Page 38 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

His sky-blue eyes brighten at that. “Good.” And that’s it. Band-Aid ripped. He yawns and flops back in bed. “Steal some scones from the kitchen, if you wouldn’t mind. And a pot of tea. Since you’re up and all.”

“Yes, sir.”

Relief washes through me. We shared a kiss and the world didn’t implode. I had a million nightmares about how this could go. I thought it’d be awkward the next day, strange, or the prince would look at me with some painful mix of revulsion and regret.

Instead, it’s business as usual. If anything, Roland is kinder than normal. All the worry I’ve been carrying falls off my shoulders like a porcupine shedding its quills. I’m weightless and euphoria-high. I could shout. Dance. Fly.

Rory, who has her eyes shut and is supposed to be sleeping, can’t hide her smile. Cheeky girl. I refocus, tighten my shoelaces, and exit the bedroom before I can make an idiot of myself.

The halls are mostly empty, save for a couple of familiar housemaids milling around. I nod to them as they pass, hoping I don’t look too conspicuous. I shouldn’t. I walk these halls every day without trouble. Of course, I’ve never spent the night with Roland before. So. That’s new.

I dip through the dining room and into the kitchen. The chef is gone, probably in the back cleaning the pots and pans. A spread of the royal family’s breakfast sits waiting to go out on the table. I don’t realize how famished I am until the smell of freshly baked bread hits me. I pluck a scone from one of the plates (no one will notice it’s missing) and bite into it as I make my way to the back. I open a silver, metal door that should lead to a meat freezer, but instead opens into a spiraling staircase. I close the door behind me and take the shortcut down to the tunnel.

The scone is reduced to crumbs by time I reach my “lair.” I’m not alone. Tanner is there already, sitting in my chair, screens flickering above him. My chest tightens—did he witness my walk of shame out of the prince’s room?

Unlikely. He’s nose-deep in his laptop, fingers clicking over the keyboard. If he did see me, at least he says nothing, just a “Gracing us with your presence this morning?”

“What’s on the docket?” I wipe the crumbs on my trousers and look up at the monitors.

“I’ve been digging around about last night.” Tanner doesn’t look up, his fingers continuing their crablike skitter across his keyboard. “It’s strange.”

“What, sir?”

“The electricity went out, the generator botched, and then it all miraculously came back. As though it were set on a timer. It appears someone rigged it up from the inside.”

My heartbeat quickens and my blood responds to the infusion of adrenaline by turning to steel. “You think this was an inside job.”

“But an inside job for what?” Tanner lets out a short, exasperated sigh. “Nothing went missing. Royal jewels intact. No one was hurt.”

“To scare us, perhaps.”

Tanner twists around in his chair and turns to face me full on now. “If it is someone on the inside… it could be a guard. One of the staff. Even a lord. You need to keep a closer eye on the prince than ever. Don’t let him run off on you.”

“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, and one more thing.” Tanner reaches under the desk and lifts a masquerade mask. “We found this by the switchboard. Does this mean anything to you?”

My pulse picks up. I recognize it immediately. It’s Rory’s. “No,” I lie.

“No matter, we’ll scan the footage.” Tanner gives one of his big, gaping yawns. I want to buy him a Keurig. Is it strange for one grown man to get another grown man a coffee maker? Tanner waves his hand. “As you were.”

22

Roland

I’ve never had a woman spend the night before. Maybe that sort of thing would’ve been easier before my father’s death, certainly. Before Buckingham Palace went on complete lockdown.

Now, I can’t imagine the palace without Rory in it.

When Ben leaves the room, the door clicking shut softly behind him, I tug Rory up against me. She’s noodle limp and her bare skin is warm as a tea cozy. She squeaks and nuzzles against my chest.

“When I was seven,” I murmur against the shell of her ear, “my parents got me a bunny rabbit.”

A grin crawls up at edges of Rory’s mouth. “Did it have a name?” Her voice is rusty with sleep, and I love it.

I answer, “Lord Fluffywinkles.”

“Obviously.”

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