Immediately, Roland and the bulldog start to down shots, starting from the end of the table and working their way in. The crowd cheers as they flip over each cup, racing toward the center.

  In the chaos, Rory appears beside me. “What’s he doing?” Rory asks. She’s holding a blue-tinted drink, her second of the night.

  “Mourning,” I answer.

  “He looks like he’s having fun,” she tries.

  Roland gets to the middle first and bites the lime. The club explodes in cheers. “God bless the bloody queen of England!” Roland shouts.

  Rory’s lips draw into a grimace. “I’ll be right back,” she says.

  I watch as Rory wiggles through the crowd to get to Roland. He immediately scoops her in his arms and covers her mouth with his. He’s drunk and overly affectionate. Rory’s body goes rigid when the crowd ooooohs, and my hands clench into fists. She unwinds herself from Roland, pets his hair, and murmurs something I can’t hear over the pounding beat of the music. He nods and follows her like a puppy to the dance floor, where they fall into a swaying movement.

  I’ve mapped all the exits. I know every bartender and waitress by sight. My eyes scan the room, but it’s hard to make heads or tails of this crowd. The only good news is that there’s certainly no one hiding a gun in those skinny jeans. My eyes catch on a bulky man who moves to the bathrooms, and for a second, he almost looks familiar.

  “So, Tall, Dark, and Strange.” A woman steps side by side with me. “Are you strictly a voyeur, or do you participate as well?”

  She’s more skin than clothes, an hourglass of a woman fitted into a leather miniskirt and a matching blouse that crisscrosses over her chest. Her blonde hair is cropped at her shoulders, and it bounces when she turns her head. It occurs to me in an out-of-body way that she’s just the type of girl I would’ve taken back to Buckingham Palace for Roland and me to feast on, back in the days before Rory. Now, I can barely muster up the energy to give her the time of day.

  “Voyeur,” I say shortly.

  She rolls her eyes. “The clean-cut ones are always the kinkiest.” She lingers, not taking my hint. Her eyes scan my suit. “So you work with the prince, eh?”

  “What gave it away?”

  She smirks. “He always this much fun?”

  The tempo changes. Prince Roland bounces up and down on the dance floor, and Rory jumps with him, laughing, pumping her fist in the air. “Not exactly.”

  “He and his lady friend. They’re awful cute, aren’t they?” She shifts her weight in her hips, and her arm brushes against mine. “Must get boring, watching them have all the fun while you play third wheel.”

  “Boring isn’t the word I’d use.”

  “Right you are, mate.” She reaches out and traces her nail around my ear, pushing my dark hair back. “Bet you’re anything but boring, aren’t you?”

  I grab her wrist and hold her back. “I’m on duty,” I inform her. “In other words: shove off.”

  “Touchy.” She tugs her hand back and steps away from me, her wedges wobbling toward the dance floor. “Oi!” she shouts and catches my attention. When I turn to her, she bites on her grin. “Since you’re a voyeur and all…” She pulls back the thin straps of her blouse, and her round breasts spill out. Her blouse cradles her perky orbs, and she bounces them a couple times for show. Then she covers them once more, blows me a kiss, and turns back to the dance floor.

  Jesus fucking Christ. I’m certainly we’ve fallen into some level of hell. I need to get out of here. And I need a smoke.

  31

  Roland

  I want to replace my heartbeat with the thump of the bass.

  The music is so loud in here it dulls out my screaming thoughts. The alcohol numbs the anxiety burning in my blood, and as I make a fool of myself on the dance floor with Rory… for a second, I feel almost peaceful. We’re jumping together, and I spin her and pull her against me. Her laugh rings out in my ears and vibrates through my soul. My adrenaline rushes, my head spins, and I swallow Rory up in my arms and laugh.

  This is freedom. This is the world I’ve been kept from for so long. I want to immerse myself in it. I want to experience it—all of it. I crave it the way an addict craves heroin; my nerves feel frantic and fuel my desperation.

  So I jump higher. Push harder. Until my heart is beating so quickly, I can barely tell it apart from the music. I’m no prince. No royal. I just am. I can forget myself here. And it feels so goddamn good.

  Sweat drips down my neck. As I toss my body around the dance floor, my gaze swims over the bar.

  There. Right there. My mother stands at the edge of the dance floor. Her hair is pulled into a bun, a black funeral lace covering her face. All sound dims until all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears. My father stands beside her in his proud military uniform. Proud family. Idiot son.

  “Roland!” Rory’s voice, like a shard of sunshine on a rainy day, breaks through my imagination. Her hands rest on my chest, and all I can see is her now and those big, soft eyes, filled with concern. “Are you okay?”

  I try to find my family again, but they’re gone.

  Loneliness is like an ice pick in my heart. The pain is unbearable and constant. I wind my arms around Rory and crush her against me. Her body is warm, soft, and I crave her heat.

  “Don’t leave me, okay?” I blither like an idiot in her ear. “I can’t lose you. I can’t bear to lose another person I love.”

  “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “It’s going to be okay.” She runs her fingers through my hair. I’m magnetized to her touch, and I lean in even as she pulls away. “I’m going to get you a cup of water, baby… Go find Ben, okay?”

