Prince With Benefits: A Billionaire Royal Romance (12 page)

They've seen the commotion by now on social media. I won't be surprised to see #palaceriot trending all over the damned place, assuming I get out of this alive.

The crowd sees us, recognizes us, and starts moving in. Erin turns her head, takes one look, and screams.

“Silas! We need to get out of here!”

“Tell me something I don't already know, Princess.” I need a second to think. “Hold on to me as tight as you can. It might be hell getting out of here.”

Might? I know it's going to be.

I only see one weakness – a thin gap between two bigger, older men filming with their phones as they close in. Several older women surround them. It's a group I know I can push through if I really need to.

Yeah, I do. I give it everything I've got, shoving our way through them.

Wrapping my arms around Erin as tight as I can, I ignore the jeers exploding around us.

“Prince! Prince Silas! We looooove you!”

That's about the nicest thing I hear. Several angry protesters are in the mix, assholes who want to overturn the monarchy. They won't think twice about grabbing us, humiliating us, or worse.

“There's the fucking bastard! Spending even more of our hard earned money on his engagement – as if his parties and booze aren't enough! You going to let him, lads?”

“No! No, no, no!”

Shit's about to get serious. I take off, heading for the weakness I saw, away from the dangerous assholes calling for my head.

I may have fucked off half my history classes, but I know damned well what happens to Kings, Queens, and Princes when would-be revolutionaries smell blood. I'm not dying out here, ripped apart by an angry mob, while poor Erin gets caught in the middle.

The need to protect her supercharges my blood. I feel like I'm on fire as I crash through several skinny arms, bowling over several people, and then I keep going.

I don't let up. Not even when I realize I'm running straight into gunfire.

Shit, shit, shit.
Things are really fucking bad out here, if they've brought out the guns.

How the hell did this ridiculous press conference lead to the opening shots in a civil war? At this rate, I'll be lucky to flee the country before they stick my head through the guillotine.

People start fleeing, blurring by us. Erin has her little face buried in my chest, but she's screaming just the same. Can't blame her, hearing the world fall apart around us, shattered in a hail of screams and bullets.

“Prince Silas, sir!” A loud voice screams out ahead, just as I'm starting to lose my sight. We're almost to the curb. “Down here!”

Several soldiers have set up a protective ring around what's left of our motorcade. The motorcycles have been knocked over, replaced by Humvees and armored cars. Vic looks up behind the troops, relief spreading across his face when he sees me.

About half a dozen soldiers shove the crowd, opening a space just wide enough for us to jump through, closing it the instant we're climbing inside the SUV. I hear them start shooting.

Our SUV takes off, flanked by the military vehicles. I'm wondering if I'm about to the see the beginning of the end of my kingdom. Except the rioters wouldn't fall down so unnaturally like that, without a drop of blood spilling out.

Smoke rises around the palace. It's tear gas, rubber bullets, and water cannons.

Standard riot control stuff.

Not live bullets after all, thank God.

“Jesus.” She slumps back in her seat when we're finally freed from the danger zone, racing across town. “Did you have any idea this was going to happen?”

“No.” I'm telling her the truth. “It's gotten heated a few times before at the palace, but it's never devolved into a full scale riot. There's something else going on here, and I'm going to find out what.”

“I can't believe you're shooting them...”

“They're damned lucky it's not real ammunition,” I tell her, wondering why she's defending these animals.

The people are one thing. I'd never want shots going into innocent bystanders, even the curious ones who should know better than to be there. But the protesters...the Republic fucking Firsters...they don't care who they hurt. Why should I mind if they catch lead between the eyes?

“Look, they're breaking up the riot with all the non-lethal force the kingdom has to muster. Every man in uniform knows there's going to be hell to pay if they reach the Queen's doorstep.”

Fuck, grandmom. For the first time since we got into the vehicle, I'm worried.

“Surely, they're as surprised as you, Silas. I don't think anybody can be blamed for this insanity.”

I ignore her. Instead, I tap the glass separating us from the driver. A second later, it goes down, and I see the man looking at us in the mirror.

