About the Authors

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!

New York Times bestselling author LAUREN HAWKEYE never imagined that she’d wind up telling stories for a living…though she’s the only one who’s surprised. She lives in the Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada, with her husband, two young sons, a pit bull and two idiot cats. In her non-existent spare time Lauren partakes in far too many hobbies! She loves to hear from her readers through e-mail, Facebook and Instagram! Sign up for Lauren’s newsletter here: eepurl.com/OeF7r

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My Royal Sin

Riley Pine

Playing Dirty

Lauren Hawkeye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09586-0

MY ROYAL SIN & PLAYING DIRTY

My Royal Sin © 2018 Riley Pine Playing Dirty © 2018 Lauren Hawkeye

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 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.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Authors

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

My Royal Sin

Back Cover Text

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

Playing Dirty

Back Cover Text

Dedication

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

About the Publisher

My Royal Sin

Riley Pine

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

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.”

I’ve never let my imagination run away like this. Fantasies aren’t anything I have the luxury to think about, let alone voice.

My thumb presses my swollen clit, still teasing just as I wish he would—as I wish Benedict could—and I writhe.

“More,” I whimper. “Oh God, more. Benedict, I need more!”

I gasp but keep my eyes squeezed shut. Because in my mind—in this never-before-realized dream—it is he who kneels over me. It is his hand between my legs, his fingers aching to pump inside me. It’s this stranger who allowed me to sleep like a queen last night and dress like a princess today.

Prince Benedict wants to know my soul.

I know better than to think this fantasy could ever be realized by a celibate prince, by a man who does not get to touch, let alone love.

But for tonight I can pretend.

“Please. Benedict.” I say his name again, using the cloak of darkness behind closed lids as my safety.

“Take control, angel,” he says, his deep, velvety voice carrying an unmistakable ache. “Show me what you want me to do.”

I suck two fingers down to the knuckle and then plunge them, wet, between my legs, sinking deep into my warmth.

I cry out.

The show is over. This is so real I can feel it in every nerve, every pulse of blood through my veins. So I do the unthinkable and open my eyes, propping myself up on my free elbow, so my stare locks with his.

His eyes burn into mine, veritable flames igniting something in me that refuses to be extinguished. As my fingers pump harder, his hands grip the armrests of the chair, knuckles white and nails digging into the wood.

“This is what I’d have you do. With your hands. Your mouth. Your cock.” I slide my fingers out, drenched in my own arousal, and swirl them fiercely around my clit. My head falls back, and the arm that supports my weight begins to shake. “I can’t—” I say. “I can’t last much longer. Make me come,” I plead. “Make me fucking come, Benedict!” My voice is not my own. It is something savage, a need I didn’t know existed until now.

“I cannot,” he says, but the words are a primal growl.

“Do it!” I command, my eyes on his again. “With your words, Benedict. Just your words. Tell me what you would do to finish me off. They are nothing more than innocent words.”

He leans forward, hands still glued to the armrests, and I can see that his pupils have grown so large his eyes look black. “Fuck.” He grits his teeth. “Fuck.”

But he says nothing more. So I collapse on the bed, one hand spreading myself open for him to see, the other sending me over the edge and into oblivion.

I don’t hold back. I don’t stifle my scream as I fill myself with one finger, then two, then three until I buck against my palm.

When I finally slide my hand free with a shudder, I lie there, limp and languid from the most perplexing orgasm I’ve ever experienced.

What does it mean that I enjoyed what just happened...or that I wanted it to be his hands on me instead of my own? I was prepared to give him a good show, but instead, despite the undeniable pleasure of the evening, I’m left wanting more.

“That was...different,” I say, my voice back to its soft lilt. “I’ve never done anything like that before. I assure you.” I laugh, my eyes still shut, lids heavy as the aftermath threatens to carry me off to sleep before he can respond.

I open my eyes to gauge the prince’s reaction, to congratulate him on his restraint.

But the chair is empty. And when I hear the front door slam, I wonder if the first night of our arrangement will be the last.

Because Benedict is gone.

CHAPTER SIX

Benedict

I KNEEL IN front of the high altar of the royal chapel. The tabernacle is open, exposing the Eucharist, the consecrated bread transmogrified into the body of Christ. I need him to see what I have done this night, reveled in lust, taken pleasure in bending a woman to my will, woken my dormant craving for sexual domination. As Ruby undulated in her sheets, her pale skin flush with the intensity of her orgasm, a single refrain played through my mind.

What would her wet pussy feel like throbbing around my own fingers?

Would she enjoy it as much as what she’d just done to herself? Would I?

“No!” I don’t realize that I’ve spoken out loud until the word echoes through the marble-walled nave. Even now, even here, my thoughts are polluted. I cover my hands over my face. How can I be what my duty demands? Why can’t I conquer these urges?

If I stray from my path, where will it lead?

A frustrated moan escapes my gritted teeth. I am so fucking weak.

“Can I be of assistance?”

