His Princess (A Royal Romance) (42 page)

P
lace is going nuts
. Must be fifty women screaming. Rose and the girls are on the floor, Lily’s hit, Santiago’s men are on the floor. I’m bleeding pretty bad and starting to get dizzy.

I get up on my hands and knees and crawl to Rose. She’s not hurt, she’s not hurt, she’s not hurt. She throws her arms around me and recoils, wide-eyed, at all the blood on her hands. I’m not sure how much of it is mine.

“We have to get out of here,” she says.

“Have to get the girls out,” I rasp. You know you’re in trouble when you stop forming coherent sentences.

I look back at Santiago. He’s dead. He’s fucking dead.

He looks…smaller than I remember.

Lily lies against the wall, clutching her belly. She’s bleeding bad but it doesn’t look fatal. Rose helps me up, grabs her girls by the arms and pulls them along. Karen is still looking at Santiago’s body.

I kneel by Lily and almost fall down. I hate to do it but I have to pull her hand away. She’s not gut shot, buy the look of it. The bullet mostly grazed her left side, but it’s a bad wound and she’s bleeding a fair bit.

Grunting with effort, I tear a strip of cloth from my shirt and wrap it around her middle, pulling it tight against the wound. She clutches the cloth and presses it in.

I try to help her and slump against the wall. Rose grimly pulls Lily to her feet and all four of them help me up.

“Women,” I rasp, “can’t leave the women.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Lily says calmly. She’s not talking to me anymore. She’s addressing Rose. “Take my keys. Get him out of here. He needs medical attention. There’s a first-aid kit in the trunk. Get some pressure on his wounds.”

Rose snatches the keys.

“I have no idea who you are, but thank you,” she says. “Come on, Quent. Girls, help us.”

Rose gets under my arm on one side and Karen on the other, and I stumble with them back to Lily’s car. I drop on the backseat and sit while Rose pulls out the first-aid kit and starts pressing bandages to my fresh cuts and one of the old ones that broke open while I was fighting.

Bandages aren’t going to do the job. A couple of them soak through immediately. I’m getting lightheaded. Rose lifts my legs and Karen helps pull me into the backseat. Rose backs the car out and starts driving, clutching the steering wheel in shaking hands.

“I’m going to be okay,” I grunt.

“You fucking better be,” Rose whimpers.

Karen’s eyes flash with momentary shock, that Mom-said-
fuck
look that kids get on their faces when their mom cusses. Kelly clutches her sister for dear life, shaking. Good God, these kids, what have I brought into their lives?

“It’s a long way to the hospital.”

“No hospital. Somebody’ll kill me. I’ll tell you where to go.”

“Are you insane? Quentin, you’re going to bleed out.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine. Just drive, Rose. Go where I say.”

The next half hour is hazy. She takes a few wrong turns and it’s my fault. I’m headed for one of Dale’s places, from the list. There will be some gear there, medical shit. Rose gets visibly nervous driving into the city.

She looks panicky when she parks in the dusty lot behind the place and I drag myself out and lean on the car door to keep from falling. All three of them swarm me and usher me inside. Karen does up all five locks on the door and follows us up the stairs, hugging herself.

The place is above an old disused garage. Mechanic probably used to live here.

“You need a nurse or something,” Rose says as I flop onto the couch.

“You’ll do. I’ll tell you what to do.”

Rose looks at me wide-eyed. “I keep telling you I’m not a nurse.”

“Welcome to nursing school. Please hurry up and do what I say so I can pass out.”

Getting my shirt off is agony. Rose uses blunt-tipped scissors from the kit to cut away the legs of my jeans. I wince as she cleanses the wounds, and rest my hand on her back as she holds the hooked needle in her hands and forces herself steady.

“Karen, take Kelly in the kitchen and get her some food.”

“But—”

“Now,” I snap, too harshly.

Rose’s eyes tear up as she guides the needle through my flesh.

“That’s good,” I tell her, trying not to let her see me wince. “You’re doing fine, keep going. Keep the stitches together and tight.”

“This is going to be a nasty scar,” she says, clearly trying to distract herself.

“Chicks dig scars.”

She gives me a flat look and keeps going, awkwardly but competently tying off the suture.

Great, only a half dozen more to go.

By the time she finishes the last one, Rose is growing fairly practiced.

“You lost a lot of blood.”

“Yeah, I’m a little dizzy. Might be best to give me some. Check the fridge.”

Rose gets up and leaves me there trying not to pass out, and heads into the kitchen.

