She’s totally off-limits...

...which makes her even more irresistible!

Famed for his iron control, Prince Benedict, just weeks from joining the priesthood, is unprepared for the chemistry that ricochets through him when he meets Ruby. She is temptation personified...but she couldn’t be more inappropriate for a royal fling! Except after years of choosing duty over desire his control has finally snapped—he’s choosing pleasure...of the most X-rated kind. After all, if he’s going to indulge in the forbidden, the higher the stakes, the greater the thrill!

“DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author

RILEY PINE is the combined forces of two contemporary romance writers as you’ve never seen them before. Expect delicious, dirty and scandalous swoons. To stay up to date with all things Riley Pine head on over to rileypine.com for newsletters, book details and more!

If you liked My Royal Sin, why not try

One Night Only by JC Harroway No Strings by Cara Lockwood Playing Dirty by Lauren Hawkeye

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

My Royal Sin

Riley Pine

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07125-3

MY ROYAL SIN

© 2018 Riley Pine

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Benedict

MY KNEES ARE stiff against the cold flagstones. No surprise, seeing as I’ve been at prayer since before dawn. But my concentration breaks every time my gaze falls on the painting of the blonde angel, the one hanging above my head in the gilded frame. Instead of elevating my soul, she’s become my secret torment, her innocent image taking center stage in my wicked fantasies.

Imagine if she were flesh and blood instead of oil and canvas. Better still...imagine those pouty red lips sheathing my shaft, her hot tongue taking me to heaven while I pump her greedy mouth.

During these brief daydreams, I’m not Brother Benedict, a holier-than-thou man in a white collar and black cassock. I’m just plain Benedict—a free man able to give himself to all perverted desires, damn the consequences.

I suppress a shudder. Freedom is the one possession I’ve never had in my privileged upbringing as the second son to the King of Edenvale.

It isn’t only dangerous for me to lust, it’s pointless.

Rising, I crush my fist into my prie-dieu. With a heavy grunt, I lean my weight into my split knuckles, leaving a small tattoo of blood on the polished mahogany, penance for my debauchery.

At that very moment, the rising sun hits my prayer room’s stained glass window, and the pane glitters like so many jewels. I freeze, hypnotized as the multicolored shards cast reflections on my throbbing hand.

Hundreds of years ago, a long-forgotten artist had carefully selected each of these colors based on their symbolic meanings:

Red for courage and martyrdom.

Blue for heaven and the promise of eternal life.

Green for hope and victory over sin.

Gold for divinity.

White for purity.

I bow my head and retreat into the shadows, my stomach clenching like a fist, tight with guilt. I’m a seminarian and in one month’s time I’m going to take my final vows for Holy Orders.

This is my duty. My life has been scripted for this moment since birth. I can’t afford for my resolve to weaken.

I stride from my private prayer room to pace my austere apartment on the top level of a medieval watchtower that rises from beside the royal chapel at the edge of the palace grounds. From this vantage, I can see all the way to the river and to the north, the extensive manicured gardens of the castle, where my father, the King of Edenvale, resides along with my older brother, Prince Nikolai, and his new bride, Princess Kate.

A choking bitterness rises in my throat. I do not covet my beautiful new sister-in-law, but I do...covet.

Maybe it’s pathetic to be turned on by a painted angel. But what can you expect from a twenty-seven-year-old virgin and almost-priest?

These days it feels like the Devil tests me at every corner, filling my waking hours with carnal urges. I am no saint, just another sinner.

And what’s one more sin, to release the pressure in my thickened cock?

I make my way to my bathroom and flick on the shower, setting the dial to an arctic cold, and strip, maintaining eye contact with my reflection. My dark hair and arrogant nose reveal me as a member of the royal Lorentz family. My body is hard, but there is no pleasure to be derived from these cut muscles. They are products of long workouts designed to cleanse my mind.

The trouble is that nothing is working.

I step into the frigid spray and close my hand around my rigid shaft.

“Forgive me, Father,” I mutter, beginning to stroke.

My actions are practiced. A firm squeeze at the root, twist at the head, grinding my palm against the crown. It doesn’t take long until the bathroom fades and a fantasy takes shape. Today I’m grinding my cock between the soft orbs of a perfect ass, not penetrating the perfect rose-tinted pucker, but humping the silken crease. My imaginary lover offers a moan, pushing back her hips, urging me to quit toying and grant her release.

I slide my hand to her slick delicate folds and let out an agonized groan.

She tosses her thick mane of golden hair and regards me coyly over one shoulder. But her angelic eyes gleam a deep crimson red, alight with hellfire. Her wings extend and aren’t white feathers, but ebony leather, and when she speaks, it is to promise to plague my soul for eternity.

My fantasies always end the same way. Troubled, to say the least.

My hand flies from my cock, and I fall to my knees, bracing myself on the tile. The shower spray pummels my slumped shoulders, but no baptism is on offer. Neither is physical relief.

In thirty days, I will stand before the high altar in the Shrine of St. Germain and fulfill the long tradition of my family entering the priesthood. My elder brother, Prince Nikolai, is the true heir of our people, and his recent nuptials mean—the Lord willing—that children won’t be far behind.

For the good of the kingdom, I must step aside from the path to succession and consecrate my life to the cloth, as have all the second sons of our line. Once it becomes clear our seed isn’t needed to propagate future kings and queens, we spares are quietly removed in order to prevent any family infighting.

And I am to do so with a smile on my face.

If I ever chafed at fate or held dreams to fall in love, to raise children, to have a life dictated by my own choices, those days are finished.

If I pray hard enough, if I purify myself enough, if I try harder...I will be the perfect priest.

Failure is not an option.

Our family has suffered enough in the years since our mother’s unexpected death and it’s a worthy fate, one that has the power to achieve so much good.

I need to suck it up.

Life could be a lot worse.

Rising, I flick off the water and towel myself off, my actions rough with self-loathing and disappointment. The harder I try to resist my urges, the more these lustful fantasies grow: orgies, BDSM, decadent and forbidden acts, signs that a burning desire smolders beneath my repression. I hate being a fraud, but I can overcome it.

Fire needs oxygen to blaze, and I refuse to entertain this behavior for a second longer.

Exiting into my bed chamber, I move with purpose back to my prayer room—and the gift from my elder brother—my golden angel. On the opposite wall of the gilded frame is a cedar chest, and inside is a black satin bag. I open the drawstring and remove the knotted leather whip. The towel slung around my hips drops, and I don’t allow a moment’s pause before grabbing the handle and bringing the cord between my shoulder blades with a biting blow.

Bright stars of pain explode behind my eyes. I recite the Lord’s Prayer while continuing my self-flagellation, increasing the force of my swing as my gaze locks onto the angel’s sorrowful eyes. She knows all, everything from my doubts to my hidden resentments about being the second son born into a mapped-out future. But I hope that she also sees my determination to bear the weight of family expectation.

After ten blows, my stomach churns and hot blood runs down my skin. Good. Now I shall fast until sundown. The gnawing hunger should dull any unwelcome thoughts.

I’m fastening my white collar when a bell rings, a sign someone has entered the chapel.

A quick glance in the hall mirror provides confirmation that I appear every inch the picture of a serene priest eager to tend to my flock.

No hint of the devil within.