I’m on my feet before my next breath, hands braced against the altar rails. “Who said that?” The voice comes from near the pulpit. Could it be the miracle I’m looking for, the gift of salvation? “Lord? Is that you?”

The low, deep chuckle is familiar. X steps from the shadows. “Careful, Highness,” he says with a wry smile. “You want to give me a God complex?”

“Where’d you come from?” I snap, embarrassed at my error.

“Couldn’t sleep, and you were otherwise...occupied.” He shrugs. “So I took a stroll through the catacombs.”

I blink. “Where?”

He saunters down the altar steps and sits in the first pew, crossing a foot over his knee. As always, he is dressed in an impeccable suit. It would be tempting to dismiss him as continuing to have fun at my expense, but the dust coating his hair makes his salt-and-pepper locks appear saltier than normal.

“The ancient catacombs beneath the chapel. As far as I can tell, they’ve been sealed up since the early seventeenth century by your nine-times great-grandfather King Ivor the Protector.”

I cross my arms. “I haven’t been down there. We were thought too young to attend my mother’s funeral.”

He gives me a look of sympathy. “Many of the tunnels are in disrepair, and I encountered a rat the size of a cocker spaniel. That’s when I exited through a secret passage here beneath the high altar beside the statue of Saint Everly, the patroness of our realm.”

X has been a fixture of the castle since I was a teenager. And yet he is an utter mystery to me. “What were you doing there if it is so dangerous?”

“The more interesting question is whether you are enjoying the company of Miss Ruby. You might not be aware that she comes from The Jewel Box, a Rosegate pleasure house valued for its discretion but also quality. All the girls there go by the names of precious stones.” He gives his chin a musing rub. “I’ve had the good fortune to while away many a pleasant afternoon with a most diverting escort named Pearl. She used to insist on wearing nipple clamps and would do anything to get a chance to go under my flogger.”

I am ashamed to realize that I know little about Miss Ruby. I can describe every inch of her perfect body, but I haven’t the first clue about her actual life. I clear my throat, deciding to hide my discomfiture behind a question. “You consort with escorts regularly?”

My bodyguard is an enigma. I knew my brother was a favorite of the ladies, but apparently, when it came to his most trusted bodyguard, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

Not for the first time, I wonder why he requested a transfer to my security detail.

X’s laughter is amused, not unkind. “I consort with women regularly. Some of them are escorts. Some are not. All of them are quite skilled at...consorting.”

I stare blankly for a few seconds, struggling to process his words. Again, I can’t help but wonder, Who is this guy? Like Ruby, I have never wondered much about X’s past. He was my brother’s bodyguard, but it seems there is more than meets the eye. The tabernacle bores into my spine, the eyes of the Lord waiting to judge my next move. I have questions that require answers, but I can’t ask them in here.

“We will continue this conversation out of the church.”

I stride toward the thick carved doors as X replies, “Very good, sir.”

Outside, the night air is crisp. The wind blowing over the surrounding snowcapped peaks cool my heated face, but I won’t lie to myself. My shiver has nothing to do with the temperature.

“You do not tie yourself to one woman?” I know not everyone believes in monogamy. My elder brother, Nikolai, certainly didn’t...until he met his Kate that is.

X adjusts his tie, his expression blank. “I am not opposed to...tying,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirked into a knowing grin. “But I’m normally the one who makes the knots.”

Envy hits me with blunt force. “The stories you could tell,” I mutter, but my tone does not escape him.

“I know you are well-read, but there is something to be said for experience, for true knowledge. You aren’t a priest yet, Your Highness.”

Though X is overstepping, I do not call him on it. Instead, I swallow hard at the idea. I have so many questions. They press against my skull, threatening to crack the bone.

I want to know more, but I need to resist.

“The choice of celibacy is not one to take lightly,” X says, his voice firm. “You can yield to her. There is no harm in seeing what you’d be missing.”

But I can’t afford to give in to the bonfire of my sexual urges. If I do, I might burn down my carefully scripted future. Instead, I turn wordlessly and escape back to my tower that tonight feels more like a prison than ever before.

Ruby

The drowsy aftermath of my orgasm is replaced by something unsettling, something that not only keeps me from sleep but drives me from the cottage altogether. The summer night is cool, but my body is still alight from the mere thought of Benedict’s touch, so I wear nothing but a long silk dressing gown, another gift from Monique Mantissa.

Thanks to X’s coaching this afternoon, I’ve learned my way out of the maze—well, with only having to backtrack twice. I’d say that’s pretty impressive for my first day. Though the sun has long set, the brilliant moon lights the palace grounds in a soft glow. I make my way to the gardens behind the palace itself, not sure what I’m hoping to find. Benedict on an evening stroll, trying to clear his thoughts just as I am? But all is quiet but for the guards on patrol. I stare up at the tower where I know the prince resides, and for a second I consider climbing that spiral staircase and knocking on his door.

For what? He does not want to see you. That is why he left.

Yet I cannot deny that I wish to see him.

