“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.