I don’t know where—if there are any—the cameras are in this room. Snooping will have to come later once I’m more comfortable that I can get away with it.
After I finish with the king’s space, I move on to Rowan’s study. This and his bedroom are the two places I’m least excited to enter. I don’t want the view into his life any more than I already have.
On first breath, it’s not what I expected.
It’s simple without a lot of fanfare. It has a large mahogany desk with things strewn on it, a comfy-looking brown leather sofa, two chairs, an open gas fireplace, and a table and chairs by the window. His wooden bookshelves that match his desk are mostly empty save for a few ancient-looking tomes aboutMessalina that I surmise are ubiquitous on every bookshelf in the palace.
I don’t like being in here. It smells like him, first of all, but touching his stuff feels like I’m touching him. It wasn’t like this in the king’s space, and his was far more lived in and filled with things like family pictures and paintings on the walls and an old mug of half-drunk coffee.
I start with dusting, making sure everything is pristine, but mostly so I can wash out the scent of his cologne with beeswax and citrus. But when I get to his desk, I can’t help but study it in ways I didn’t the king’s. Papers are scattered across his desk that appear to have been ripped out of a sketchbook, along with pencils and charcoals worn down to the nubs. I look at the torn pages, trying not to disturb them as I clean.
They’re sketches, which I didn’t expect. Most are objects or landscapes. There are a few of the children, and one is with the king and queen. All of them are incredible, so lifelike, and I had no clue that Prince Rowan had an artistic side, let alone real talent. I continue on, going from paper to paper when I spot a leather portfolio tucked beneath his laptop and some other items.
I shouldn’t touch it.
My job is to clean, but I’m not exactly a maid, am I?
I glance at the door, curiosity taking over common sense as I listen for footsteps and hear nothing. Then I mark the walls and ceilings, searching for anything that could possibly be a camera, and when I come up empty, I slip it out and carefully open it.
God, this is so stupid. And I hate that I care enough to do this. I hate that there’s still a part of me that thinks about him. Is intrigued.
It’s more charcoal sketches, but when I get to the second page, my heart stops, and my jaw drops. It’s me. Or rather, it’sElla, the version of me from the wedding, complete with dark hair, dark eyes, a lot of makeup, and a beautiful gown. Jesus.
It looks like me, and yet, thankfully, it doesn’t.
With a tremulous hand, I flip the page and find another, this one of me holding my martini and smiling. The next is…holy shit. It’s me, naked on his bed, my head thrown back in ecstasy, my legs spread, and my tits high.
Heat crawls up my skin, and I rub the back of my neck as I look at it closer and see his fingers in my pussy and the top of his head hovering close. My empty core clenches, and my nipples tighten. He drew me coming. I remember what that orgasm felt like. How intense it was. The next page is of me on top of him, riding him. I have a blissed-out smile on my face, and I look…happy. Lust-drunk and happy.
I can’t believe he drew these. Drew me. Drew us from that night.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I quickly shuffle the papers back in line, close the leather cover, and put the portfolio back where I found it. Only in my haste, I step back and knock into a large vase on the floor behind me that I hadn’t noticed.
Shit.
It begins to topple over, and I lunge for it, grasping it at the last second before it smashes. I manage to set the white vase with blue paint back upright and release a relieved breath, only to start and practically drop the thing again when a voice from the doorway says, “That’s a Ming Dynasty piece. Glad you didn’t break it.”
Fuck!
I face Prince Rowan, my heart beating so hard and loud I’d be shocked if he couldn’t hear it. “Me too. Probably smart that you keep a priceless object on the floor where anyone could bump into it.”
Crap. I need to watch my mouth. But damn him, thosephotos and him finding me have me so flustered I can hardly catch my breath.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his broad chest as if he’s been watching me much longer than I hope he has been. I didn’t check. I got sidetracked by his drawings. He’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, tanned forearms.
“Emily never seemed to have a problem with it.”
“That you know of.”
He pushes off from the doorway and stalks toward me. So much for all that beeswax and citrus.
“What on my desk made you so jumpy that you knocked into my vase?”
My mouth goes dry. “Nothing, Your Highness. I was just cleaning around your desk.”
“Were you?” He takes in his sketches and other papers, the ones I left mostly untouched and in place.
“Of course. I didn’t?—”
