Royally Ruined (Bad Boy Royals Book 2)

by Nora Flite

  Costello gazed into my eyes. His eyebrows were contorted, his pupils small as the points of sewing needles. His sharpness was gone, obliterated by our connection. Sweet as honey he kissed me. My lips tingled, close to abused by his earlier fervor.

  I leaned back, smiling uncertainly. “That was amazing.”

  He hung his head and turned away. Releasing my knees, Costello pulled out of me with a hiss. My body was clinging to him. I didn’t want him to leave, not a little bit. I was relieved when he didn’t abandon me, instead collapsing beside me on the bed.

  Looking at the ceiling, he said, “It really was.”

  Watching him was its own kind of pleasure. He was naked and beautiful, reclining with his arms folded behind his head. His biceps were big enough that they could hide his cheekbones at the right angle. The designs on his skin rippled when he adjusted his position.

  “Do they all have a story?” I whispered, tracing the ink.

  “Yes.”

  Biting my lip, I followed the hollow of his throat and down his sternum, lingering on the blue-and-black drawing of a bird in flight. “This one.”

  His chuckle was warm as whiskey in the morning. “That’s a swallow. I had it done after I went skydiving in Australia.”

  I whistled. “Fancy.” He curled his lip in mock disgust; I loved it. “And here, this skull?”

  His fingers stilled where they’d begun caressing my naked shoulder. “The first time I ever killed a man.”

  I’d known from day one that Costello was dangerous . . . that he was capable of killing, and surely had many times. But lying beside him, I wasn’t scared. My uncle had accused me of being morbidly curious too many times to count. He’d assured me it would help me someday.

  There was no way he could have predicted how.

  Resting there with my head in the crook of Costello’s arm, I wandered with my fingers, pretending they were tiny legs. “This one,” I said, testing the hardness of his ribs where the black-and-red crown tattoo slept. “It’s really beautiful.”

  Costello inhaled, and his lungs became so big I shifted under his expanding chest. “How much do you know about my family?”

  He’d reacted less when telling me he’d killed someone. “Why?”

  “You know we’re dangerous, but what else?”

  Ah. I had a hunch where this was going. “You’re trying to find out if I know that you’re a prince.” Costello eyeballed me warily, so I said, “They always talk about it in the news. ‘Badd Prince Arrested Again,’ that sort of stuff. Your family is notorious among the locals.”

  I wasn’t being entirely honest. Yes, I did know he was royalty . . . but it wasn’t thanks to the media. The papers spilled tons of false info and half truths.

  I was relieved when he eased back on the pillows, convinced enough by my explanation not to dig deeper. “You really know that much.” He traced his ribs. “More people know about my father’s royal heritage than they should. Some things are best if they remain a secret.”

  A tiny little nibble of shame began eating at me. I knew all about secrets. Sitting up, I caressed his jaw. My thumb pad rested on his scar; his flinch was full body. “The one thing I really want to know about . . . is this.”

  He guided my wrist away until my fingers danced within an inch of his cheek. “No.”

  “If you’re worried I can’t handle the details—”

  “The details,” he repeated, tightening his grip. “What does that even mean?”

  “Just . . . if it was gory, is all. And you’re worried it’ll freak me out so you don’t want to tell me the whole story.” The buttery sweetness between us had gone rancid. Lowering my voice, I whispered, “Whatever happened, it looks like it hurt.”

  All of a sudden his eyelids drooped—so heavy, so tired. “It still hurts.”

  “What?”

  Costello released me, turning away on the pillows. “It’s time to sleep,” he said. “You need to rest. Both of us do.”

  My wrist throbbed from his touch. Brushing my fingers over it, I hugged myself. We’d been naked for hours and I hadn’t minded. Now I felt painfully exposed.

  I didn’t want to put the reception dress back on. He’d given it to me, he’d stripped it away, and now it was crumpled on the floor. It never really suited me anyway, I told myself as I slid on the clothes I’d “borrowed” from the jet. These clothes didn’t suit me, either, though. I grunted softly as I struggled into the too-tight jeans. Costello remained silent through it all.

