Page 11 of Owned By Royal

“I appreciate your concern.”

“So, prove me wrong.”

The challenge is ridiculous. Unfortunately, he’s right. Without another word, I hand him my drink and walk toward the center of the ballroom. The transformation is automatic. Smile. Eye contact. Confident posture.

Within minutes exactly what Riccardo predicted happens. Conversations shift naturally in my direction, introductions are made, compliments exchanged, laughter flows easily. And before long I’m standing in a semicircle of beautiful women hanging onto every word I say.

They laugh at jokes that aren’t particularly funny, ask questions they already know the answers to, and compete subtly for my attention. Everyone assumes I enjoy this. The truth is very different. It’s exhausting. This version of Royal Madera isn’t real.

He’s a character I perfected years ago because charming people help others to reveal things about themselves. They underestimate a flirt. They gossip freely around him. They trust him. It’s useful. But tonight, I can’t stop wondering where Sierra is.

For the first time in years, the performance feels hollow. “Excuse me, ladies.”

“So soon?”

“I’m afraid so.”

I leave before anyone can stop me.

The balcony door clicks shut behind me, and the noise of the gala drops to a low murmur. The night air is cool against my face, a welcome relief from the overheated ballroom. I grip the railing and stare out at the city lights, trying to clear my head.

“Taking a break from your groupies?”

I smile before turning. Sierra. She is standing in the shadows near the far end of the balcony, half-hidden by a potted tree. The breeze gently lifts strands of her hair.

“I needed some quiet.”

She folds her arms. “Your fan club looked devastated.”

“You were watching?”

She raises one elegant eyebrow. “I happened to notice.”

I push off the railing and walk toward her, slow and deliberate. “Why do you want to know? Looking to join them?”

She laughs, but it sounds tight. “Hardly.”

I stop in front of her, close enough to catch her perfume. Something dark and floral that makes my mouth water. “Because if you are,” I say, lowering my voice, “I’ll make sure every woman in that room is jealous of you.”

She tilts her chin up, meeting my eyes. “How benevolent of you. But I prefer real men, not playboys.”

The word ‘Playboy’ lands like a challenge. I step closer, crowding her against the balcony wall. Her breath catches, just barely, but I hear it.

“Is that why you dislike me?” I ask. “Or is there more to it?”

She opens her mouth to answer, but her eyes drop to my lips, and I know. I know the way I know my own name. She wants this. She wants me. Her pupils are blown wide, her breathing shallow. And when I reach out to brush a strand of hair from her face, she leans into my touch before she can stop herself.

“Tell me to stop,” I murmur.

She doesn’t. I kiss her. It’s not gentle. It’s weeks of tension and stolen glances and that sharp tongue of hers that drives me insane. She makes a small sound against my mouth, and then her hands are in my hair, pulling me closer.

I break the kiss and trail my mouth along her jaw, down to her throat. She tilts her head back, giving me access, and I take it. I suck at her pulse point, feeling it flutter beneath my tongue.

“Royal,” she breathes.

“Hmm?”

“Someone could see.”