Royal Pain (His Royal Hotness 1)

Still, I’m supposed to be trying, so…“Your daughter. How is she? The last time we spoke she was on summer break from Cambridge.”

“Bootsy has finished up her degree and is now working in the embassy. Here. In Wildemar.”

And that’s my cue to bug the hell out of Dodge. “Well, please, give Bootsy my love. We’ll have to have you all over to the palace soon.”

I drop another kiss on her hand, then slide into the crowd swirling around us. I make a mental note to ask Roland—the family’s social secretary and general master of all things that make me miserable—what it would take for me to get a pair of earplugs and a lobotomy before that happens.

Why the fuck am I doing this? I fume as I make my way through the crowd. Why the fuck am I even here? I should be at home researching the information from our daily briefing on Garrett’s disappearance or badgering our security or intelligence forces about what else they can do to find him. I sure as shit shouldn’t be here pretending to give a fuck about all this.

So why the hell am I?

Oh, right. I’m supposed to show the people that Wildemar is as strong as ever, even if their crown prince has disappeared in an incident where everything points to foul play.

The only problem? It’s not true. We’re not strong. But fake it till you make it has always been my motto—or, at least, the fake it part. I’m here to show everyone that things are fine, that Garrett’s kidnapping, while alarming and being treated with the utmost urgency, hasn’t shaken the integrity or the spirit of the royal family. Even though it really, really has.

It’s harder to fake than it should be, considering I was raised in this world and have known many of the people in this room for most of my life. But familiarity doesn’t mean intimacy—especially when you’re royal—and I’m determined not to break. Not here and definitely not now.

Even though every day that Garrett’s missing, every day that goes by without a phone call or a ransom demand or a video using him as propaganda for some crazy cause, it becomes more and more likely that my brother—my twin—is already dead.

The recurring thought chills me to the bone, has more than my hands shaking as I start to slowly wind my way toward the bar on the other side of the room. Distance wise, it’s not that far. But as I can only move about six inches at a time before having to exchange more pleasantries, it takes forever.

My dry throat gets even drier.

Still, I smile at the Duchess of Something or Other, doing my best to ignore the way she presses herself against me. The fact that she’s old enough to be my mother doesn’t seem to bother her as she leans forward and whispers something utterly lewd—and utterly unarousing—in my ear.

And then Arnoux Durand catches my attention. “Your Highness, how are you?” He’s all sad eyes and concerned voice. “We are so, so sorry about Prince Garrett. But we want you to know how thrilled we are to have your leadership in this difficult time and into the future.”

Like my brother’s already dead. Like the outcome is already guaranteed and now all we have to do is find and bury the body.

I want to tell the fussy old asshole to back off, but he’s the majority leader of the Upper House. As my father had Roland remind me when he was briefing me—we’ve got a lot of legislation we need to get through the Houses right now and I’m supposed to smooth the way as much as possible. Sympathy will only get us so far, after all…yeah, dear old dad’s a cold one, all right.

Very deliberately, I take a breath—lately I’ve been forgetting to do that—and count back from five before I answer. “Thank you for your concern, Minister Durand. My father and I appreciate your—”

“Minister Gerincoult,” he interrupts, sounding a little like his bow tie is strangling him. I feel his pain.

“I definitely plan on speaking to Gerincoult,” I tell him. “I just haven’t—”

“No, I’m Gerincoult.” His words are clipped, his tone ice cold and I am completely screwed. “Durand is over by the balcony.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.” With no other recourse, I go for the pity vote. “With everything going on right now, I’m a little discombobulated. Of course I know who you are. You were always one of Garrett’s favorites.”

He doesn’t look impressed, but at least he doesn’t look offended anymore. Probably because he thinks I’m a moron…and right now, I’m tempted to agree with him.

Fuck. My. Life.

Garrett has to be alive. He has to be—and not because I can’t spend the next fifty years doing this. Everyone, from the people to my father to parliament (except for maybe Lower House Minority Leader Gerincoult), seems to think I should take his place, glad-handing the peerage even as I show Wildemar’s citizens just how serious I can be. If these last three months have shown me nothing else, it’s that to all of them, one crown prince is as good as another.

As if it’s so easy.

As if I can just slide into Garrett’s place.

As if anyone could.

Garrett is the best of Wildemar, certainly the better of the two of us. The idea that I could ever, in any way, replace him is more than just insulting. It’s a goddamn joke. One with a really, really bad punch line.

And yet here I am, trying—and failing—to do just that.

The people of Wildemar deserve better. Too bad they haven’t figured that out yet.