Taken by the Prince Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also by Jewel Killian

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chatper Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Also by Jewel Killian

  Sneak Peek of Claimed by the Prince

  Pilar

  Taken by the Prince

  Jewel Killian

  Copyright © 2018 Jewel Killian

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Holiday Studs

  Halloween with the Hunk

  Cass and Landon’s Story

  Thanksgiving for Three

  Jeannie, Noah and Nick’s Story

  Christmas Crush

  Duchess Serene and Jeffrey’s Story

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  Chapter One

  Charlotte

  “Cut! That’s a wrap. Fantastic job. Everyone go home and love on your families. I know this was a tough shoot for all of us, but I want everyone to know how much I appreciate all your hard work.”

  The production bell rang, and everyone scattered. Directors and assistants were off to meet with producers to work out the post-production schedule, lighting crews descended to disassemble the rigs, sound assistants yanked up the gaffer tape holding down all the wires, and I hobbled over to the makeup trailer and collapsed in the chair. In moments, a makeup artist and three assistant artists went to work on me, taking the extensions out of my silvery wig and then getting me out of the hot, heavy wig altogether. Once my natural coppery strands were freed of the wig cap, I felt infinitely more like myself.

  Then they went about de-latexing me, rubbing my shoulders, neck, and the back of my hands with isopropyl alcohol so they could pry up the shimmering blue scales it had taken five hours to apply plus who knows how long to actually mold and paint. I was used to the routine, and before they stood me up to strip me out of my padded clothing, I kicked off my shoes, mourning my blistered, calloused toes. They looked like they’d been in a boxing match, not like they belonged on one of the most sought after, highest paid, “it girl” actresses of the moment.

  “Do what the ballerinas do, honey. Just put ‘em in an ice bucket when ya get home. That’ll take the swelling down. Keep your blisters covered in liquid Band-Aide and stay off of them as much as you can. They’ll heal themselves in no time.” Jen, the makeup artist smiled at me. “Don’t worry. They’ll be just as pretty as they were before you know it. Well, until the next shoot I guess.”

  I sighed as all four of them went to work peeling the skintight suit with padding in the hips, ass, and boobs off my athletic frame. Until the next shoot. The makeup artists words echoed in my thoughts. I was so lucky. So goddamn lucky. Scouted on the street by a modeling agency at nineteen, I balanced shoots, go-sees, and full class schedule at Cornell in international studies and humanitarian work, all while knowing modeling was only the stepping stone.

  I wanted to be an actress. My whole body ached to perform, and in those early days of rude photographers who said I didn’t know how to move, or arrogant clients who said I wasn’t right for their brand, I always pushed through, because I knew there was something on the other side, something I was working toward. I scraped and struggled and worked my way up until I made a name for myself in the modeling world. Then I did it all again the film industry.

  But now, seeing myself in the harsh, stark white light of the commercial makeup mirrors lining the trailer, I wasn’t sure if this was what I still wanted. Did I have another movie in me?

  “No, no. You have to pull it taut, like this,” Jen said to one of the assistants.

  The four of them pulled and yanked and rolled the leather suit down an inch at a time. Once de-suited, which took forty-five minutes, I collapsed into the chair again, slinging a robe over me as I did.

  “You know,” Jen said as she began taking off the extensive cream paint on my face. “I don’t normally read the scripts for the movies I work on, but this one seemed like a real winner to me.”

  I smiled at her. Jen always seemed to know when I needed cheering up. “Yeah, it should be something special. What could be better than a space opera with dragons?” I picked off a flake of residual latex from my collarbone.

  “Hm, you know, honey, I can never tell if you’re being serious or not.”

  “I’m sorry, Jen. It was a very difficult shoot.” That was putting it mildly. The makeup and thirty-pound wig weren’t so bad. I’d done enough period pieces and been stuffed into enough corsets to be intimately familiar with the pain associated with beauty. It was the hanging around in a harness from my inner thighs while the crew redid lights and changed cameras for three weeks straight that really got under my skin. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The script, which for the record I loved and did actually think was something special, called for a massive power failure, and that meant no artificial gravity on the ship. But my legs were so bruised and swollen, they didn’t resemble legs anymore. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. You’ve been nothing but sweet to me.”

  “Hey, no worries, Char. This business is a machine—a big toothy one that chews up pretty people like you and spits them out. Don’t you worry. I’ll get you outta here as quick as I can, so you can get back home and get yourself fixed up. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I said, watching her strip away layers of iridescent blue paint. When my own freckled skin finally emerged, I came to terms with what had been rumbling within me for at least the last year.

  I did not want to be an actress anymore.

