Bad Boy Prince: A British Royal Stepbrother Romance (4 page)

I was just too bloody busy admiring my own reflection to see the reality of my situation. The reality of how I affected other people in my life, how I dragged them into my self-pitying rich boy bullshit.

I honestly didn’t know.

I didn’t know until the moment that I was sitting in that crumpled, burning husk of a racecar. Shaking Asher’s shoulder and shouting his name, knowing that we’d made a terrible mistake…

“Hey, you made it!” Bramford says, clapping me on the shoulder and drawing me from my dark reverie. “Magnum in the house!”

“Don’t call me that,” I say, shaking off his touch.

“Back to Rex, then, are we?” he jokes.

“Fuck off with that,” I say. Hell, at least Bram knows me.

More than just a member of royalty, more than just the club-loving ladies’ man of the last few years. I’ve known him my whole life, since he’s just a year older than me. Bram’s always been there, even if his version of being supportive isn’t exactly… substantial.

“Come on, we’re in the small VIP booth,” he says, pointing to the lower of two private sections of the club.

“Why aren’t we in the big one up top?” I ask as we climb the steps and pass the bouncer holding the velvet rope.

Bram snorts.

“Would you believe that Kitty’s holed up in the big booth? I haven’t seen her, but her little upper forms friends are all here, and they’re not shy about dropping her name to get service.”

“Kit?” I ask, feeling my neck start to go tense. “She’s
here
?”

Bram isn’t really listening.

“Man, I have to get the dish about the other night. I heard there was hard evidence that Kit’s beau has been fucking Dianah, and that you saw all of it? I cleared out before it all went down.”

“I—”

My words are cut off, because Kit chooses that moment to descend the stairs, passing right by our booth.

“Jesus,” Bram says as he notices her. He cranes his head to get a better look. I can’t blame him, I’m doing the same fucking thing.

Mother of fucking Christ, does she look amazing
.

Kit’s wearing this short, sparkly dress with sky-high white heels. I can barely see the dress itself, all I can see is miles of fucking tanned legs on bottom and killer cleavage up top. Her blonde hair is waist length and wavy, her lips red as blood.

Kit and her friends walk right past us and down the VIP stairs, if beauty could kill, Bram and I would both be fucking dead right now.

“Shit,” I say. “Why the fuck is she dressed like that?”

Bram turns and arches a brow.

“Why do you care?” he asks.

At that moment, I realize that Bramford, being my oldest friend, is probably the only person on the planet who knows about Kit and me. About our past, about exactly how…
close
… Kit and I were in upper forms.

“You can’t tell anyone that we used to date,” I say, grabbing his sleeve. “It would ruin Kit’s reputation.”

I give Bram a little shake, and he cackles.

“I would never, but now I’m going to fuck with you endlessly,” he says. “Can you imagine your father’s face when he found out that you fucked his stepdaughter?”

“God, don’t call her that,” I say, disgusted. I release him and lean back in the booth, trying not to watch Kit and her friends descend the stairs like a flock of jewel-feathered songbirds. They’re dazzling, pretty, and rich…

And they all fucking know it. I try to pinpoint the names and faces of the party girls she’s hanging out with; they all look vaguely familiar, in the way that I may or may not have slept with them or gone to school with them… who knows, really.

“Shots!” I hear one of the girls call as they parade to the bar.

I roll my eyes and turn to Bram.

“Shall we?” I ask, pointing to the champagne that some invisible waitress has set in an ice bucket for us.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Bram says, waving to a girl who’s sitting in the booth. “Get a tray of coupe glasses, darling. Let’s crack this bottle.”

Soon we settle into the booth with a couple of Bram’s guy friends and a gaggle of smiling models. We drink a few bottles of champagne, catch up on recent gossip, and relax.

I spend my time not paying attention to Kit, who’s downed several shots and taken the dance floor by storm. Bram keeps sneaking off ‘to the loo’ with one of his lady friends, which means they’re probably doing some kind of narcotics.

