Baby Fever Bride: A Billionaire Romance Page 26

  I have to be more careful. I definitely need to pick some better shoes.

  There's no Prince waiting for me if I stumble again. And there damned sure isn't a glass slipper at the end of all this suffering. There's no reward, no magic, except my father's survival.

  I'll do anything to make sure he's got a fighting chance.

  2

  Grown Up (Silas)

  The women in this club don't fuck around.

  When they know I'm watching, they go all in, shaking their tits and asses off. Too bad for them, I'm barely paying attention tonight.

  I can't stop thinking about the American girl with the chestnut hair, the mahogany eyes, the hips so round I wanted to smack them when they caught my hand, just to see how they'd bounce.

  Of course, even I'm not a big enough bastard to give a girl a spanking after her father's having a fit in front of her.

  My eyes scan the drunken sluts on the dance floor beneath my private balcony. At least half the two dozen or so girls out there know this place is crawling with cameras I can access anytime. Whenever I'm not looking down on them behind the tinted window like a god.

  I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel like one. Comes with the territory when you're born a Prince, heir to a fifteen hundred year old throne, entitled to virtually any prime pussy in the realm, plus a hundred countries over.

  They're desperate to please. Delusional. So fucking fake I can practically taste silicon every time I glance at their basketball sized tits.

  Their dreams aren't a mystery to me. They think they're next in line to audition for Princess and future Queen. Every one of them out there, from the redhead with the double D's, to the blonde with the perfect ivory skin, thinks she's Cinderella. Think I'm going to drop to my royal knees and propose the morning after my cock fits their magic pussy like a glove.

  Doesn't work out that way. Never has, and never will.

  Sure, I'm a bastard and a heartbreaker. Took me my first few flings to make peace with that, and most nights I don't give it a second thought. I let my dick lead me on like a magnet to whatever I'm in the mood for, then have my personal valet escort them out of my chamber the next morning, with a free ride home and a bouquet of roses.

  The girls who try to show their faces around this club again wind up banned. The ones who try to get close to me in public get a stern talk with my bodyguards.

  Most of them listen. Every so often, they go out ugly. Crying, screaming, wailing my name and threatening to sue me penniless from the rooftops.

  Every so often, when I see those scenes, I question if it's really worth it. Mostly, I laugh, because I've got ten more girls ready to polish my royal scepter for every one who has a conniption fit.

  For all my power, wealth, and women, I'm not free. I play by rules most people will never understand.

  I've been bound to God, Queen, and country since the day I drew my first breath. If I had to add one more principal, it'd be one and done.

  Tonight, for some fucking reason, I'm not feeling it. I can't even settle on a girl who looks enough like Little Miss Warwick.

  Why the hell am I fantasizing about an American girl who probably doesn't have a million to her name? Especially after her father went for the throat, before he just went down cold?

  I'm still wondering when there's a knock on my door. I turn around, cup my hand across my mouth, and yell like always.

  “You already know it's open.”

  Victor steps in. My personal valet is about ten years older than me, pushing forty, a transplant to Saint Moore from a distinguished Russian family. He steps up to me, that prim and proper smile on his face, the same one I've seen a thousand times before he's about to drop a load of horseshit in my lap.

  “Pardon the interruption, Your Highness. I'm here to tell you that Her Majesty has requested an audience.” He steps aside, making way for me to pass, wanting me to walk with him this instant.

  I take my damned time. Sip my thousand Euro glass of scotch slowly, letting the liquid fire bathe my stomach and plate my veins in gold.

  “Yeah? What's grandmom doing up at this hour? She's usually turned in before nine.”

  Victor clears his throat. “It seems she's heard about what happened during the interview yesterday. It's been all over the press, sire. She's very eagerly awaiting your company so she can discuss –“

  “My fucking image, right?” I smile and wink at him, draining the last of my scotch. “Come on, Vic. I already know.”

  Pausing, I sigh. Victor shifts uncomfortably. I've busted his balls a million times by now, and he always takes it like a champ, even if he's never sure exactly what to say.

