by Nicole Snow
“If you won't act for me, for this bloodline, or for this country, then please do it for her. I'm asking you to consider it seriously, Silas. I know full well by now I can't make you do anything. All the titles and power in the world can't do much for a man with your stubbornness.”
“How about specifics? How the hell can I prove to you I'm already serious? Every time I try, the bastards in the press turn it into the butt of another joke. I can't control that, and you know it, Your Majesty.”
She pauses. Thinking.
Damn. Have I stumped the Queen?
“You need a calming influence, something to prove that you're mature,” she says slowly, turning her head, studying my reaction for what comes next. “A woman, Silas. Not another whore you'll have for one night and never look at again. Find yourself a wife.”
I think I blink before my eyes pop out, but I can't say for sure. I can't even feel my face when her words sink in, anchor, and drag me down with them.
“Jesus. You're asking me to get married? Just like that?” I snort, turning around. “Surviving bombings in Kandahar was easier than that.”
“I never said it would be easy. I'm giving you a difficult, but effective alternative, son. The people never loved your father, Silas. They loved your mother...loved her almost as much as they adore me. If they can't learn to respect you, then maybe they'll respect your family, your children. I can't save you anymore. I've already accepted that.” She pauses, a sad glaze coming over those eyes I know so well. “I can only save the family, the office, and the crown. Everything I'm bound by God, oath, and blood to salvage.”
I want to ask why the fuck she's talking from both sides of her mouth. Telling me I need to shape up, but acting like I'm beyond redemption.
And marriage? She's talking crazy. I wonder if she's going senile.
One thing's for sure – I've had my royal limit tonight.
“Are we done here?” I growl, the only words I can get past my numb lips.
“You're dismissed. Think about everything I've said. Please.”
I can't. Not now. Maybe not ever.
My head dips in the shortest, angriest bow I've ever thrown her way. Then I spin so hard my designer shoes squeak loudly on the delicate tile, probably leaving a streak.
I don't care. I have to get the hell away from this place, this asylum I've always hated, the world's most opulent freak show.
It takes half my body strength to shove the heavy doors open. I'm not waiting for the guards. Victor doesn't say a word to me on the way back to my car.
He knows when to keep his damn mouth shut, and this is definitely one of those times.
I want to get back to the palace with a few new bottles at my side. I want tits in my face and tight, hot pussy sliding up and down my cock, draining this venom from my system.
Mostly, I just want to get out the latest orders to my entourage. Tell them I'm tired, pissed, and not to be disturbed with any business, official or petty, until past noon tomorrow.
Sleep won't come, no matter how many times I flop down on my Egyptian cotton sheets and shut my eyes.
Only thing worse than the anger throbbing in my temples is that ache in my balls. The one that's been there since I grabbed Little Miss Warwick's ass, looked into her dark brown eyes, and wondered how they'd roll with her riding my cock.
I need to shake this. I'm going for a walk.
I'm drunk, staggering downstairs from my VIP room, sometime around two A.M. Half the girls have left, disappointed I haven't made my appearance, several of them taking off with the bodyguards changing over their shifts.
All I need is one.
One pussy to take the edge off.
One pussy to remind me I can make a woman sing like nobody else.
One hot, sweet pussy to claim for the night, have my way with, and never see again.
“Silas!” A voice rings out behind me. The only one that's ever gotten away with calling me that name, without putting Prince or Your Highness in front.
The last fucking voice I want to hear tonight.
I stop dead in my tracks, halfway to the bar. That's all the time she needs to jump me, throw her arms around me, and spin herself around until we're face-to-face.
“Get out of here, Serena. I'm not in the mood,” I growl. Inwardly, I cringe.
I don't have to wonder what this woman's eyes look like when they're rolling back in her head. There's no mystery here. Last winter, I fucked my press secretary, a two week tryst in the mountains north of Bearington City. I was home for a couple weeks on leave from the Marines, and I was desperate for the only pussy still in season.
I remember exactly how she screams. How she twitches and calls out my name, over and over when I'm between her legs, bringing her off for the fifth time in one night.
I remember that I'm one and done, and the fact that I fucked this girl more than once, violating my own cardinal rule, is the reason I'm standing here looking into her desperate, hurt face.
“Jesus. You're drunk again, aren't you?” she says with a sigh, slowly taking her hands off me.
I start walking again, without saying anything. Already know it isn't going to stop her from trotting after me. Her heels scrape the floor, catching up after about ten seconds.
“Silas, you don't have to do this to yourself. You can drop the lonely, broody act when I'm around. Talk to me!”
I don't slow down or say anything until I'm at the bar. At least out here, she'll have to talk business, keeping up the pretense that she's never been anything more than my damned press secretary.
“You've got business for me that can't wait until morning, or what? I don't recall scheduling an appointment at this ungodly hour.” I reach out for the fresh glass of scotch the bartender has laid out for me without asking. We have a special understanding between us, one that lets him read my mind when it comes to spirits.
“Actually, yes,” she says, flipping her light blonde hair back.
I turn and stare at her. If she's trying to be flirty, she's out of her fucking mind.