Instead, I decide to give him space. Back at the cottage, I can call Camille to check in, see if we have any new leads on Jasper’s case. This, I remind myself, is why I am here. For my family.

So I make a hasty retreat. Once there, it takes me only one try to get through the maze and to the cottage. I only now realize there is no guard on patrol at this hour, and once I’m inside, that unsettling chill returns. Though this time it is different.

Something is different. I can feel it. And it is in my room where I find it.

I flip on the light, the space brighter than it was before, and then realize Benedict and I were lit only by the moon. The rocking chair, the one from which he watched me—was it not closer to the window before? Benedict himself had leaned forward for a better view, but had he actually moved the chair?

I circle the benign piece of furniture, sure that there was no room to step behind it before, and a floorboard creaks, a sound I should have heard had Benedict rocked against it.

I bend to examine it, and the wooden slat comes up easily in my hand.

I scramble backward, gasping at what cannot be real, but I peek over into the open space again and see not the foundation of an architectural structure but what looks like a cavernous hole with no end.

Then, as if from the bowels of hell, comes the terrifying yet distant sound of a woman’s triumphant laughter.

Without another thought, I am running—out the door, through the maze and straight to where I swore I would not go. I don’t even remember climbing the stairs when I’m already pounding on his door. Maybe I hallucinated it. Maybe the sound was just the wind. But my skin is covered in goose bumps and my heart is threatening to crack my sternum.

“Benedict!” I cry, no time for propriety. “Benedict, please. Open the door!”

In seconds he is there, bare but for cotton pajama pants, his chest beaded with sweat, but I’m too frightened to react to his body the way I know I would have only a short time ago.

“Ruby,” he says, his eyes widening. “What is it?”

I hug my torso, shivering now—from the chill in the air? Fear? I’m not even sure.

“Did you go to the cottage?” I ask, hoping for logic to rearrange my frantic thoughts. “Did you go to my room?”

His brows furrow, and he shakes his head.

“I—After you left, I went for a walk. And...” I take a shuddering breath. After what my life has become these past two months, I’m starting to trust that things will only get worse. “I think someone broke in while I was gone.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. He looks over his shoulder and then at me.

“Come in,” he says. “You are safe here.” He steps aside and closes the door. “Follow me.”

He moves in front of me, and I gasp as he leads me from the entryway, as my eyes rest on the raised welts that cover his back.

He says nothing until we are in a modest bedchamber. The walls are bare but for a crucifix on the wall by a lone window. The bed is large but without any trappings of royalty. Just plain white sheets and a quilt. He sits me on the edge of the bed and moves a good distance from me, crossing his arms.

“Tell me what happened,” he says, not bothering to acknowledge the new elephant in the room.

“Tell me what happened to you,” I say.

He sighs. “Nothing,” he says softly. “Nothing more than purging myself of my guilt.”

My hand flies to my mouth as I stifle another gasp.

“My tormented soul isn’t your concern, Ruby. I hired you to do a job, and you performed as expected. Now tell me what you are doing here.”

His words bite, though I know they shouldn’t. They are nothing more than the truth.

“When I got home,” I tell him, “something felt wrong. And when I went to my room, the chair—your chair—was not where you’d left it. At least, I don’t think it was.” As I speak, I realize I sound less convincing by the second. But then I remember the floorboard. “There was a squeaky piece of wood in the floor behind the chair, and I thought it odd that it hadn’t sounded when you were there, because I swear your chair was right over it, so I pulled it up and—”

“Let me guess. And you found the catacombs?” He raises a brow and grins.

I stand up in a huff. “I just ran here frightened for my life, and you’re joking around?” I ask. The idea of laughter seems too ridiculous to mention. It must have been the wind and my own overactive imagination.

I turn to storm out, realizing I won’t find comfort here, but Benedict grabs my wrist.

“Wait,” he says.

I face him but say nothing more.

“There is a chance I may have moved my chair closer to you.” His expression darkens. “I don’t remember. You bewitched me with that show you put on—inserting me into your fantasy. I probably couldn’t have told you what day it was while I was in that room, let alone whether or not I moved a chair.”

“But the catacombs? That dark hole under the floor?”

He nods, a soft smile taking over his features. “There is not only a maze above the ground but one beneath it, as well. They run from under the palace to the far reaches of the grounds. I assure you that is all you saw beneath the cottage, and I can almost assure you it was I who moved the chair.”

I sigh, and he finally drops my wrist. “I guess that all makes sense.” And it does, though I’m still uneasy. “I guess...I’ll head back and go to sleep.”

He reaches for my cheek but stops short.

“You are still frightened.”

I nod.

“Then you will sleep here.” He gestures toward the bed. “I was going to sleep on the floor anyway,” he adds.

At this, I want to reach for him, to ask him to forgive himself for nothing more than wanting what he cannot have. But I know that will only cause him further distress. And because I do not want to be alone in what now feels like too strange of a place, I agree.