Business as usual. It could easily be three or four years ago, during my wild heyday.

Except it’s not. It will never be like that again.

Not with Kit back in Courtland, already ruling the hearts of every man that lays eyes on her.

Not with Asher’s ghost stepping on my heels everywhere I go, his absence a constant reminder of my mistakes.

Not with my heart as heavy as it is, not with all this regret for things I can never fix.

So I sip my champagne and talk with the girl on my left, a sexy brunette with a French accent. She tells me about her art history degree, hints at her distantly royal breeding.

I have to ask her name for the third time. She laughs, fluttering her lashes.

“Sophie,” she reminds me. “You’d do best to remember it, your highness.”

She’s hunting for a husband, a high-placed man of means. And if I were less of a fool, I’d pay attention. She’s close to perfection, well behaved despite the wild revelry going on around us. She might even be on that cursed list my grandparents thrust upon me, for all I know.

“Do you know someone down there?” she asks, putting her hand on my knee.

I glance at her and raise a brow.

“I know a lot of people.”

“It seems like maybe you want to make someone jealous, ah?” she asks.

I smirk at her. On top of her looks and breeding, she’s not empty-headed either.

“Perceptive,” I admit with a dip of my head. “I’m distracted. Apologies.”

“Ask me to dance,” she says lightly, rising from the booth. “Get yourself out there, Alasdair.”

After a moment, I concede.

“All right. A drink first?” I ask.

“
Bien sûr
,” she agrees.

So I take Sophie by the hand and lead her down the stairs, glancing back every once in a while to admire the sexy slit in her red dress that climbs up, up, up to reveal endless olive skin. With her dark hair and light eyes, Sophie really is a stunner.

And yet…

And yet.

We have our drink at the bar, two old-fashioneds, and chat. She mostly tells me who we know in common.

I’m not listening; I’m watching as one of Kit’s friends leans in to whisper in her ear.

Sophie asks if I’m still racing. She mentions that she knows my sister through some charity they both volunteer with.

Poor Sophie is trying desperately to pull me into the conversation, but she’s failing.

I’m watching the group of girls on the dance floor, writhing and grinding to the pulse of the music. Kit’s right in the middle, a loose circle of girls surrounding her as they flaunt their fit bodies on the dance floor.

It’s hard to even see the girls for the tight press of eager men hovering around them,
waiting
. One by one, men are approaching Kit’s friends with drinks and then leading them off for a more private dance.

Slowly, Kit’s losing her protective barrier, though she hardly seems aware. She’s exuberant, dancing hard, lost in the music.

“Ready to dance?” Sophie asks.

I grab her by the waist, winking at her as I lift her off her feet. Sophie gives a surprised giggle as I take the lead, half-carrying her out to the dance floor. I spin her in my arms with a dramatic flourish, and she flushes with happiness.

That moment, when I don’t react to charming Sophie and her genuine joy, that’s when I know I’m fucked. Broken, wrong in some kind of way that I don’t know how to make right.

Because I can’t get the past out of my head, and I can’t move on.

Especially not when I can’t stop staring at
her
…

Yeah, this is starting to be a
problem
.

G
et
your head in the game, Westwood
, I snap at myself.
Stop pining
.

So I make a show out of leading Sophie in a sultry samba. She’s a perfect partner, responsive, quick, and enthusiastic. She’s certainly more pleasing than watching Kit accept drinks from various men as she flirts and dances her way around the club. She’s like her own little solar system, her friends and would-be lovers orbiting around her as she burns brighter and brighter, until I can’t look at her anymore.

Why the fuck is this tearing me up? Maybe if I just talk to her…

“You’re jealous,” Sophie whispers in my ear.

I lose my footing, she’s surprised me so thoroughly.

“Sorry?” I ask her.

“Quit playing the jealous ex. You’re just giving her what she wants,” Sophie says, tsking.

