I stare into the floor-length mirror, trying to get a handle on the girl in the beautiful wedding dress who is supposed to be me. The fabric trails on the wooden floor as I walk to the window and push aside the sheer curtains to gaze below. I can’t get a view of the town from this direction, but there are media trucks with huge satellite dishes parked on the road outside the castle. There are reporters with long lenses probably aimed in my direction.
“Ready, ma’am?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”
I step away from the window, and my aide smiles, probably chalking up my comment to nerves. She urges me forward, taking my hand to guide me toward the door. We leave Liam’s apartment and begin the slow trek downstairs. The whole castle is decked out for the wedding. The last couple weeks, I watched as Liam approved designs for merchandise. Liam and Daisy china. Liam and Daisy towels. Mugs. Pill boxes. T-shirts. They’re the tackiest things I’ve ever seen. Dead center on a white t-shirt is a picture of our two faces with badly photoshopped crowns on our heads. I considered wearing one of the t-shirts to the reception, but I thought of something so much better to get back at him.
That’s right. Keep playing pranks on him. Real mature.
Sunlight bursts over my head as I walk out of Liam’s tower onto the cobblestone road, where my heels wobble dangerously. Guards in black suits with indigo flowers in their breast pockets open the passenger door to the car. My helpful aides stuff me inside the car, and I try to calm my nerves by opening my iPhone. The car rocks with bodies climbing inside before the doors shut, and I browse news websites. I can’t face looking at my email.
Anglefell Crown Taxes Citizens over 30,000 for Royal Wedding
Oh Good God. My mood sours as I read over the article. They made them pay for this ridiculous sham wedding? If Anglefells didn’t hate me before, they sure as shit will now. Sure enough, there’s a wall of comments bitching about it.
Fuck the king and fuck princess Daisy.
Can someone please explain why we have to pay for this shite?
“Goddamn it.”
I close the phone and slip it back into my clutch, fighting down the urge to open the car door and vomit all over the streets. The roar of the crowd drifts into the car before I can see them. Hundreds of people held back by temporary white fences wave their Liam and Daisy paper fans, screaming at the passing car. Some of them have pulled Liam and Daisy t-shirts over their formal clothes. Children totter along sidewalks, plucking blue-and-pink tufts from the giant cotton candy cones. There are white-gloved waiters from the palace serving deviled eggs and what looks suspiciously like champagne flutes to the spectators. It’s an event for them.
The car pulls up to a large square flooded with people in front of a gothic church. A wild-eyed man momentarily breaks free from the security to smash against my window. “Princess!”
His cheek bulges across the glass until a member of security gets him into a chokehold and yanks him from the car.
It occurred to me when I was wallowing in self-pity that I could actually use this princess thing to do something good for the people here. It’s a beautiful country, but its people are oppressed. Sure, they’re allowed to print whatever the hell they want, but they can’t even leave the country without a notarized document. Forget about voting—there is none except for the “polls” which only serve to gauge public opinion. I won’t get the Pulitzer Prize for exposing oppression in Anglefell, but I can still feel like I’m doing something.
The people scream when the door opens and I’m helped out.
“It’s the princess!”
“Princess Daisy!”
I look around, beaming at the spectators. Their mouths round as they look at me, all of them caught in the dream of fairy tales with real-life princesses.
Head high.
Shoulders back.
The train of my wedding dress catches on the jagged stone road.
Well, fuck. What am I supposed to do now? It’s caught.
I reach back, still smiling as a million lights burn my eyeballs, and I give the dress a quick yank—and split the train of my dress. Several long inches of the fabric tear. I hold my dress up in disbelief as I stare at the ruined lace.
“Fuck.”
The crowd collectively gasps.
Not supposed to swear. Shit. Fuck!
Switching back into princess gear, I hold my hand up, parallel to my face, and I do the little side wave they taught me. Some of them look appeased.
My royal aides help me up the steps to the church, where Liam is already waiting for me. No doubt they’ve already interviewed him. I imagine it going something like this:
“What’s the first thing you plan on doing with your wife?”
“Besides fucking her senseless? I haven’t really thought of it.”
This is it.
That small voice almost shatters the image of determined calm.
It’s this or prison. This or prison.
The doors to the church open, and the wedding march is already playing. In shock, I stare at the wedding attendees, who all look like descendants of Lady Gaga. They’re like peacocks. Loud, garish clothing with absurd accessories: hats with weird leather attachments, hats made out of spun metal, hats that look like a giant teapot.
The strangeness of it all makes it even harder to calmly approach where Liam is standing. He’s decked out in a dark blue military jacket and a golden sash. Black gloves, golden buttons, and black, loose-fitting pants with golden stripes. I almost snigger at the sight of a dozen different medals attached to his left breast. Oh, the irony of a prince wearing medals from wars he’s never been to. What are they for? Gold star for attendance? Is this an extension of the helicopter parent generation—let’s give our prince medals for being absolutely adequate?