“I do have one condition,” I say, and he bows his head slowly. “You need to let me tend to your wounds. There are so many bruises.” For a moment I wonder if this is the hardest he’s punished himself yet. “I don’t want you marred on my account.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I shake my head. “Let me—let me do something good,” I say.

His shoulders relax, and he points toward the direction from where we came. “The bathing room is on the left. You will find supplies in there, healing salves and such.”

I smile and turn toward the door, and that’s when I see what’s on the wall...what wasn’t in my line of sight when we entered the room.

This is what I was sent to find, but now that I see it, I realize that whatever the story is behind the painting, it’s more than I anticipated.

It is not only the image of an angel...but it is one who wears my face.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Benedict

THERE IS A loud thump as my bedroom door slams shut. I whirl around to find Ruby crumpled against it, hands pressed to her face, her cheeks drained of all color.

“What is it?” I demand. My heart is in my throat. She seemed fine a moment ago, composed even.

“The portrait...” She keels forward as if to swoon. “You own one of Vernazza’s Guardian Angels paintings?”

I blink slowly, unable to comprehend the depth of emotion in her voice. “You’re a fan of Giuseppe Vernazza’s work?” Vernazza was regarded as the great artist of our age until his unfortunate death a decade ago, losing control of his car and wrapping it around a tree along the Nightgardin border. A waste to lose such a gifted prodigy before his time.

Her laugh is without humor and goes on and on, the hysterical edge slashing my peace of mind. “You could say that,” she gasps. “Vernazza was my father. Look closer at the painting. Tell me, does it remind you of anyone?”

I transfer my gaze from her beautiful face to that of the angel, the one that has so often served as both my temptation and my salvation—and my heart gives a dull thud. What a fool I have been not to see what was right under my nose. Ruby’s face...the angel’s face, good God, they are one and the same. No wonder she appeared so familiar the moment she removed the wig. My insides churn.

“He painted my features as he imagined they would one day look. His imagination came close to the truth, right?”

It’s as if my world has flipped its axis and down is up and up is down. “I didn’t know.”

How could I have been so blind?

“Of course not.” She winds her arms around her legs, hugs her knees to her chest. “Who would imagine the daughter of Europe’s most famous painter since Pablo Picasso would make a living by selling her body?”

“Why do you work for The Jewel Box?”

Her eyes darken. “My father died.”

“Rest his soul.” I make the sign of the cross. “A terrible accident. I shall pray for him.”

“Accident?” She pushes herself to standing, her features fierce, shining with hidden fire. “My father drove that same route between Nightgardin and Rosegate at least once a week to deal with patrons. He took expert care of that car. No. That wasn’t a mere accident that claimed his life. The weather was calm. The sun shining. He was murdered. Someone tampered with his brakes!”

My shoulder blades slam together. “You have proof?”

A sob escapes her. “Only the truth in my heart. There is no proof. No motive. Mother died not long after my birth, and all I had after Father was my brother. J-J-J-Jasper.” As the name leaves her tongue, her weeping grows.

“Jasper Vernazza.” I frown. “This name, it’s familiar to me.”

“His fate wasn’t as dramatic as Father’s. He still lives, if you can call being locked in a cage like an animal a life. He was a minor news story this past year until we lost his case and they locked him up. He was an art historian caught stealing a painting from my father’s collection in the Musée des Beaux-Arts. They say he wanted to sell it to a black market dealer in Hong Kong, but my brother reveres museums and Father’s legacy. It doesn’t make sense.” She wipes her eyes. “The portrait he was accused of stealing was another angel, actually. My father painted a whole series of them.”

“And each one is superb. I’ve studied his works.” I’ve seen most of them over the years. They are all of Ruby’s dreamy, heavenly face contrasted with a different hyperrealistic dystopian cityscape.

“My brother was set up, I just don’t know why.” With one shuddering inhalation she composes herself. “Anyway, this is not your concern. I remember your library. Art is not the only thing you study. You are fascinated by tales of pleasure, as well. I swear on my life you know more about the erotic arts than Madam herself.”

I nod. “I seek to understand beauty, for to know beauty is to know the face of God.” Strange. Until this moment I’ve never articulated this idea, either in thoughts or words.

She ducks her chin, a little shy, and stares up between her curtain of golden hair. “And to you, pleasure is beautiful?”

“I believe there is a sacred union of the body and soul when it comes to sex.” I begin to pace, assuming the tone of the professor, not a stretch considering I hold a PhD in Sacred Theology from the University of Edenvale. “Sexuality has the power to be as explosive as dynamite, and when used properly, it can be a tool that moves mountains. And if used improperly, it can grow volatile and wreak untold destruction.”

Her brows knit. “Yet you deny yourself.”

“I have what you could call an arranged marriage,” I say wryly. “My intended bride is to be the church.”

She lets out a frustrated huff, opening the door and disappearing for a moment. There is a rustling from the bathroom, and she emerges clutching a small vial. “I found arnica.” She uncorks the lid and takes a tentative sniff. “It appears to be mixed with lavender oil.”