Ruby

I straighten my Cleopatra-style wig and dip my head to make sure the girls are in place, assessing the cleavage and how my breasts threaten to spill over the top of my corset. I take my chances that my client is a breast man, because, really, what man isn’t? Clients tend to pay more when they salivate upon introduction. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. In fact, I’ve heard some girls say they’ve taken home an evening’s worth of pay from a man’s ogling alone. But ogling won’t be enough for this job. My instructions require far more than that, and though it’s my first night of employ, I am required to give my client whatever he desires. And if he desires nothing, I must tempt him to want more. There is no work in this kingdom for an artist from a disgraced family, so I have to take what I can get. The Madam at The Jewel Box sought me out, and I couldn’t refuse her offer, not when it meant I could provide not only for myself but also my brother’s wife and child.

“They asked for Pearl, but I believe an ingenue will appeal so much more to our dear, inexperienced prince,” the Madam had said before I left. “And you’re the freshest of my pretty little blossoms. The flower not yet picked. Pearl’s not desperate like you are. Plus, that damned bodyguard X would recognize her in an instant. I’ve been looking for a way inside the palace—and other buildings on the grounds—which means you get to be my little lookout.”

“I don’t understand,” I told her. “You want me to spy for you? Why?”

I can still feel the sting of her palm against my cheek.

“And here I thought you’d been trained,” she’d crooned. “Question me, and there will be consequences. Disobey me, and—consequences. All I need you to do is tell me if he owns a painting of an angel—until recently, one I was led to believe had been destroyed when your father passed—and report where the painting is.” She smiled her mirthless smile, and I fought back tears at the mention of Papa—at the fear of being struck again. “Darling, you not only get to seduce a celibate prince, but you get to find me something very valuable. Succeed in gathering the prince’s attention—and finding what I seek—and you’ll be a jewel as prized as your name. Succeed, and you and your remaining family will want for nothing as long as you remain in my employ.”

I swallow the threat of my own conscience trying to weigh in. What do I care about a stupid painting or what she wants with it? I have the chance to save my brother, Jasper. That’s all that matters.

So I repeat her words over and over again to center myself in the moment—to remind myself of what I must do.

I nearly break an ankle climbing the chapel stairs in these boots, four-inch stilettos that cuff just below my short skirt. After almost two months of my apprenticeship, I’m used to the shoes and clothes, but my attire was not built for more than seduction.

There’s also the small fact that I’m on the Edenvale Palace grounds—making my way to an apartment in the lonely-looking, ivy-covered tower next to the chapel. My phone rings, and instead of silencing it as I pull it from my pocket, I accidentally answer it.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“Shit,” I whisper-shout as I scramble back down the steps. “Camille, I’m here. Just...give me a second...” I race outside and around the corner, through the first door I see, not wanting my client to catch me conducting any sort of personal business when I am supposed to be...working. Complaints equal a reduction in my take, and some, I’ve heard, suffer worse.

I freeze, though, when I realize where I am—in the Royal Edenvale Church itself.

“Is everything okay?” I whisper into the phone, and I hear my brother’s wife sniffle before she speaks.

“You’re...you’re working. Aren’t you?” Her voice breaks on that word, working, and I can hear her anguish, her guilt.

“Yes,” I answer, trying to soothe her with the one word. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about me. But something is wrong with you. Tell me what it is.”

She sniffles again. “I took Lola to visit her father today. It was the first time I brought her with me, the first time she would see Jasper in two months, and when the guards told him we were there, he refused to see us.”

I suck in a breath, both at Camille’s pain but also for my brother, Jasper. Because I’m at the Edenvale Palace, completely out of my depth, about to seduce a man I’ve never met—a prince, no less. I understand his shame.

“He loves Lola. You know that. And he loves you. But prison is no place for a child. And you can understand him not wanting her to see him like that. Can’t you?”

I hear the clang of heavy shoes on metal in the tower entryway next door, which can mean only one thing. My client is approaching.

“He wouldn’t refuse to see his child,” Camille weeps. “Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones.”

“I’m sorry,” I say frantically, trying not to let my own worry about Jasper sink in but also not wanting the prince to find me hiding out in the chapel on my phone. “I have to go, but if tonight plays out as it should, I will have enough to pay this month’s lease on the cottage. You and Lola are safe for now. That is all that matters.”

“But—”

The door from the stairwell starts to slide open, and because I have no choice, I end the call and sneak past the pews and into a confessional. I’m still trying to calm my breathing when the shadow of a man appears on the other side of the lattice.

“Have you come to make confession?” a deep, gravelly voice asks.

I stopped believing in any higher power long ago. But I know why I’m here and what part I need to play. “Forgive me, Father. For I have sinned.”

I open the screen on my phone that has my script for our introduction. I must believe in my brother’s innocence, and that giving up my own will set him free. If I can earn the money the Madam is talking about, then I can buy the best legal representation and set my brother free. Jasper Vernazza is a world-famous art historian. He’d never dream of stealing anything from the museum to sell on the black market. Someone set him up, but for the life of me I cannot imagine why.

“You may proceed, child,” he says. “The Lord is ready to forgive your sins.”

I stroke a finger along the lattice grate and hum, reminding myself to play the part for which I’m being paid.

“What if I want to keep sinning?” My voice is breathy and soft as I infuse it with the need a client would ache to hear. It’s practiced need on my part, of course. But if my training was a success, he won’t know the difference. I glance at the screen in my palm. “What if all I want is to relieve you of that desire pulsing between your legs?”

“Who sent you?” he says, and I can tell he speaks between gritted teeth.

“Let me taste your thick, aching cock, Father,” I say, my voice sweet as an angel as I try to sound less like I’m reading and more like this is what I truly want. “Let me take you so deep. I want to feel you throbbing, salty sweet against my tongue—”

I jump at the sound of what must be his fist thumping the wall between us.

“Who. Sent. You?” he interrupts, but I will not be deterred, not when my only choice is to succeed.

I scroll through the preplanned dialogue on the screen. “Think of all those times you’ve come alone,” I tell him. “Every fantasy you’ve ever had, every sinful act you’ve dared to let yourself imagine—I can be that for you.”

His breaths are ragged, but he does not speak.

I glance at the screen again as a text notification pops up, catching me off guard.

“‘Why did you hang up on me?’” I read, but then realize I’ve read it aloud. And then I add, “Shit!”

He breathes in, and I can tell he’s about to speak, so I fast-forward to the next step to regain control of the seduction, even if it is a lie.

I let go of the lattice and slip my free hand under my skirt, closing out the text and returning to my lines.

“Highness.” I moan as I slip a finger beneath my thong, working myself until I’m wet. “Do you hear that?” I ask, plunging two fingers into my now slick heat. “That’s my pussy, so ready for you. Don’t you want a taste? Just a little lick?”

You need the money. Your brother’s life—the lives of his family—depend on it.

This silent reminder plays on a loop in my head as I try to lose myself in self-pleasure before I get swallowed by regret.

This is for your family.

I swirl a slippery finger around my clit and gasp, the phone clattering to the floor. “Don’t. You want. To make. Me. Come?” I ask between pants, the words all me now. I am lost in the moment just as if I were in the tiny bedroom of my old flat, taking myself to a place that is not here, in this church, but somewhere I am safe. Somewhere I am wanted rather than paid. “Is your hand on that cock, Highness? Is it daring you to bury yourself inside me? Because all you have to do is step into my side of the confessional and sheath yourself to the hilt.”

