Chapter 1

Nick

Nick Tennant studied his surroundings, his brain instinctively mapping the area, the exit points and the people lounging within the area of Club Royal, the best-kept secret of the United Kingdom. Club Royal was a BDSM club owned by the royal family. Yes, the royal family owned, ran and attended a BDSM club. It was something that had shocked Nick when he'd first been told about it—after he'd signed an NDA when he'd begun to work for the Sutcliffes—but once he'd seen how it worked, who the Sutcliffes were behind closed doors, and how they cared for others, it was just another tick in the they were "amazing" column.

Not that the public would know about it. There were rumours, of course, but no one had ever corroborated those rumours. After all, who could take on the crown and expect to win? Keeping Club Royal a secret was essential, not only for the royal family but for the members who attended, too. It wasn't all rich people who could afford an exclusive membership. It was for anyone who wanted to join and who would abide by the rules.

Laughter brought his attention back to his group of friends.

"I can't believe you're still telling that story, George," Kieren said, pursing his lips. "Find new material, for god's sake!"

Prince George held up his hands with a laugh. "It's a good story. Only when it becomes a not good story will I stop using it."

As a bodyguard to the king, Nick had expected to be ignored and brushed aside by the royal family when he'd first started working for them, but the warmth and camaraderie between the royals and their guards and staff were unexpected. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected to sit amongst royals and guards alike while celebrating the birthday of a guard who had become a member of the royal family. Kieren had been Prince Patrick's bodyguard for years, and then, almost two years ago, they fell in love. As with all relationships that involved the royal family, it wasn't without its issues, and with the treasonous activities of other members of the royal family, it had made things harder, but everyone had got through it.

Well, not everyone.

The usual wave of tightening across his chest, reducing his ability to breathe fully, hit him with the memories of those who hadn't made it through, not least of which were three guards he had worked closely with for many years: Selena, Jared and Simon. Fuck, Simon. Simon had been their boss, a role now taken by Dominic, and he had been the nicest guy on the planet. He hadn't deserved to be shot and killed during an assassination attempt, but fate had other plans. Simon, Jared and Selena had lost their lives that day, and Landon, Viola and Nick had been injured. It had been a shitstorm from the moment they had left the event and one that stayed with them every day.

Breathing through the wave, Nick's chest eased with each passing second, until he could inhale fully again. It was something he'd needed to learn during his physiotherapy appointments. Whenever his grief consumed him, he had to breathe, even when he hadn't thought he could.

"You good?" Brett asked, leaning closer to be heard over the conversation.

Nick nodded and smiled the smile he knew people wanted to see. The happy joker of the pack. "You know me. Unless I'm tired, I'm good."

Brett snorted. "Yeah, god help anyone who disturbs or stops you from sleeping. I have no idea how you will ever manage when you find a partner."

"Drug them?" Brett glared at him, and Nick laughed and raised his hands, palms forward. "It was a joke!"

"Uh-huh. One in poor taste."

Nick sighed dramatically. "Fine." Those jokes right on the edge of crossing a line were ones that had got him into trouble before now, but they were also the ones that everyone loved him to make. And he was nothing if not a crowd-pleaser. "I can't believe Kieren wouldn't let me plan his party." He huffed. He loved organising parties for people.

"I think after throwing out ideas for a ‘voyeur party,' a ‘skinny dipping party,' and a… what was it?" Brett tapped his chin, pretending to think.

"The porn party was an inspired idea," Nick argued, shaking his finger in the air. Brett stared at him, the green and brown swirls changing depending on his mood, and Nick sighed. "You're such a buzzkill."

"And you are like a monkey on a leash," Brett muttered. "Ready to cause havoc the moment you're let loose."

Nick threw his head back and laughed, the image of a Nick-shaped monkey traipsing around Windsor Castle something he couldn't let go. "I need an illustration of that."

"An illustration of what?" Felix asked from Brett's other side.

"Me as a monkey," Nick said, laughing again. "So much opportunity."

Brett shook his head. "How did I ever agree to having you on my team?" he grumbled.

"Because I'm awesome."

Nick's gaze landed on the king and his partners, Kean and Kendal, as they stood, heading for the entrance they used to keep them away from the regular patrons. Although Nick wasn't working that night—Colt and Landon were—he couldn't help his need to ensure they were all right. As if he could do much about it if they weren't. He shook his head.

There was still one aspect of that fateful day that plagued him, and probably always would. His brain understood that he'd been injured and, therefore, unable to assist as he usually would, but his heart couldn't let go of the feeling of letting King Andrew down. He should've been able to do more, help more, save more people. But he didn't. And that would stay with him for the rest of his life.