“A medicinal ointment.” I nod my head. “Useful to treat all manner of aches and pains.”

“Let me do this.” She clutches the bottle, eyes wide. “Heal you.”

I take a step backward and find myself in a corner. “Why do you want to?”

“Because I think you are a good man. And the marks on your back make me want to cry. They also make me angry at God because why would He demand you to punish yourself for feelings that you admit are natural?”

“Sacrifice is holy,” I tell her, repeating the lessons I’ve been taught my whole life.

“If lust is an impulse that must be literally beaten from your flesh, then you are giving God something that is unclean, unholy. Why would He want such an offering?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, impressed at the depth of her impassioned response. “You’d make quite the scholar, Miss Vernazza.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps. “Not anymore. Now I am simply Ruby.” She strides forward, pouring ointment into her open palm. “And you are trying to distract me from my task like a naughty patient. Sit.” Her tone brokers no dissent.

I move to a wooden chair and sink to the seat.

“Let’s see how extensive the damage is.” She peruses my back, her long hair tickling my bare skin. Her silence stretches for the length of a minute. “Benedict,” she says, my name a sigh from her lips. “So much pain.” Her fingertips press on my throbbing skin, the welts from the whip. The lavender scent of the ointment floods my senses, but is nothing compared to the intense vibrations sent out across my flesh from her soft, circular massage.

“Let’s see if we can make you feel better,” she whispers in my ear.

Ruby

His skin is like fire under my touch, the raised welts tearing at my heart as my fingers travel over each one.

“Benedict,” I say, but I don’t know what comes next. His name falls so easily from my lips, yet I know the skin I touch blazes not only with the heat of desire but that of intense, overwhelming guilt. It is the skin not just of a man but of royalty; a world in which I do not belong, save for my likeness hanging on his wall.

His head droops.

“Have I hurt you?” I ask, afraid I am doing more harm than good.

He gives his head a soft shake. “The way you say my name,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I meant Your Highness.”

“No,” he assures me. “It is not that.” I listen and continue to massage the salve over his wounds. “The way you say Benedict, it makes me feel...known.”

“Oh,” I say, my hands pausing but never leaving his skin. “I’m not sure what to do with that,” I admit.

“Nothing.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Only God can truly know me,” he says. “That is my chosen path.”

I step around the chair to face him, and he lifts his head.

“Did you really choose that path, Benedict? Or was it chosen for you?”

His green eyes are a storm of emotion, yet his words are the picture of calm.

“How I got here is of no matter,” he says. “This is my path, and I shall not stray.”

I kneel and place my hands on his thighs. He takes a ragged breath, and I expect him to push me away. But he doesn’t. So I decide to push. Not because of what the Madam assigned me to do and not to push Benedict toward failure if, in fact, this is not what he wants. The entire realm envies the royal family, yet I wonder what anyone in a position such as Benedict—or any member of his family for that matter—gets to choose.

“If you had a choice right now,” I ask, “if you could have something you wanted that you thought you didn’t deserve, what would it be?”

He leans against the chair and winces. He is in more pain than he’s letting on.

“Is this more truth or dare?” he asks, forcing himself to smile through the pain, but his feigned attempt at levity does not work on me.

“No games,” I say. “We already did that, so I’m technically off the clock. I want you to choose something for you.”

He places his hands atop mine, his fingers circling my wrists.

“To voice such a thing would be selfish.”

I laugh even as tears prick at my eyes. How many times have I wanted something just for myself only to give it up for someone else? To have the luxury of acting on one selfish wish? I would take it in an instant.

“Then be selfish, Benedict. You are not a priest, not yet. And from what I know of your religion, until you take your final vows, you may do as you please. This is a new millennium. You’re young, fairly easy on the eyes.” I grin. “You could have any woman you want, and yet you deny yourself. Why?”

He grips me tighter, lifting my palms from his legs.

“To save myself for God,” he says through gritted teeth.

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t believe that. After what you had me do tonight, I know you want. I know you are tempted. Why not act on those temptations while you can?”

Now he does throw my hands from him, and he springs from the chair, pacing the length of the room. He runs a hand through his hair, tearing at it as he does.

“Benedict,” I say, standing and heading toward the wall. “Benedict, you’re scaring me.”

He stops before me, chest heaving and his emerald eyes wide.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to burrow into the wall to escape whatever is coming. I have forgotten myself tonight—forgotten who I am and what it is that I do. I have forgotten that this man, this prince, is nothing more than my client, and a displeased client takes his frustrations out on the whore. I have heard the stories. I have seen the aftermath. It’s more than a surprising slap across the face from the Madam.

I just didn’t think it would happen to me so soon.

“Ruby,” he says, his voice as gentle as a whisper, and I open my eyes. My hands are still balled into fists, and I realize I’m holding my breath. “Heavens, Ruby, no. Did you think—I could never—”

A tear escapes the corner of my eye, my fear finally getting the best of me, and he swipes it away with a thumb. Only then do I exhale.

“Madam leaves punishment up to the client. If he is not satisfied...”

