Royce: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Skye Darrel

  “What did you tell her?” I ask. “I know you met her.”

  He swirls his wine glass. “Ms. Finch wanted advice. I indulged her.”

  “Advice?"

  “She asked me if you two are a good match. I said no. I said it would be best for both of you to find other people.”

  “She would never ask you that,” I say.

  “You’d be surprised, Everett. She understands you two have no future together.” My father sips his wine. “The important thing is that it’s over. You will be happy. Not now. But in the future.”

  “I don’t need a fucking future.” I wave around the Lounge. “You see all this? The wealth, the privilege? I’d throw it all away for her.”

  Edmund’s face hardens. “You are privileged. Half your battles were won before you were even born. All you need to do is win the other half. Do your fucking job. Forget that girl. She’s a walking corpse.”

  Hate festers in my chest, at him and at myself, because part of me is thinking how right he is. Another part wants to murder him.

  I won’t get anything else out of this man, but there’s one woman who can tell me more.

  Portia Royce.

  THE FOUR SEASONS is the only luxury hotel in Baltimore. A glass building on the waterfront of Inner Harbor, surrounded by marinas and yachts. It’s the best hotel in the best area of the city, not far from the Royce Building. The front desk concierge says Portia is staying in the best suite on the top floor. That’s like my mother.

  The elevator carries me up.

  Tension threads down my spine.

  I get out on her floor and walk to her suite.

  The door opens after one knock, and Portia stands there wearing a yoga outfit. I can’t remember the last time I saw her outside of a dress or business suit. No heels either.

  “Hello, Evers. I’d planned on a relaxing evening at the spa.”

  We’ve seen each other so rarely over the past few years, I’m at a loss for words. And she calls me Evers. The last time she called me that I was two feet shorter. “We need to talk,” I say.

  “About April, I expect.”

  “Yes.”

  “Come in.”

  Portia’s suite is the size of a decent apartment, furnished with opulence and more spacious than the Finches’ living room. We sit at the dining table under a gold chandelier. Portia stretches her hands, and there is no ring on her finger. I never noticed when she stopped wearing it.

  “I was there when she met your father,” Portia says. “I wanted to see the woman my son fell in love with.”

  “What happened?”

  “They made a deal. April offered to stop seeing you. In exchange, your father keeps St. Jude open.”

  I feel a pounding in my head, my mouth dry as cotton. Cold rage gnaws through my guts. Only my mother’s gaze keeps me seated. “He lied to me.”

  So had April.

  “Edmund believed you'd never let her go if you knew about their agreement.”

  “He’s fucking right.”

  “Language.”

  I scoff. “April say anything else?”

  “She still loves you. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “She’s afraid of losing you, I think. So she acted first. This way, she gets to decide how it all ends. And she wanted very much to save the hospital.”

  “I’ve always told her I’d do anything—”

  “Words are easy. But it’s not too late, Everett. Go to her.”

  I look Portia in the eye. My mother has never stood up for me before. She’s always gone along with whatever Edmund deemed good for the family. “Why are you helping me?”

  “Tragic you have to ask that question.”

  “All the same, I’m asking.”

  “I don’t want my son to spend his life wondering what could’ve been.” Portia sighs. “There is another reason as well. Have you ever questioned why Edmund treats you so? His lack of affection.”

  “I'm twenty-seven, Mother. It's too late for questions.”

  She smiles at me. “A year before you were born, our marriage was broken. Edmund had no qualms bedding any woman who caught his fancy. I had an affair myself.”

  “I know. Sebastian told me about your yoga instructor.”

  “I am not referring to my one-hour dalliance with my yoga instructor, as pleasant as he was. This was another man. Don’t bother asking me who, I won’t tell you. But he was special. He reminded me of Edmund from long ago, the Edmund I fell in love with. We spent a summer together, Evers. Your father didn’t find out until it was over and by then, I was pregnant.”

  The room spins for a moment, the lights too bright, and I lean over the table as her words sink in. “You mean . . .”

