Page 84 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

“You’re not,” Roland says. “Any word on my mum?”

“They have her at Edward’s. She’s stable.”

Roland lets out a breath of relief. “Thank God.”

Tanner has a bound booklet in his hand, and he holds it out to Roland. “You’ll need this.”

Roland takes it and stares blankly at the leather-bound cover. “What’s this?”

“The royal oath. For your swearing-in ceremony as prince regent.” Just then, it clicks. Of course. Tanner adds finally, “You’re the reigning monarch now, Your Highness.”

46

Roland

My eyes look wild in the mirror. Electric blue and static. I resist the urge to run my fingers through my hair—it’s already been slicked over my skull and tied into a tight ribbon. I settle for fidgeting with the gold cufflinks around my wrists instead.

“Relax.” Rory’s small hands make dents in the white fabric of my shirt as she clutches my arms. She gives me a squeeze. “You look like a king.”

“Prince regent,” I correct. “Just until my mum gets better.”

My mother is still tucked away safely in King Edward’s Hospital. The doctors expect a full recovery; the poison has been flushed from her system. But her wounds are far more than skin-deep. I saw it in her the last time I went to see her. There were bags around her eyes, and her hair looked limp around her face. She’s tired. Tired of losing family. Tired of carrying the weight of the crown.

Those wounds will take far, far longer to heal. She has the best medical and mental health professionals in the world at her side to help her through it, I’ve made sure of that.

Until then… England needs a monarch. England needs me. And thousands of people are waiting outside to witness my transformation. The swearing in was one thing: a private ceremony for the Privy Council. Stiff shirts and bulldog frowns. But now I have to address the people of England to let them know that the monarchy is in good hands. No pressure or anything.

My fingers tremble and I accidentally flick one of the cufflinks out of its pocket. It pings against the mirror and clicks across the hardwood. “Hell.”

“I’ve got it.” Rory bends and scoops the tiny piece up. Wordlessly, she takes my arm and threads the cufflinks together. “You’re shaking,” she comments.

“I’m nervous.”

“You have nothing to worry about. Just be you.”

“I feel like a virgin with his first maid,” I admit.

Rory chuckles. “Okay, maybe be a little less you.”

She presses her lips to my frown. The soft warmth of her kiss distracts the frayed edges of my mind. I cup the small of her back and pull her body against mine. She sighs against my mouth, and in that moment, she’s completely mine.

Hell with addressing the people. I could live between her lips. I push my tongue inside and taste her. My kitten moans, her soft breath pattering against my cheek.

“Sir.” Ah. There he is. My conscience, ready to reel me in. I break away from Rory’s mouth to see Ben standing in the half-open doorway.

Ben looks sharp. The stubble on his jaw has been carved into a clean line. White shirt. Black jacket. Even his trousers are new. Good on him.

“They’re waiting on you,” he says. He’s got an earpiece perched over the shell of his ear and that no-nonsense look in his eyes. Big day and all. He barely even acknowledges the fact that Rory is tangled up in my arms. Give him a job and the man is a horse with blinders.

I turn back to Rory and press my thumb against the swell of her lower lip. “Tell them to wait a little longer.”

“Should I tell them to postpone for tomorrow, sir?” Ben’s tone is curt. I’m going to be in trouble if I stall any longer.

I sigh dramatically. “Daddy’s calling.”

“Sounds like it.” Rory grins. “Go. Speak to your people.”

I kiss her again, lingering this time. I want to reach under that shirt and feel her shiver under my fingertips. I want to taste between her legs. I want her.

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