I don’t know what to do with my hands. There’s no bouquet, and the freak show of the attendees is starting to creep me out. It’s juxtaposed oddly with this magnificent church. The organ music echoes through the high ceilings. Everywhere I look there are stone busts against the walls, names and dates carved in faded black paint. The floor’s marble is covered with large rectangular slabs of metal, engraved with portraits of Anglefell royalty. There are renaissance paintings everywhere, and I think again of the work of art Liam defaced in his bedroom. My lips curve into a smile that I don’t really feel. The image of Liam standing next to his five brothers, a family I hardly know, strikes a chord that I feel deep in my bones. I can’t mourn it now, not while there are hundreds of cameras pointed at my face. My five fake bridesmaids, dressed in pale gold, smile at me as I approach the altar.
God, there he is.
The king sits on a throne above the altar. He wears a thick robe emblazoned with the Anglefell coat of arms even though it’s mid-May. His pale lips crease together as he stares down at me.
“We are gathered here today…”
The speech is more or less the same thing I’ve heard before. It’s hard to concentrate while the man I’m about to marry looks at me with so much adoration that I’m honestly fooled for a second. I know it’s an act for the cameras. Perhaps they’ll attribute my ghostly complexion to nerves.
Oh God, he’s saying something.
He takes my hand, slipping the ring over my finger. “With this ring, I pledge to you my eternal love. I will cherish and honor you, in sickness and in health…”
Then it’s my turn. I’m supposed to take the ring and vow to love a man for the rest of my life. It’s just a sham, I think, avoiding the priest’s solemn gaze. The words tumble from my mouth, and Liam’s face cracks with a brilliant smile. Suddenly, his hands are wrapped around my face and his mouth crushes mine. Then I realize I didn’t even hear the priest say we were married. It runs through me like a silent howl. Married.
Now the coronation.
I curtsy before the king as he climbs down from his throne and takes a brilliant crown from a cushion one of his guards hands to him. It’s the most amazing piece of craf
tsmanship I’ve ever seen. It’s delicate, as though I could break it with my hands, but I’m surprised by the weight of it on my head.
“Is Your Highness willing to take the oath?”
The church falls silent as every person in the room watches me. The vow.
“I am. I swear to govern the people of Anglefell according to their laws and customs. I promise to be merciful in my judgments. I will—”
Fuck what’s the rest of it? Liam mouths a word: church.
“I will do the utmost to maintain the laws of God. The things which I have here promised, I will perform and keep. So help me God.”
I lift my head, the crown digging into my scalp like a bird’s claws as the room erupts into cheers.
Just like that, I’m a fucking princess. I won’t deny it feels kind of cool to hold Liam’s hand and walk down the aisle. The people rain praise as we walk toward the bright sunlight. Liam grips my hand, but I can’t really feel his fingers.
Children holding bowls of water form rows on both sides as we walk outside. They dunk their fingers in the water and splash us with it. Liam warned me about this part. It’s some sort of baptism with their seawater. A fine mist sprays my face, and I wince as a salty droplet lands in my eye.
“Jesus. It’s in my eye!”
“Don’t worry, I have better aim.”
“For shit’s sake, Liam.”
The crowd goes apeshit when they see Liam and me wearing our crowns. They scream out my name. Some girls openly sob as they watch us walk toward the car because I guess Prince Liam’s finally off the market. I look around the square and spot the giant tub of t-shirts I asked for.
“Hold on a second,” I yell into his ear.
I break from his side and bend into the tub, almost forgetting I’m wearing a likely-five-million-dollar crown on my damn head, and I grab a fistful of t-shirts.
“Who wants one?” I bellow at them.
“Me!” People cup their hands around their mouths, screaming. “Me!”
I chuck t-shirts into the crowd, and they grab them out of the air triumphantly. I figure being a princess is just like being a rock star. All I need are t-shirt guns to make the people love me. Well, no, but a few acts of kindness never hurt anyone.
Liam unrolls a t-shirt, looks at it, and laughs.
“Me! Liam! Me!”
“I want the one he touched!”
The energy of the crowd surges as Liam lobs the first shirt into the spectators. A man snatches it out of midair, and from here I can see it’s a size too small, but he’s ecstatic. “The prince touched it!”
And suddenly my great idea becomes hijacked by Liam as he passes them out. They’re far more excited to receive them from him than me. A small fight breaks out in the crowd as a few of them play tug-of-war over one of the t-shirts. Liam laughs as he watches them.
A guard slides up to him. “Your Highness, we should leave.”
More people surge into the area as word about the t-shirts spreads, and then people are lunging over the white fences to reach the half-filled tub. We grab handfuls of shirts and pass them around. Angry voices join the cacophony, and I look up, grinning to see a man thrusting through the crowd. He lifts his sign.
AMERICUNT.
The smile disappears from my face as though it’s been slapped off.
“Bloody fucking hell.” Liam drops the rest on the ground and takes my arm, looking worried. “Let’s go.”
The man with the sign is rebuffed by security. The snap of wood as they destroy the sign carries over the intense roar. Liam’s protective arm wraps around my back as he steers me toward the car. I duck my head, and the crown narrowly misses the edge. Liam follows me, sweeping into the car gracefully before the door slams shut.
This was what I was afraid of.
