Prologue
Kian
The weather’s hot, the drinks are cold and the music is hopping—and there’s no place I’d rather be.
Then again, who doesn’t want to be on a yacht off the coast of Ibiza, playground to the rich and the raunchy?
It’s the perfect spot, especially for someone like me who’s quite proud of taking both of the above to extremes—along with the third r in my trifecta of bad behavior: royal.
That’s right. I’m rich, raunchy and royal, and while I don’t usually brag about any of it, I don’t apologize for it, either. Why should I, when there’s not much in life that being His Royal Hotness Prince Kian of Wildemar won’t get me? And since I get the title without any of the responsibility—thanks to my older brother, Garrett—I figure it’d be a shame to squander my luck.
A lot of people think I should be bitter about being the spare to Garrett’s heir—we were born only seven minutes apart, after all. But those people don’t get it. They see only the power that comes with being the man who will be king and none of the shit that it entails.
I, however, have had an up-close-and-personal look at all of the shit, and I’ve got to say—I really, really like being the spare.
It’s why I’m on this yacht, after all, while Garrett’s back at the castle playing Crown Prince of Wildemar with delegates from several South American governments.
Why I currently have a Brazilian supermodel on my lap and a Victoria’s Secret Angel snuggled up against my side while Garrett’s been tied to the same boring, titled little snob for years now.
Most important, it’s why I get to say and be and do what (or who) I want while Garrett…Garrett definitely doesn’t.
Fuck yeah, I love being the spare. What’s not to love about getting all the privileges of royalty with none of the responsibilities?
The music changes to some old school Avicii, and the model on my lap—Sofia, I think her name is—squeals even as she squirms against me. “I love this song,” she says, her voice all low and breathless and sex-drunk from the orgasm I just gave her. “Let’s dance, baby.”
“You sure that’s what you want?” I flex the fingers of my left hand, which are still buried inside of her. “Because I was thinking we’d go for round two, see how long it takes me to get you off again.”
“You can get me off again,” Brandy, the Angel on my right side, says as she rocks against my thumb. She moans a little as I give her what she wants, stroking my thumb over her clit once, twice, a third time.
Like so many things in life, third time’s the charm and she comes, gasping my name and clutching at my back with her long, designer-polished fingernails.
Sofia moans a little as she watches, her body clenching hot and wet around my fingers as she, too, comes for a second time.
And then she’s slipping off my lap, sliding a hand down the six-pack ten years in the Wildemar Royal Navy has given me and settling onto the floor between my thighs. Brandy moves to help her out, her fingers tugging at the drawstring on my Gucci board shorts. I lean back against the couch in an effort to give her more room—never let it be said that I’m not a gentleman. It obviously works, because just that easily her hand is inside my shorts, her fingers wrapped around my dick as she pumps me a few times.
It’s my turn to groan as I stretch one of my arms out along the back of the sofa. I use the other to reach for Sofia. I pull her closer, tangle my fingers in her hair. Then slowly, slowly, slowly guide her very red, very talented mouth down to my eagerly waiting cock.
But she’s barely sucked me down when the sound of a helicopter’s rotors gets annoyingly close. So close, in fact, that I can’t help glancing up at it. And that’s when I know I’m fucked, because it’s not just any helicopter. It’s one from the Wildemar Royal Air Corps—I can tell from the insignia on the side.
Before I can even fathom what they’re doing here, Niall and Lucas are by my side. In seconds, I’m disengaged from Sofia and the angel and in less than a minute, I’m standing in the center of the deck beneath a ladder dangling from the hovering helicopter.
“What the fuck is going on?” I demand of my bodyguards who are, even now—in the middle of a yacht party—dressed in the slate gray suits that are their standard uniform.
“The king has ordered you home,” Niall tells me, face more serious than I’ve ever seen it.
“The king can suck—”
“It’s an emergency, Kian.” Lucas cuts me off before I can say something unflattering about my father in front of all the rich and useless avidly watching this go down.
“What kind of emergency?” For the first time a frisson of concern works its way down my spine. “The country—”
“Is fine,” Niall interrupts.
“Then what?”
“It’s Prince Garrett,” he tells me as he steadies the ladder.
The trepidation grows, starts to become panic. “What’s wrong with my brother?”
“I don’t know.”
The fuck? “What do you know?” I demand, frustrated.
“That something has happened to Prince Garrett and the king fears for your safety as well,” Lucas growls. “Now, get on the—”