  I nod. I feel dumb, sweat slicked, and my throat is thick and clotted. She cups my face and presses a sweet kiss to my mouth before she pulls away, vanishing into the crowd.

  Ben is easy enough to find at least. He sticks out like a sore thumb, the three-piece suit at the far end of the crowd. His gaze is askance, eyes caught on something else when I come to him.

  I throw my arm around his shoulders. “You having fun, mate?”

  Ben goes rigid. His jaw is tense. “No.”

  I already feel better in his presence, though. Safer, even from my own hallucinations. “We’re here to have a good time,” I persuade him. “So lighten up.”

  I’m messy, I’m drunk, and I’m absurdly brave. I lean in and brush my lips over his.

  Ben? He nearly rips my bloody arm off. He grabs me, shoves me off him, and hisses, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “What’s your problem, mate?” I snap back.

  His jaw is tight. “You’re drunk,” he states. “We’re going home.” Ben’s eyes swim over the club. “Where’s Rory?”

  “She went to the bar to grab a water or something…” I’m stumbling, my alcohol content catching up with me fast, and the ground feels less solid under my feet.

  Ben’s eyes never settle. “No,” he says. “She’s not.”

  My hear
tbeat picks up in my chest again, old anxieties prickling my skin. “What do you mean, she’s not?”

  I’ve never seen Ben panicked. When the strobe lights flash across his face, I can see that he’s gone white as a sheet. “She’s gone,” he states.

  32

  Rory

  The edge of the bar bites little indents in my forearms as I fall forward against it. The sonic boom of dance music rattles my brain free from my skull. Normally, I’m a fan of loud music—Oscar can attest to this, for all the times he’d had to bang on the wall between our rooms to get me to turn down my music. I always said his grandpa was showing. But this makes even my ears pop.

  I’m sweaty and my skin sticks when I bend my arm to wave down the bartender. “Can I get a water?” I shout over the din. I don’t know if it’s my second cocktail or the endorphins from dancing with Roland, but the room feels crooked under my feet. It was fun dancing with Roland—the prince can’t dance, not really, but damn, does he look good trying. Who am I to talk anyway? My signature move is jutting my lips forward, turning my arms into wings, and flapping around. There’s no point in dancing if you can’t have fun, after all.

  And Roland needs fun. Heck, we all need fun. Italy was amazing, and I think we’re all just… reeling. Trying to find our footing again in the real world.

  I can’t imagine what this must be like for Roland. A taste of the outside world for the first time. I’m reminded of every time (and there have been multiple times) when I had to serve as the DD for a twenty-first birthday. Somehow, I always became the designated driver, designated decisions maker, and designated don’t send that picture girl. Freedom can be a double-edged sword, and I’ve held back enough ponytails to attest to that.

  If I have to hold Roland’s hair back at the end of the night—so be it. A rite of passage, in my opinion. Why doesn’t the prince of England get to have a crazy, judgment-free night every now and then?

  But there’s a nagging in the back of my head. The responsible voice (which sounds oddly like Ben?) murmurs, Because you know he’s hurting.

  The whole thing makes my head spin. The bartender slides a glass of ice water over, and I have the good sense to add, “Actually, can you make that two?”

  I pluck the paper covering from the straw and take a sip. The cool liquid feels good going down my throat and washes some of the fuzz away from my brain.

  For his effort, I reach into my pocket and pull out a couple pence. It’s the least I can do. As I’m rummaging around, a voice behind me crystallizes in the cacophony.

  “You’re here with the prince, aren’t you?”

  The voice is gravelly, but the words are polished, articulate. He’s short, stout, with an egg-shaped bald head. Middle-aged, maybe—he looks even more out of place than we do as he moves next to me.

  I have no idea who this man is. A reporter, probably. Someone trying to dig up some dirt on the royal family. I shrug and keep my answers short. “I guess so.”

  My gaze veers away to the bartender, who is still filling my glass. Damn that slow water drip.

  “Rory, right?” he says conversationally, as though we’re old friends. “Rory March. You have that little… blog of yours.”

  I blink at him. Unease rolls over my skin like fish scales. There’s something…off about him. “How do you know me again?”

  He turns to me and smiles, an eerie jack-o’-lantern smile. A pink, fleshy scar runs lengthwise from his ear down his jaw. “Because I’ve been looking for you all night, Miss March.”

  Every bone in my spine goes cold. I grab my water and twist away from the bar. “I have to go—”

  “Yes. You do.” His meaty hand wraps around my arm like a vice. In his other hand, he flashes an item under his long coat. A gun glints in the flashing lights, and fear hits me like a lightning bolt.

  I want to scream. I want to shout for Ben. Roland. But I can’t. Between his threat and my fear, my voice has dried up in my throat.

  “You’re coming with me,” he informs me. He shoves me to the exit, the muzzle of his gun pressing sharply against the small of my back.

  33

  Ben

  I see her.

  Rory.

  Her hair blares siren red at the door.

  She’s not alone. There’s a man with her. Stocky build. His hand is on her arm, and he pulls her outside. She turns before she goes, her hair fanning out behind her.