“Your Highness?”

“What's the situation at the palace? I want constant updates.”

Victor sits in the passenger seat up front. “I'm receiving them now. Secondary blockades are closing off the nearest streets, and the crowd is slowly dispersing. Rest assured that all the rioters with press badges will have them permanently stripped. They'll be blacklisted, Your Highness. I'm deeply sorry for this, we should've vetted
everyone
who stepped into the event, short notice or not.”

I look at Erin. There's something about her sweet, pure face that actually causes my anger to weaken.

“Don't be sorry,” I growl through the opening. “You couldn't have known, Vic. None of us did. It's got to be the damned Republic Firsters. A rat on the inside. Probably that Patina bitch. They'll do anything to make the family look bad, even when we're bringing the kingdom good news.”

“Rest assured there'll be a full investigation, my Prince, as soon as the situation is under control.” Vic bows his head.

I don't say another word. The glass panel rises, and we're left alone.

If I've ever needed a drink, it's now. Next to me, Erin looks like she's losing it, her face criss-crossed with a thousand kinds of confusion.

She flinches when I reach over, grabbing her hand. “Do you think we've made a mistake?”

“Mistake? Bullshit.” I shake my head. “It won't happen again, love. I don't give a shit if we have to flee to the mountains and have our wedding there. Nobody's unwinding this clock. I wanted you before, for all the reasons we've discussed, and now I want you at the altar a hundred times more.”

Her big brown eyes light up when they widen. Rich, electric, and fuckable. My cock stirs to life, wanting to make them roll back in her head, and feel those scared little lips on mine again.

“What now? We both know it's going to be a disaster in the media. Probably an international one.”

“Yeah, it will be. They can fucking suck it,” I growl. “Don't worry. A stern word from Her Majesty will put the kingdom right. She always comes on TV when it gets bad enough, and I'd say this warrants it. She'll put the Republic assholes in their place, and then some. They're used to beating up on me and my dad, when he was still around, but this is different.
Nobody
insults Her Royal Majesty. Next time we talk to the press, they'll be lucky if they aren't wearing handcuffs, looking at us through bullet proof glass with their beady little eyes...”

She laughs. I can tell she isn't sure if I'm serious or not.

Hell, I don't know if I am.

“What's so funny – the handcuffs? Didn't know you were that sort of girl, love. For the record, I'd enjoy seeing you with your hands cuffed to the nearest bed, a pair of gold clamps softening up your nipples for my tongue.”

I fucking mean it, too. Can't resist telling her. It earns me another slap, clean across the face, and I'm smiling at her through the blistering burn spreading across my cheek.

“Glad I can help you work it out of your system, beautiful.”

“You're ridiculous.” She rolls her eyes sourly, too tired for another hit. “Just tell me where we're going? I can't imagine there's any place that'll be safe for us in the whole city.”

“No, you're right. We're heading for the summer palace. That's the protocol when a shitstorm blows in. The Queen, she won't leave for nothing short of a nuclear war. You and me? We're going to the country while things calm down. We can deal with the fallout there.”

“Okay,” she says quietly.

Just okay?
Fuck me.

Nothing's okay at the moment.

For the first time since we got our pretend engagement on, I'm feeling a pang of guilt. A normal person would let it take over, making them wonder if they've fumbled something terrible, dragging a down-on-her-luck foreign girl into this royal mess.

Not me. Prince Silas Bearington the Third doesn't make mistakes.

We're going to the summer palace, and we're going to unwind. We'll write up our statements while the wedding planning gets underway. We'll let grandmom, her courtesans, and bitchy Serena deal with the press nightmare.

More importantly, I'll have plenty of peace and quiet to explore my new wife. Find out what buttons to press to make her relax. And I'll put a fucking stake through the hearts of every evil doubt she's got running through her right now.

I'm going to have my wife, my Princess, come hell or high water. This
will
work the way it should.

If the stars align, I'm going to fuck her, too. No bullshit. I'll seduce this girl, and she'll learn to love it.

