My Royal Sin. Riley Pine

still giggling when he does something so out of character that it stops my laughter and catches my breath all at once.

      He smiles.

      The whole kingdom—and the entire world for that matter—has been known to swoon for the king’s firstborn, Prince Nikolai. They loved him when he was a tabloid playboy, and now that he’s proved himself worthy of ruling Edenvale, as well as worthy of his future queen, the public swoons for him even more, myself included. Nikolai Lorentz is a beautiful man who will do great things. But before me stands the man who has always lived in his shadow—who keeps himself there by hiding behind a collar before it is truly his.

      And he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

      “You’re wrong, Ruby. This,” he says, pointing to the white collar, “is my pretense.” He unfastens it and pulls it free.

      I smooth out a nonexistent wrinkle in the buttery-soft silk of my gown. “When you take your final vows—” something twists in my gut at the thought “—do you have to wear it all the time?”

      Again he grins, though this time the expression is laced with a wistfulness I don’t understand.

      “No,” he says. “Giving my life to the church is my duty. But presiding over the church is also my livelihood. When I’m not performing clerical duties, I’m free to dress as I please.” He glances at his attire and then shrugs. “I guess this is easier.”

      Then he unbuttons his black shirt and removes it. I gasp until I realize that beneath it he wears a white cotton T.

      “There,” he says, hanging the garment over a high-back leather chair that faces the fire. “No more pretense.” He then strolls to a tall oak cabinet against the wall. With wide eyes, I watch the sculpted muscles in his arms flex as he retrieves a decanter of red wine and two crystal goblets. The prince nods toward a small game table, ignoring the clothes strewn about the sofa.

      “You can...drink?” I ask, and he laughs, a rich, deep sound that sends an unexpected shiver through me, goose bumps dotting my flesh.

      He sets the items on the table and pulls out my chair for me.

      “There are many things I can still do once I am a priest,” he says. “But, of course—some I cannot.”

      His eyes darken before they dip to the table as he seats himself across from me. When he looks up again, he forces a smile, but I know the spell is broken, and it’s time to get to work. I reach behind and start to lower my zipper.

      “Stop,” he says. “Not yet.”

      Because he is my prince and also my employer, I obey.

      He pours two goblets of wine and hands one to me.

      “Ruby.” His voice is gentle. “I’m sorry for what happened in the Square this morning. That was unacceptable.”

      I press my lips together and shrug. “I didn’t belong there,” I say matter-of-factly.

      He sips his wine and shakes his head. “You belong wherever it is that you want to be.”

      My throat tightens, and because I don’t know how to respond, I take a long, slow swallow of the expensive crimson liquid, as well.

      “I hope you did enjoy your private shopping spree of sorts, though.”

      I grin and stand, offering an exaggerated curtsy in my favorite of all the pieces Monique Mantissa herself gave to me.

      “I felt like a princess,” I say. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

      He clears his throat. “Benedict. Please, call me Benedict.”

      Sure. He’s just a guy in my borrowed home, a guy in a great-fitting T-shirt that hugs an always hidden muscular frame, yet he’s not hiding it from me. Still, he is more than just Benedict. I can pretend many things, but I cannot ignore his lineage—or my own.

      “This gown is beautiful,” I tell him. “But for what you’ve hired me to do, well...” I reach for my zipper again and pull to where it stops just below my hips. I stand, and the dress falls to the floor, revealing what I’ve been hiding.

       No bra. No panties.

      “No more pretense,” I tell him, and though he stares at me with ravenous eyes, this feels nothing like the ogling, the leering of what I expect from a client. At twenty-two years old, I am not without experience when it comes to men, but that does not mean I ever thought this would be easy. But the prince is nothing like I expected.

      I am comfortable—safe beneath his gaze. Whatever happens next, I trust the man before me.

      After laying the gown neatly atop the pile of other Mantissa samples, I take my seat across from him, sip from my goblet and note the varying drawers in the small table. I open one up and pull from it a deck of cards. My teeth skim across my bottom lip. Then I smile and raise a brow.

      “So, Benedict.” I draw out his name, getting a feel for it on my tongue. “Would you like to play a game?”