Twisted Royals

 

Damaris

My feet dragged as I pushed my housekeeping cart down the corridor. The thick carpet didn’t help. It was like shoving a wheelbarrow through sand.

God forbid big, clomping royal feet touch anything but the best.

As much as I wanted to bitch, the Mazanov palace was gorgeous. Although the eighteenth-century mix of Baroque and Byzantine architecture shouldn’t have worked together, it did, and was considered one of the finest examples of both styles in the world.

I should have spent more time reading the fine print, but I couldn’t resist the three-month stint as a housekeeper before starting my doctorate. Aside from the healthy paycheck, which would mostly cover my living expenses until graduation, I’d envisioned myself seated at Princess Valeriya’s feet as she told me the oral history and traditions of the tiny principality in the Baltic Sea. Her influence, political acumen, and intelligence had helped Agafonza survive and remain independent of Russia—even after the loss of her husband, Prince Grygori.

I wanted to be her when I grew up. She was one badass bitch, and after learning about her in school, it was a dream come true to meet her in person. Best of all, she was an absolute sweetheart.

There was no question about how much I idolized the princess. Unless she was making a public appearance, she wore brilliantly colored caftans and kept her naturally gray hair in a long ponytail. Her at-home days were spent without makeup, and usually with dirt under her nails from tending her garden.

When she went out… I sighed and sent heart eyes at a portrait of her and Prince Grygori in state robes hanging at the end of the hall. Her sense of style put Coco Chanel to shame, and she’d spent decades on various best-dressed lists.

Just because I didn’t have the time or opportunity to wear couture didn’t mean I didn’t admire it.

Aside from Val, as she’d asked me to call her, the island was home to one of the world’s best observatories. I was desperate to be accepted as a researcher there, but I wasn’t about to ask Val for a recommendation. It seemed seedy to me, and I had every intention of competing for one of the few open fellowships on my own merits. In fact, I hadn’t even mentioned it to her, nor would I. There were other observatories, and some were even closer to home. Mauna Kea had already sent me a letter of interest, and I could totally see myself in Hawaii.

Unfortunately, as wonderful as Val was, she came with some baggage—namely, Savva Mazanov, crown prince and utter bastard. I’d have rather wrangled my daddy’s meanest Angus bull than spend a minute in his company.

Wiping away my ugly scowl, I girded my loins and knocked on the door to the last room on the right. Lord only knew what I’d find, but when I got no answer, I opened the door and pushed my cart inside.

To be fair, I’d barely spoken to the man. He certainly didn’t bother waking up for the help, but I hated the look of irritation mixed with sadness that always appeared on Val’s face when another of his exploits made it into the tabloids. I’d have bet my favorite rodeo buckle he was too narcissistic to care what his mama thought, or that the principality would revert to Russia if he didn’t marry before his thirtieth birthday in a few short months.

Then again, I’d be sowing my own oats too, if I had that hanging over my head. Maybe I was being too hard on him, but it seemed awfully disrespectful to whatever princess he had waiting for their wedding day. I didn’t know who she was, but it wasn’t surprising, considering I didn’t waste time following European royalty. It was too close to his birthday for there not to be a betrothal, and the royal houses in Europe had been trading women back and forth like they were bloodstock mares for centuries.

“Le sigh.”

As usual, he was sprawled across the massive four-poster bed on his stomach, bare assed naked and snoring. His breakfast was on a cart near a beautiful Queen Anne dining table that probably cost more than Daddy’s east Texas ranch house.

Also as usual, untouched, because he was probably still drunk. So far, I’d been lucky, and he’d always been alone in his huge bed. If I had to see him doing the nasty with his arm candy du jour, I’d need to quit.

Thankfully, starting today, I’d have a whole week without him. He was scheduled to go to Stockholm for a meeting with the observatory’s board of directors, financiers, and scientists. I was about green with envy too. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t have done for a chance to tag along—even if I hadn’t quite gotten up the nerve to send in my fellowship application.

Savva was gorgeous, with dark blue eyes that reminded me of the sky over Texas. He had blond hair that tended to curl on the ends, and I’d never seen him without at least a bit of shadow beard. Well, not in person anyway. He’d been clean shaven for his official portrait, and all but the tiniest glimpse of the tattoos running up the side of his neck had been hidden by the high collar of a red military uniform.

Damn. That ink. I was an absolute ho for good tattoos on a man, and I could have spent days using my tongue to trace the lines and whorls of the colorful patterns decorating his muscular back and tight, perfect ass.

He snorted and rolled over, throwing an arm over his face as he spread his legs. Forget a six-pack. The man was hauling at least a dozen Lone Stars under tanned skin dusted lightly with golden hair.

Still asleep, he stroked himself, sliding a beautifully veined hand up and down his thick shaft. Mercy. A picture of the danged thing had to be in the dictionary next to the definition of morning wood.

I squeezed my eyes shut and resisted the urge to throw a sheet over him and his massive erection before I did the unthinkable and helped him out.

Instead of letting my libido get me into trouble, I lifted the cloche from one of the plates and grabbed a fork. I did not need to see that gorgeous cock with its thick Prince Albert piercing one more time…

As usual, everything was still warm, and the crisp bacon was exactly how I liked it—almost, but not quite as good as my mother’s. A few drops of the homemade pepper sauce Mama used to make would have been perfect on the fluffy scrambled eggs, but Prince Savva was a heathen and demanded ketchup.

Gross.

The truly excellent coffee and fig preserves on toasted home baked bread made up for it, and I made a note to hunt the palace chef down and beg for the recipe.

Although I could get the same breakfast in the kitchen, I always ate Savva’s. It seemed dumb to let all that food go to waste, and I was afraid he’d hurt the chef’s feelings when it was returned uneaten.

Then again, he’d probably been doing it for years, and the chef was most likely used to his habits.

Chewing on the last of the bacon, I grabbed my supplies and took care of the ensuite bathroom. Although he often left a few whiskers in the sink, he was generally tidy, which I appreciated since I was the one cleaning up after him.

I was half tempted to dump his drunk ass off the bed, so I didn’t have to come back to take care of the sheets but decided to let him stew in his own funk. He’d be gone soon enough and let me finish the rest of my chores in peace.