Yes, it's insane, it's suicidal, it's a thousand mistakes rolled into one, but I'm going to try.

I'm convincing myself this mad thing between us is real so no one will doubt it again, much less those jackoff reporters.

Believe.
Straight down to the taste of her pussy while her legs are tossed over my shoulders. Just thinking about that warmth and wetness trembling beneath my tongue makes my cock want to spit fire.

I'm going to know every single inch of her. Whatever it takes to throw this clusterfuck of an engagement back in grandmom's face, and then I'll do the same with the other 4,999,999 people in the kingdom doubting us.

This is my once in a lifetime chance to prove myself, to save our kingdom, and show this woman that I will never, ever let a disaster come down on her head.

She won't walk away from me, disgraced and disappointed. Erin Warwick isn't going anywhere until I've fucked her senseless first.

I
don't see
much of Silas for the next few days after we're settled in the highlands. My orders.

There's a knock at my door several times that I'm sure isn't the guards. Then whispers, what sounds like his soft, feral voice arguing with my keepers.

From the second we stepped into the summer palace, which feels like the world's most expensive lodge, I've told my handlers I want complete, perfect, unobstructed privacy. God himself isn't going to interrupt me for the next forty-eight hours, and that extends to his royal jackass, too.

I need time to process. To think about the fact that I've narrowly survived being ripped apart by an angry mob.

Yes, I've signed the contract, presented to me this morning. Slipped it under the door without a word, triple checking to make sure our 'no sex' clause had plenty of legalese behind it.

I'm surrounded by his men in this place, the security entourage assigned to me.

I'm worried Silas can overrule the guards. He's the second most important person in this whole country, after all. But for some reason, he doesn't, and I hear him slip away while I'm laying in bed, or lounging on the ivory white chaise with my phone resting on my belly.

Incredibly, the bastard respects my privacy for once in his life. It's a life where he's had everything handed to him on demand, which makes it more amazing.

It isn't much consolation. Locked away in here, I feel like I've entered another kind of fairy tale. I wonder if Rapunzel or Sleeping Beauty ever faced their own demons the way I'm staring mine down now.

The world goes on, even if I'm hidden behind the most luxurious wall on the planet.

Dad tries to call at least three times over the next few days.

It's no surprise, having a father as an award winning journalist means his eyes are glued to the news. By now, he's seen the craziness at the palace unfold a hundred times over on social media, from every single angle.

His dear naive daughter, up there on the stage, engaged to a Prince. All hell breaking loose around us.

They still don't know what caused the riot. At least, the palace isn't saying whether it was troublemakers who want to see the monarchy abolished, or just a wild energy that took on a life of its own.

I can't say I care. I'm too busy being terrified for the future, for what I'm going to tell my father.

There's no combination of words that can soften the blow. He's a smart man, no matter how sick and scared he is. He'll put the pieces together, if he hasn't already. And then he'll know I've basically whored myself out to the biggest player in the world for a chance to save him.

Only, I've sold everything except my body. The 'no sex' clause in our contract feels like the only smart thing I've done in this situation. It also might be the dumbest, because right now, I'm so miserable I'd love to lose my virginity to blow off some steam.

Even to Prince Silas. Hell,
especially
to Silas.

I can't stop thinking about him. The way his lips roamed mine...

He kissed like an animal. His lips are always so aggressive, so controlling, moving like they're entitled to mine. No different than the way a summer storm sweeps the countryside with its raw power. If I give him a chance, that same wicked energy will go straight to his hands, moving across my breasts, my ass, between my legs...

God.
I run my hands across my face, just as my phone pings me again.

My stomach growls. They've been bringing me food at my request pretty regularly. It must be late evening now, close to when I should be asking for dinner, but I've lost track.

My heartbeat quickens as I look at the screen, cringing. It's another voice mail from a number in Mexico.

I can't live like this. I need to come clean.

Frustrated, I sit up. I shouldn't be so horny when there are about a dozen other emotions boiling away beneath the surface.

