Dirty Prince Read online

  An old man with straggling, gray hair sits on the throne. He wears the same ceremonial doublet Prince Liam wore earlier, except his fits badly. It looks like it’s barely hanging on his skeletal frame. The sunken-in eyes stare at me from across the room, and I still my fidgeting. This must be what it’s like to meet Death.

  “Bring her forth.”

  Liam grasps my upper arm, leading me to a spot in the middle of the room. His father, the king, stares at me beadily. His body is overcome with small tremors.

  “You are the American who trespassed into my country?”

  My voice echoes in the cavernous room. “I—I’m not American! I didn’t trespass!”

  Another man’s voice rings out. “Your Majesty, I have reason to believe the girl is lying. We found American paraphernalia in her belongings, and we seized her laptop.”

  “Bring me the evidence.”

  The man deposits the empty bag of peanuts in the king’s waiting hands. “What’s this rubbish?”

  “It’s a packet of peanuts.”

  “The girl is an American…because she eats peanuts.”

  “No, she’s an American because the manufacturer is located in Sacramento.”

  I turn toward the voice, staring at the uppity asshole. “I demand a lawyer.”

  “You demand?” King Jonathan’s face spreads with a nasty smile. “No one makes demands of the king.”

  “I’m sorry, sir—”

  “Your Majesty.”

  “Your Majesty,” I grind out. “This is a miscarriage of justice. I have no legal representation. Your evidence was obtained without a warrant. Whatever he found in my things is inadmissible.”

  The throne room erupts with the king’s laughter. The very floors shake with the force bursting from his chest. Liam gives me an exasperated look, and the man who I suspect is a police chief exchanges an amused smile with the king.

  “Your Yankee laws do not apply to us, my dear. We are a sovereign nation. I will not tolerate any more interruptions about how I should rule my country.”

  Feeling sick, I watch as the master-at-arms clears his throat. “As I was saying, we recovered the laptop and found that she’s a student at University of California, Berkeley. We also found her Instagram.”

  The king’s eye widen as the master-at-arms pulls out his phone and cycles through a few particularly embarrassing pictures of me frolicking in a bikini on a beach, and me posing with a giant cheeseburger hovering near my lips.

  “An American spy.”

  “I believe so.”

  Liam takes a step forward, frowning. “Father, I highly doubt this woman is a spy. My instincts scream ‘dumb thrill-seeker’ not ‘devious spy.’”

  “The question of whether or not she’s a spy is irrelevant. She broke the law and expected no consequences. Typical American arrogance.” A thunderous rage erupts from his voice. “I will blast every one of your damned Yankee ships that attempt to rescue you. I sentence you, Daisy Walker, to ten years of hard labor in the quarry.”

  Ten… ten years?

  “Father, I must object to this.”

  “Must you?”

  “The sentence is far too harsh. It doesn’t fit the crime.”

  “She is at worst an American spy, and at best, an idiot.” His nasty gaze turns on me once again. “I suppose you wanted to come here and cause trouble, didn’t you?”

  “No! I swear!”

  “You’re a student at this school, are you not?”

  My eyes burn. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “So you came here on your summer break, thinking this would be a nice little project, didn’t you? Destabilizing my regime must earn you class credit at that free-loving, piss-covered hippy school.”

  I wrap my arms around my body, trembling.

  “You see, Liam? She is a conspirator. She must be punished accordingly.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  The room echoes with the sound of King Jonathan’s fist slamming into the arm of his chair. “Ten years of hard labor in the quarry. You begin tomorrow.”

  Chaos at Harronvale: Daft Yankee Insults Prince Liam

  Liam

  “Ten—ten years?”

  Daisy’s indignant voice cuts right into my chest as my father stares back at her insolent gaze without pity.

  “Ten years,” he repeats, his foul face widened with glee. “And may you rot. Take the prisoner away and confiscate her camera!”

  Fuck.

  “You can’t do this!”

  Part of me wants to laugh at her arrogance. Of course he can do this. He’s the fucking king.

  Daisy takes a step forward and is immediately restrained by the guards. I’m in awe of her tiny arms, which struggle to break free from my men. That awful green boat-neck t-shirt stretches across her tits, not quite hiding their size. A faded, light green script is stamped across her chest: Toronto. She probably bought it in the airport, along with the rest of her clothes.

  I motion to the guards while taking Daisy’s tense shoulder. I pull her back, and her tight little ass bumps right into my cock. Not here. I bite my tongue hard.

  “Don’t say another word. Turn around and follow me quietly.”

  Ten fucking years.

  I half expected for her to scream for a lawyer, or make other ridiculous demands for a phone call or this or that, but then my father steps down from the dais and the fight seems to vanish from her limbs. She nods numbly.

  We walk in stunned silence as my troop of loyal guards follow. Her arm is still in my grasp, and suddenly I think of dropping it to take her hand.

  You just got her sentenced to ten years of hard labor. Do you think she’ll drop to her knees and offer to suck your cock?

  Once we descend to the dungeons, Daisy’s shoulders begin to shake. The door groans as it’s opened, and she takes a trembling step down. The guards’ noise follows us, and I turn around.

