by Anne Marsh
Royally Hung
Anne Marsh
INTERMIX
NEW YORK
INTERMIX
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2018 by Anne Marsh
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INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
ISBN: 9780440001324
First Edition: May 2018
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
About the Author
Prologue
Dare
Do you see the three handsome guys descending the marble stairs into the ballroom? The ones in the fancy military uniforms that make everyone look as they hurry toward what’s supposed to be the start of happily-ever-after? Those men are princes.
Royals.
My brothers and me.
And even if we’re not wearing crowns, the crowd of rich, titled guests knows exactly who we are, and everyone stares because tonight’s the night when one lucky girl finally becomes my princess and then, someday, a queen. She gets a rain check on ruling a country for now, but one day all of this will be hers. It’s the ultimate happiness ticket—wealth, a tiara, and a royal dick.
I’ve got the ring in my pocket that will seal the deal.
That’s me on the left, the guy with the dark red hair slicked back from his face in a way that makes him look all dangerous angles. My uniform is black, although I’m suitably bedazzled with gold braid and medals, and the curved sword hanging by my side has a pointy end that’s not just for show.
Who am I?
Do you really need a hint?
I’m Prince Charming, of course.
My brothers and I have done the royal ball gig a thousand times before. Swagger down the steps in our uniforms, dress swords banging at our sides. Nod to our guests, toss back a few ceremonial toasts, dance with the prettiest girls in the room. Public events are always a balancing act because successful diplomacy is all about knowing whose ass to kiss, which factions to appease, and who to cut dead. It would be simpler if we could whip out our swords and slice through the bullshit. Being royal is harder than it looks.
Cameras flash, capturing our handsome faces. Lining the gallery that runs around the ballroom, the paparazzi make it impossible to hide. I’m not a fan of photographers since my parents’ helicopter crashed trying to get away from an overzealous pair with their long-range lenses. Luca marches along beside me, grim-faced and equally unhappy. If I’m Prince Charming, he’s the ogre brother, the one the good girls hide from. And although he’s the biggest, he’s also the youngest, and people think he’ll never sit on the throne.
Never say never.
The ring in my pocket is proof of that. I look over at my other brother. Nik’s the Good Prince. If you squint, you can see his halo. He’s 100 percent charitable endeavors—the Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome model. You can practically hear panties hitting the floor as he strides through the crowd.
“Remind me why we’re doing this?” He’s mastered the art of whispering without moving his lips, because if you move your lips, some lip reader somewhere will plaster your words all over the Internet. Keeping secrets is a challenge, although so far we’ve proven to be overachievers. No one knows exactly how broken we are.
I smile genially at our admirers. “Because Queenie asked.”
Queenie is our uncle. He’s also His Royal Highness Andro Nikolaevich Avalioni, the ruling king of Vale or the Big Dog, as Nik sees it. All the best kings have obnoxious nicknames, so I’ve done my part to help out by sticking him with “Queenie.” Being called king is one hell of a legacy to live up to, ask anyone in the court. A good laugh is always appreciated. Nicknamed or not, Queenie calls the shots and he’s the alpha in our royal pack. If we were werewolves—which would be way more fun than princes—Queenie would be one challenge away from handing over his role as the leader of the pack because he’s getting older—every day, as he likes to point out.
“Demanded,” Luca snarls. He’s not even pretending to smile. He just glares at the crowd and blurts out whatever he’s thinking. I’ve been told that there are plans in place for a revolution if he ever takes the throne because people fear he’d plunge Vale into a world war with his lack of manners. Fortunately, I’d be too dead to care. I’d be Saint Dare, buried, canonized, and patron to dumbasses and playboys everywhere. Imagine the statues they’d make of me. No fig leaf would be enough to cover my royal jewels.
The ballroom tonight looks like someone puked up a princess meme. The dress code is bridal white, so the ladies sparkle in diamonds and tulle. Advil could make a killing because those tiaras get heavy. Not that I’ve worn one, but I’ve removed a few in my real life. The life where I’m a bad boy prince, the guy who slips up behind you in the garden and kisses you until the only words coming out of your mouth are more, now, and do it again. Those are my favorite words, so I make sure I hear them a lot.
The country of Vale is mostly hot and dry, so the men filling up our ballroom wear long, flowing back robes and accessorize with swords. And knives. We Valeians love our weapons. All the stabby, prickly, masculine shit, however, just makes the three girls waiting for us in the gazebo that much more noticeable. Yes, someone decided we needed a romantic playhouse in the middle of the goddamned ballroom. White draperies flutter and the orchestra kicks into a dreamy waltz as if we’re in a movie and these are the last few seconds before everything fades to black and the boy finally gets the girl and bangs her silly. Unfortunately, they never show that part—but it’s on tonight’s agenda because making baby princes and princesses is also part of Queenie’s master plan.