  Chapter Two

  Ash

  “To His Royal Highness, Prince Ashley of Trisea,” said Weston Creightly, the curator of the newly opened Brooklyn Museum.

  A chorus of “Hear, hear’s!” echoed around the museum’s atrium which now served as a ballroom. What better way to celebrate a new art museum than by donating an obscene amount of money and then throwing a party in it? Everyone clinked their champagne flutes, took a small sip of the expensive, bitter bubbles, and then all eyes were on me.

  That was the deal. Everyone always deferred to me. Whether leading the conversation, setting the group dynamic, or even the overall tone of an event, it was all up to me. It went with being born into the Trisean royal family. Except, this time, they weren’t deferring anything to me. This time, they wanted a speech.

  I stood, smoothed the front of my formal dress jacket, pulled a folded paper from the inside pocket, and pretended to read from it. “Ladies, gentlemen, I’m so very honored to be in your presence tonight. Firstly, I’d like to thank all the people behind the scenes who helped make this event a success.” The obligatory applause crested, and when it died, I continued.

  “The arts, I’m afraid, rare
ly get recognized as what they truly are or, perhaps more importantly, for what they truly do for us. Art has the power to transcend space and time, transporting us back to a long forgotten memory or even a distant, foreign land in the span of a single breath. It has the power to not only elicit emotion, a tear, a gasp, a chill up your arm, but to transmute it as well. How many of you have felt poorly, maybe after the end of a relationship or a tragic death, and chosen to listen to a piece of music in the hopes of feeling something else?”

  I paused, taking in the dining room to see nodding heads and rapt, fixed gazes. “Sometimes, we want to feel better, and we search out uplifting or comforting art, and sometimes, we lean into that pain, finding the most melancholic, heartrending composition there is in the hope of fueling a catharsis. Art does that for us. It’s therapy, it’s cumulative, it’s representative of the entire human experience. It is, simply put, magic. With this donation to the Brooklyn Museum, on behalf of myself and the Trisean Royal Crown, I hope to have at least a small part in keeping that magic alive. Thank you.”

  The crowd erupted in applause, and after a respectable amount of gracious nodding, I refolded the blank paper and sat back in my seat. I hadn’t needed speech writers or even notes in a number of years. I could cold read a room in seconds and give them the best speech they’d ever heard off the top of my head.

  “Very well stated, Your Highness,” the curator said.

  “Thank you. It took years of practice.”

  Mr. Creightly didn’t quite know what to make of that. He simply smiled and turned to start a conversation with someone else at our table.

  It was true. I’d been born royal, but I wasn’t born eloquent or with anything that resembled social graces. In fact, in my youth, I was known as an embarrassment to the Crown. It wasn’t unearned either. I was so horrendously unskilled at all the things I was supposed to be good at, I eventually gravitated toward more destructive things.

  But I worked on it, hard and for a long time. I studied people day in and out. I practiced public speaking, first in front of the mirror and then with larger and larger crowds, until I became comfortable enough to do my due diligence as a member of the royal family. A prince has one job, support the king and queen. That can mean any number of things, but the two main responsibilities are: going on goodwill missions as ambassadors of the Crown when the king and queen are unable and making charitable donations to causes deemed worthy of the Crown’s money.

  The thing is, once it all came together for me, once I could read a room and tell them precisely what they wanted to hear, I started to see how everyone, no matter how noble or gracious they appeared, everyone was after something. Everyone had ulterior motives. Everyone wanted something to make them even the tiniest bit better off than they were.

  Seeing through the veil of social nuance exhausted me. It jaded me, and the people I trusted were few and far between.

  How could I when, in this room alone, there were three people in unhappy relationships, four desperate for a baby with their partner but afraid to tell them, seven who were actively cheating, and one embezzling from his company. I wasn’t trying to notice the tells and ticks of unhappy people. I didn’t want to know how few honest people there were in the world. But once learned, once seen, it couldn’t be unseen.

  The worst part was the women. They’d throw themselves at me because of my title. Each one more charming and beautiful than the next, and all wanting power or prestige or the security money offers. It was absolutely staggering.

  So I played the game. I did the goodwill tours, and I attended all the right balls, galas and charity events. I donated to the right organizations, and I hated every second of it.

  “Excuse me, Prince Ash?”

  Thank the gods for attentive staff. Stationed directly behind me at all times, my security guard, Nathaniel, tapped on my shoulder. I angled my head so he could whisper in my ear.

  That is, he pretended to whisper in my ear. I nodded a few times, then one final, grim nod when I was sure I had everyone’s attention.

