Prince: A Filthy Sweet Fairy Tale Romance Read online

  It’s surprising how much leeway a nice suit and impeccable manners can get you.

  I walk a narrow line with my public image. Projecting the image of a mostly-in-control, charming playboy without a desire for actual work takes some finesse. The vast majority don't know how many companies I have a hand in. And I like to keep it that way.

  If I'm not out in the open, they can never see me coming or even know that I was the one who trounced them in the marketplace. All of that makes these social circles a lot less dangerous to navigate.

  Which brings me back to Rita. Rather than answer her question, I take her hand in the crook of my elbow and start walking towards the refreshments.

  "Have you had anything to drink?" I ask, smoothly redirecting the conversation as I nod at those who greet me.

  "No," she says, not pushing the matter as she clings to me. "I would adore a drink." And cling is entirely too accurate. She smiles sharply at any woman who looks our way as we walk across the room.

  It's exceedingly tiresome.

  This kind of thing is another reason I like to keep my business life hidden. I have plenty of attention already from gold-digging types like Rita. If they find out how large my portfolio actually is, I might start feeling like a prized cow. Plump and ripe for the slaughter. I smile to myself, shaking my head. A little overly dramatic, but not inaccurate.

  As I pour a drink for her and consider possibly taking her to bed again—the damage is already done, after all—I wonder at the large contingent of people who are content to live off others. It is so foreign to my own nature. Motivation has never been a problem. Yes, I started with a silver spoon in my mouth, as every Singarti here on Earth does. We are the ruling elite of the planet, alien or not, and with that position comes wealth. Even so, I've never been content with what I was given. I never felt it was truly mine since I didn't earn it myself.

  So I set about rectifying that with a vengeance. I've multiplied my holdings many times over the years. Not because I want more money, but because I enjoy creating something from nothing. I enjoy having actual power in the ability to take action, rather than just the social and monetary power my position automatically gives me.

  Which is to say, I find I really cannot respect a gold digger like Rita. She has no desire to create the life she wants. She would rather find someone else to give her that lifestyle.

  She smiles at me as she takes a slow sip from the glass I hand her, the motion meant to be provocative. She licks her lips slowly.

  I resist the urge to yawn.

  I take what they so freely offer because it satisfies the man and the beast on a base level. But I cannot have someone so shallow as a real part of my life. I would never be able to care about her. I could never love someone with so little behind her pretty face.

  I decide against a tumble in bed, feeling only a slight twinge of regret. It would give her too many ideas if I spend another night in her bed. Rita has already shown she won't accept my words as truth. Simply telling her how I feel hasn't been enough.

  I need to show her.

  I scan the room until I catch another hungry young woman's eyes. The cunning in them tells me she knows the game and is adept at it. She is not a victim.

  Perfect.

  "Excuse me, I see someone I know," I murmur, stepping away from Rita. She sputters, but I keep moving.

  "Hello," I murmur when I reach the woman, bowing to the petite brunette with the short hair. "Would you care to dance?"

  She smiles at me, looking up through her eyelashes with a coy expression. Practiced and honed. I don't know why the very things I used to look for started bothering me. After all, women like this won’t cry when I leave them.

  "Why, of course, Prince Herne. I would be delighted," she coos, her roaming eye taking in the interest of those around us. She enjoys the attention I bring her. Another common factor with the women I meet at such social gatherings.

  I force a smile, but it fades as we reach the dance floor. I have no real interest in this new woman either. She's a shark like the rest, looking for easy prey. She will be disappointed when I'm not caught. But she'll shake it off and find someone else to sink her teeth into. I have no doubt about it.

  Dancing with her serves a purpose. It will send a clear message to Rita not to expect anything more than that one night we already had.

  I search for her as we turn on the dance floor and catch sight of her sequins on the other side of the room. She's already in another rich fool's arms. I hope he knows what he's getting into. I smile to myself as I murmur something polite to my dance partner. These waters are indeed infested with pretty predators.

