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 this 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.

“If you won't act for me, for this bloodline, or for this country, then please do it for her. I'm asking you to consider it seriously, Silas. I know full well by now I can't make you do anything. All the titles and power in the world can't do much for a man with your stubbornness.”

“How about specifics? How the hell can I prove to you I'm already serious? Every time I try, the bastards in the press turn it into the butt of another joke. I can't control that, and you know it, Your Majesty.”

She pauses. Thinking.

Damn. Have I stumped the Queen?

“You need a calming influence, something to prove that you're mature,” she says slowly, turning her head, studying my reaction for what comes next. “A woman, Silas. Not another whore you'll have for one night and never look at again. Find yourself a wife.”

I think I blink before my eyes pop out, but I can't say for sure. I can't even feel my face when her words sink in, anchor, and drag me down with them.

“Jesus. You're asking me to get married? Just like that?” I snort, turning around. “Surviving bombings in Kandahar was easier than that.”

“I never said it would be easy. I'm giving you a difficult, but effective alternative, son. The people never loved your father, Silas. They loved your mother...loved her almost as much as they adore me. If they can't learn to respect you, then maybe they'll respect your family, your children. I can't save you anymore. I've already accepted that.” She pauses, a sad glaze coming over those eyes I know so well. “I can only save the family, the office, and the crown. Everything I'm bound by God, oath, and blood to salvage.”

I want to ask why the fuck she's talking from both sides of her mouth. Telling me I need to shape up, but acting like I'm beyond redemption.

And marriage? She's talking crazy. I wonder if she's going senile.

One thing's for sure – I've had my royal limit tonight.

“Are we done here?” I growl, the only words I can get past my numb lips.

“You're dismissed. Think about everything I've said. Please.”

I can't. Not now. Maybe not ever.

My head dips in the shortest, angriest bow I've ever thrown her way. Then I spin so hard my designer shoes squeak loudly on the delicate tile, probably leaving a streak.

I don't care. I have to get the hell away from this place, this asylum I've always hated, the world's most opulent freak show.

It takes half my body strength to shove the heavy doors open. I'm not waiting for the guards. Victor doesn't say a word to me on the way back to my car.

He knows when to keep his damn mouth shut, and this is definitely one of those times.

I want to get back to the palace with a few new bottles at my side. I want tits in my face and tight, hot pussy sliding up and down my cock, draining this venom from my system.

Mostly, I just want to get out the latest orders to my entourage. Tell them I'm tired, pissed, and not to be disturbed with any business, official or petty, until past noon tomorrow.

* * *

Sleep won't come, no matter how many times I flop down on my Egyptian cotton sheets and shut my eyes.

Only thing worse than the anger throbbing in my temples is that ache in my balls. The one that's been there since I grabbed Little Miss Warwick's ass, looked into her dark brown eyes, and wondered how they'd roll with her riding my cock.

I need to shake this. I'm going for a walk.

I'm drunk, staggering downstairs from my VIP room, sometime around two A.M. Half the girls have left, disappointed I haven't made my appearance, several of them taking off with the bodyguards changing over their shifts.

All I need is one.

One pussy to take the edge off.

One pussy to remind me I can make a woman sing like nobody else.

One hot, sweet pussy to claim for the night, have my way with, and never see again.

“Silas!” A voice rings out behind me. The only one that's ever gotten away with calling me that name, without putting Prince or Your Highness in front.

The last fucking voice I want to hear tonight.

I stop dead in my tracks, halfway to the bar. That's all the time she needs to jump me, throw her arms around me, and spin herself around until we're face-to-face.

“Get out of here, Serena. I'm not in the mood,” I growl. Inwardly, I cringe.

I don't have to wonder what this woman's eyes look like when they're rolling back in her head. There's no mystery here. Last winter, I fucked my press secretary, a two week tryst in the mountains north of Bearington City. I was home for a couple weeks on leave from the Marines, and I was desperate for the only pussy still in season.

I remember exactly how she screams. How she twitches and calls out my name, over and over when I'm between her legs, bringing her off for the fifth time in one night.

I remember that I'm one and done, and the fact that I fucked this girl more than once, violating my own cardinal rule, is the reason I'm standing here looking into her desperate, hurt face.

“Jesus. You're drunk again, aren't you?” she says with a sigh, slowly taking her hands off me.

I start walking again, without saying anything. Already know it isn't going to stop her from trotting after me. Her heels scrape the floor, catching up after about ten seconds.

“Silas, you don't have to do this to yourself. You can drop the lonely, broody act when I'm around. Talk to me!”

I don't slow down or say anything until I'm at the bar. At least out here, she'll have to talk business, keeping up the pretense that she's never been anything more than my damned press secretary.