I try to bring myself to climax, but even I can’t forget entirely where I am or why I ended up here. So I embellish, crying out in feigned ecstasy.

“Oh... Your Highness. Oh God! Your Highness, I can’t—” I add a few more gasps before yelling, “Benedict!”

“Enough!” he growls, and I collapse onto my knees with a satisfied grin.

Yes. That was quite enough.

He waited until he thought I was done, which means he didn’t want me to stop. If that’s all that comes of tonight, I have succeeded in the first step for which I have been hired.

You must earn his trust and break him.

Because this is not just any client on the other side of the wall. He is a prince, second in line to the throne and brother of our future king. I’ve just attempted to get myself off in the presence of a man I’ve only ever seen on a television screen or staring at me from the pages of a newspaper.

I let down my guard for mere seconds and scramble for my phone on the floor, which is why I startle to see him standing in the opening of my booth.

“Forgive me, Father,” I say, straightening the skirt that barely covers what lies beneath. The air smells of sex, and the man looming before me stares with beautiful green eyes. “Did I make you sin?”

He grabs me by the wrist, and I paint on my most wicked grin.

“Come,” he says and pulls me from the booth.

I force a playful laugh. “But, Your Highness...I already have.”

CHAPTER TWO

Benedict

THE WOMAN FROM the confessional booth is sin in stilettos. Her angled bob accentuates her heart-shaped face, highlighting porcelain skin and perfect crimson-painted lips. While her mouth slants into a coy smile, eyes are said to be portals to the soul, and her violet-blue irises hint at secret pain.

“For the last time, who sent you?” I ask her gently, a wolf in lamb’s clothing. Because her unexpected performance has had the desired effect. My cock strains against the thick band of my boxer briefs, where I clamped it securely in place before pulling her out into the light. The air around us is perfumed by a salty, rich tang, a scent not unlike my own release, and yet beguilingly unique.

Is this what women smell like between their legs?

A muscle in my jaw twitches even as my nostrils involuntarily flare. My mouth waters.

“Sent me, Your Highness?” Her lilt reveals she is from Rosegate, the disputed territory on our northern border with Nightgardin.

Interesting.

Rosegate whores are notorious throughout Europe, hothouse flowers offered to elite clients for the price of what most people make in a year. And I can see the appeal. If I wasn’t planning on offering my inheritance to the church, I’d gladly use it to open this woman’s petals, to press my tongue to her bloom and drink in her dew.

“What makes you think someone sent me?”

I bunch my hands into fists, will my lust into an internal dungeon and padlock the door. My duty is to provide this woman respite from whatever spiritual matters weigh on her soul.

Nothing else.

“You passed by no less than four guard posts, then over acres upon acres of landscaped ground covered in Europe’s most state-of-the-art surveillance system. Yes, my child, someone indeed sent you to me.” But who would want to tempt me from the righteous path? Was it a trick of some discontented servant?

“Oh please.” She huffs a laugh but refuses to meet my gaze. “I’m no one’s child.”

She’s right, of course, even as she evades my question. Her ripe body is pure woman, but she is younger than my own twenty-seven years. If I were a betting man, I’d wager she was at most twenty, a young woman who should be busy studying at university, not here at the royal chapel, being paid to seduce an almost-priest.

“You have two choices.” I draw myself to my full six-foot-five-inch frame. “Either give up a name, or I’ll be forced to take you upstairs for questioning.” I don’t exactly know what that entails, but she can’t remain here in sight of Christ on the Cross. “Follow me.”

“Are we going to your bedchamber?” She skims her hands over her breasts, the tops spilling over her tight outfit, the skin soft and succulent as a peach.

“Not a chance.” I can’t question this woman anywhere near my bed.

That leaves one option.

I begin walking, my pace fast and unfaltering. I might not be heir, but I took my first steps in the throne room and arrogance is my default. I was raised to lead, to expect others to follow. After a moment, the sharp clicks of her heels behind me confirm my assumption that she is keeping up.

We enter my personal tower and I lead her up the spiral staircase. “Do we have far to go?” she asks after the second floor. “These boots aren’t made for walking.”

I’ll give her that, all right. They’re made to draw the eye to the lush curve of her shapely thighs.

“In here,” I say crisply as we stop in front of a carved oak door.

I open it, and the bright summer daylight shines dimly through the slitted windows, an architectural holdout from when medieval archers used these openings while stationed in the turret.

She scans the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and gasps. “I’ve never seen so many books in one place except at the royal library.”

I swallow a smile. My personal collection is rather extensive.”

Little does she know that hidden behind covers like A History of French Cathedral Gargoyles are entirely different reading materials: Story of O, The Joy of Sex, plus a stash of Greek and Egyptian erotic art. Studying sexual arts is something of a twisted hobby. While I may be inexperienced, I’m far from ignorant in the ways of giving and taking pleasure.

“Sit.” I gesture to a leather chair. It takes all my willpower not to revel in the length of her creamy thighs, exposed beneath her tiny skirt. I walk to an antique globe on a desk and give it a spin. “Were you sent by Nightgardin?”

Nightgardin is the kingdom to the north of our borders. Like Edenvale, it is small by modern standards, more a Luxembourg than France, but our mutual enmity has spanned centuries. For generations our two countries have warred through battles and of late, diplomacy, to control Rosegate, a much-admired city that sits on our border, claimed by both kingdoms.

Desperation darkens her gaze. “That’s not important.”

“I disagree. Nightgardin would take pleasure in exposing me as a hypocrite right before I take my holy vows.”

“Please, believe me.” Tears fill her eyes as her delectable bottom lip tremors. “I don’t know anything. The Madam simply informed me of my assignment. A town car picked me up and brought me here.”

My brow furrows at the anxiety in her voice.

“Crap.” She covers her face with her hands. “I am blowing this so hard. Madam will fire me without a second thought, and I will be royally screwed. Please, Highness. Father. Whatever. Let me suck you, fuck you. You can have me anywhere, penetrate any place.” She drops to her knees and tosses her hair back from her face.

“Anything?” Her offer warms my belly like a shot of scotch. “You’ll let me act out any fantasy? No inch of you is off-limits?”

Her pupils widen, the delicate vein in her neck pounds. “I am yours to command.”

Someone is hell-bent on sabotaging me. But the joke could be on them. Tonight’s encounter could grant me a path to redemption that no one has counted on.

This woman offers me the chance to break every rule. But what if I can withstand her angelic body? Here is the perfect way for me to cast doubt aside and prove myself worthy of taking my final vows.

“Stand up. I have a proposition.”

Ruby

I swallow hard. Whatever he proposes, it cannot be enough to sway me from my purpose. I must make him give in to his lust, make him trust me, or we will lose everything. I close my eyes and remind myself of the stories some of the other girls have told me, though these tales are nothing found in the books that line the library’s walls. They claim it wasn’t always like this, that the Madam had changed ever since she’d returned from a trip to Nightgardin a year ago. Now she punished her girls for losing a client—and let clients dole out whatever consequences they saw fit, as well.

I once lost a month’s wages for not swallowing when my client came in my mouth.

