Royally Matched (Royally #2)(44)

Still young—and tragically innocent.

“I imagined them on a remote island somewhere, waiting for us to find them. I pictured my dad with a long, scraggly beard building a tree house for them with palm leaves and branches. And my mum, she’d be making little teacups out of coconut shells.”

She smiles softly. “Like Robinson Crusoe.”

“Yes.” I clear my throat, scraping the lump that’s risen there—because this part is harder. “I was sure, if I could just see the bodies, that I’d be able to reveal the truth. Convince everyone that we had to keep looking for them. So, I had the car take me to the morgue.”

Because even though I was still a young lad, I had an old title in front of my name, and there wasn’t a driver or staff member who would think of questioning me.

“I almost made it into the cold room where they stored the remains. There were guards, of course, but they were all willing to let me enter. Except for the doctor. Dr. Ramadi was the chief medical examiner—the one entrusted with the VIP cases—heads of state and such. And she stood in front of that door like Gandalf the Grey with a clipboard instead of a staff. And she refused to let me pass.

“I was furious. I stomped my foot like an arrogant little prick and told her, ‘I am Prince of Wessco—your Prince—so get out of my way.’ And she stared right back at me and said, ‘You are a child, Your Highness. And your mother and father do not look like themselves. I will not have that image in your mind.’

“It was a standoff for several minutes . . . until the Queen walked through the door. I don’t know who called her, but I remember thinking how tired she looked. The Queen never seemed weary, but she was that night. Dr. Ramadi left and my grandmother asked me what in the world I was thinking. And I told her all about my theory—the island and the teacups, all of it. As I did, I started to fall apart; it was difficult to speak. Eventually, I just ended up begging, ‘Please, Granny. They’re out there—I know they are. Please help me, Granny.’”

I pause for a moment, distracted by the words echoing in my memory and the shadow of the sickening feeling that twisted in my gut. Helplessness.

“And then, she hugged me. Really hugged me. It was the first time—the only time—she ever did that. Her arms were so strong. She pressed my face against her chest and stroked my hair, and she said, ‘Oh, my sweet boy, I would give anything . . . but they’re gone, Henry. They’re gone.’

“Then she cried. We both did.”

I feel Sarah’s hand on my jaw, her thumb brushing. Her face close to mine and her beautiful eyes shiny and sad. “I’m so sorry, Henry.”

I give her a nod. Then I finish the story.

“Later, I found out that the Queen had thanked Dr. Ramadi for what she’d done. And then . . . she promptly fired her.”

Sarah gasps. “What? But why?”

“I asked her the same thing. And my grandmother told me, ‘Dissention is not tolerated. You gave Dr. Ramadi an order—and a prince’s order is always to be obeyed. Even when he’s wrong.’ And then she said, ‘So be mindful of the orders you give, my boy. One way or another, they will have consequences.’”

Sarah’s breath rushes from her, tickling the hairs on my chest. “Wow. That . . . that’s . . . heavy.”

My mouth quirks up in a smirk. “It is.” I tuck a strand of silky hair behind her ear. “And that, love, is why we’re all so royally fucked up.”





AND THE SHOW GOES ON. It’s still a distraction, still entertaining and a hell of a lot better than nightmares and sitting in the library alone at night, poring over boring details and laws and obsessing about just how high the cliff is that I’m sure to drive my country over if they ever actually let me become king.

But . . . being on Matched has turned out so differently than I’d first imagined. Now I have Vanessa pick which ladies I should send packing—because I don’t really care. For all the filthy sex fantasies I thought I’d be acting out when this started, I’m not interested in any of the ladies anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m not interested in screwing the contestants silly anymore—not even a little. One particular sister of a contestant, however . . . that’s another story.

I send several of the ladies packing—including Libby and Jane Plutorch. Jane reacts predictably, which is to say she has no reaction at all. Princess Alpacca and Guermo sneak off and elope in a secret ceremony that we don’t find out about until we read it in the papers. Vanessa is thrilled—it’ll be grand publicity, she says, when the show airs.

After another week, we’re down to the final four: Cordelia, Laura, Elizabeth, and Penny. One morning I’m shooting scenes with Laura down at the beach. We’re supposed to be sitting in the sand and cuddling, searching for seashells—it should all be terribly romantic.

But there’s nothing romantic about sand coating your balls.

With the water rushing over my feet, I gaze down the beach, spotting Sarah in her baggy workout gear, going through her aikido exercises. And Laura catches me staring.

“She’s rather lovely, isn’t she?” Laura asks, standing beside me.

I squint, nodding.

“Whoever lands her will be a lucky bloke, I think.”