  “I hope she realizes I'm trying, Vic. It's not like I gave the guy a stroke when he was lobbing his questions. Didn't have anything to do with the hero shot either. That was all the daughter, racing up there and falling straight into my arms. Don't tell me what the blogs say – I didn't engineer a damned thing.”

  Yeah, the jackal's daughter, I think to myself. His very sweet, very pure, very fuckable daughter.

  “You know you have my trust, Your Highness,” Vic says, respectful as ever. But his eyes don't agree with his voice.

  “Stop looking at me like that. Look, if it wasn't for that fairy tale embrace when I caught her, they'd be throwing a lot more shit in our faces right about now. Grandmom has to understand that, doesn't she?”

  Victor straightens, folding his hands across his lap. “It's certainly not my place to say, sire. I have a car waiting to take you to the palace. At your convenience, of course.”

  Convenience my ass. I let my glass drop loudly on the wooden stand in the corner. Then I grab my gray jacket, the one with the purple and gold lapel. It's shaped like our national symbol, the double-headed eagle holding the crown jewels in his talons.

  I'm wishing I could summon that mythical SOB to swoop down for a day or two, and give the chattering class something else to fixate on instead of Prince Playboy's latest antics.

  Victor moves behind me, a subtle offer to help me slip my jacket on, as if I'm too damned drunk to do it myself.

  I step forward angrily, out of his reach. I'm sober, and I'm damned sure old enough to dress myself. I haven't let the attendants anywhere near my body since I was eight years old. Mom was still around then, able to order her servants to have me up and dressed by nine o'clock sharp every day.

  “I'm ready. Let's get this over with.”

  “Right behind you, Your Highness.” He really is. Vic trails me like a loyal, if annoying dog the whole way out, radioing to my entourage for the usual security checks before we reach our ride.

  This isn't the way I wanted my night off to go. I wanted to forget today's circus.

  The pussy and scotch will have to wait. Duty calls, as long as my veins are soaked in royal blood.

  A jet black luxury SUV waits on the curb. There's one brief glimpse at the subjects lined up near the entrance, waiting to get in. The bouncers have orders to pat them down thoroughly, making sure the girls who pass my looks test also aren't packing anything nasty like drugs or weapons.

  The palace was scandalized enough when Victor found a joint in my room after my twentieth birthday party. He told me he'd keep it to himself, but I knew who had his true loyalty: the unbearably perfect, larger-than-life woman I'm on my way to see right now.

  Hell, I stopped smoking completely after that. Nothing's worth risking another week at rehab in the lowlands. Sure, the scenery is gorgeous, but it doesn't make up for the distinct shortage of women, booze, and bright, shiny lights.

  All the things engraved on my heart and soul.

  It's a short hop through the capital to our royal palace. The light nighttime traffic clears the streets when they see my motorcade coming. Outside, I watch the people sitting off to the side in their cars, a few stragglers waiting on the streets.

  They wave. They put their hands over their hearts. Every so often, they shoot me the middle finger.

  This division in the
kingdom is what it's all about, what's gotten Her Majesty so nervous.

  Grandmom wants me to shape up before she croaks, and the people are looking at King Silas. We both know Prince Hung will be done for then, but his memory will live on.

  They'll be forced to decide whether they want me wearing the crown, or if they're going to use their votes to abolish centuries of wealth, guts, and glory.

  “Right this way, Your Highness.” A man opens the door for me.

  I step out, moving quickly through the line of guards to the back entrance. The lights in the palace are always so subdued; soft, gold, and otherworldly. It smells like a damned museum, and the décor matches one, too.

  Whether I'm a lock for the throne one day or not, I can't imagine living here again. I'm walking swiftly down the long hallway, portraits of our ancestors towering down at me, glaring.

  I can recognize my face in some of theirs. We all share the same vibrant blue eyes. I won't be caught dead in their furry robes and heavy gold jewelry, outside formal ceremonies, but it never fails to creep me out how easily I'd look exactly like my ancestors with just a change in wardrobe.