I reach the gazebo where I’m supposed to point, pick, and whittle the pretty threesome down to just one lucky lady. I reach into my pocket and pull out the ring. You could buy a small country for what this ring cost. It’s the perfect blend of over-the-t
op and discreet wealth. The band is an heirloom that’s been in my family for centuries, the diamonds sourced from a piece in Catherine the Great’s personal collection. Just in case anyone wasn’t already staring, it sparkles as a spotlight zooms in on us.
Everything’s perfectly scripted—until someone starts pushing through the crowd of guests. Someone in a hot pink dress who’s not supposed to be here. Someone I already slept with, thank you very much, and who belongs in my gloriously checkered past. I don’t do relationships. I’m not Mr. Happily-Ever-After. I’m not that guy.
Have you ever noticed that when people start telling you what they aren’t, they’re trying to convince themselves? That those things they say are so undesirable are, in fact, the very things they want most? Pay attention, because Edee Jones is fucking glorious and she’s about to kill me.
For someone who barely comes up to my shoulder when she’s wearing heels, she’s hard to overlook. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a naughty sprinkle of brown freckles that dust her throat and her shoulders and lead lower to all my favorite places. The first time I saw her I thought she looked sweet. Like candy, like sugar, like a tasty mouthful that’s here one second and devoured the next. I was perfectly happy to volunteer my services to eat her. Don’t pretend you’re horrified. You know you’d like to swap places with her, just to know what it’s like, having a prince on his knees, worshipping you. I can’t help it if I make a woman feel like she’s my queen. The problem is that Edee turned out to be more Pop Rocks than bonbon. Everything was fun and sweet, and then—pow. She went off, and I don’t mean she came (although she definitely did that). She knocked me on my ass, and I never saw it coming.
I didn’t see tonight coming.
She’s here.
She’s definitely not supposed to be here.
“Really?” She props a hand on her gloriously curvy hip. The other’s clutching a bottle of champagne. Edee’s short, but I promise you her body fits perfectly against mine—I’ve checked. More than once. I should probably make sure, though. Just yank her up against me and fit us together like a dirty, sexy puzzle.
I wink at her. “I had a date with destiny, darling.”
She shifts her gaze to the gazebo-of-doom. She counts.
“One, two.” She punches the air with her fingers as she does her bridal headcount. “Three.”
Naturally, finger number three is her middle finger and it’s pointing right at me. She’s made her opinion perfectly clear on numerous occasions about just how loyal she believes the male of our species is. In the Edee-verse, those of us in possession of a dick make Benedict Arnold look like the next divinely selected candidate for pope. Having been betrayed by multiple Benedicts in her dating life, Edee has a firm rule against relationships. They’re trouble, she claims, and she’s not wrong. Public relationships—with the potential for public humiliation galore—are even more off-limits. So it’s nothing less than a miracle that she’s standing here in the middle of a ballroom making a scene. I’d like to say it’s because she only has eyes for me—but she keeps glaring at the women waiting for their royal fiancés. Three girls. Three princes. It’s not higher mathematics.
When I say nothing, Edee pivots on one heel, her lip curling. Her dress flares out, flashing the soft, tender spot behind her knee. I love that spot. When I taste her there, Edee loves me, too. She moans and squirms, and I—
Abort.
“Have a nice life,” she hisses. Reaching down, she yanks off a shoe and then she throws the Louboutin at my head with a speed and accuracy that a major-league pitcher would envy. Fortunately, I’ve got excellent reflexes and I catch it. She kicks the other one off. This is promising. If I’m lucky, she’s decided to shed her inhibitions about public sex and we’re about to christen Queenie’s ballroom in an entirely new and extremely pornographic fashion.
“Do keep going.” I sweep her a bow, bending so low my head almost brushes against her pussy. In a dress like that, she has to be concerned about panty lines. She could be naked. Or wearing a thong. She’s welcome to strip down, but whispers are starting in the ballroom and I spot security moving rapidly toward us.
“You’re impossible.” She hefts the second shoe in her hand, but then . . . but then she just tosses it and the bottle to the side. She doesn’t throw anything at me. She doesn’t even look at me. She turns and dashes through the crowd. She’s leaving me. Again.
I look down at the shoe in my hand.
I wish it were as simple as chasing after her. After all, Vale has a long history of marriage by bride abduction. My ancestors picked out girls, scooped them up on horseback, and then raced for the mountains. It was orgasms and wedding rings for all. But I can’t outrun my obligations that easily. I know because I’ve tried. No matter what my heart feels when Edee spears it with her heel, my head doesn’t stop thinking. The big one, not the even bigger one in my dress pants. I’m a prince of Vale. I’m reformed. I’m . . .