  But I'm not interested in being hunted.

  Chapter 3

  Elle

  "Why are you so careless? I try and try to be patient with you, Elle, but you are wearing on my very last nerve!" My stepmother is a kind of domestic performance artist. Within this one utterance, she has veered from naked rage to pitiable weakness. I blink at her, completely dumbfounded by this tirade out of nowhere. Maybe because I was expecting something targeted at the dress I'm still holding onto for dear life.

  "What?" I venture.

  Her nostrils flare in anger. We’re back to rage. She's had too much done to her face at this point, both with surgical procedures and with her makeup settings. She looks oddly smooth until she moves her face and then it looks almost like it's cracking from all the years she's been alive.

  "You ruined both of my daughters' shoes with the bucket you spilled! Or do you not care at all about the damage you've done?" She looks up, calling on God, or maybe the light fixture, to witness her self-sacrifice. "After all I do for you!" She looks back down at me, her mouth tight now, her tone acid. "You're a drain on our resources, do you realize that?" Of course I do. She tells me at every opportunity she has, forgetting that the money she's using to support her lavish lifestyle belonged to my father. "But out of the goodness of my heart,”—now she’s emoting a tremulous, almost-weepy saint—“I allow you to stay under this roof. Yet you're still so awful! So ungrateful for all I give you!” One fluttering hand comes to rest on her surgically-enhanced bosom. “So completely inconsiderate!"

  Inconsiderate? That's a new one. At this point, I've learned to just keep quiet during her rants. Saying anything only enrages her further and lengthens the duration of her lectures. If they can even be called that.

  What lesson am I supposed to take away from this one? Am I now in control of her precious daughters' feet? I get the urge to say that this was my father's house before it was hers, but I know it won't get me anywhere. It'll only make things worse.

  I just need to survive here a little longer. Then I'll be at Parsons and I'll never have to come back here again. Just the thought buoys me.

  I wake from that micro-dream into the nightmare of the present as she abruptly strides closer and takes a grip on the dress I'm holding. Not the dress!

  "No!" I yell reflexively, pulling it back. If I'd been thinking more clearly and less emotionally, I might have tried to play nonchalant. Now I've let her know that I'm attached to the dress.

  I just gave her another way to hurt me.

  "Let go, you worthless brat!" she screams, pulling back hard enough that it's ripped right out of my hands. Now that she’s won the tug-of-war, there are icepicks in every syllable. "What are you doing with this?" she asks, holding it up, far away from her body like it's covered in slime. A cold chuckle leaves her mouth. "What do you think you're going to do with a ball gown?" she says, her eyes narrowed on me.

  There's no way out of this now. I swallow, my throat making a clicking sound it's so dry.

  "It's my dress. For the cotillion," I say. I don't know what she'll do now that I've said it.

  "Your dress for...the cotillion?" she repeats, her voice rising nearly to a shriek as she completes the sentence. I glance over her shoulder. My stepsisters are drawing closer behind her to watch, giggling as they glance at each other. They always show up when Step
mother is chewing me out—there's nothing more entertaining to them than watching me being yelled at. She lowers her voice to a too-quiet, menacing snarl. "What makes you think someone as worthless as you could go to the Singarti Prince's cotillion?" she asks. "Here I am, wasting my money on you, and you're hiding your own money from me?” She laughs now. “Spending it on this excuse for a dress?" As usual, her rapid-fire shifts from one emotional extreme to another have knocked me completely off-balance. She shakes the dress in my face.

  The girls laugh a little more loudly at that, their eyes moving to look at the crumpled up dress in their mother's hands.

  "I made it myself," I say. I know it's no use explaining that I hardly spent anything on it. My eyes well with tears although I try to hold them back. I really don't want to give them the satisfaction of watching me break down.

  She looks at the dress again, holding it out so her daughters can get a better look at it.

