The Prince's Stolen Virgin

“And if I don’t?”

“I didn’t think I could possibly make that more clear. If you don’t there will be destruction. For everyone. Everyone you love. Everyone you will love.”

She blinked. “Are you going to have people killed?”

“No. I’ll only make them wish they were dead.”

“And how will that help your improve your image attempt?” she asked with a boldness she didn’t feel.

“I’m not so stupid that I would go about it in the public view. But your New York parents...they are vulnerable. And suitably low visibility. Nonetheless, I can ruin them financially. He works with American politicians. And believe me, if I offer the right incentives, I can decimate his patient base, his reputation. Because far better to have an alliance with a prince than continue to support a specific physician.”

Ice settled in her stomach. She believed him. Believed he would do that. Harm her parents. And if she allowed that...what sort of daughter would she be? They had protected her all her life. The least she could do was protect them in kind.

He smiled, and something in that smile made it impossible for her to doubt him. And then his expression shifted, and he returned to being that charming-looking man she had seen on the street in New York. “Now, you can’t possibly meet my people in that hospital gown. Rest for tonight. Tomorrow... Tomorrow we shall set about fashioning you into a queen.”

* * *

Felipe walked into his father’s room. It was dark, the curtains drawn, none of the lights on.

“Good evening, Father,” he said, sweeping toward the bed.

“Your jacket is crooked,” his father said by way of greeting.

Felipe lifted his arm, tugging his sleeves down, hating the reflex. “It is not,” he returned. “And you’re very nearly blind, so even if it was, there would be no way for you to tell.”

It was a strange thing, seeing this man in this state. He had always been fearful to Felipe when he’d been a child. And now, here he was, drained, shrunken. And still, something twisted with something sour whenever he looked at him.

This man, who had abused and tortured him and his mother for years. A slap across her face when Felipe was “in disarray.”

He could remember well his mother being hit so hard it left an instant bruise beneath her eye. And then her makeup artist had been charged with making it invisible before they went to present themselves in the ballroom as the perfect royal family.

A facade of perfection. Something his father excelled at. He had convinced his country of the perfection of his family and the perfection of his rule. The citizens of Santa Milagro slowly and effectively stripped of their freedom. Of art, education and hope.

All things Felipe would see restored. Though he would never be able to fix what had become of his mother, at least he could restore Santa Milagro itself.

There had always been the temptation to try and claim the country by force, but that would only entail more loss of life.

There was enough blood shed already. Blood that felt as if it stained his hands.

“Is that any way to talk to your dying father?”

“Probably not. But since when have I cared? I only wanted you to know something.”

“What is that?”

“I found her. The princess.”

His father stirred. “My princess?”

A smile curved Felipe’s lips. “No. She’s mine now. I’m going to make her my wife. There is nothing you can do about it. Not from your deathbed.”

“You’re a bastard,” his father said, his voice thin, reedy and as full of venom as it had ever been. But he had no power now.

“Don’t I wish that were true,” Felipe said, twisting his voice into the cruelest version of itself he could manage. Projecting the sort of cruelty that he had learned from the man lying before him. “If only I were a bastard, rather than your flesh and blood. You have no idea how much I would pay to make that so.”

“The feeling,” his father said, the words broken by a ragged cough, “is mutual.” He wiped a shaking hand over his brow. “I never was able to break you.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Felipe said. “But I do hope that I will go down in history as one of your greatest failures. The only truly sad thing is that you will not be here to see it.”

He turned to leave his father’s room. Then paused. “However, if you’re still alive by the time the wedding rolls around I will be sure to send you an invitation. I’ll understand that you won’t be feeling up to attending.”

He continued out of his father’s room then, striding down the hall and on to the opposite wing of the palace where his rooms were. It was only then that he acknowledged the slight tremor in his own hand.