  Victor leads me to the big three hundred year old door with palace scenery hand carved into it, stopping in front of it. Great.

  It's the royal reception hall, a place she must've chosen to really make her damned point. It takes two men just to open the heavy door, revealing the chandelier, the amber and gold walls, and the huge fireplace inside.

  The whole atmosphere takes on a different quality. Like it's somehow absorbed a piece of the royalty, billionaires, and Presidents who have stepped inside it across the centuries. Creaking, yawning, and ominous, the big doors smack the walls when they finally come to rest.

  There, on her burgundy chair in the center, sits Her Majesty. Grandmom looks like a living ornament, holding up her monocle with one white gloved hand, her evening crown perched in her thick white wig.

  “Come in,” she says simply, the only person left alive who can take that commanding tone with me.

  I step inside and wait for the doors to close, taking the leather chair she motions to, perfectly positioned several feet away from her.

  “How are you this evening, Your Majesty?” I ask, pretending I give a shit.

  “Unwell. Have you seen what's been going through the news today?” She knows I have, but it's not really a question.

  It's an early warning before her claws really come out and she tears into me for fucking up the throne's reputation yet again.

  Her valet, Patricia, walks up like it's all been rehearsed, and gently pushes a tabloid into the Queen's hand. “Special issue, Your Majesty.”

  “Swept off her feet! Shocking new conquest for Prince Silas after American girl falls into his arms?” Hearing her reading the headline sounds...ridiculous.

  Christ. I want to bust out laughing, but thinking about the Warwick girl helps me hold it in. The tabloid shows my hand on her ass – that perfect ass – the girl's chocolate eyes beaming into mine like she can't wait to taste my lips.

  “Come on, we both know what happened,” I say, straightening up in my seat, hoping like hell I can stop thinking about that precious ass so I won't have to hide an erection from my royal grandmother. “It'll burn itself out like it always does. You know how these things work, Your Majesty. They'll be onto something else next week.”

  “I only know one thing,” she says sternly, giving me that sour look I know so well, lowering her monocle. “This – this, Silas – has got to stop.”

  Her white gloved hand crumples the tabloid in half and slaps it against her knee. It barely makes a sound against the thick, flowing fabric she wears.

  “I'm all over it. Victor told me this morning that they're being treated at the royal hospital. I ordered the very best for them. Way more than that jackass really deserves after his line of questioning.”

  Jackass? Shit.

  I know I've slipped up in her presence – again – but I act like it doesn't faze me. Honestly, why the hell should it?

  A little coarse language is the least of grandmom's worries, judging by the anger tugging at the lines on her face, a look that could give the Medusa a run for her snakes.

  “You, Prince, are not on top of anything. Nothing that truly matters, anyway,” she says, glaring. “Perhaps you're on top of your drinks, your parties, your greedy little tarts who don't have a drop of royal blood in their veins. Let me be perfectly clear, grandson – I've had it with the drama.”

  Her Majesty stands up, folds her arms, and twists that invisible dagger she just put through my guts deep. I'm taken aback. She's been cold and pissed off before, but never like this.

  This isn't grandmom talking to me. This is Queen Marina Bearington the Fifth, preserver of the kingdom, holder of billions in wealth and millions of hearts.

  “What are you saying? You don't think I'm sick to death of this shit myself?” I'm shaking my head. “I don't understand, Your Majesty. We've seen these storms a hundred times, and this is just one more. We'll wait for it to blow over.”

  “Look at you, Silas. You're all grown up. Some days, I tell myself, I should've seen this coming.” She pauses, narrowing her eyes. “Your father would've been just as big a disgrace, if I may be frank. He was off with his mistress on that yacht when it sank in the Mediterranean, taking him to his grave. You, I'm afraid, are heading down the same ugly path.”

