30 Days of OutlawQueen (June 2018)

by ThievesOverBullies

A/N- 30 one shots based on at least 30 different cities all over the world.

26. Chapter 26

Robin's first memory isn't all that different from anyone else's. He was three years old and it was his first day of preschool. For some reason, his mother ignored the fact that he was actually a young boy and dressed him in dress pants, a frilly cuffed shirt and patent-leather brogues. He planned to smear finger paint on the outfit the first chance that he got.

But that's not what stands out most in his mind.

By then, spotting a camera lens pointed his way was as common as seeing a bird in the sky. He should've been used to it—and he thinks that he was. But that day was different.

Because there were hundreds of cameras.

Lining every inch of the sidewalk and the streets, and clustered together at the entrance of his pre-school like a sea of one-eyed monsters, waiting to pounce. He remembered his mother's voice, soothing and constant as he clung to her hand, but he couldn't make out her words. They were drowned out by the roar of snapping shutters and the shouts of photographers calling his name.

"Robin! Robin, this way, smile now! Look up, lad! Robin, over here!"

It was the first inkling he'd had that he was—that they were—different. In the years after, he'd learn just how different that his family is. Internationally renowned, instantly recognizable, their everyday activities headlines in the making.

Fame is a strange thing. A powerful thing. Usually it ebbs and flows like a tide. People get swept up in it, swamped by it, but eventually the notoriety recedes, and the former object of its affection is reduced to someone who used to be someone, but isn't anymore.

That will never happen to him. He was known before he was born and his name will be remembered in history long after he's dust in the ground. Infamy is temporary, celebrity is fleeting, but royalty…royalty is forever.

One would think as accustomed as he was to being watched, that he wouldn't be effected by the sensation of someone staring at him while he slept.

One would be wrong.

His eyes spring open, to see Tuck's scraggly, crinkled countenance just inches from his face. "Bloody hell!"

It's not a pleasant view.

His eyes glare at Robin disapprovingly. He straightens up at Robin's bedside, as much as his hunched, ancient spine will let him. "Took you long enough to wake up. You think I don't have better things to do? Was just about to kick you."

He's exaggerating. About having better things to do—not the plan to kick him.

Robin loves his bed. It was an eighteenth birthday gift from the King of Genovia. It's a four-column, gleaming piece of art, hand-carved in the sixteenth century from one massive piece of Brazilian mahogany. His mattress is stuffed with the softest Hungarian goose feathers, his Egyptian cotton sheets have a thread count so high it's illegal in some parts of the world, and all he wants to do is to roll over and bury himself under them like a child determined not to get up for school.

But Tuck's raspy warning grates like sandpaper on his eardrums.

"You're supposed to be in the green drawing room in twenty-five minutes."

And ducking under the covers is no longer an option. They won't save you from machete-wielding psychopaths…or a packed schedule.

Because he happens to think most people are fucking idiots.

Like the one that was now interviewing Robin.

"What do you do in your spare time? What are your hobbies?"

It's like those Playboy centerfold interviews—"I like bubble baths, pillow fights, and long, naked walks on the beach." No she doesn't. But the point of the questions isn't to inform, it's to reinforce the fantasies of the blokes jerking off to her.

It's the same way for him.

Robin grins, flashing a hint of dimples—women fall all over themselves for dimples.

"Well, most nights I like to read."

I like to fuck.

Which is probably the answer his fans would rather hear. The Palace, however, would lose their ever-loving minds if he said that.

Anyway, where was he? That's right—the fucking. He likes it long, hard, and frequent. With his hands on a firm, round arse—pulling some lovely little piece back against him, hearing her sweet moans bouncing off the walls as she comes around his cock. These century-old rooms have fantastic acoustics.

While some men choose women because of their talent at keeping their legs open, Robin prefers the ones who are good at keeping their mouths shut. Discretion and an ironclad non-disclosure agreement keep most of the real stories out of the papers.

"I enjoy horseback riding, polo, an afternoon of clay pigeon shooting with the Queen."

I enjoy rock climbing, driving as fast as I can without crashing, flying, good scotch, B-movies, and a scathingly passive-aggressive verbal exchange with the Queen.

It's that last one that keeps the Old Bird on her toes—his wit is her fountain of youth. Plus, it's good practice for them both.

Sweden is an active constitutional monarchy so unlike their ceremonial neighbors, the Queen is an equal ruling branch of government, along with Parliament. That essentially makes the royal family politicians. Top of the food chain, sure, but politicians all the same. And politics is a quick, dirty, brawling business. Every brawler knows that if you're going to bring a knife to a fistfight, that knife had better be sharp.

Robin crosses his arms over his chest, displaying the tanned, bare forearms beneath the sleeves of his rolled-up pale-blue oxford. He's told they have a rabid Twitter following—along with a few other parts of his body. Robin then tells the story of his first shoot. It's a fandom favorite—he could recite it in his sleep—and it almost feels likes he is. Tony, the one interviewing Robin, chuckles at the ending—when his brat of a little brother loaded the launcher with a cow patty instead of a pigeon.

Then he sobers, adjusting his glasses, signaling that the sad portion of their program will now begin.

"It will be thirteen years this May since the tragic plane crash that took the lives of the Prince and Princess of Sweden."

Called it.

Robin nods silently.

"Do you think of them often?"

"I have many happy memories of my parents. But what's most important to me is that they live on through the causes they championed, the charities they supported, the endowments that carry their name. That's their legacy. By building up the foundations they advocated for, I'll ensure they'll always be remembered."

Words, words, words, talk, talk, talk. He'd good at that. Saying a lot without really answering a thing.

He thinks of them every single day.

It's not their way to be overly emotional—stiff upper lip, onward and upward, the King is dead—long live the King. But while to the world they were a pair of HRHs, to Robin and William they were just plain old Mum and Dad. They were good and fun and real. They hugged them often, and smacked them about when they deserved it—which was pretty often too. They were wise and kind and loved their boys fiercely—and that's a rarity in his social circle.

Robin wonders what they'd have to say about everything and how different things would be if they'd lived.

Tony's talking again. Robin's not listening, but he doesn't have to—the last few words are all he needs to hear. "…Lady Marian last weekend?"

Robin's known Marian since their school days at Uni. She's a good girl—loud and rowdy. "Lady Marian and I are old friends."

"Just friends?"

Robin smiles charmingly. "I make it a rule not to kiss and tell."

Tony leans forward, catching a whiff of story.

"So, there is the possibility that something deeper could be developing between you? The country took so much joy in watching your parents' courtship. The people are on tenterhooks waiting for you, 'His Royal Hotness' as they call you on social media, to find your own ladylove and settle down."

Robin shrugs. "Anything's possible."

Except for that. He won't be settling down anytime soon.

As soon as the hot beam of front lighting is extinguished and the red recording signal on the camera blips off, Robin stands up from his chair, removing the microphone clipped to his collar.

Tony stands as well. "Thank you for your time, Your Grace."

He bows slightly at the neck—the proper protocol.

Robin nods. "Always a pleasure."

Dana, his personal secretary—a stout, middle-aged, well-ordered woman, appears at his side with a bottle of water.

"Thank you." Robin twists the cap. "Who's next?"

The Dark Suits thought it was a good time for a PR boost—which means days of interviews, tours, and photo shoots. His own personal fourth, fifth, and sixth circles of hell.

"He's the last for today."

"Hallelujah."

She falls in step beside him as he walks down the long, carpeted hallway that will eventually lead to Arrow House—his private apartments at Stockholm Palace.

"Lord Edwards is arriving shortly, and arrangements for dinner are confirmed."

Being friends with HIM is harder than you'd think. He's a great friend; his life, on the other hand, is a pain in the arse. He can't just drop by a pub last minute or hit up a new club on a random Friday night. These things have to preplanned, organized. Spontaneity is the only luxury he doesn't get to enjoy.

"Good."

With that, Dana heads toward the palace offices and Robin enters his private quarters. Three floors, a full modernized kitchen, a morning room, a library, two guest rooms, servants' quarters, two master suites with balconies that open up to the most breathtaking views on the grounds. All fully restored and updated—the colors, tapestries, stonework, and moldings maintaining their historic integrity. Arrow House is the official residence of the Prince or Princess of Alton—the heir apparent—whomever that may be. It was his father's before it was Robin's, his grandmother's before her coronation.

Royals are big on hand-me-downs.

Robin heads up to the master bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt, looking forward to the hot, pounding feel of eight showerheads turned up to full blast. His shower is fucking fantastic.

But he doesn't make it that far.

John meets him at the top of the stairs.

"She wants to see you," he croaks.

And she needs no further introduction.

Robin rubs a hand down his face, scratching the five o'clock shadow on his chin. "When?"

"When do you think?" John scoffs. "Yesterday, o' course."

Of course.

Christian, the Queen's personal secretary, offers Robin tea but he declines with a wave of his hand. He's young, about twenty-three, as tall as he is, and attractive. He's not a terrible secretary, but he's not the sharpest tack in the box, either. Robin thinks the Queen keeps him around for kicks—because she likes looking at him, the dirty old girl.

Finally, the adjoining door to the blue drawing room opens and Her Majesty Queen Lynette stands in the doorway.

She looks like a granny—like anyone's granny. Short and petite, with soft poofy hair, small pretty hands, shiny pearls, thin lips that can laugh at a dirty joke, and a face lined with wisdom. But it's the eyes that give her away. Her eyes have always been a dead giveaway.

The kind that back in the day would have sent opposing armies fleeing. Because they're the eyes of a conqueror…undefeatable.

"Robin."

Robin rises and bow. "Grandmother."

She breezes past Christian without a look. "Leave us."

Robin sits after she does, resting his ankle on the opposite knee, his arm casually slung along the back of the chair.

"I saw your interview," she tells him. "You should smile more. You used to seem like such a happy boy."

"I'll try to remember to pretend to be happier."

She opens the center drawer of her desk, withdrawing a keyboard, then taps away on it with more skill than you'd expect from someone her age. "Have you seen the evening's headlines?"

"I haven't."

She turns the screen towards him. Then she clicks rapidly on one news website after another.

PRINCE PARTIES AT THE PLAYBOY MANSION

WILLIAM THE HEARTBREAKER

RANDY ROYAL

WILD, WEALTHY—AND WET

The last one is paired with the unmistakable picture of his brother diving into a swimming pool—naked as the day he was born.

Robin leans forward, squinting. "William will be horrified. The lighting is terrible in this one—you can barely make out his tattoo."

His grandmother's lips tighten. "You find this amusing?"

Mostly he finds it annoying. William is immature, unmotivated—a slacker. He floats through life like a feather in the wind, coasting in whatever direction the breeze takes him.

Robin shrugs. "He's twenty-four, he was just discharged from service…"

Mandatory military service. Every citizen,—male, female, or prince—is required to give two years.

"He was discharged months ago." She cuts him off. "And he's been around the world with eighty whores ever since."

"Have you tried calling his mobile?"

"Of course I have." She clucks. "He answers, makes that ridiculous static noise, and tells me he can't hear me. Then he says he loves me and hangs up."

Robin's lips pull into a grin. The brat's entertaining—he'll give him that.

The Queen's eyes darken like an approaching storm. "He's in the States—New York. I want you to go there and bring him home, Robin. I don't care if you have to bash him over the head and shove him into a burlap sack, the boy needs to be brought to heel."

Robin's visited almost every major city in the world—and out of all of them, he hates New York the most.

"My schedule—"

"Has been rearranged. While there, you'll attend several functions in my stead. I'm needed here."

"I assume you'll be working with Parliament? Persuading the arseholes to finally do their job?"

"I'm glad you brought that up." His grandmother crosses her arms. "Do you know what happens to a monarchy without a stable line of heirs, my boy?"

His eyes narrow. "I studied history at university—of course I do."

"Enlighten me."

Robin lifts his shoulders. "Without a clear succession of uncontested heirs, there could be a power grab. Discord. Possibly civil war between different houses that see an opportunity to take over."

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. And his palms start to sweat. It's that feeling you get when you're almost to the top of that first hill on a roller coaster. Tick, tick, tick…

"Where are you going with this? We have heirs. If William and I are taken out by some catastrophe, there's always cousin Marcus."

"Cousin Marcus is an imbecile. He married an imbecile. His children are double-damned imbeciles. They will never rule this country." She straightens her pearls and lifts her nose. "There are murmurings in Parliament about changing us to a ceremonial sovereignty."

"There are always murmurings."

"Not like this," she says sharply. "This is different. They're holding up the trade legislation, unemployment is climbing, wages are down." She taps the screen. "These headlines aren't helping. People are worried about putting food on their tables, while their prince cavorts from one luxury hotel to another. We need to give the press something positive to report. We need to give the people something to celebrate. And we need to show Parliament we are firmly in control, so they'd best play nicely or we'll run roughshod over them."

Robin's nodding. Agreeing. Like a stupid moth flapping happily toward the flame.

"What about a day of pride? We could open the ballrooms to the public, have a parade?" Robin suggests. "People love that sort of thing."

She taps her chin. "I was thinking something…bigger. Something that will catch the world's attention. The event of the century." Her eyes glitter with anticipation—like an executioner right before he swings the ax.

And then the ax comes down.

"The wedding of the century."

Robin's whole body locks up. And he thinks his organs begin to shut down. His voice is rough with pointless, illogical hope.

The Queen folds her hands on the desk. A terrible sign. That's her tell—it says her mind is made up and not even a gale-force wind could sway her off course.

"When you were a boy, I promised your mother that I would give you the space to choose a wife for yourself, as your father chose her. To fall in love. I've watched and waited, and now I've given up waiting. Your family needs you; your country needs you. Therefore, you will announce the name of your betrothed at a press conference…at the end of the summer."

Her declaration breaks him out of his shock and he jumps to his feet. "That's five bloody months from now!"

She shrugs. "I wanted to give you thirty days. You can thank your grandfather for talking me out of it."

She means the portrait on the wall behind her. His grandfather's been dead for ten years.

"Maybe you should be less concerned with my personal life and more concerned with the press finding out about your habit of talking to paintings."

"It comforts me!" Now she's standing too—hands on her desk, leaning towards him. "And it's just the one painting—don't be obnoxious, Robin."

"Can't help it." Robin looks at her pointedly. "I learned from the best."

She ignores the dig and sits back down. "I've drawn up a list of suitable young ladies—some of them you've met, some will be new to you. This is our best course of action, unless you can give me a reason to think otherwise."

And he's got nothing. His wit deserts him so fast there's a dust trail in his brain. Because politically, public relations–wise, she's right—a royal wedding kills all the birds with one stone. But the birds don't give a damn about what's right—they just see a rock coming at their fucking heads.

"I don't want to get married."

She shrugs. "I don't blame you. I didn't want to wear your great-great grandmother, Queen Gertrude's tiara on my twenty-first birthday—it was a gaudy, heavy thing. But we all must do our duty. You know this. Now it's your turn, Prince Robin."

And she's not asking him as his grandmother—she's telling him, as his Queen. A lifetime of upbringing centered around responsibility, legacy, birthright, and honor make it impossible for him to refuse.

Robin needs a drink. Right fucking now.

"Is that all, Your Majesty?"

She stares at him for several beats, then nods. "It is. Travel safely; we'll speak again when you return."

Robin stands, dips his head, and turns to leave. Just as the door is closing behind him, he hears a sigh. "Oh, Edmond, where did we go wrong? Why must they be so difficult?"

An hour later, Robin's back at Arrow House, sitting in front of the fireplace in the morning room, handing his empty glass to John for a refill. Another refill.

It's not that he hasn't known what's expected of him—the whole world knows. Robin has one job: pass his lion's blood on to the next generation. Beget an heir who'll one day replace him, as he'll replace his grandmother. And run a country.

Still, it all seemed so theoretical. Some day, one day. The Queen is healthier than a whole stable of horses—she's not going anywhere anytime soon. But now…a wedding…shit just got real.

"There he is!"

Robin can count on one hand the number of people he can trust—and Kilian Jones, is one of them. They had met one night at a pub and after enjoying a few drinks together, had been instant friends since then.

He greets him with a back-smacking hug and a glowing smile. And when he means glowing, he means literally—his face is bright tomato red, and crispy around the edges.

"What the hell happened to your face?"

"Damn Caribbean sun hates me. No matter how much sunscreen I used, it found a way to fry me like a chip!" He elbows him. "Made for a creative honeymoon, if you know what I mean. Burn ointment can be quite sensual."

Killian married last month. Robin stood beside him at the altar—though he'd tried like hell to get him to make a run for it.

But Killian had fallen in love with a lovely lady named Emma.

"So, I hear the Old Bird finally brought the hammer down on the whole marriage thing."

"That was fast."

"You know how it is around here. The walls have ears and big mouths. What's your plan, Robin?"

"A rapid descent into alcoholism." Then he shrugs. "Beyond that, I don't have a plan. She made me a list of potentials. Helpful of her."

"This could be fun. You could hold auditions—like The X Factor—Show me your double-D talents." Killian said as he poked fun at his friend.

"And on top of everything, we have to go to bloody fucking New York and chase William down." Robin said

"I don't know why you dislike New York so much—good shows, great food, leggy models."

Robin's parents were coming back from New York when their plane went down. It's childish and stupid, he knows—but what can he say, he holds a grudge.

Killian raises his palm. "Wait, what do you mean, 'We have to go to bloody fucking New York'?"

"Misery loves company. That means road trip."

He gazes into his glass as if it holds the secrets of the world—and women. "Emma's not going to be happy."

"You just spent an entire month together. You must be sick of her by now."

The secret to a long, successful relationship is frequent absences. It keeps things new, fun—there's never time for the inevitable boredom and annoyance to set in.

"There aren't any time-outs in marriage, Robin." He chuckles. "As you'll soon see for yourself."

Robin gives him the finger. "Appreciate the sympathy."

"That's what I'm here for."

"I've canceled our dinner plans, by the way. Lost my appetite. I told the security team we'll be heading to The Tavern for the rest of the night."

Regina turns on the front lights and flip the CLOSED sign to OPEN at six thirty sharp. She turns the bolt on the door out of habit—it's been broken for months; she just hasn't had the chance to buy a replacement. She's hoping the snowstorm will not be as bad as they say it might be. She owns her own coffee and donut shop, called The Bare Necessities.

But by nine o'clock, Regina flicks on the television at the end of the counter for background noise as Ruby and her stare out the picture window, watching the snowstorm become the blizzard of the century. There's not even a faint pulse of customers—it's dead.

"Feel like deep-cleaning the fridge and the pantry and scrubbing behind the oven with me?"

Might as well get some housekeeping done.

Ruby lifts his coffee mug. "Lead the way, girlfriend."

Later, Regina sends Ruby home at noon. A state of emergency is declared at one—only official vehicles are allowed on the road. At six, Regina works on the bills—which means spreading papers, ledgers, and bank notices out at one of the tables in front and staring at them.

By nine thirty, her eyes start doing that closing-without-realizing-it thing and she decides to call it a night. She's in the back, in the kitchen, sliding a plastic-wrapped pie into the fridge, when she hears the bell above the door jingle and voices—two distinct voices—come in, arguing in that ball-busting way men do.

"My fingertips are frozen, you know. Can't have frostbite—my fingers are Emma's third-favorite part of me."

"Your bank account is Emma's first-, second-, and third-favorite part of you. And you sound like an old woman. We weren't even walking that long."

It's the second guy's voice that catches her attention. They both have an accent—but his voice is deeper, smoother. The sound of it feels like slipping into a warm bath after a long day, soothing and blissful.

Regina steps through the swinging kitchen door. And she thinks her tongue falls out of her mouth.

He's wearing a tuxedo, the black tie hanging haphazardly around his neck, and the top two buttons of his pristine white shirt are open, teasing a glimpse of bronze chest. The tux hugs him in a way that says there are hard, rippling muscles and taut, heated skin beneath it. His jaw is chiseled—fucking chiseled—like it's made of warm marble. His chin is strong, beneath the planes of prominent cheekbones that a GQ cover model would kill for. His nose is straight, his mouth full and perfectly made to whisper dark, dirty things. Masculine eyebrows sit above blue eyes—the color of the ocean—framed by sooty, long lashes. His hair is dark blonde and thick—a few strands fall over his forehead, giving him an effortless, edgy, I-don't-give-a-fuck kind of look.

"Hi."

"Well…hello." The corner of his mouth inches up. And it feels…naughty.

The man next to him—says "Tell me you have hot tea and my fortune is yours."

"Yes, we have tea—and it'll only cost you $2.25."

"You are officially my favorite person."

They pick a table along the wall and the other one moves with confidence—like he owns the place, like he owns the whole world. He sits in the chair, leaning back, knees spread, his eyes dragging over Regina the way a guy with X-ray vision would.

"Are you going to sit down too?" Regina asks the two men in dark suits who stand on either side of the door. And she'd bet her tip jar they're bodyguards—she's seen enough rich, famous people around the city to spot them—though these two are on the young side.

"No, it'll just be us," the dark blonde one tells her.

She wonders who he is. The son of some rich overseas investor, maybe? Or an actor—he's got the body and the face for it. And…the presence. That nameless quality that says, 'Pay attention—you're gonna want to remember me.'

"You guys are pretty brave to be out in this weather." Regina puts two menus on the table.

"Or stupid," the black haired one grumbles.

"I dragged him out," the dark blonde one says, his words slurring the tiniest bit. "The streets are empty, so I can walk around." His voice lowers conspiratorially. "They only let me out of the cage a few times a year."

Regina has no clue what that means, but hearing him say it may be the most exciting thing that's happened to her all day. Fuck, that's pathetic.

The black haired one scans the menu. "What's the specialty here?"

"Our pies."

"Pies?"

"I make them myself. Best in the city."

The dark blonde one hums. "Tell me more about your magnificent pie. Is it delicious?"

"Yes."

"Juicy?"

Regina rolls her eyes. "Save it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you can save the pie innuendos." Her tone drops, imitating the creepy lines she's heard one too many times. "Do you serve hair-pie, I'd eat your pie all night, baby."

He chuckles, and his laugh sounds even better than his voice.

"What about your lips?"

"What about them?"

"They're the sweetest thing I've seen in a very long time. Do they taste as good as they look? I bet they do."

Her mouth goes dry—and her witty-comeback reflex flatlines.

"Pay no attention to this sorry mess," the dark haired one says. "He's been smashed for three days straight."

"And on my way to four." The dark blonde one says.

She's seen her share of sloppy-drunk frat boys in the thrall of an after-party, late-night food binge. This guy hides it well.

"I'll have tea and the cherry pie. And peach. And hell, give me a blueberry à la mode as well." The dark haired one says.

His friend snorts, but he's unapologetic. "I like pie."

"Apple," he says softly—managing to make the benign two-syllable word sound totally sexy. Her pelvis swoons like a romance novel heroine who just saw her Brad Pitt circa Legends of the Fall–like hero riding toward her on horseback.

Either he's got a lust talisman for a voice box or she's in serious need of a hookup. Oh, who was she kidding—of course she needs a hookup. Regina punched her V-card when she was seventeen, with her high school boyfriend. Since Daniel, there's been no one—it's distinctly possible her hymen has grown back. She's not into one-night stands, and who has the time for a relationship? Not her.

The dark haired one's phone rings and when he answers the call on speaker, the conversation follows her into the kitchen while she gets their order.

"Hello, darling! It feels like I've been waiting ages and I was frightened I'd be asleep when you finally called, so I called you instead."

"How many energy drinks have you had, Killian?"

"Three, and I feel amazing! I'm going to have a bubble bath soon and I know how you love me in bubbles, so now we can FaceTime while I do!"

"Please don't," that sensual voice says sarcastically.

"Is that Robin, Killian?"

"Yes, Emma, he's here with me. We're grabbing a bite."

"Poo, I thought you were alone. The bubbles will have to wait, then. Oh, and I've made you two new shirts—they turned out marvelous. I can't wait for you to see them!"

"She's taken up sewing for a hobby. She likes to make me clothes." Killian says.

And he replies, "Can she make herself a gag?"

Which Emma, apparently, overhears.

"Piss off, Robin!"

After Killian gets off the phone, with a promise to bubble-bath together back at the hotel room, the two men continue to talk in a hum of lowered voices. Regina catches the tail end of the conversation when she backs out of the kitchen door, teacup in hand and pie plates on her arms.

"…learned the hard way. Everything is for sale and everyone has a price."

"My, but you're a delightful ball of sunshine when you're pissed—it's a shame you don't drink more often."

Regina feels those blue eyes watching her as she places the plates on the table. It's possible he's hotter now that she knows his name. Robin—it's a nice name.

"What do you think, love?" he asks her.

Regina slides his slice of pie in front of him and Killian digs into his blueberry.

"What do I think about what?"

"We were just having a debate. I happen to think that everything and everyone can be bought, for the right price. What do you think?"

"I agree with you. Money talks, bullshit walks."

"Bloody hell, now you're both depressing me," Killian says. "I may need another slice of pie."

Robin smiles, slowly—gorgeously. It makes her head feel light and her knees feel weak. And he has dimples—how did she not notice them before? They're the perfect foil to his fuck-hotness, adding a playful, boyish handsomeness to his already devastating impact.

"I'm glad you said that, sweets. Ten thousand dollars."

Regina turns around, head tilting.

He clarifies. "Spend the night with me and I'll pay you ten thousand dollars."

"To do what?" Regina laughs, because he's joking, right?

"The bed is empty and large. Let's start there and see what happens."

She glances from him to Killian—to the two guys by the door. "Is this a joke?"

He takes another swig from his flask. "I never joke about money or sex."

"You want to pay me ten thousand dollars to have sex with you?"

"More than once and in a dozen different positions. I could" —he makes air quotes— "'woo' you, but that takes time." He taps his watch. A Rolex, diamonds and platinum—easily $130,000. "And I'm pathetically short on time these days."

Regina snorts, getting over the shock. "I'm not sleeping with you for money."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not a prostitute."

"Of course, you're not. But you're young and beautiful, I'm handsome and rich. The more applicable question is why aren't we fucking already?"

That is a strong argument.

Wait—no—no, it's not. It's a bad argument. A bad, dirty, wild—crap!

Robin seems to enjoy watching her think it over.

And, God, does she think about it. She'll be thinking about it on repeat down to the smallest—and most well-hung—detail after they're gone. But fantasies aside, she's just not the kind of girl to go for something like this in real life.

"No."

"No?" He looks genuinely shocked. And disappointed.

"No," She repeats. "It would be wrong."

He rubs his finger along his bottom lip, sizing her up. Speaking of sizing, he has great fingers. Long, with just the right amount of girth, and with clean, trimmed nails. And freakily, Dr. Seuss pops into her head—Oh the places those fingers will go.

There's something very wrong with her.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

"Lesbian?"

"No."

"Then it's the rightest thing you'll ever do."

Her chin rises and her arms cross.

"My dignity isn't for sale."

Robin leans forward, eating her up with his eyes. "I don't want to put my cock anywhere near your dignity, love. I want to put it everywhere else."

"Do you have an answer for everything?"

"Here's an answer—twenty thousand dollars."

Holy shit! Her jaw creaks open and if there were flies, she'd catch them all.

Those gorgeous eyes look deep into hers, pulling her right in. "You won't regret it, I swear."

And now thoughts of the money—all that cash—eclipse thoughts of all the sex. The things she could do with that much money…replace the water heater, make a dent in the mortgage payments. But after the money was gone—and it'd be gone fast—her reflection in the mirror would still be there.

"I guess we were both wrong." Regina shrugs. "Some things aren't for sale, for any price."

