Owned By the Prince by Tristan Rivers
Chapter 1
Prince Maximillion
Iheave myself into the back of the bulletproof limousine and slam the door shut before anyone has the opportunity to do it for me. I’m still in my army fatigues and they’re smearing dirt all over the car’s pristine interior, but I don’t give a shit. I hate the whole fucking world right now, and everyone in it.
I’m dead inside. Being in the army, fighting in Afghanistan, was the only time in my whole life that I was doing something that mattered. People depended on me; I was protecting my country. And like everything else in my life, it’s been taken away from me. I was on the front line. It was dangerous as all hell. But it was real, and I felt alive. And then some media hack following me around like a fucking bloodsucking leech discovered my location and put it in the papers. And that was it. All that training, all that effort I made to prove myself, show my men I wasn’t a spoiled prince but a soldier, came to nothing. In a split second, I became a liability—a prime target. The greatest possible prize for the enemy. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. A rescue plane landed on our base. A team of SAS knuckleheads bundled me in, and here I am. In a fucking limousine.
I slam my fists into my thighs, but too late I remember my thigh wound. I clench my jaw at the pain. It’s fine. It could’ve been far worse. I got it tended and stitched by a field doctor, and I know how to keep it clean. There’s no way in hell anyone’s going to find out about this. I lost two buddies in combat. Good, brave men. It rips me in two every time I think about them. I’m not about to have the media commiserating that one of the princes of Anglia got a pathetic flesh wound when so many soldiers have been to hell and back, or haven’t come back at all.
I lean back in the seat, grinding my teeth until the waves of pain subside. And then a sound comes from the far side of the car—a soft whine. I can’t resist a grin.
“Finally waking up, huh, girl?” I hold my fingers against the wire grill at the front of a large cage, and I’m rewarded with a lick. All I’ve got left is this mutt. They’re furious that I’ve brought a dog back with me, of course. But that part was non-negotiable. I found her half-starved, sniffing around our army kitchen. She was blind in one eye, something had ripped the flesh off her rib cage, bad enough for the bones to show through, and she’d scratched off half her fur. I persuaded my old mate, the field doctor, to stitch her up, one of the Afghans gave me a recipe for flea powder, and six weeks later, she’s looking good. Her fur’s come back, gray and brown and sleek. I wasn’t planning on keeping her, but since the night I found her, she’s never left my side. I named her Fariba, which means “charming,” apparently. And she is the most charming female I’ve met in my life. She doesn’t care who I am. She doesn’t remind me of my responsibilities every five fucking minutes. All she wants is food and affection, and in return, she gives me unconditional love.
I mutter to her, tell her she’s a good girl, and she yawns, lays her head on her paws and falls back to sleep again. They insisted on giving her a sedative before we got on the plane, and she’ll likely be out for a while longer.
I stare out the heavily-tinted windows as the Anglian countryside winds past. We’re on the way to my palace, one of the smaller royal residences, as befits the seventh-in-line to the throne. There’s an unmarked police motorcycle on my left and right, and I know there’ll be a whole string of unmarked cars behind me as well. It’s goddamn sickening. Every day I was in Afghanistan, I faced a real threat of being killed in the service of my country, and I was fine with that. And now there’s an entourage focused on keeping me alive, like I’m some pampered poodle. I’ve always dreamed of escaping the whole damn family, disguising myself, hiding out on some remote island for the rest of my life. But I suspect they’d find me. Sometimes I think they’d rather kill me than have me live like that and bring shame to the royal line.
I can’t stand it. Any of this. I need a drink. It’s been six months since I’ve touched a drop of alcohol, since I put my bad-boy reputation to bed once and for all. I open the door of the bar fridge and rummage around. When my hand closes around the ice-cold neck of a bottle of Stoli, the tension in my muscles eases a couple of notches. Vodka. My ruin. My happiness. When I was young and naïve, I used to drink so I could forget who I was. So I could believe that women wanted Max, not Prince Maximillion. And then I grew up and found something much better. But there’ll be time for that later. The thought of it stirs my cock, tugs a smile from my lips.
But what I need now is oblivion. I unscrew the metal cap and drink straight from the bottle. It’s liquid fire down my throat. And then the warm numbness seeps through my veins. In minutes, I’m drowsy. I haven’t slept for two days, too wired and angry and disappointed and broken. It’s not long before my eyelids get heavy.