“There’s bags of blood in here. They’re marked universal donor.”

“Yeah, great. You’ll need to start an IV first. C’mere.”

Rose walks back out. “I have no idea how to—”

“I’ll walk you through it.”

I’m nervous as she prods my arm, but it’s easy enough to find my veins. She wipes down the spot with alcohol and slips the needle in, badly. Under my direction she tapes it down and secures some tubing to my arm so it won’t rip out, and sets up the IV.

Once it starts to flow I lie down on the couch.

“How long do we have to stay here?”

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I’m not feeling so hot.”

She brushes the hair out of my face. “Get some sleep.”

I close my eyes. Something like sleep comes, halfway between wakefulness and drowning in the heavy dark of a deep sleep. Something wakes me, my body jerks, and I find myself lying on the couch covered in a blanket. Karen and the girls are sitting on the floor in front of it, watching an almost-muted television. Rose sits back so her head leans on my arm.

When she sees I’m awake she looks at me and rests her cheek on my shoulder.

Sleep grabs me again.

The next time I wake up, it’s light out.

What is it, Monday?

I sit up, or try to. Rose pushes me back down. The kids are at the little dinette table by the kitchen eating cereal. Rose looks quietly panicked and sits down next to me.

“I’m not at work and the kids aren’t at school. This is going to be trouble.”

“I’ll write them a note,” I sigh.

Rose gives me an annoyed look. She’s had a shower since I went to sleep. Her hair is damp, clinging to her neck.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I got in a fistfight with a cheese grater.”

There’s a knock at the door, and the whole room tenses, everybody going rigid.

Rose stands up. I sit up, wincing. Not much good I’ll be, but I rise shakily to my feet. Rose looks at me and drops down the stairs, looks through the peephole, and slowly opens the door.

It’s Lily. She presses inside, closes the door, and jogs up the steps.

“Well?” Rose says.

“I stayed close until the authorities arrived. They’ll ID the cartel people, they won’t ID Santiago, there are no records on him.”

“What about the girls?” I rasp.

“Authorities are moving them out. Every three-letter is there right now, poring over the place. I think they even called in the FDA.”

“Great,” I grunt. “You’re not going to try to kill me again.”

“No.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

She holds up a piece of dark cloth. It hangs from her fingers like a discarded skin.

Santiago’s mask.

“There must always be a Santiago de la Rosa. He wasn’t the first, you know.”

She holds the mask in both hands. “I wonder if this is how he got it,” she sighs. “Killed the one that came before him.”

She extends her hands and offers it to me. “You deserve this more than I do.”

“Get that thing away from me,” I rasp, stepping back. “I’m not going to take over for Santiago.”

Rose takes my hand.

“I’m out. I’m done,” I tell Lily. “I’m not a killer anymore.”

“Somebody needs to take over for him. Do you know what would happen if there is no more Santiago de la Rosa?”

“Somebody else will take the contracts,” I sigh, lowering myself into the couch.

“Girls,” Rose says, “go in the kitchen. Now.”

Rose sits next to me and squeezes my hand.

“There’s something else,” Lily says. “Santiago has unique access to the criminal underground. Everyone knows him, he knows everybody, if only by reputation. The women in that warehouse aren’t the only ones, you know. There’s thousands of them, millions of them all over the world. Think of the horrible shit these people are involved with. Somebody on the inside…” she trails off.

“Sudden change of heart,” I rasp, eyeing her.

She sits down on a side chair and fingers the mask in her hands. “Santiago de la Rosa was my life,” she says softly. “He took me in when I was fourteen, raised me, nurtured me, trained me. Then I find out the whole purpose behind it was to get back at you. I’m just a footnote in somebody else’s story.”

Lily bunches the mask in her fist. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now? All I know how to do is kill people.”

“You have some good ideas,” Rose says softly. “Stopping criminals and helping innocent people. Why don’t you do it?”

She blinks a few times. “Me, how could I—”

“You were trained by the best,” I say, and slump into the couch.

“Nobody will believe I’m him.”

“Why not? Ninety percent of the time he never met clients face-to-face. He took contracts and delivered proof and that was it. You could do that.”

“You want me to keep it going, kill people.”

“I want you to use it, from the inside.” I shrug and wince at the movement. “Just like you said. The kind of info Santiago can gather…”

“I can’t do it alone. I need your help.”

“I’m out.”

Rose squeezes my hand.

“If you help me, I’ll help you,” Lily says. “I’ll keep them off your back. I’ll start there. You won’t have to look over your shoulder.”