Killian claps. "Good for you, sweetheart. Optimism wins the day. This pie is fantastic, by the way—you make these yourself, you said? You should write a cookbook."

Regina doesn't answer him. Robin still holds her gaze—she can't look away.

"Or maybe I'm just trying to buy the wrong thing. Sometimes the cow's not for sale but the milk doesn't always have to be free."

Okay, now his drunk is showing, because that made no frigging sense.

"You want to explain what that means?"

He laughs. "What about a kiss?"

The breath leaves her lungs in one big swoosh. And what he says next makes it a struggle to replace it.

"If I don't get a taste soon, I'll go mad."

She's never thought much about her lips. They're nice, naturally plump and pink—and she uses lip balm, raspberry flavored, sometimes shea butter—a couple of times a day.

"Five thousand dollars."

She would've kissed him for free. But there's something exciting—flattering almost, in a sick, twisted way—about him making the offer. Because he wants this bad enough to pay for it.

"Five thousand dollars? For a kiss?"

"That's what I said."

"With tongue?"

"It's not really a kiss without it."

She hesitates just a moment longer. Long enough for Robin to…ruin everything.

"Just say yes, love. You obviously need the money."

She gasps before she can stop herself. She didn't think five words from a stranger could hurt so much. What a dick.

"For fuck's sake, Robin," Killian says.

But he just looks at her, waiting, those arrogant blue eyes alight with anticipation. So, she gives him what he's waiting for.

"Hands under the table," Regina orders.

He smiles wider, puts his flask in his pocket, and does what he's told.

"Close your eyes."

"I like a woman who's not afraid to take charge."

"No more talking." He's said more than enough.

Regina leans in, keeping her eyes open the whole time, memorizing every angle of that face, feeling his warm breath against her cheek. This close, she can see the shadow of stubble on his chin and for just a second, she lets herself wonder what it would feel like scratching against her stomach, her thighs—everywhere.

Then in one move, she picks up his plate—and smash the apple pie in his stupid, handsome face.

"Kiss this, asshole."

She straightens up and slaps the check down.

"Here's your bill; leave the money on the table. There's the door—use it before I come back with my baseball bat."

She doesn't look back as she stalks toward the kitchen, but she hears a mumble.

"Good pie."

Robin finally manages to pry open his eyes—because he feels like his head has been beaten in. The bright sliver of white light seeping through the shades, in the otherwise dark room, makes agony explode behind his eyes. He moans, and a moment later the door opens, Killian's shadowed silhouette spilling in from the hall.

"You're alive then? For a time I wasn't sure."

"Thanks for your concern," Robin grated out.

Too loudly. Even the hushed words bounce around his skull like shrapnel. He tries again, even softer this time. "What the hell did you let me drink last night?"

Killian laughs without sympathy. "Let you? You guzzled what you've been drinking since we got in New York."

Never again. Robin swears to his liver that if he just pulls through for him this one last time, he'll be kinder, smarter, from now on.

With sickening realization, he remembers the black-tie fundraiser they attended last night to support a royal charity. "Did I make an idiot of myself at the gala?"

"No, you were very restrained. Quiet and aloof. I was the only one who could tell that you were lucky to still be standing."

Robin rubs his temples. "I had the oddest dream last night."

"Was it flying pink elephants in a ballerina tutu? That one always disturbs me."

"No," Robin tells him quietly. "I dreamed about my mother."

"Oh?"

"She was…scolding me. All sorts of riled up. She even yanked on the short hairs at the back of my neck. Remember how she used to do that when we'd misbehave in public?"

"I remember." Killian's voice is laced with nostalgia. "Until William ruined it for her in front of the press when he yelled, 'Ow, what'd you pull my hair for, Mum?'"

Robin chuckled, despite the discomfort.

"What was she railing at you for? Did you know?"

"She said…she said I made the angel cry." Robin moves his arm over his face to block out the light.

"Well, she did look like an angel and her pie was heavenly. I didn't see any tears, but you definitely hurt her feelings."

Robin drags his arm away and struggles to sit up.

"What are you going on about?"

"The waitress," Killian explains. "At the coffee shop we stopped in after you dragged me through the city because you could walk around without being mobbed by cameras and fangirls. Don't you recall?"

Images flicker through his head. He stops on one—the sound of a wounded gasp, and dark eyes, the color of the chocolate, fighting back tears.

"That…that was real?"

"Yes, you bloody arse, it was real. You offered her twenty thousand for some rumpy-pumpy. She turned you down. Smart girl."

Robin runs his palm along his jaw, feeling dry crumbs and leftover granules of sugar. The sweet taste of apples lingers on his tongue. And it all comes rushing back—every word.

"Fucking Christ—is the story online yet?"

He can see the headline now:

PIMPING PRINCE HITS NEW YORK

"No. Not a word." Killian checks his watch. "It's half past two in the afternoon, so you're probably safe. If the little bird was going to sing, I think it would've leaked by now."

"That's a relief, I guess."

"It's still coming down outside. Hell of a storm. You may as well finish sleeping it off; we won't be traveling today."

"Good idea," Robin murmurs, already drifting off, with visions of delicious ripe lips and swirling dark hair dancing in his head.

Early the next morning Robin's feeling almost human again—though still achy and fog-headed. An hour later he's in the backseat of an SUV, on the way back to the café they had visited the night before. Robin gives the nod to Logan who is his bodyguard. As he entered the door bell chimed.

"We're closed," she says, coming through the swinging door. And then her head jerks up as she comes to a halt. "Oh, it's you."

She's even lovelier than he remembered, than he dreamed. Delicate midnight tendrils frame a face that belongs in a museum—with stunning dark eyes that should be commemorated in vibrant oils and soft watercolors. If Helen launched a thousand ships, this girl could raise a thousand hard-ons.

She's prettily made, the top of her head coming only to his chin, but fantastically curvy. Great full tits that strain the buttons of a wrinkled white blouse, shapely hips in a black skirt tapering to a tiny waist he could wrap his hands around and toned legs encased in sheer black tights finish off the whole package very nicely.

An unfamiliar anxiousness fizzes like soda in his gut.

"The door was open," Robin explains.

"It's broken."

Robin flicks at the lock. Security is his life, so a broken lock would annoy him like a puzzle with the final piece missing.

"What do you want?"

She has no idea who he is. It's in the defensive way she holds herself and the accusatory note in her voice. Some women try to pretend they don't recognize him, but he can always tell. Her ignorance is rather…thrilling. There are no expectations, no hidden agendas, no reasons to pretend—what she sees is what she gets. And all she sees is him.

"Well, he's desperate for some pie." Robin hooks his thumb at Killian. "And I…wanted to apologize for the other evening. I don't normally act that way. I was on a bit of bender…"

"In my experience, people don't do things when they're drunk that they wouldn't do normally."

"No, you're right. I would've thought all those things, but I never would've said them out loud." Robin moves closer, slowly. "And if I'd been sober…my opening bid would've been much higher."

She crosses her arms. "Are you trying to be cute?"

"No. I don't have to try…it just sort of happens."

Her brow furrows just slightly, like she can't decide if she should be angry or amused. Robin feels himself smiling. "What's your name? I don't know if I asked before."

"You didn't. And it's Regina, Regina Mills."

"Ah." Robin nods slowly. "That's a beautiful name." He can't take his eyes off her. Doesn't want to in the slightest. "Well, Regina, I regret my behavior when we first met, and I hope you'll accept my apology."

There's the tiniest flinch of her features—a split second—but he sees it. Then she moves to a table and fidgets with a clear-wrapped pie. "Whatever. I'm over it. It's not like you said anything that wasn't true. It is pretty obvious that I do need the money."

The self-deprecation in her voice—and knowing it's there because of him—makes his voice sharp. "Regina."

She looks up, into his face. And his tone gentles. "I'm sorry. Truly."

That dark gaze holds onto his for a few seconds before she says softly, "Okay."

"Okay," Robin returns, just as soft.

Then she blinks and hands the pie to Killian. "You can have this—it's two days old, so I won't sell it. It might be a little dry, but it's on the house."

He smiles like a wolf that's just been handed a wounded sheep.

"You really are an angel, lass."

"Can he take a fork with him?" Robin asks. "So, I don't have to listen to his stomach grumble the entire way."

Smirking, she hands over a fork.

And Robin goes for the gold.

"Would you like to have coffee sometime, Regina? With me?"

It's been years since he's asked a woman out on a real date. It's strange—exhilarating and nerve-racking at the same time.

"I don't like coffee. Never touch the stuff."

His eyes roll over the room. "You work in a coffee house."

"Exactly."

Robin nods. "Hmm, I see your point. It'll have to be dinner, then. Are you available this evening? I could pick you up on our way back."

She gives a jumpy laugh.

"I thought you didn't have time for" —she makes air quotes with her fingers— "'wooing'?"

"Some things are worth making time for."

That catches her off guard, making her words stumble. "Well I…don't…date."

"Good God, why not?" Robin asks, horrified. "That's a bloody sin."

"A sin?"

"You're stunning, obviously clever—you should date often, and preferably with a man who knows how it's done." Robin rests his palm on his chest. "Coincidentally, I happen to be fantastic at it. What are the odds?"

She laughs again, quick and light. And it feels like when he pulls himself up the last peak of a rock formation. Satisfying.

Regina lets out a breath and then smiles. "No."

"No?" Robin asks.

"You heard me. No."

Robin watches as she goes to the door and opens it. "Now, leave. I have work to do."

Robin and Killian give a nod as they walk out. Robin turns back to her and looks down into her eyes, before saying. "You'll hear from me soon, love."

"That was Prince Robin of Sweden!"

Regina looks up to see Ruby walk in the café.

"What?" Regina asks.

"Come here!" Ruby says as she pulls out her iphone and looks up Prince Robin.

And there he is, on the cover of a magazine—perfect mouth grinning, perfect arms folded across that broad chest, wearing a dark blue cashmere sweater over a white collared shirt. Looking like an Oxford University wet dream.

"Get out!" Regina denies it, even while ripping the phone out of her hands.

He's not a leader of the pack, he's heir to a freaking throne! There are a dozen more pictures inside. A baby photo, his first day of school wearing a lacy collared shirt, a close-up of him as a teenager glaring at the camera, looking broody as hell. And more recent ones—one with his arm draped around a stunning, tall blond in a red dress at a dinner party, another with him sitting in a high-backed wooden chair during a session of Parliament.

She threw a pie in the face of this Prince of Sweden!

Later when she is home in her apartment, she googles Robin Locksley.

Regina has no clue if any of the information is true, but there's a ton of it. Everything from his favorite color (black) to what brand of underwear he prefers (Calvin's). Of course, he has his own Wikipedia page. He has an official website—and about ten thousand fan sites. His ass has its own Twitter handle, HisRoyalArse.

The gossip sites claim he's screwed practically every woman he's spoken to—from Taylor Swift (she wrote a whole album about him) to Betty White (best night of her life). Robin and his brother, William, are close, sharing passions for polo and philanthropy. He simultaneously adores his grandmother the Queen—a gentle-looking woman, cute in that little-old-person kind of way—and is counting the days until she drops dead.

After a few hours, Regina starts to feel like a stalker—and she's convinced most of these writers are just making shit up. Before she logs off, a video thumbnail at the top of the search list catches her attention—a news clip from the funeral of Prince Robert and Princess Andrea.

Robin's parents!

Regina clicks on it and is brought to a close-up of two coffins, both white and trimmed in gold, being pulled in a horse-drawn carriage. Throngs of crying spectators line the streets like a black curtain. The camera pans out, showing four people walking behind the carriage. The Queen and her husband, Prince Edmund, are in the center; a young boy with dark hair, Prince William, walks on the outside, and Robin, wearing the same coal-colored suit as his brother, is on the other side.

At fourteen, Robin was almost his full height. His cheekbones are less defined, his chin smoother, shoulders narrower, but he's still a handsome boy. The newscaster's voice-over explains that it's Sweden tradition for the sovereign and heirs to walk behind the coffin of a royal family member as it's paraded through every street in the city, before arriving at the cathedral for the final service.

Miles. They had to walk miles before they could bury their parents.

Suddenly, William—he was ten then—stops walking, his knees almost buckling. He covers his face with both hands and sobs.

And she can taste tears in the back of her throat.

William might as well be standing in the middle of the street alone.

And then in three quick strides Robin is there, pulling his little brother against him, wrapping his arms around his small body like a shield. William's head only comes to the top of Robin's stomach—he buries his face and Robin gently strokes his hair. Then he glares up at the crowd and the cameras, a hooded gaze burning with resentment and grief.

After a few moments, Robin motions to a footman, and the broadcaster filming the event must have hired a frigging lip-reader, because there are subtitles.

"Have the car brought forward."

The man seems unsure and starts to turn toward the Queen—but the crack of Robin's words stops him in his tracks.

"Don't look at her. I am your prince—you will do what I say and you will do it now."

And in that second, Robin doesn't look like a fourteen-year-old boy; he doesn't look like a boy at all. He looks like a king.

The man swallows and bows, and a few minutes later a black Rolls-Royce creeps slowly up through the sea of people. Robin guides his brother into the backseat. Then with the door still open, he crouches down and wipes William's face with a handkerchief from his pocket.

"Mum will be so disappointed in me," William says, with a heartbreaking hiccup.

Robin shakes his head. "No, Will, never." He brushes Will's wavy blond hair back. "I'll walk for both of us. I'll meet you at the cathedral and we'll go in together." He cups his small jaw in his hand and tries to smile. "We're going to be all right, you and I. Yeah?"

William sniffles and works hard to give his brother a nod. When Robin takes his place beside the Queen, the procession continues.

As she closes her laptop, her heart feels so heavy inside her chest, so sad for them. William was just a little boy and Robin—in spite of the money and the power and the gold-plated everything— Robin Locksley hadn't been so different that day. Not so different from her. Just a kid, trying his hardest to keep the family he had left from falling apart.

The next day, the sun is shining but the air is still frigid, ensuring the snow piles outside won't be melting anytime soon. After the morning rush, Regina's behind the register, cracking open a new roll of quarters, when a low, lyrical voice places an order.

"Large coffee, please. Milk, no sugar."

Her eyes lift, meeting a blue gaze. And a spiky thrill zings over her skin, immediate and irrepressible. "You came back."

"Unlike some strange—but very pretty—people, I happen to like coffee."

He's wearing jeans, relaxed and worn, with a casual black button-down. And a baseball hat pulled low over his forehead. For some reason, the hat—seeing him in it—is funny.

"Nice hat."

He raises a fist. "Go Yanks."

"Do you really think it'll work as a disguise?"

He's surprised by the question. He glances around the room—only two other customers sit at the tables, and neither seems to notice him. He shrugs.

"Glasses always worked for Clark Kent."

Today the two men who shadowed Robin the other night are joined by a third. They sit at a table by the door, inconspicuous and casually dressed, but alert and watchful.

"Who told you? Did you figure it out yourself?" Robin asked.

"My friend, Ruby, yeah, she spilled the beans."

Robin pays cash from a leather wallet and she passes him his coffee. "You must think I'm completely clueless."

"Not at all."

"Am I supposed to curtsy or something?"

"Please don't." And then the dimples make an appearance. "Unless you have the urge to do it naked, then, by all means, curtsy away."

He's flirting with her. It's a sweet, sliding, teasing dance, and more fun than she can remember having in a long time.

"You don't seem like a…" her voice lowers to a whisper, "prince."

Then he's whispering too. "That may be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." He rests his arm on the counter, leaning in. "Now that you know, have you reconsidered my invitation to dinner?"

"Why?" Regina scoffs. "Because you happen to own a country? Like that's supposed to impress me?"

"It impresses most people."

"Guess I'm not most people."

His eyes sparkle and his lips grin. "Apparently not." He angles his head towards a table in the corner. "Well, then—I'll be over there in case you'd like to join me."

"That's what you're going to do all morning? Stay here?"

"That's the plan, yes."

"Don't you have…stuff to do? Important stuff?"

"Probably."

"Then why aren't you doing it?"

He searches her face, those eyes falling to her mouth like he can't tear his eyes away.

"I like looking at you."

Whoosh goes her stomach and the whole world spins.

Robin casually strolls over to his table, looking so very satisfied with himself.

There's a perverse sort of pleasure in watching Regina Mills move. Peep shows have never really been his thing, but at the moment he has a whole new appreciation for the concept.

On the one hand, it's torturous—the teasing sway of her fine hips as she glides from table to table, the delectable offering of her arse when she bends over to pick up a dish, just waiting to be nipped and kneaded and worshipped. But there's a simmering enjoyment in it, too—in how her rosebud mouth slides into a welcoming smile, the sweet harmony of her voice, the feel of those exotic dark eyes as they drift back to him again and again.

Robin makes a show of opening the newspaper—to at least try to be polite—but for the majority of the time, he stares. Openly. Hell, rudely. His etiquette tutor is rolling in her grave.

And yet, he just can't be bothered to give a damn.

Robin wants Regina. In his bed, on his cock, over his face. And he wants her to know it.

You can also learn quite a bit about people by watching them. Regina Mills is hardworking. It's there in the way she rubs her neck and arches her back: she's tired, but pushes on.

Regina is friendly, a characteristic that's clear when she approaches his security team and introduces herself. Robin chuckles when the lads give their names awkwardly—Logan, Tommy, and James—because they're not accustomed to being the focus of attention; it runs contrary to their job description. But then Tommy gives her a wink, and Robin's chuckle cuts off.

Regina is kind. That's obvious when she hands over the prescriptions she picked up for her neighbor, Mrs. Gillian, then quibbles when the elderly woman insists on reimbursing her.

And Regina is trusting—too trusting. Robin notes this when she has a disagreement with an unpleasant, well-dressed customer who seems to have placed an order for fifty pies for a party she's canceling because of the weather. Though Regina argues she's already put out the money for the ingredients—already made thirty of the fifty pies—the woman sneers that without a contract, that's Regina's problem, not hers.

Just after two o'clock, a customer walks in with a woman on his arm and walks right up to Regina.

"Daniel," Regina greets him. "Hey."

"Regina! How's it going?"

"Uh, great." She leans against the counter.

He looks her up and down in a way that makes Robin want to jab his eyeballs out. "Man, it's been, like—five years? I didn't think you'd still be here."

Regina's head bobs in a nod. "Yep, still here. What's up with you?"

"Things are awesome. I graduated from Ohio State last year and came back home to open up a gym in the neighborhood. With my fiancé—Jenna." He turns to the woman clinging to his arm. "Jenna, this is Regina."

"Hey!"

"Hi," Regina returns. "Wow. Good for you, Daniel."

He holds out a stack of business cards to Regina. "Yeah, I'm just passing these out to all the local businesses. Could you put them on the counter? Get the word out about the gym—we open in a few weeks."

Regina takes the cards. "Sure. No problem."

"Thanks—you're the best, Regina." He starts to go, but then adds, "It's good to see you. I really thought you would've gotten out of here by now. But, hey—guess some things never change, right?"

What an obnoxious arsehole.

Regina smiles tightly. "Guess not. Take it easy."

And he strolls back out the door.

Regina shakes her head, almost to herself. Then she comes up to his table holding the coffee carafe. "Refill?"

Robin slides his mug over. "Thank you, yes."

He leans back in his chair, tilting his head as she pours.

"So…Daniel. Ex-boyfriend?"

Her cheeks go slightly pink. Robin thinks it's an adorable reaction—his cock also goes rigid with approval.

"Yeah. Daniel and I dated in high school."

"Well, if Daniel's your only experience with dating, I understand now why you avoid it. He seems like a prat." Robin looks up into her lovely face. "You can do better."

"Like you?"

"Absolutely." Robin points to the chair across from him. "Let's talk more about that—the you-doing-me part."

She laughs. "Okay, really—how do you get away with saying stuff like that?"

"I don't say things like that—ever."

"But you say them to me?"

She moves closer, leaning towards him, and his heart pounds so loud he wonders if she hears it. "Yes. I rather like saying…all kinds of things to you."

She glances at the empty chair across from him. "Where's Killian?"

"He had to head home on an urgent business matter. The jet took off early this morning."

"What's his business?"

Robin brings the mug to his lips, blowing softly, and he catches her staring at his mouth as he does.

"He has a shipping company."

"Nice for him." She moves back to the kitchen.

While she is gone, Robin goes to the bathroom. When he walks out, the first thing that registers is the charged demeanor of his security team. Logan's jaw is tight, Tommy's fists are clenched on the table, and James is already half on his feet, ready to spring.

And it takes only a moment to understand why.

The dining area is empty except for one man—a small, bug-eyed man wearing a cheap suit and heavy cologne—standing too close to Regina in the rear corner, practically boxing her in.

"That's not good enough, Ms. Mills. You can't just ignore our notices."

"I understand that, but my father's the one you need to talk to. And he's not here right now."

He leans farther forward and her back touches the wall. "I'm tired of being jerked around. You owe us a lot of money, and one way or another you're going to pay."

Regina tries to slip past him, but he grabs her arm.

Squeezing hard.

Robin's composure snaps like a twig. "Get your hands off of her."

His voice isn't loud; it doesn't need to be. There's a brutal authority to it, a side effect of being obeyed his entire life.

He looks up—they both do—and he drops his hand from Regina's arm as he approaches. He opens his mouth to argue, but recognition makes the words pile up in his throat.

"You…you're—"

"It doesn't matter who I am," Robin bites out. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm…I'm Leopold Blanchard of Blanchard Collections."

"I've got this under—" Regina starts, but he pushes on.

"Well, Blanchard, as the lady said, her father's not here, so I suggest you be on your way. Now."

He puffs his chest out, like some nasty little fish in the crosshairs of a very pissed-off shark. "My business is with the Mills. This isn't your concern."

He turns back to Regina, but Robin moves in front of her, cutting off his access.

"I've just made it my concern."

"Robin, you don't—"

It's the first time she's said his name. And he can't even enjoy it—don't get to savor the sound on her lips or see the expression on her face. And all because of this dumbass in front of him. It's infuriating.

Robin snapped his fingers. "Card."

"What?"

Robin shifts forward, making him step back—see how he likes it.

"Business card."

He fishes one from his pocket; it's bent at the corner.

"I'll pass this along to Mr. Mills. You're done here. There's the door—use it or I'll show you how."

When he's gone, Robin turns around to ask Regina if she's all right, and he'd be lying if he said that he wasn't expecting a little show of gratitude. Perhaps with her mouth, hopefully with her hands—and just maybe if she's really grateful, she'll bring some hip-grinding action into the equation.

She gives him some mouth, all right.

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

Her hands are on her hips, her cheeks are flushed and she's livid. Cock-stirringly stunning—but absolutely furious.

"Do you want me to list my titles?"

"That was none of your business! You can't just walk in here and…take over like that."

"I was helping you."

"I didn't ask for your help!" she rails. "I was handling it!"

"Handling it? Was that before or after he shoved you in the corner and grabbed your arm?"

His eyes are drawn to her forearm—and the angry, scarlet dots that now mar it. Finger marks. They'll likely bruise.

"Son of a bitch." Gentle but insistent, Robin takes her wrist and elbow, looking closer. "I should've punched the bastard when I had the chance."

Regina pulls her arm away.

"If he needed to be punched, I would've done it myself. I don't know what you think this is, but I don't need you riding in here on your white horse. I take care of my business—I take care of myself—just fine." She pushes her hair back from her face and puffs out a breath. "Your good deed is done for the day, so why don't you just go?"

"Are you…kicking me out?"

There are women would give an ovary to keep him—half of them have actually tried—and this one's tossing him to the curb. Over nothing. What in the actual fuck?

"Yeah, I guess I am."

"Fine. I'm gone."

But he's not—not just yet.

"You're crazy." His finger jams against his skull. "You've got a screw loose, love. You might want to have someone take a look at that."

She flips him off.

"And you're a royal dick. Don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out."

It doesn't.

Robin sits in the center row of the SUV, fuming on the way back to the hotel.

"Can I offer you a bit of advice, Prince Robin?" Tommy asks.

"Shut up, Tommy," Robin says from the driver's seat.

"Offer away." Robin mumbles.

He scratches his head. "I think the lass was embarrassed."

"Embarrassed?"

"Aye. It's like my younger sister, Janey. She's a good-looking girl, but one day she had a zit on her forehead that was so big it made her look like a dickicorn. And she was walking—"

James, in the front passenger seat, reads his mind.

"What the fuck is a dickicorn?"

"It's an expression," Tommy explains.

"Anyways, I think she is used to being in control and not letting anyone in to help her, even if she needs it."

The next day, while still looking for William in New York, he meets with the director of a local orphanage. He gives Robin a tour of the dorm room, the gymnasium, and the cafeteria. They do their best to cheer the place up with brightly colored paint and artwork on the walls, but it still resembles a prison for kindergarteners. The hollow-faced, curious glances of the children who live here follow his every move.

They venture out into the play yard, which consists of a fenced-in concrete paved square with a single basketball net. Robin tells the director to contact his personal secretary—because every child deserves to have a swing set.

Robin's father used to say when it came to charities, helping people was the easy part—it was choosing whom to help first, allocating resources, that kept him up at night.

A few youngsters color with chalk on one side, while a group plays basketball on the other—but his eyes are drawn to one small boy in a red T-shirt who looks about seven years old, sitting on the sidelines. It's a view he's familiar with. When he was a teen he had more "friends" than he'd ever need—everyone wanted a piece of him. But earlier, he was an oddity.

As Robin heads toward the boy, Robin reminds the group of staff members behind him, "No pictures today."

Big brown eyes that say they've seen more than they ever should regard Robin with interest as he sits down beside him.

"Hey."

"Hi." Robin holds out his hand. "I'm Robin."

He shakes it. "Alex."

"That's a good name. It means 'peaceful ruler.'"

He kicks at the concrete with the tip of his worn sneaker. "Are you really a prince?"

"I really am."

"You don't look like a prince."

"Must've left my crown in another suit. I'm always losing the darn thing."

Robin's rewarded with a flash of white teeth and a giggle.

"Don't feel like playing today, Alex?"

He shrugs.

"Do you like living here?"

"It's okay." He bobs his little head. "I used to live with my auntie—she was nice. But she died."

"I'm sorry."

He nods, because he's heard the condolences before, but they don't change anything.

"The teachers here are nice; they smile a lot. But my auntie used to bake cookies. They don't give us cookies here."

"Smiles are good, but cookies are always better."

"I know, right? Do you know what they make us eat for dessert?"

"What?" Robin asks, riveted.

"Fruit salad!"

Robin makes a disgusted face. "Oh, no—not fruit."

"Yes!" he insists. "And not even with whipped cream! Fruit's not dessert." He wags his finger at him. "You should talk to someone about that. Set 'em straight."

"It'll be at the top of my list."

And then a thought comes to Robin. An impressive thought.

"Alex—do you like pie?"

"Well, yeah—everybody likes pie. There's fruit in it, but it's pie."

The director walks up to them. "How are we doing? Can I get you anything, Prince Robin?"

"Yes," Robin tells him, scanning the playground—counting. "You can get me a bus."

An hour later, Robin walks into Regina's Cafe like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, trailing fifty children behind him. Behind the counter, Regina's eyes flare round—surprised to see him—and to see the gaggle of little ones swarming her coffee shop like adorable locusts.

"Hey, what's going on?"

Robin gestures to the young man beside him. "Regina, this is Alex—Alex, meet Regina."

"Hi."

She smiles so sweetly. "Good to meet you, Alex."

Out of the side of his mouth he says in a hushed tone, "You were right—she's really pretty."

"I told you so," Robin whispered back.

Then he addresses her directly. "Regina, we have a problem that needs immediate rectification."