“You've got business for me that can't wait until morning, or what? I don't recall scheduling an appointment at this ungodly hour.” I reach out for the fresh glass of scotch the bartender has laid out for me without asking. We have a special understanding between us, one that lets him read my mind when it comes to spirits.

“Actually, yes,” she says, flipping her light blonde hair back.

I turn and stare at her. If she's trying to be flirty, she's out of her fucking mind.

And business? She can't be serious. That's the last thing I want in the middle of the night, when I can't decide if my cock is throbbing worse than my head.

I was simmering before, but now I'm pissed.

She's staring at me like a puppy waiting for me to throw her a bone.

“I wasn't serious. You think I'm really going to sit here and talk about my goddamned image at two o'clock in the morning, half blasted out of my mind?” I snap, draining my shot in one pull, and then putting down my glass for a new one.

“I think you will, yes, because I want you to consider something new. New idea, all mine. Strictly off the record, Your Highness.” She adds my title almost as an afterthought, purely because the bartender is eyeballing her. “I haven't vetted it yet with any of my staff.”

“You've got less than a minute,” I tell her, picking up my glass, focusing on how the light hits the scotch on the rocks. Everything glows like gold and crystal coming together.

“You have an image problem. You've been defined, sire, boxed in by the press. There's a dozen playboy jabs every time they say hero. Doesn't matter. Whether you're doing something wonderful, like you did today for that girl and her father, or something...a bit less noble, everybody sees a playboy.”

Yeah, they do. I barely stop myself from snorting and rolling my eyes.

They see the truth, I want to tell her, taking another long drink instead.

The player behind the medals and money is the whole reason I've got at least a dozen girls lined up here every night, offering themselves to me like I'm able to give them the universe.

In the bedroom, I do. I give them a few glorious hours they'll remember until the day they die, pounding them halfway to heaven with the biggest cock they're ever going to take.

And then I move onto the next. One and done.

“What's your point?” I say, my eyes running up and down her trim, skinny body. She's not a bad looking girl, but damn, she's nothing like the models I've had night after night.

Nothing like the curves I felt on that American broad today.

“It's not too late to break the mold. We can force the media to redefine you. It's worked for other royals and men in your class for ages. You've heard about Prince Lukov on the Baltic, right? A year ago he was just a womanizer, a drunk, a man they said had ties to the Russian mob...”

“Please.” I quietly balk at the comparison, sipping my scotch. “I don't have skeletons like Lukov in my closet.”

“Of course not, Your Highness. All I'm saying is, look what at the reports about him now. Loving husband. Family man. He's only a year into his marriage, and with the royal baby, nobody remembers the old Prince Lukov.” She pauses, seeing the skepticism in my eyes. “Or that Sterner kid, the billionaire in the States. He married his stepsister, for God's sake, but nobody cares about that scandal. They just see charity, family, the handsome married man.”

“And? I'm not shoving a ring on anybody's finger, or adopting a kid tomorrow, Serena.”

She smiles nervously, and leans in, just far enough so her leg touches mine. “Even a public courtship could go a long way, sire. A kiss for the cameras with a steady lady, stepping out of your cars with her at the next palace functions, having her come to dinner with you and the Queen. I think –“

“No.”

I only say it once. But I'm thinking no, no, fuck no to all that crazy.

No, no, no, goddammit, because I've heard the same thing tonight. It can't be coincidence.

I don't know what kind of game her and grandmom are playing, but they're hitting me from every side. Trying to push this marriage scheme.

It doesn't take much to see right through her. She clams up when I give her the heavy look, knocking back the last of my scotch.

“Silas, look, I'm not saying you need to get engaged to the love your life. It doesn't even have to be real. You can use me.”

Don't have a clue how I stop myself from choking on the booze. Shit.

I'm starting to see what's going on here. Grandmom's using the stick, and Serena, she must be the carrot.

And does she seem...warmer? I'm used to the stone cold bitch barking orders at the press corps and corralling reporters. Not this soft, smiling stranger I've only met a few times when she shared my bed.

I wonder how many she had down here before me to put her up to this. And she's still talking, trying to convince me with words she can't be crazy enough to believe.

“Use me,” she says again, words that would be sexy if they were coming from anybody else. “I'll do anything you want. We'll be perfect when in front of the cameras, and what a story it'll make! The Prince and his secretary. Can you see the headlines now? If they think you've found love, that you're starting to settle down, all those playboy stories vanish. Poof.”

She snaps her fingers. Smiling like mad. There's crazy eyes, and then there's hers.

I realize I'm sitting in front of a lunatic, drunker than a highland beach skunk.