And business? She can't be serious. That's the last thing I want in the middle of the night, when I can't decide if my cock is throbbing worse than my head.
I was simmering before, but now I'm pissed.
She's staring at me like a puppy waiting for me to throw her a bone.
“I wasn't serious. You think I'm really going to sit here and talk about my goddamned image at two o'clock in the morning, half blasted out of my mind?” I snap, draining my shot in one pull, and then putting down my glass for a new one.
“I think you will, yes, because I want you to consider something new. New idea, all mine. Strictly off the record, Your Highness.” She adds my title almost as an afterthought, purely because the bartender is eyeballing her. “I haven't vetted it yet with any of my staff.”
“You've got less than a minute,” I tell her, picking up my glass, focusing on how the light hits the scotch on the rocks. Everything glows like gold and crystal coming together.
“You have an image problem. You've been defined, sire, boxed in by the press. There's a dozen playboy jabs every time they say hero. Doesn't matter. Whether you're doing something wonderful, like you did today for that girl and her father, or something...a bit less noble, everybody sees a playboy.”
Yeah, they do. I barely stop myself from snorting and rolling my eyes.
They see the truth, I want to tell her, taking another long drink instead.
The player behind the medals and money is the whole reason I've got at least a dozen girls lined up here every night, offering themselves to me like I'm able to give them the universe.
In the bedroom, I do. I give them a few glorious hours they'll remember until the day they die, pounding them halfway to heaven with the biggest cock they're ever going to take.
And then I move onto the next. One and done.
“What's your point?” I say, my eyes running up and down her trim, skinny body. She's not a bad looking girl,
but damn, she's nothing like the models I've had night after night.
Nothing like the curves I felt on that American broad today.
“It's not too late to break the mold. We can force the media to redefine you. It's worked for other royals and men in your class for ages. You've heard about Prince Lukov on the Baltic, right? A year ago he was just a womanizer, a drunk, a man they said had ties to the Russian mob...”
“Please.” I quietly balk at the comparison, sipping my scotch. “I don't have skeletons like Lukov in my closet.”
“Of course not, Your Highness. All I'm saying is, look what at the reports about him now. Loving husband. Family man. He's only a year into his marriage, and with the royal baby, nobody remembers the old Prince Lukov.” She pauses, seeing the skepticism in my eyes. “Or that Sterner kid, the billionaire in the States. He married his stepsister, for God's sake, but nobody cares about that scandal. They just see charity, family, the handsome married man.”
“And? I'm not shoving a ring on anybody's finger, or adopting a kid tomorrow, Serena.”
She smiles nervously, and leans in, just far enough so her leg touches mine. “Even a public courtship could go a long way, sire. A kiss for the cameras with a steady lady, stepping out of your cars with her at the next palace functions, having her come to dinner with you and the Queen. I think –“
“No.”
I only say it once. But I'm thinking no, no, fuck no to all that crazy.
No, no, no, goddammit, because I've heard the same thing tonight. It can't be coincidence.
I don't know what kind of game her and grandmom are playing, but they're hitting me from every side. Trying to push this marriage scheme.
It doesn't take much to see right through her. She clams up when I give her the heavy look, knocking back the last of my scotch.
“Silas, look, I'm not saying you need to get engaged to the love your life. It doesn't even have to be real. You can use me.”
Don't have a clue how I stop myself from choking on the booze. Shit.
I'm starting to see what's going on here. Grandmom's using the stick, and Serena, she must be the carrot.
And does she seem...warmer? I'm used to the stone cold bitch barking orders at the press corps and corralling reporters. Not this soft, smiling stranger I've only met a few times when she shared my bed.
I wonder how many she had down here before me to put her up to this. And she's still talking, trying to convince me with words she can't be crazy enough to believe.
“Use me,” she says again, words that would be sexy if they were coming from anybody else. “I'll do anything you want. We'll be perfect when in front of the cameras, and what a story it'll make! The Prince and his secretary. Can you see the headlines now? If they think you've found love, that you're starting to settle down, all those playboy stories vanish. Poof.”
She snaps her fingers. Smiling like mad. There's crazy eyes, and then there's hers.
I realize I'm sitting in front of a lunatic, drunker than a highland beach skunk.
I'm already feeling my hangover. The buzz burns through me, hotter than hell, completely overwhelming the desire to fuck that drove me down here.
Or is it all this asinine conversation?
“I knew you were desperate, Serena. I understood, and I cut you a break after everything that happened because it was my own damned fault. Still, this has got to be your stupidest idea yet.” I lean in, ignoring the twitch in her green pupils, so different from the way I made them shake six months ago. “Next time you decide to bother me this time of night, it better be good. Not because you want to talk about a fucking fantasy.”
I stand up, anxious to get upstairs to my suite. She reaches out, catches my wrist with both her hands, clutching at me like a mouse in a storm.
“Silas, we can't be through.”
“Babe, we never started. If you want to keep the position you've got without stirring up any crazy questions, you'll forget last winter. Everything. You'll remind yourself you're nothing but the royal press secretary, assigned to the Prince, and nothing more. Even if I entertained your fucked up suggestion for more than two seconds, there's no way I'd ever make you my...what? My pretend girlfriend? My fiance? My wife?”