"Sounds serious," she teases.

"Oh it is," Alex pipes up.

"My friend Alex here hasn't had a decent dessert in months."

"Months!" Alex stresses.

Robin's eyes meet Regina's. "You wouldn't happen to have thirty extra pies around, would you?"

Warmth spreads across her face. And gratitude.

"As a matter of fact, I do."

A few hours later, after Regina's stock has been completely demolished—and every pie paid for courtesy of the royal charity—Regina and Robin stand side-by-side as the delighted, pastry-stuffed children waddle out the door.

Alex high-fives Robin as he goes. "Catch ya later, Robin."

"Not if I catch you first." Robin winks.

When the last one is loaded on and the bus pulls away, it's just the two of them alone.

"Did you do this just to impress me?"

Robin slides his hands into his pockets. "Depends. Are you impressed?"

"I am."

Robin grins.

"Good. But, in all honesty, I didn't just do it for you. The one perk of this job is getting the chance to make kids like Alex happy. Even if it's just for the day."

She turns to him. "You're good with them. With kids."

"I like children. They haven't developed ulterior motives yet."

The air shifts between them, becomes thick with want and words not yet said.

"I'm sorry about flipping out on you yesterday," Regina tells her quietly.

"It's all right."

"No." She shakes her head and a lock of hair falls from her topknot, drifting across her smooth cheek. "I overreacted. I'm sorry."

Robin catches the curl, rubbing it between his fingers. "I'll try to keep my nose out of your business."

"I'll focus on getting it into your pants instead."

Regina rolls her eyes, but she's laughing. Because exasperation is part of his charm.

After a moment, her smile stills and she takes a deep breath—the way a first-time bungee jumper would the moment before leaping.

"Ask me again, Robin."

It's a bit frightening how much he likes the sound of his name on her lips. It could easily become his favorite word. Which is damn arrogant, even for him.

"I want to take you out, Regina. Tonight. What do you say?"

Then she gives him a word he likes hearing from her even more.

"Yes."

She has a date!

Holy shit!

A date with a gorgeous, blue-eyed, walks-around-like-a-sex-god man who's capable of making her orgasm with the sound of his voice alone.

"How does this look?" Regina asks her best friend Tink.

"Little House on the Prairie called—Nellie Oleson wants her dress back." Tink answered.

Oh, and he's a prince. A real, live, actual prince—who kisses a lady's hand and makes orphans smile…and who wants in her pants. Holy shit!

He doesn't give off the white-horse-riding, one-hundred-percent-"nice guy"vibe, though. He definitely has some asshole tendencies. But that's okay. She likes a little jerky in her men. It keeps things interesting. Exciting.

"What about this one?" Regina holds up a hanger with a black pantsuit clinging to it.

"Great, if you plan on going to a Halloween party as Hillary Clinton from 2008."

She has nothing to wear.

Usually when women say they have nothing to wear, they mean they have nothing new to wear. But anyway, that's not the case here, as her darling best friend helpfully points out while rummaging through her closet.

"Jesus Christ, Regina, have you even bought any new clothes since 2005?"

"I bought new underwear last week."

Bikini style, cotton, in hot pink and electric blue. They were on sale, but she would've bought them even if they weren't. Because if she happens to get struck by an Uber driver or hit on the head in some freak scaffolding accident, there's no way she's showing up in the emergency room in worn, holey panties. That's one rock bottom she refuses to reach.

"Maybe you should just wear the underwear and a trench coat." Tink throws her a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. "I have a feeling His Hotness would like that."

Regina has a feeling she's right.

"Interesting idea…but I don't own a trench coat."

"You could borrow something of mine," Tink starts, "but…"

But she's five-foot four. She has boobs—nice ones, actually—and while she's not Kim Kardashian, she also has an ass. Tink is five foot nothing and can still buy her jeans at GAPKids.

Regina scrolls through the contacts on her phone, looking for the hotel number Robin saved there this afternoon. She noticed that he didn't put his cell number in, but he probably has to keep that a secret for national security or something.

"I'm just going to call him and be honest. Tell him, 'I don't know what you had in mind for tonight but we need to keep it jeans and T-shirt casual.'"

Tink dives on her like she's a grenade that's about to explode.

"Are you nuts?" She wrestles the phone from her hand and bounds off the bed. "If you want jeans and T-shirt you could go out with Richard from down the street—he'd give up a testicle to date you. Prince Robin doesn't do casual."

"You don't know that." Regina says.

Tink opens the laptop on Regina's dresser and a few key taps later, scrolls through image after image of Robin—wearing suits and tuxedos and more suits. In some of the pictures he's alone, but every time there's a woman beside him, she's wearing a gown—stunning, shimmery and divine.

"His casual is at least a cocktail dress."

She's right. And Regina has two hours before Robin picks her up—not nearly enough time to run out and buy something. Plus, that would require using the emergency somebody-better-be-bleeding-from-an-artery credit card. It's like she's living an episode of reality TV—a full-fledged fashion fucking emergency. Except no camera crew and makeover-expert fairy godmother is going to pop out of her bathroom.

"But I do have an idea." Tink winks at her. Tink calls her cousin, Cruella who has a new job as a receptionist at City Couture—a high-end fashion magazine. Which means she has the keys to the kingdom, also known as the Sample Closet: a mythical, magical, warehouse-sized room filled with dresses and gowns of every shade, size, and style, as well as shoes to match and every accessory known to man.

She agrees to take the risk for Regina.

And that's how, an hour after that, Regina ends up wearing an Alexander McQueen light blue, sleeveless dress with a cut-out back that falls a few inches above her knee. It makes her feel pretty. Still her—comfortable—but an elegant, polished version of her.

Tink flatirons her hair into a long, black shiny curtain, while Regina does her makeup—a bit of powder, a hint of blush, three coats of mascara, and a muted red lipstick that highlights the shape of her mouth Robin seems to like so much.

"And these are what I'm calling the fuck-me heels." Tink said as she brought out some high heeled black killer shoes.

Robin is on the other side of the coffee shop door, watching her through the glass. His eyes are warm and wild, a heated blue. And then, slowly, he smiles, broad and big, dimples coming out to play. Her chest constricts with unexpected emotion. And her own smile comes unbidden, easy—because it all just feels so good.

He walks through the door, stopping a few feet in front of her, both their gazes consuming each other. His black dress shoes are shiny—and she wonders if someone polished them before he came. She's never dated someone who gets his shoes shined. His slacks are charcoal and perfectly fitted—the shape of strong, lean thighs visible as he moves—with the hint of outline of what must be a magnificent cock teasing through the fabric.

His tapered shirt is silver-gray—no tie—the top two buttons open at the neck, and her fingers rub together, itching to touch him there. A black sports jacket covers the shirt, sharp and expensive looking. There's a dusting of dark stubble across his jaw, and she wants to touch him there too. The combination of five o'clock shadow and rebel strands of brown hair that fall over his forehead give him a roguish, wicked look that makes her bones feel liquid and her breasts suddenly heavy and tingling.

Their eyes finally meet—he's still staring at her, lips parted. And she can't get a read on his expression. As the moments stretch on, a bud of nervousness blooms in her stomach, its vine wrapping around her vocal chords.

"I…I wasn't sure what you had planned for tonight. You didn't tell me. I can go change if this isn't—"

"No." Robin steps forward, his hand up. "No, don't change a thing. You're…absolutely perfect."

And he's looking at her like he never wants to stop.

"I didn't expect…I mean, you're lovely…b-but…"

"Wasn't there a movie about a king who stuttered?" Regina teases him. "Was he a relative of yours?"

He chuckles.

"No, stuttering doesn't run in my family." He shakes his head. "You just knocked me on my arse."

And now Regina's beaming.

"Thank you. You look pretty great too, Prince Charming."

"I actually know a Prince Charming. He's a first-class prick."

"Well. Now that you've tarnished a precious piece of my childhood, this better be some date," Regina teases.

"It will be."

He holds out his hand to her.

"Shall we?"

Her hand slides into his. Easily. Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Like it belongs there.

Regina's nervous. Her hand trembles slightly in his as Robin leads her towards the limousine, and he can see the rapid throb of her pulse at the base of her delicate neck. It stirs a twisted, predatory instinct in him—if she feels like running, he'll certainly chase.

Especially in that dress. And those fucking shoes. For several moments all he could picture in his head was peeling the pale blue fabric from her body—slowly. The way her hands would dig into his shoulder blades and her nails would rake his back. The sounds she'd make—little whimpers and pants that he'd lick from her lips. And he'd lift her onto one of the tables in the coffee shop, then have her in every way he could think of—and probably a few that he hasn't.

And he'd leave those shoes on the whole time.

But her anxiousness draws out his protectiveness as well. The urge to wrap his arms around her and promise that everything will be all right.

He doesn't think she has anyone in her life who does that for her.

His thumb rubs small, soothing circles against her hand as James opens the car door for them.

Regina waves to him.

"Good evening, Miss."

Inside the car she greets Logan and Tommy in the front seat.

Logan nods, and gives her a smile in the rearview mirror.

"Hello, Miss Regina," Tommy replies—with another damn wink.

Robin raises the privacy glass so it's just them alone. It's also mostly soundproof—she'd have to moan his name very, very loudly for anyone to hear, but he bets he could make it happen.

"You don't have to do that, you know." His chin lifts towards the front of the car.

"What, be polite?"

"They wouldn't think you were rude if you didn't say hello. They're good lads, Regina, but they're also employees, and employees don't expect to be addressed. They're like…furniture, not really noticed until they're needed."

"Wow." Regina leans back against the leather seat, regarding him. "Somebody's pompous tank is pretty full."

"Occupational hazard. And as prickish as it may sound, it's still true."

She pushes her hair behind her ear, fidgeting, as if she doesn't wear it down often. Which is a shame.

"Are they always with you?"

"Yes."

"What about when you're home?"

"Security's there too. Or maids. My butler."

"So you're never just…alone? Can't walk around naked if you feel like it?"

Robin imagines John's reaction to his bare balls resting on the sixteenth-century Queen Anne sofa—or even better, his grandmother's reaction. And he laughs.

"No, I can't. But the more important question is—do you walk around naked?"

She lifts one alluring shoulder. "Sometimes."

"Let's hang out at your apartment tomorrow," Robin tells her with an urgent, straight face. "All day. I'll clear my schedule."

Regina squeezes his hand like she's telling him to behave, but the gentle flush on her cheeks says she's enjoying the conversation.

"So, the first night we met, if I'd gone back to your hotel room with you, they would've been there while we were…"

"Fucking? Yes. But not in the same room—I'm not into audiences."

"That's so weird. It's like the ultimate walk of shame."

"How do you mean?"

Regina's voice lowers shyly, even though the boys can't possibly hear her. "They would've known what we were doing, maybe even heard us. It's like you live in a perpetual frat house."

"You're presuming they give a damn—and they don't." Robin raises her hand to his mouth, kissing the back. It's soft against his lips, like a rose petal. And he wonders if she's as soft all over. "When I head into the lavatory, on some level they realize I'm going to take a piss, but it's really not high on their list of things to think about."

Robin's used to the curious stares and whispers of strangers when he goes out in public—the way a lion at the zoo is used to annoying children banging on the glass enclosure, just waiting for the day it breaks. He doesn't notice them much anymore and, as they're led to the private room at the back of the restaurant, he doesn't notice them now.

Except Regina does. And she takes exception to it—staring the patrons down for their rudeness, until they're forced to look away. Like she's defending him. Sticking up for him. It's very cute.

The overly friendly hostess leans closer than she should, flashing him an open invitation with her eyes.

Regina notices as well, but, interestingly, seems less confident about how she should respond. So, he responds on her behalf—resting his hand on the small of her back, possessively, and guiding her into the plush, cushioned seat. Then, after he's taken his own seat, he drapes his arm across the back of Regina's chair, near enough to stroke her bare shoulder if he wants, making it clear that the only woman he's interested in tonight is the one beside him.

After the sommelier pours their wine—Regina prefers white because red "knocks her on her ass"—and the chef comes to their table to introduce himself and describe the custom menu he's created for them, they're finally left alone.

"So, you run the coffee shop with your parents?" Robin asks.

Regina sips her wine, her little pink tongue peeking out to clean her bottom lip.

"It's just me and my dad, actually. My mom…died nine years ago. She was mugged on the subway…it ended badly."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

She pauses a moment, seems to be debating something, and then confesses, "I googled you."

"Oh?"

"The video of your parents' funeral came up."

"The search engines do seem to favor that one."

Her smile is small and flutteringly self-conscious. "I didn't watch it at the time, when it was on live, but I remember it being on TV all day. On every channel." She raises those stunning, shining eyes to his. "The day we buried my mom was the worst day of my life. It must've been awful for you, to go through the worst day of yours with all those people watching. Filming it. Taking pictures."

Most people don't think about that part of things. They focus on the money, the castles, the fame, the privilege. Not the hard parts. The human parts.

"It was awful," Robin says quietly. Then he takes a breath and shakes off the sadness that's seeped into the conversation. "But…in the immortal words of Kanye, that which don't kill me only makes me stronger."

She laughs, and like everything about her, it's delightful.

"I didn't think a guy like you listened to Kanye."

Robin winks. "I'm full of surprises."

Before their meal arrives, visitors stop by their table. Robin introduces Regina and speak with them briefly about upcoming business. After they walk away, Regina gives him an owl-eyed look.

"That was the mayor."

"Yes."

"And Cardinal O'Brien, the Archbishop of New York."

"That's right."

"They're two of the most powerful men in the state—in the country."

"The Palace works with both men on various initiatives."

She fidgets with the roll on her bread plate, tearing it up into tiny pieces.

"You can ask me anything, Regina—no need to be shy."

Shyness has no place in his plans for this woman. He wants her bold, wild, and reckless.

After she swallows and the pale, smooth skin of her throat ripples in an erotic way—well, a way he finds erotic—she asks, "Why didn't you kiss his ring?"

"I outrank him."

That makes her grin. "You outrank the Archbishop? What about the Pope? Have you ever met him?"

"Not the current one, but I was introduced to the former when he came to visit Sweden when I was eight. Seemed like a decent bloke—he smelled like butterscotch. He carried sweets in the pockets of his vestments. He gave me one after he blessed me."

"Did you kiss his ring?"

She's more relaxed now, the questions coming easier.

"I didn't, no."

"Why not?"

Robin leans forward, closer to her, elbows on the table—Grandmother would be appalled. But etiquette doesn't stand a snowball's chance against Regina's sweet scent. It's roses tonight, with the slightest hint of jasmine—like a new garden on the first day of spring. Robin inhales deeply, trying to be discreet. Two points for him, because all he really wants to do is rest his nose in the fragrant groove of her cleavage before sliding down, lifting her dress, and sinking his face between her smooth, creamy thighs. And that's where he'd stay, all fucking night.

And now his cock strains against his pants like a prisoner in a cage.

What was the question again?

Robin takes another drink and runs his palm over the bulge—adjusting—trying to get some relief. And failing.

"I'm sorry, Regina, what was that?"

"Why didn't you kiss the Pope's ring?"

He's got a raging hard-on and they're talking about the Holy See.

"The Church teaches that the Pope has the ear of God, that he's closer to God than any other person on Earth. But kings…at least how the story goes…are descended from God. Which means the only person I bow to, the only ring I kiss, is my grandmother's—because she's the only person on Earth above me."

"Do you really believe that?"

"That I'm descended from The Almighty?" Robin grins devilishly. "I've been told my cock is a gift from God. You should test that opinion tonight. You know…for religion."

"Very smooth." She laughs.

Their main course arrives—salmon, colorfully plated with dashes and swirls of bright orange and green sauces with an intricate structure of purple kale and lemon rind on top.

"It's so pretty," Regina sighs. "Maybe we shouldn't eat it."

Robin smirks. "I enjoy eating pretty things."

Throughout the meal, the conversation flows as easily as the wine. They talk about everything and nothing in particular—his studies at university, the work he does when he's not making public appearances, the behind-the-scenes details of running a coffee shop, as well as what it was like for her growing up in the city.

After dinner, Robin suggests they go back to his hotel suite—said the horny spider to the scrumptious fly. And she agreed.

The ride in the lift to the top floor is silent, with James and Logan in front and Regina beside him in the rear, giving him secret, sneaking glances. The doors open into the foyer of the penthouse and the hotel butler takes their coats.

"Thank you." Regina smiles and the butler gives her a silent nod.

As they step into the main living room, Robin watches her—the reactions and emotions that play over her features. How her lashes flare when she looks up, taking in the enormous crystal chandelier and the hand-painted, golden mural on the ceiling. The way the corners of her mouth rise with a bit of wonder at the furniture and marble floors—all the little signs of luxury. When she turns to the full wall of glass that offers a breathtaking view of the twinkling lighted city, Regina gasps.

And lust surges through him like he's been struck by lightning.

She glides toward the window, gazing out. And damn, she makes a pretty picture—pale, bare arms, rivulets of long, black hair that falls just above the swell of a perfect, tight arse. He likes the look of her here—in his rooms—amongst his things.

He'd like the view even more if she weren't still wearing her dress.

"Can we go outside?" Regina asks.

Robin nods, then opens the door to the large stone balcony. She steps out and he follows her. The temperature was milder today and the snow has been removed, of course. Regina's gaze dances over the full potted evergreens that bookend the beige cushioned furniture, and the glow of the burning fire pits in the corners casts the area in a warm orange light.

"So this is like, your prison yard?" she teases.

"That's right. They let me out for fresh air and exercise—but only if I behave."

"Not too shabby."

"It'll do."

They walk side by side along the walled edge, holding hands. And he's reminded of his first social event—he's all worked up and exhilarated, and at the same time mildly terrified of screwing up.

"So what's it like," she asks softly, "having everything set, knowing exactly what you're going to do for the rest of your life?"

"You have the coffee shop. It's not so different."

"Yeah, but my family needed me to run it. I didn't choose that."

"Neither did I."

She thinks that over, then asks, "But are you excited? Like Simba, are you all, 'I just can't wait to be king'?"

"Simba was a fool." Robin shakes his head and pushes at the hair that brushes his forehead. "And considering me being king would mean my grandmother was dead—excited wouldn't be the word I'd use." He slipped into interview mode. "But, I look forward to fulfilling my birthright and leading Sweden with honor, dignity and grace."

"I call bullshit."

"What?"

"Total bullshit. 'Honor, dignity and grace,'" she imitates, accent included. "Those are pretty words, but they don't mean anything. How does it really feel?"

Funny, no one had ever really asked him this.

"The best way to describe it, I guess…" Robin licks his lips. "Imagine you're in medical school, studying to be a surgeon. You've read all the books, observed the surgeries being performed, you've prepared. And for your whole life everyone around you has said what an amazing surgeon you'll be. It's your destiny. Your calling."

"But then that moment comes—the day when it's your turn to go it alone. And they put the scalpel in your hand and…it's all up to you. That, I imagine, is quite a 'holy fuck' moment."

"I bet."

"That's what the idea of becoming king feels like. A 'holy fuck' moment."

Regina takes a step forward but loses her balance, tripping on the pointy heel of her shoe, and he catches her. She collides with his chest, his arms around her, meeting at her lower back…and she stays just there.

With her gloriously soft breasts against his hard chest, they freeze—staring, breaths mingling.

"Frigging heels," she whispers, so near to his mouth.

A smile tugs at him. "I like the frigging heels. Seeing you in them—and nothing else—would really make my day."

And then his head is lowering, and Regina is reaching up, each of them drawing towards the other. Her silky hair slides over his fingers as he cups her cheek. His smile fades away, replaced with something more raw, more desperate.

Heat and hunger.

Because he's going to kiss her now—and when the thump of her heartbeat quickens against his chest, he knows she knows it.

Wants it, just as much as he does.

His nose brushes hers and those dark eyes close slowly…

And then Logan clears his throat loudly.

Meaningfully.

"Ahem."

Robin swallows back a curse and looks up. "What?"

"Camera flash."

Fuck.

"Where?"

He lifts his chin. "Roof of the high-rise. Nine o'clock."

Robin turns his back on the city, keeping Regina tucked against his chest. "We should head inside."

Regina looks adorably dazed. She peeks over his shoulder at the dark sky, then lets him guide her inside. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Unfortunately. Long-range camera lenses—as accurate as rifles."

Back inside, Regina's lips stretch into a long, wide yawn, and he tries to stop the chain of indecent thoughts that follow. Damn, but her mouth is beautiful.

"Excuse me." She covers her mouth. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." Robin glances at his watch—it's after midnight. She was on her feet all day and has to be up again in four hours. "I should've picked you up earlier."

She shakes her head. "This has been wonderful. I can't remember the last time I had so much fun. Not in forever, I think."

Robin wants to ask her to stay. It would be so easy for her to slip out of that dress and into the magnificent bed just down the hall. But…she'd say no—he can feel it. Too soon.

And she wouldn't get a wink of fucking sleep anyway—he'd keep her up all night.

Robin gestures towards the door, like the gentleman he's not. "Let's get you home, then."

Regina's head rests against his arm the whole ride back to her place. Their legs are aligned and pressing, their hands entwined on top of his thigh. Robin turns his head just slightly and inhales the addictive jasmine scent of her hair.

"You smell fantastic."

She angles her head up, her eyes light and mischievous. Then she presses her face against his pectoral—and inhales so deeply she practically snorts his shirt.

"I like the way you smell too, Robin."

The car pulls up to the curb and rolls to a stop.

"Stay in the car, Your Grace. There's a vagrant outside Miss Mills' door—Tommy and I'll take care of it."

Regina jerks up away from him, going tense in an instant. She looks out the window, white-knuckling the armrest.

"Oh no…"

And her words barely register before she shoves the door open and dashes out.

To little girls, fathers are heroes—at least the good ones are. Tall and handsome, strong but patient, with a deep voice that speaks the wisest truths.

Her father was a good one.

A chaser-away of monsters under the bed, a sneaker of cookies before dinner, an encourager, a protector, a teacher of what a real man is supposed to be. His hands were big and callused—working man's hands—powerful, but gentle with us. He used to hold his mother's hand like she was a precious work of art. Oh, how he loved her mother. It was in every move he made, every word he said. His love for her was the light in his eyes and the breath in his lungs.

Regina thought her father was unbreakable.

She was wrong.

One terrible day…one horrible moment on a subway platform…and all that strength just dissolved. The way a pillar candle melts down into a heap of wax. Into something unrecognizable.

"Daddy?" Regina kneels down.

Behind her, Robin's approaching footsteps stutter to a stop.

And the mortification nips at her heels as she imagines how this must look to him.

But she doesn't have time for that now.

"Daddy, what happened?"

His eyes struggle to find hers, to stay open, and whiskey fumes burn her nostrils.

"Regina…hey, sweetie. Couldn't…something's wrong with the lock…couldn't get my key in."

He tried using the walk-up door to their apartment. He could have just gone through the coffee shop—but he doesn't know about the broken lock that she still hasn't gotten around to fixing.

His keys slip out of his grasp. "Damn."

"It's okay, Dad. I'll help you."

With a spine-straightening breath, Regina stands up, turns around, and faces Robin. And her voice goes straight to autopilot.

"You should go. I have to take care of this."

His gaze darts to her father on the ground, then back to her. "Go? I can't just leave you to—"

"It's fine," Regina grits out, teeth crunching and embarrassment creeping up her neck.

"He's three times your size. How do you plan to get him upstairs?"

"I've done it before."

In a nanosecond he goes from pitying to pissed. And he uses that voice again—the one that bent Leopold to his will, the one that says it's his way or his way.

"You're not doing it now."

She knows why he's doing it. But she's been her own hero for a long time—she knows how it's done.

"This is none of your business. This is my business. I told you yesterday—"

"If you fall down those steps you'll snap your fucking neck," Robin says harshly, leaning down. "I won't risk that because you've got more pride than sense. I'm helping you, Regina. Deal with it."

Then he walks right past her. And crouches down.

His voice grows gentler. "Mr. Mills?"

And her father slurs, "Who're you?"

"Robin. My name is Robin. I'm a friend of Regina's. It looks like you're having a bit of trouble, so I'm going to help get you upstairs. All right?"

"Yeah…damn keys aren't working."

Robin nods, then motions Logan forward. They heave her father up, one on either side, his arms flung over their shoulders.

"Regina, get the door," he tells her.

They go through the coffee shop because there's more room that way. And as she watches them carry her father through the kitchen and up the stairs—his head dangling forward on his neck like a newborn, his legs useless, she realizes that this is a really, really bad night. The best she would have been able to do was drag him inside, get a pillow and blanket, and spend the rest of the night on the floor with him.

But even knowing that, it doesn't stop the humiliation that's burning under her skin.

And it only flames hotter when they move through their threadbare living room, messy with strewn shoes and papers because she didn't have time to straighten up. If things had gone the way she'd wanted, she would have made it look pretty—quaint—with fresh flowers and plumped throw pillows. Not like this.

In his bedroom, they put her father on the bed. Regina squeezes past Robin and gets the dark blue blanket off the chair in the corner. She lays it over her father, tucking him in. His eyes are closed and his lips open, but he doesn't snore. There's more gray than black now in the thick stubble on his chin. Slowly, she leans over and kisses his forehead.

Silently, the three of them file back downstairs. Her arms wrap around her middle, stiff and tight, and her skin feels prickly—too sensitive. In her head, she can already hear the words Robin will say:

I'll call you.

This was…nice.

Thanks, but no thanks.

He must be relieved to dodge the bullet—probably wondering what the hell he was thinking in the first place. The only baggage a guy like him is used to a woman having is Louis Vuitton.

"I'll, ah…I'll be at the car, Sir," Logan says when they reach the coffee shop's dining area. He nods her way, then heads out the door.

The silence is awkward. Uncomfortable. She can feel his eyes on her, but she focuses on the floor. And she cringes when he finally splits the quiet, in that smooth, perfect voice.

"Regina."

"You should go." Regina nods, lifting her face but still not meeting his eyes. "I want you to go."

His warm hand touches her bare arm. "Don't be angry."

"I'm not angry," She denies with quick, jerking shakes of her head. "I just want you to leave." Her throat clogs, salty and wet. Because she likes him so much. Her eyes squeeze closed—a last-ditch effort to contain the giant, ugly tears hovering on her lashes. "Please just leave."

Robin's hand drops from her arm. And she waits, listens—for the sound of him walking out the door. Out of her life. Where he was never really supposed to be in the first place.

But about thirty seconds later, what she actually hears is something entirely different.

"My grandmother talks to paintings."

Her eyes spring open.

"What?"

"When I was younger I thought it was funny, in a freakish kind of way, but now I just think it's sad."

"She's almost eighty years old and the only person she's ever been able to talk to is my grandfather. He's been gone a decade and he's still the only person she can talk to."

He pauses for a moment, his brow growing weighted. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, hushed—like these are words he hasn't let himself think, let alone say aloud.

"My brother has been away on military service for the last two years. He was discharged three months ago and he hasn't come anywhere close to home. But even before that, he stopped taking my calls. I haven't spoken to Will in six months and I have no idea why."

"My cousins hates me," he goes on, in a lighter tone. "Like, 'I think they would literally try to poison me when they come to visit if they thought they could get away with it' kind of hate."

His mouth quirks up in an almost-smile and a snort that bubbles from his.

"They hated my father, too…and all because his mother was born before theirs."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because if you think your family is the only one with dysfunction in it, you're wrong." His hand runs through her hair like he can't help himself, sliding the strands behind her ear. "Mine has that particular market cornered."

He's quiet after that. Waiting for her to take her turn—he doesn't say it, but she knows. He wants her to crawl out on that shaky limb with him.