  “It’s possible,” my mother says. “Edmund never asked for a paternity test. He said we would raise you to be a Royce. No one else knows, not even your brother. Edmund and I made a pact that day. No more affairs. No more secrets. We tried to make our family work.”

  I sit back slowly, waiting for the anger to kick in. But I feel nothing. I’m not even surprised. It all makes sense now, the way Edmund had fawned over Sebastian no matter how much my brother screwed up. The exacting discipline Edmund used on me instead. I can’t even blame him. Without that discipline, I would be shattered now. He made me tough. Edmund had prepared me to face himself. He had unknowingly prepared me all my life to fight for April.

  It’s fate.

  I should thank him.

  Right after I tell him to fuck off.

  “Are you all right?” Portia asks.

  “Thank you for the truth.”

  “Edmund still cares for you, Everett.”

  I shake my head. “He wants a loyal heir. Someone as ruthless as he is. Sebastian didn’t have it in him so the old man went with me.”

  “You’re wrong about that, but it’s not up to me to show you.” Portia smiles again. Her raven hair, the same color as mine, gleams beneath the golden lights of the chandelier. “What will you do now?”

  I push out of my chair and hug her, the first hug we've shared since I can remember. There is only one thing to do.

  Chapter Seventeen

  APRIL

  Everett’s black Audi is parked down the street. Peeking from my room, I can see a figure in the driver’s seat. He must’ve arrived after my parents left for work.

  Why?

  We broke up a week ago. I don’t know what he’s doing here, sitting in his fancy car like a stalker. All last week he’s been calling me, texting me, leaving messages. I read every word and listened to every message, but I never replied.

  Leave, my mind screams.

  Go away. I don’t want to see you again. Each thought a bigger lie than the last. Just seeing his car makes me warm inside.

  But I can’t do this again.

  He calls and leaves another message, “If you don’t come out, I’m coming in.”

  “Asshole,” I murmur half-smiling, half-crying. Finally I text him: I’ll call the cops if you do.

  Everett gets out of his car and stalks toward the house like a hunter. He has on that leather jacket he wore on our mountain trip. A scowl twists his handsome face, his jaw dark with stubble. Two squirrels on the sidewalk scamper from his path. And then he’s under the windowsill and I can’t see him anymore.

  The doorbell rings. Again and again.

  Knocking. The sound of a fist banging on wood.

  I should ignore him and call the cops anyway.

  And if I answer the door, I should put on some clothes at least. My reflection in the dresser mirror is a bedraggled mess. But I don’t bother, making my way down the staircase in my panties and the loose tee I’d slept in. Not like he hasn’t seen me naked before.

  My legs feel weak today and I wobble on the steps. It takes a minute before I reach the front door and yank it open.

  Everett puts his boot, the same boot he wore to the mountains, through the frame. He shoulders halfway in so I can’t close the door.


  “Are you crazy?” I shout.

  He slams the door shut and backs me against the wall. “You wouldn’t answer your phone.”

  “We broke up you asshole! That’s what happens when people break up!”

  “Scream all you want. I’m not leaving.”

  I pummel my fist on his chest. It’s like hitting a brick wall. “Get. Out.”

  “No.”

  “I hate you!”

  “You made a deal with my father. I know everything.”

  I blink, meeting his glare with my own, and I can’t deny how much I missed him. I shove his chest again, slap that rugged jaw. Everett stands tall like a statue.

  Stubborn.

  “You finished?” he says.

  I’m not going to cry. No way. Nope.

  “Tell me you don’t love me,” he says. “Tell me and I’ll leave right now. Go on, Princess.”

  I hate him.

  I love him.

  “I’m not your princess.”

  He steps closer. “You want to save St. Jude, I get it. You traded me for a fucking building to help a bunch of kids you barely know, but I get that too. It just makes me love you more.”

  “Ugh!”

  I shove him with all my strength. It’s like he’s nailed to the floor.