Swallowing down the nausea, he refocused on his friends. One by one, throughout the evening, they disappeared as couples, triads, or singles wanting to find someone, and Nick stayed right where he was. He wasn't in the mood for company, so while Brett and Felix chatted beside him, Nick's thoughts drifted to the one person who was never far from them—Malachi Sanders.

Malachi was a reporter—mainly written work, but he occasionally appeared on camera, too—and he was a thorn in Nick's side. His comments about the royal family left a lot to be desired, and he found himself wanting to strangle him more than once. The media was a fickle business, enjoying the drama and downfall of people more than the building up of them, and Nick hated it. Seeing false headlines about his friends was something he would never get used to, but it came with the territory. How Andrew and the rest of the Sutcliffes ignored it was beyond him. If it had been his supposed truths plastered across the front pages, he doubted he would be so chilled about it.

"Hey, I'm heading out," he said to Brett and Felix. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Brett frowned at him but nodded. "Take it easy."

"See you," Felix said.

Nick headed through the double doors, away from the conversation room, as Prince Douglas called it, and back into the foyer. He stopped by the front desk and placed his thumb on the sensor.

"Heading home?" Clarice asked. Clarice was the one person who kept Club Royal running as well as it did. She was the one person who could keep anyone out without remorse, and if anyone crossed her, they were done for. She was also the nicest person when it came to the royal family and their staff.

"Yeah. I need sleep," he lied with a smile.

Clarice chuckled. "I've heard about you and sleep, so yes, you better get home."

Nick threw his hands in the air. "Does everyone know I'm grumpy when I don't sleep enough?"

Clarice raised her eyebrows. "Yes. It's an important piece of information."

Nick laughed and waved. "Take care."

"You, too."

He headed down the lift to the parking garage beneath the club and slipped into his car. When the door slammed shut, he rested his head back and closed his eyes. His calf ached, as it often did when he'd been on it for too long. It never impeded his work because he could push the ache aside, but it was a niggle that would forever remind him of what happened.

Another reminder was the front page news the day after the event:

BODYGUARDS EFFED UP!

As if they weren't grieving enough with the loss of their colleagues and friends, they had to have their faces rubbed in the fact that they hadn't protected the king as they should have. Yes, he'd survived, but it was a close call. One Nick promised to never allow to happen again.

Exhaling a huff of air, he started his car and headed home, which was a modest one-bedroom apartment close to Windsor Hospital. His home fit him perfectly, designed with shades of nature—greens, browns, beiges and the occasional blue—to soothe his down-to-earth personality. Though he was an air sign, Aquarius—yes, he knew his zodiac sign thanks to his sister's influence—his mind called more to the earth signs, and he'd honoured his need to think outside a box someone tried to put him in. Just because someone said he should be a certain way, doesn't mean another way wouldn't suit him better. He had his parents to thank for that way of thinking. They'd hated being put into boxes by their parents and had made sure they didn't expect the same from their kids.

He parked the car, entered the building and took the lift to the fourth floor. When the doors opened, he grinned and shook his head.

"Rye, what are you doing?" he asked his brother, who sat on the floor in front of his door.

Rye glanced at him and stood. "Finally! Where were you?"

"Out. What are you doing here? I wasn't expecting you."

"Do I have to announce myself every time I want to come and see you?" Rye asked.

Nick raised his eyebrows and leaned against the wall, making no move to enter his home until his little brother answered some questions. "No, but I would've been here quicker had I known. Now answer my question."

Rye deflated and crossed his arms over his chest, his black hair falling across his forehead as he stared at the floor. "My date went badly. I left after the starter."

Nick's heart broke for him. Rye was an amazing guy, who kept putting himself out there to find that special someone, but every woman he chose was only after sex and every man was an asshole, to put it not so nicely. One day, he'd find the man or woman for him, but Nick wished it was sooner. He deserved it.

Nick unlocked his door and let his brother in first, locking the door behind them. He threw his keys on the table by the door and kicked off his shoes, placing them in the shoe cupboard. "Do you want a drink?"

"Whiskey?"

"How about tea, coffee or hot chocolate?"

Rye was old enough to drink, but Nick didn't encourage it. Too many people had been taken advantage of when they were drunk, their sister included, and so they had always tempered how much they drank whenever they went anywhere. Well, Nick did. He wasn't sure if his brothers and sister did so anymore. But after Eliza had nearly become another statistic of rape, Nick made sure he was mostly firing on all cylinders while he was out with friends.

"Hot chocolate, please," Rye answered. "Marshmallows?"

Nick smiled. "Of course."