I know a girl who had her nose broken for telling her client he needed to bathe more often.

One girl got caught by her client’s wife. The Madam not only fired her but had them scar her face so no client would want her after that, just in case she tried to do business independent of The Jewel Box.

I don’t want to know who they are or how they enact physical punishment, but the prince has not yet kicked me out, so I will humor him and listen to what he proposes.

“What do you want from me?” I ask. “I’ve already offered you everything I have to give.”

Myself.

He walks along the shelves, running a finger over the spines of the books.

“I take my final vows in one month’s time. If it is, in fact, my brother who has put you up to tempting me, then he shall get his wish. Just not as he thinks.”

My brows furrow, and he turns to face me as he continues.

“This—” he points to his collar “—has always been my path. The eldest son will rule the kingdom, and the spare will keep the royal family and its subjects on a moral path. The third... Well, you’ve heard of my brother Damien’s banishment. Our family has been disgraced enough. I will not add to it.” He raises a brow. “I know the rumors about my mother.”

My cheeks burn. Though the queen died many years ago, gossip of the second son—of the man standing before me—being a bastard has long circulated throughout the kingdom. The origin of his birth means nothing to me. All I care about is my duty. My family.

“For many reasons,” he continues, “this is a responsibility I have never taken lightly. Until now I have not succumbed to the temptation of the flesh, but then, I’ve been careful not to let myself truly be tempted.”

I rise to face him, but he still towers over me. “Stop speaking in code, Your Highness. I came here to do my job. Are you or are you not sending me home a failure?” I don’t think the Madam truly cares whether I am able to seduce him or not. I just need to stay long enough to look around—to find the painting she’s so convinced is on these grounds. I try to sound tough, not to let on what failure could mean, but the tremble in my voice betrays me.

He reaches a hand toward my face but squeezes it into a fist before his skin meets mine.

“Tempt me,” he says, and a muscle in his jaw ticks.

“I don’t understand,” I tell him. “I thought I already tried.”

He unfastens his collar and pulls it from beneath his shirt. “I am not worthy of the priesthood unless I truly can resist. Unless I am genuinely tempted. Whatever your fee is, I will triple it if you come here nightly to try to lead me from my virtue.”

My breath catches. Triple my fee. Nightly. Surely the Madam will free me from my original obligation if he is willing to pay such a wage. And coming to him every night? Wouldn’t that give me access and time to find what she seeks?

“Nightly? Would you send for me when wanted, or shall I show up and surprise you?” I laugh and bat my lashes at him. “Like tonight?”

He shakes his head. “If you need to do this to provide for yourself...” He nods at my attire, the small gesture filling me with more shame than masturbating in a confessional.

The Prince of Edenvale sees me as a whore. I have to remind myself that is exactly what I am now. Once upon a time, I was the beloved daughter of a famous and respected man. But I am not that girl anymore.

I raise my chin in a futile attempt at defiance. “What?” I ask. “Say whatever it is you were going to say next.”

He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair, and I realize that whatever he’s about to propose, he’s nervous.

This realization melts a little of the ice around my heart.

“There is a cottage past the gardens in the center of the maze. It’s been vacant for months, but there is staff assigned to clean and maintain it in case of visitors. It is ready for you right now.”

My pride begs me to refuse him, but the thought of another night in the brothel has me putting logic, comfort and safety first.

“I can’t afford rent,” I say coolly.

“There would be none, of course.”

“And during the day?” I ask.

He nods. “Your days are your own to do as you please, on or off the palace grounds. I will send for you nightly at eight o’clock. Our work begins tomorrow.”

On or off the palace grounds.

I can find that painting in a matter of days.

“What other rules are there?” I ask, waiting for the catch, for the other shoe to drop.

He clasps his hands at his waist, the collar between them. “As long as your skin never touches mine in a sexual nature, there are no other rules. Do what you will to tempt me from my path.”

He reaches a hand toward my face again, and just when I think he’s about to break his own rule, he pulls my wig free, letting my blond waves tumble over my shoulders. Again that muscle tightens in his jaw, but he is otherwise unreadable.

“And never,” he says, his voice gentle yet authoritative, “wear this again.”

He wants to pay me triple what I’d make with any other clients—without him ever laying a hand on me. I swallow tears and extend a hand. “I’m Ruby.” I give him my fake name from the brothel, and he hesitates, my wig in one hand, his collar in the other. “Shaking hands doesn’t violate any rules, does it?”

The corner of his mouth quirks into something almost like a grin. Almost.

For a moment I’m tempted to tell him the truth. I am Evangeline Vernazza. Surely he would recognize my father’s surname. But no. Prince Benedict and I are more similar than he thinks. I know family disgrace as much as he does. I am not a budding artist, daughter of a respected name anymore. I am Ruby, the newest escort from The Jewel Box, the most prized brothel in Europe.

He drops the wig to the floor and takes my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Ruby.”

I smile enough for the both of us. “Your Highness, I’d say you’ve got yourself a deal.”

CHAPTER THREE

Benedict

I HAVE NEVER laid eyes on this woman in my life, so why does a strange recognition thrum through me? Ruby’s golden hair tumbles over her narrow shoulders, loose curls that skim the swell of her breasts as they rise and fall. Her unease is palpable, a problem when my own instincts are hardwired to provide comfort. I flick my gaze to the wall where a discreet intercom system blends into the sumptuous red-and-gold wallpaper. Never once have I summoned for the help of those who wait around the clock for my beck and call. But this woman is causing me to break all of my rules.

I cross the room, press and hold the small button. “X, I have need of you.”

“Very good, sir.” My bodyguard’s response is cool, clipped and unsurprised. He had guarded my brother Nikolai for years but asked to be reassigned to me after my brother’s engagement to his matchmaker, Kate. The request came as a surprise. X joked that he had grown tired of being surrounded by all the newlywed romanticism. If that’s true, he came to the right place in heading up my security detail.

At least, until tonight.

He appears a moment later, seemingly conjured from thin air. His suit is impeccably tailored, his implacable features revealing no shred of shock to find a seminarian alone with a scantily clad lady of the night. Nor does his mouth so much as quirk at my next order.

“This is Miss Ruby. Please escort her to the gardener’s cottage within the maze and see to it the quarters are well provisioned. It should go without saying that I expect a high degree of discretion.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” He is the consummate professional. No hint of incredulity. No second glance at the young woman’s thigh-high boots.

“Spare no expense on food, beverage, clothing. Her wish is your command.” I offer no further explanation. None is required. Being a prince of the blood means never having to give a reason.

“Understood.”

He turns and offers his arm. “Miss Ruby.”

Her hand trembles as she accepts his gallant gesture.

“But what about my things at my...workplace?” she asks. “I don’t have much,” she admits, and I wince at the thought—at the excess in which I was brought up—and suddenly I want to give this stranger everything she lacks.

“I see.” X’s steely eyes hold a hint of a twinkle. “Well, it just so happens that Monique Mantissa is an old friend.”

She gapes. “The designer Mantissa?”

He inclines his head. “I believe her fashion line is rather popular.”

Ruby’s laugh deepens, a husky melody that makes my skin sing. “Um, if by popular you mean appreciated by those who shop at Versace, Chanel or Prada. You know Monique Mantissa. She is rock-star famous. Her shoes are... There are no words.” Her eyes take on a glow that I’ve seen only in nuns after a rapturous spiritual revelation.

