my skin. I don’t want to feel anything when he touches me.
“I can’t marry you.”
“But you will.”
“You can’t make me!”
“We’ve already been through the options, love. It’s either me or the quarry. You’d be a fucking idiot to choose the latter.”
He doesn’t understand what this will do to me. I was supposed to walk down the aisle with Ben. He was the one for me, but he was taken away in a smoking, twisted wreck of metal before I could make that promise.
Part of me wants to do the sensible thing, and part of me would rather die than betray him.
“I can’t have any more of this wishy-washy shit.”
Tears slip down my face. “I’m sorry, but it’s a big fucking decision.”
“My father knows damn well you’re in my room right now, but he has no idea I’ll be bringing you to the engagement ball.”
“T-there’s a ball?”
“Of course.”
I can just picture a grand ballroom with women in beautiful gowns, the men in tuxes, some sort of orchestra, and couples waltzing on the dance floor. Dancing.
“I can’t do this. I don’t even know how to dance.”
“My father will announce our engagement soon. I have no time to teach you how to behave like a royal, but you will have to learn.”
“Learn what?”
“Everything. How to walk, talk, eat, how to address other royals—”
“Are you going to teach me to shit too?”
“No, but I’ll teach you how to fuck a royal.”
Liam moves his hands around my waist as my skin blazes with the contact, and I find myself against Liam’s warm chest. Suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation, my breath freezes in my chest. Pinpricks of heat spread over my cheeks before I remember that I can’t stand him.
“You’re a royal pain in my ass.”
“Not yet, but soon I hope. Princess Daisy,” he says, his voice rumbling through his chest.
That’s right. I guess I’ll be a princess when we’re married. I’ll have to wear dresses all the time and learn how to talk like a princess, and will there be a crown?
“Holy fuck.”
I take his hands from my sides and back away from him.
“Now she gets it,” he drawls.
I don’t like being cooped up. Liam’s apartment is twice the size of any ordinary two-bedroom place in Berkeley. He has a state-of-the-art stainless-steel kitchen, a marble bathroom with heated tiles and a sauna, there’s a goddamn patio overlooking the deep green fields and the Harronvale village, and a little breakfast table. There are fifteenth century frescos on the ceilings. Cherubs and seraphs flying through white, billowing clouds. It’s a beautiful biblical painting with pale blue and pinks, but it’s ruined by a giant printout of Liam taped where God is supposed to be, grinning at the camera and completely stark naked. My gaze lingers between his legs, where a thick cock juts out proudly.
“Unbelievable.”
“Do you like my addition to the painting?” the real Liam says, standing next to me.
Today he’s wearing dark, slim-cut jeans and a pale blue polo. His hair is carefully swept to the side, his sideburns immaculate, and his cheek smooth. His perfect appearance irritates me. His very presence irritates me.
“You ruined a fifteenth century piece.”
“I vastly improved it.”
“How did you even—did you seriously tape it there?”
“I did.”
Oh my God. What an idiot.
I turn my head sideways, glaring. “The tape will ruin the paint.”
“I believe the addition of my body adds to the piece. Future generations will be able to look up and say, ‘Wow. He really did have a huge cock.’”
“Yeah, like you didn’t photoshop it to look bigger.”
The thing’s the size of my arm, for God’s sake.
“Do I look like the kind of guy who sits around on his computer trying to make my cock look bigger?”
“Yeah, you kind of do.”
Looking extremely offended, he digs his thumbs behind the waistband of his jeans and pushes down.
Alarm shoots through my chest. “What are you doing?”
The jeans slide a few inches down his thighs, exposing a patch of dark hair that immediately makes my legs clench.
“I’m proving you wrong.”
“I don’t need to see your dick!”
“Yes, you absolutely do.”
I hold out my hand, stalling his movements. “Save it.”
Three sharp raps at the door make his hands pause at his waist. Liam’s eyebrows knit together in a scowl as though he’s actually annoyed. I have to keep reminding myself he’s a prince, an actual fucking prince with real power.
“It’s Marcia, Your Highness. The seamstress you requested.”
Liam drags up his jeans over that small inch of thigh. I watch his pants slide over the swell of