I open my mouth to explain how wrong she is, then stop. She’s got the circumstances all wrong, of course, but she’s right about one thing.

I am acting jealous, for fuck’s sake.

Unwilling to explore the root of my newfound jealousy, I force myself to pay attention to my date. For a minute I manage to keep myself in the moment, enjoy the simplicity of dancing with Sophie.

See?
I tell myself.
If you just asked her out, she’d say yes. She’d accept. She’d steer you in the right direction, make your grandmother pleased beyond measure.

And it would be so
easy.

I could just leave my past behind…

The beginning of a ruckus behind us shatters the moment. I turn and see Kit’s philandering shithead of a fiancé storming into the club, a determined grimace on his face.

“No!” she shouts before Charles even gets close.

He stalks up, holds something in front of her face, and she goes quiet.

“Kit!” I say, pushing through the crowd toward her, Sophie forgotten.

Kit doesn’t even glance back. She vanishes into the back of the club. I see one of the exit doors open. Once, twice. They’ve slipped outside for privacy, but why?

What could that asshole possibly have to say that Kit is willing to hear?

I look around and spot Bramford on the VIP stairs. He looks out and spots me. I point to the back doors and he nods.

I elbow my way through the packed dance floor. By the time I make it to the back door, Bram’s already there. He lifts his chin in greeting and then cracks the door, looking out.

Camera flashes pour in, and he lets it slam shut again.

“We can’t go out there,” he says, his lips thinning. “The paparazzi will go mad if there’s three royals fucking about in the alley together.”

“Kit just went out there with the American twat who cheated on her. We have to go,” I sigh.

Bramford gives me a hard look.

“Aren’t you on some kind of probation with grandfather?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah. So what? I’m not leaving Kit in some fucking back alley, man.”

Bram reaches out and catches me by the lapel, staring me right in the eyes. It lasts for only a second, but then he shoves me back.

“Fine,” he says, “but let me take the lead. No need to tell the press that you’re still hard up for Kit, eh?”

“Bram—” I start to argue, but he just shakes his head and pushes the door open.

It’s not hard to find Kit and Charles. There’s a cruel swarm of photogs just a few feet from the doors, snapping away as Charles grips Kit’s arm, whispering in her ear.

“Get off me!” she screeches, giving a violent shake to free herself.

Bram and I rush toward them; the paparazzi take one look at us and start to froth like mad dogs, backing up to try to get all three of us in the shot.

God knows what kind of headline they’re going to cook up to explain this
.

“If you think I won’t tell him, you’re as stupid as you are pathetic,” Charles hisses at Kit as I step up to grab him.

He eludes me just in time for Kit to drunkenly fling herself at him, releasing an Amazonian scream; I can see the murderous intent written all over her face.

“Fuck you, Charles! I’ll ruin you! I’m the one who ruins!” she wails.

I look at Bram, and old school habits kick in. This isn’t the first fight of Kit’s that we’ve broken up, and though it’s probably been two decades since the last, we’re still a good team.

Bram grabs Charles as I grab Kit and we haul them apart. Bram puts a boot on Charles’s ass and sends him sprawling into the biggest clique of photogs while I scoop Kit up and carry her down the alley.

“No!” she whines at me.

“Not another fucking word, Katherine,” I say, using my most authoritarian tone. The tone my training officers in the RAF used on us when we were out of line, somewhere between cowing and terrifying.

She goes still and quiet; I’m not sure if my command worked, or if she passed out.

I’m careful to pull her hair down and put my jacket over her face; I can’t change what’s already happened, but I can protect her privacy from here on out.

Kit doesn’t fight me, she’s way too drunk for that. She just curls up in my arms, pressing her face against my chest and shivering.

Damn, I forgot how fucking tiny Kit is.

The way she feels in my arms, the delicate scent of her perfume, it’s
intoxicating
.

As I walk past the exit doors, several security guards rush out. Good, they’ll get at least some of the paparazzi’s cameras and reduce our exposure. The paparazzi know better than to get caught snapping on private property.