The fact X knows such a person is of no surprise. He worked for years as my brother’s personal bodyguard before his abrupt reassignment after Nikolai’s nuptials. That reminds me.

“Also there is to be no mention of this arrangement to my brother or the king,” I command.

“Not a word. Perhaps it would ease your mind to know your father has decided to expand his current travel to fly to New York for a United Nations summit, and Nikolai and Kate left for the Hawaiian Islands on honeymoon this morning.”

“I see.” If a man deserves happiness, it is my elder brother, who finally found true love in a most unlikely place, with the matchmaker assigned to find him a wife. I do not resent his position. His future crown has never been my ambition.

And yet...

And yet nothing.

I swallow hard, refusing to allow any of my true dreams to float to the surface.

“It appears that you have the run of the place. Will you need anything else, Highness?”

“That will be all,” I snap, my tone gruffer than intended. “Wait. Take my Black Amex for the shopping spree. And, Miss Ruby, I shall see you in my bedchamber tomorrow evening when the sunset fades from the evening sky.”

Her expression loses some of its innocent pleasure. After the sound of their footsteps fade, I return to my room, guilt eating at my stomach.

They don’t exactly teach “Obliterating Sexual Urges 101” in the seminary. I am a man with a man’s needs. But I’m also a prince, a second son, who has a duty. I can’t let Father down. Especially when my face is the one that looks nothing like his. I was raised surrounded by the whispers that my mother, the queen, rest her immortal soul, grew lonely during a long absence from my father twenty-eight years ago and took comfort in the arms of the Captain of the Guard. A man some might say is my true father, except to voice such a claim in public would invite charges of treason.

But my blood runs with hidden lust, and in my heart I know that is my legacy. Born in sin, forged by an act of fornication. Father has never acted on these rumors, but he has always kept me at a kingly distance, his touch always a little cold, a little distant. To admit me a bastard would be to admit himself a cuckold.

So I am allowed the titles, the acceptance, the palace life.

Now it is time to pay the piper.

I fall to the unforgiving floor. “Oh, Lord, please grant me the strength to face this challenge.”

Ruby

A knock sounds on the cottage door promptly at eight in the morning. I lie in the unfamiliar bed, blinking away the best night of sleep I’ve had in ages. I burrow further into my pillow, hoping I imagined the sound, and let out a blissful sigh.

I think I want to marry this pillow.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time it is loud and unmistakably real. I rise from the bed and wrap the sheet around my naked frame. I know it will not be Benedict. He said my days were my own. He will not require my...services until nightfall. Whoever dares to wake me at such an hour is not worth the time it would take to get dressed.

“I’m up. I’m up,” I groan as I unlock the door only to find a young man dressed in what I assume is the attire of a palace servant—a black double-breasted tuxedo coat and tails, a vest and white bow tie. Wow. I wonder what they’re required to sleep in if this is day wear.

“Miss Ruby,” the man says, wheeling in a silver cart with covered plates on top of it. “X has requested you eat and dress so that you are ready to meet him at the palace gates at nine. A groundskeeper will pick you up in a golf cart just outside the maze in fifty-five minutes to bring you to the car.”

After being told I was free to do as I choose, I open my mouth to protest. But that’s when I smell the buttery sweetness of baked goods, the aroma of fresh coffee. My mouth waters, so I close it before speaking a word and swallow.

“What does Mr. X need me for at nine in the morning?” I ask.

The man uncovers a platter of scones and croissants, another of fresh fruit. He then pours coffee into a porcelain cup and bows his head.

“Shopping, miss. That is all I was told.” He smiles softly. “And you may call him, simply, X.”

My eyes widen as I remember X’s mention of Monique Mantissa, of Benedict offering his credit card. I have never been the kind of girl to get worked up over material things, especially now that I must do whatever I can just to make ends meet not only for me but for my niece and my brother’s wife. But I just slept in a bed fit for a queen and am about to eat a breakfast fit for a king. Is there anything wrong with living like a princess for a day?

To avoid the guilt that threatens to take away my moment of joy, I remind myself that this is all part of earning triple my fee, all of which I will use to support Camille and Lola. Camille’s teacher’s salary alone barely covers their rent, let alone the legal fees piling up since my brother’s arrest. With this job, I may be able to hire a proper advocate to represent Jasper—to prove his innocence.

“Thank you,” I say. “And you may call me, simply, Ruby.”

It’s strange to speak this name, especially to this man who looks at me as if he knows me, as if he senses that behind this name and position is a whole other life, a whole other story.

He smiles another of his enigmatic smiles and bows before exiting the cottage, and I jump up and squeal at the sight of the feast before me. I lose my grip on the sheet, and it falls to the floor as I laugh and shrug. “When in preparation for seducing a priest yet not having to bed a stranger...” I joke to myself, and then I indulge in a chocolate croissant and the most decadent strawberries I’ve ever tasted—and try to forget the fact that I haven’t seen a painting of an angel or what Madam will do if I don’t find it.

I fire off a quick text to The Jewel Box messenger service, asking if Madam will allow me to spend more time on the palace grounds to find what I’m looking for. The response is almost immediate.

Enjoy your stay, Evangeline. I expect this means you will have good news for me soon, or else you know what to expect from me.

My palm flies instinctively to the cheek she slapped the first time I questioned her.

“Whatever it takes, Jasper,” I say aloud. “I will not lose you, too.”

* * *

When X extends a hand to help me from the golf cart and into a Rolls-Royce, he raises his brows.

“What?” I ask, skimming the length of my own body, afraid I’d forgotten to dress myself after my feast.

“Nothing, miss. It’s just—I’m looking forward to finding you something more befitting a palace guest.”

I lower myself into the car as my cheeks flame and my eyes prick with tears. I try to swallow it all back, to not let him see his judgment get to me. But when X situates himself in the driver’s seat, the first thing he does is speak to me via an intercom.

“My apologies, miss,” he says. “I meant no offense. It is just that if we are to be discreet, it is necessary that you do not stand out in a way that will make the staff ask questions.”

I knock on the glass partition that separates us, and he lowers it as he turns to face me. His salt-and-pepper hair lies in neat waves, and that square, rugged jaw is both attractive and reassuring. Somehow I know that whatever happens today, X is on my side. Still, I need to set the record straight.

“I get it,” I say. “I’m here to do a job. And I might not be entirely proud of what I need to do to earn a living right now, but I’m not ashamed of the way I look.” It’s a half-truth. Even if this wasn’t always me, I look and feel sexy in these clothes—in the boots. I just wish I was wearing it all for me and not as a means to an end.

His brows draw together, and his jaw tightens. When he looks at me, it is as if he wants to say many things but holds himself back. “If my comment elicited shame, miss, then again, my sincerest apologies. I am your ally. I do hope you see me as such.”

I swipe away a tear. “Thank you, X. And can we please cut it with the ‘miss’?”

He smiles. “Of course, Ruby. You remind me of Princess Kate.”

With that, he turns back to his steering wheel and leads us away from the palace grounds.

* * *

Belladonna Square is not unfamiliar to me. I’ve driven past it. Walked through it. But never have I stepped foot into one of the shops. It was nothing more than a tourist attraction the few times I’d been in these parts.

