Page 75 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

No matter. We won’t be here long anyway.

Rory’s got plans for Scotland. Which is fine by me. Without Roland to tether me, there’s nothing for me here.

Rory snores lightly, her lips parted, her cheek flattened against my chest. Now that she’s fallen asleep, I’m wide-awake again. Rory’s phone lies charged on the side of the bed, so I pick it up and pop her headphones back in. I flip through her video library. She has a cornucopia of movies here. Mostly feel-good movies—romances, comedies—and a couple of travel documentaries.

Then I find her own personal stash. Her March On videos. They’re posted on her website, so I decide it’s definitely not snooping, and I click on one at random. There are a couple of shaky moments as she adjusts the camera shot; this video must be unedited. Buckingham Palace comes into view. Nighttime, but the doors are wide open and a warm, white light glow spills down the steps. Rory brings herself into frame. Her pink dress hugs around her chest and clings to her sides before billowing out around her hips—it’s the night of the masquerade ball. The wind brushes her red, curly hair into her face, and she pushes it back. She has an excited, nervous grin that stretches from one side of her face to the other.

“Hello and March On!” she says. “Your fearless leader, Rory March, reporting for duty from Candyland.”

A chuckle escapes me before I can stop it. I can’t help it. She’s bloody adorable.

“Really! Look at this dress!” she continues. “When was the last time anyone saw something so pink?” She angles the camera down to scan the dress and wolf whistles at herself. “But wait… check this out.” She lifts the hem of her dress to show off her combat boots and then twists the camera back to her knowing grin. “This Bo Peep isn’t going down without a fight. For those of you who are wondering… yes. I got invited to the Buckingham Palace annual ball by Prince Roland. He’s… um.” She fidgets and tucks her hair behind her ear. “It’s nothing romantic—don’t get ahead of yourselves, internet friends with your internet gossip. We’re just friends… getting to know each other. That sort of thing. Anyway!”

She brightens again and slips on a black eye mask with dark raven feathers popping out of the sides. She gestures wildly toward the palace. “Who wants to come inside?”

Rory carries the camera up the steps with her and holds it in front of her as she enters the doors. The camera gets a sweeping, rare view of inside the palace. Lights twinkle off the chandeliers hanging above the party. The room is flooded with people in wild, extravagant dresses and tailored suits, all toting their strange and bizarre masks. There are long buffet tables, one topped with a full pig, oriental rugs patterning the floors, and old kings and queens staring down from their larger-than-life portraits.

I’ve walked down those halls every day for years. Yet it seems like I’m seeing it all for the first time. Even I have to wonder at it. Buckingham Palace, truly, is a world built in a dream.

“Holy cow…” she whispers, her voice barely audible, as though she forgot she was on camera. “It’s like a fairy tale.”

“Excuse me, ma’am.” The crisp, British voice seems to startle Rory. The camera jerks and fumbles as Rory moves to hide it.

“Hi!” Rory chirps. “Yes. Rory March. I’m on the list.”

“Are you filming, ma’am? There are no cameras allowed.”

“What—me? No—I mean… this is just a project…”

Their conversation continues as Rory tries to talk her way out of getting kicked out.

I pause the video. I pinch the screen outward, enlarging the video and scanning the stilled image. There’s Prince Roland, hanging off to the side. The corner of my mouth twitches upward—the man looks like he might faint. I remember that day, the jumble of nerves he’d twisted himself into. And there I am, standing stiff beside him.

I look like a prat. Nothing new there. I scroll on through the rest of the party guests. This was the first time I spotted the scarred man… I know he’s somewhere here. He was wearing a waiter’s outfit, I remember that. I hunt for the waiters and roll my finger up and down the screen until… There. I’ve found him. He’s caught in the middle of the room. I’d recognize that man anywhere. The stocky build, those strong arms that pressed me down underwater…

Swallow that memory back. March on.

I hit Play. Rory is prattling on to the doorman, and I follow the scarred man as he winds his way through the crowd of guests. He comes to a halt and catches a woman’s attention. She turns to him and—

My blood runs cold as river water. No. Not any woman. It’s Princess Iris. The dress is unmistakable, a rush of blood red. I watch as the princess turns away from her guest to engage the scarred man in a conversation. They speak intently for a moment. The princess looks perturbed. Then she reaches out, touches a hand to his shoulder. The scarred man nods and leaves, vanishing into the crowd once more. She turns away as well and plucks a cigarette pack out of her purse.

I stop the video. My heart pounds away in my chest. I’ve paused on Princess Iris’s face. She looks distant, her eyes staring off in a faraway gaze.

What did they talk about? What does the queen of England’s twin sister have in common with a man who tried to kill her nephew?

This is insane. Conspiracy-level shit. I should put the phone down. I should mark it up as a bizarre interaction and let this rest.

Instead, I replay the video, over and over again, until the pieces start fitting into place.

40

Roland

As soon as we get back to the palace, my mum breaks away from me to vanish into her room. She’s retreating. My little “escapades” have taken it out of her. She’s a snake that needs to burrow underneath the ground and recharge. She’ll remain in bed for days and won’t come out until she’s ready. It was the kind of thing that used to drive me insane as a child—Mummy’s gone, Mummy’s broken and it’s all your fault—but now it’s just numb a fact of life. Like splinters and bad weather. It will happen, no avoiding it, and all you can do is keep trudging through.

Perhaps it’s not a bad idea. I feel like sleeping away the winter myself.

As I trudge down the hallway, Iris meets me. She follows at my side and moves her hand to my shoulder. “I heard what happened at the Thames,” she murmurs. “We’re all very happy you’re safe.”

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