In the darkroom I hung my latest developed prints and studied them closely. Would any of these be good enough to exhibit? Since leaving the island, I felt like that endless well of creativity was dying.

Like somehow removing me from the place I loved had shut me off entirely. My camera was usually my center. With it in my hands, I usually felt like I knew who I was.

But that was all different now. Everything had changed that day. And I didn’t know how to get any of it back.

6 Months Ago…

Sebastian …

No guy in his right mind said no to a hot girl who wanted to suck him off. But somehow, as Bridget’s hair fanned across my lap in a golden cascade, and her lips encased my dick in warmth, I couldn’t get into it.

She was beautiful and … enthusiastic, but my mind kept wandering to all the shit I needed to get ready for my first big gallery opening. I’d just gotten the news. All the hard work I’d put in was paying off and I had an opening in ten months, just after my birthday, for the Piques Gallery’s Fresh Young Talent exhibit. So instead of focusing on the woman with my dick in her mouth and my balls in her hand, I kept wondering if any of my pieces were good enough.

Clearly something was fucking wrong with me.

I loved women. All kinds of women. Tall women, short women, waiflike women, and curvy women. I’d never met one I wanted to say no to.

Bridget Lennox had tits so perky they defied gravity and an ass so tight someone should make a bronze casting of it. But she was just like everyone else: more than eager to get in my royal pants but lacking any real substance or desire behind her eyes.

None of what was happening was about me. And I’m just enough of an asshole not to care. There were three very distinct reasons for my ambivalence.

For starters, she wanted to bag the prince. I got that; I really did. Because … well, I was the prince, Crown Prince of Winston Isles. And as much as I hated it sometimes, the crown came with some perks.

The second reason I knew this enthusiastic display of oral skills wasn’t about me at all was that she had some daddy issues. Her father was the Duke of Essex, and fucking me would piss her old man off.

Ever since my failed engagement to Laila DuPont, the French duchess, it was open season on me, the eligible prince. Laila, it seems, didn’t want a royal life. Or at least not one with me. As it turned out, I wasn’t royal enough. After all, I wasn’t European royalty. My father hadn’t been pleased about the whole situation, and I knew he blamed me.

After Laila walked away, I went a little off the rails and became the kind of prince who made any royal father nervous.

I apparently had a bit of a reputation. So sue me.

The final reason for my ambivalence about Bridget’s performance was my awareness that she’d likely heard the rumors and wanted to test them out for herself.

I knew what women said. ‘Incredible stamina and unparalleled knowledge of the female form.’ There were many rumors; like I once went down on a woman for an hour and she passed out from too many orgasms. Oh yeah, and my personal favorite, that I was packing a ten-inch cock.

Neither of these were exaggerations.

Bridget had been trying to find out if I rocked boxers or briefs for the two years since I’d returned from my military service, and lost my would be princess. She wanted to know if I went commando.

I did.

No, I was lying. It was boxer briefs, but commando sounded better.

Bridget tilted her head forward, sucking me deep and forcing the tip of my cock to the back of her throat. Holy shit. Oh yeah, that got my attention.

Get your head in the game. You have a reputation to protect.

I let my eyes close and surrendered to pure sensation as she deep-throated me. There was almost something poetic about the way her hair brushed over my thighs.

As I gave in to the sensations, I let myself pretend that she was someone who could matter—that I was someone who could matter as more than just the crown.

The only warning I had that we were about to be interrupted were the footsteps at the door. My Royal Guard would never think of walking in. Only one person would turn that knob unannounced.

Shit.

My father was supposed to be in meetings with the Foreign Secretary of Labor. He wasn’t scheduled to be back for three days.

Bridget’s eyes widened, and she released my dick abruptly with an audible pop before scrambling under my desk.

Fuck me.

I pushed to my feet and winced as I shoved my dick back in my jeans.

Dad stopped short inside the door, glaring at me before narrowing his gaze at the massive oak desk in the center of the office.

Behind him, Roone gave me an apologetic shrug. Roone had been my best friend since I was eleven and sent off to boarding school, and now he was in charge of my security detail. He'd probably done his best, but my father was the king.

With a straight, stiff back, my father stepped inside and abruptly turned and shut the door. When he spoke, his voice was low and irritated. “Ms. Lennox, I'm sure you and I are going to forget this ever happened. No reason for me to discuss any of this with your father?"

From beneath the desk, I heard Bridget shuffling around. Presumably, getting her clothes on as quickly as possible.