But I also factor in her own dissatisfaction—what she will do if I don’t let her know about the painting now that I know where it is.

He brushes my hair from my face, each stroke of his hand telling me that he is different. That I am safe.

“I am not a client,” he says. “Not for the rest of this evening.”

I exhale. “But you were so angry. And it happened so quickly, I thought... I mean, I was getting myself ready for the worst.”

He raises his head to the ceiling—or, most likely, the heavens—and whispers Latin words I do not understand. Then his eyes find mine again. The storm is gone. He is once again the picture of calm.

“There are two reasons why I deny myself the pleasures of the flesh though I’ve not yet taken my vows. I would like to tell them to you.”

He is so close, his woodsy, earthy scent intoxicating me. If he is not a client right now, then what is he? Why is it that in his presence, I long for him to know me, as well?

I nod.

“First,” he says, and his hand skims the silk sleeve of my robe until he finds my clenched fist. I relax and let him take my hand in his. “To maintain my virtue until my vows—it is the ultimate test of strength and will. I want to be strong enough for this. I want to give myself to the Lord wholly and completely, which means I will not give myself to another.”

“Okay,” I say softly, accepting that this is a choice he gets to make, and if anyone can understand that, I can.

“The second reason,” he says, his head dipping toward mine, “is that I am terrified to know what I am missing.”

“Oh,” I say, eyes wide.

“I will not give you my virtue,” he says.

“I know.”

“But for just a moment, I do want to be selfish.”

“What do you want, Benedict?” His nearness is almost too much to bear.

“A kiss,” he says.

I know without asking that I will be his first, and I know the slippery slope down which this could lead.

But I want to be selfish, too, just for a moment.

“Take what you want,” I tell him.

“First tell me your name. Your real name.”

And because I want to be known, too, if only for tonight, I say it.

“Evangeline.”

“A beautiful name.” He grins. “My angel, Evangeline.” And with that, his fingers circle my wrists again, sliding my arms up the wall so he holds my hands over my head. I am captive to my prince, and yet I’ve never felt more free.

My nipples harden beneath my silk dressing gown, and I cannot ignore the throb between my legs.

His head dips farther until I can feel his warm breath against my skin, and when his lips brush hesitantly against mine, I thank whatever God there is that Benedict is holding me in place, because my knees give out. I whimper, and my prince takes what he needs.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Benedict

I PRESS MY forehead to hers. Evangeline Vernazza. I kiss her again, deeper this time and more urgent. She responds with a hunger not unlike my own, her sweet tongue flicking and caressing mine until I groan. My hands leave hers to tangle in her silky hair. Our breath mingles, feverishly hot.

At last I give in and allow myself to cup one of her perfect breasts, soft as rose petals, and her body bows. So responsive. So passionate. I growl my approval, unable to get enough.

I’ll never get enough.

How many times have I flicked through dusty leather-bound books of poetry, scoffing at the overinflated metaphors and purple prose? Now...now I finally understand those poor poets, and pity everyone who attempted to capture this feeling of two souls merging with mere words.

I dip to kiss her arched neck, trace my tongue along her pulse. Every inch of me burns, but this does not feel like hell.

No.

This is a heaven I never could have imagined.

Even though my control hangs by the barest thread, I refuse to let it snap. Tonight I have glimpsed what can exist between a man and a woman.

This moment must be enough.

As much as I want to forget the world and burn in her arms, I am bound to my duty, my destiny as the second son to Edenvale’s king.

Ruby...no—Evangeline...my sweet angel and unexpected jewel, opens her eyes.

“Why did you stop?” she whispers, brows knitting.

Because if I didn’t, I’d be inside you to the hilt. I would throw away my entire future.

But I don’t say that. Instead, my features settle into a familiar mask. I might not look much like my youngest brother, but suddenly I understand the hard smile, the shuttered eyes that Damien used. My gut twists in understanding. My little brother hid the secrets of his heart just like I hide my own now, for I am falling for a woman whom I pay to tempt me. Common sense would say this feeling is nothing but lust.

But fuck common sense.

There is more to heaven and earth than what meets the eye, and the saints, I am sure, are laughing their holy asses off.

My lips twist into a bitter smile. Of course I’d imagine myself falling head over heels after a mere two days. If she touches my cock, I might propose marriage.

“Go to bed,” I bark, ignoring her questioning gaze. It’s not fair. But it is my right. I am Prince of Edenvale. My word is law here.

She senses the authority in my voice and dips her head. “As you wish, Highness...but...” She dares to glance between her thick fringe of lashes, a glitter of mischief, as if she’s not as subservient as her posture might pretend. “Don’t you want to join me?”

She’ll be the death of me.

“I will check on you later. For now, get some sleep Find some peace. One of us deserves that much.”

Before she can ask another question, I turn on my heel and stalk from the room.

When I enter the library, I’m surprised to find the antique lamps are lit. X glances from his perch in a leather chair. He assumes a more casual pose than I am used to seeing, one of his legs slung over the chair’s arm, and for once in his life, he looks startled.