* * *
My head isthick and groggy, and a stab of white-hot light sears my brain. Disoriented, I pull myself up on fluffy pillows and look around. James, the butler I’ve had since I was a small child, is opening my curtains. There’s a cup of tea and a sandwich on my nightstand.
“Didn’t I tell you not to come into my room any more, James?” I say through a scratchy throat.
He turns his perfectly styled white head. Seriously, the guy looks like he sleeps in a hair net. He throws me an ironic glance. “You’ve been asleep for thirty-six hours, Your Highness. I thought it was time to welcome you back into the land of the living.”
I groan, rub my hand across my face, then realize that I’m not wearing a shirt. I feel for my pants. I’m still wearing my army fatigues so I’ve probably made the bed filthy, too.
James cocks an eyebrow. “I’m very sorry for not getting you into your pajamas, sir. You were very insistent about keeping your trousers on.”
I give a bark of mirthless laughter. I don’t remember any of this, but I can well believe it. James might be one of my most trusted confidantes, but I don’t want him to see my thigh wound either.
“It’s for the best, James. I wouldn’t have wanted you putting your back out or anything,” I say, noticing that he’s become a little frail since the last time I saw him.
“Oh, I’m as strong as an ox, sir. Don’t worry about me.”
“Where’s Fariba?”
James’ face tightens. He hates not knowing something. Not being able to provide me with everything I need. “Who, sir?”
“My dog.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about her. She’s been very well looked after, fed on the best sausages we have.”
“Where is she?” A spark of worry makes my voice louder than I’d intended.
“Just outside. She wouldn’t stop whining until we made a bed up for her outside your room.”
I whistle, and there’s an immediate yip of excitement. “Let her in, James.”
“Very good, Your Highness.” He opens the bedroom door, and Fariba hurtles inside, claws scrabbling on the wooden floor, looking around for me wildly. When she catches sight of me, she lets out a joyful bark and bounds onto the bed. I’m her master, the only one she cares about, and I like that. She licks my face, frantic with gratitude that I haven’t abandoned her. James is making some strangled sounds of disapproval. The bedspread is an antique, probably 200 years old, and dog claws aren’t going to do it any favors. But I fucking hate it anyway. I hate all that pomp and fancy crap. Sure, I like quality, but I like sheets that feel as soft as a woman’s body. Not stiff as upper-crust society. Having said that, after six months of sleeping on an army cot, surrounded by my snoring, farting battalion, anything is going to feel like luxury.
Satisfied that I’m still alive, Fariba jumps off the bed and investigates the room, sniffing everything in sight. James gives a polite cough. Bless his heart. More than two decades of polite coughing to get my attention must’ve given him one hell of a sore throat.
“Now that you and err…Fariba have been reacquainted, would you like me to run you a bath?”
“No, I’m fine. I just want a little privacy to get ready.”
“Very good.” He backs toward the door and gives a little bow. “I must say, we’re all very glad and relieved to have you back, Your Highness.”
I nod curtly, and he slides out of the room, as unobtrusive as a cat.
I eatthe sandwiches fast while gazing around the room in distaste. All the opulence, the gold trimmings, velvet drapes, and priceless oil paintings disgust me. I always hated it, but now that I’ve experienced real life—the hard lives the Afghans live, the danger, the brutality of war—it fucking makes me sick. I’ll tell them to take it all down. If they want me back here, kept in the palace like a pampered pet, they’ve got me. I’ll even put up with them nagging me about marrying Clarice—who’s no more sexually interested in me than I am in her. But at least I’m going to have my own damn surroundings like I want them.
My gaze falls on the huge, double bookcase in one corner of the room. It’s the one thing they promised not to touch. I told them I booby-trapped it, and if I find out that one of them has laid a damn finger on it, I’ll fucking run away, go live in Alaska or something, and they’ll lose the most eligible bachelor the Royal House has ever had.
I pull the bedcovers aside and climb out, my cock already twitching in anticipation. I stride over to the bookcase and pull out a book. If anyone takes out any other book, the system override kicks in and the whole thing fails. Where the book was, at the back of the shelf, is a tiny round dot. I bend down and hold my eye close to it. There’s a discrete beep, and a smooth-as-silk female voice says, “Scan successful. Last scan six months, two days, and twenty-seven minutes ago.” Good. Not that anyone could ever get in here, but…anyway.