Raw anger is the only thing that suppresses the savage laugh in my throat. Her eyes are soft, sad, maybe a little scared. Time to go, before I pull the trigger that sends fire straight through her heart.
I turn around and walk, praying she isn't stupid enough to follow. This time, she stays put. I can hear one of the bodyguards shuffle over just before I get into the elevator, and see him whisper something into her ear.
They hand out warnings like candy whenever I need to be alone. And the bitch has gotten to me, yeah, just enough for the guards to sense it, step in, warn her not to follow me. She'll listen, if she wants to keep doing anything in a royal capacity.
The elevator door closes, taking me back to my private level.
I've forgotten about the pussy I came down for. I'm finally ready to crash, and forget this brutal day.
Nobody ever said being Prince was easy.
I'm eating a late brunch the next day, wondering why I can't stop thinking about Serena's idiotic suggestion.
Maybe it's because the damned thing is...well, not so stupid after all.
Anything involving her would be a disaster, of course. But stepping out, finding a girl I can use to play pretend, just to get the media jackals and grandmom off my ass...no, that's not insane.
I've always been a fan of making my problems disappear overnight. When I see an opportunity, I don't let go.
Right now, a big, fat one is staring me right in the face. I can practically see it now.
Just a few minutes of playing pretty with my fake love a week. Maybe a dinner or two, just to keep up appearances, and keep her on good terms.
That's all I want. All I need to pull this off before I go back to drinking, whoring, doing whatever I damned well please.
My hero shine didn't last long when I left the service and Afghanistan, no matter what the nicer boys in the press try to say. Not like it suited me anyway.
I'd rather do scandal than play hero a thousand times over. Hero is a role I don't understand, and never will. It's dangerously detached from reality.
No, fuck hero. Afghanistan taught me life is short, more than anything else, and I'd better make the most of every day in case there's not another.
Hero's something I'll never understand. A suit that won't ever fit.
That's for grandmom, with her pomp, her tradition, her endless charity balls. Me, I know exactly what I am.
I just need to dial it back enough to prevent the Bearington crown from falling into the streets instead of my hands once grandmom's done.
I need a girl to play the part, to give me a new image. An actress, that's what I'm after.
Preferably, a girl who doesn't know a thing about who I really am, and who won't think twice about upsetting the whole arrangement because she starts to get attached.
Smiling, I sip my coffee, tasting all the sweet notes of the Hawaiian plantation it's imported from, just for me. Truthfully, everything seems bright and decadent and beautiful today.
It's glorious, because I woke up with my head straight, instead of a hangover. And it's only going to get better, damn it, because I have a plan.
I'm finishing up my goose eggs and coffee when Victor knocks. “You know it's open!”
He comes in, a somber look on his face, very much back to being my personal servant instead of my chaperon for Her Majesty.
“Your Highness, I heard about Miss Hastings and her chat last night with you in the club. I'm deeply sorry, particularly because I'm the one who's warned her about inappropriate discussions before. If you'd like me to discharge her from her position immediately, I certainly would have no qualms.“
“No. It's my fault for bringing her to bed. She's crushing like a stupid schoolgirl,” I tell him, owning up to it, as much as the bi
tch annoys me. “She's doing her job, giving me ideas to iron out my image. As long as she's doing that, she ought to keep what she's earned. She'll get over the rest of it, I'm sure, she's a professional at heart. Don't let her go, Vic. Just...keep her the hell away from me for awhile. Please.”
“Understood, sire,” he says, the look on his face telling me that's going to be easier said than done. “Is there a reason you've called me up here?”
“Yeah. I've been thinking about the Warwicks, wondering how they're doing.”
Victor narrows his eyes. Probably wondering what I'm really up to.
Screw him. He doesn't need to know. Not until it becomes absolutely necessary to spell everything out. Not a day sooner, because I know he'll try to talk me out of it, if he even gets a hint of what I'm after.
“If you're certain, Your Highness, it would be my pleasure to find out and relay the message for you.”
“I'd like that. I'd also like to know exactly what's wrong with her father, and what their finances look like.”
Victor blinks. “Prince, I can find out the details of his condition without issue. The financial arrangements might be another matter. As you know, they're both foreign nationals, and the kingdom has no agreement in place with the United States to look so closely at their private details.”
“Give me a damned break.” Shaking my head, I fold my arms and glare at him. “No more games, Vic. You know as well as anybody that they've had special agents checking over the island's bank accounts forever. Trying to catch the rich assholes who tried to use our banks as a conduit to Switzerland to avoid their taxes. It was all over the news, just a year or two ago.”
“That's true, Your Highness, but I don't see how American nosiness has anything to do with –“
“No buts. I'm not asking you to comb through the personal accounts of anybody at the US embassy. I'm just asking for the financials on the Warwicks. Two journalists nobody's going to start an international incident over. Can we do that?”
I wait tensely for the answer, and it better be yes. Vic hesitates.
Finally, he bows his head slightly. “Of course, sire. Anything you wish. I'll have to file a request with the intelligence office. You know how these things go. Hopefully, they'll process it promptly, and pass along something I can give to you by late tonight.”