  “Go on, April. Get it out of your system. I don’t care what you do to me. Get a knife if you want.” He pats his chest. “Bury it right here. Because that’s the only way I’m leaving.”

  “If you know everything, then you know we don't have a future. But at least I can help those kids.”

  “You’re wrong, Princess. You do have a future. And you needn’t worry about St. Jude. The hospital is safe. I took care of it, my company won't be shutting it down anytime soon.”

  He touches the right side of his cheek, slightly red from my palm.

  “Took care of it? You’re not even in charge of your stupid company.”

  Everett takes off his jacket and drops it on the floor. The shirt underneath is snug, sheeting the hard contours of his abs. His hot gaze pins me in place. “Tell you later. First things first.”

  He swoops in and lifts me by my thighs. I hug his body in reflex, in want, and I’m lost to him. My legs clamp around his hips and my arms lock around his corded neck. His erection presses into me. He carries me upstairs, hands on my bottom squeezing shamelessly. Tingles shoot through my body as heat twists my belly.

  He stops on the landing, hot breaths puffing on my neck. “Where’s your bed?”

  “In my room.” My voice is breathy. “You can’t go in there.”

  “Why the fuck not?”

  “Stop swearing!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s my room and this is my house. You can’t just go in there—”

  His muscles bulge against my breasts. “I’ve been in your cunt before, little girl. I can go in your room. You shouldn’t even be in this house. You belong with me. ”

  I’m boiling inside. I smack the back of his head, and then I kiss him, rough and desperate, my tongue wrestling with his. When he pulls back, I bite his lip.

  Everett hisses. “Keep at it. I’ll shove my cock in your mouth.”

  “I’ll bite that too,” I spit.

  We’re moving.

  Into my room.

  A scene of pinks and pastel blues. Clothes scattered all over the place. Laptop on my desk. An iPhone that's four years old. My smartwatch still in its box, a present from Camila last October. Old textbooks and romance novels stacked by the window. Stuffed animals and souvenirs from school field trips on the dresser. Trophies from elementary school. Awards from middle school. Posters of celebrities I had admired and boy bands I’d crushed on. A teenage girl’s refuge frozen in time, the décor unchanged since my diagnosis at age fourteen.

  I’m embarrassed like hell all of a sudden. This isn’t even who I am anymore. I should be in college, a sophisticated woman finding her place in the world. Like my friends. Like Camila. But what’s the point when your life expectancy is measured in months?

  I haven’t invited anyone over in ages.

  He sets me down on the unmade bed. The new wheelchair Mom ordered sits in the corner, along with a portable oxygen tank. I don’t need them yet, but my parents wanted to be ready.

  Everett’s eyes are riveted on me. “My college dorm was neater.” He picks up a pair of my PJ shorts and smells them. “But I like it. Everything smells like you.”

  I’m pouting at him. Freaking pouting.

  He pulls off my tee, then rips my panties apart down the middle. He pries my thighs open. When his tongue hits my clit, I lose my voice and toss my head back. Hot chills rush through my body. His tongue, oh God, his tongue makes my clit sizzle, and he lashes my button up and down, all round and to the pulsing peak.

  My hips jerk. Cream slicks down my inner thigh.

  He holds me down. I float higher, riding an unbearable edge that sharpens more and more.

  “Such a wet pussy. So sticky. Been waiting for me, yeah? Hungry for my cock. What a naughty little girl.”

  My walls clench at his crude words. “You’re disgusting.”

  His tongue plunges into me, and my toes curl as I shudder and moan, gripping his hair with one hand, holding his head against my sex. I bite the knuckles of my other.

  When I near my climax, Everett stops and leans back, leaving me empty, desperate, the hot trickling sensation in my pussy unbearable.

  “You’ve never tasted sweeter.” He tugs his belt out. “But you’ll take my cock first. You're going to cum on my cock like a good little princess."

