Royal Treatment (His Royal Hotness 2)

I’m in Paris. At the George V. With Lola.

I repeat the words again. And again. And again. Until they finally sink in. Until my heart stops racing. Until I can finally breathe again. Only then do I let myself relax, one muscle at a time.

A glance at my phone tells me it’s barely six A.M. No wonder I feel so exhausted. We’ve only been asleep a couple of hours.

Determined to stay in bed, determined not to let all the bullshit of the past get to me, I roll onto my side and wrap myself around Lola. She murmurs something, then cuddles closer so that all of her luscious curves are pressed up against me.

It feels good. She feels good. The warmth and the softness and the sweetness of her relax me as no mantra in the world can. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I press kisses to her bare shoulder. To her neck. To the top of her spine.

She melts against me with a sigh, her lush ass arching against my suddenly hard cock. And though there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to take her right now, to thrust myself inside of her and fuck her until we’re both exhausted, I won’t do it.

Not now, when the memories are riding me hard. Not now, when my control is shaky and I swear the scent of my own blood hangs in the air.

Instead, I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing the way nine months of therapy have taught me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Iiiiiiiiin through the nose, hold, ooooooooout through the mouth.

It’s not working this morning. How can it when the dream is so fresh that the sweat hasn’t even dried on my body?

I pull Lola closer, hold her tighter, searching for I don’t know what in the feel of her body against mine. Peace, maybe? Sanctuary? Acceptance? Tonight they all seem so far away.

My arm tightens around her waist of its own volition and even though she’s still asleep, she mumbles a protest, tries to push me off. It’s only then, when I have to force myself to loosen my grip, that I realize what I’m doing. How I’m using Lola to try to drown out the nightmares I’ve spent nine long months trying to face.

She mutters another protest, low and sweet, and I realize that I’m still holding her. Still squeezing her until she’s uncomfortable. Still dirtying her up with my memories, with the detritus of my past.

It’s that thought more than any other that has me grabbing my phone and rolling out of bed. The last thing I want is for the ugliness of my abduction to ever touch her.

After pulling on a pair of boxers, I pad bare-chested into the living room. The early-morning sun is brighter in here, and I blink against it as I try to get my bearings. It’s harder than it should be, and I can’t figure out why I suddenly feel so lost when I know exactly where I am and who I’m with.

I cross to the bar and grab a bottle of water, then pull my anxiety meds from my briefcase and swallow one down. Goddammit. I’m so sick of these pills, so sick of these nightmares. So sick of being this broken shell of a man who can’t even sleep through the night without freaking out.

I think back to what Michael said the last time I saw him. About how I’ve got to let some of this shit out, let some of it go, or I’m going to explode. But how do I do that? How the fuck do I do that?

I’d love to let it go. I’ve spent the last nine months trying really fucking hard to let it go. But every time I think I’m making progress, every time I think I’m finally doing okay, those fucking nightmares come back and kick me in the ass.

And it’s not like I can talk to just anyone about this. I’m a fucking prince, for God’s sake. Can’t have the guy who’s first/second in line for the throne whining about his PTSD to whoever will listen. It just isn’t done, no matter what Michael seems to think.

My hands are shaking as I recap the medicine bottle and for a second I think about taking a tranquilizer, just to chill the fuck out. But I’ve got shit to do today and the last thing I want is to be fuzzy or out of it. Lola deserves better than that.

I think about going in the hot tub to relax, think about reading a book. But in the end I just drag on a pair of jeans and stand at the balcony, staring down at Paris as it slowly wakes up.

I’m not sure how long I stand there. Long enough for the café down the street to open its door. Long enough for a light rain to start falling on the streets. More than long enough for the anxiety meds to take effect and my hands to finally, finally, stop shaking.

I think about going back to bed, but I’m not sleepy even if I am exhausted. I settle for ordering coffee and pastries from room service, figuring they’ll keep until Lola wakes up. Then I hunker down with my laptop to try to get some work done. Kian’s got a major summit on climate change coming up in a couple of weeks and there are a number of research papers I want to get through before then. If Wildemar is going to push for stronger climate initiatives, I want to make sure we have the hows and whys all worked out.

I’m halfway through the second paper—and a second pot of coffee—when my phone rings. At first I ignore it, not interested in talking to anyone. But a glance at the screen shows that it’s the King calling, and it’s not like I can ignore that. After all, the man only calls to berate me or when he wants something. Either way, it’s better to get it over with now, before Lola wakes up.

I swipe Accept, and he starts talking before I even say hello.

“Garrett, really. I know what you’re doing with this girl and it’s not going to work. The people may love her, but she’s not queen material. For God’s sake, she looks like a streetwalker in that maroon dress.”

I think about hanging up on him without saying a word, but that’s just one more way for me to prove him right. “Good morning to you, too, Dad. How are you today?”

“Frustrated, which I’m sure is exactly what you’re aiming for. Your brother keeps sending me polling data on you and this American who likes to break into our national parks. I’m not sure what the people see in her, to be honest. Attitude and looks get you only so far in this world, and I’m pretty sure she’s already scaled the outer limits of what she’s capable of with her little resale business.”

He says “resale business” in the same tone he reserves for drug dealers and prostitution rings. It gets my back up, has me saying, “You don’t even know her,” before I can think better of it. The second the words leave my mouth, I wish I could call them back. Giving him a response only validates him, only eggs him on. If I’ve learned nothing else in my thirty years of life, I’ve learned that.

Still, since I’ve already done the damage, I might as well follow it up with the truth. “And it was a local park, not a national one.”

Several seconds of silence follow. And then, “That’s your defense? It was a local park?”