And if it breaks…at least they'll fall together.

"My father's an alcoholic."

The words feel awkward, strange. It's the first time she's said them.

"Not in a mean or violent way…He drinks when he's sad. And he's been sad every day since my mother died." She looks around the coffee shop, her voice quivering. "This place was her dream. If it goes under, if he loses this last piece of her…I don't know what he'll do."

Robin nods.

Quiet tears trickle from the corners of her eyes, and Robin brushes them away with his thumb.

"I want to just run away sometimes. To get away and move some place where no one knows me. But I can't."

"Sometimes I dream I'm walking through the palace and there are no doors or windows," Robin says, roughly. "I keep walking and walking, but I don't go anywhere."

Regina moves closer, resting her hands on his chest, feeling hard, solid muscle and the strong, steady thrum of his heart beneath her palm.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," he asks. "Something no one else knows about you."

"I hate pies."

Robin starts to laugh—but when she goes on, it dies on his lips. "I used to love helping, watching my mom make them, but now I hate it. The way they feel in my hands, the way they smell—it makes me sick to my stomach." She looks up into his face. "Now you. Tell me something you've never told anyone."

"I hate the bowing. Last month I met a World War II veteran who saved three of his mates in battle—he was wounded, lost his eye. And he bowed to me. What the fuck have I ever done that a man like that should bow to me?"

He shakes his head, lost in the thought.

The soft touch of her fingers along his jaw finds him again. And in that moment, something shifts…changes. Her chest rises faster, her breaths come quicker, and the heart beneath her hand pounds just a little more fiercely.

Robin stares at her mouth. "If you could go anywhere, do anything, what would it be?"

This answer takes longer, because there isn't one.

"I don't know. It's been so long since doing anything else was even an option…I stopped imagining."

"What about you?" Regina asks, the words rushing. "If you could do anything, right now, what would you do?"

His thumb slides across her bottom lip, stroking it slowly, gently…intently.

"I would kiss you."

The air leaves the room. All of it. Or maybe she just forgot to breathe. She might pass out and she doesn't care, as long as Robin kisses her before the world goes black.

"Please," She manages, breathlessly.

He doesn't rush it. He takes his time. Savoring.

One arm wraps around her waist, pulling her sharply up against him. She feels him everywhere—the hard touch of his thighs, the flat planes of his stomach, the hot press of his thick, firm cock. Her inner muscles clench around emptiness, needy. Seeking.

Robin's other hand slides up her spine, burying itself in her hair, and he cradles her head in his palm. And his eyes—the whole time, those simmering blue eyes drag over her skin, consuming every inch they touch.

Slowly, he leans down. She tastes his breath—cinnamon and clove, from the dessert they both had earlier, before she tastes him.

And then Robin presses his mouth against hers.

Possessively. Boldly. Like he owns her. And in this moment, he does. She follows his lead, moving her lips in time with his, relishing the feel, the sensation. He tilts her head, positioning her right where he wants her. And then she feels the warm, wet stroke of his tongue.

Holy fuck, does he know how to kiss.

She thinks she had an orgasm of the mouth.

A mouth-gasm. And it's amazing.

She moans deep and totally loud—not even a little ashamed. Her arms curl around Robins's neck and his hands skim down to her ass, clamping and kneading. Then he's the one moaning—and it, too, is amazing.

"I knew it," he murmurs against her lips. "So fucking sweet."

Then their mouths fuse again, their tongues sliding and tasting. Robin pushes his knee between her legs, squeezes her ass and drags her up his leg. And the friction—the glorious fucking friction—would have her gasping yes if her mouth weren't wonderfully otherwise occupied.

But then a sound comes from above them—a thump that rattles the ceiling. They both hear it, looking up, lips retreating.

"I have to go—my dad might've fallen out of bed."

His hands tighten on her ass, almost reflexively—the way a child would grasp a favorite toy if it was threatened to be taken away. "Let me come up with you."

She looks into his eyes, not embarrassed anymore. "No, it's better if you don't." Her fingers comb his thick, soft hair before settling against his jaw. "I'll be fine, I swear."

Robin is still breathing hard and looks like he wants to argue, but after a moment of searching her face, he gives the smallest nod and slides her off his thigh.

"When can I see you again?" he asks. "Say tomorrow."

"God, you're bossy. Okay, tomorrow."

"Earlier this time. We'll stay in at my hotel—I'll make you dinner."

"You can cook?"

He shrugs, and the adorable dimples make an appearance.

"I know how to make sushi, so technically, I can cut. But my cutting is top-notch."

"All right. Your place, tomorrow."

Then he's kissing her again. Sucking at her lips in a way that she'll feel in her dreams tonight.

"This is crazy," Regina whispers against him. "It's crazy, right? It's not just me?"

Robin shakes his head. "Bloody insane." His hands are on her ass again—a final quick grab. "And fucking fantastic."

He's going to have sex tonight. Lots of it.

He's going to lay Regina out on his bed and screw her sweetly, he's going to hold her up against the wall and fuck her madly. No room or surface will be left undefiled.

What a sexy, delectable little surprise she turned out to be.

Last night was…intense. He didn't mean to say all those things—they just spilled out. And, Christ, she didn't even sign an NDA—it's not like him to forget such a thing.

But it felt cathartic talking to her. Like they were in their own bubble, on a personal remote island—where no one else in the world could see them, touch them or hear them. Before he left for New York he'd planned to make the most of the freedom he has left—do things he never would've considered.

He smiles as he spots the CLOSED sign hanging in the window and smiles. Closed means privacy. And just maybe he'll get the chance to act out the fantasy from last night, Regina lying back on one of those dining tables, legs on his shoulders while he pumps smoothly into her.

But when he walks in, Regina isn't there. A little pixie is.

"So, you are here for my best friend."

"My intentions are all good ones, I promise."

"They better be. But just in case you get any ideas…if you hurt my friend—" she tips her head toward Logan by the door "—delicious-looking security guards or not, I'll find a way to shave your eyebrows off."

And Robin actually believes she'd pull it off.

That's when Regina walks into the room. And just when he was sure his balls couldn't get any achier, she proves him wrong.

Her navy-blue tank top, beneath a light gray flannel, highlights her creamy skin, and tight dark jeans tucked into knee-high brown boots accentuate those long, slender legs. Her hair is down, almost to the curve of her gorgeous arse, and simple silver and pearl earrings peek out between the glorious glossy waves.

"Hey." She smiles, making the room a little bit brighter and his cock a lot harder. "I didn't know you were here already. Were you waiting long?"

"It's all good, Regina," Tink says. "I was just keeping him company."

The ride to the hotel is pure, unadulterated torture—and an exercise in restraint. Their small talk is comfortable and benign, but their looks are intense and heated. Robin catches Regina checking out the perpetual bulge in his trousers no fewer than three times. And he doesn't even bother trying to pretend that he's not staring at her tits. Her scent—that clean, freshly shampooed, warm honey scent—fills the space of the limousine, making his nostrils flare, trying to absorb every trace of it.

In the hotel, over a glass of white wine, she tells him about her day, about the poor, bedraggled young mother and her brood of five hell-raisers who visited the coffee shop. Robin takes a chopping knife from the wood block on the counter, and the unpleasant, piercing sound that results from sliding it against the sharpening stone momentarily halts their conversation. Regina comes up behind him, peeking over his shoulder as he slices the salmon and chops the celery into match-sized sticks.

"Where did you learn to do that?" she asks with a smile in her voice.

"Japan."

Then she picks up a knife herself, stands next to him, and makes quick work of three carrots, chopping them just as well, if not better, than him.

Then she shrugs coyly. "Manhattan."

Regina runs her hand along the counter, observing the dishes of spices and rice, shrimp and salmon. She dips her finger into a small bowl of black soy sauce and seems to move in slow motion when she raises that finger to her mouth, and wraps those gorgeous fucking lips around it.

He's never come in his trousers, but he's dangerously close.

A groan is trapped in his throat, because he wants to be that finger—more than he wants to breathe. Their eyes meet and hold. And the air is thick between them—filled with magnetic particles that draws them toward one another.

Dinner's going to have to wait.

Looking into her eyes, hearing the needy little puffs of breath that slip out between her glistening lips, Robin knows for certain—they'll never make it that long.

Then there's a noise from the other room and Regina jumps. Almost as if she'd been caught doing something naughty. She's all too aware of the security team's presence.

And that just won't do.

"Logan," Robin calls, not taking his eyes off of her.

He pokes his head through the door. "Yes, Sir?"

"Go away."

There's a brief pause. And then, "Aye. Me and James and Tommy'll be down in the lobby and by the lift—to be sure no one comes up."

They wait, staring at each other…and when the elevator pings, proving that they are finally, perfectly, blessedly alone, it's like the starting shot of a marathon.

They move at the same time—Regina springs forward and he pulls her into his arms. Hands grasping, legs wrapping, mouths clashing. She squeezes his waist with her thighs and her palms flex against the taut swell of her arse. His teeth nip at those gorgeous fucking lips, scraping gently, before covering her mouth in a searing, wet kiss.

Yes, yes, this is it. It's everything he's been fantasizing about—only better.

Regina's mouth is hot and wet and tastes like sweet grapes against his tongue. She moans into his mouth—a sound he could easily get drunk on.

Robin moves them to the kitchen table, knocking over a chair. He perches her on the end, both of them breathing hard and heavy.

"I want you," Robin rasps. Just in case that isn't clear.

Her eyes are bright and manic—caught up in the same tsunami of sensation that grips him.

She tears the gray flannel from her arms.

"Have me."

Christ, this bold, daring girl—he adores her.

Regina's pale arms wrap around his neck as they clash back together, kissing and grasping. He pulls her hips forward to the edge of the table, grinding his erection that's hard as stone between her open, denim-covered legs. Her hand dives through her soft hair, cupping the back of her head, holding her still so he can take and take from her mouth.

She moans again, sweet and long, and the sound pushes him right to the edge, making him shaky with want for her.

Then with her legs wrapped tight around his waist, she pushes against his shoulders, forcing him back, breaking their kiss. He catches her drift when she jerks at the hem of his shirt and he helps her out—pulling it over his head. Her dark, enchanting eyes go wide as she takes in his bare torso, running smooth, petal-soft hands across his shoulders, over his chest, down through the grooves of his abdomen.

"Jesus," she breathes out softly, "you are so fucking…hot."

And he laughs. He can't help it. Though he's heard such compliments before, there's a wonder in her voice, an awe, that's just too adorable. The chuckle still rumbles in his chest when he skims her tank top up and over her head. But he stops abruptly when he glimpses Regina's breasts, covered in nothing but innocent white lace.

Because they are seriously, beautifully perfect.

He leans back in, his hips circling and grinding, lips skimming over her delicate shoulder to her neck—pausing to suck hard over her pulse, making her gasp. His teeth scrape the shell of her ear.

"I want to kiss you, Regina."

She giggles, kneading his back. "You are kissing me."

He slides his hand between them, between her legs, rubbing where she's already hot and aching.

"Here. I want to kiss you here."

She goes languid in his arms, her head lolling, so his mouth can roam free.

"Oh," she moans on a breath, "oh, oh…kay."

He's pictured fucking her on the coffee shop tables a dozen times, but this kitchen table isn't cutting it. He needs more room. And he wants only softness and silk touching her back while he truly kisses her.

In one move he scoops Regina up and tosses her over his shoulder, caveman style, heading for the bedroom. She squeals and laughs and squeezes his arse as he walks down the hall. Robin give hers a playful smack in return.

She lands in the center of the large bed with her eyes shining, her lips smiling, and her cheeks flushed. He stands at the edge of the bed and beckons her forward with his hand.

"Come here."

She rises to her knees and comes closer, but ducks her head when he tries to kiss her—trailing her lips over his chest instead, in a dozen soft, worshipful pecks that turn his blood to fire. He cups her face in his hands, guiding her up to meet him.

And then he kisses her, slowly. Deeply.

And the teasing play, the joking spirit that surrounded them, dissipates, replaced by something more powerful. Urgent and primal. Regina's mouth never leaves his as his hands wander their way behind her back, releasing the clasp of her bra. He skims the straps down her arms and cups her soft, full breasts in his hands.

His thumbs drift back and forth over her nipples—hardening them to two dusty-rose peaks. She sucks on his neck and bites at his earlobe—getting rougher with desperation—and then he dips his head and his mouth takes the place of his thumbs.

He sucks her in long, slow drags and quick flicks of his tongue. Regina's spine arches, trying to get closer, and her nails sink into the skin of his shoulder blades—leaving half-moons he'll relish tomorrow. He moves to her other breast, blowing first, taunting her just a bit, until she yanks his hair. His mouth suctions harder, bringing teeth into play, pressing against the tantalizing flesh.

When Regina's hips begin to move in searching, seeking circles and frenzied, grunting gasps come from her throat, he lifts his head from her sweet tit and guides her onto her back.

She looks into his eyes and he's lost. Wrecked. Owned. There's no thought, no desire—except to please her. Make her see stars and touch heaven.

Deft fingers open her jeans, peeling them down her legs as he straightens up.

Robin takes a moment to enjoy the view—Regina's flushed, heated skin almost bare in the middle of his bed. The way her hair lies against the stunning, flawless flesh of her breasts. Her flat stomach, sculpted, and the way the thin straps of her pastel-pink underwear cling to dainty hips.

He feels her eyes on him as he licks his lips and slides the pink lace down her legs—giving him an unobstructed view.

"Christ, you're a beauty," He groans. With a smirk, he crawls onto the bed, hovering over her. "Pretty enough to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner—and still want more for dessert."

He raises her ankle to his shoulder—then he moves upward slowly, kissing and sucking on the skin of her calf, behind her knee, to her taut inner thigh. Her breath hitches when he places her foot back on the bed and his palms against her thighs, spreading her wide. He licks two fingertips and runs them through her cleft, rubbing, searching.

Regina's eyes drift closed. "Robin."

Yeah, that's the spot.

His fingers circle Regina's pretty clit—pink and swollen—and he drops down to his stomach. He kisses her thigh, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark.

"Say my name again," Robin murmurs.

Regina's chest rises and falls quickly. "Robin."

She pants and gasps as his mouth moves closer.

"Again."

"Robin," she moans, her voice raw and pleading.

Music to his fucking ears.

Then he gives her what they're both aching for.

His mouth moves over her core, enveloping it in a heated kiss, and his tongue slides between those plump lips. With a loud whimper her hips rise, but he holds her steady. Focused and unrelenting in his need to make her climax.

Christ, her taste. The slick feel of her against his tongue. It's magnificent.

Enough to make his hips thrust against the bed, searching for relief.

He moves his mouth to Regina's clit, sucking hard while two fingers thrust, then pump, inside her. Oh, she's tight. And hot. And so wet it may drive him mad.

But she's so snug, he's really going to need to take care with her.

The thought is chased from his mind when Regina's back curves, her neck arches, and her mouth opens to whimpers his name. And she comes. Stunningly. Fantastically. On his tongue, against his mouth, writhing with the sheer bliss of it.

When Regina goes limp against the bed, he practically pounces on her. She doesn't seem to mind. In fact, after just a few minutes of kissing and humping, she pushes him back, rolling them over, to kiss her way down his chest.

She makes quick work of his trousers, tossing them on the floor. And she stares at him, with a secret smile on her lips—long enough for him to ask, "What?"

Regina gives a tiny shrug. "The Internet was wrong. They said you wear Calvin Klein underwear."

They were very wrong—he doesn't wear underwear at all.

"Don't believe everything you read."

When she wraps her hand around his aching cock, it feels so damn good, he has no words—his eyes roll closed and his head digs into the pillow behind him. Regina strokes him skillfully—once, twice—but that's all he allows.

It's all he can stand. If she keeps going, he'll fucking embarrass himself.

He jerks up, wrapping his arms around her, rolling her back under him and taking her mouth like a dying man takes his last meal. Blindly, his hand gropes for the night table drawer, for the condoms David put there. But when Regina arches up—almost rubbing the tip of his cock against her slick entrance, he pulls back fully. Quickly.

"Just a sec, love."

He rips open the condom with his teeth and Regina's hands mix with his, fumbling to roll it on as quickly as possible.

And then he's there, over her, staring into those stunning dark eyes that caught him from the first moment. He breathes deep, silently begging for control, and then he presses the head of his cock inside her. Gently and just the tip.

Regina's mouth opens with the pleasure of it. And his heart pounds so fast and hard, he thinks he might be dying.

What a perfect bloody way to go.

She presses her palm to his cheek, reaching up for a kiss, drawing him in. Slowly, he slides inside her—the beautiful muscles fitting so snug and wet around him—stretching to make room. When their pelvises meet, when his heavy balls rest against Regina's arse, he waits. Swallowing hard against a sandpaper throat.

Her eyes are closed, her lashes fanning out like tiny threads of black silk.

"Are you all right?" Robin pants.

Please, please say yes. Please let me move.

And then she does the simplest, most miraculous thing. She opens her eyes—and it feels like she's ripping his heart out—taking it for her own.

"Yes."

Definitely his favorite word.

He feels her squeeze around him—her hips pulsing upward, testing the feel.

"Oh God," she moans. "Move, Robin. I want to feel you. All of you. Now."

And those words are now his second favorite.

Keeping his weight on his arms, he pulls back and thrust in slowly, with a guttural groan. Because it feels just that fucking fantastic. Indescribable. Regina's arms wind around his neck and his hands slide beneath her shoulder blades, cradling her head as he rides her in even, steady strokes. Their panting breaths mingle, they kiss and taste, and the pleasure rises, tightens with every movement.

Until it peaks.

His hips move without thought, grinding and pounding hard now, rushing to catch the orgasm that's barreling down on them both. And then his mind goes white, blank—suspended in that perfect moment of deep, carnal pleasure. Regina's there with him. She bites his shoulder, but he doesn't feel it. All he can feel is where they're connected, where he's powerfully pulsing inside her, giving everything he has, over and over again.

Regina lies in the crook of his arm, pretty and perfect, gazing at him as her hand runs down his chest, tracing the tic-tac-toe of his abdomen with her fingertips, then sliding back up to start all over again.

"You're beautiful when you come." Robin brushes his knuckle against the rosy apple of her smooth cheek. "And after."

She bats her lashes up at him. "I try."

As his hand retreats, she catches his wrist, eyeing the bracelets that chronically encircle it. "You wore these the other night, too. Do they have any special meaning?"

Robin slips off the teakwood circle and pass it to her for a closer look. Her finger traces the etchings. "This was my father's," He tells her. "He built houses in Africa one summer when he was a teenager. One of the village women gave it to him—a blessing, she called it—for protection. He wore it almost all the time." His throat narrows. "After the funeral, our butler, John, gave it to me. He said he found it on my father's dresser—didn't know why he hadn't taken it with him when they left for New York. I don't wear it because of superstition…I just like having something close to me that was close to him."

Regina snuggles tighter against him and slips the bracelet back over his hand.

"And this one?" She fingers the platinum links circling the same wrist.

"It's Will's." An easy smile comes to his lips. "Our mother had it made for him when he was eight and she was sure ID bracelets were coming back into style." Robin chuckles at the memory and Regina lets out a small laugh. "He hated it, but he pretended to like it for her sake." And then he's blinking against the burning in his eyes. "After they were gone, Will never took it off. He had the links added when he outgrew it. He couldn't bring it with him to training, so he asked me to keep it for him until he came home."

Regina presses a comforting kiss to his shoulder, and they lie against each other in relaxed silence for a few minutes.

But then she rolls over onto her stomach, her long, wavy hair scattering across his torso. "Hey, you know what else I am after I come?"

"What?"

"Thirsty."

He rubs his eyes and stifle a yawn. "Yes, I could go for a bottle of water too. There's a mini fridge just over there." He points to the far side of the room. "How about you go get us some?"

She burrows under the covers—her arms and legs wrapping like she's a koala and he's her tree.

"But it's so cold. What do you have the temperature set to—arctic?"

"I like it cold. I tend to run on the hot side." He reaches between them, tweaking her peaked, pink nipple. "And there are other benefits."

"You should go get the water—it's the gentlemanly thing to do."

He rolls on top of her, nudging her legs open with his hips, settling comfortably between them, his cock already starting to harden again. "But there are no gentlemen here." His teeth scrape her lovely neck—gaining a whole new appreciation of vampirism. "And I want to watch you scamper across the floor." He shifts his weight and cups one full breast. "See all these gorgeous parts jiggling along the way."

Regina scoffs. "Perv."

She doesn't know the half of it.

"I have an idea," she suggests. "Let's play a game—a contest. Whoever tells the most embarrassing story gets to stay in the warm bed. Loser has to freeze their 'parts' off and get the water."

"Oh, sweets, you've just ensured that you're going to lose—no one has more embarrassing stories than I do."

She raises an eyebrow at him.

"Ladies first—let's hear it."

Slight doubt shadows her features. "I hope it doesn't bother you…It has to do with…oral sex."

"Mmm, one of my favorite topics—tell me more."

And she's already blushing.

"All right, so, the first time I ever gave a…blow job…I didn't really know what it was. And since it's called a 'blow' job, I thought you were supposed to—"

She puffs her cheeks out, like she's trying to blow up an uncooperative balloon.

He falls back onto the pillow, howling. "Christ, you're lucky you didn't give the poor lad an aneurism!"

Her cheeks deepen to crimson and she pinches his side as punishment.

"Your turn."

He stares at the ceiling, deciding. There are so many stories to choose from.

"I shit in a bag once."

A shocked choke of laughter immediately bursts from Regina's lungs.

"What?"

"I was on the rowing team at boarding school."

"Of course you were."

"And, we had a meet at another school, a fair distance away. On the bus back, there was an accident—congestion on the road—and whatever they'd served for lunch was fiercely disagreeing with me. So…it was either my pants or a gym bag. I went with option two."

She covers her eyes and her mouth, laughing in horror. "Oh my God! That's awful…and yet hilarious."

He laughs as well. "It was. Especially after it hit the papers. Bloody nightmare."

And suddenly, Regina's not laughing anymore.

Not even a little.

"It was in the newspapers?"

"Sure. The more embarrassing the story, the more the journalists will pay. My classmates were always looking for extra cash."

"But…but they were your teammates. Your friends."

He toys with her hair, tugging on a curl and watching it bounce stubbornly back into shape.

"It's like I told Killian, that first night at your coffee shop: everything's for sale and everyone—everyone—has their price."

Her eyes search his face, looking so very sad. He doesn't like it—not a bit.

He rolls over on top of her again, nudging between her legs.

"Do you feel bad for me?" He asks.

"Yes."

"Do you pity me?"

Her fingers run gently through his hair.

"I think I do."

"Good." He smirks. "That means you get the water. And…when you get back…I want to test your blow-job skills. Make sure you've got it right—and if not, I'll happily instruct you."

That does the trick. Her mouth pinches to hide her smile and her eyes flash.

"So fucking bossy." She shakes her head.

The next few days pass just the same. The closest they've come to having "the talk"—the "Are we exclusive, where is this going?" talk—is when a story about him and a gorgeous blond he'd been photographed with in Sweden flashed across the television. "Wedding Watch," they called it.

Robin told her she was an old friend from school—just a friend—and that she should never believe anything any journalist said or wrote about him.

Two weeks after that first crazy night, her growing tenderness towards Robin makes Regina do something she hasn't done in years: take a Saturday off from the coffee shop.

She wants to do something for Robin.

What do you give a prince? A man with a country at his feet and the world at his fingertips?

Something only a New York girl can.

"I have a plan."

They're in the library of the suite. Robin is behind the desk, his hair falling still damp over his forehead from a recent shower, while James and Tommy stand near the windows.

"Take off your clothes," Regina says, dropping a stuffed backpack at her feet.

He stands, giving her a curious, dimple-flashing smile that makes her stomach tingle.

"I like this plan."

He pulls his shirt over his head—and at the sight of that gorgeous chest and ripped abs, she has to close her mouth to stop the flow of drool.

"Should I send the lads to their room?" he asks.

She tosses him a t-shirt and jeans. "They can stay—I'll get to them in a second."

Robin puts on the outfit, his disguise for the day. She holds up a thick gold chain with a dangling cross, and he dips his head so she can loop it over his neck. Then she squirts gel into her hands and reaches up on tiptoes to rub it through his hair—mussing it at the top and slicking the sides.

Perfect.

"How do you feel about piercing your ear?" Regina asks, teasing.

He whispers, "Needles terrify me." Then he winks.

Robin's eyes are already sparkling with excitement—this next part is going to blow his mind. "Do you know how to drive a motorcycle?"

He mentioned the other night that he was a pilot during his stint in the military, so she made an educated guess.

"Sure."

"Perfect." She pulls a helmet with a full, tinted face shield out of the backpack and hold it up. "A friend of mine's bike is downstairs. He said to tell you: break it, you bought…a Ducati."

Logan steps into the room from where he was stationed just outside the door, lifting his hand, like a traffic cop. "Hold on, now—"

Robin takes the helmet. "It'll be fine, Logan."

"I want Robin and me to go on this outing alone. You guys stay here."

Tommy says, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

James crosses himself.

Logan takes another route. "No fuckin' way. Not possible."

But the look on Robin's face says it really fucking is.

"No," Logan insists again, his voice straining with a faint hint of desperation.

"Will used to slip his security detail all the time," Robin offers.

"You're not Prince William," Logan counters.

"I wrote everything down for you, just in case—exactly where we'll be, every minute."

She takes the sealed envelope out of the backpack and hands it to Logan. But when he starts to tear it open she puts her hand on his. "You can't open it until after we're gone—it'll ruin the surprise. But I promise it will be all right. I swear on my life."

"What's the worst that could happen?" Robin asks.

"Ah…you could get assassinated and the three of us will hang for treason."

"Don't be silly," Robin scoffs. "We haven't hung anyone in years." He smacks Logan's back. "It'd be the firing squad."

Tommy laughs.

Logan doesn't.

James is Switzerland.

"Sir, please—if you'd just listen—"

"I'm not a child, Logan. I'm capable of surviving one afternoon without you. The three of you stay here, and that's an order. If I catch a glimpse of you or find out you followed us—and I will find out—I'll ship you home to guard the fucking hounds. Do I make myself clear?"

The guys nod, unhappily.

And just a few minutes later, he slips the helmet over his head so no one will recognize him while we walk through the lobby to the hotel's exit.

"Welcome to Coney Island!" She flings her arms out wide as Robin locks up the motorcycle. "Known for its epic roller coaster, just-clean-enough beaches, and hot dogs that might give you a spontaneous heart attack but taste good enough to risk it."

He chuckles. And holds her hand while they walk towards The Cyclone. No one gives them a second glance, but Robin keeps his eyes down or on her, just the same.

"So…how does it feel to be out…without them?"

He squints against the sun. "Strange. Like I've forgotten something. Like that dream when you show up to class without your trousers. But it's…exhilarating, too."

He kisses the back of her hand, the way he did that first morning—and it tingles all over again. After riding the roller coaster and eating hot dogs, they walk back to the bike to get the blanket she stowed there, and head toward the amphitheater.

"Kodaline is playing," She tells him. Robin has a bunch of their songs on his phone's playlist.

He stops walking and his face goes almost blank, but his eyes are the brightest green. Then in one move, he pulls her up against him and kisses her breathless.

He presses his forehead against hers. "This is absolutely the best thing anyone's ever done for me. Thank you, Regina."

Inside, as they stand on line for drinks, "Everything I Do" by Bryan Adams pours from the speakers. "I love this song," She tells him. "It was my prom song—but I didn't get to go."