I don’t hesitate to leave Bram behind. He’s a big boy, he can take care of himself. As I bolt down the side alley, a single photog jumps out.

“Prince Magnum!” he shouts, his camera flash momentarily blinding me.

“You can fuck right off,” I mutter, turning toward the club’s valet lot. It won’t be the first night I snuck out this way, but I think it might be the very last.

“Who’s the blonde? Is she conscious?” he asks.

‘None of your business’, and ‘barely’ are my answers, but he’s not getting them.

I shake my head and hop the low fence, whistling to a valet waiting at the far end of the car park. It takes a moment for him to sort my keys, and the whole time the paparazzo is snapping photos from the alley, careful to stay on public property.

He’s smarter than his counterparts back at the club’s exit. This photog may be the only one who escapes with his camera intact.

“Keys, your highness,” the valet says, pressing them into my hand.

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

“Justen, sir.”

“Thank you, Justen. Be a good lad and keep quiet about all this, won’t you? She’s just had too much to drink.”

He looks confused as he opens the passenger door for me. When I settle Kit into the passenger seat and buckle her up, his eyes go wide with recognition.

“Please, Justen,” I ask. I pull out my wallet and hand him my card, along with a fat wad of cash, all that I have on me. “You never saw her, okay? She’s having a rough enough go as it is.”

“Yes, my lord. Of course,” Justen actually bows, and I clap him on the shoulder.

“No need for all that, but thank you,” I say.

I make my way around to the driver’s side and hop in, and we’re out of the parking lot in a flash.

“Kit?” I ask, patting her bare knee. “Kitten, where are you staying?”

“Mmmf,” is the most I get out of her.

“Kit. Kitty,” I say, reaching over to squeeze her thigh. “Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?”

“Nope,” she says, then sighs. She opens her eyes, the storm gray of her gaze ensnaring me. “I’m just drunk. Rex, I’m
sooooo
drunk.”

“I know, Kitten,” I say, relaxing and turning my attention back to the road.

“Jesus, what year is it?” Kit asks, leaning her seat back. “
Kitten
. Don’t fucking call me that.”

“No one’s called me Rex since you left,” I inform her. “So it goes both ways, Lady Katherine. Now where are you staying?”

“God, I don’t know,” she moans. “Take me to Marjorie’s, I guess.”

“Kit, it’s three a.m. I don’t think Marj will appreciate you showing up at this hour.”

“Mum’s, then.”

“…do you mean the palace? Your mom closed your Valencia City house up, I think.”

“She closed Auberge House? Christ, she never told me that,” she sighs.

“Well, it’s obvious that you’re not going there,” I point out.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Take me to a hotel, then. The Wemberley.” She pauses. “Wait. I don’t… I don’t think I even have my ID cards.”

Kit proceeds to pat herself down, then sigh with relief as she pulls a card clip from her pocket.

“Ah, never mind, I’ve got credit cards and stuff.”

“Kit—” I hesitate.

I know I can’t just drop her off at some fucking hotel in the middle of the night, without a reservation or anyone to make sure she gets to her room. She’s not a royal heir, but she’s not exactly
persona non grata
either.

Shaking my head, I turn the car north, toward the poshest part of the city.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Kit says. I’m not sure how she knows, since her eyes are closed, but she’s right — if I was taking her to the Wemberley.

“You’re coming to my place,” I tell her.

“What?” She cracks an eye open. “Why?”

“I’m not leaving you sloshed downtown all alone,” I say.

“I can take care of myself,
Rex
.”

The sound of my nickname on her lips makes my hands tighten on the custom leather wheel and my jaw tense.

“We’re almost there already. Are you going to make me drive farther after I’ve been drinking?” I ask her.

In truth, I haven’t had a drink in almost an hour now, maybe more. I’m certainly below the legal limit, and would never drive if I wasn’t sure I was fully in control.