  "No wonder it's so hideous," she remarks, grimacing as she looks at it. "What a waste of fabric. I don't know what you thought you were making, but you've obviously failed."

  The insult burns. I shouldn't really care what her opinion is, but hearing it still hurts. It’s like she's insulting me, not just my dress.

  "It's mine," I say defiantly. "Everyone is invited to the cotillion!" I rub at my eyes roughly. "Why not me?" Why, I scream in my head, why can't I have just a little piece of what everyone else has?

  "Oh, Elle," my stepmother says, shaking her head, and for a split second I believe she’s sad for me. "Poor, stupid Elle. I could never afford to pay for a nobody like you to go to the cotillion." She leans in, her eyes vicious and cold. "You know that. Certainly you know that. Don't you?" Then she steps back. I watch in horror as she takes a firm hold on either side of the dress and jerks her hands apart. It rips with a sound like a baby’s sob.

  "Please," I say, finally reduced to begging. “Please don’t.” Of course she doesn’t stop. Tears inch down my face as she tears it to shreds. Pieces of fabric flutter to the floor, buttons bouncing as they tear away. All the scraps are on the floor now, a useless pile of material that used to be my dress.

  All of that work.… But it's more than the time and effort I put into it. It was more than a dress—it was a symbol of my resolve, of the future I was going to make for myself. It's like she's torn my hope apart. I can't look away from it. I'm still staring at the floor as she throws the last of it down.

  "You will not be going to the cotillion," she says. She’s enjoying my pain, savoring this moment. "It is for people of a certain rank, people of a certain breeding. Not that I have to tell you that. I'm sure you know that with your mother’s blood.… Well.” Now a sly wheedling note enters her voice. “I’m only saving you the embarrassment of showing up in that monstrosity. You should be thanking me, really." She pauses, like she expects me to actually thank her. I don't respond. "Come along girls," she finally says.

  I don't look up as she leaves the room, my stepsisters whispering and laughing to each other as they follow. Their entertainment is over for now.

  Kneeling, I pick up the scraps and carefully place them on the bed, wiping my tears away on my shirt. I stare at the pieces for a few minutes, not knowing what to do. I can't be here right now. I might start screaming and not be able to stop.

  I grab my sweatshirt and throw it on before silently leaving my bedroom, closing the door behind myself.

  They probably won’t be back again tonight. There's nothing of value left in my bedroom. Nothing else they could destroy while I'm gone. The noise they make goes quieter as they move deeper into the apartment, into one of the kitchens.

  I walk silently down the hall, to the foyer. Stepmother will try to stop me if she sees me leaving. Not because she cares about my well-being, but because my getting anything I want will ruin her evening. I leave through the front door.

  As I take the elevator down, helpless anger and despair twines together inside me. I know life isn't fair. I know it, deep down in the marrow of my bones. Somehow, I keep having to choke that truth down, over and over again.

  "Good evening, Ms. Elle!"

  "Good evening," I say to the robotic doorman as he rolls over, his top half convincingly humanoid even though his bottom half is a metal pole ending in a sphere that allows him to move in all directions with ease. It's only one of the security measures for a building as expensive as this one.

  I always find it ironic how fancy the place where I live is, when my life is the complete opposite.

  The glitz is just a reminder of everything I don't get to have.

  I leave the building behind and walk over to a small park nearby. The park is one of the perks of living in a nice neighborhood. Green areas are rare these days. We've developed almost all the land we have and the human population keeps growing.

  Even with new laws in place, it's only a matter of time before we’ll have no place left to expand. I consider the rarity of this patch of land as I walk the path meandering through it, wondering if someday soon I won't be able to come here to settle my mind.

  I take a deep breath of cool night air, but it doesn't bring me the same peace it usually does. There's too much wrong, too many reasons to hurt right now.