I'm already feeling my hangover. The buzz burns through me, hotter than hell, completely overwhelming the desire to fuck that drove me down here.

Or is it all this asinine conversation?

“I knew you were desperate, Serena. I understood, and I cut you a break after everything that happened because it was my own damned fault. Still, this has got to be your stupidest idea yet.” I lean in, ignoring the twitch in her green pupils, so different from the way I made them shake six months ago. “Next time you decide to bother me this time of night, it better be good. Not because you want to talk about a fucking fantasy.”

I stand up, anxious to get upstairs to my suite. She reaches out, catches my wrist with both her hands, clutching at me like a mouse in a storm.

“Silas, we can't be through.”

“Babe, we never started. If you want to keep the position you've got without stirring up any crazy questions, you'll forget last winter. Everything. You'll remind yourself you're nothing but the royal press secretary, assigned to the Prince, and nothing more. Even if I entertained your fucked up suggestion for more than two seconds, there's no way I'd ever make you my...what? My pretend girlfriend? My fiance? My wife?”

Raw anger is the only thing that suppresses the savage laugh in my throat. Her eyes are soft, sad, maybe a little scared. Time to go, before I pull the trigger that sends fire straight through her heart.

I turn around and walk, praying she isn't stupid enough to follow. This time, she stays put. I can hear one of the bodyguards shuffle over just before I get into the elevator, and see him whisper something into her ear.

They hand out warnings like candy whenever I need to be alone. And the bitch has gotten to me, yeah, just enough for the guards to sense it, step in, warn her not to follow me. She'll listen, if she wants to keep doing anything in a royal capacity.

The elevator door closes, taking me back to my private level.

I've forgotten about the pussy I came down for. I'm finally ready to crash, and forget this brutal day.

Nobody ever said being Prince was easy.

* * *

I'm eating a late brunch the next day, wondering why I can't stop thinking about Serena's idiotic suggestion.

Maybe it's because the damned thing is...well, not so stupid after all.

Anything involving her would be a disaster, of course. But stepping out, finding a girl I can use to play pretend, just to get the media jackals and grandmom off my ass...no, that's not insane.

I've always been a fan of making my problems disappear overnight. When I see an opportunity, I don't let go.

Right now, a big, fat one is staring me right in the face. I can practically see it now.

Just a few minutes of playing pretty with my fake love a week. Maybe a dinner or two, just to keep up appearances, and keep her on good terms.

That's all I want. All I need to pull this off before I go back to drinking, whoring, doing whatever I damned well please.

My hero shine didn't last long when I left the service and Afghanistan, no matter what the nicer boys in the press try to say. Not like it suited me anyway.

I'd rather do scandal than play hero a thousand times over. Hero is a role I don't understand, and never will. It's dangerously detached from reality.

No, fuck hero. Afghanistan taught me life is short, more than anything else, and I'd better make the most of every day in case there's not another.

Hero's something I'll never understand. A suit that won't ever fit.

That's for grandmom, with her pomp, her tradition, her endless charity balls. Me, I know exactly what I am.

I just need to dial it back enough to prevent the Bearington crown from falling into the streets instead of my hands once grandmom's done.

I need a girl to play the part, to give me a new image. An actress, that's what I'm after.

Preferably, a girl who doesn't know a thing about who I really am, and who won't think twice about upsetting the whole arrangement because she starts to get attached.

Smiling, I sip my coffee, tasting all the sweet notes of the Hawaiian plantation it's imported from, just for me. Truthfully, everything seems bright and decadent and beautiful today.

It's glorious, because I woke up with my head straight, instead of a hangover. And it's only going to get better, damn it, because I have a plan.

I'm finishing up my goose eggs and coffee when Victor knocks. “You know it's open!”

He comes in, a somber look on his face, very much back to being my personal servant instead of my chaperon for Her Majesty.

“Your Highness, I heard about Miss Hastings and her chat last night with you in the club. I'm deeply sorry, particularly because I'm the one who's warned her about inappropriate discussions before. If you'd like me to discharge her from her position immediately, I certainly would have no qualms.“

“No. It's my fault for bringing her to bed. She's crushing like a stupid schoolgirl,” I tell him, owning up to it, as much as the bitch annoys me. “She's doing her job, giving me ideas to iron out my image. As long as she's doing that, she ought to keep what she's earned. She'll get over the rest of it, I'm sure, she's a professional at heart. Don't let her go, Vic. Just...keep her the hell away from me for awhile. Please.”

“Understood, sire,” he says, the look on his face telling me that's going to be easier said than done. “Is there a reason you've called me up here?”

“Yeah. I've been thinking about the Warwicks, wondering how they're doing.”