  Fluffing my hair, I spared a glance at him on the bed. I could see the broad shape of his shoulders in the dark. He faced the wall, keeping me from knowing if he was awake or asleep. I doubted he was sleeping so soon, but . . . it made me feel better to think so. Explaining away the heavy silence was easier that way.

  I found my cell phone in the jeans’ front pocket. Fingering it, I headed into the bathroom. Talking to Gina would cheer me up. But she’ll want to know about me and Costello, and I don’t think she’d believe me if I said nothing happened this time. I can’t call her, I thought, flicking on the light. Lifting my head, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess, my cheeks still a little pink. When I leaned closer I could see the tiny bruises on my neck where he’d kissed me so roughly.

  With one finger I traced the bridge of my nose. The spot where my piercing would be felt strangely blank. I poked my skin, imagining the hard stud like a phantom limb.

  My disguise was a poor one, but it had worked. Right. That’s what I should be thinking about. I wasn’t at this wedding because it was supposed to be fun . . . this was about hiding. About staying alive.

  Instead of focusing on Costello and his hard hands that had left fingerprints on my body, I needed to focus on Darien. On the Deep Shots. On not getting blamed for something I didn’t do.

  How messed up was I that he kept popping into my brain?

  Costello . . . what did you do to me. It wasn’t a question because I knew the damn answer. He was in my bone marrow, on my tongue. I could taste him now, and it was pure decadence. He wore a shell, but for a brief time tonight, I’d seen beyond it. He’d held me close as our hearts thudded. If they could have, they would’ve escaped our chests and melted into one big throb.

  Then I’d asked about his scar . . . and the walls had returned.

  Sighing, I gripped the sink and hung my head. My hair trailed into the drain. His scar is so obvious, no way I’m the first to ask about it. The porcelain was cool; I dropped to my knees so I could rest my forehead on the side of the sink. Costello’s words swam through my skull, circling until they formed a sinkhole.

  It still hurts.

  What did that even mean? Groaning, I bumped my head gently on the hard surface. He’s a damn enigma. Why couldn’t I crush on someone less mysterious? Filling my lungs, I made myself stand. This time my reflection looked much more confident. “Hey,” I said to myself, pointing. “Stop being sad. Everything is fine. You slept with him, you both had fun, and in the morning everything will go back to normal.”

  It was only a tiny bit reassuring, but I grabbed on to it.

  Yes, I thought. It’ll be fine. Sleep makes everything better. When I opened the door, my knees turned into wet paper on the threshold.

  Costello was standing in the middle of the room. Except he wasn’t alone.

  Maverick Badd was waiting for me.

  - CHAPTER TWELVE -

  COSTELLO

  Maverick had knocked softly, keeping me from suspecting anything was wrong until I’d opened the door. Then it was too late.

  He’d looked me in the eye, mouth grim as he said one sentence. “What did you do this time?”

  I was fucked.

  We were fucked.

  I was wearing nothing but my boxers, and I was clammy with sweat. The only thing between my father and Scotch was me. The luxurious hotel room was suddenly too tiny, and my brain was rapidly searching for every possible escape. Scotch stood frozen on the bathroom threshold. My
father set his death stare on her. Every hair on my body stood straight, and my heart was about to explode from too much adrenaline. It was amazing I was standing so still.

  “Costello?” she whispered plaintively.

  His sapphire eyes rolled from Scotch back to me. As a kid I used to shrink under his glare—like he could cut through me and see the dark edges of my soul, find all the bad things I’d done and punish me for them. I’d known I could never lie to him. I’d never tried . . . until I was nineteen.

  Maverick’s lips went flat and bloodless. “Get her out of here,” he hissed. “We need to talk about the family business, understand?”

  I clung to that freshly born shred of hope. He doesn’t know who she is. Whatever info my father had, Scotch didn’t fit into it. Not yet. There was still time to save her.

  Nodding briskly, I motioned for her to follow me. She hadn’t blinked; she still didn’t as we sidestepped Maverick. I pushed open the door. “Go,” I whispered.