She scurried out from under the desk when she was ready. "Your Majesty. Yes of course. No, we weren’t—I mean—” She stumbled through a response before grabbing her shoes.

Then with a quick wave to me, she ran past my father and out the door. When she was gone, Dad turned around. "Sebastian, you have got to be shitting me.”

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

Fuck.

I was in enough trouble as it was. Dad rarely swore. After all, it wasn't very royal. So, every time he did, I laughed, which he hated. "Dad. No, it’s not what it looks like."

"So, you're telling me that wasn't Bridget Lennox half-naked in your office fellating you?"

My lips twisted. "Yes, okay, it was what it looked like. But—” I stopped abruptly. What the hell was I going to say? ‘She really, really wanted to suck my cock’? Nope, better not.

My father shook his head. "You know what? That is a fight for another day.”

For real? Score. He must have been exhausted because he let me skate.

Just when I thought I’d escaped a boring lecture, he slammed down his tablet with so much force I worried it might crack. But it didn’t. On the screen was the promo for my gallery show. The promo clearly said, Winston. “Do you want to explain this to me?"

Shit. He wasn’t supposed to find out about that. I ran a hand through my hair and tried to think of a good explanation. He’d asked me to stop displaying my work six months ago. Listening was not one of my fortes. "Dad, I can explain." Maybe I should have mentioned to him I was still exhibiting my photos despite his royal edicts not to.

“We’ve discussed this Sebastian. The crown prince cannot run around being a photographer. And you certainly can’t take lewd photos and call them art.”

“My photographs are not lewd. You can’t see anything in the photos.” They were tasteful nudes. And it wasn’t like I only did nudes … ”

“Oh, but it’s the suggestion of nudity. I swear you are trying to rip this monarchy apart single handedly.”

“No one knows I’m Winston. Trust me, the monarchy will survive. You are so melodramatic. Why can’t you just see that I’m good at this? After all the years of you getting on me to focus, to find a cause to champion, I finally found something I’m really good at besides fucking.”

Maybe that was going a little far. But my whole life, the old man had been after me to be better—to do better. I'd get honors, and he’d say, ‘Why isn’t this a distinction?’

When I had a camera in my hands, it just worked. I was not a fuck-up or an embarrassment.

Dad shook his head. "You take beautiful photos. You always have, but you don’t get to be this. It’s time to put away childish things. You will be king, Sebastian. You have a higher calling than photographs. I've let you indulge this hobby of yours for too long."

"This hobby?" I narrowed my eyes.

"Don’t act like you don't know that this can't actually be a profession. You are the prince. What do you think will happen when the world discovers you’re Winston? You think they'll embrace it? Especially given the subject matter of these photographs? You need to be above it all. That is the job."

"You know, ever since I was a kid, you’ve been telling me what the job is. Have you ever stopped once to ask what I fucking want?"

"Watch your language."

I dropped my arms and picked up the camera on my desk. "This, I'm good at. Really good at. There are galleries that want to feature my shit."

"And that is fine for anyone other than you. But you need to set that aside. You can support the arts as much as you want. But Winston has to go." My father sighed before striding over to me and clapping a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know this is important to you. But we all have to give up things that are important to us when that crown gets placed upon our heads."

I wanted to blurt out the truth. But even now, I couldn't bring myself to hurt him like that. So the words stuck in my throat. I don't want the crown.

He had given up his whole life to be king when his brother abdicated. To him, it was a calling. “So that’s it. I’m just supposed to walk away?”

“It’s what we must all do.”

The crux of it was I loved the Winston Isles. This was my home. I loved the people. I genuinely wanted to make their lives better. But I just wanted to do that through photography and not through the crown. But as I was the only child of the king, there were no other options.

My father sighed. "Sebastian, there's actually something else I need to talk to you about.”

"You mean besides burning my dreams to the ground? By all means. You’re on a roll now it would seem.”

My father shook his head. "Stop acting like a child. We have bigger things to talk about right now."

I frowned. “Like what? The fact that you want me to take on

more duties?”

Father sighed. “No.”

“Then what?” I wasn’t in the mood for more of his shit.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

“If this is your version of the birds and the bees, you’re too late. Besides, I’m careful. I don't have any kids. Number one lesson you drilled into me the moment I hit puberty: wrap it up. Always."

Dad frowned, the expression making him look older than he was. "Must you always be so cavalier? This is important. Children shouldn’t pay for the sins of their fathers."

Way to lay on the guilt. "I know the responsibility that you're placing at my feet."

