Page 37 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Tanner cracks the door open and peeks in. “Electricity is back on,” he announces and then taps the door. “We got the lock reset.”

“We noticed.” Roland points up. “How’s it out there?”

“Party’s over. Your mum is retiring in the sitting room. All’s clear.”

“Good.”

I have a bad poker face. I feel a red heat crawl up the side of my neck under Tanner’s scrutiny, and I’m trying to keep cool. Tanner’s eyes move to Roland, then me, then back to Roland. “Everything’s all right here?” the older man asks.

“Fine,” I say, perhaps too forcibly.

“Right.” It’s clean, crisp, Tanner’s way of saying I don’t want to know. “Carry on,” he says and closes the door behind him.

As soon as the door clicks closed, Rory stumbles out of the wash closet. She’s not so much wearing her dress as she is holding it to the front of her body like a shield.

All at once, the three of us burst into laughter. We’re a ragtag sight, and it’s impossible not to see the comedy in it. I laugh until my lungs hurt. It’s a good release. As good as my orgasm earlier. I don’t remember the last time I’ve laughed like this.

“I’m knackered,” the prince says to no one in particular once he’s caught his breath. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Should I… leave?” Rory asks. My heart goes out to her. Like me, she always anticipates the worst.

“You should stay,” I inform her. “Just to be safe.”

“And,” Roland says, hooking an arm around her and scooping her tight against him, “there’s no one to kiss you good morning at the hostel.”

A smile breaks over Rory’s lips. “Mmm, you two make a hard case,” she says.

Roland kisses her. Then I kiss her. Then I kiss Roland. We’re lazy and high off endorphins when we pile into the prince’s bed.

My internal alarm clock wakes me up before either Rory or Roland. I blink unmoving and stare up at the circular light fixture that looms over our heads. I haven’t had a nightmare, nor can I recall hearing anything strange in the night, but when I wake up, my heart is quietly pounding in my chest. A single thought cleaves through the fog of sleep.

I don’t belong here.

It’s the jolt of panic that wakes me up night after night in the palace. No matter how long I’ve been here or how much I’ve done for the royal family, nothing will erase that nagging doubt. The dirty, scrappy little punk from Limehouse has no place in Buckingham Palace.

But then I tilt my head and see the two of them sleeping soundly beside me. Rory is nestled in the middle like a small kitten, and Roland clutches her. I watch their chests rise and fall in deep sleep, and, slowly my anxiety turns into a dull tingle and then evaporates completely.

I replace my morning terror mantra with another thought: I’m exactly where I should be.

Rory’s body is soft and warm. Her hair smells like autumn leaves. It’s soothing, but now that I’m awake, I can’t go back to sleep.

I can’t bear to wake them. Quietly, I get up. I pick my clothes off of the floor and slip them on. I sit at the foot of the bed to lace up my shoes.

“Ben.”

I glance over my shoulder. The prince is awake. He looks insane, his hair sex-wild, his eyes sleepy, blinking heavily. I resist the sudden urge to pet his hair back and kiss his pillowy, warm lips.

“Yes?”

“You’re leaving.” It’s said plainly, no judgment, just mild confusion.

“I’ll be back,” I reassure him. “I have to check in with Tanner.”

“Good. Right-o.” Another couple of tired blinks. “Ben, you’d tell me if I crossed any lines last night, wouldn’t you?”

For a second, my throat contracts and I can’t get any words out. Roland is the one covered in teeth marks and an embarrassingly vicious welt on his throat. I’m the one who restrained him, bit him, and claimed him like a wolf in heat. Yet he’s the one checking in on me?

I recover with a curt nod. “Yes, sir.” After a second, I add, “And, no. You didn’t cross any lines.”

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