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.