“You know,” I say as the car rolls to a stop, “even when things were good, they were never great. My father died when Jasper was fifteen and I was only twelve. Jasper grew up and found work doing research at the art museum and I—Well, there aren’t many jobs out there for a girl who likes to paint.” Especially when her résumé basically reads like a telenovela.

X nods.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” I add. “I guess I’m just a bit overwhelmed is all.”

He exits the vehicle and opens my door, offering a hand as I climb out. Then he holds out a black credit card.

“You’re not coming with me?” I ask, eyes wide.

He offers a soft smile and nods toward the closest boutique, a place called Cheri Cheri. “I called ahead and had them put aside all their Monique Mantissa pieces for you. Just go in and tell them who you are, and they will take care of you. This is your day, not mine. Go enjoy.”

I can’t help but grin, a giddy electricity pumping through my veins. I reach for my bag and realize in all the excitement that I forgot it in the cottage, so I slip the credit card into the cleavage of my bustier.

X chuckles, and I shrug.

“Here goes nothing!” I say and let my confidence buoy me in the direction of the store.

As I enter, my boot heels click on marble floors, and the place smells of jasmine. I close my eyes and inhale, a smile spreading across my face when I’m greeted by a soft, lilting voice.

“May I...help you?”

My eyes open, and there she is, a tall, lithe woman with a chic pixie cut, her ebony hair shining like satin.

“Everything in here is Monique Mantissa,” I say, stating the obvious.

She looks me up and down, her painted-on smile morphing into something more like a sneer.

“Are you lost, miss? The Mantissa knockoffs are on Market Street. This is Belladonna Square.”

Heat seeps into my veins.

“I know where I am,” I insist, trying to still the tremble in my voice. “I’m here to shop.” I pull the credit card from my top and brandish it at her. “See?” I say, the volume of my voice escalating. “I have money to spend. On...on Mantissa. On whatever the hell I want.”

She backs toward a marble counter, which must be where the transactions take place. “Miss, you have fifteen seconds to leave before I press the security button. After that, you’ll have just as long before the Edenvale Police arrive.”

My eyes widen. “You’re serious. Aren’t you?” I ask incredulously.

She snakes behind the counter. “You’re down to five seconds, miss.” Her eyes narrow. “Four...three...”

I stumble back through the door and bolt to where X dropped me off, pulling at the handle of the door. It’s locked. Tears stream down my face as I yank at the door again and again until I feel strong hands grip my shoulders.

I scream as X spins me to face him.

He is my ally. He is my ally. He is my ally.

“I’m done shopping,” I gasp between sobs. “I want to go home.”

He nods and unlocks the door, helping me inside. When he is back behind the driver’s seat, he speaks in a calm, soothing voice.

“When you’re ready, Ruby, I want you to tell me what happened.”

But I shake my head.

“I will fix this,” he adds, and then he picks up a mobile phone. He doesn’t close the partition between us, so I hear every word.

“Your Highness, something unexpected has occurred.” Pause. “Yes, I did exactly as we’d discussed.” Pause. “No, she is too upset to speak. But I know how to make things right. Miss Mantissa owes me a favor. If she is in town, I can have her bring over a collection of samples.” Another pause. “Yes, Highness. To the cottage this evening. It shall be done.”

The call ends, and X pulls away from Belladonna Square, his eyes focused on the road.

“They treated you poorly in the store, yes?” Rage is clear in his voice.

I sniffle. “Yes.”

“You told them I had called ahead, that you were on official palace business?”

“She didn’t give me a chance.” My tone is biting. “Maybe you didn’t mean to shame me, X. But she did. I had money to spend, and her only intention was to make me feel worthless.”

His jaw tightens. The muscle flexes at some deep, hidden emotion.

“I am deeply sorry, Ruby. You of all people did not deserve such treatment. I did not think...” He sighs. “Prince Benedict will join you this evening in the cottage for a private shopping spree of sorts.”

I force a smile at this while wondering what he means by me of all people.

“It’s okay,” I say. “If she’s not in town or whatever. I have other clothes back at my place...” My voice trails off. Because I was looking forward to this, to being a princess for a day.

But it took only seconds for that woman to remind me that she saw me as nothing more than a whore.

“You deserve better than what happened just now,” X says in his mysterious tone.

I used to think that, too, but it’s getting harder and harder to believe.

CHAPTER FOUR

Benedict

THE LAST RAYS of the sun blaze across the western horizon as I pad across the palace grounds, ignoring the royal pond with the swan-shaped pleasure boats, the marble fountains filled with ancient Greek and Roman statuary, and the lush hedges clipped into geometric shapes.

Earlier, X filled me in on Ruby’s disastrous visit to Belladonna Square, and I’m still pissed. She was judged on an excursion meant to bring her innocent pleasure.

Acid gnaws at my core from my hypocrisy. After all, she’s an escort on my payroll, which makes no part of our relationship innocent even if my motives are pure.

The first star appears as I enter the maze. Left. Left. Straight. Right. My footsteps are unerring, the result of a childhood spent chasing Nikolai through these twists and turns, and later both of us running from our youngest brother, Damien, who hurled himself forward, always intent on keeping up, even if it resulted in trip after trip to the infirmary for broken bones.

Damien.

Reckless. Impatient. Unstoppable. A force of nature. Nikolai and I had loved him, perhaps getting him into more trouble than befitting a much younger brother, but always getting him out of it again.

His birth ended our mother’s life, yet no one could look upon our youngest brother’s face and fail to see the arrogant, brutal features of my father, the king. My Damien may be many things, but no one would ever call him a bastard.

Unlike me...

These days, however, we see him only in paparazzi photos. After he bedded our stepsister—also Nikolai’s first betrothed—he was banished from Edenvale. His portraits were removed from the halls. The press has a field day with his wild exploits. His fistfights in high-end nightclubs. His drinking binges. His tumultuous romantic affairs. His devotion to fast cars and racing.

My frown deepens as a shadow ahead takes shape, merging into the form of a man.

“Your Highness.” X dips his head in his curt version of a bow. No obsequious gestures for him.

“Jesus.” I am startled into taking the Lord’s name in vain. “Where did you materialize from, thin air?”

A smug smile serves as his response. “Miss Ruby anticipates your arrival. You will find Monique has treated her well. And I will see to it that the saleswoman who mistreated your guest is aware of the commission she lost.”

The cobblestone gardener’s cottage rises behind his broad shoulder, a scene from a storybook come to life, a dwelling that would look at home in one of Grimm’s very own fairy tales. Every light is ablaze inside the small round windows. My Adam’s apple bobs. What will I confront inside? Scraps of lace? Strategically placed silk? Leather?

It takes all my self-control to walk with a steady, measured pace. A young but capable-looking guard stands watch at his post. I recognize him as Gideon from the front gate watchtower, the one with the large strawberry birthmark on one cheek. Good. I’d ordered X to make sure Ruby remains protected during her sojourn, mostly from curious interlopers as our grounds are well fortified. Gideon’s inquiring gaze veers in my direction as I rap on the door.

It swings open in an instant. An older woman, raven hair styled in an intricate chignon, sweeps into a curtsy. Monique Mantissa. “Miss Ruby is ready for your inspection.” She sidles past me and out into the maze with a throaty giggle. “I believe that you will be most pleased with her selections.”