  “Ladies, gentlemen,” I said, standing at the table. “I’m afraid an urgent matter has come up that I must attend to.”

  The collective, “Oh noes,” and “What a shames,” bounced off the marble floors and walls of the atrium. I held up my hands and smiled at the guests. “Please, please stay, enjoy the food. Enjoy the party. Enjoy the art. I must take my leave. I bid you all, adieu.”

  And with that, my security guard led me out of the event.

  “There. That wasn’t so bad was it?” Nathaniel asked as he opened the door to the black sedan with diplomat tags and the flag of Trisea flying above the headlights.

  I smiled as Nathaniel slid in next to me. I trusted him implicitly. He had proven himself time and time again and had always been upfront about his motivations. Money. Nathaniel didn’t work for the Crown out of any sense of duty or national pride. He didn’t believe in the system. He wasn’t honor-bound to protect me like the vassals and royal guards of old. No. I paid Nathaniel very well to protect me, keep my schedule, and to occasionally get me out of events early. He was quite good at it, too.

  “I suppose it could have been worse,” I said.

  “Well, the good news is you only have one last gala tomorrow before you can return to Trisea.”

  I shook my head, running my hands through my hair. “Is there any way you can get me out of it, Nathaniel?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness. The Met Gala is quite an important event. Not attending would be categorically unwise.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But make sure you get me out in no more than an hour.”

  “Absolutely, Prince Ash.”

  Chapter Three

  Charlotte

  “But what will you do instead?” asked my best friend Serene as she dove into her waffles.

  The New York breeze caught her napkin and whipped it across my rooftop deck. As it whizzed by my head, I plucked it from the air like a Kung Fu master, smiling at Serene’s expression. “It’s the agility training from the Dragon Queen movie. I’ll lose it in a few weeks.”

  “Ah,” she said, taking her napkin back and refocusing on her breakfast.

  The red-eye flight from L.A. to New York had me back in my penthouse just in time for a nap and a late breakfast with Serene. I hadn’t had any real face time with her in three months. Being on the other side of the country on a movie set for fourteen hours a day tended to hamper my social life.

  I did the bi-coastal thing because as much as I tried to make L.A. my home, it never seemed interested in the position. Aside from the glorious weather, there weren’t many things I liked about the city. I stayed there when I had to for work, but otherwise, I was in my real home on the east coast.

  “Well? If not acting, then what?” Serene asked again. “Tell me you’ve given it at least the tiniest bit of thought before deciding to quit.”

  “Of course I have. This isn’t a decision I’ve come to lightly or recently. It’s been brewing for at least the last year. But I don’t yet know what I want to do instead. Everything? Anything? Maybe I’ll travel. Maybe I’ll go to all the places I’ve filmed at and actually enjoy them as a tourist.” Then a thought hit me. It was crazy but at the same time it made me feel hopeful. I said it slowly, carefully, testing how it sounded out loud. “Maybe I’ll get back into humanitarian work.”

  “You did humanitarian work?”

  Best friends though we were, Serene and I had actually only recently met. As I understood it, she lived the life of a hermit, afraid that she’d be discovered as an English royal in hiding. Then, something changed, and she decided she didn’t want to be that person anymore. I met her shortly after she “came out” to the public, and we’ve been pretty much inseparable ever since.

  I nodded, enjoying the fresh farmer’s market fruit I picked up on the way back from the airport. “In college, before I was scouted, I was involved in all kinds of outreach missions. I was part of Habitat for Humanity and
built houses for a summer. I went to Africa for a semester and dug wells for rural communities. I even started a clean water charity a few years ago. But I couldn’t really run it the way I wanted to, not with my shooting schedule. Maybe I’ll dive deeper into that.”

  Serene nodded, dabbing delicately at her lips with the edge of her napkin. “That sounds wonderful. Let me know what you decide, and I’ll make sure my foundation donates. Oh, you know what? We should celebrate your new freedom. You should come to the Met Gala tonight,” she said, eyes twinkling.

  She was up to something. I didn’t know what, but I was sure I wouldn’t like it.

  “Why on earth would I want to go to the Met Gala?”

  “It’s a charity event. Weren’t you just saying—”

  “Yes, I was, and yes, in the strictest sense, the Met Gala is a charity. But you and I both know it’s more an excuse for rich people to get together and cause drama than it is a charity for the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  “Maybe that’s accurate. But think of all the networking you could do. Maybe you’ll stumble across someone who knows all there is to know about the ins and outs of starting and running charitable organizations. Maybe you’ll find people wanting to back your endeavor. Maybe—” She paused to give me a broad smile. “Maybe you’ll find someone special.”