  The whole damned floor drops out beneath me. She's never mentioned the accident since the funeral. Never breathed a word about the wicked rumors everybody in the kingdom knows are probably true.

  My old man was a player, too. Like father, like son.

  He would've been next in line to inherit the crown, saving me from all this, if only he hadn't sailed into a once in a hundred year storm off the Greek islands.

  “Your Majesty...grandmother...” I'm trying like hell to find my words. “I haven't disgraced anything. I haven't even had a chance to fill your huge crown. Why do you think I sat there like a good little boy through the interview, while Warwick took his shots? I'm trying to shape up, embrace all the pomp and duty you've groomed me for. Really.”

  “Really?” she repeats, questioning me, slowly descending the three steps leading up to her secondary throne. “Silas, I'm entering my ninth decade in this world. You ought to know by now I'm not a fool.”

  Goddamn. When we're on the same level, she's a lot shorter, barely coming up to my chest. But those deep blue Bearington eyes rip through me, one with her aura, making me feel like I'm only half her size.

  “You'll do better,” she says, ordering me with a tone she never uses, not even with the servants. “You must. I don't have much time for your embarrassments anymore. I ran out of patience ages ago.”

  Patience? She really wants to talk about shit?

  Mine is shot to hell.

  I cock my head, trying my damnedest to return the death stare, without letting the warm buzz from the scotch muddle my words.

  “What do you think I'm doing, Your fucking Majesty? I mean, really? Really? You think I'm some overgrown kid who's acting out? I must be enjoying this, yes, ruining our dynasty? You want me to admit it – is that it?”

  Maybe a small part of me loves self-destruction. Subconsciously. If the crown goes to hell, all these ugly worries go too.

  But I won't let that happen. I'm pulling out every stop to reshape myself in the eyes of the people, and she thinks I'm jerking everyone off.

  “Fuck,” I growl, running a hand across my face.

  She doesn't even flinch. Over in the corner, Patricia stirs, one hand on the phone in her pocket, ready to summon the guards if she needs to.

  It's the first time in months I've dropped F-bombs in the Queen's presence. It's the first time I can remember being this pissed, because I've actually tried. I'm standing there, wishing I could rip that stupid silver tiara off her head and throw it into the fire crackling behind her.

  Everybody in Saint Moore worships the ground t
his woman walks on.

  I don't.

  I can't.

  I've been her round peg since the day my father died, and she's been jamming me into a square hole I'll never fit through. I don't understand why she won't stop trying.

  It isn't good enough that I become King. No, I have to carry on her water-to-wine routine, acting like a saint sent to Earth, adored by millions I'll never truly relate to.

  I have to pretend it's vital to preserve this crown, when we could just as easily step down, ride off into the sunset with all our wealth, and let go of this medieval bullshit for the sake of prestige.

  “Don't you dare take that tone with me again, Silas,” she snaps, stopping when we're less than a foot apart. “I want you to listen, grandson, and listen good. You don't get to destroy fifteen centuries of tradition, wisdom, and grace. God knows this family has had its share of scoundrels and rakes going backward through the ages. We've survived them all. We'll survive you, too, because you're bigger than your antics.”

  Oh, fuck. Here comes the pep talk, where she tries to remind me I'm born for this, bound to a destiny I never chose.

  “Let me guess, you want me to straighten up, fly right, and start acting more like you? Everything I've promised for the last four years, yeah?”

  “Act, yes. Act. I want more than talk, Silas. I'd like you to honor your family and your kingdom,” she says, one more remark that puts me on guard. “Your mother was a wonderful woman. Out of her element with royal life, certainly, but she had a graceful heart. Look to her example.”

  I can't believe what I'm hearing. She's laid the guilt trip on thick before, but she's never stooped to using my dead mother.

  I want to pivot and walk the fuck out. Too bad that's a breach of protocol even I can't bring myself to do, not when I've been raised to believe it's like slapping my own grandmother across the face.

  “What's mom got to do with any of this, Your Majesty?” I say quietly, letting the last of my buzz wash over me.