“Allow me to entertain you while the prince makes his examination?” X’s voice betrays no hint of innuendo, and yet the fashion designer’s breathless sigh is audible as the door snicks shut.

My eyes adjust to the light. The air is rich with perfume: roses, jasmine and lilac penetrate my senses. A floorboard squeaks in the next room. I step forward, steeling myself for sin incarnate.

A fire roars in the hearth, the same color as her shimmering golden silk and lustrous hair. Out of all the possible sights, I never imagined to discover Ruby dressed in a formal gown, looking every ounce as regal as any queen in Europe.

She truly is a jewel.

Ruby

Heat warms my cheeks as the prince drinks me in with his eyes.

“It’s too much,” I say. “I told them it was too much. I’m not meant to wear—”

“That gown was made for you and you alone,” he says, no hint of irony in his tone. No condescension or judgment. I’m not entirely sure what to do with that.

“Is there no pretense with you, Your Highness?” His dark brows furrow, the reaction endearing. “You say what you mean, mean what you say. You don’t let any of the bullshit get in the way.” I gasp and cover my mouth. “My apologies, Father.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. Ruby, this is your home for the next month. I want you to feel safe to be yourself here.”

No big deal. Just be myself and find some painting for the Madam. I try to tell myself this isn’t a betrayal of my new benefactor but rather a step closer to saving Jasper. It’s not as if I’m going to do anything to the portrait. I just have to let the Madam know it’s here and where it is. What happens then is beyond me.

I give the prince a once-over—my whole preposterous situation rolling out before me—and then burst out laughing. And there he goes again with the crinkled brow, completely disarming me and making me forget, at least for now, how I ended up here in the first place.

Damn this man for looking so beautiful when he’s befuddled.

“It would already be a tall order to ask me to be myself while residing among royalty. But I’m meant to spend the majority of my time here with not only a prince but one who—though not yet a man of the cloth—dresses like he’s forever on a pulpit about to give a sermon.”

I’m still giggling when he does something so out of character that it stops my laughter and catches my breath all at once.

He smiles.

The whole kingdom—and the entire world for that matter—has been known to swoon for the king’s firstborn, Prince Nikolai. They loved him when he was a tabloid playboy, and now that he’s proved himself worthy of ruling Edenvale, as well as worthy of his future queen, the public swoons for him even more, myself included. Nikolai Lorentz is a beautiful man who will do great things. But before me stands the man who has always lived in his shadow—who keeps himself there by hiding behind a collar before it is truly his.

And he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

“You’re wrong, Ruby. This,” he says, pointing to the white collar, “is my pretense.” He unfastens it and pulls it free.

I smooth out a nonexistent wrinkle in the buttery-soft silk of my gown. “When you take your final vows—” something twists in my gut at the thought “—do you have to wear it all the time?”

Again he grins, though this time the expression is laced with a wistfulness I don’t understand.

“No,” he says. “Giving my life to the church is my duty. But presiding over the church is also my livelihood. When I’m not performing clerical duties, I’m free to dress as I please.” He glances at his attire and then shrugs. “I guess this is easier.”

Then he unbuttons his black shirt and removes it. I gasp until I realize that beneath it he wears a white cotton T.

“There,” he says, hanging the garment over a high-back leather chair that faces the fire. “No more pretense.” He then strolls to a tall oak cabinet against the wall. With wide eyes, I watch the sculpted muscles in his arms flex as he retrieves a decanter of red wine and two crystal goblets. The prince nods toward a small game table, ignoring the clothes strewn about the sofa.

“You can...drink?” I ask, and he laughs, a rich, deep sound that sends an unexpected shiver through me, goose bumps dotting my flesh.

He sets the items on the table and pulls out my chair for me.

“There are many things I can still do once I am a priest,” he says. “But, of course—some I cannot.”

His eyes darken before they dip to the table as he seats himself across from me. When he looks up again, he forces a smile, but I know the spell is broken, and it’s time to get to work. I reach behind and start to lower my zipper.

“Stop,” he says. “Not yet.”

Because he is my prince and also my employer, I obey.

He pours two goblets of wine and hands one to me.

“Ruby.” His voice is gentle. “I’m sorry for what happened in the Square this morning. That was unacceptable.”

I press my lips together and shrug. “I didn’t belong there,” I say matter-of-factly.

He sips his wine and shakes his head. “You belong wherever it is that you want to be.”

My throat tightens, and because I don’t know how to respond, I take a long, slow swallow of the expensive crimson liquid, as well.

“I hope you did enjoy your private shopping spree of sorts, though.”

I grin and stand, offering an exaggerated curtsy in my favorite of all the pieces Monique Mantissa herself gave to me.

“I felt like a princess,” I say. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

He clears his throat. “Benedict. Please, call me Benedict.”

Sure. He’s just a guy in my borrowed home, a guy in a great-fitting T-shirt that hugs an always hidden muscular frame, yet he’s not hiding it from me. Still, he is more than just Benedict. I can pretend many things, but I cannot ignore his lineage—or my own.

“This gown is beautiful,” I tell him. “But for what you’ve hired me to do, well...” I reach for my zipper again and pull to where it stops just below my hips. I stand, and the dress falls to the floor, revealing what I’ve been hiding.

No bra. No panties.

“No more pretense,” I tell him, and though he stares at me with ravenous eyes, this feels nothing like the ogling, the leering of what I expect from a client. At twenty-two years old, I am not without experience when it comes to men, but that does not mean I ever thought this would be easy. But the prince is nothing like I expected.

I am comfortable—safe beneath his gaze. Whatever happens next, I trust the man before me.

After laying the gown neatly atop the pile of other Mantissa samples, I take my seat across from him, sip from my goblet and note the varying drawers in the small table. I open one up and pull from it a deck of cards. My teeth skim across my bottom lip. Then I smile and raise a brow.

“So, Benedict.” I draw out his name, getting a feel for it on my tongue. “Would you like to play a game?”

CHAPTER FIVE

Benedict

RUBY CUTS THE card deck as my features settle into a bemused poker face.

“Truth or dare, my prince?” Her teasing tone intoxicates. Her nipples are the color of raspberries, a ripe red that ignites my appetite.

I’ve barely taken a sip of the vintage in my hand, yet the room feels like it does a slow spin. I dig my heels into the wool rug and fight back the growing sense of vertigo.

“You know this game?” Her mouth quirks. “Or were you too busy playing polo and competing in fencing tournaments as a child?”

“I preferred the contact sports, boxing and mixed martial arts.” I set down my goblet and meet her surprised gaze. “And I choose truth.”

Her brows furrow in concentration. “Hmm.” She props two cards together, then adds a third and fourth. It takes a moment to realize what she is doing—building a house of cards.

Higher and higher her flimsy walls rise until she pauses, twirling a Queen of Hearts between her fingers. “Have you ever seen a naked woman in the flesh?”

“No.” My voice is cool as a glacier. I refuse to play the role of a clumsy, naive schoolboy. This imperious mask is second nature, my default setting since I was a boy. How many years have I worn it? Probably since the time that I informed my private tutor that someday I intended to do great things, lead the Edenvale armies, explore distant jungles, fulfill any number of mad ambitions a young, imaginative boy might nurture.