"Why not?" he asks.

"I didn't have time or a dress."

"Didn't your boyfriend…Daniel…want to show you off?"

"He wasn't that into dances."

Robin makes a disgusted sound. "Definitely a ruddy tool."

"This hiding-in-plain-sight thing only works if you don't act like you're trying to hide something."

He grins a little self-consciously—and the dimples show up. Mmm.

"Most of the people here would never think that you'd be here—and the few that do are probably too chill to make a big deal about it. New Yorkers are cool about celebrity stuff."

He looks at him like she's nuts. "Not the ones I've seen."

I shrug. "They're probably from Jersey."

Robin laughs at that.

After they get their drinks—two beers each in red Solo cups—they walk on the grass until they find the perfect spot.

"Have you ever drunk cheap beer, listened to good music and made out on a blanket, surrounded by a couple hundred people in a field, under the warm sun all afternoon?"

"Never had the pleasure."

"Today you will."

Regina and Robin stumble through the revolving door into the lobby of the Plaza holding hands, stealing quick kisses, giggling like two randy teenagers ditching class for a quickie in the broom closet. Lying with her on the blanket throughout the afternoon, kissing her long and slow, without a care who was watching—because no one was—has made him desperate for her.

And hard. Christ, so hard.

Anticipation. Has there ever been a sweeter word? He's never had to wait—not really—not for this. He has no idea the buildup, hours of sizzling, teasing delayed gratification, could be such a heady aphrodisiac. His blood rushes and Regina's eyes sparkle—with lust and playfulness and hunger. They make it into the lift and the moment the doors slide closed behind them, he picks her up into his arms, press her against the wall and ravage her mouth—tasting deeper than he was able to before. She moans around his tongue as he grinds against her, relishing the pressure that won't bring any relief. But it's fine—thrilling even—because he knows soon she'll be naked and spread out on his bed and he'll be able to drive into her tightness again and again, until they're both worn out.

Or they break the damn bed—whichever comes first.

As the lift rises, he leans back and looks down, watching his denim-clad crotch thrust deliberately against her heated center. His cock slides exquisitely right there—against her soft, sweet flesh concealed beneath the thin fabric of her black cotton leggings. But he can feel it.

And it feels sublime.

With her fingernails biting into the back of his neck, Regina pulls herself up, lips to his jaw, teeth scraping his stubble. "I want you to fuck me everywhere, Robin," she pants. "Come everywhere. Between my legs, on my chest, my mouth, down my throat…oh, oh it'll be so good. Everywhere, Robin."

"Fuck, yes," He hisses, feeling crazier with each word.

With a ding, the lift opens to the penthouse. Home sweet home.

Regina locks her ankles at his lower back and he carries her, palming and kneading that luscious arse, across the foyer, heading for the bedroom. His journey is halted in the living room—by the head of his security team, waiting on the couch, stiff as an angry board and frowning.

And suddenly he doesn't just feel like a teenager—he feels like a teenager who's been caught sneaking in past curfew, stinking of sex and smokes and liquor.

"So…you're back, then?" Logan stands.

"Uh…yes. It was a grand show," Robin tells him. "No incidences occurred; no one seemed to recognize me."

He throws his arms out—imitating a fed-up mum now. He sounds like one, too.

"You could've called! I've been here all afternoon—goin' half out my mind with worry."

Robin chuckles. "Sorry, Mum."

Logan is not amused.

"This isn't funny, My Lord. It's dangerous." His eyes shoot to Regina for an instant, then back his way. "We need to talk. Alone."

"All right, settle down, now. My hands happen to be exquisitely filled at the moment." He gives Regina's arse a squeeze, making her giggle and hide her face against his neck. "We'll talk in the morning, first thing—I promise."

His gaze darts between them, still looking unhappy. But he nods.

"Have a…pleasant evening," he grinds out, then marches toward the elevator.

Once he's gone, Regina peeks out from her hiding spot. "I don't think he likes me anymore."

Robin kisses the tip of her pert little nose. "I like you." Then he pushes his hips forward while pulling her closer—letting her feel every hard inch. "Do you want me to show you how much?"

Heat rises in her cheeks. "Yes, please." Then she bites her lip and adds with a meek accent. "My Lord."

Hearing that from Regina's lips does things to him. Makes him want to do filthy, dirty things to her. Without further delay, he carries her to the bedroom to get to it.

Lightning flashes in the sky and warm rain pours down around us as James holds the umbrella over their heads when Robin and Regina step out of the car. The club is sleek, all polished onyx lacquer and stainless steel, windowless, with soundproof walls so as not to ruffle the feathers of the more conservative and ultra-wealthy neighbors. There's a velvet rope outside the door, and a mammoth bouncer in a dark suit and sunglasses waits with his own umbrella. But there's no line to get in—and it's not because of the weather.

It's because this club is invite only. Every night.

Inside, "My House" by Flo Rida blares and it looks like it's a costume party—an eighties costume party. Regina sees a Madonna, two Princes—the Purple Rain kind, not the Robin kind—and a bunch of Cabbage Patch dolls that are a whole lot sexier than any of the pictures she's ever seen. The main room isn't huge—a few velvet couches and a mirrored bar along one wall. And there's a stage, with colored overhead lights that flash in time to the music.

On the stage is Tom Cruise from Risky Business—a guy wearing sunglasses and a pink button-down and, yep, tighty-whities. He dances and waves his arms, getting the packed dance floor even more riled up.

"Do you see that guy?" Regina yells above the music, pointing toward the stage.

Robin's handsome face is tight. "Oh, I see him all right. That's my brother!"

"That's your brother?!"

"That's him," Robin practically growls.

"Wow."

"He's a brat," Robin explains, shaking his head. "He's always been a brat."

"Okay, in the problematic younger sibling department, you win."

Robin speaks to a security guy—one of the new ones. The guy nods and rushes off, and Robin grasps her hand. "Come on."

They make their way around the dance floor, through the tight crowd of bodies. They pass a Debbie Gibson and a Molly Ringwald from Pretty in Pink, then stop on the side of the stage. When the song ends and a techno mix of Fetty Wap takes its place, the security guard talks to Tom Cruise…uh Will on the stage.

His head snaps up—staring at Robin.

And then, slowly, like he doesn't quite believe what he's seeing, he smiles.

It's a sweet little-brother smile that tugs at her heart.

He practically runs to them, jumping off the stage with feline dexterity and landing on both feet just a few yards away. His lips move—she can't hear him, but she can read what he says.

"Robin."

Then he's here. She steps back so she doesn't get trampled, as Will tackles his brother in a bear hug, lifting him off his feet. They hug for a few moments, smacking backs, then Robin pulls away—slipping the sunglasses off his younger brother, searching his face and reading his eyes.

And a concern shadows Robin's features at what he finds.

But he smacks his brother's cheek affectionately and says, "It's good to see you, Will."

"Did you forget to put on trousers?" Robin asks.

Will laughs and flashes—with a big, all-encompassing smile that makes her want to smile too.

"It's a costume party." He steps back, framing Robin's suit-clad form with his fingers, like a cameraman on a movie set. "Let me guess…you are Charlie Sheen from Wall Street?"

And then, Prince Will's attention turns to Regina. His interest turns to her.

"And who might you be?"

She quickly reviews her 1980s movie mental database and pulls the hair tie from her bun, shaking out the curls. "I could be…Andie MacDowell from St. Elmo's Fire."

He brings her hand to his lips, kissing the back. "Quick on your feet—I like that. How are you on your knees, love?"

Oh yeah—he's definitely Robin's brother.

Robin shoves him, kind of playfully—kind of not. "This is Regina."

"Is she my welcome-home present?"

"No." Robin scowls. "She's…with me."

Will nods, and rakes his eyes over her, head to toe. "I'll trade you."

"Trade me?"

He points at her, then spins his finger around the room. "Her…for any girl here."

Robin shakes his head. "I haven't seen you in a long while—don't make me smack you right away. Behave yourself."

"He's teasing, Robin." Then she takes pity on the younger brother—and throws him a bone. "And you're not one to talk about behaving…considering the first night we met you offered me money for sex."

Robin flinches.

And Will's jaw drops. "No! My brother did that? Mr. Prim and Proper in Public—I don't believe it." He nudges her with an elbow. "How much did he offer you?"

Regina grins evilly at Robin and he looks like he wants to strangle her just a little bit.

"Ten thousand dollars."

"You cheap bastard!"

"I was pissed!" Robin defends himself. "If I'd been sober, the starting bid would've been much higher."

And they all laugh.

Robin puts his hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'm in the penthouse at the Plaza…let's get out of here. Come back with us."

Will's demeanor changes then. Like the thought of being in a quiet place for too long panics him…but he's trying to hide it with a forced smile. It's only then that she notices the gauntness of his cheeks and the dark circles below his eyes.

"I can't. I just got in—lots of people to see, shots to drink, lasses who'll be so disappointed if I leave without fucking them. You know how it is."

"When can I see you, then? There's much to talk about, Will. How about breakfast, tomorrow?" Robin asks.

Will shakes his head. "I don't eat breakfast. Since I was discharged, I make it a point not to rise before noon."

Robin rolls his eyes. "Lunch, then?"

Will pauses, then nods. "All right, Robin. Lunch it is." He turns his head, looking into the crowd. "I have to go—there's a gorgeous little piece I promised to trade costumes with."

And he points to a redhead in a Little Mermaid getup.

"Until tomorrow." Robin says.

Will pats his brother's back and nods to me, then disappears into the crowd.

In the limo, on the way back to the hotel, Robin is quiet, the sound of the pelting rain and occasional thunder filling the silence.

"Are you okay?" Regina asks.

He rubs his lower lip with his finger, thinking. "He looks awful. Like he's haunted…being hunted…hiding from something."

While the rain smacks against the windowpane outside, Robin thrusts into Regina from behind, long and slow. His thighs are spread, bracketing her closed ones; She feels them tighten each time he pushes forward, pressing his chest against her back, his pelvis against her backside, like he can't stroke deep enough.

Robin cups her breasts in each large hand, and a bolt of tingling sensation streaks a path to her pelvis. He pinches her nipples and she moans loudly, arching her back for more.

A burst of air puffs from his perfect lips. Air and the sound of her name. Falling, begging, demanding. "Regina, fuuuuck—Regina."

Later that night, there's a knock at the door, waking them both from a sound sleep. Regina doesn't know what time it is, but it's still dark outside and the rain has stopped. Robin slips into his robe and opens the door.

Logan stands on the other side, his face is lined with worry. "Sorry to disturb you, Your Grace—but you're gonna want to see this."

He picks up the television remote from the nightstand and turns on the news. Regina squints against the blaring light and it takes her a few seconds to focus, but when she does—holy shit!

"Son of a bitch," Robin curses, because he sees it too.

His brother, Will, is being led into the police station in handcuffs, and the banner at the bottom of the screen reads:

PRINCE WILL OF SWEDEN & ENTOURAGE ARRESTED

It's almost three in the morning when they reach the police station. Regina yawns next to him, her hair wild, looking beautifully, wearily rumpled in a sweatshirt and denim shorts. Thankfully, there's a back entrance to the station, because the front is already mobbed. The arrest of a royal is big news—particularly in America, where the only thing they like more than building their celebrities up is tearing them down.

Robin shakes hands with a burly, gray-haired officer who regards him with coarse sympathy. "Follow me."

He leads them down a corridor, through two barred gates that open with a buzz, then into a cubicle area with a desk and a younger-looking officer stationed there. Down the hall are bar-lined doors on the left and the right—holding cells.

Robin hears the distinct sound of his brother's voice. He's singing.

"Nooobody knows the trouble I'm in…Nooobody knows till tomorrow."

The younger officer gives Robin some forms to sign. "The rest of the paperwork will be sent to the embassy," he says.

"Thank you," Robin tells them tightly.

And then Will is brought in—he's drunk, unsteady on his feet, his hair in need of a cut and a comb—and Robin wars between concern and condemnation. What the fuck is wrong with him?

He zeroes in on Regina with a stupid smile.

"Regina. You're still here—I'm so glad. You can help me walk—I'm having a bit of trouble managing at the moment." Then he flings his arms around her, almost making her knees buckle.

Robin yanks him away from her and tosses him to Logan. "Help him walk."

Then he warns, "Behave yourself or you'll be wheeled out on a stretcher when I'm done with you."

"Little brother," Robin warns him. "You're going home. If I have to tie you like a hog and box you up in a crate to get you there, it's the only place you're going."

He inhales deeply, like he's about to announce something profound, but all he comes out with is, "You're very cranky, Robin."

"Shut up, Will."

And then they head out the way they came in.

Because of the time, Robin takes Regina home before he deals with Will. They park around the back just in case—although, since the NYPD has been assisting them, the crowds outside Regina's have been smaller. Robin walks her in, and Will insists on tagging along.

Robin suggests locking him in the trunk, but Regina—sweet-hearted as she is—overrules him.

The moment they walk into the suite, Tommy descends on them. "The Queen's on the line. On Skype, Your Grace." Anxiety rings in his voice like the ping of a tapped crystal glass. "She's been waiting. She doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Have David bring me a scotch."

"Oh, me too!" Will pipes up. "Better yet, make mine a brandy."

"He'll have coffee," Robin tells Tommy.

And Robin thinks Will sticks his tongue out at him behind his back.

Robin heads into the library and he follows, seeming marginally closer to sober—at least he's walking straight and unassisted now. Robin sits behind the desk and opens the laptop. On the screen, his grandmother looks back at him, wearing a pale pink robe, hair in rollers and a hairnet, gray eyes piercing, her expression as friendly as the grim reaper's.

This should be fun.

"Robin." She greets him without emotion.

"Grandmother."

"Granny!" Will calls, like a child, coming around the desk into view. Then he proceeds to hug the computer and kisses the screen.

"Mwah! Mwah!"

"Will, oh, Will—" HIS grandmother swats the air with her hands, like he's actually there kissing her.

"Mwah!"

"Will! Remember yourself! My gracious!"

"Mmmmmwah!" He perches, grinning like a fool, on the arm of his chair, forcing Robin to shift over. "I'm sorry, Grandmother—it's just so good to see you."

She doesn't say anything at first, but peers closer at the screen—and Robin knows she's seeing all the same things he sees about him. Something close to worry pinches her lips.

"You look tired, my boy."

"I am, Your Majesty," he says softly. "Very tired."

"Then you'll come home, so you can rest. Yes?"

"Yes, ma'am," he agrees.

Then her voice goes sharp. "And I never want to hear a whisper about you and narcotics again. Do I make myself clear? I am very disappointed in you, Will."

And he actually looks contrite. "It was a friend's, Granny, not mine. But…it won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't." She turns her attention to Robin. "I'm sending the plane for you both. I want you both back at the palace in twenty-four hours."

Robin's stomach plummets and it feels like his throat is closing in on itself.

"I have commitments here that—"

"Break them," she orders.

"No, I won't do that!" Robin speaks to her in a way that he would punch anyone else for speaking to her the same.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, it's been a long night." Robin scrubs his hand over his face. "I have commitments here that need to be handled delicately. I've…made promises. I'll need a bit more time to tie things up."

She glares back like she can see right through him—and he has no doubt that she can. She's definitely heard all about Regina by now, if not from the Dark Suits then in the papers and online.

"Forty-eight hours and not a minute more," she says—her tone similar to the sound of a handler snapping the leash on his errant charge.

His hands fist on the desk, out of view. "Very well."

After they say their pleasantries, they disconnect and he closes the screen. Robin boils in silence, until Will speaks.

"So…what's new?"

And Robin smacks him.

Open-palmed and so hard the sound bounces off the walls.

He reaches for the spot he'd struck. "Fuck! What the hell you'd do that for?"

He jabs Robin with his elbow. Robin punches him in the ear. And the next thing Robin knows they're rolling on the floor, cursing and pummeling each other.

"Spoiled little fucker!"

"Miserable bastard!"

At some point during the scuffle, Logan pops his head in. "Never mind." Then he backs out and closes the door.

Eventually, they call a draw, both too bloody worn out to continue. They sit on the floor, breathing hard, leaning back against the wall.

Will tests his lip where a trickle of blood drips. "You're really angry?"

"Yes, Will, I really am. I was planning on staying the summer here, in New York. With Regina. Thanks to your little stunt, I can't do that now."

"Oh." Robin feels him staring at him. "You really like her, then."

"Yes," Robin agrees, his voice rough and raw. "I do. And when we leave, I'll never see her again."

"But, why not?"

"A lot's been happening. I'll explain tomorrow, after you've gotten a good night's sleep."

Robin stands up, brushes his trousers off and straightens his collar. "I'm going to see Regina. I'll be back in a bit."

"I'm sorry, Robin. I'm sorry that I ruined all your plans."

And the bracelets on his wrist seem to hug tighter.

Robin walks back to him and crouches down. Then he rolls up his sleeve, unclips the silver bracelet and pools it in his upturned palm. Will's eyes mist over as he looks at it.

"You kept it safe for me."

"Of course I did." Robin rests his forehead against his, squeezing the back of his head with his hand. "It's good to have you back, Will. Everything's going to be all right now, yeah?"

"Yeah."

It's just after sunrise when Robin pulls up to the back alley behind Regina's. Again. The sky is still pink and gray and he knows the sign in the front window still reads CLOSED. Robin walks through the now spotless kitchen and follows the sound of soft music to the dining area.

Then he crosses his arms, leans against the propped open doorway, and enjoys the show.

Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers sing on the television—a song about islands in streams—and Regina sweeps the floor with a broom, unaware of his presence.

But she's not just sweeping—she's dancing.

Arse-shaking, hip-swiveling, knee-bending, gorgeous dancing—occasionally sliding down and up the broomstick like it's a pole or a microphone.

Christ, she's lovely.

His lips stretch into a smile and his cock goes so hard it's painful.

Silently, he slips up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, making her squeak and the broomstick crack when it hits the floor. She turns in his arms, her hands locked around her neck—pressing against him, all warmth and goodness.

"I'm a much better partner than a broomstick."

She arches her pelvis, pressing and rubbing against his erection.

"And better endowed." Regina reaches up and kisses his mouth so sweetly. "How's Will?"

Robin strokes her hair and gazes at her face, feeling like a hole's opening up inside him. A barren, painful emptiness that's an echo of how it felt when they told him that his mother was gone.

"I have to leave, Regina. We have to go home."

She stops dancing. Her delicate hands grasp him tighter, and her mouth narrows into a sad little bud.

"When?" she asks in a soft voice.

"Two days."

Her gaze touches his eyes, his lips, his jaw, as if she's committing them all to memory. Then she lowers her head, resting her cheek against his chest, right over his heartbeat.

Dolly and Kenny sing about sailing away together…to another world.

"That soon?"

Robin presses her closer. "Yes."

They start to rock together in time to the music—and suddenly the words just come out.

"Come with me."

Regina's head pops up. "What?"

The more he talks, the more brilliant the idea becomes. "Spend the summer in Stockholm with me. You can stay in the palace."

"The palace?"

"I'll take care of everything. I'll show you the city—it's beautiful, especially at night. It'll take your breath away. And I'll take you to the seaside—we'll swim naked in the waves and freeze our arses off."

She laughs, and he's laughing with her.

"It'll be an adventure, Regina." He runs his thumb across her cheek. "I'm not ready for this to be over yet. Are you?"

She leans into his touch. "No."

"Then say yes. Come with me."

Consequences be damned.

Her eyes are shiny with hope, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

She holds him close and tells him, "Robin…I…I can't."

It's not what he wants to hear. It's not the one she wants to give. But it's the only option. His holds him roughly, almost desperately.

"I want to, Robin—God, I want to. But I just can't leave."

There's a crash from the kitchen—the harsh gong of metal pans hitting the floor. And then Tink literally falls into the room.

"Oh yes, you can!"

"Tink, what are you doing?"

She picks herself up. "Eavesdropping. But that's beside the point—there's no way you're not going to freaking Sweden, Regina! For the summer! In a palace!" She spins around like she's in an imaginary ball gown. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance and you're not missing it. Not for your Dad or for this place. No way."

"It's not just about running the coffee shop, Tink. There's the books to keep."

"I can do that."

"Ordering supplies and stock."

"Pfft—I can totally do that."

"Dealing with the vendors and delivery guys." Regina turns to Robin. "Some of them are total assholes." She looks back and forth between them. "And a thousand other little things that you're too inexperienced to handle on your own."

Until Robin raises his finger. "I have someone who can handle it with her."

The next afternoon, down in the coffee shop, Robin waits by the door, while Tink, Logan, and Tommy stand shoulder to shoulder along the wall.

Regina approaches Tommy and Logan first, touching both their arms. "Thank you for doing this. I know it's not your job, but I appreciate it so much."

Logan nods, his gaze steady. "Don't worry, we'll look after things here. We'll take care of her."

"And have fun in Sweden," Tommy says, smiling brightly. "Maybe you'll like it enough to stay."

Logan shakes his head, exasperated, making Regina thinks he knows more than he lets on. "Shut up, Tommy."

Regina moves to Tink, and squeezes her as tight as she can, and her heart breaks just a little bit.

"I'm going to miss you too. I know you can handle this, Tink—you're going to do great." Regina said.

"I will."

"Regina."

Her father appears in the doorway. He walks up to her slowly and then wraps his arms around her in a strong, solid hug.

Just the way he used to…before.

He kisses her temple and whispers in her ear, "I love you, darling."

And she feels the tears come and overflow. "I love you too, Daddy."

A moment later, she pulls away. She hiccups and gives him a smile. Then she walks to Robin's side.

As they turn to leave, her father calls out, "Robin. You take care of her."

There's a distinct edge to his voice when he answers.

"Yes. I will."

Then he takes her hand and leads her out the door.

The tears are still flowing as she climbs in the limo—where Will is waiting.

"Oh no, she's crying. I hate it when girls cry. What did you do, Robin?" Then he raises his glass—filled with amber-colored liquid and ice. "Don't cry, Regina. Drink!"

In the seat beside her, Robin tugs her closer. "Are you all right, sweets?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. I'm just really emotional." She wipes under her eyes. "And I'm scared about the plane."

Robin smiles, flashing his dimples. "You can hold onto my stick the whole time."

Regina giggles, and Will makes a grossed-out sound.

"Is that a sexual reference? Bloody hell, it's going to be a disgusting summer."

On the runway, outside the big, scary plane, Belle, Robin's personal secretary, greets them. "Oh my," she stutters when Robin first introduces her. "I didn't know you were bringing guests, Your Grace." Then she recovers—or at least tries to. "The Queen will be quite…surprised."

She gives Regina's hand a firm, friendly shake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Mills. If there's anything you need during your visit, please don't hesitate to ask."

The interior of Royal I is all royal crests, creamy leather, and shining, polished wood. There are two fully appointed bedrooms in the back, and not just any bedrooms—these are beds fit for a queen. Literally. There are also two marble bathrooms with showers. The main fuselage has a dark wood desk and a computer and phones, a long leather couch and groups of four reclining seats that swivel around with gleaming wood tables in between.

Two uniformed stewardesses are there to cater to their every whim—and they look like supermodels, both blond and tall, with little navy caps perched on their heads. The pilot bows to Robin before he enters the cockpit and she notices a change in Robins's demeanor—or maybe it's just a reaction to how the staff treats him—with supreme leader deference. Respect bordering on worship. He leads the way…and everyone else gladly follows.

Takeoff is…absolutely terrifying.

Regina keeps her eyes closed the entire time and chokes down the urge to puke. It's a good thing she holds Robin's hand instead of his "stick," because his grip is so strong she would've crushed it.

And it's one of her favorite parts.

In the air, after hot towels and cocktails, Robin asks Belle about things at home. Political things. Her eyes skirt briefly to Robin and then Will, and she wonders if this is classified information.

But then she tells Robin, "The Queen has doubled her efforts to persuade Parliament to pass the trade and jobs packages, but talks remain…acrimonious. They want concessions."

"What kind of concessions?" the younger prince asks.

"Concessions from the Queen," Belle says uncomfortably. "And the royal family."

"Two years is a long time to be gone, Will," Robin explains. "Things have changed since you were last home."

"Parliament has always been filled with a bunch of useless wankers." He scoffs.

Robin tilts his head. "Now they're worse."

A little later, Belle instructs her on protocol. How to greet and behave around the Queen…and the heir apparent.

"You'll have to be mindful of your interactions when you're in public. Everyone knows the princes; you'll be observed constantly. And we are a conservative country. No 'PDAs' as you young people call them."

Huh. Sounds fun.

"We're not that conservative," Will objects. "You and Robin will just have to find a nice shadowy nook to get your public freak on. Or, if you really need to stick your tongue down someone's throat, I'm always available."

Robin glares heatedly at his brother, who shrugs innocently. "Just putting it out there." Then his voice drops to whisper to her, "No one cares what I do."

It's just before sunset when the plane lands in Stockholm. A warm breeze, with a hint of ocean, fills the cabin when the plane doors are opened. There's a carpet on the steps leading down to the tarmac—purple, the color of royalty. Soldiers in full dress of red coats and shiny gold buttons and black boots gleaming in the fading sunlight line the path from the plane to the airport.

Robin steps out first—he hears a deep bellowing call to attention from an officer on the ground and the snaps of hard heels against the stone pavement as the soldiers salute. He takes a minute when he steps out behind him to look, take it all in, so he'll remember.

About an hour later, they pull onto the road that leads to the palace. Robin tells Regina to look out the window to see—and she's gob-smacked.

She's never used that word before: gob. Gob-smacked.

There was never a reason—but, holy shit, there's a reason now. She's seen pictures of the castle but seeing now is…unreal. The massive stone building is lit from the bottom up—practically a hundred beams of light illuminate the façade. More windows than she can count dot the front, framed by a giant black-and-gold-trimmed iron gate. She can't see clearly from here, but there seem to be intricate etchings, statues and carvings built into the stone. There's a lighted fountain in the center, shooting half as high as the castle itself. A tall, stately flagpole holds the waving Sweden flag. And flowers! Thousands, maybe millions, of flowers surround the front and the sides, bursting with color even in the night.

"It's a castle!"

Yeah, not the most astute thing she's ever said.

Robin just chuckles. So, she grabs his arm, shaking. "I don't think you understand—you live in a freaking castle!"

"Technically, it's a palace. Castles were built for defense, palaces more for the monarch to hold court in appropriate grandeur."

"Have I told you how hot it is when you roll out the royal facts?"

His eyes light up. "No, but it's good to know. I know things that will keep you perpetually wet and quivering."

"How many rooms does it have?"

"Five hundred eighty-seven, not including the staff bedrooms." He leans up and licks the shell of her ear, making the wet and quivering plan come to fruition. His next words almost make her come on the spot. "And I want to fuck you in every one of them by the end of the summer."

"That's ambitious." Regina teases him.

The Queen is waiting on them as soon as they enter. William rushes up to her.

He bows. "Your Majesty."

She stares at him, taking him in—and for a moment, her cold stare cracks. "Welcome home, my boy. You've been gone too long."

"Yes ma'am," he says softly, giving her a weary smile.

She doesn't embrace him as some would expect—it's not her way. But she touches his shoulder, reaches up and pats his cheek, covers his hands with her own and squeezes. For a queen, that's a hug.

She moves Will to the side and steps closer to them, eyes landing on Regina expectantly. Robin bows and brings Regina forward, holding her hand.

"Your Majesty, may I introduce my guest, Regina Mills."

There's not a shred of doubt that she's already been informed of Regina's presence. The Queen's eyes drag over her, from head to toe, the way someone would look at a shaggy, wet stray dog that showed up on their doorstep.