  Panic in her eyes.

  A knot tightens in my stomach.

  “Door,” I tell Roland and start toward the exit.

  He stumbles behind me. “Rory—”

  “Someone’s taken her. They just left.”

  I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time to explain myself to a drunk, royal pain in the arse. I shove my way through the bumping and grinding bodies and burst out the door. I didn’t realize what a bloody sauna it was in there until I’m licked with a rush of cool nighttime air. Sweat has caked on the back of my neck, underneath the collar of my shirt, and under my arms, and I feel it blaringly now.

  My vision focuses on the cars parked on the side of the road, waiting for one to light up. The club coughs up Roland with a gust of hot air. “Who would take her?” he asks as he runs his hands through his tousled hair.

  “Someone after you, I imagine.”

  “Shit,” Roland sighs. “I cocked this up, didn’t I?”

  I perk up when I hear her. A scream cut short echoes down the alleyways.

  “This way,” I say. I’d love to shove the prince away, keep him protected in a locked car or a quiet space, but that’s not going to happen. I don’t know how many of them are out here. For all I know, Rory is just a clever distraction to get to the prince.

  So he has no choice but to tag along with me.

  There are very few people out and about this late. A businessman shuffles home. A couple walks hand in hand. Neither seems to be moved by the scream—that’s London for you.

  I jog down the street and flatten against the wall. Roland takes the hint and comes to a quick stop. When I look around, I see two shadows vanish around the corner.

  I gesture Roland forward and we move quickly, quietly after them. He’s taking her away from the cobbled side streets and narrow, twisting alleyways. I don’t understand why he’s still on foot. If this were a true hostage, he’d have a getaway driver. A quick exit. But this—

  It’s almost as if he wants us to catch up with him.

  We’ve come to the end of the main street. The Thames sloshes nearby. I follow the twin clicks of footsteps to a bridge that crosses over the river. Adrenaline rushes through my blood. I’m blade sharp and focused. I reach into my jacket to grab my sidearm and pull back the hammer, disengaging the safety.

  “Stay here,” I murmur to Roland. “And don’t make a noise.”

  He crouches in the bridge’s shadow. I step off the brick ledge, point my gun forward, and step through the tunnel. My shoes click on the walkway. I’m not hiding anymore.

  Neither is he. The kidnapper stands in a yellow pool of light from the streetlamp. Rory, stiff as a board and wide-eyed, is clamped in a headlock. He holds a long blade underneath the soft skin of her throat.

  My finger rests on the trigger. I don’t have a clear shot, not with the way he’s using Rory as a human shield. I wait for my moment and take a step forward.

  “Let her go,” I tell him.

  “Yeah,” he says. “That’s not going to happen.”

  Her eyes look scared, frantic. I can’t look at her if I want to keep my cool, so I focus on him. He’s a stout man in clothes that are just slightly too baggy, fitting him awkwardly. His most prominent feature is a pink scar that runs down the side of his face—

  I recognize this man. He was at the masquerade ball. The realization shifts uneasily in my chest. He’s been hiding in plain sight this whole time.

  “Let her go,” I repeat, “or I’ll shoot.”

  “And risk hurting your sweetie?” He digs the knife against her th
roat, indenting the skin. She twists and gasps like a worm on a hook. Chills run up and down my spine, and he smiles, her red hair pressed to his face. “I don’t think so.”

  “She’s not the one you want.” That voice. It echoes boldly through the tunnel. I hear the clip of footsteps behind me. Roland steps into the light, his palms up above his head.

  “Roland, what are you doing?” I hiss.

  “This is about me,” Roland says, his eyes on the other man. “Yes? You want me. Not her. So let her go… and you can have me instead.”

  “Roland, get back here.” My blood is buzzing with frustration. I should’ve left him behind. He’s too drunk, not thinking straight, being a bloody heroic idiot…

  “Please,” Roland says. I hear the strain in his voice. This isn’t a drunken, messy decision. He wants this. This whole masochistic night of his has been culminating into one redemptive sacrifice. “You want a hostage? I’m your man. I’ll do anything you want. Just let her go.”

  The kidnapper’s eyes flicker between Rory and Roland. If he takes a step toward Roland, I decide, I’m going to shoot him point-blank.

  “You want your girl?” the man growls. “You can have her.”

  He shoves Rory. She pitches forward with a yelp. Roland grabs her in his arms before she falls on her face.

  Then the kidnapper reaches for his gun.

  I fire. A single squeeze of the trigger. It hits his arm and he drops his gun with a yelp. The second shot misses him completely. Before I can fire off a third, he throws his leg over the railing and jumps. I hear a splash as he hits the Thames.

  Roland has Rory. They’re safe. For now. I rip my jacket off, then my sidearm holster, and drop them on the ground. “Stay here,” I tell them as I kick off my shoes as well.

  “What are you—?”

  That’s all I hear from Roland before I straddle the railing. The water bobs not far below me. High tide. I’m guessing it’s about fifteen, twenty meters down before I hit the bottom. I push off the side and into the river. The cold, black water splashes up and swallows me.