  Maybe I should go to Gwenda's. My real mom's best friend can always make me feel better. And I can't wander the park all night. It's a good neighborhood, but it's still night and I'm still alone. The city isn't really safe for anyone to walk around alone at night.

  Even as the thought crosses my mind, the sound of footsteps rings loudly into the night.

  My heart thumps in my chest as I look up from the path. My eyes scan the area in front of me, searching for whomever that determined stride belongs to. My eyes stop as I pick up movement.

  There.

  I can just make out a figure appearing from the darkness. Tall, with broad shoulders, he's walking down the path confidently, his long legs eating up the distance.

  Right towards me.

  Maybe coming out alone at night wasn't my smartest move, no matter how much I needed it. I slowly come to a stop, wondering if I should turn, if I should run.

  He’s already almost on top of me now.

  Running seems like admitting I'm afraid, like making myself a target.

  As I stand there alone, in the dark, with a stranger fast approaching, I hope I haven't made a terrible mistake.

  Chapter 4

  Herne

  I walk through the park, letting my mind drift. Sometimes my best ideas come to me while I'm thinking of nothing in particular. The best way to get to that state is with physical movement. These nighttime walks are perfect for it.

  The park is especially nice this late. Most people are safely tucked away in their beds for the night, braving the park only during safe daylight hours.

  The city is never truly deserted, even at night, but after the sun sets, people tend to cluster around the streets with nightlife. So I'm more than a little surprised to see the feminine figure hesitating along the path in front of me.

  I do a quick scan around her to see if there is someone else with her. No, the small patch of park around us is empty.

  Why is she out alone at night? In the park of all places? If someone were to attack her here, there isn't anyone nearby to help. I wonder about this as I draw nearer.

  Then I see her face. All other thoughts come to a screeching halt. In that moment, I know I'll never forget my first glimpse of that arresting face. The golden glow from one of the streetlamps falls across her face, highlighting the even contours, the soft hollows and smooth lines.

  She's beautiful.

  Not in the way attractive people are called beautiful. She's beautiful in the way an artist would depict. Healthy, lightly golden skin, smooth and flushed a healthy pink. Her light brown eyes are framed by surprisingly dark lashes and delicately arched brows, considering the almost white-blonde color of her hair. Small, slightly upturned nose, full pale pink lips as natural as the hair.

/>   I've seen a lot of blonde dye jobs and expensive holograms. It’s beyond rare to see a woman whose face is untouched by all of that—pure.

  Her hair looks so soft and silky I have an urge to run my fingers through it. As I close the distance between us, I notice the delicate smattering of freckles across her nose. They make her approachable where that otherwise classically lovely face might intimidate.

  I want her instantly.

  I want her with an immediacy that would be difficult to ignore, if I had any intention of ignoring it.

  I sense that with this woman, this girl really, I'm going to have to tread lightly.

  "Hello," I say, stopping a few yards away from her.

  She's already giving me a wary look, her eyes open wide. I have to be careful here. A young woman alone doesn't particularly want to meet a stranger at night. She definitely doesn't want to engage with him.

  "Hi," she says quietly, her eyes guarded.

  "Looks like I'm not the only one who thought a stroll in the park would be a good idea," I remark, sliding my hands into my pockets to appear as nonthreatening as possible. I can't do anything about my height or my build, so I do the best I can with body language. "It's so much nicer when it's quiet and empty like this, don't you think?"

  She glances around, nodding slowly, noticing exactly how empty it is, apart from us. Perhaps pointing that out wasn't my best tactic.

  "The quiet does help me think," she finally says, her eyes meeting mine briefly before darting away. Progress.

  I try to hide my satisfaction. "I think so too," I say, not moving any closer. I feel as if I were trying to approach a timid wild creature, a doe. I must tread lightly, or she might make a break for it still. "Would you mind some company?"

  She smiles a little. "I thought being alone here helped you think?" she asks, a little archly. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your flow of thought."

  I grin, enjoying the slightly acidic response. Not a pushover. Good.