Chapter 2

Buckingham Palace is even fancier inside than I ever imagined. Funny how I've lived in London all my life and have never been here. Until now.

The prince guy swanned off as soon as we got through the gates, and now I'm in a small room with the two fey who grabbed me at work, and this terrifying fey woman with waist long green hair that seems to move on its own.

There is not much in this room. One huge ornate wooden desk. Red and gold wallpaper. A tall and thin window draped with thick blood red curtains. Two doors with gold handles. No convenient escape routes. Especially when both my arms are being held in a death grip.

I'm helpless. A fly caught in a web, waiting for my impending doom.

I'm still trying to process how everything has gone so wrong so quickly. I was at work. Now I'm a prisoner of the fey, and I have no idea why. I'm just an ordinary guy. A depressingly boring, ordinary guy. Of all the people in the world they could drag to Buckingham Palace, why me? It doesn't make any sense.

The woman in front of me holds up a sharp-looking needle threaded with silver thread. Oh, fuck. This cannot be good. I try stepping backwards, but my escorts don't even flinch.

Alright. Calm down, Jamie. She might just want to sew your clothes.

Suddenly, I'm slammed down onto the desk. Hard enough to knock all the breath out of me. A rough hand twists in my hair. I'm seeing stars. My lungs are burning. Cold fingers grab my ear lobe.

Okay, definitely not stitching my clothes. That was a foolish hope.

Sharp pain lances through me. Bright and shocking. Is she piercing my ears? With a needle and thread?

Now she is mumbling and chanting. A squeak escapes me as white hot pain burns me again. Is this fucking bitch sewing my ears? What the fuck!

My body tries squirming, but it's pointless. The men holding me are as immovable as mountains. And it is probably not a good idea to wriggle when a crazy woman is digging into your flesh with a razor sharp needle. Whatever she is doing to me is awful, but I imagine it will be worse if her hand slips.

The hand in my hair lifts my head up, turns it and slams it down again. Right on my freshly savaged ear. My unmutilated ear is grabbed. Oh please, not again. A pathetic whimper spills out of me. Bracing for the pain only seems to make it worse. One, two, three times she stabs me. I can feel the drag of the thread through my wounds. I'm going to throw up.

My head spins as I'm pulled upright. Warm wet drops are dripping onto my shoulders. It has to be my blood.

"Now you can understand your orders," says the woman, as she flashes her pointed teeth at me.

A shudder wracks my body. I can hear her strange, lilting words, yet I can also understand them. This is so disorientating. And confusing. I swear the prince dude talked to me in English, back in the call centre. Though, I suppose it was only a few words. And why go to the effort of speaking a foreign language to your captive when you can simply sew their fucking ears with silver thread and then bark orders at them in your own tongue?

"Undress."

I blink at her.

She smiles again. "You heard me."

My arms are freed, but I doubt I could make it any further than the door.

My hands are shaking as I reach for the buttons of my crumpled work shirt. I always thought I'd be feisty. Brave. Have some balls. I've read plenty of books, watched thousands of films. I arrogantly assumed I'd kick ass if I was ever taken prisoner. It turns out reality is infinitely more terrifying than fiction. A deep, primal part of myself is screaming at me to obey. It seems evolution has concluded that not pissing off the scary predators is good for survival.

I undress as if in a daze. My three fey companions glance at my naked body with complete disinterest. Thank heavens.

I'm marched through to the next room, all turquoise and aquamarine tiles and a sunken bath. Is this an original feature or something the fey installed? I can't imagine King Charles swanning around in a large sunken bath, all Romanesque style.

I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry. I really don't want to think about the royal family's fate. There has been no mention on the news, and I don't want to know.

"Get in," says the fey woman.

Well, that's an order I don't mind obeying at all. This bath looks incredible. I step forward with what I hope is a haughty and confident tilt to my chin, and immerse myself in the water. It is deliciously warm.

"Wash the blood off!" she snaps.

Jeez, lady. Whose fault is it that I'm bleeding? I bite my bottom lip so I don't say that out loud. Quietly, I do as I'm told.

"Out."

Really? Already? Reluctantly I leave the warm, soothing water and walk back towards my captors.

I'm given a soft towel and a bundle of silk clothes. I dry myself off while my little audience watches. I attempt the clothes but I have no idea how to put them on. The woman huffs in annoyance and starts dressing me like I'm some human-sized doll.

She steps back to admire her handiwork. I'm squirming before her scrutiny. I'm wearing a lot of clothes. Layers of them. Nearly every inch of me is covered. My face and hands are the only parts of me that are bare, yet I've never felt more … sexy? Alluring? I can't find the right word for it. But it feels strange. I want to preen, and to hide.

I wish there was a mirror. Or actually, perhaps I should be thankful there isn't one. I can feel how these clothes cinch in at the waist and flow over my ass. I can feel the soft silk caressing my skin. These clothes feel erotic. I don't need to see it.

The complete and utter lack of underwear has to be contributing to my uneasy feeling, but since there is sod all I can do about it, it's probably best not to think about it.

"You'll do," says the woman.

She turns on her heels and I fall meekly into step behind her, without the two men having to grab me.

They didn't give me any shoes, but the carpet is decadently soft under my naked feet. It feels strange to be barefoot when not at home, but it is far from the worst thing that has happened to me today.