Oh fuck it.
“Give my regrets to the ladies,” I say to His Holiness Prince Nik.
And then I turn to run after the woman who’s taking my heart with her and who doesn’t even know it. Who agreed to become my fake bride but who means everything to me now. Who’s getting away, because it turns out that Edee’s an excellent sprinter, and she really doesn’t want me to catch her.
Turns out, she doesn’t want a prince.
Believe it or not, Prince Charming isn’t part of her happily-ever-after. You don’t understand? I didn’t, either, not at first. I’ve definitely played the villain in this story. And since I’m a show-don’t-tell kind of guy, let me take you back about three months to where our story started.
Chapter One
Dare
Three months earlier . . .
Stud needed for family-owned business—free rent and all-you-can-eat pussy in exchange for work. Call His Royal Highness King Andro Nikolaevich Avalioni, or inquire inside the royal palace for more information. Must be willing to relocate to a small country.
Sorry. Is that too blunt for you?
Because apparently I’m the stud in question, and I’m just as disbelieving as you. I slouch in my chair—a four-hundred-year-old monstrosity some ancestor of mine pilfered from Versailles when the French king wasn’t looking—and stare at my uncle. His Royal Highness Uncle Queenie glares back from the other side of his massive desk. Despite my affectionate nickname for him, he’s got as much back-down in him as a brick wall or a bulldog on steroids.
“You need to get married,” he snaps. Since he’s flipping a small, ceremonial dagger end over end while he makes his point (all puns intended), I’m paying attention. I know I drive him crazy, but he’s never actually stabbed me. Yet. What? You don’t fight with your family?
“Married?” Repeating the last word in someone else’s sentence has saved my royal ass countless times. It’s an important skill, one that should be taught in kindergartens everywhere.
The dagger spears a particularly impressive stack of paperwork. “Married.”
I actually have excellent listening skills. I’m not the type who ignores what the near and dear in my life are saying. You can learn a lot by using your ears—and even more if you bring your eyes into play. Just look at how my uncle’s sitting. His back’s as straight as ever, as if being born royal substituted a steel ramrod for his spine, but there’s the slightest hunch to his shoulders as he leans toward me. He’s unhappy and pissed off, and not because he raised the M word with me.
I’m the spare. The extra. The free gift with purchase. Number two of three when the only number that matters is number one. My older brother, His Royal Highness Nikoloz Avalioni, will rule Vale someday and inherit the throne thanks to Vale’s old-fashioned love of primogeniture. He’s the Good Prince and I’m the Wild Child, the one who may or may not be a cuckoo in the royal nest. My younger brother, Luca, and I are not supposed to even touch that crown. You’ve n
ever heard of Vale? We prefer it that way. We’re a tiny, oil-rich country sandwiched between Russia and Georgia on the Black Sea. Just imagine being in a ménage a trois where you’re always the bottom and never the top, and you’ve got the history of Vale in a nutshell.
Until this morning, I’d have said I was thrilled with the leadership of my country and that I wasn’t in any rush to see the old battle-ax move on. Most days, I love my uncle. Right now, however, I’m rethinking my position on his living a long, happy life. Nik’s been engaged for the last twelve months to a lovely girl Queenie picked out for him—aristocratic, well-bred, nice manners, and undoubtedly fertile as a bunny rabbit. Because there’s no way the old man leaves that to chance. He wants grandbabies for dynastic reasons, so grandbabies he gets.
Just not from me.
“You’ve got the wrong prince,” I tell him. “Nik’s your man.”
My uncle slaps a hand onto the file folder sitting on his desk. “According to your most recent physical, you are more than capable of siring an heir, so get on with it. You’ve practiced enough.”
Yes. My uncle just went there.
I close my eyes as if that could make all this go away. Maybe I’m having one of those horrifying dreams where you’re naked and your dick’s out there for everyone to see except you’ve just been swimming in the world’s coldest lake and everything’s shrunk up and not presenting well.
Unfortunately, when I open my eyes, Queenie’s still staring at me. At least I’m wearing pants.
“I know what sex is, Dare,” he says.
His patronizing smile is the most annoying sight in the world. I literally try to will him to stop. I want our conversations to go back to their usual epic glory, him chiding me for my most recent dustup in the press, a media circus that starred two naked girls and my coconut-bra-wearing, beer-drinking self. My attempts at dancing the hula are now legendary. Last month I buzzed the palace, doing a flyover at 80 mph in a military helicopter I’d borrowed for the afternoon (trust me when I say there’s nothing like picking a girl up for a champagne picnic and flying her to a remote mountaintop for outdoor sex). Those things are fun. Those things are the kind of wild and crazy my fellow Valeians expect from me.