His father sighed. "Yes, eventually. I'd like to see you mature more. But at the end of the day, I know the kind of man you are. I know what you're capable of. And you could do great things. The people of the Winston Isles deserve that. I know what's at the heart of you." My father rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s about the Regents Council and the succession law.”

I shook my head. “I still don’t know why you’re pushing so hard to change the law. I mean, it’s not like Uncle Roland’s illegitimate heir could have any claim on the throne. He’d be like sixteenth in line or something.”

The Regents Council was made up of sixteen members of the court or high-ranking government officials, and they helped make the laws in the islands. Unlike England, the monarch in the islands still had a say in day-to-day government. The people elected a prime minister and lesser officials. The prime minister sat on the council to speak for the people.

When it came to matters of state, I usually let my father do the voting on my behalf. Because there was nothing more boring and mind-numbing than a Regents Council meeting.

"I know they will fight me, especially your cousin Ashton. He's terrified that his father has illegitimate children floating around."

A sense of dread rolled onto my shoulders like the shadow of an elephant. "What's going on?"

My father clasped his hands. "I’d hoped to wait until later to tell you this, but it's important to do so now because the rumors are going to start flying when I start pushing for a vote."

I crossed my arms. "You're freaking me out."

Dad winced. I knew he didn't like the American colloquialisms that I had picked up while going to university abroad. My natural accent was more British than anything, thanks to boarding school at Eton, but I'd picked up an American one along the way, as well as some particular phrasings. It drove His Royal Majesty insane. "There's a reason I've been pushing for the vote. And it's not because of Uncle Roland."

I frowned. That stung. "Fuck, you really think I’m dumb enough to get some want-to-be-princess pregnant?"

"No, Seb. I'm doing it because of me. I have other children."

* * *

"Did you know?" I fired the question at my mother before I even closed the door to her chambers.

My mother looked up from the stack of charity invitations and studied me over the rim of her glasses. "About your father? Yes."

I stared at her as I realized my entire life, my entire childhood, had been a complete falsehood. "And you’re so calm about it."

"Yes, I'm calm about it. It was a long time ago, Sebastian. We didn’t love each other then. Our marriage was arranged. We were two virtual strangers who signed pieces of paper and stood before the people of these islands and promised ourselves to each other. We didn't know each other. We didn't know what kind of commitment that love would take. That came later. And when you love someone, you accept their faults."

“How can you still love him after this? I have siblings out there somewhere.”

"I know. I've always known about them. He's worked hard over the years to keep track of their lives. Neither one of their mothers would allow him to see them. They wouldn’t take any money. He's trying to do right by them."

"What about us? Was he doing right by us by lying?"

My mother slid her glasses off the edge of her nose then placed them on top of the stack of invitations. "Yes. He lied. To you and to our people. But the important thing is he's trying to fix that. But understand he’s never lied to me. From the moment he decided to commit himself to me, when we decided to commit ourselves to each other, he's been honest. I know exactly the man he is. Just because you didn’t know doesn't mean he's not the same father who's loved you and tried to teach you how to be a decent human being, despite all the trappings of wealth and being spoiled rotten your whole life."

"How can you say that? Turns out, I'm just like him. All the lecturing about what it means to be king. The shitty thing is I never wanted any of this. Still don't."

"It's not about what you want, Sebastian. Your father's trying to do the right thing. I find that far more admirable than you kicking up a fuss like a three-year-old. You are cocky and arrogant and walk around here like you own the place. You want to be an artist? Great. Teach others how to be artists. Provide for others who don't have the means to be artists. But to give up the monarchy to take pictures? That’s selfish."

I clenched my teeth so tightly I was worried I might crack a molar. "Why can't you see that this is my dream?"

My mother folded her arms. "It must be nice to have dreams. I don't want you to be unhappy, sweetheart. I don't want you to go through your whole life and wonder if there were other things you could have done, someone else you could have been. But there is a responsibility and a duty to the people who love you. If you can't see that, maybe you don't deserve to be king.”

"I don't want to be.”

As our gazes locked in a staring contest, it occurred to me that if my father was able to get the law passed, there would be two other legitimate heirs to the throne. And maybe, like my uncle Roland, I could find myself unfit and unsuitable to wear the crown.

I found myself just feeding that kernel of possibility; giving it sunshine, putting water on it, and letting it grow gave me hope. I realized there might be a way out of the stifling prison the crown represented after all.

If I could find one of my siblings, then I could be free.

With one text to Roone, a stop by my room for a bag, I left the only home I’d ever known without so much as a backwards glance.