“Benedict!” He bounds to his feet and clicks his heels. “Did I or did I not see Miss Ruby enter your bedchamber?”

I incline my head. “She is in my bed this very moment.”

“And yet, you are here?” He does not ask the question he wants answered most, yet I know it hangs between us. “Have you gone mad?”

Perhaps I have.

I relax my shoulders, grateful for an opportunity to unburden my chaotic mind. “I needed space from temptation.”

“Forgive me.” His mouth purses. “But is that not the whole point of having her around?”

“I don’t know!” I snarl through gritted teeth, then whirl and punch the wall. “I know nothing.” The pain steadies me, so I do it again, three times in quick succession.

“Feel better?” X asks, the corner of his mouth curling up in amusement.

“No.” I open and shut my hand a few times. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

He smiles lazily, but I swear I sense a troubled soul lurking behind his hooded eyes. “I am your personal bodyguard. And tonight I decided to do a little light reading while you were otherwise...ahem...occupied.”

I cross the room and swipe the book from his chest. “The Asca Mountains: A History. What’s this about? Do you plan to do an overland hike into Nightgardin?” The Asca Mountains provide the ancient border surrounding our old enemy to the north. In fact, the forbidding peaks have long kept Edenvale safe from the various feuds across Europe. Back when the great Carthaginian General Hannibal crossed the Alps during the Second Punic War, he ransacked the Romans because he wasn’t able to breach the perilous Ascas.

“One can never know too much about local geography,” X says enigmatically. “How about you? What brings you here when you have a willing woman warming your bed? Back before he met Princess Kate, your brother Nikolai would have disappeared for a week if he had struck upon such good fortune.”

I set my jaw. “I am not my brother.”

“No, you aren’t.” X appraises me with a shrewd eye. “You have too much of your mother in you.”

My throat constricts. Perhaps if she’d lived, none of what has occurred in my family would have ever happened. Damien wouldn’t have grown reckless and self-destructive from carrying the crushing burden of guilt for her death. Nikolai would have been saved earlier from his wanton bad-boy behavior. Perhaps she’d have even softened Father to my existence, encouraged me to walk a different life path despite my duty to serve the church.

But daydreaming about what-ifs is a luxury not afforded a member of the royal family. “You knew my mother?” I ask.

“She was a wonderful and kindhearted woman who loved her children more than life itself.”

“How about my father?” I don’t know where this rush of anger comes from, but it hits me with a tidal-wave force. “Tell me. Did you happen to be acquainted with the Captain of the Guard?”

X rises to his feet, the ancient book clattering from his lap. “Is that truly what you think of your mother? That she was unfaithful to her husband and king?”

Shame circulates in my veins.

“It’s what everyone whispers,” I challenge. “They say that my mother played the whore while my father the king was away on diplomatic duty. That I am the living, breathing testament to her transgression. Isn’t that why my cuckolded father insists that I walk this lonely path, destined never to love or be loved, only to atone for the sins of a woman that I barely remember and a man that I have never met? My duty is atonement.”

There it is, the bitter truth, out at last.

“Benedict...” X winces. “Is this what you truly believe?”

“It is what I know,” I say with quiet resignation. “It is my life and has been since I was old enough to understand the burden I bear.”

He looks as if he means to say more, but as he opens his mouth, a muffled but bloodcurdling scream pierces through the ceiling.

Ruby. Evangeline.

We race to the stairs and fly to my bedchamber.

Evangeline

I don’t recognize the room or the bed, not even the thin silk gown that covers my otherwise naked form. But she stares at me from where I clutch the pillow to my body. The angel stares, and I can do nothing but scream.

“Ruby!” a rough voice cries, but I do not know this name. I do not know the man who speaks it. “Go to her, Benedict. I will search for intruders.”

A strong hand grips my shoulder, and I thrash against it, crying out until my throat is raw.

“Evangeline!” He is stronger than I am, pulling me to him even as I let go of the pillow and beat against his chest. “Evangeline!” he cries again, and something deep within awakens as recognition blooms, as the warmth of his touch breaks through the icy fear.

I stop fighting, and my shoulders droop as I sink into him, my arms wrapping tight around his neck.

“Benedict,” I say, trembling, my senses returning.

“Shh, angel. You’re safe now.” He strokes my hair and cradles me in his arms as I try to catch my breath, the screams and sobs finally subsiding. “X,” he says over my shoulder. “A glass of water, please.”

“Yes, Highness,” I hear, now recognizing the other male voice as that of Benedict’s bodyguard. “All windows are secure, as is the door. I suspect it was only a dream.”

Seconds later X returns, handing Benedict the water, which he gingerly brings to my lips.

“Drink,” he says, and I do. My throat burns and my vision is still blurry from the tears, but I know where I am now, that I am safe, if only for the moment.

But the angel in the painting is still here—staring, judging. She knows I will betray my prince. And dream or no dream, I know I’m right. It’s all too coincidental—what has happened to my family and now this portrait the Madam wants, a portrait so clearly of me.