I just want to get this over with. All of it.

Like the brutal conversation with dad, or the wedding, and the riot that'll probably follow it. Even fucking the Prince, if I'm going to, so he'll finally have what he wants and leave me with some peace and quiet.

I want my money. I want dad to get better. And I want to go home to our boring middle class condo in boring old LA, where Kings and Queens are just something you see in movies or read about in trashy blogs.

Only one way to make that happen, to speed things along to their inevitable, probably catastrophic conclusion.

I dial dad without listening to the voice mail. “Hello?”

“It's me,” I say, hearing a strange machine whirring loudly in the background. “What's that noise?”

“Fluids cycling. It's a kind of chemotherapy, my dear. I'm sitting up right now, trying to distract myself while they pump this poison through my veins.”

“They're doing their best to heal you, dad,” I whisper, hating the tension in his voice. “How're you feeling?”

“Very restless the last few days,” he says slowly. “It's not the treatment. That's going fine, and I'm taking it as well as I should be. Rather, I'm having a hard time because my own fucking daughter decided to marry a goddamned Prince without saying a word about it.”

Shit.
My stomach does a nosedive. I'm speechless for at least thirty seconds, trying to pull out of it, and keep myself from running to the bathroom to vomit.

“It's not like that.”

What am I saying? It's
exactly
like that.

“Bullshit. Erin, I don't know what he's offered you, but you don't have to do this. Don't do it for my sake. I raised you better than selling yourself out for anything, including me. I'd rather die than be a bargaining chip.”

“Daddy, it's not like that! Silas is a good man, when he wants to be. He would've flown you there anyway and given you treatment. That's exactly what he did, before I agreed to anything.”

“Silas?” I can hear him smirking over the phone. “You're on a first name basis with the Prince? Jesus Christ, Erin. Guess it makes sense, seeing how you're going to get hitched.”

He's got me by the throat. I want to lie, tell him that we're truly in love, and he'll see how wrong he is very, very soon.

But it's such a load that even I don't believe it. Neither will he.

“You need to get better,” I say, the only thing I really can. “You'll understand someday. Just trust me, daddy. Please.”

“Don't worry. I'm going to try to kick this thing, whatever happens. If I live, I'm going to figure out how to get you off that damned island before I wind up dead from disappointment. There isn't a cure for that.”

Disappointment?
It hurts, but I can't blame him. I still can't believe I'm doing this.

Is it too late to walk away? To take a car without Silas chasing me, and hop the first plane to Mexico City so I can apologize up and down to my father in person?

No. I'm all in, and it's already too late.

“I'll find my way, dad. Don't waste any energy on me. Get better.”

He doesn't say anything. When I look at my phone, it's blank, the call terminated without a last goodbye.

There's a terrible urge to hurl the damned thing across the room. Before I can, there's a loud tap at the door.

Horrific timing. I creep up to it and put my ear close, yelling through the thick, ornately carved wood. “What?”

“His Highness has requested an audience tonight, madame. Seven o'clock, and strictly voluntary.” It's Dean, a voice I vaguely recognize belonging to the man who's been assigned to me personally, posted outside.

“Tell His Highness that I'm resting again tonight. I don't want to be disturbed unless there's food involved.” Fuming, I do a full 360 degree turn, realizing I've forgotten one thing. “Make sure I get a bottle of wine, too. I could use it tonight.”

“Of course, Miss Warwick. I'll relay the message to Prince Silas and the staff. If you need anything else, I'll be here until at least nine, before the shift change, and –“

I stop listening. I'm heading for the bathroom where I can soak for a long bath.

Maybe it'll help drown my inner bitch for the time being. Or if it doesn't, then it should at least tide me over until the wine comes. Tonight, I'm going to forget my father, my predicament, and the persistent asshole who's sucked me into all this.

* * *

I
'm half asleep
, surrounded by soft, cloud-like foam in the steamy bath when there's another knock at my door.

“Yeah, who's there?”

“Dean, madame. I have dinner and a gift for you.”