"It's an honor to meet you, Queen Lynette." Regina bows her head, bends her knees, and dips—then pops back up quickly.

And his grandmother glares.

"What was that?"

Regina glances back at Robin, unsure, then returns her attention to the Queen.

"It was a curtsy."

One sharp, gray brow rises. "Was it? I thought perhaps you had gas."

That's the trouble with monarchs—people rarely have the balls to tell them when they're being fucking rude. And even if they do—the monarch doesn't have to give a shit.

"She will not do," his grandmother says, her gaze slithering to Robin.

For Regina's sake, he tries to play off the comment. "Don't worry—I'll show Regina around, introduce her to everyone…she'll do just fine."

"It's been a long flight, Regina. Go upstairs to your room and get settled." Robin said.

Robin's already explained that decorum required Regina to have her own bedroom, but he's not concerned. He has his ways.

"I'd like a private word with you, Prince Robin," his grandmother says.

"Just one? I thought for sure there'd be dozens."

"John," Robin calls, "take Regina to Regal House, please. Put her in the white bedroom."

And it's like the air freezes in place—crystalizing with tension.

"Oh yes," his grandmother says softly. "There will be many more than one."

"Go on now, I'll be along shortly."

She nods, and then, because she is naturally polite, Regina peeks around him and says to the Queen, "Thank you for having me here. You have a lovely home."

After Will goes off to his own quarters, it's Robin and his Grandmother.

In a staring contest.

Surprisingly, she blinks first.

"What are you playing at, Robin?"

"I'm not playing at all, Your Majesty."

Her voice slices the air, bordering on shrill. "You have a duty. We agreed—"

"I'm well aware of my duty and our agreement." His tone is no less sharp, but respectful. "You gave me five months—I have three left."

"You should be spending that time reviewing the list I gave you. Vetting the women who may one day take their place at your side. Becoming familiar with—"

"I will spend the time I have left as I see fit. And I see fit to spend it with Regina."

Even when his parents died, he's never seen his grandmother lose her composure. And she doesn't entirely lose it now—but she's close.

"I will not entertain one of your whores!"

Robin takes two steps closer to her, dropping his voice.

"Be very careful, Grandmother."

"Careful?" she says the word like it's foreign. A foreign, dirty word. "Are you…are you warning me?"

"I won't have her insulted—not by anyone. Even you." Their eyes clash like swords, throwing sparks. "I can make life very difficult for you. I don't want to do that, but understand—I will if you do not treat her with the respect I'm telling you she deserves."

With that, he releases a breath and turn to leave the room.

Behind him, the Queen asks softly, "What in the world has gotten into you, Robin?"

It's a decent question. He's not feeling at all like himself lately. His arms rise at his sides, a helpless shrug. "The beginning of the end has gotten into me."

With a curt bow, he excuses himself and walks away.

Robin finds Regina in the white bedroom, standing in the middle of the room, turning slowly—gazing at the walls and curtains and furniture. He tries to imagine how it looks to her. The drapes are a gauzy opal, light enough to lift on a breeze from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The dresser, vanity and four-poster bed shine in the light of the crystal chandelier with an almost silvery sheen, the wallpaper is soft white with a ribbon of satin overlay and the antique artwork on the walls is framed in bleached wood.

She startles a bit when she catches him watching her. "Jesus, you're like a ninja—give a girl some warning, will you?"

He knew she'd look beautiful in this room, that the color palette would accentuate all her exquisite features. But she's even more stunning than he imagined—stealing his breath. Her wavy hair is an even deeper shimmery black, her eyes a dark, shining at him.

"Do you like it?" He finally manages to asks. "The room?"

Her gaze climbs up and all around. "I love it. It's…magical."

"So, did you get reprimanded?" she asks, only half joking. "Your grandmother sounded just like my mom used to when she was waiting for our friends to leave so she could yell at us."

"I survived."

"What's the deal with the white bedroom? When you said it, her face turned so hard I thought it'd crack."

"It was my mother's. No one's stayed in here since her."

"Oh."

"But don't take that in a creepy Norman Bates, mummy-issues kind of way—it's just…it's the prettiest room in the palace. It suits you."

Regina nibbles at her bottom lip. "But your grandmother's not happy about that, is she? Is that why I'm here, Robin? Am I a big fuck-you to the Queen?"

"No." He wraps one arm around her waist, melding their bodies together. His other hand delves into her hair, holding it with his fingers, tilting her face up to look at him. "No. I want you here because I want you. And I'd still want you here even if my grandmother was thrilled about it."

"She doesn't like me."

"She doesn't like anyone. Most days, she doesn't even like me."

That gets a smile out of her.

"This room is magical in other ways, you know." He turns around to the bookshelf along the wall behind him. He gives the corner a tug, and swings it open to reveal the passageway. "Look."

Regina's eyes go round and excited, like a child on Christmas morning first glimpsing the presents under the tree.

"It's a secret passage!"

She ducks her head inside, flicking the light switch there, illuminating the thirty-foot corridor leading to the closed door on the other end.

"That's so awesome! I didn't know palaces really had these!"

"They do. And this one leads to an even more magical place." Robin winks. "My bedroom."

She laughs and bites her lip. "Did you install it? Your parents?"

"Oh no, it's been here long before us. Most likely so visiting dignitaries or princes could have their wicked way with a mistress without giving the staff something to gossip about."

"There's one more thing I want to show you." He leads her by the hand to the curtained balcony doors. "Besides the obvious benefits of the passage, I wanted you in this room—" He opens the doors and Regina gasps "—because it has the best fucking view ever."

Her mouth goes slack as she stares out over the rear of the property, which resembles the utopian landscape of a fairy wonderland. The stone paths lit every few feet by thousands of hanging lanterns. The fountains, the mazes of greenery, the abundance of flowers of every shape and size—cherry blossoms and roses and tulips so large they hang over like colorful bells. In the distance is the pond, shining in the moonlight like a bath of liquid silver.

"Not too shabby, huh?"

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Robin doesn't take his eyes off Regina's face. "Me too."

She turns towards him, reaches up slowly, and they kiss. The touch of Regina's mouth is soft and supple and tastes like homecoming. Robin leans down to deepen the kiss, until…

"Christ, you two are like piranhas constantly eating each other's faces. Can you detach for a moment?"

His brother walks in and helps himself to a full glass of brandy on the tray by the fireplace.

Robin gives Regina an apologetic smile. "What do you need, Will?"

"My rooms are being renovated, so Grandmother said I'm to stay in one of your guest rooms."

Five hundred eight-seven rooms, and she puts him in Regal House. With them. Subtlety was never the Queen's style.

"And I'm bored," he whines. "Let's give Regina a tour. That'll be something to do, at least. And we can go see Cook—ask her to make the biscuits I like so much. I've missed them."

"Are you too tired for a walkabout?" Robin asks Regina.

"No, not even a little. But I should unpack."

"The maids will take care of that."

She taps the side of her head playfully. "That's right, the maids—how could I forget." She picks up his hand. "Then let's go. Show me your palace."

They start in the kitchen and work their way up. Cook, a large, sweet, boisterous woman who's worked at Regal House since Robin's father was a lad, tackles his brother on sight. She admonishes him for being gone too long—and then gives him a whole tray of his favorite biscuits.

Then Cook greets Regina with another engulfing hug. Her name's not really Cook, but Will and Robin don't know her by anything else. Regina's already met John, but on the way to show her the ballrooms, they also run into Tuck.

"You grew up here, in the palace?" she asks.

"I was sent to boarding school at seven—lived most of the year there. But vacations and summers were spent here."

She shivers. "Weren't you ever afraid that it was haunted?"

"The portraits are on the creepy side. But it's not scary once you get used to it—Will and I used to scooter down this hallway all the time."

"How cute," Regina says quietly. "Just like the kid from The Shining."

"Minus the elevator filled with blood, but yeah, just like that." Robin laughs.

"When you laugh like that, those dimples show up—it makes me want to climb up your body and lick them." Regina whispers to him.

He immediately grows thick and hard at the idea. "Feel free to lick anything you want, anytime."

Later that night they are eating popcorn in Robin's siting room, in their pajamas, in an oasis of pillows and blankets on the floor. Will joins them.

"I can't believe you guys have never seen Beauty and the Beast. This place is just like the castle—Cook could be Mrs. Potts, John could be grumpy Cogsworth," Regina says.

"The thing is, pet, we have cocks." Robin smirks. "Those of us so endowed really weren't interested in Disney cartoons."

"You've seen The Lion King," she argues.

"Well, yeah…there's lions in it. And murder."

"And kings," Will adds. "The title says it all."

When the music soars and the credits start to roll, Regina presses her pretty hands to her chest and sighs. "Never gets old—that will always be my favorite Disney movie."

Will finishes his fifth brandy. "It was all right, but I prefer The Little Mermaid."

Regina raises a black brow. "I thought 'cocks' didn't like princess cartoons?"

"Have you seen Ariel?" Will asks. "My cock likes her a whole bunch, especially the one I met in New York."

Regina wrinkles her nose. "Gross. Although I did read a book once that said most guys like Ariel."

"I should read that book," Will declares.

"Fantastic idea, Will. Why don't you run along and find the book in the library?" Robin slips his finger under the strap of Regina's flimsy little pajama top, rubbing the soft, smooth skin. Robin lowers his voice. "I'm feeling…beastly at the moment."

Unfortunately, Will heard him, and he makes a disgusted face.

"Is that supposed to imply doggie-style?"

Since he already heard him loud and clear…

"Yes."

He throws off the blankets and stumbles for the door. "That position is ruined for me now—and I really liked it. Thanks a lot."

Robin locks the door behind him, and Robin and Regina act out their own interpretation of Beauty and the Beast for the rest of the night.

A few days later, Regina walks into one room and finds Will pouring himself a drink. "Are you okay, Will? I know we have just met, but your brother….he worries for you."

He forces a laugh. "Of course, I'm okay. That's my job—my one job—to be okay all the time."

"No one can be perfect all the time." Regina says.

Will laughs easier this time, and his soft eyes drift over her face.

"I like you, Regina. Truly. You're sweet and…naturally honest. That's rare around here." He guzzles half his glass, then takes a big breath and says, "So because I like you, I'm going to give you some advice."

"Okay."

"Don't get attached to my brother."

Everything inside Regina goes cold, as though her bones turn to hollow icicles. But her palms are sweating.

"He doesn't belong to you. He doesn't even belong to himself."

"I don't follow." Regina says.

"You're not a virgin." Will said.

"Nope." Regina said, confused on this topic.

"He has to marry one, or at least one that is of royalty." Will says.

"I understand that."

"See—" he wags his finger "—you say that, but it doesn't seem like you understand it—not when you're looking at him."

"Yes, he is different with you. Happier. More…free." Will takes her hand in his. "But you must remember—whether you know it or not—that's the man he is."

A few nights later, they arrive at a charity event. Regina is on Robin's arm. Around nine, they pull up to a mansion on a hill. No, not a mansion, an estate—with a historic-looking house about half the size of the palace, but still enormous. Security swarms—secret service–type men in tuxedos wearing little wire earpieces, but Robin still brings his own men, with James now leading the pack.

Robin leads her through a cavernous foyer, down a hall, through the open doors of a ballroom. And into a casino! A fully stocked, even better-than-Vegas, wood-gaming-tables, giant-betting-wheel casino. The room is crowded, with groups of elegantly dressed people, everyone young and beautiful, shouting and laughing and drinking.

"So, what do you think?" Robin whispers against her ear, giving her goose bumps.

"I think…I know how Alice felt when she fell into Wonderland."

He winks. "We're all mad here."

A swirl of red silk flashes in front of her eyes—engulfing Robin in a boisterous hug. She has thick, blonde hair and is as tall as Robin.

"There you are, you bloody sod! I blink and you disappear to the States for two months. How are the hell are you?"

Robin smiles. "Hello, Emma. I'm very well."

"I see that. Aren't you a pretty little thing."

Robin introduces them. "Lady Emma, this is Regina Mills. Regina, meet Emma."

"Hi, Emma."

She shakes her hand in a friendly grip. "Lovely to meet you, sweets. Tell me, are you a virgin?"

Robin groans. "Emma."

"What? I'm just making conversation." She elbows him. "If you want a shot at this sorry sack, the V-card has to be in pristine condition. Is it, Regina?"

"Does anal count? If it does, I qualify."

Emma's lips open wide in a contagious laugh.

"I like this one, Robin."

Robin laughs too, and something like pride glows in his blue eyes.

"So do I."

He grabs two glasses of wine off a waiter's tray and hands her one.

But then another woman approaches them—another blond in a royal-blue gown, with soft, pretty features and ice-blue eyes. A sedate, uncomfortable silence falls over Robin and Emma.

"Hello, Robin." Her voice is delicate—like a wind chime.

Robin nods. "Marian."

Her eyes fix on Regina. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your new toy?"

His jaw tightens. "No, I'm not."

She gives a tiny shrug. "No matter." She holds out her hand. "I am Lady Daring, and you are?"

"Regina Mills."

"I heard about you. The coffee waitress." Her mouth purses and her gaze flicks to Robin. "You always did enjoy slumming it, didn't you, darling?"

It's the "darling" that gets to her—that pokes at the flesh of her heart like a thorn.

"That's enough, Marian," Robin says sternly, in that deep, authoritarian voice.

It has no effect on her, at all.

"No, I don't think it is enough," she hisses like a cornered cat. "Not even close."

Her eyes slide back to Regina and she leans in.

"He'll crush you, you know. It's what he does. Breaks you, then crushes you into dust with the heel of his shiny shoe."

It's the way she says it that's most disturbing. Gently. And smiling.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Marian get over it," Emma barks, waving her hand. "Be gone before somebody drops a house on you."

She raises her glass to her. "Remember that I told you so."

And then she drifts away, like smoke after a blaze.

"So…ex-girlfriend?" Regina asks, clearly unable to resist.

"More like ex-psycho stalker," Emma answers for him. Then she takes her hand. "Forget about her. Let's go lose some money."

But and hour later, Regina isn't losing money. No, she's actually winning.

Robin's big, warm hands squeeze her shoulders, and he speaks close to her ear. "I have to head to the little lads' room."

"Okay."

Their eyes meet, and she knows him well enough to recognize the look burning in his. He wants to kiss her—badly. He stares at her mouth like a starving man.

But then he pulls back, looks around the room, remembers where they are.

"Emma—mind Regina for me a bit?"

"Yeah, sure." She nods and Robin walks away.

But fifteen minutes later, he still hasn't come back. And Emma spots a group of friends she hasn't spoken to "in ages." With a pat to her arm, she says she'll "be back in a jiffy" and she heads off to them.

Ten minutes later, Regina starts walking around. One room is dark, black, except for colored strobe lights, a glowing dance floor, and the pounding club music coming from the DJ's speakers. She spot Will's head in the middle of the floor, surrounded by gyrating women, and she almost heads over to him to ask if he's seen his brother.

But then—she can't explain why—a door on the far side catches her attention. It leads outside, onto a balustraded balcony. By the time she reaches it, her palms are sweating and clammy. Her heels click on the tiled stone outside—she only goes a few steps—and that's when she sees them, at the far corner of the balcony in the soft halo of a teardrop-shaped lamp.

Robin and Marian.

Her back is to Regina, her dark hair cascading, her head tipped up to him and her forearms resting on those broad shoulders Regina loves to touch. She can't tell if he's pushing her away or pulling her closer—and the sour sensation in her stomach seeps into her bones.

Anger mixes with embarrassment—and flight kicks fight's ass.

When she pulls the door back open she thinks she can hear her name, but the sound is drowned out by the pumping bass that rattles the walls. She walks quickly, through the dance room, back into the main gambling room.

She makes it through the doorway—and then her arm is grabbed, encircled by an iron grip, like a shackle.

"Just where do you think you're going?" Emma asks.

"Let me guess—you walked outside and saw Marian and Robin, not quite kissing but not not-kissing either?"

"How do you know that?"

She snorts—and manages to make it sound adorable.

"Because Marian is the most unoriginal bitch I've ever known." She taps her nose. "But you aren't going to run off—absolutely not. You can't give her the satisfaction."

She plucks two fresh glasses of Champagne off a passing tray, hands one to her, and clinks their glasses together.

"Drink up and smile—you're being watched."

"Watched by who?"

"Everyone, of course. You're new and shiny and…poor. And you have your hands on what every woman here, wants—the royal family jewels." Her head tilts. "Are you really a waitress?"

"Uh…yes."

"That idiot. I can't believe he brought you here."

She shakes her head, pitying.

"The world is full of cunts, dearie—some are just smellier than others. Remember that, and they'll never be able to hurt you. Except my husband."

"Who are you talking about so highly now of, wife?" Killian asks as he suddenly appears.

Emma grins at him. "Say the devil's name and he doth appear."

Killian makes devil horns on his red head with his fingers. Then he smiles at Regina, eyes dancing. "Regina, it's a pleasure to see you again."

"Hello, Killian, it's good to see you too."

"How are you, my dear?"

"What a question to ask, Killian!" Emma swats him. "Look at the poor girl. She's overwrought. Marian has been playing her nasty head games again."

Killian scrunches his nose. "You should ignore Marian, Regina—she's a bit of a vile bitch."

"She's a cunt," Emma reiterates. "My love is just too kind to say so." She pats her arm. "But I'm not."

"I think I just need some air."

"He's found you."

Regina turns to look. "Robin?"

"Yes, he's coming this way." She claps her hands together. "Now, when he arrives, you should smile gracefully and pretend like nothing in the world is wrong."

"Why would I do that?" Regina asks.

"He won't know what to make of it. It'll drive him insane. A woman's weapons of mass destruction are indifference and confusion."

Regina feels like she should be writing this down.

"He's coming. Get ready." She smacks her lower back. "Chin up, tits out."

With a mind of their own, her chin lifts and her shoulders pull back, pushing her chest forward. And believe it or not, it actually makes her feel stronger. More capable.

"Regina."

Right up until he says her name. She closes her eyes against the sound. The way he says it—there will never be a day that she doesn't love the sound of her name on his lips.

Robin grabs her hand and pulls her toward the steps that lead off the veranda to the gardens. "Come on."

He guides her down a winding dim path, to a white trestle gazebo. Garden lights ring the outside, casting a soft glow, but under the roof it's dark and feels private

"Ah…from the moment Killian met her, he was enamored, but she gave him the brush-off over and over again. The night he told her he was in love with her, she said she could never be with him—and when I came home, I found her in my bed. Naked."

"Did you sleep with her?"

"Of course not," he says, low and growly. "I would never do that to Killian. I told him about it, but he didn't care. He said they were 'working through their issues.' Shortly after, they were an item—and they got married a few months ago. I've given up trying to figure it out."

"Jesus. She doesn't seem like someone…who would do that. She was nice to me."

"I'm glad she was nice to you, but things here aren't always what they seem. I should've told you that, before." He pushes a hand through his hair. "I should've told you a lot of things, Regina. But I'm not used to…saying things…out loud."

"I don't understand what that means."

He sits down beside her, his voice hushed. "I want to tell you about Marian. I want to explain."

She wants to be the bigger woman—the kind who says he doesn't owe her an explanation. They're just temporary. But her heart…her heart pounds loudly that he does.

"Why were you with her? Why did you leave me alone? Did you kiss her, Robin—it looked like you could've been kissing her."

His hand splays across her jaw. "I'm sorry you were on your own—I didn't mean for that to happen. No, I wasn't kissing her. I swear to you—on my parents—nothing like that happened."

"Then what did happen?"

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking at the ground.

"I met Marian at school, when we were both in year ten. She was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. Fragile in a way that made me want to keep her safe. We started dating…The media went into a frenzy and I was worried it would scare her away. But it didn't bother her, and I remember thinking she was stronger than I thought."

He takes a breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

"She became pregnant when we were seventeen. I was stupid—careless."

"Oh my God."

He nods, looking at her. "Pregnancy at that age is difficult for anyone, but add in—"

"The whole future-leader-of-a-country thing…" she finishes for him.

"And it was a horror show. Her family wanted to start planning the wedding immediately, wanted the Palace to announce our engagement. My grandmother demanded tests and retests to confirm that she was really pregnant and that it was really mine."

And again, she's struck by the strangeness of Robin's life—the archaic rules that box him in.

"What did you want?" Regina asks—because she has a strong feeling no one else did.

"I wanted…to do the right thing. I loved her." He rubs his face. "In the end, it didn't matter. Just a few weeks after she found out, she lost the baby, a miscarriage. She was heartbroken."

"And you?"

He doesn't answer right away. Then softly, he says, "I was…relieved. I didn't want that responsibility. Not yet."

"That's understandable."

He swallows and nods. "When the year ended, my grandmother sent me to Japan for the summer—a humanitarian mission. Marian and I talked at first, texted…but I was so busy. When I came back to school in the fall, things were different. I was different. I cared for her, but my feelings had changed. I broke it off, as gently as I could, but she still took it…badly."

"How badly?"

"She tried to kill herself a week later. Her family sent her away to a hospital. A good place, but she never came back to school. And I've always felt…guilty about it all. Responsible. It stayed out of the papers—I don't know who the Palace had to pay off or kill to keep it that way, but there wasn't a single line written about it."

"Is that why you're so careful? About the condoms?"

"Yes."

With a tug, he gathers her in his lap, hugging her close. And she knows this wasn't easy for him.

"Thank you for telling me. For explaining."

"Should we go back to the party?"

He thinks about it. And gives her a little squeeze. "I have a better idea."

They ended up at a private club. Regina did tequila shots with Emma. Will sang karaoke. Will and Robin insulted one another about their dart-throwing skills.

By the end of the night, in the early morning hours, Robin and Regina stumbled into his room, fell onto his bed—and Robin watches her, watch him. He leans forward and covers her core with his mouth.

"Yes, yes…" she hisses.

He sucks and licks and devours her like a man gone mad—and maybe he has.

She's so slick and smooth and hot on his lips, against his tongue. He could stay here—do this to her—forever.

But—forever is much too long for his suffering cock.

Breathing hard, heart pounding out of his chest, he moves and pushes Regina's knees up, bracing her feet on the edge of the bed near her hands, opening her up to him. So fucking pretty.

He takes his long, hot erection in hand and runs the head through her wetness, teasing her clit with the tip, rubbing it over the pink bud.

And there's no worry, not a single thought of consequences or responsibility. Because this is Regina—and that makes all the difference.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

He drags his cock down to her tight opening, gliding it around, feeling the call to thrust hard and deep.

"Yes, yes I'm sure."

Regina nods and he dips inside her.

She closes tight around her, gripping and snug, making him moan loudly.

"Oh, Christ…"

The bareness—flesh-to-flesh—is amazing. More. The slick slide of tight heat that brings so much pleasure with it. He watches as he pushes all the way into her, feeling every gorgeous inch.

It's the most erotic sight he's ever seen. Regina moans—they both do. He looks down at her, sees her watching him, enjoying this to the fullest, him to the fullest.

"Oh, god, this is so good." Regina moans.

Robin agrees to the fullest and moments later, he can feel her start to come, and moments later he pumps against her hips hard as he comes deep inside her.

The next week, there's a polo match Will and Robin are expected to play in. Polo is a challenging game—a busy game—strangely relaxing since you don't have time to think about anything else. Though it's sometimes called the game of kings, way back in the day it was used to train cavalry, because in order to play well, controlling the horse has to be automatic, second nature.

Another reason Robin's feeling pleasant about attending is Regina's reaction to his uniform. Robin enters her room through the bookcase and her eyes slide all over him—the black and white shirt hugging his biceps, the impressive bulge prominently displayed in his snug pants.

Without a word, Regina turns, calf-length, summer-pink skirt flaring out. And she locks the door. It snaps into place with a resounding click and Robin knows without a doubt he's about to get lucky.

She saunters up to him and lowers to her knees, laughing as she pulls his shirt from the pants and yanks at the belt buckle. The riding boots present a problem, so she just leaves them on, working him over with those skillful, glorious lips and tongue, making him come so hard in her mouth he sees stars. Possibly the light of God.

Yes, lucky indeed.

Spectators and press are all over the fields and stands—not only is Robin playing, but the Queen is here to watch. The silky skin peeking out from Regina's white crop top makes it hard, but he forces himself to maintain a platonic distance from her as they walk towards where she'll be sitting with Emma. Killian's playing too. En route to the stands, Regina laughs, flashing her phone his way to show a text from Tink—a reply to a photo of one of the horses she sent. "Like looking in a mirror," it says with a red circle drawn around the horse's cock.

Once she's settled, Robin snaps on her helmet. And then he slips his father's teak bracelet off his wrist, handing it her. "Keep this safe for me, will you?"

She's surprised at first, then her cheeks pinken beautifully. "I'll guard it with my life." And she slips it on her own wrist.

"Have a good game," Regina says. Then, quieter, "I really want to kiss you right now, for luck. But I know I can't, so I'll just tell you instead."

Robin winks. "I got my good-luck kiss in your room. If it had been any better, I would've gone blind."

He walks away towards the stables with the sound of her laughter ringing behind him.

Though black clouds gather, and the air is heavy with the threat of rain, they're able to make it through two games. Robin's team wins both, which puts him in a good mood. Sweaty and smudged with dirt, Robin leads his horse to the stables. He brushes her down himself, in her stall, cooing about what a pretty girl she is—because human or beast, every female enjoys a compliment.

Once that's done, Robin steps out of the stall onto the main walk and come face-to-face with his cousin Keith. Inside, Robin groans. He is a sleazy, disgusting prick. His parents, on the other hand—his family—are good people. And powerful allies to the Crown.

Just goes to show that even a bushel of good apples can produce a bad seed.

They're completely unaware of Keith's dickishness, which forces the rest of them, to put up with him from time to time and not punch his face in.

He bows, then asks, "How are you, Robin?"

"I'm well, Keith. Good match."

He snorts. "Our number four was a useless fucker. I'm going to make sure he never plays at our club again."

Robin shakes his head and turns to leave

"I wanted to ask you about the souvenir you brought home from the States."

"Souvenir?" Robin asks.

"The girl. She's exquisite."

Robin learned a very long time ago that the world is full of fuckers who want what Robin has, just because it's his. And that the most effective way to keep their dirty hands off of it is to pretend that he doesn't care, that he doesn't really want it that badly—that maybe it doesn't even belong to him at all.

It's twisted, he knows, but it's the way of the world. This world.

"She is." Robin smirks. "But that shouldn't surprise you. I've always had exquisite taste."

"But I am surprised. You don't typically bring your slags home to meet Grandmother."

Robin eyes the polo mallet in the corner—and picture crushing his balls with it.

"Don't think too deeply about it, Keith; you'll hurt yourself. I've just discovered the convenience of having a ready to go lay in home. And she's American—they gush all over themselves about the royal thing." Robin shrugs, and his stomach clenches tight and sick. If he doesn't get away from him soon, he's going to vomit.

Keith laughs. "I want to try an American. Let me have a go at her. You don't mind, do you?"

Or fucking kill him.

His fists clench hard at his sides and he swings around. What comes out of his mouth isn't at all what he's thinking.

"Course I don't, but not until after I'm finished. Do you understand, Keith? If I catch you within sniffing distance of her before then, I'll nail you to the wall by your cock."

"Christ, you don't have to get medieval about it." He holds up his hands. "I know you don't like to share. Let me know when you're sick of the whore. I'll keep hands-off until then."

"Give my regards to your parents."

"I always do, Robin," he calls after him.

And just a moment later, the clouds open, the thunder wails, and the rain pours down like every angel in heaven is crying.

"What do you mean, you don't know where she is?"