Victor narrows his eyes. Probably wondering what I'm really up to.

Screw him. He doesn't need to know. Not until it becomes absolutely necessary to spell everything out. Not a day sooner, because I know he'll try to talk me out of it, if he even gets a hint of what I'm after.

“If you're certain, Your Highness, it would be my pleasure to find out and relay the message for you.”

“I'd like that. I'd also like to know exactly what's wrong with her father, and what their finances look like.”

Victor blinks. “Prince, I can find out the details of his condition without issue. The financial arrangements might be another matter. As you know, they're both foreign nationals, and the kingdom has no agreement in place with the United States to look so closely at their private details.”

“Give me a damned break.” Shaking my head, I fold my arms and glare at him. “No more games, Vic. You know as well as anybody that they've had special agents checking over the island's bank accounts forever. Trying to catch the rich assholes who tried to use our banks as a conduit to Switzerland to avoid their taxes. It was all over the news, just a year or two ago.”

“That's true, Your Highness, but I don't see how American nosiness has anything to do with –“

“No buts. I'm not asking you to comb through the personal accounts of anybody at the US embassy. I'm just asking for the financials on the Warwicks. Two journalists nobody's going to start an international incident over. Can we do that?”

I wait tensely for the answer, and it better be yes. Vic hesitates.

Finally, he bows his head slightly. “Of course, sire. Anything you wish. I'll have to file a request with the intelligence office. You know how these things go. Hopefully, they'll process it promptly, and pass along something I can give to you by late tonight.”

“Make it happen. Mark it high priority, or whatever. I want that file.” Dismissing him with a wave of the hand, I stand up and head to the shower.

This bathroom is bigger than most people's homes. I've taken a couple dozen girls underneath the mock waterfall and the marble benches. Just last week, I fucked a brunette with fake tits here, pressing her against the wall, stretching her hair so tight in my hand the water sprayed her in the face when my cock took her over the edge. She took it without complaining, all for me.

Fuck. My dick wakes at the memory, pulses next to my belly button when I lather fine soap and water across every rock hard inch of me.

They all love it, this body.

The eagle tattoo crisscrossing my chest, wings spread wide, eyes set like a bird about to tear any lesser man's eyeballs out. The mad, dark stripes going up my arms, tapered like the royal flourish.

I'm a living tapestry. Something the press has always screamed about when they've caught little flashes of my tattoos sticking out my collar, or coming out the cufflinks near my wrists.

A million men would laugh all over the continent if I came out on the front pages shirtless.

Their wives would get wet, guaranteed, imagining what this wild, royal, unforgiving body could do to them.

And their nasty little fantasies about me – every last one of them – would be right.

I've got nasty on the brain, too. I grab my cock, all ten inches, and start stroking it like a demon.

It isn't that nameless brunette I fucked last week in this shower I'm thinking about. Isn't even the supermodel from Poland I sent home with a sore pussy several weeks further back, the one who's shared beds with half the billionaires and royals left in Europe.

I'm thinking about the girl I'm going to pretend to love.

Erin, Little Miss Warwick, with her soft American accent and hips begging to be wrapped around a good man's waist. Too bad for her there's nothing good about me.

I'll fill her anyway, fuck her, take her in ways she's never seen with those sweet, innocent eyes.

I want to corrupt her. Bad.

Even more than I want to use her to get my personal bullshit off my back, once and for all.

Christ, I'm a bastard.

Doesn't stop me from leaning into the wall, grunting like a bull, when I finally bring myself off, thinking about how she'd convulse on every inch of me.

I'm straining for precious breath by the end of it. Then I finish washing up, a sour frown pulling at my lips.

“Fuck you for thinking this'll be easy,” I tell myself, staring into my own ripped reflection while I towel off.

I'm sure she'll take the offer, when I find her weakness, and throw it in her face. They always say yes to me, every woman who isn't related by blood, or wearing a thousand year old crown on her head.

No? That's a word I can't imagine.

Erin's going to be the perfect cure for all my woes. If only I can go several months without sinking my dick into her, making things complicated.

She'll either save me from the vultures who won't stop picking at me and the entire royal line, or else.

Yeah...or else she'll ignite the biggest scandal the monarchy has ever seen.

By the time I've got the towel wrapped around my waist and I step up to the huge mirrors to comb my hair, I'm smiling.

Whatever else I am, I love a challenge. I love a high. I'm the richest, most famous adrenaline junkie in the world.

Prince Hung is officially on the prowl, and he never comes home empty handed.

This whole wicked situation promises excitement. Sexual, emotional, scandalous, glorious excitement.

And that irresistible risk is the reason she's in my sights. I'm making Erin Warwick the hottest fake Princess the world's ever seen.