I sigh. “You want me to help you use Santiago’s resources and connections to start dismantling criminal conspiracies and saving innocent people.”

“Yes. If we keep up a front as criminals they’ll never…”

“Fine, I’m sold.”

“I’ll be in contact,” Lily says, rising. She stuffs the mask in her pocket. “We can be more than killers, Quentin.”

She leaves, and Rose locks the door behind her. She sits down next to me and rests her hand on my chest.

“You already are,” Rose says, and rests her head on my shoulder.

She slips her arms around me.

I don’t say anything for a while. I like the feeling of her breathing against me.

Karen finally emerges and sits on the couch beside me, on the other end. She rubs her hands together.

“Are you going to leave us?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Language,” Rose mumbles.

Guy could get used to this.

I
pace the lobby
, hugging myself. I’m in my best skirt-suit and pumps, made up as professionally as I can get. The girls are in their Sunday best, so to speak.

Quentin cleans up nicely. He looks sharp in a suit that hides all those lovely tattoos, and with his hair cut and cleanly shaved he looks like he could be a lawyer himself, if he stopped slouching.

Then Russ slimes his way down the hallway, his pretty little trophy wife in tow. He walks up to me and looks at the girls.

“Hello, Rose. I’m really sorry about all this.”

“No you’re not,” Quentin sighs.

“What’s he doing here?”

I unfold my arms and lift up my left hand, proudly displaying the engagement ring on my finger. Quentin splurged. I can see the jealousy in his wife’s eyes. Russ’s face turns red.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re not keeping custody of my children.”

“Keep telling yourself that. Come on, girls, it’s time.”

As they take my hands, the girls look at Russ. Kelly sticks her tongue out at him. Karen huffs and turns away sharply.

Quentin rises behind us and sticks his hands in his pockets, shrugs, and follows me into the courtroom.

My lawyer rushes to meet us. I’m just finishing up my bachelor’s, after all. I’m not quite ready to defend myself. An older, portly man, he beckons for us to sit down at the table next to him.

Russ sits next to his lawyer; his wife takes a seat back in the gallery. It might look impolitic if he brings his bimbo to the custody hearing.

The bailiff steps out and drones, “All rise,” in a bored voice, and everybody stands up. Quentin is the last to his feet, a contemptuous look on his face. My lawyer gives him a dirty look.

The judge comes in and ascends the bench. My stomach does a back flip. I knew this was coming, but I know this guy. He was a friend of Russ, and was a professor when I was in college the first time. Fifteen years later he’s still the same sour-looking, rail-thin man he was then. Judge Linkletter, his name is. First name is Frank.

He motions for everybody to sit down, and I sink to my chair and clutch Karen’s hand. This is not good. Russ has a smug look on his face, the little snake. Russ’s lawyer is friends with the both of them, too. This is a farce. It’s not fair.

My lawyer says I can stop them taking the girls with an appeal, but it’ll be a complicated and expensive process.

The judge shuffles in his chair and looks right at Quentin.

Quentin gives him a little finger wave.

Oh good God.

Linkletter clears his throat. “I see no reason to waste the people’s time. Having reviewed the evidence presented by the complaining party, I’ve decided to dismiss this custody claim with prejudice.”

Russ sits up. “What?”

“You heard me.”

I look at Quentin.

He looks at me and winks.

The rest of it is a blur. I swear we were in the courtroom for less than half an hour before I walked out holding my kids’ hands.

“This isn’t the end of this,” Russ hisses, appearing in front of me. His wife scowls at us.

“Yeah it is,” Quentin says amiably. He grabs Russ’s shoulder and squeezes, hard. “It is the end of it, Russel.”

Russ shakes loose. “I’m not scared of you.”

Quentin laughs. “Right. Come on, ladies. Let’s go home.”

Kelly cheers and runs in circles once we’re outside, walking down the sidewalk to the parking lot. Karen is walking on air, almost skipping.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Quentin announces loudly.

He had Kelly at “eat”; I’m hungry and I’m sure Karen is, too. We all climb in the Impala and Quentin drives to a little diner not far from the college. I’ve driven by it my whole life but never eaten there, oddly enough.

The waitress seems to know him. We get a booth in the corner. Kelly gets a ridiculous breakfast meal with eggs, sausage, bacon, French toast, pancakes, and a waffle. It takes up two plates. Quentin orders a burger and Kelly and I just have what he’s having.

He eats one-handed, keeping the other resting on my shoulders.