Robin's in the morning room of Regal House and a young security guard stands before him, his eyes downcast.

"She went to the loo, sir. She seemed to be taking a long time, so I went in to check on her…and she was gone."

Robin had interviews after the polo match. Regina was supposed to be driven back here, to meet him. But she never arrived.

While he was wasting time answering stupid fucking questions, talking to people he abhors, Regina was…getting lost? Getting taken? A thousand gut-wrenching thoughts barrel through his head, making it pound.

His hand tears through his hair. "Get out."

John is on it. He'll find her—that's what he does; he's good at it. But he paces the room, because he wants to be the one out there looking for her.

"It'll be all right, Robin," Killian tries, sitting on the couch beside Emma. "She'll turn up. She probably just lost her way."

Thunder roars outside, rattling the window, mockingly.

And then the phone rings. Killian answers and turns to him. "Regina's just walked up to the South Gate. They're bringing her around now."

And it's like his whole body deflates with relief.

Until he sees her—dripping wet, with big, wounded eyes. He crosses the room and pulls her against him. "Are you hurt? Christ, what happened?"

"I needed to think," Regina says flatly. "I think better when I walk around."

His hands tighten on her arms as he leans back, wanting to shake her. "You can't walk around the city without security, Regina."

She just looks at him with that same blank expression. "No, I can. You can't, but I can."

"I've been going out of my mind!"

Her voice is colorless. Drained. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why? I'm just in-house lay that you're not tired of yet."

Horror slams into him like a sledgehammer, punching the air from his lungs, choking off his response.

"Just a whore your friend is welcome to have at, but not until you're finished because you don't share."

"Regina, I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean for me to hear? Yeah, I got that." She shakes out of his arms and backs away, her eyes hard and distrustful. "How could you say those things?"

"I didn't mean them."

"I don't care if you meant them, you said them! Is that how you talk about me with your friends, Robin?" She points at Killian.

And Robin doesn't give a fuck that they have an audience.

He approaches her and hisses, "Keith is not my friend."

"He sounded like your friend."

"He's not! It's just…it's just the way things are here."

Regina shakes her head and her voice becomes clogged, strained with the effort of holding back tears. "If that's how it is, then I'm going home. I thought I could do this, but…I don't want to anymore."

When she turns, Robin yells, "Stop!"

She doesn't bother to turn around. "Fuck off!"

He grabs her arm. And then she does swing around. Slapping him so hard his head snaps to the side and his cheek throbs.

"Don't fucking touch me!" Regina faces him, her feet shoulder-width apart, hands curved into claws, eyes darting—like a beautiful, wild, cornered animal—that's been wounded.

"Let me explain."

"I'm leaving!" she screeches.

"Clue in, love—the car's mine, the house is mine, the whole fucking country is mine! You're not going anywhere because I'll tell them not to take you anywhere."

She lifts her chin, shoulders back. "Then I'll walk to the airport."

"It's too far—you can't walk."

"Watch me!"

Emma's voice, musical and calm, like a preschool teacher's, comes between them.

"Children, children…that's enough of that."

She takes both of Regina's hands in hers, turning her back to him. "Regina, Robin is right—it's dreadful outside; you can't walk anywhere. And you look terrible—you can't go out like this!"

She turns to John. "John, have a bath drawn and bring a bottle of Courvoisier to Regina's room."

Emma pushes Regina's hair back, the way you would for a sad little child. "A nice hot bath, a good drink, and if you still want to leave in the morning, I'll drive you myself." Her dark eyes glare at Robin pointedly. "I have my own car."

Regina shudders when she inhales, like she's on the verge of tears—and the sound is tearing at Robin.

"Go on now," Emma tells her. "I'll be up in a moment."

When Regina leaves the room, Robin moves to follow, but Emma steps into his path.

"Oh no, you stay here."

"Killian," Robin says with a scowl, "collect your wife before I say something I'll regret."

But Emma just tilts her head, appraising him. "I used to think you were a selfish bastard, but I'm starting to believe you're just a fool. A double-damned idiot. I'm not sure which is worse."

"Then I guess it's good that I don't give a turtle's arse-crack about your opinion of me."

"I think you like her clueless—it makes her dependent on you. And it keeps her innocent. Untainted by this cesspool the rest of us swim around in every day. But you've left her vulnerable. She doesn't understand the rules. She doesn't even know the name of the game."

"So, you'll what?" Robin growls. "Teach her to play?"

Emma's eyes blaze.

"Oh no, silly boy—I'll teach her to win."

Regina's tucked into the snow-white couch, engulfed in an oversized cashmere robe, her hair down and wet—curling around her as it dries. Emma's filling her in on all these elites.

"Meth-head Bitch." Emma paces behind the couch like a drill instructor. "She tried cooking up her own batch and almost burned her family's castle to the ground."

"Bulimic Bitch. Everyone thinks she's cured, but there's not a meal that passes through those lips that doesn't come back up. Rotted her teeth out. Those dentures are as fake as her tits."

Regina tosses the phone on the cushion beside her and drops her head to the arm of the couch. "Why are we doing this, again?"

"Because this is how it's done. They hate you—even the ones you haven't met yet. If there's a chance you're going to stay, you need ammunition."

"But it's not like I'm going to walk up to Illegitimate Bitch and tell her I know who her father is, Darth Vader style."

"And that's why Robin adores you. Because you're not like any other woman he's known." She pats her knee. "You're nice.

"But," she goes on, "using this information isn't the point. It's enough that they know you know—their bitchy-senses will tell them the moment they see you. It'll be in how you carry yourself, how you look them in the eyes. Perception is reality. If you can control perception, you control the world. That's how things are here. That's what Robin was trying to do today."

There's a knock at the door. With a pat to her knee, Emma rises and opens it. And Killian gazes at her, not like she's the prettiest girl in the world—but like she's the center of his universe.

"Time to go, darling." He grins.

Emma waves. "Goodnight, Regina."

"Thank you, Emma, for everything."

Regina gets into bed, the room is dark and still. Quiet enough to hear the scrape of the wall as it opens, and the footsteps that move steadily across the room. Robin appears beside her bed, kneeling like the stained-glass saints in the windows of his cathedral—gazing at her through the darkness with ravaged eyes.

"Forgive me."

It's hard not to feel bad for him, when his remorse is so raw and real.

"The night we met," Regina tells him softly, "I heard your voice before I saw you, did you know that? It's beautiful. Strong and deep and calming." She swallows, tasting tears. "But now I keep hearing you say those awful things, in your lovely voice."

"Forgive me," he whispers, harsh and sad. "I was trying to protect you, I swear. Keep you…safe."

Regina does forgive him. It's just that easy. Because she understands now.

And because she loves him.

Her eyes have adjusted to the darkness and she sees him clearly. The dim moonlight from the window highlights the angles of his face, the incline of his cheekbones, the arch of his stubborn chin, the sharp strength of his jaw, the swell of those full lips.

It's the face of an angel. A fallen angel with secrets in his eyes.

"I don't like it here, Robin."

His brows pinch, like he's in pain. "I know. I never should have brought you here. It's the most selfish thing I've ever done. But…I can't be sorry for it. Because you have come to mean everything to me."

She lifts the sheet, beckoning him, and he slides beneath it, their arms searching for each other in the darkness. Robin's mouth covers hers, gentle but with an urgent press of desperation. She gives him her tongue and he moans. The sound turns her limbs liquid and the sadness that lingered between them turns to need.

They need this.

With her heels, she pushes his pants off his hips, then she slides down his body, leaving kisses in his wake. His cock is already hard and beautiful. Regina didn't think a penis could be…beautiful…but Robin's is. It's perfectly shaped, thick and hot in her hand, so smooth and glistening at the tip.

She takes him fully in her mouth—beyond the ability to tease. And he sighs her name as she suckles him, his tongue tracing the silken skin and tight grooves.

With a gasp, Robin lifts her back up. Devouring her lips, he rolls them over, lifts her nightgown and slides inside her. And there's still that stretch…that delicious feeling of being so perfectly full. He stops when he's fully buried—when they're as close and tied as two people could ever be.

His eyes shine in the darkness, and he strokes her cheek, just gazing down at her.

And she knows she loves him. It's right there—on her lips—just waiting for breath to say the words out loud. He kisses her, and she gives them over to him, but silently.

Because it's all already so very complicated. And it feels like, once she says those words she'll cross a threshold she won't ever be able to turn back from. Walk away from.

Robin moves above her, inside her, deep and slow. Wringing out the pleasure from them both. Her eyes close and she holds him, his arms around him, feeling the taut muscles in his back tighten with every thrust as her hands clutch his shoulder blades.

And she's lost. Gone. Coasting in a stratosphere of searing bliss. It expands inside her, building, soaring…until she comes with an opened-mouth cry. Pressing her lips against his neck, tasting him, breathing in the scent of his skin with every writhing gasp.

His thrusts quicken, becoming rougher as the intensity crests for him too. Until he pushes in deep one last time, and comes on a quiet gasp. She feels him inside her—hot and pulsing. And she clenches around him so tight, wanting to keep him inside her forever.

Later, with her cheek on his warm chest and his strong arms heavy around her, Regina asks him, "What are we going to do?"

Robin kisses her forehead, holding on tighter.

"I don't know."

Four days. That's all they have left. The time has flown by as quickly as turning the pages in a book. They've been glorious days—filled with laughter and kisses, moans and gasps, more pleasure in every way than he ever let himself dream about.

For the last month, Regina and Robin have truly enjoyed their time together. They've gone biking around the city—with security nearby, of course. The people wave and call—not just to him, but to her as well. "A lovely lass," they say. There were picnics near the pond and trips to his other properties, Regina's sweet voice echoing with joy down the aged halls. He taught her to ride a horse. A few times she's gone clay-pigeon shooting with Will and him—covering her ears at every pull of the trigger in the adorable way she has of doing things.

There hasn't been much reason for Regina and the Queen to come into contact, but when they have, the Queen has treated her civilly, if not frigidly. But one Sunday for tea, Regina baked scones. It was the first time she'd baked since leaving New York and she actually enjoyed it. She made her own delicious recipe of almond and cranberry. His grandmother declined to try even one bite.

And he hated her a little bit then.

But that one, dark moment is extinguished by a thousand brilliant ones. A thousand perfect memories of their time together.

And now their time is just about up.

The seed of an idea has been planted in his mind for a while—months—but he hasn't let it sprout. Until now.

"Don't go back to New York. Stay."

Her reply comes a heartbeat later. In a whisper.

"For how long?"

"For always."

Slowly she turns in his arms, her navy eyes seeking, her lips just starting to smile.

"Have you talked to your grandmother? Are you…are you not going through with the announcement?"

He swallows hard, his throat rough. That dreaded announcement, announcing his engagement to another woman.

"No. Canceling the announcement isn't possible. But I've been thinking…I could push the wedding off for a year. Maybe two. We would have all that time together."

She flinches. And her smile falls into oblivion.

"I could have Tuck look into the women on the list. Perhaps one of them has what we have. I could…come to an understanding with her. An arrangement."

"A marriage of convenience," she says in a detached tone.

"Yes." He cups her cheek, bringing her eyes to his. "It's been done for centuries—because it works."

Regina's gaze touches the ceiling and her hand scrapes into her hair, tugging. "Jesus fucking Christ, Robin."

"Just think about it. You're not even considering it."

"Do you have any idea what you're asking me?"

"I'm asking you to stay. Here. With me."

And hers bursts into flames. "Yes, stay and watch you announce to the world that you're marrying someone else! Stay and watch while you go to parties and luncheons and pose for pictures with someone else. Stay and watch you…give her your mother's ring."

Regina shoves him, rises, and scrambles off the bed.

"You are such an asshole!"

She heads for the bookcase, but he bolts off the bed, chasing her. He wraps an arm around her waist, locking her in place, his chest against her back—his hand in her hair, his scraping voice at her ear.

"Yes, I'm a fucking arsehole and a bastard, too. But I can't…bear it. The thought of you being an ocean away. The thought of never seeing you, never touching you again."

"I love you, Regina. I love you. And I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to let you go."

She shudders in his arms. And then she's sobbing into her hands. Great, heaving, heartbroken bursts that wreck him.

He should've left her alone. He should've walked away the moment he started to feel…everything. He had no business trying to keep her. It will forever be the cruelest thing he's ever done.

Broken eyes look up at him.

"I love you too."

"I know." Robin strokes her face. "I know you do."

"But I can't…" Her voice quakes. "If I stay here, if I have to watch you…it'll be like being burned alive, one piece at a time, until there'll be nothing left of me…of us."

"It was unfair of me to ask you, Regina." He pushes at her tears, wiping them away. "Please don't cry anymore. Please…forget. Forget I said anything. Let's just—"

"Enjoy the time we have left," she finishes softly.

"That's right."

Regina finds the Queen, and informs her that…

"I love your grandson."

And then, the Queen's expression goes softer—the lines around her mouth and eyes smooth out, making her look gentler. Like the grandma she's supposed to be.

"Yes, I believe you do. He loves you too, you know. When he looks at you…His father used to look at his mother the same way—like she was the Eighth Wonder of the World. These last months, Robin has reminded me so much of his father, at times it's been almost as if my son were standing right there."

She gestures to the sofa near the fireplace. "Sit."

"I had a second child, a daughter. Did Robin ever tell you that?"

"No."

"She was a sickly, beautiful creature. Born with a heart condition. We brought in all the specialists, doctors from all over the world. Edmund was out of his mind with grief. And I would have given up my crown to save her…but there was nothing to be done. They told me she wouldn't last a month. She survived for six."

"That is when I learned that hope is cruel. A pitiless gift. Honesty, finality, may seem brutal—but in the end, it's mercy." And then her voice turns to steel. "There is no hope for a future between you and my grandson. None. You need to accept that."

"I can't"

"You must. The law is clear."

"But you could change the law. You could do that for us—for him."

"No, I cannot."

"You're the Queen!"

"Yes, that's right, and your country has a president. And what would happen if your president announced tomorrow that elections would be held every eight years instead of every four? What would your government do? What would your people do?"

"Change takes time and requires will, Regina—there is no will in Sweden for this kind of change. And even if there were, now is not the time. Even monarchs are bound by the law. I am not God."

"No," Regina bites out, on the verge of totally losing it. "You're a monster. How can you do this to him? How can you know how he feels about me and make him do this?"

She turns to the window, looking out. "A mother burying her child is the only thing that could make one truly long for death—if only for the sliver of hope that she might glimpse her child again. My son got me through it the first time. Because I knew he needed me. So, if you wish to think of me as a monster, that is your right. Perhaps I am. But believe me when I tell you, there is nothing—nothing—I would not do for those boys."

"Except let them live their lives. Let them marry who they want."

She scoffs at Regina, shaking her head. "If I am a monster, then you are a naïve, selfish girl."

"Because I love Robin? Because I want to be with him and make him happy—that makes me selfish?"

She lifts her chin like a professor in a lecture hall. "You are common—and I don't say that as a criticism. Commoners look at the world through the lens of a single lifetime. In a hundred years, no one will remember your name. You are as indistinguishable as grains of sand on the beach."

"Monarchs see the world through the prism of legacy. Ask Robin; he'll tell you the same. What will we leave behind? How will we be remembered? Because whether we are reviled or revered—we will be remembered. Robin is a leader. Men are dedicated to him, they follow him naturally, you must see it."

"When he is King he will better the lives of tens of millions of people. He will lead our country into a new age. He could literally change the world, Regina. And you would deprive them of him—for what? A few decades of your own happiness? Yes, child—in my book, that makes you selfish."

"So that's it?" Regina asks, crushed. "There's no way…at all?"

She's not angry when she says it, or mean. Just…final.

"No, there isn't."

"Then I guess there's nothing left to say. Thank you for speaking with me."

Regina rises and turns to leave, but when her hand is on the door she calls her name.

"Yes?" Regina turns back.

"I have watched you these last months. I've seen how you are with the staff and the people, with Will and Robin. I've seen you." From this angle, in this light, the Queen's eyes seem shiny. Almost glistening. "I was wrong the day we met when I said you wouldn't do. If things were different, you, my dear, would do…beautifully."

Regina dips her head, and bends her knees and slowly lowers into a full, perfect curtsy. She's been practicing. And for all she is—a queen, a mother, a grandmother—she deserves that honor and respect.

Robin is standing at the bottom of the stairs for Regina. They are going to a ball tonight. He turns when he hears the swish of fabric at the top of the stairs, and gets knocked on his arse.

Her gown is pale blue, satin and chiffon—low cut, with a taste of cleavage, framed by dips and swells that bare her shoulders but encircle her arms. It's an old-fashioned style without being costumery. There's a slash of rhinestone embellishment across the bodice, and the satin hugs her tiny waist, draping down to a skirt that's hooped but not overly large. On one side, the satin pulls up, held with the same gemstone decoration, revealing pale blue chiffon beneath, dotted with jewels. Regina's hair is pinned up in ornate shiny black curls, with diamond combs winking out between them.

John stands beside him, and the old dog practically sighs.

"The lass looks like an angel."

"No," Robin says as Regina reaches the bottom step. "She looks like a queen."

She stands in front of him and for a moment they just stare at each other.

"I've never seen you in your military uniform," she says, eyes drifting over him hungrily from head to toe, before settling on his eyes. "It should be illegal."

"I'm the one who's supposed to be giving the compliments." Robin swallows hard, wanting her so much. In every way. "You look breathtaking, love. I can't decide if I want you to stay in that dress forever or if I want to rip it off you right now."

She laughs.

Simple, elegant diamonds dangle from her tasty little earlobes, but her throat is bare—just like he asked the stylist to keep it. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, square box.

"I have something for you."

She blushes, before she even sees what's inside. And then, when he lifts the lid, she gasps.

It's a snowflake, in an intricate, spin-wheel pattern, laden with a hundred small diamonds and sapphires. The diamonds are clear and flawless, like Regina's skin, and the sapphires are brilliant and deep.

Her mouth goes slack. "It's…gorgeous." She fingers the velvet bed, but doesn't touch the necklace—almost as if she's afraid to. "I can't keep this, Robin."

"Of course, you can." The words come out firm, almost harsh. "I designed it myself, had it made." He slips it from the box and steps behind her, tying the silk choker ribbon around her throat. "There's only one in the whole world—just like you."

Robin presses a kiss to the back of her neck, then her shoulder.

Regina turns to face him, takes her hand, and lowers her voice. "Robin, I've been thinking—"

"Let's go, Horny One and Two. We're late," Will, also decked out in full uniform, says as he walks into the room, tapping his wrist. "You'll have time to drool all over each other later."

Robin leans down and kiss Regina's cheek. "You can finish that sentence tonight."

They assemble in an antechamber off the ballroom, while the sounds of the party, the chatter and music and the clinking of glasses, seep like smoke under the door.

Belle claps her hands, giggling and vibrating like the head of a social committee in school. "One more time, just in case—the Queen will be announced first, followed by Prince Robin, then Prince Will, who will escort Miss Mills into the room." She turns to his brother. "Everyone will be standing, so you will walk Miss Mills to the marked spot near the wall, then return to your brother's side for the receiving line. Everyone's got it, yes?"

Trumpets blare from beyond the doors, and Belle nearly bursts out of her skin.

"Oh, that's the signal. Places, my lords and ladies, places!" She pauses next to Regina, squeezing her arm and squeaking, "It's just so exciting!"

After she steps away, Regina laughs. "I really like her."

Then she lines up beside his brother. They talked about it—about Will escorting her in, the expectations, the traditions…but standing here now, it all just seems so meaningless.

Stupid.

Robin turns around and taps his brother on the shoulder. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Trade with me."

"Trade what?" Will asks.

Robin motions with his finger. "Our spots."

He leans over, looking at their grandmother's back. "You're supposed to follow Granny out. Be second in the receiving line."

"She won't look behind her. She won't know until you're beside her—and then, she'll roll with it. You can handle greeting the guests second—I have faith in you."

"That goes against protocol," Will taunts, because he already knows he's going to say yes.

"Fuck it."

He chuckles and looks at him, with pride in his eyes. "You've turned my brother into a rebel, Regina." He taps her hand. "Well done."

Then he switches spots with Will.

Regina's arm curls around Robin's, and her thigh brushes his leg through the fabric of her dress.

"That's better." Robin sighs. Because having her on his arm feels like it always has—like it's meant to be.

The ball is in full swing. Everyone's enjoying themselves—the music is less stuffy than in past years, the orchestra mixing renditions of popular music with classical. People are dancing, eating, laughing—and Robin stands across the room, by himself for a rare moment, watching.

Watching her.

It's the strangest sensation—the swell of joy in his chest that looking at Regina always brings. The surging pride he feels as she moves with so much confidence, chatting with the wives of ambassadors, leaders, and assorted royalty like she's been doing it her whole life—like she was born to do it. And then the inevitable stab of agony lands—when he remembers that she's leaving. That in just another few days, she'll be gone, lost to him, forever.

"Are you all right, Robin?" Will asks, with quiet concern. He didn't see him approach and he doesn't know how long he's been beside him.

"No, Will," Robin answers in a voice that doesn't sound at all like his. "I don't think I am."

He nods, then squeezes Robin's arm and pats his back—trying to prop him up, lend him strength. It's all he can do, because, like Robin told him months ago…they are who they are.

Robin pushes off from the wall and walks over to the orchestra leader. They speak for a few seconds, heads bent together. When he eagerly agrees, Robin heads toward Regina. He reaches her just as the opening notes of the song float across the room.

And he holds out his hand. "May I have this dance, Miss Mills?"

Understanding dawns on her face…and then adoration. It's the prom song she mentioned, that she loves but never got to dance to—"Everything I Do."

Her head tilts. "You remembered."

"I remember it all."

Regina takes his hand and Robin leads her out to the dance floor. They've captivated the attention of the entire room. Even the couples already dancing pause and turn their way to the handsome couple.

As he takes her in his arms and leads her, Regina whispers nervously, "Everyone's looking at us."

"Good."

In the early morning hours, before dawn, Robin moves inside Regina—on top of her—with only breath between them, white-hot pleasure coursing and spiking through them both with every long, slow stroke of his hips. It's making love, in the truest, purest sense of the word.

Their thoughts, their bodies, their souls are not their own. They swirl and blend together, becoming something new and perfect. Robin holds her face while he kisses her, his tongue sliding against hers, their hearts beating in time. Sparks strike against his spine, tingles of electricity that hint at the shattering orgasm that's building. But not yet…he doesn't want it to end yet.

His hips slow and his pelvis rests against Regina's, where he's buried, touching the deepest part of her.

He feels her hand on his jaw and opens his eyes. She's still wearing the necklace—it shines in the moonlight, but not as brightly as her eyes.

"Ask me again, Robin."

Hope whispers. Blessed, beautiful, thrilling hope.

"Stay."

Her soft lips smile. "For how long?"

"For always."

Regina looks deep into his eyes and her smile grows, her head bobbing in the tiniest of nods.

"Yes."

John walks into the sitting room and tells them. "There's a matter we must speak of, Your Grace," he tells Robin, not looking at Regina at all.

Robin's thumb slowly caresses the back of her hand. "We're just on our way out, John. Can it wait?"

"I'm afraid not. It's rather urgent."

Robin sighs.

"I'll hang out in the library until you're done."

He nods. "All right." He kisses her lips, softly, quickly, and then goes to do what he needs to do.

Thirty minutes later, John comes to speak to her.

"We're ready for you now, Miss Mills"

"What do you mean, 'Ready for me'?"

This guy's poker face is epic. And more than a little freaky. His mouth is relaxed, his eyes impassive—it's the face of a mannequin. Or a very good, very cold, hit man.

"This way, please."

Regina steps into the room, looking curious and so very tiny next to John's girth. Her eyes drift over Will in the leather chair by the fireplace, then he smiles when she sees me across the room.

"What's going on?"

Robin searches her face and his own memory—looking for some sign he missed. Something that would've made him suspect…but there's nothing.

Regina worries her lip, staring at her blank expression.

John swivels the computer screen on the desk toward her. "These are the headlines that will run in the Daily Star. It's a tabloid."

HIS ROYAL HOTNESS'S UNWANTED SECRET HEIR

ROYAL TEEN PREGNANCY ENDS IN

MISCARRIAGE—ALL THE DETAILS

Her face pinches in horror. "Oh no! How…how did they find out?"

"We were hoping you could explain that to us, Miss Mills," The Queen says. "Since you are the one who told them."

"What are you talking about?" Regina turns Robin's way again. "Robin?"

The Queen slides a sheet of paper in front of her. She stares at it hard, brow wrinkling with concentration. "What is this?"

It's a mortgage statement for the building of the coffee shop and Regina's apartment in New York—that was in foreclosure five months ago.

It was paid off in full last week.

"I don't understand. I just spoke to my father yesterday—he didn't say anything." She takes a step closer to Robin. "Robin, you can't really believe I would do this."

His gut rebels at the idea—but the black-and-white evidence taunts him. "I'm not accusing you."

"Yeah, but you're not exactly defending me, either."

"Explain this to me. Make it make sense." Even to his own ears, it sounds like begging. "Make me understand what happened."

She shakes her head. "I can't."

"I would forgive you for anything, Regina. Did you know that? Anything. But…I won't be lied to."

"I'm not lying."

"Maybe you told someone, accidentally. Your father?"

She takes a step backward. "So, I'm not a scumbag but my family is?"

"I didn't say that."

"That's exactly what you said."

"For ten years there hasn't been a whisper of this in the press. Then weeks after I tell you, it's splashed across the papers and it just so happens your family's mortgage is paid off at the same time? What am I supposed to think?"

"I don't know what to say."

His voice booms. "Tell me you didn't do this!"

She looks him right in the eye, chin raised, eyes simmering. "I didn't do this."

But then, when Robin doesn't say anything, her face falls like a collapsing castle of cards. "You don't believe me."

"Put yourself in my place."

"I'm trying to." Her lip trembles. "But I would believe you, so I can't." She shakes her head. "When have I ever given you a reason to think I want money out of this?"

"Maybe you weren't after money…in the beginning," the Queen interjects, like a barrister setting up a question during a trial. "But then you came here and saw firsthand the wealth that was to be had. Perhaps with your departure so close, you made the choice to get what you could while you could."

"I'll call my father," Regina declares. "He'll tell you it's a mistake."

She slides her phone out of her pocket, dials and waits. After what seems like fucking forever, she looks up at Robin, nervously. "There's no answer. I'll keep trying."

"Where did the money come from?" Regina asks while she tries again.

"We haven't been able to trace the transfer yet; we're working on it."

"After everything that's happened, everything I'm willing to give up for you, everything we've said and been to each other for the last five months…you need more information until you can decide if I'm the type of person who would take one of the most painful secrets of your life and sell it to a supermarket rag?"

There's a warning voice that tells Robin to stop. All of this. Right here, right now—go no farther. It says he has no reason not to trust her. That she could never do this to him. Not the Regina he knows.

But he turns deaf ears on that voice. Because it lies. He's listened to it before—over and over again when he was young and stupid and wrong.

"Yes. I need more information."

"Fuck you!" She steps back, yelling and crying and shaking her head. "Fuck you and this fucked-up place that raised you. You're so messed up. You're so warped inside—because of these games and these people. You can't even see it. And I can't stand to look at you right now."

"Then leave!" Robin shouts back. "There's the door—get out! If I'm so hard to look at, go back to fucking New York!"

The second the words leave his mouth Robin wants to snatch them back. He didn't mean them. But words don't work that way. Once heard, they can't ever be taken back.

All they can do is echo.

