Masked Prince (Fated Royals 2)

Bullshit, but not a surprise. As far as I knew, the kingdom was safe… but what the fuck did I know from the last week, other than every freckle on Iris’ cheeks or the way she bit her tongue when she giggled? Or the way she ate raspberries one a time?

When it came to the kingdom, I knew there wasn’t that much that could change in a week. But when it came to how I felt about her, that was another story. In a matter of a week, I’d fallen so fucking in love with her I could hardly think of anything else at all.

Fuck the kingdom, I thought, as I rode hard toward the drawbridge. Fuck it all. All that matters is her.

But at least for the time being, I’d have to focus on something other than Iris and everything I wanted to do with her tits, ass and pussy.

My father’s men and I approached the castle gates and the royal grooms came out to get the horses. The grooms didn’t look at me, but I knew that had everything to do with respect and nothing to do with my scars and burns. I didn’t care about being unmasked right now. The grooms knew me well enough, and they were also loyal to my father and me. As soon as we entered the palace, I hooked a right to go to my quarters—I never walked around within the royal premises unmasked.

One of the guards blocked my way and grabbed my arm.

“King Bramain wants to see you urgently. You’re to go straight to his bed chamber. Those are our orders.”

This motherfucker right here. I shoved him back to get his hands off me.

“Lemme ask you something, man. Do you see the King anywhere out here?”

The head guard was trying to look assertive, but as his eyes faltered, I could tell he knew he’d seriously overstepped. Laying his hands on me? Fucker was lucky I didn’t punch him right in the face.

“No, sir,” he replied.

One thing these guys understood was the chain of command and thank fuck for that.

“Exactly. You defer to me. And my orders are that you wait here for five fucking minutes. Got it?”

All at once, all six guards stepped to the right to get out of my way, with a clatter of armor and plate, and in unison they barked, “Yes, sir.”

Sometimes it was damn good to be the prince. I booked it around the corner to the entrance to my own quarters. It was a forgettable, shitty little wooden doorway, and that was how I liked it. The door looked like an access closet for the chambermaids, but it wasn’t. It was my gateway to my own private world. I made my way up the dark staircase and through another small door, and then emerged into what was known as the Ruined Tower.

From the outside, it looked abandoned and neglected. But on the inside, it was every bit a palace—my fucking palace. With its own private dungeon.

In my dressing room, I stripped naked and splashed my face with cool water from the wash basin. Then I dried myself with a fresh towel and wiped down my arms and chest. I didn’t give two shits for appearances, but I smelled like a farm and the cool water cleared my head.

Once I was clean, I put on a fresh shirt, clean britches and my boots. Then from my dressing table, I grabbed the thing that I both needed and hated. Desired and loathed.

My mask.

It was made of Damascus steel, fold-forged and oil quenched. Dark ripples of carbon interwove with lighter layers of silver. Lightweight and strong, I’d had it made by a metalsmith that I’d brought over from across the south sea. On one hand, it protected others from the discomfort of seeing my scars. It saved me having to answer questions about how I got to be the way I was.

But on the other hand—way more important—it protected me from having to show my true self to the court and those in the castle. The real me, the one that I had allowed Iris to see, was something I guarded aggressively.

The masked me could be anybody, and I liked that. It kept the queen, especially, on her toes. Not being able to see my face made her uncertain and nervous around me. Just like the bitch deserved.

I sniffed hard, fastened the leather strap behind my head, and looked at myself in the mirror. I’d been told that if a mask could be handsome, it was. Possibly. All I knew for sure was the masked man that looked back at me wasn’t who had fallen in love with Iris. This guy? He was a mean son of a bitch who gave no fucks about anyone except himself.

The masked prince was a bastard.