Not after I watched my best friend die in the driver’s seat, saw him breathe his last with no one else there to witness the moment. No fucking way.

Kit’s lips thin with dismay, but she just looks away out the window. Assent, of a kind.

I’ll take what I can get, I guess
.

Soon enough we’re pulling into my building, parking, heading to the glass elevator that runs from the ground floor all the way to the penthouse — the level occupied solely by my sprawling flat.

“This is something,” Kit murmurs as we ride up the fourteen floors to the penthouse. “I didn’t realize you’d moved.”

“You wouldn’t know, would you?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself, and it sounds
angry
.

A horrifying thought occurs: Maybe Sophie was wrong. Maybe I’m not the jealous ex. Maybe I’m the bitter ex.

I don’t give Kit a chance to respond as we step into my place. I don’t want to hear it, if she’s even got an answer or a reason.

“Nice,” she comments from behind me.

And it is nice. The whole apartment is done in cream and mahogany, low furniture scattered about in a layout that encourages people to stay up till the wee hours, talking and laughing and drinking wine. It’s a party apartment, especially the gorgeous balcony and hot tub overlooking the Stanfeld Gardens below.

It’s a leftover from the old me, from my old life, but I haven’t been able to get rid of it yet. Like so many things from my past, like the leftover feelings for Kit that have risen to the surface tonight.

It’s been five years. I’m over it. I haven’t been that guy in a long, long time.

Pushing thoughts of the past out of my head for the hundredth time tonight, I head straight into my bedroom and open drawers, sorting through stacks of fresh laundry until I find a set of flannel pajamas for Kit. They’re going to drown her, they’re so big. Fine by me. Now that we’re here in my apartment, I’d rather her considerable assets be well-hidden than on display and within reach.

She saunters into my bedroom in her bare feet, her hair mussed and lipstick a little smeared. She sits on the edge of my bed.

“Here,” I say, tossing her the pajamas. “I’m the only one who gets to be naked in this apartment. There are three spare bedrooms and a nice couch, find somewhere to crash.”

Kit doesn’t move, just tilts her head. She bites her lip, her eyes traveling up and down my body, and in that moment I would give
everything
I own to know what she’s thinking.

“You look different,” she says, her lashes lowering to disguise her thoughts. “Taller, at least.”

“Kit…” I begin, but what is there to say? There’s too much left unspoken between us, old riddles and wounds, and this is just not the time to open that door.

Hell, there will probably never be a proper time for it. What good could possibly come of talking about that argument? The night she kissed my lips, crept out of my palace bedroom, and disappeared from my life?

Yeah, I am not in the fucking mood to unravel the mysteries of Kit tonight.

I unlace and kick off my Doc Martens, then pull my shirt off. I won’t say I don’t feel a rush of pleasure at the way Kit’s eyes widen when she sees the effects of all the hours I put in at the gym. Or maybe she’s more shocked at the fact that I’m dripping with tattoos, dark whorls of ink on my shoulders, pecs, arms, and sides.

“See something you like?” I ask. Just for a second, I want to make her as tense as I feel right now, want to see if I can make her blush.

Kit’s eyes leave my chest to lock with mine. They’re a little darker than usual. I wonder if it’s just the alcohol, or if she’s feeling as twisted up and curious as I am.

“Rex…” she says. She shifts on my bed. Her dress hitches up, flashing her black lace garter.

That’s all it takes; I’m hard as a fucking rock, thinking about how the sweet, innocent Kit I used to know has changed. The girl who was so wholesome that it nearly killed her to ask me to fuck her the first time, to take her v-card.

And yet here she is on my bed, garters clinging to her thighs, looking at me with those big doe eyes. In two strides, I’m standing over her. In another beat, I’m trailing a fingertip over that garter.

She’s not wearing stockings, so the garter must connect to something else she’s wearing.

“Rex,” she says again. I don’t look at her, though. I look at the garter, slip my finger under it and test its elasticity. I pull it and let it bounce back against her bare skin with a snap.