  “Leave us.”

  My tone leaves no room for discussion. I descend the steps and close the cell door behind us.

  Daisy whirls around, her eyes stabbing me. “You told me I would be sent home!”

  “Yeah, I may have underestimated my father’s thirst for blood.”

  “This is all your fault!”

  I stagger back as she shoves my chest with all the force in her tiny arms.

  “Right. I told you to sneak into my country illegally. I told you to bring your laptop with all that incriminating evidence.”

  “Don’t give me that shit! You arrested me for no reason—”

  “To save your ass from the mob calling for blood!”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “Does my ass look saved to you?”

  “I had no idea this would happen.” I rake my hand through my hair, suddenly irritated with her look of disgust. “Honestly, what did you think would happen if you were caught? You are just like those idiots who sneak into North Korea expecting a slap on the wrist.”

  She flinches as though I’ve struck her. “I wasn’t planning to sabotage your country.”

  “No, you just wanted to write an exposé on how backwards and fucked we are.”

  “Actually, I was just going to write about my experience. And my experience so far is that you’re just like twelfth century England!”

  Oh my God. “You did not just compare us to the English.”

  Daisy’s eyes narrow. “Are you seriously going to deny a strong English influence? Even your accent sounds English.”

  “Only to your uncultured American ears.”

  “Only to like everyone who has seen Downton Abbey!”

  “We are not English!”

  The very suggestion makes me want to throw her body over my bended knee, yank her trousers to her knees, and spank her ass until my palm bleeds. Then maybe she’ll learn never to call us English again.

  She rolls her eyes at me, and somehow that slight is enough to make me grab her skinny arm and yank her toward her cell.

  “Let go of me!”


  “Sorry, love. You’re our prisoner now.”

  “Liam, this isn’t a joke. I’m not one of the girls from the village you can fuck with and toss aside. You can’t just throw me in there and let me rot!”

  “I can’t do this. I can’t do that. You really have no idea how to speak to a royal. Perhaps you should have learned how before sneaking into our country.”

  She yanks her arm out of my grip and stalks back into her cell as if she’s glad to be rid of me. The moment I touch the cell door, her eyes widen like saucers. My chest tightens as her face screws up like she’s going to cry.

  “Liam—please. I know what I did was wrong, but I don’t deserve ten years.”

  “My dad is dying. He’s not going to last much longer.”

  Her eyes widen. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. He’s a bastard. My point is that his days are numbered, and once I’m king I will free you from this ridiculous sentence.”

  She nods without looking reassured.

  Can she even last six months in the quarry?

  “I’ll think of something. I will get you out of this.”

  Goddamn it, Liam. Do not make promises you can’t keep.

  She’s not the first journalist to attempt something like this, but she’s probably the hottest. A smile pricks across my face as I lean into the cell.

  “If I secure your release, can we at least—?”

  “Don’t push it.”

  All I wanted was to fuck the American girl. The fact she was American was indisputable the moment I met her, but I didn’t want to punish her for it. I certainly didn’t want my father to find out. Ten years of hard labor, and it’s mostly my fault.

  “Oh yeah. Give it to me hard!”

  My attention drifts back to the screen, which is lit up with a naked woman lying on a wooden plank spreading her legs wide. She throws her head back in ecstasy (I’ve never once known a woman to do this during sex) and her eyes roll up as the man standing between her legs sinks his cock into her primed pussy.

  “Oh yeah!” she yells. “Oh!”

  I squeeze my limp cock, not seeing the girl strapped to the table, but Daisy. The American girl, with her cheeky mouth and her olive skin. She writhes on the table as I use a pair of scissors to cut away her loathsome trousers and that awful green shirt that clashed horribly with her complexion. She’s probably really hot under it all. I can just imagine her tits warming my hands, and I wonder whether her nipples are pink or brown. She had beautiful, shining black hair and stunning blue eyes.

  I pinch my cock again, finding it rock-hard. I want that American pussy, want to feel her come on my tongue. But how? Now that dear old Dad’s sentenced her to ten years of hard labor in the fucking quarry, how am I ever going to get near her again?

  “Harder! Oooh! Aaah!”

  The woman’s fake orgasmic screams have the same effect as dumping a bucket of cold water over my lap. Instant boner killer.

  I shut the TV off to grab my phone. Then I scroll through my Twitter feed. I have millions of followers, but nothing I can do through social media will make Father cave. The bastard isn’t one for buckling under social pressure. So I tuck my half-hard cock back inside my trousers and yank them up my ass. I just have to convince him that he went overboard with the punishment; otherwise, she’ll suffer. She won’t last a week in that quarry. She’ll waste away to skin and bones. I’ve seen the people my father sends there. Those who survive return home with broken backs, curved spines, unable to work.

  It’s awful, but like I said, he’s a bastard.

  I like to think of my father as the king in Lord of the Rings. You know, the one who gets bewitched by Wormtongue to do all sorts of horrible things? He’s a lot like that, except there’s no excuse for his awfulness. Even before Mum passed away, he was a nasty git. When I was five, he told me Father Christmas wasn’t real for no other reason than I had to “grow up.” At five. At thirteen, he paraded me naked through the streets because I spat in my brother’s soup. I always thought he was hard on me because I’m the next in line for the throne, but now I know better. He’s a cunt.

