Page 3 of Royally Arranged

When I was small, I used to run around the corridors of our mansion with wild abandon. It drove my father into a furious state. But I didn’t care—I was too busy searching for the inevitable doorway to some secret world. A place full of magic and adventure. Somewhere I could feel like I had a purpose.

I never found it.

Home sweet home.Red lights blinked at me from different positions in the yard. You see, Darien Valentine had been just the tip of all the drama this past year. His whole family was a bunch of psychos who, for reasons I’m still not sure of, would prefer me and the rest of the Badds buried in the cold ground.

My father had ultimately arranged a sit-down with their whole crew. I’d been there, too—we were all expected to attend. It had been strange to eat finger sandwiches with the people who’d caused everyone so much damn trouble.

Kurtis Valentine—the dad of the filthy bunch—had offered us a truce that felt like a warning. Like he knew everything about all of us, about my father and his history, and he’d be more than pleased to use it against us if he could.

But here we were now, all boring bliss and nothing gained but security cameras. Oh, and guard dogs. Lots of those. Francesca, my little sister, loathed them. She was sure the German shepherds would eat her little terrier, Mic.

It didn’t help that I’d made one ... or five ... jokes about it. It was too easy to ruffle her feathers. I hadn’t meant to drive her away on some “vacation” to Miami. Fran hadn’tsaidit was my fault, but I knew.

After parking my car in the massive garage, I stepped out and scanned the vehicles. We owned everything from yellow Mustangs to violet-and-gold motorcycles. That wasn’t my sort of thing. Kain—Fran’s twin brother—was Mr.Bad Boy Extreme. I preferred walls of metal surrounding me as I floored it at ninety-five miles an hour. Most noninsane people would agree with me.

I considered the shiny cars.Maybe I’ll drive a different one tomorrow.It would be a change in my routine. A minor change, but these days I’d take what I could get.

Entering the mudroom attached to the garage, I draped my thin jacket over a brass hook on the wall. “I’m home,” I said, wending my way toward the kitchen. The second I passed through the front room with its curving staircases, a young woman in a dark gray dress and crisp apron spotted me. Sucey was one of our many maids. “Sir,” she said, bobbing her head so her chin-length red hair swayed.

“You know I hate when you call me that.” Sighing, I scratched at the back of my neck. “Is anyone else home?”

She pointed upward. “Lulabelle is in her room.” Her finger changed direction. “Your father is in his study. Mrs.Badd was with him, last I saw.” Without turning she gestured over her shoulder to the back of the mansion. “And your mother’s guests are eating in the garden.”

Mom had hated how empty our house was. She’d gone and invited several relatives to stay with us. I didn’t know most of these random aunts, uncles, and cousins who’d come to live with us for the summer. I didn’t care to. But it was nice for Mom; she had people to entertain. I liked seeing her happy.

“Thanks,” I said, starting to walk down the hallway toward the parlor.

“Of course, sir,” Sucey said, ignoring my request that shenotcall me that.

My shoes glided over the maroon rug. As loud as I tended to speak, I naturally walked with a silent ease. I’d startled many enemies—and delighted many women—when I’d appeared behind them without notice. I’d been told it was a skill people were jealous of.

Would they be so envious if they knew I’d gained it by spending my childhood tiptoeing around my father?

Maverick Badd had always been a pillar of intense anger and not much else. You could probably set him in front of a movie about a dozen cute puppies dying in a plane crash and he still wouldn’t shed a tear.

That was why, when I walked into his study and saw him hunched forward in his wing-backed chair, I instantly knew something was wrong. His head was low enough that I could see the faint thinning of his dark hair on his scalp. His wide legs looked unstable, as if he couldn’t have stood up if he tried.

In his fingers he clutched his phone. He rubbed the edge of it over and over. The blue-blooded bastard who’d scowled at me since I’d been able to form memories—judging me, berating me to be a better man—now looked like a strong wind could knock him over. He’d never seemed old, but here, in the orange glow of the lamps studding the wide room, Maverick was frail beyond his years.

What the hell had happened?

I started forward, my shoes brushing over the expensive carpet. My approach stirred him; his blue eyes locked on me, the edges red. Had he been crying? That set my mind spinning.

My father scanned my face; he saw my open concern. Reaching up, he drew a wide palm over his features. It reset him somewhat, enough that when he looked at me again, I didn’t think he was on the verge of falling apart. “Thorne,” he said, tucking his phone away. “Come in. We need to talk.”

“What is it?” I asked, letting a nervous laugh break free. “You look like someone just died.”

He didn’t correct me.

“Shit,” I whispered.

My father sighed. “I received a phone call an hour ago.”

He’s been sitting here like this for an hour?

His eyes drifted away, then back to me. Some of the fierceness I knew too well was back in his stare. “The call was about Torino.”

It was a name I’d heard so rarely I could count the times on one hand. Torino was the country my father had grown up in. The place he would have ruled as king—and my brothers and I as princes—if he hadn’t abandoned the crown and come to the States before any of us were even born.

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