Royally Matched (Royally #2)(23)

I’m talking to the cameras mounted in the corners of my room. I’m contractually obligated to let them be there, and while they were installed over a week ago, tonight’s the first night they’ve been on. Boy, are they ever on.

Drr. Drr. Drr. Drr. Drr. Drr.

It’s the audio version of Chinese water torture. It’s slowly and surely driving me mad. Every time I blink, breathe, roll over, scratch my nose or my nuts, the fucking things move. And they’re not quiet about it.

DRRRRRRR. DRRRRRRR. DRRRRRRR.

I throw my pillow at the one on the left, which seems to be the most active. But the launch falls short. And now I have no pillow. I just lie flat, looking at the ceiling.

Listening to the last sound I’ll hear before I die.

Drrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrr . . .

I’ve been trying to sleep for the last three hours, and now it’s a quarter past two in the morning and I have to be dressed and downstairs for filming at half past six. Even for a practiced insomniac like myself, this is going to be rough. I need a few hours at least. At this point, I’d take a few minutes.

DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

And I can’t even play my guitar. Because of that fucking sound.

Knock, knock.

That’s new. I sit up, looking at the cameras to see who’s making the strange noise.

Knock, knock.

But it’s coming from the door. I swing out of bed and cover my bare arse with a pair of sleeping pants—careful not to give the cameras a show. Then I swing the door open.

And Lady Elizabeth stands on the other side, her vixen-red lips stretched into a salacious smile. “Hello, love. Time to fuck!”

She’s in a black leather bustier and teeny, tiny black knickers that look . . . well, they look fabulous on her. Elizabeth has a stripper’s body—a high, firm rack, trim waist, legs for days. She saunters into the room, hips swinging, waving a dildo in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other.

She spots the cameras and squeals. “How bloody perfect! They can get us from all angles!”

“Elizabeth . . .” I sigh.

But any further words are momentarily caught in my throat when she bends over the edge of the bed, slapping her arse for the camera. “Go to hell, Sammy.”

Now, my head and my heart are not at all interested . . . but my dick certainly is. He’s up for a party. He’s a bit of an arsehole.

Still, I cross my arms over my chest. “This isn’t happening, Elizabeth. Sam is a good friend—one of only a few that I have.”

She bats her long, fake eyelashes and tosses her hair. “It’s so happening.”

When she tries to put her arms around me, I hold her forearms and step back.

She pouts. “Then why did you give me a slipper charm? Why am I still here, Henry?”

“So you don’t go out and revenge-fuck anyone else. Not until you and Sam straighten out this misunderstanding.”

She stomps her foot, slips out of my grasp, and lies back in the center of the bed.

“Fuck me, Henry. I’ll beg if you want me to.”

My cock nods. Sick bastard.

I rub my eyes. “You need to leave.”

She smiles coyly. “Make me, my Prince.”

O-kay.

I open the door, walk down the hall to the two security men stationed at the top of the stairs, and hook my thumb toward my room. “Make her leave.”

Sometimes being me isn’t so bad.

Like moments later, when they’re gently but physically escorting Elizabeth out the door, so I don’t have to.

“All right,” she calls over her shoulder. “Tomorrow then!”

And I slam the door behind them.

This isn’t how I thought it’d be. The cameras mock me in stereo sound.

Drrr. Drrr. Drrr. Drrr.

Christ, I’m tired. I need sleep. I need peace. I need for my balls to not be so blue they’re practically purple. As purple as Sarah Von Titebottum’s— My mind comes to a screeching halt with the unexpected thought. And the image that accompanies it—the odd, blushing lass with her glasses and her books and very tight bottom.

Sarah’s not a contestant on the show, so I’m willing to bet both my indigo balls that there’s not a camera in her room. And, I can’t believe I’m fucking thinking this, but, even better—none of the other girls will know where to find me—including Elizabeth.

I let the cameras noisily track me to the lavatory, but then, like an elite operative of the Secret Intelligence Service, I plaster myself to the wall beneath their range and slide my way out the door.

Less than five minutes later, I’m in my sleeping pants and a white T-shirt, barefoot with my guitar in hand, knocking on Sarah’s bedroom door. I checked the map Vanessa gave me earlier. Her room is on the third floor, in the corner of the east wing, removed from the main part of the castle. The door opens just a crack and dark brown eyes peer out.

“Sanctuary,” I plead.

Her brow crinkles and the door opens just a bit wider. “I beg your pardon?”

“I haven’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. My best friend’s girlfriend is trying to praying-mantis me and the sound of the cameras following me around my room is literally driving me mad. I’m asking you to take me in.”

And she blushes. Great.