  “Costello—”

  “You need to leave.” I tried to say it without a hint of the emotion bubbling in me. Words like flee and escape tumbled in my head, and I prayed she could see them through the shine of my pupils. In desperation I moved my lips soundlessly.

  Run.

  There was a hint of hesitation as she considered me, a promise of unsaid words. Before she dared to say them, I shut the door in her face. If she stays away from us, she’ll be safe. I should have known that from the start.

  I’d been blessed with a do-over, so why wasn’t my heart soaring? Turning around put me face-to-face with my father’s glower.

  “Get dressed,” he said, pointing at my slacks.

  I hated every second that passed that I didn’t know what he knew. “What happened?” My voice was tight as I hurried to get my clothes on; they smelled like her.

  “You know what the hell happened!” He bared his teeth. “Idiot. Did you think I wouldn’t hear that the meeting with the Deep Shots went south? That Darien Valentine was shot?”

  I could taste battery acid at the back of my throat. “Whatever you heard, it’s only rumors. Darien—”

  “Is the one who called me,” he snapped.

  That damn acid was sizzling a hole in my stomach. Be careful, don’t give away too much. “What did he say?”

  His stare went on too long. My father didn’t trust me, and just like when I was young, I could swear he was seeing all my lies where I kept them hidden. “He woke up at the Bucket. He didn’t know how he got there, but he did remember being in our club, with one of our girls, when someone came in and shot him in the ribs. He’s saying we set him up to be assassinated.” I sucked air through my teeth.

  “Son.” He approached me, big meaty hands clapping down not in kindness, but to trap me where I was. “Tell me what the fuck happened yesterday. And if you don’t tell me the truth, I’m going to do something that would make your youngest sister so very, very happy.”

  Yes, Francesca would gleefully dance on my grave. I straightened up under his threat. I’d lied my way into this mess, but it was Darien who was lying now. He was claiming Scotch had shot him? What a pathetic man. Weaving a myth about an attempt to kill him was beyond egotistical.

  Controlling my tone so it stayed low and cool, I said, “Darien was shot. But it was his own fault. He tried to choke one of the dancers; a waitress came to her rescue. Darien threatened them both, pulled his gun, and then the fool shot himself in the struggle.”

  Steady as a lighthouse guiding ships home, my father scanned deep into my eyes. Whatever he discovered made him exhale. There was still wine on his breath. “I believe you. Not that it helps.” The knot of pressure in my stomach grew bigger and thornier; I’d swallowed a fucking rosebush. “You’re the damn fool, Costello. Hiding this all from me . . . tch. Did you never wonder what the meeting between you and the Deep Shots was really about?”

  Terror rumbled up my body with increasing speed. “You told me it was to introduce new members of their gang to us.”

  “New members, yes,” he said slowly. His fingers kept crushing, and I worried my collarbones would snap. “People like Darien Valentine. The Valentines!”

  That tugged at my memory. Words like important and powerful popped up. I recalled they were another crime family, one that stayed in Boston and out of our hair. I’d had essentially no interaction with them.

  Oh fuck.

  My eyes snapped wide. Maverick nodded grimly. “Yes,” he said. “Now you’ve realized. Darien is their youngest son. Apparently he’d joined the Deep Shots on the pretense of becoming their new leader. You know things were a mess among them.”

  The gang had been like chickens with no heads. They hadn’t had a real leader for a long while, but because they weren’t in our way or causing trouble, I’d ignored that fact, assuming someone like Rush would step up eventually.

  Maverick said, “The Valentines must have sensed some worth in the gang to allow their son to become involved.”

  I found my voice again. “You should have warned me and Hawthorne!”

  He let me go, shoving me in the process. “How the hell could I? I had no idea this was going down, I was as blind as you! But I’d assumed my own fucking sons would recognize someone like Darien Valentine, that you two could handle one meeting without me sitting in on it!” He turned away, head shaking like a rage-blind bull’s. “Darien gets injured on your watch, but you don’t speak a word of that to me. You prance around here with your hands on some girl’s tits, acting like everything is fine!”