He set to work, making hot chocolate using chocolate powder and hot milk, plus an extra square of actual chocolate that, once melted, made it taste that much better, and then marshmallows sprinkled on top. Once it was ready, he joined Rye in the living room where he was curled up on the sofa with his head resting on his arms.

"Here we go," Nick said. "The best cure for a broken heart."

"My heart's not broken." Rye rolled his eyes and reached for the mug.

"Well, in that case…" Nick took the drink way before Rye could take it.

"Hey!" Rye snatched it back, barely keeping everything inside the cup. Though Nick's carpet was brown, so it wouldn't make much of a difference.

Nick settled beside him, tucking one leg beneath him, and leaned his elbow on the back of the sofa, the mug resting carefully on his knee. "Is it just that he was an awful guy, or is something else bothering you?"

The fifteen-year age gap between them wasn't an issue. They were as close as if they'd been born as twins—or he supposed quads because he was as close with all three of his siblings, but there was something between him and Rye that just worked. If Nick was being honest, he could see Rye was at the same crossroads in his life that Nick had been at his age. It was as if Rye was a younger version of him, and he could see where Rye was going and what mistakes he would make along the way. But it didn't matter. Mistakes were there to be made, and if he warned him away too much from a certain path, Rye was stubborn enough to do it, anyway. Better that he found out for himself, even though he would get hurt before the hurt got better.

Rye sighed and stared at his mug, swirling one marshmallow through the others as he spoke. "I'm just sick of the duds. I'm tired of playing the waiting game. I have a job I love, a family I get on with and friends I enjoy hanging out with, but I want someone to share it all with. Is that too much to ask?"

"Not at all. I don't have an answer for you, Rye. As you can see, I'm hardly living my dream."

Rye scoffed. "You have everything you love except a partner, too."

"Exactly my point. If I knew the answer, you'd be the first I'd tell, but I don't have a clue."

"Life sucks and then you die," Rye muttered.

"Don't say that," Nick said. "Life doesn't suck. Only one part of it does, and not for the right reasons." He waggled his eyebrows.

Rye let out a burst of laughter, which was what Nick had hoped for. They drank their rapidly cooling hot chocolates, and Nick asked if Rye wanted to stay for a movie.

"Nah. I'm going to go home and sleep it off. Tomorrow is another day, and the sooner it gets here, the better."

Nick hugged him tightly before he left, making sure it was the best hug ever, because he always wanted to have his hugs remembered if there was ever a time he didn't come back to them. Simon's, Selena's and Jared's deaths had made it more than clear that there was always a chance the same would happen to him. So from that moment, he had given "goodbye" hugs to every member of his family every time he left them. It was a morbid thought, but no more than making a will in the event of his death or writing down exactly what songs or poems he wanted at his funeral.

When he locked the door behind his brother, he exhaled and scrubbed his hands over his face. With nothing he could do to help, he paced, looking at the problem from every available angle. But no. It was Rye's life, and he had to live it himself. Nick's protection could only go so far, and putting them all in bubble wrap wasn't an option, unfortunately.

He climbed into the shower and washed away the day before dragging on some pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt. Venturing into the living room, he grabbed the remote, pulled the fluffy throw from the back of the sofa over his legs and scrolled through the endless list of movies and TV shows. It would probably take him longer to choose something than it would to watch it, but decisions were hard sometimes. When it came to his life, anyway. He could make decisions with his job in milliseconds, but that was it.

Rye had hit the nail on the head when he'd said everything in his life was perfect except for finding a partner. It was the same for Nick. Thinking back to Club Royal, he wasn't averse to the kinks and lifestyles he saw there. He loved watching, which might make him a voyeur, but he didn't get off on it. He wasn't into bondage. The pet play was cute, but again it did nothing for him except think they were adorable. He couldn't see himself being a handler. He loved the community aspect of the club and that was the main reason he went—if he excluded that he had to be there whenever he was on duty and the king went.

He had no idea what he wanted. He only knew when he met someone and they didn't click. The only person he had a remote interest in—and nothing romantic at all—was Malachi Sanders. That reporter was a thorn in his side, and one day, Nick wouldn't be able to hold back his opinion of the lying asshole. He didn't begrudge anyone trying to pay their bills, but that man took it to a whole other level of mean.

What confused Nick, though, was that Malachi didn't seem to be the same person he was in person. Whenever he'd overheard the man talking, he was polite, well-spoken and kind. It didn't mesh with the tone of his writing, but who was Nick to argue?

As the chosen film wore on, Nick found his thoughts reaching for the enigma that was Malachi regularly, as it had done for many months. If Nick couldn't have someone to share his life with, he could use that space to fixate on something else. What else did he have?

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