“Did you say something to the judge?” I ask him, keeping my voice low.

“I said several things. You might say I filed a friend-of-the-court brief. He found my arguments pointed and weighty.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do things like that.”

He laughs and swipes at his chin with a napkin. “No you don’t.”

“So when is it?” Karen demands. “When are you getting married?”

I
never pictured
myself wearing a wedding dress again. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I can’t believe I’m looking at my own image. I had my hair done last night at the finest salon in Castlebrook, Kate’s Coiffure. I went to a boutique in Philadelphia for this dress, a creamy lace number that feels too revealing. I opted to show some cleavage and I’m regretting it.

I can’t wait to see the look on Quentin’s face, though. Especially when he sees what I’m wearing under it.

Karen is my maid of honor and Kelly will be the flower girl. They both look adorable in their matching dresses. I invited everyone I could think of to this thing: classmates, professors, I even invited Russ just to rub his nose in it. Hopefully he won’t make an ass out of himself during the ceremony.

We’re having a Catholic wedding. I haven’t been to church in years and years but my mother and father are serious about it and insisted. My mother almost lost it when I suggested I might have a judge perform the ceremony.

My last wedding was grandiose. This will be a bit smaller. Just a ceremony, a reception at the fire hall, and then the girls are spending the next week with Grandma and Grandpa in Ohio while Quentin and I take our honeymoon.

I’ve never been so nervous in my life. The church is packed; I asked a few people to fill out the groom’s side. I don’t think Quentin even has anybody to invite.

This is actually happening. The organist is playing the wedding march. Karen gives me a little push when I don’t start moving right away and I almost stumble out between the pews and start walking.

Quentin’s face lights up when he sees me. He stares openly and hungrily as my father walks me down the aisle and steps aside as I move up to Quentin.

“You look magnificent,” he whispers.

I feel a flutter in my stomach. He cuts a fine figure himself. My throat is dry as a bone. I hope I can manage to squeak out the words.

It’s a long ceremony. Karen almost looks annoyed that it’s taking so much time. Finally we get to the vows. Quentin slips the ring on my finger and I bite my lip, forcing back the tears welling in my eyes. I stopped wearing my old wedding band after I learned about Russ’s infidelity. It feels strange to have a new one on my finger. I make a fist, as if I’m afraid it’ll slip off, and Quentin clutches my hand.

When it’s my turn I croak out an, “I do,” and he grabs me and kisses me hard, passionately, and when he finally lets go of me I’m red as a beet and turn redder when I see the look on Karen’s face.

The reception is a blur. Toasts are made, cake is eaten, dances are had. I feel silly in my ridiculous dress, and it
itches
. I can’t wait to get out of it, mostly for other reasons.

Kelly is a little annoyed that she has to go home with her grandparents, but Karen mostly seems amused.

“Are you guys going to be okay without me?”

“We’ll be fine,” Quentin says, smirking. “Go on.”

The limo is ready to pick us up. We’ll be spending the night at the Hilton in Philadelphia before catching a flight to Hawaii. I can’t believe I’m actually going. None of this feels real.

Once we’re in the limo, Quentin raises the privacy screen without saying a word and pulls me to him.

“Ever since I saw you in that dress I wanted to rip it off you,” he growls in my ear.

“You’d better not,” I say, playfully thumping his chest. “It wasn’t cheap.”

He laughs. “Are you wearing anything under it?”

“Yes,” I say, smirking. I slip my hands inside his jacket and hug him. I love how warm he feels.

“Why are you always so cold?”

“I don’t know.”

We get a few stares checking into the hotel. I’m still in full bridal gear, after all. I can feel Quentin’s tensions rising as we ride up in the elevator. Once we reach the room he chases me inside and slams the door, and I’m on the bed on my stomach in seconds.

Quentin yanks the zipper down the back of my dress and spreads it open, slipping it over my shoulders. I wriggle out of it and it pools on the floor. I sigh a breath of relief, as I didn’t hear any ripping fabric or popping seams.

I crawl up onto the bed and turn over. Quentin looks me over and licks his lips. White stockings and gloves, a white thong, and a white lacy bra that doesn’t give me much coverage greet him.

He slips off my shoes and starts to undress. I watch hungrily, shaking with anticipation. His jacket comes off first; he tosses it on a side chair and peels off his shirt next. I wince when I see the fresh scars from the wounds he took fighting Santiago, cutting jagged marks across his tattoos.