  Sometimes I worry he can sense my seething lack of respect, but I’m hardly the first prince in the world to pack a yacht full of women and attempt to fuck them all.

  I climb the narrow staircase to my father’s chambers and knock.

  “C’min.”

  I open the heavy door to the giant, circular room. I can’t wait until the day it’s mine—the parties I’ll have. I’ll get rid of the stupid, tacky décor, and all the rusted swords hanging on the walls will go. I’ve never been one for family memorabilia. Maybe I’ll install a stripper pole or two. A minibar. Why not? There’s no reason ruling the kingdom has to be boring.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  The glacial tone used to bother me.

  Back at you, prick.

  I step inside as Father hunkers down in his chair by the fire. It’s stifling hot in the room, but he shivers constantly. One of these days, I’ll wake up to the bells tolling, announcing the king’s death.

  I try to search inside myself for an ounce of grief.

  “Let me guess. You’re here about the American girl.”

  I take my time, knowing it’s best not to rush things with Father. I take a seat next to the fire even though my skin immediately starts to burn.

  “You know this won’t make Anglefell’s foreign relations any better.”

  “I could give a rat’s arse about that.”

  You’re ruining the fucking country. “The Americans won’t be pleased that we sentenced one of their own without a fair trial or jury.”

  Father throws his head around, glaring at me. “I won’t have my judgment questioned by a whoremongering idiot.”

  “A king who threatens to cut tongues out fears the voice.”

  He sinks into the fur-lined blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his features gaunt in the flickering flames. “Do I look afraid?”

  No, you look like a crusty old man.

  “I heard you met the potential brides in town today and rejected every single one of them.”

  I grind my teeth. Marriage. The firstborn prince must marry. It’s practically been beaten in my head since I was born. “I don’t want to choose my wife from a stable of women.”

  “You’re twenty-eight years old, Liam. A king needs heirs, and if you want to succeed me, you will marry. This month.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “If you don’t, then I’ll assume you’re not serious about your duty to the country. I will strip you of your titles. I will empty your bank account, and you will never be able to fund your drinking and whoring.”

  If only I could just leave it all behind. He has no fucking idea how little I care about the money, prestige, and power. It’s the country I can’t leave behind.

  “And how will you explain that to the public?”

  “I will pass on the throne to one of your younger brothers. Lucian, perhaps.”

  I have five younger brothers—five. You can imagine the horror growing up. I’m the oldest, and Lucian is the second followed by Tom, James, Chris, and Will. If Father decides I’m not good enough for the job, one of my brothers can take my place. The fucking bastard could disinherit and banish me as well.

  “Lucian isn’t remotely ready for the throne.”

  “He’s one year younger, and I never had to field questions from reporters about his activities.”

  The circular room rings with my hollow laughter. “If you think Lucian is somehow more mature because of the lack of Dirty Prince headlines, you should stop by his quarters during one of his parties.”

  “I do not give a damn what he does in privacy. Either you pick a bride this month, or I’ll give the throne to him.”

  “Pick a bride.”

  Father smiles at my contemptuous tone, the yellow glaze sliding over his sickly eyes. All my life he’s been holding the damn inheritance over my head like a butcher knife. Wha
t better way to get back at him than to choose someone he’ll hate? Someone completely unsuitable to be my wife.

  I smile to myself.

  I’ll choose a bride, and you’ll hate her.

  I’ll marry the fucking American.

  This is mad.

  One month to choose a bride, and it might as well be her. I’ll be stuck in the same position if I choose an empty-headed, pretty girl high in Anglefell’s high society. We still won’t know a damn thing about each other. Picking a wife on a whim is a fool’s errand, so I might as well pick the girl who will drive my father absolutely batshit.

  And there won’t be a thing he can do about it.

  I descend the stairs of my father’s tower and pass the throne room on my way out of the keep.

  Maybe you should ask one of your brothers if this is a good idea.

  Can’t do it. Five brothers vying for the throne means five opportunities for one of them to tell Dad.

  The darkened courtyard is mostly deserted, except for a man I immediately recognize as Lucian. He’s tall and strapping, with boyish good looks. He’s fair where I am dark. As much as I look like my dear old dad, he resembles Mum. Too bad he’s an utter ass.

  He leans out of his black Mercedes and extends a hand, helping a girl wearing an aqua cocktail dress out of the car. She totters on her heels and clutches at his chest, mouthing something incoherent.

  “Iz this your cas—castle, Lucian?”

  “Yes, my dear. But you ought to remember who I am, or are you really as stupid as you look?”

  Her flushed face darkens. “Prince Lucian.”

  “There’s a good girl.”

  My brother’s foul lips spread into a predatory smile that sets my alarm bells off. Gritting my teeth, I head off in their direction before my piece-of-shit brother can drag her into his room.

  Lucian’s hand curls over the girl’s shoulder as he tosses the key to the valet, who snatches it out of the air. My footsteps clip loudly over the dark road.