“They will come for me,” I say softly after a few sips. “They came for my father, my brother. Soon I will be next.”

Benedict sets the water on the night table next to the bed, and I cling to him even tighter.

“This is not the first time you’ve had such a dream,” he says, a statement rather than a question.

I shake my head. “It has been some time, though. I thought I’d rid myself of the nightmares years ago after Jasper found a wonderful doctor who helped me find peace with my father’s death. He is a good big brother, you know. He’s taken care of me since I was a young teen.”

I bury my head in Benedict’s chest, taking in his soothing woodsy scent, cedar and fresh-cut pine.

“His imprisonment has been difficult on you,” he says, and I nod against him. Then I look up, my eyes meeting his. “You can tell me more,” he adds. “If you want.”

And because no man has ever looked at me as he does—with such protectiveness, such care—I want to tell him everything. Instead, I settle for the dream.

“When I was younger, it was always me standing on the side of the road where my father crashed. I would have to watch him slamming on the brakes while the car kept speeding toward its violent end. Toward his end. And every time, just before I’d wake up, the whole scenario would slow down. As his car would wrap around the tree, I’d hear his voice telling me, ‘Find the map, Eva. Find the map and save us all.’” I let out a nervous laugh. “That sounds ridiculous, right? The doctor who helped put the dream to rest convinced me that it was my own subconscious wanting to find a way to save my father.”

Benedict tilts my chin up and brushes a soft kiss over each of my tear-soaked eyes.

“And now, angel?”

I steady myself. “Now it is almost the same dream, but it is Jasper behind the wheel and not my father. Yet the message has not changed, only the voice that makes the plea.” I straighten in my prince’s lap, more sure of myself than I’ve been for quite some time. “I think that doctor was wrong, or that maybe he didn’t want me searching for whatever map this might be. Because I know my father was murdered. And I know my brother was set up. And if I don’t figure this all out before they do—whoever they are—they will come for me next.”

X clears his throat, and we both turn to where he stands in the doorway. X’s jaw tightens. “Let me return to the library to continue my studies. I assure you that you and Miss Rub—Evangeline Vernazza—are safe. I should have more concrete information for you by morning. For now, I think it best you stay with your guest.”

Benedict opens his mouth to argue, but I interrupt.

“Please don’t leave,” I say to him. “If X can help, let him, but don’t leave me alone here tonight.”

He sighs and nods toward the doorway. “I will see you after my morning benediction, X. Meet me in the prayer room at ten. With answers.”

X bows. “Yes, Your Highness.” Then he dips his head toward me. “Rest well, Evangeline.” And before I can thank him, he is out the door so quickly it’s as if he was never there to begin with.

“How does he do that?” I ask. “It’s like a magic trick.”

Benedict laughs. “Just wait,” he says. “I have seen him bypass doors altogether. Perhaps one day you will, too.”

His tone is wistful, as if he speaks of a time in the future when our lives will still overlap, but I know this cannot be true as sure as I know that the way he holds me now is out of necessity, to wake me from the terror that threatens my sleep.

I swing my legs off his, but he does not let go of me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “This is most inappropriate. I should go clean myself up.”

His only response is to dip his head toward mine and kiss me again. This time, though, there is nothing of the hunger from before. Just a sweet, gentle yearning as his tongue slips past my parted lips, as we both taste the lingering salt of my tears.

We lie down, his soft kisses continuing as we do. He pulls my body close and grins.

“What are you smiling at?” I ask.

“I didn’t realize I could do that,” he says. My brows pull together. “Kiss a woman,” he continues, “and have it not be sexual in nature.”

I stroke his cheek, my chest tightening at what it would be like to meet such a man under any other circumstances than the ones we are in. That’s when I know I have to break this spell. I thought the hard part would be living with myself if I succeeded in tempting him from his holy path—or if I betrayed him to the Madam. I realize now the difficulty lies in thinking I could fall for such a man and not get my heart obliterated.

“I think I’m okay to sleep now,” I say, trying not to sound too cold.

“Of course,” he replies flatly, taking the hint, and I know I’ve hurt him...or at least bruised his ego.

He slides his arm out from beneath me and leaves the bed, lowering himself to the hard, wooden floor.

“Don’t you want a pillow?” I ask. “Or a blanket?”

He rests his head on his forearm. “Not tonight. I must remind myself there are certain comforts that are not for me.”

Like sleeping with a woman in my arms, I imagine him saying to himself.

Like believing a prince could choose you over God, I think, realizing my own guilty wish.

“Thank you for making me feel safe,” I say, staring at the ceiling.

I hear him let out a long breath.

“You will always be safe with me, Evangeline.”

Tomorrow morning we will find out what X knows of the map that must exist. Tomorrow night I will convince Benedict how dangerously tempting I really am—so that neither of us is seduced again into thinking there could ever be more.

So that my foolish heart understands there is no promise in a prince’s kiss.

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