I press lightly on the bookcase and it swings around on silent gliders, revealing a short entranceway and another door – black, heavy, and as intimidating as fuck. Just the way I like it. As I pull it open, a whoosh of perfectly cool air escapes along with the scent of leather, wood, and latex. The best smells in the world. I inhale deeply, fully hard now. It’s been a long time. Six fucking months without so much as a sniff of sex. This is my playroom. The place I bring beautiful, submissive girls and coax them to heights of ecstasy they never knew existed. While snippets of past experiences burst into my mind, I wander through the three separate rooms, stroking the benches, the upright crosses, and other implements of pleasure. Bare flesh, quivering in anticipation; eyes glazed with lust; lips parted, screaming my name.
The first room is simple. Black walls, an X-shaped cross on one wall, a bench in the middle, a sex swing in the corner. Racks of whips and paddles hang from the walls, while a cabinet contains all kinds of toys—blindfolds, vibrators, beads, dildos, electro wands. I had everything built to my exact specifications, all designed to maximize my pleasure. I run my hand over the smooth surface of the bench. It’s padded for comfort with a leather cuff at each corner. Memories of the sweet, pliant bodies I’ve spread there brings my cock close to exploding.
The second room is what I call my niche room. It’s for specific kinks. It has a soft carpeted floor for girls who like to crawl on their knees. There’s a suspension hook in the center for rope bondage. A cage sits in the corner where a girl, or two, has been locked up from time to time.
The third room is what I like to call my princess room. It’s for aftercare, where I take my playthings when the scene is over. There’s a big sunken tub and a king-size bed with luxurious sheets. I pamper them, let them sleep if they need to, before I send them on their way. Occasionally, I’ll blindfold a nervous girl and bring her here first, seduce her before I introduce her to the delights of the main playroom. But few of my girls are truly nervous. I meet them at private parties, and they have some idea of what to expect. They’re safe for me to play with. They’re experienced and they’ve signed a ton of paperwork before they ever get to meet me.
I sigh. Sometimes I dream of meeting a true innocent, a girl untouched by the scene, who I can corrupt, train her to suit my needs exactly. But when you’re the Prince of Anglia, that’s never going to happen.
To be fair, my agency does a good job of keeping me happy. I stride across the room and pick up a crop, my favorite. Its soft leather handle feels as familiar as an old friend. When I whack it against the bench, testing its give, it makes a satisfying crack. My lips curl at the recollection of the cries it has elicited, the red stripes it’s left on tender flesh. I crack it against the bench again, and again.
I’m overflowing with frustration and fucking rage. I need to rip into someone new. Someone fresh and unmarked. I need to whip a girl until she begs for mercy, then plunge my cock into her until I’m spent. And I pity that girl, whoever she’ll be.
My cock aching worse than ever, I remove a burner phone from the cabinet and switch it on. Then I dial a number from memory.
After a half-second pause comes Genevieve’s warm, slightly husky voice. “Max!” I know she feels uncomfortable addressing me by my first name, but I’ve warned her about the consequences of blurting out “Your Highness”.
“Genevieve,” I reply. “I trust you’re well.”
“I’m so glad you’re back. We were worried—”
“Tomorrow,” I say curtly. “I want a party.”
“Of course. Not a private arrangement? We have several new employees who have been very well vetted—”
“No. A party. A big one.” The truth is, the way I feel right now will take a whole room full of women to satisfy me. I want every kind of debauchery and indulgence.
“Very good, sir.” She’s flustered. Good. I know she’ll go above and beyond to accommodate me. After all, she’s been preparing for my return ever since I left. “The usual time?”
“Yes, and same place as last time.”
“Uh.”
There’s a slight pause, and I squeeze the phone hard enough to make the plastic case pop off. “What is it?”
“I’m afraid our security liaisons have advised against using these premises again.”
I let out a groan that sounds more like a roar. Damnit. There’s hardly anywhere in the whole fucking world where I can have a minute’s peace. “Have you found an alternative?”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice is tight, and I realize I’ve been yelling at her. I swallow. It’s not her fault. Without her talents and discretion, this opportunity wouldn’t be available to me at all. “It’s very secure and private.”
“Thank you, Genevieve.”
“It’s a pleasure, sir.”
Sir. I put the phone back in the cabinet. Tomorrow. Tomorrow there’ll be a girl on her knees in front of me, calling me ‘sir,’ ready to do my every bidding.
Enough. If another filthy thought crosses my mind, I’ll come in my pants. I exit the playroom, closing the door securely behind me. I head for my marble en suite bathroom, strip, and step into the shower, letting the scalding hot water wash off the desert grime. And then I take my aching cock in my hand and make plans. Dark, elaborate plans.