The annoyance hasn’t quite disappeared from his face as he settles into his seat. “I’m sorry about that. He shouldn’t have gotten anywhere near the barricade.”
He looks at me with a worried expression as though gauging how upset I am.
“I’d be slightly more pissed if this was my actual wedding.”
He makes a sound deep in his throat, his eyes playful again. “You’re wearing my ring. It doesn’t get any more real than this.”
My heart pounds as he takes my hand impulsively, his thumb running over my knuckles and tracing the ring.
“It’s stunning on you. You look beautiful.”
A hot drop slips down my throat as I meet his potent gaze, and another thrill runs through my body when his lips pull into a smile.
“Thanks. You, ah, look very handsome too. I like the jacket.”
“Chicks always dig the uniforms.”
“That word sounds so ridiculous in your accent.”
“What’s ridiculous is that we’re not snogging right now in the car.”
I can’t stop the flood of heat when he turns his head, still holding my hand to knead my joints. The last time we were in a car, he reached under my dress and fucked me with his fingers.
“What would you say if I wanted to play a little game with you tonight?”
The car lurches forward as I blow out a shaky breath. “What?”
“We both try to turn the other on during the reception. Whoever gives in loses.”
“What do you mean, ‘gives in’?”
“Whoever can’t withstand seduction cries uncle, and then we go back to my room to fuck.”
“That doesn’t really sound like you have anything to lose.”
“My pride.”
“I have a better idea.”
I can’t believe I’m going along with this.
He leans in, eyes widening. “Go on.”
“You touch my tits ten times throughout the reception without looking skeevy and you win.”
He smiles to himself. “I like that idea.”
“If I win, you have to do something humiliating. You have to go to the balcony and show your cock to the world.”
He raises his eyebrow. “That wouldn’t be humiliating for me.”
“I would enjoy watching that.”
“I bet you would. If I win, you have to expose your breasts.”
My face burns at the thought.
“Are you afraid you’ll lose?”
“Hardly. Ten times is a lot.”
His fingers touch my neck delicately and trail down. Suddenly he dives into my dress and he grabs a handful of breast. Energy rushes into my heart as he squeezes, and I feel a line of desire running from my upper back all the way down to my pussy.
“So, something like this would count?”
I nod, face burning.
“What about the outside of your dress?”
“Nope, doesn’t count.”
“Why do I get the feeling you just want me to fuck you in front of all those people? Princess Daisy.”
“Please don’t ever call me that.”
“Why? It’s what you are.”
“I’m not a princess. I’m just a girl from Berkeley.”
“You might not have royal blood in your veins, but I’ll put royal cum in your pussy.”
“Jesus.”
“No, my name is Prince Liam, and you’ll call me that when I fuck you.”
His lips fall against mine as the heat of his words swirls in my chest like alcohol. He’s my husband; there’s nothing wrong with giving in, having a little taste. He breaks the kiss abruptly, reaching down to adjust his cock. Goddamn it, I can’t get over how screamingly hot he is. There’s no denying it. I touch the back of his head, grazing the bristles of hair. Picturing him fucking me with that jacket half-open and his crown sitting on his head sends a tingle to my pussy.
“You’ll have me all to yourself later tonight. I know you’re wet just thinking about it.”
“Maybe I’ll change my mind.”
He laughs at me as the car grinds to a halt. We’re back in the castle, away from all the commoners. The guests have begun pooling into the courtyard to head toward the ba
llroom. Liam takes my hand as he exits the car first, and then we disappear into a series of passages that takes us back to the grand staircase. People bow deeply as we pass, looking ecstatic for us.
“So when does the game start?”
“I guess the moment we walk inside.”
Liam’s maniacal grin turns feral as the guards open the doors. The room is flooded with people already, who all turn at the sight of the prince. They break out into applause, and Liam wraps his arm around my waist.
“Congratulations, Princess Daisy!”
I turn to say thank you to whoever said it, but then I’m spun around. Liam palms the small of my back as his other hand grabs a strand of hair dangling on my chest. His knuckle brushes against my breast as he mouths, “One.”
Clever bastard. Only he could get away with making touching my tits look sweet.
He lets my hair fly as he takes my chin. Flames burst under my skin as his lips touch mine. It’s brief. My heart pounds when he brushes my cheek in a tender gesture that I know is completely for the guests. He’s playing the Prince Charming role, but I prefer the Dirty Prince Who Promises to Get Royal Cum on My Face.
Then we hold hands as we walk inside. Large, round tables are arranged in a circular pattern, with an area reserved for dancing. The tables are white with intricate, gold centerpieces Liam tells me are made from spun sugar. There are glass bowls filled with floating, golden candles, and vases of dark blue wildflowers. Honestly, it’s beautiful.
He leads me to a long, white table where I notice with an unpleasant squirm that the king is already seated. His brothers sit on the king’s left side, with Lucian sitting closest to him. I eye the others with curiosity. They seem like a boisterous bunch.
I take my seat next to Liam, who pulls the chair back for me.
“Are you nervous? I’ve already got you once.”
Dirty Prince Page 10