I slip back onto the bed and he pushes out of his pants and moves over me on his hands and knees. He wasn’t wearing anything else. He shudders when I wrap my gloved fingers around his cock, but grabs my wrist and pulls my hand away. He pins both wrists to the bed and kisses me, hard.

He lets go of my arms and puts his hands on my shoulders then slips them under me and squeezes me against him, unhooking my bra in the process.

For a long time he just lies there, breathing on my throat, and then I feel his lips and a hint of teeth that makes me quiver with excitement. I slip my fingers into his hair and scratch at his scalp. It makes his legs jerk.

“You like that,” I whisper.

He rises up and pulls my bra away then ducks down and touches his lips to my collarbone, hugging his arms tightly around me. I rest my hands on his back and relax, closing my eyes to savor the sensations.

Quentin shifts and pins my arms to my sides, squeezing my breasts together. His stubble tickles me as he works his way down, his lips and tongue leaving a hot trail on my skin. I wrap my legs around him and squeeze as he rests his head on my chest.

“Your breath tickles.”

He looks up at me and takes my nipple in his mouth, and I gasp and scratch at his scalp, tracing my nails over his shoulder with my other hand. I wince when I feel a scar rough under my nails. He sucks hard and my whole body jerks as I let out a squeak.

Quentin draws back and kneels, tugging on my underwear. I lean back into the bed, lift my legs, and watch the way his eyes roam hungrily over my curves as he tugs my panties down and pulls them free of my feet. I bend my legs and stretch them out on the bed, and Quentin lunges at me, kissing me hard as his finger slips inside me.

“Somebody’s horny,” he says, stroking inside me. “You’re sopping wet.”

I take his cock in my hand and feel the heat soaking through my glove. I start to pull the other glove off with my teeth.

“Leave those on,” he says, tugging it back into place. “I like them.”

He slides his finger out of my body and rolls on top of me, pinning me down. His cock throbs against my stomach, hot and hard. I run my hands up his sides, feeling the ridged scars.

I kiss his neck. “My poor baby. You got hurt.”

I slip my legs around him. Quentin shifts, thrusts, and enters me. I gasp as his hardness fills me.

“You can make some noise,” he growls in my ear. “Moan for me.”

As he fills me to the root, I let out a long, low sound of pleasure, pushed out of my body by his cock as he drives against me, hard, shuddering. I hug him with my legs and slide my hands on his back as he thrusts, feeling the muscles of his body flex as he drives inside me.

All at once he rolls over, pulling me on top of him. I lie on him and wriggle my hips, watching his face as his body tenses from the sensation. Quentin slips his hands under my arms and pushes me until I’m sitting up. I grab his hands and lace his fingers through mine and lean on him, my head hanging as I roll my hips forward and back, faster and faster as my pleasure builds. Quentin moves in time with my rhythm, rising up from the bed to meet me as I ride him.

I lean back and let go of his hands, lift my legs, and turn on top of him, slowly working my way around. The noise he makes is inhuman as my body turns around him. I stop, shuddering, overwhelmed by the unusual sensation.

Turned around, I get my knees under me and lean forward, resting my hands on his legs, and ride. When I find just the right angle I start shaking. I can barely stand it.

Then he spanks me and I jerk upright and almost fall backward. My ass stings from his hand. He pushes me forward and does it again, slapping the other cheek. It only makes me grind on him harder and faster, looking over my shoulder.

Suddenly he sits up, grabs my arms, and pulls me against him. Quentin yanks me back and rolls on top of me, pinning me facedown, and fucks me
hard
, until I can’t stop moaning and whimpering from his cock thrusting inside me. Harder, faster. He pins my arms to the bed and uses his weight to push me down. My legs curl and jerk as the pleasure mounts, spiraling out of my middle, filling me, until I feel like I’m going to burst.

The heat seeps through my skin, the cold rolls down my legs in shocks. I explode under him, thrashing, shoving myself against him to hold him inside me while I climax. Quentin hugs me and drives deep, his body as hard as stone as he spills his seed inside me.

He relaxes but doesn’t pull away from me. I spread out on the bed and lie there, trying to catch my breath. Quentin holds on to me like I’ll vanish if he lets go. I finally wriggle out from underneath him and lie on my side, panting. I’m covered in swear and I feel like I’ve run a marathon.

He grabs my arm and pulls me toward him.

“Lay on your back and spread your legs. It’s time for round two.”

I do as he says as he climbs on top of me. God, he’s still hard.

“I have something to tell you,” I say, scratching at his neck.

He thrusts inside me and kisses me. “Can’t it wait?” he murmurs against my lips.