I'm led to the poshest sitting room I have ever seen. It's all green and gold. Every surface is ornate. Even the wooden parts of the huge chairs, and what I think is called a chaise lounge.

"When you see the prince you must curtsey, like this," she says as she flows down in a graceful movement I will never be able to copy.

"I thought men bowed?" I ask.

Her nose wrinkles. "You are not a man, you are a pet. Now curtsey!"

I'm not a man? I'm pretty sure that I am. And what the hell is a pet? Surely something is being lost in translation here. The prince called me a pet before dragging me away from work, but the word can't mean what they think it means? Can it? I mean, it's quite clear they think all humans are lesser beings, but as far as I know, they aren't going around calling everyone pet.

The scary fey woman gives me an impatient glare. My frantic thoughts are going to have to wait.

Stumbling, I try to emulate the graceful movement she showed me. She laughs. A musical peel of mockery and disdain. I try again. And again.

Eventually she sighs. "That will have to do. For now."

She shoves me through a door that is covered in the same flocked wallpaper as the walls and suddenly I'm in a huge bedroom. The dark carpet is plush under my bare toes. The fourposter bed is enormous and draped in dark green velvet and laid with rich brown furs.

She walks back out with my two silent escorts, and suddenly I'm all alone. Now is the time to think of an escape plan.

A hidden door on the far end of the bedchamber opens and the prince walks in. So much for escaping. He strides right up to me, stopping a mere two steps in front of me.

He is frigging tall. I have to tilt my head up to look at him. He is making the very air around him zing. It feels like a summer afternoon after a storm, when lightning has struck close by. My feet feel more firmly attached to the floor, as if the mass of his presence is so immense it is weighting down gravity.

He tilts his head slightly and assesses me calmly. Intensely. As if he is looking through my skin and critiquing the colours of my soul.

He is terrifying and magnificent. Like an imploding star. And I still have no idea what he wants with me.

Oh shit! I'm supposed to do that whole curtsying thing!

I pick up the soft silk of my clothes in my clammy hands and try to sink gratefully down. Damn it! I think that was my worst ever attempt.

I straighten and look back up at him. Not one muscle in his face has moved. I have no idea what he thinks of my dismal curtsy attempt. Is he enraged? Amused? Am I in trouble?

My heart is beating frantically against my ribs. I feel lightheaded. Oh gosh, fainting is the last thing I need.

"I expect obedience," he says, and his deep voice makes me shiver. "Utter and unflinching."

I stare helplessly up into his strange eyes. Even if I wanted to, I don't think I could move a muscle.

The weird duality of hearing his foreign words yet also understanding them is fading. My mind must be adjusting. Or the magic is taking hold.

"The duties of a pet are simple enough. Do as you are told. Sit by my side. Cause no trouble."

He is making it sound too easy. I'm not dumb. I've been shying away from it, but it's quite clear. I'm wearing strangely slutty clothes. I'm standing mere feet away from his massive bed. He is calling me a pet.

My hand rises shakily and points over his shoulder at the monstrous bed. "And do other stuff?"

Do other stuff? For fuck's sake. Did I really just say that? I doubt this magic silver thread can turn that into a coherent, eloquent phrase.

He raises one eyebrow. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

"Yes, you will be warming my bed."

I swallow. My skin prickles. My face feels all hot. Great, I'm pretty sure I resemble a tomato right now.

Something flashes in his unusual eyes. Something that looks like smug delight. The bastard is enjoying my intense reaction.

"It is good that you desire me," he says.

I squirm and drop my gaze to stare at my bare feet. Okay, he is hot. I can't deny it. There are a thousand different reasons why I should not fancy him, but my body is not listening to a single one of them.

"Why me?" I squeak in a feeble attempt to divert the conversation to safer ground.

"You are the firstborn son of Graham Grantham."

I blink. What? Tentative hope starts to flicker. "The media mogul? I'm not. I'm afraid you have the wrong person." Could everything really be resolved as easily as this? I might be home in time for dinner.

The prince's nose wrinkles. "Do not lie. I can smell your blood."

I stare at him. He stares back. I'm not lying. Rich, powerful and infamous Graham Grantham is not my father. I don't know who my father is. ‘Ships that passed in the night' is all my mother has ever said.

Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. Puzzle pieces are falling into place. My mother is lovely and eccentric. Still stunning, and clearly was extremely beautiful in her day. She is absorbed in her art. Art that while gorgeous, cannot fetch a high enough price to pay for our nice house in an expensive part of London or the good schools that I went to.

I always suspected someone. But as in some faceless wealthy businessman. Not flipping Graham Grantham. The Graham Grantham.

"Oh," I say softly.

The prince seems to read my inner turmoil, and he nods. Almost kindly.

"But I've never met him. He won't care," I try.

"Blood is blood. You are the firstborn son of the most powerful man in this country. Keeping you as my pet is potent."

My mouth opens and closes a few times. Most powerful man in the country? Surely that is the prime minister, or the king? Not the man who owns all the newspapers and television channels.

The prince's expression softens. As if he is amused by watching my brain cogs slowly turn.

Perhaps he is right. Perhaps the man who controls the press is the most powerful. Perhaps it is only the fey who see it that way. In the end, it doesn't matter. I'm here, and I'm screwed.

"Enough talking. Time for your first public appearance," says the prince.

He pulls something out of his robes. It's a black leather collar attached to a leash made of fine silver chain.

Oh. My. God.

Just when I thought this day could not get any worse.