  “It is fine. Darien is alive, we can make amends to his family. Money soothes all problems.”

  His smile was twisted and toxic. “He doesn’t want money, he wants revenge.”

  A dryness spread through my mouth. “On us?”

  “On the waitress he claims pulled the fucking trigger,” he snarled. “Darien keeps saying it was a plot! That we set him up! I told him and his father that we didn’t, but all I could get them to agree to was giving up this woman—Scotch, Darien said that’s her name.” Maverick stormed through the room, talking as he went. I heard him, but my attention had shifted helplessly to the messy bed, the place I’d lain with Scotch.

  That amazing woman saved her friend, and now Darien wants her dead.

  It was a worst-case scenario in turbo drive. Why had I convinced myself that we could outrun this problem? That Darien would admit he’d done something idiotic and let bygones be bygones?

  “But Thorne says he doesn’t know where she is,” my father rambled. I tuned in, staring at him in a daze. “We’ll need to find her soon. Before Darien’s family decides her blood isn’t enough.”

  Despair had been flooding into me. Now it began to seep away. Thorne hasn’t told him anything about Scotch. Of course; I’d been too distraught to put the pieces together, but if Thorne had revealed the truth, Scotch wouldn’t have been allowed to leave this room. Maverick would have strung her up on the spot.

  Silently I thanked my brother. I glanced at the door; my father saw me look and said, “You’re not leaving until we make a plan.”

  Breathe in. Stay calm. When I spoke I was all ice. “The plan is obvious. We find the girl.”

  My father considered me with narrowed eyes. “You still haven’t explained why you or your brother decided to hide this from me.”

  “We were ashamed,” I said quickly. “The meeting went south, we did what we could to make sure Darien stayed alive. I guess we thought that if no one died, we could just have the meeting again when things calmed down, and you’d have nothing to worry about. It was wrong to hide it from you.”

  I’m not sure he was convinced, but his shoulders slumped an inch lower. “Do you know where she went? The waitress?”

  Yes. “No,” I said firmly. “I was too busy getting Darien out of there before any of the Deep Shots saw and lost their damn minds. You know how they can get, especially when they’ve been drinking.”

  That part he did believe. He pulled out
his phone, then buried it again. “Reception here is fucking terrible! It’s a miracle Darien’s call came through. I’d noticed some missed ones, but I was too busy with the wedding to play phone tag.” He shook himself and frowned; I knew he was as pissed at himself as he was at me. “You’re not off the hook. Neither is Thorne.”

  “I know.”

  “We’ll head back home in the morning. Someone at the Dirty Dolls must know where to find her.”

  “I’m not waiting until the morning to search.”

  He’d opened the door, but now he stopped. “What?”

  I bent down and scooped up my gun from where I’d set it under the bed as Scotch and I had stripped. “There’s no time. If the Valentines are threatening us, we need to act quickly to keep things from getting violent.” I need to keep her safe.

  His eyes were slits. “This won’t be like before, will it? You running solo and getting yourself so deep in trouble that you have to involve—”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I would never.”

  “Fine. Look for her, but don’t you dare put this family at risk by talking to the wrong people.”

  I’ll never live my past down. My jaw creaked from my molars coming together. “I understand.”

  When he shut the door, I burst into motion, putting on my shoes, then slipping into my leather jacket. I straightened the stiff collar and, out of impulse, brushed my fingers over my face, across the long scar from my eyebrow to my nose.

  No. My father didn’t need to say a word about before.

  I had a constant reminder.

  - CHAPTER THIRTEEN -

  SCOTCH

  In my panic I began to half sprint, stumbling in the shadows. The hotel lights illuminated the side of something huge up ahead. A gentle snort and the scent of horses helped me regain my sense of direction. The barn.

  Breathing heavily, I put my palm on the rough wood. I need to think. He told me to run, that has to mean he’s afraid for me. Ice chilled my veins. What if Darien died and now he can’t clear my name so everyone thinks I’m a murderer and and and—