  My eyes fly open as Everett opens his shirt, showing me the dense muscles of his torso, all the way down to that v-dip in his hips like an arrow to the man thing lined up at my pussy.

  I couldn’t stop him even if I wanted.

  Gripping my waist, he thrusts into me to the very base.

  Stars dance in my eyes as I arch off the bed, my whole body clenching.

  He grabs my ankles to pull my legs against his waist, thrusting slow and hard, plunging his whole length into me again and again. Then the head of his cock hits a spot deep in my pussy, and I cry out as my breasts bounce from the force of his body.

  Orgasm slams through my body, hot waves of pleasure blinding me for half a heartbeat as my nails dig into his thick shoulders.

  With his hand on the back of my head, he kisses my exposed throat. I can feel his heavy balls twitching on my lower folds as he floods me with release, squirt after squirt of hot cum that splashes the roof of my pussy.

  “Mine,” he says. “Mine.”

  We slump together in a heap.

  As Everett pushes off me, he suckles my nipples one by one, still rubbing my sensitive clit, refusing to let my pleasure fall. I clutch his arm and cry out with another orgasm that rips me apart.

  “Not done yet, Princess.”

  We’re both breathless, and a warm glow spreads from my core.

  He kisses all over my body. My skin burns like fever, my clit and folds so tender that the lightest graze of his tongue makes me convulse. Then he gets off the bed, turns me on my stomach, and slaps my bottom. He pulls my cheeks apart in between spanks.

  “Pretty pink holes,” he growls.

  I can’t see him, but I feel him down there, everywhere, his tongue trailing up and down. He wrenches a third climax from my quaking body.

  “No more,” I cry, clawing at the sheets.

  Everett rolls me on my back again. He gives my clit a final rub that makes me gasp. We’re drenched in sweat, the sheets are soaked, and I’m flushed with the heat of a thousand suns.

  He holds me tightly. My bed isn't big enough for his long legs, but we make it work, snuggling together. “That,” I stammer. “That was . . .”

  I can't even find the words. He kisses my hair as I slip into a warm haze against his chest. Time passes slowly while I watch the digits of the clock on my nightstand. Reason returns.

  It’s almost noon.


  We can’t lie here forever.

  “You said you stopped your dad from closing the hospital. How? Doesn’t Edmund control everything?”

  “Not public opinion,” Everett says.

  “Huh?”

  Everett explains that Royce Innovations had to negotiate with the city when the company moved in. Royce Innovations needed construction licenses. They needed a building permit for the tech center. They needed a favorable political environment. The City Council and the hospital’s board also opposed their takeover of St. Jude.

  “We purchased the votes we needed,” Everett says. “I led the negotiations. Money changed hands. I’m not saying we bribed anyone directly, but it was shady as fuck. We had to be aggressive and persuasive. I have a record of those negotiations—company documents and the like. I told my old man last week I would release the documents publicly, unless he keeps St. Jude open. Public disclosure would ruin the company’s reputation. Not to mention protesters like your cousin would have a field day.”

  I sit up, hugging my knees. “Is Edmund mad at you?”

  “He threatened to disown me.” Everett smiles. “But your hospital is safe.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I did it for us. I need you to focus.”

  “On what?”

  “On living.” Everett runs a finger up my leg. “I dug up the whereabouts on that Norwegian doctor who came close to a cure. Lars Reijonen. Took some doing. He had a nervous breakdown according to a former colleague. Nowadays he lives like a hermit in the middle of nowhere, near a village called Solmark. No phone, no email, nothing. Only an address. I’m gonna find him.”

  “Find him?”

  “I’m going to Norway, April. It’s worth a shot. Maybe our only shot.”

  Our only shot. Everett talks as if our fates are bound. “That’s a long way,” I say.

  “It’s worth it.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You should stay home and rest.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’ve stayed home long enough.”

  “April . . .”

  “Don’t tell me I’m too sick or whatever. Not after what you just did to me in this bed. We’ll go together. That’s final.”