Except Father had been listening from the doorway to our palace classroom. That night he had me escorted to the monastery that borders our palace ground, and there, in the nave of St. Germain, backdropped by the mournful sound of Gregorian chants, the head monk informed me that my path in life was chosen. He spoke of the honor I would bring our kingdom by serving as the spiritual advisor to the king himself.

He made it clear in no uncertain terms that this was the role of the second son, and that if I were to stray or reject the family tradition, it would break my father’s heart.

Those were the words that he used.

Break. My father’s. Heart.

I knew our mother’s death during Damien’s birth must have cracked that organ into a million pieces. There was no chance that I’d be the one to deliver the death blow.

And so ever since, I’ve walked the straight and narrow without complaint. I have striven to do what is right, what is expected.

Until now.

“You are serious?” Ruby’s eyes widen curiously. “Never?” Her legs part and she runs her fingers up her smooth inner thighs. My heart threatens to break through the bars of my rib cage. “Are you saying that you’re an innocent, my sweet prince?”

A pause. “A virgin in the flesh.” Not the mind.

Ruby’s pussy is bare, utterly devoid of hair—soft, pink and fucking perfect. The second coming could begin outside the windows, and my gaze would stay fixed on her slick skin, the dew sheening the slit between her lips.

“Want to touch?” She flicks the tip of her finger over her mound.

“You know that I cannot.” My voice is hoarse.

“But do you want to?” A sliver of curiosity enters her tone, as if she is actually interested in what I want. As if she is doing more than going through the motions of her profession. She is talented, indeed, to make me believe such illusions.

“Yes,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

“How?” she pushes. “How would you touch me if you gave in to the temptation?”

I try to maintain my composure with a measured breath, telling myself that voicing what I want is no more than putting words to a thought. It is not the act.

“So light at first,” I say, “that you almost wouldn’t know I was making contact, like a brushstroke and your body was a canvas. A butterfly wing against summer’s first rose.”

Her eyes widen, as if I’ve struck a hidden nerve, but then she relaxes into that coy smile again. “You wouldn’t want to claim me?” There is a challenge lurking there. “Graffiti your name? Mark your territory with greedy thrusts?”

I shake my head. “I’d rather bring you pleasure.”

She freezes, staring at me as if transfixed. “But why?”

“Because if it is good for you, it would be good for me,” I say simply. “My pleasure must hinge on yours.” I don’t know why, but instinctively I understand that it’s the way that I am wired.

A shudder runs through her as she lowers her lashes. “Mmmmm. My prince, you do say all the right things. For a man not experienced in the ways of the flesh, you certainly are getting me all worked up with just your words. Look how wet I am. It feels so good.” She rolls her hand with wanton abandon, dips her fingers deeper inside until they circle an engorged, rosy bud. “So wickedly good.” She pauses, arching a brow. “Dare me to offer you a taste?” She drags her hand free, shows me her glistening fingers.

Saints take my immortal soul. I burn as if with a fever.

But I sense she is hiding, that she’s back to showmanship.

I wonder if she’d enjoy being stripped of her defenses?

I clear my throat. “You take a taste. Describe your flavor.”

“Sir?” She pauses, hesitant, a flush heating her own cheeks.

I’ve caught her off guard. A flare of pleasure rushes through my veins. I get up from the small game table and saunter to the fireplace, resting my elbow on the mantel. “You heard me.”

She obeys, and my own pleasure grows sharper than I’d imagined it could.

Ever so slowly, she raises her fingers to her mouth, full lips parting as she sucks on the tips with a deliberate lick.

Hunger flares in me. The tenor of the room shifts. Her coy, artful smile is lost, replaced by a look of shock. Of wonder. Her pupils grow wide, and a flush spreads in the delicate skin between her breasts.

“Describe it.”

Her breath hitches at the dominating timbre of my voice. Her gaze turns thoughtful. Inward. And I know she is going to give me the truth.

“Sweet,” she begins slowly, “almost like wildflower honey.” Her voice is a shy whisper. “But slightly spicy with a salty tang.”

My tongue presses against my teeth. It’s absurd how natural this feels—me, fully clothed and standing, towering over a naked woman pleasuring herself at my command. It’s like opening up a door and walking into a part of myself that’s always been here, waiting for me to find the way. “Keep going,” I grind out. “Tell me your darkest fantasy.”

“You’ve already had a turn,” she says with a fake pout. “I did the dare.” Her hands are already sliding back as if of their own accord, spreading her most secret part, revealing every inch of the tantalizing landscape to my view. She is so wet I can hear it, the sucking slide of her fingers. Perhaps she has done this five hundred times to five hundred different men, but tonight, in this moment, she is mine.

And if her soaking wet pussy is any indication, she loves every second.

The fire beats against my legs but is a cool breeze compared to the blaze in my cock.

“This is my game now, angel. My rules.” My voice is kind but inflexible. The log in the hearth hisses and pops, but hellfire doesn’t scare me, not now when salvation lies between Ruby’s parted legs. “I want you to expose not only your body to me, but also your mind.”

Her thick lashes flutter. “You do?”

I incline my head. “I have a theory that you might be as desirable on the inside as on the outside. So tell me...” I lower my voice an octave. “What fantasy makes your thighs quiver, your nipples tighten into tight, aching peaks? Let me inside. Let me see.”

“What?” Her voice quavers, her toes curl against the thick wool rug. “What do you want to see?”

I cross the small room as if in a dream. Then I’m standing above her, my hand tilting her chin, ensuring her gaze is fixed on me and me alone. “A glimpse of your soul.”

Ruby

He holds a hand out to me, and I take it, letting him guide me from the chair, out of the hearth room—and to my bed. With a look, he tells me to lie on the plush duvet as he moves toward the rocking chair under the window.

“Relax,” he says softly. “Close your eyes and let me inside you the only way I am permitted to do so. Show me what you’d want me to give you if only I could.”

I swallow hard and nod, my chest tightening at the unexpected emotions brewing within me—my core burning with unbridled need.

This is not what I expected. Everything up until now has been a show. But what he’s asking...

“Touch yourself, angel. Touch and tell me what it is you desire.”

I think of his words, that his touch would be like brushstrokes on a canvas. He couldn’t have known. Could he? That painting is my passion, but this—using my body for money—is the only way to save my family.

My lips part as my finger circles them softly. “I want featherlight kisses to start. Ones that tell me with each sweep of his mouth on mine that I am what matters. That for all I do to protect those I love, there is someone out there whose one true desire is to protect me. To love me.”

The truth falls from my lips without pretense, and I don’t know where it is coming from. I’ve never said any such thing aloud...to anyone.

“Continue,” Benedict says, breaking the silence.

So I do.

“His kisses trail down my neck to my breasts.” I give one of my nipples a soft pinch and gasp. “He takes me into his mouth, his teeth nipping, tongue swirling.” I lick my thumb and forefinger, rolling them around the peaked nipple of my other breast, pinching harder this time. My pelvis bucks upward, and I moan. “More,” I say. “I tell him I need more, that the teasing is driving me mad, and the kisses continue, lower and lower. They are still soft, still sweet, and though he hungers for me, he is in control. And he will tease because as much as I beg, he knows I love every second of it.”

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