Gift? From who?

I don't even need to ask. I have an ugly feeling I already know.

My nose wrinkles, and I stand up, stretching while my naked skin drips fresh glacier water and thousand dollar soap.

“Leave it on the table outside, please!”

“As you wish.”

I step out of the huge tub and start drying myself off while I hear him enter with a cart on wheels. It only takes him a few seconds to lay out the dishes and whatever my – ugh –
gift
is on the table outside.

By the time he leaves my room and I hear the lock click into place behind him, a heavenly smell punches me in the nose.

Dinner. My gently growling belly becomes an earthquake.

Slipping into a fresh silk robe, I don't bother drying my hair, heading out to where my precious food awaits.

It's absolutely perfect, of course. There's a nice sized steak slathered in buttery goodness, just the way I want it, with citrus glazed vegetables and roasted marrow off the side, still in the bone. I don't even need to cut it to see that it's medium rare, just the way I like, cooked to perfection by chefs who are probably imported from the finest schools in Paris.

They've remembered the wine. Except, instead of a cork, there's some weird metal object stuffed into the top. A small card hangs off it, hooked to the loop with the diamond in the middle. It's a little tag, with a man's thick, black ink scrawled on it.

I'm going to help you unwind, one way or another, Princess. Look in the box of chocolates, too. - HRH

Rolling my eyes, I grab the bottle and pull out the stopper. It's got to be a joke that he's using the His Royal Highness abbreviation in his note to me.

But when the strange, heavy stopper comes out with a loud
pop,
what I'm looking at isn't a joke at all.

It's a vibrator. Gold plated with stripes of silver running through it, or maybe even platinum. What else from his royally ridiculous and filthy highness?

I slam it down on the table, clenching my teeth. Of course, it accidentally triggers the switch, that diamond on the end of the ring. It buzzes and jerks until I cover it with my hands, struggling to turn it off.

My eyes dart around nervously. I used to have one of these back home, before the noise became a huge liability. First with dad, and then with my roommates.

Suddenly, I'm not as hungry. I don't even want to look in the box of chocolates. I'll probably find a huge dildo, or something even nastier.

Pulling my chair roughly across the Turkish rug, I sit, pouring my wine glass so full it almost overflows.

I need to eat. Need to distract myself from the fact that Prince Asshole thinks he can send me sex toys.

I'm not stupid. Everything he does is painfully obvious. He's rubbing the no sex rule right in my face by trying to get me to rub something else.

All horror aside, the wine tastes good. The food, magnificent.

Silas' insanity won't ruin a meal like this. I dig in with a hungry, American etiquette that would probably leave the chef who prepared it shaking his head.

The only thing I'm craving by the end is something sweet. I can't remember the last time I had a piece of chocolate. Not since coming to Saint Moore, certainly.

I'm looking at the rectangular gold box like a fish stares at bait on a hook. Yes, it's a trap.

I just
know
I'm going to find something worse than the stupidly expensive vibrating bullet inside. Is the chocolate worth the price?

Reaching out nervously, I drag the box toward me and pull the little red bow wrapped around it loose. The package falls open. About a dozen of the most divine truffles I've ever laid eyes on surround a little compartment in the middle, housing something that looks like a small gold necklace.

I pop the first truffle in my mouth and let myself melt from the fireworks dancing on my taste buds before I pull the gold chain out. When I see the two little pinchers hanging on the ends, I gasp.

The clamps slip out of my hand and clatter gently on the table. Jesus.

I remember back to the conversation in the car, just a couple days ago, when he joked about seeing me naked, handcuffed, and locked up in these.

What kind of girl does Silas think I am?

It's like he doesn't know that he's dealing with a virgin who's never felt comfortable enough with a man to let her inner freak out. Or maybe he knows exactly what I am, and that's what gives him the eerily accurate insight about what turns me on.

Tight, wet, and very taboo desire burns between my legs. I pinch my thighs together, chewing another truffle, unsure whether I should be more disgusted at him or myself for taking a second look at these terrible gifts.