The color drains from Regina's cheeks and her eyes close. Her face turns towards the floor and her shoulders drop. Like she's…done. Like there's nothing left to her at all.

She takes a shuddering breath and without raising her head, without looking at Robin even one more time, she turns and walks out.

Will's words fill the silence. "You're making a mistake. And that was harsh, Robin, even for you."

Robin turns to John. "Find out where the money came from. Now."

John bows and leaves.

Robin feels Will's eyes on the back of his head, but he doesn't turn around. He has nothing to say.

He doesn't feel the same.

"Hello?" Will comes around and tries to knock on his head. "Is anyone alive in there? Who are you right now?"

He seems different to Robin somehow, taller or older. More…serious. He doesn't know why he didn't notice before, or why the hell he's seeing it now.

"What are you going on about?"

"Well, you look like my brother and you sound like him, but you're not him. You're some alternate version of him—the one who gives all those scripted, meaningless answers in interviews. The Tin Man."

"I'm not in the mood to play games with you, Will."

"My real brother would know that Regina wouldn't, couldn't, do this. He'd know it in here." He pokes his chest. "So either you're too afraid to trust your own instincts or you're too afraid to trust her, but either way, you just let the best damn thing that's ever happened to you walk right out the door. And with the lives we have, that's really saying something."

Robin swallows hard, feeling cold and numb inside. Feeling…nothing.

His voice is as hollow as his chest. "If she didn't do it, it's one hell of a coincidence. I'll know what to do once John gets more information."

"It'll be too late then!"

Robin remains silent.

"There've been many times in my life when I thought Mum would be ashamed of me. This is the first time I've ever thought…she'd be ashamed of you."

And then he walks away too.

Regina bites her lip and wraps her arms around her waist, passing security men in the halls, nodding to maids. But as soon as she's through the door, she lets go.

The sobs tear out of her, shaking her shoulders and scraping her lungs. It's rage and devastation mixed together, the worst kind of heartbreak. How could he do this? After everything she's done—everything she was willing to do for him.

She saw it in his eyes—those gorgeous, tortured eyes. He wanted to believe her—but he didn't. Couldn't. Whatever tiny wick of trust still lives inside him has been burned one too many times.

Did he ever really trust her? Did he ever believe that they could last…for always? Or was some part of him just waiting, watching, until she screwed him over?

Well, fuck him. Fuck him and his fucking palace. No more. She's done.

"Can I bring you some tea, Miss Mills?" A maid asks behind her.

"N-no. No th-thank you."

She nods, eyes down—like a good little servant. She slips past her discreetly, closing the door behind her. Trained oh so well.

Regina locks the door. Then she marches to the bookcase that connects this room to Robin's and locks that too. She walks into the bathroom and turns the shower on to scalding. As the steam rises around her, she strips out of her clothes, choking on her tears. She steps into the shower, slides down to the floor, and rests her forehead on my knees. And as the water pounds down over her, she lets it all pour out.

Pain is actually a gift. A warning that something is amiss and action must be taken to correct the situation. Without pain, an otherwise minor injury could lead to deadly consequences.

Guilt works the same way.

It's a signal from the conscience that something is terribly wrong.

His eats at Robin—one slow, sharp bite at a time—in the minutes that he stays in the empty office. It claws at the lining of his gut when he makes his way back to his room. It gathers in his throat when he pours himself a scotch, making it almost impossible to swallow it down.

He can't shake it, can't stop seeing it—the last look on Regina's face. Defeated. Crushed.

It stabs at him like the jagged edge of a broken rib.

The glass clinks when he sets it on the table, then walks to the bookcase and through the corridor that leads to Regina's room. But when he pushes on the bookcase on the other side, it doesn't give—doesn't move an inch.

He'd forgotten about the latch.

His mother installed it herself. It was the only time he'd ever seen her with a screwdriver in her hand—and the only time he'd ever heard her refer to his father as a fucking wanker.

They'd patched up whatever they'd been arguing about, but the latch had stayed.

And was apparently now being put back to use.

He stalks out of the room into the hall, down to Regina's door. He raps on it hard. But there's no answer.

A young maid nods to him as she passes and his chin jerks in response.

Robin tries the handle, but that door is also locked, so he knocks again—working hard to tamp down the pissed-offness growing with every second.

"Regina? I'd like to speak with you."

He waits, but there's no response.

"Regina." He knocks again. "Things got…out of hand earlier and I want to talk to you about it. Could you please open the door?"

When a security guard strolls past, he feels like a fucking idiot. And that's just how he must look. Knocking and pleading outside a door in his own bloody house.

"Regina!"

Thirty seconds later, when there's still no answer, his guilt goes up in smoke.

"All right," he glares at the closed door. "Have it your way."

Robin stalks down the stairs, spotting Tuck in the foyer. "Have the car brought around."

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"When will you return?"

"Late."

Regina dresses after her shower, puts on the clothes she brought with her. When she's done, she heads downstairs and tells the travel secretary, Jane. "I'm ready to go home now."

She's surprised at first—and then elated. "Marvelous."

Jane rises from her chair and slips a folder out from one of the drawers. "I have your first-class ticket to New York ready—courtesy of the Palace, of course. I'll send two girls to Royal House to pack your things."

"You don't have to do that. I already packed."

"Anything provided by the Palace to you on loan—gowns, jewels, et cetra, et cetra—remains with the Palace."

"The only thing I planned on taking was the necklace Robin gave me."

She clasps her hands. "Precisely. The necklace must remain here."

"But Robin designed it for me."

"Prince Robin had the necklace commissioned and he is a member of the royal family, therefore it is the property of the Crown. It stays."

"He gave it to me."

One of her pointy, penciled eyebrows rises nastily. "And soon he may give it to someone else. It stays. Are we going to have a problem, Miss Mills?"

"No, there's no problem."

"Very good. The driver will have your ticket; be sure to bring your passport. Do come visit again—" her condemning gaze combs over Regina's clothes "—if you ever have the means."

That night, after a lonesome evening spent drinking himself into oblivion in a corner at a club, Robin dreams he's on a ship in the middle of a storm. When he cracks his head on the hard, wooden floor, he realizes he's not on a ship. And the tossing wasn't a dream.

It was his little brother.

When he's able to pry his eyes open, he sees him standing over him like an angel of morning-after doom—with Killian standing next to him.

"What the fucking fuck, Will?"

"I told you, you were wrong. I told you Regina didn't do it."

Those words snap Robin into full, immediate consciousness.

Will's eyes dart to Killian. "Tell him."

Killian looks pale—paler than usual. And not a little bit guilty.

"Tell me what?" Robin rasps.

He clears his throat. "Yes…well, you see—I've begun a new business venture."

When he doesn't continue, Robin nudges, "And?"

"Pies."

"Pies?"

"Yes—fresh and flash frozen—they'll be deliverable to anyplace in the world. We're going to knock Marie Callenders' and Sara Lee on their arses. And you know how much I enjoyed the pies at Regina's when we were in the States, so…I purchased the recipes from Regina's father. All of them."

"How much?" Robin feels like he can't swallow.

"Over six figures."

Slowly, he sits up, anger rising. "And you didn't think this was something you should have told me?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "Mr. Mills wanted it kept quiet. He's been cleaning himself up—doing the twelve steps and all that. He wanted to surprise Regina when she came home that the business was out of debt and she wouldn't have to run it all on her own anymore." Killian squirms. "And hell—I can never keep a secret from Emma, so I thought it best if you didn't…" His words trail off as he looks me over. "What did you do, Robin?"

What did he do?

The realization of what he had done lands like a moose kick to the balls.

He's on his feet in an instant. And with the awful words he threw at her ringing in his ears, he runs down the hall—shirt open, feet bare.

But the moment his hands touch the handles, before he even opens the doors, he knows—he can feel it.

She's not here.

Robin stands in the middle of Regina's room—that's how he thinks of it now—not the "white bedroom" or "my mother's old room." It's Regina's.

Now, it's Regina's empty room.

The bed is made but vacant. The white walls and furniture that looked so pristine and fair yesterday now seem gray and lifeless. Robin checks the bathroom and the closet—he doesn't know why—but except for a few designer outfits encased in clear plastic, that he knows aren't Regina's, they're just as bare as all the rest. Any trace of her—her shampoos and trinkets and the little hair ties she's always leaving behind—have been wiped away.

Like she was never here at all.

He wanders back into the bedroom and a shiny glinting on the dresser catches his eye. The snowflake necklace. It was hers—it was made for her; Robin gave it to her to keep.

To have and to hold.

Even that was selfish of him, he guesses. He liked the idea of her having something tangible, something she could touch, a way for her to remember him…after.

And she left it behind.

A message doesn't get more loud and clear than that.

A maid walks past the open door in the hall and Robin barks at her. "Get John here. Now!"

"When?" Robin asks his butler.

"Miss Regina left last night."

"Why wasn't I told?"

"You told her to go. I heard you tell her myself. The whole house heard you yell it."

Robin flinches.

"Just followin' orders." And his words drip with sarcasm.

"Bring her back."

"She's arrived in New York by now," John says.

"Then bring her back from New York."

"She left, Robin," Killian points out.

And Will begins, "You can't just—"

"Bring her back!" Robin shouts, loud enough to make the frames on the walls tremble.

"Oh for fuck's sake." Will grips his shoulders. "You tell the men to bring her back and they will bring her back by any means necessary. And then we'll add 'international kidnapper' to your résumé. She's not a bone, Robin—you can't order her to be fetched."

"I can do whatever I want," Robin hisses.

"Bloody hell," Will curses. "Is this what I sound like?"

Panic. It rises like smoke up his throat, choking him, making his hands clench the pendant like a life preserver. Making him think wild thoughts and say idiotic things.

Because…what if Regina won't come back? What will he do then?

Without her.

His voice turns to ash. "She'll come back with them. They'll explain it to her. Tell her…that I made a mistake. That I'm sorry."

Killian steps forward, gripping his arm. "Tell her yourself, man."

The downside of responsibility and duty is that it gives you tunnel vision—you don't see the big picture, the options, because the options were never yours to have. You see only the track that you're locked onto, the one that takes you through the tunnel.

But every once in a while, even the most dependable trains jump their track.

Robin marches into his Grandmother's office.

"I'm going to New York to see Regina. I've hurt her terribly."

"Out of the question," she hisses, eyes glinting like the edge of a blade.

"I've done everything you've ever wanted! I've become everything you wanted me to be—and I've never asked you for anything! But I'm asking you for this." Something cracks inside him, making his voice splinter.

"I love her. It can't end this way."

She regards him, silently, for a several moments, and when she speaks her voice is gentler but still resolute.

"This is exactly how it needs to end. Do you think I'm a fool, Robin? That I didn't know what you were thinking?"

"You thought you could postpone the wedding for a time—and perhaps you could have. But the fact remains, the day will come when you will be a husband and a father. You will be a king. And what will Regina be then?"

"Mine," Robin growls. "She'll be mine."

"The word 'mistress' doesn't carry the same weight it once did, but it is still not a pretty thing to be, Robin. And there are no secrets, not in this world, not anymore. You will have a purpose to fulfill, a destiny. You will have the admiration and devotion of a country. And Regina…will have its scorn. Possibly the derision of the whole world. You've seen it play out—time and again. The nannies who take up with their married movie-star employers, the young interns ensnared by powerful men. It's never the man who is shamed and ruined. It's always the woman—the other woman—who gets burned at the stake."

Robin has no response to that.

"Are you really so selfish, my boy? Is that the life you want for her?"

"No."

"Then let her go. If you truly love her, let her hate you. It will be easier for her that way." She puts her hand on his arm, squeezing with a strength that still surprises him. "And for you."

Regina had called Tink, told her she was coming home, asked her to meet her when she landed. But when she walked out of the gate it wasn't her that was there.

It was her dad.

His eyes were clear—sober and strong. And knowing.

Regina was already crying by the time he got to her. She didn't even try to hold back. He told her it would be okay; he promised that she would be all right. He said she was strong—like her mother—and that she would get through this. He rocked her in his arms and held her so tight.

Her hero.

But it's been a struggle. Regina has to fight the urge to curl into a ball and cry because everything hurts. Her chest is heavy with the weight of her heart, her head throbs with doubts—all the things she could've done differently. Her arms and legs ache with the urge to run back to him, to fix it, to hug him and never, ever let him go. Her stomach is twisted and nauseated. So sick that for a split second, yesterday, she considered the possibility that maybe she was pregnant—and that fleeting thought brought relief and joy. It's the worst reason to want a baby, but it would mean they'd still have a connection. And she'd have a reason to go back, to see him again.

It's too early for morning sickness, but even if it weren't, she knows she's not pregnant. Those magical fixes happen only in romance novels and on soap operas. In real life, birth control is reliably, sometimes heartbreakingly effective.

Her father explained all that had happened with the business, with Killian buying it. Regina half expected a text, phone call from Robin, but nothing.

Tink comes in one day and grabs Regina's hand and pulls her towards the tv in the corner. She turns it on and Regina gasps as she sees what's on.

"I'm not watching the press conference."

"Oh yes you are, Negative Nelly." She drags her by the arm to a front-row seat. "Unlike you, I still have hope that His Hotness is going to pull his stupid head out of his fine ass."

"Even if he did, it doesn't matter. We were only supposed to last the summer. We were doomed from the start."

"I don't want to watch."

The television focuses on an empty podium, the royal family crest etched into the shiny wood. There's building chatter from a group off camera, a burst of camera flashes, and then he's there, stepping up to the podium. The breath rushes from her lungs in one scraping, painful swoop, and the lump that suddenly lodges in her throat makes it hard to inhale.

God, he's beautiful.

And he looks fucking terrible.

His navy suit molds to his form perfectly—those wide shoulders, strong arms, warm, magnificent chest. But there's more hollowness to his cheeks and there are shadows beneath his eyes.

He seems…sad.

And that devastates her. Because despite how it all ended, he deserves to be happy—and she wants that for him so much.

Will sits down in a chair on Robin's right, resting his head on his hand, elbows on the table, looking tired. Killian's there too, one more chair over.

"People of Stockholm," Robin begins, taking a stack of white note cards from his pocket. "We've been through a lot together, you and I. You celebrated with my family the day of my birth—" the corner of his mouth quirks up "—and I've been told some of the parties were quite rowdy. You watched as I took my first steps, attended my first day of school, rode my first horse—King, his name was."

Robin clears his throat and looks down, his dark hair falling over his forehead. "You grieved with Will and I when we lost our parents—our pain was yours. You nurtured us, consoled us, held us in your arms as if we were your own—and in a very real way, we are. You saw me graduate university, undergo the same military training each of you have also undertaken—and I've strived in action and word to make you proud. To become the kind of man, leader and prince you all deserve."

He stares down at the cards in his hand for a moment, then swallows hard.

"My mother had many dreams for us, as all mothers do for their children. She wanted us to have lives filled with purpose, accomplishments…and love. The love my parents had for each other was a wonder to behold—you all saw it. They were meant for each other, made each other better versions of themselves. And you, like my grandmother, Her Majesty the Queen, have waited—not so patiently—" Robin gives a small smirk and a chuckle echoes through the crowd "—for me to find a love like that of my own."

He looks nauseated. And his jaw clenches, like he's trying to keep the words in. Then he looks into the camera, brows drawn together. "Today, your waiting comes to an end. And I will speak to you about the future of the monarchy—of my future with the woman I will marry."

"She would have liked to be here with me today, but…circumstances…made that impossible." He pushes a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck, looking down again at the cards in his hand.

"And so, I announce that I…that I…"

He stumbles on the words and Regina loses the ability to breathe.

He doesn't move, doesn't say a word for several seconds.

And then…he laughs.

A sharp, bitter sound, while pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head.

"I am a horse's arse."

Tink jumps out of her chair. "I knew it! He's Jerry McGuiring you! He's Jerry McGuiring you, because you complete him!"

"Shhh!"

"I had what my parents had," Robin says fiercely, gripping the sides of the podium. "I held it in my hands. The love of a woman who was not born into royalty but who is more noble of character than anyone I have ever known. Knowing her…changed everything. And loving her…brought me to life."

There's a wave of whispers in the crowd as Robin's brow furrows.

"And I betrayed her. I doubted her love and her honesty when I should've known better. And I'm sorry…" He stares into the camera—blue eyes glowing—like he's looking right at her. "I'm so damn sorry."

After a moment, his eyes return to the crowd and his voice grows stronger, more definitive with every word.

"But I will not betray her again. I will not forsake the dreams my mother had for her sons, and I will not ignore what my own soul cries out for." His head shakes. "Not for country and not for crown."

He pauses, wetting his lips. "I'm supposed to stand up here today and give you the name of the woman who will one day be your queen. But I can't do that. Because I have screwed up." He snorts. "Royally."

Then he leans forward, his beautiful face sure and confident.

"What I can tell you, what I swear to you today, is this: I will marry Regina Mills or I will never marry at all."

And the crowd goes berserk.

Holy shit.

"Holy shit!" Tink yells.

One of the reporters stands up, and the back of his head comes into view in the corner of the screen, yelling his question above the din. "Prince Robin! The law is clear—the Crown Prince must marry a woman of noble lineage or, if he is to marry a commoner, she must be a natural-born citizen of Stockholm. Regina Mills is neither of those."

The crowd quiets, waiting for Robin's answer.

"No, she is not," he answers softly, looking down.

And then he straightens his shoulders and raises his head.

"And so, today, I, Robert Robin Arthur Edmund, abdicate my place in the line of succession and renounce all rights to the throne of Stockholm. From this moment on, my brother, His Royal Highness William John Edgar Thomas, is the Prince of Stockholm."

The crowd roars like Brazilian soccer fans right after a goal.

And Will wakes up, lifting his head. Blinking.

"Wait. What the hell?"

Robin slaps his shoulder—smiling big and bright. "It's all yours, Will. You'll do great—I know you will."

Then Robin holds up his hands. "No more questions—I have a lot to do. Thank you for your time." He turns to go, but then has second thoughts and comes back to the podium. "One last thing." He looks directly into the camera, and Regina can feel his eyes like a touch to her skin. "You asked for a warning, Regina, so here it is. I'm coming for you, love."

And the son of a bitch winks.

"One second please." The Queen gathers everyone's attention at the podium.

"People of Sweden, I feel I have failed by grandson. You see, I too know the love that he has for another person. I felt it the day I met my late husband. I saw it in my son's eyes when he met his own love. And today, I see it clearly in my grandson's eyes."

Robin didn't know where she was going with this.

"Therefore, I think a change needs to be made. Change is good in many cases, take marriage in it's form. As long as two people love one another, of any sexuality, does it truly matter? I'm proud of my people of Sweden for helping to pass marriage equality for all it's people. We changed our laws then, and I think another law needs to be changed as well. It's a crime in my heart to see two people who love one another, not be able to love one another in the fullest."

Robin held his breath as he waited.

"I therefore put forth that we change the Royal law, and allow that those in line for the heir of Stockholm, be allowed to marry who they love. Whether they be from Sweden of anywhere."

A silence broke out and then one clap, then another, followed by another dozen. And then there was a roar that broke out in support of this.

Robin walked over to his grandmother and kissed her cheeks. "Thank you."

"Thank you, Robin." She said.

Will stood up and walked over to the podium. "I don't know the words, but the throne is right back at you, brother. Mum and Dad would be proud of you, both of you."

"Now, if you don't mind. I have a plane to catch." Robin said as he walked off, with reporters calling out to him.

The streets are empty in front of Regina's when Robin walks up to the door—the air eerily, strangely silent, almost like at a surprise birthday party, those moments just before the guests jump up and scream, scaring a year off the guest of honor's life. The shade is drawn in front of the picture window, and the lights inside are dark.

Maybe Regina didn't see the press conference? His stomach roils—because maybe Regina's not even here. Perhaps she went…out. A toxic mix shudders in his gut at the possibility that she went out with someone. A man who'd help her drown her sorrows and forget the heartache he's brought her.

The thought has him pushing the coffee shop door open with more force than he intended—and stumbling over the threshold. The interior is dim, but not dark—it's illuminated by a single candle. At a table…where Regina sits.

And his entire being exhales with relief.

Robin takes several moments to just look at her. Soaking in the vision of her dark, swirling hair—shiny, even in the candlelight. The way the glow of the flame dances across her flawless pale skin, highlighting her heart-shaped face, her high cheekbones, the flush, pink lips that have possessed him from the start and the midnight-brown eyes that own his soul.

She watches him too, unmoving and wordless, her cheeks flushing as she stares—enough to make him wonder what gloriously filthy thoughts are fluttering through her mind. The door swings slowly closed behind him as he steps farther into the room.

"It's a quiet night," Robin says. Because those words come easy—as opposed to the backlog of confessions and apologies that are fighting for prominence in his throat.

"Logan worked with the NYPD. He set up a three-block perimeter around the shop."

"Ah…that explains the barricade."

"Yes."

Slowly he draws closer to her. "I've missed you."

The slight dip of her chin, a gentle nod, is the only response he gets.

He rubs the back of his neck. "Did you…did you watch the press conference?"

Regina's face changes—softens at the corners of her mouth, heating her gaze.

"Yes."

His voice is a raw whisper. "Regina, about the things I said, the night you left. I'm—"

"Forgiven." Tears well in her eyes. "You're completely forgiven. You had me at 'horse's ass.'"

And she throws herself into his arms.

Robin buries his face in the hollow of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin—honey and roses and her. His lips travel up across her jaw, finding her mouth, feeling the wetness of her tears against his cheek. And then their mouths are moving together, tasting and delving—wild and demanding. This is no sweet, storybook reunion. This is raw and desperate and unadulterated need. Being away from her, knowing how close he came to truly losing her, makes him rougher than he should be. His hands push through her hair, clench down her back holding her tight against him, feeling every breath that shudders through her.

And he's not alone. She moans into him—he tastes it on his tongue—her hands tugging on his hair, her legs wrapping around his waist, squeezing like she can't get close enough. Like she'll never let go.

And everything about it is perfect and right.

After a time, the desperation ebbs and their kisses slow—their lips turn to savoring and sucking. He feels Regina's soft hands stroking the planes of his face gently and her forehead comes to rest against his. They gaze into each other's eyes, breathing the same air.

"I love you," she whispers, her voice trembling. And more tears fall down her cheeks. "I love you so much. I can't…I can't believe you almost gave all of that up."

"Because if I didn't have you there with me, it would have been meaningless. I love you, Regina. I don't need a kingdom—if you're beside me, I already have the whole world."

"That's so beautiful." She cries. "And really cheesy, too."

And there…there it is—that stunning smile that hits him right in his heart.

And his cock.

She rests her head against his chest, her arms around his waist, and they stand just like that for several minutes.

Until Regina asks, "What happens now?"

"We can do anything we want. Every single day of the future is ours."

Robin sits down in the chair, pulling her onto his lap. She toys with the back of his hair, thinking it over.

"I want to go to the movies with you. And to the park. Even if security has to tag along. And I want us to lie around in bed all day and order takeout."

"And walk around the apartment naked," Robin adds helpfully.

Regina nods. "All the normal things couples do when they're dating."

"It would be an interesting change of pace for us."

"So, we'll take things…slow?"

"Sounds perfect. I like slow. And you are going to thoroughly enjoy how I do…slow."

Eight months later…

Slow didn't exactly work out for them.

"I now pronounce, henceforth, that they be man and wife. You may kiss your bride."

Robin didn't have to be told twice.

He lifts the gauzy veil trimmed with lace, cups her beautiful face in both hands, and presses his mouth to Regina's. Reverently—at first.

Then he kisses her deeper. Hungrier. Lost in the taste and feel of his sweet new wife.

His Queen.

Regina giggles against his searching mouth. Will whistles inappropriately beside Robin, and Killian coughs to try to cover it. Then the church bells ring, rattling their bones, the congregation stands, and Robin escorts Lady Regina down the aisle. Her dress is a strapless, lace confection, cinched at her tiny waist, long in the back—the train taking up almost the entire length of the aisle, carried by half a dozen little flower girls.

Outside, the crowds cheer, waving silk flags and white flowers and banners. The sun is shining, the sky is blue and doves are literally flying through the air. It doesn't get more perfect than this.

Robin leads Regina down the gray stone steps to the open, gold-trimmed horse-drawn carriage—they only take them out for really special occasions these days. Once she and her gigantic train are nestled in, they wave their way through the streets, celebrating with the entire country.

And this time, Robin doesn't mind the cameras. Not even a little.

Eventually, they pull through the palace gates and he helps Regina down. Twenty footmen—in full military dress—flank them. Their swords sing through the air when they're unsheathed and raised, forming a silver bridge that glints in the sunlight for them to walk beneath. Then it's upstairs, to the gold ballroom—where hopefully they'll be able to eat and drink something before they both die.

After that, they'll step out onto the main balcony of the palace, where the Queen will officially present them to the country with their new titles.

From then on it's pretty much a public make-out session, if all goes well.

His grandmother was spot-on about the magic of a royal wedding—which is why she didn't give them even a little resistance when Regina and Robin told her they were getting married three months ago. All she asked was that she be allowed to take care of the arrangements. Considering they weren't sure if they'd even be able to pull off a city hall wedding in such a short time, they gave the Old Girl free rein. And she came through spectacularly.

John discovered it was Marian who had leaked the story to the Daily Star—her way of punishing Robin for the way she felt he'd failed her when they were young.

"Okay," Regina announces, handing Robin her glass of Champagne, "before we head out to the balcony I'm going to attempt to use the bathroom."

"Do you want some help?" Robin asks, looking at the material of the dress, the train.

"No—the bridesmaids will take care of that. Women have a natural instinct for how to get these things done. Although, besides Emma, this is the first time I've met any of those ladies. And now I'm going to pee in front of them." She reaches up and pecks his lips. "Being married to you is weird."

"It'll never be boring." Robin sends her off with a swift pat to her arse.

While Regina takes care of business, Robin approaches his brother, leaning against the wall beside him, arms crossed.

"Congratulations," he says, sulking. "Bastard."

"Thank you."

"Regina looks gorgeous. Prick."

"She does. I'll tell her you said so."

"I'm really happy for you. Wanker."

The trumpets blare on the balcony over the sound of the crowd's cheers as each member of their wedding party, and then the Queen, are called out. Regina and Robin are the only ones left. Belle flutters around them, doing last-minute checks.

"No lipstick on the teeth, veil is straight, remember fingers together when you wave, yes, yes…"

"Ready, love?"

"As I'll ever be."

Her gloved hand slips into Robin's as their names are announced.

"Prince Robin and Princess Regina, the Duke and Duchess of Tavernstone!"

They step out onto the balcony as twenty thousand white rose petals fall from the sky. And the people applaud and shout, hold up their cameras and take pictures. The blissful energy blows through the air, dusting everything in a sheen of joy and sparkle. They wave and smile for a bit, and then with his hand on her waist, Robin dips his head and kisses Regina softly.

With her hands on his shoulders, she leans back. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

"All the pomp and circumstance, you mean?"

She shakes her head, her eyes adoring. "No."

"Being a princess and a duchess?"

"Nope."

"Then what?"

She reaches up, leaning closer.

"That I get to be your wife."

Emotion hits him hard, making his heart feel too large for his chest. He strokes her cheek, because she's so lovely—and because she's his.

Then he whispers, "Well, you'd better. We're royalty. That means…we're forever."

Two years later, there is another celebration in Sweden as the newest royal has made his arrival, much to the delight of his parents.

A easel was placed outside the castle with the announcements.

Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Tavernstone was safely delivered of son, at 7:23 am this morning.

The Duke of Tavernstone was present for the birth.

Her Royal Highness and son are both doing well.