Page 1 of Her Royal Master (Master Me #1)

D ay One

Chelsea

N aked, chained to a wall on the Prince of Halsburg’s yacht, I struggled to breathe.

The other four girls bound near me giggled and flirted.

Apparently they’d understood what they’d signed up for.

Welcomed and enjoyed being stripped and put into bondage by a group of testosterone-laden young royals who had more interest in the silver platter of cocaine than the naked women strung up for them.

Me? I’d bitten off more than I could chew. In so many ways. I had no business being here. For one thing, I wasn’t a call girl like the rest of them. And I wasn’t here for the money, although five grand for three days’ worth of work had sounded amazing.

But now, I was pretty sure I was going to die. And if I did happen to survive this insane experience, I would probably come out so scarred, I’d be damaged goods for life.

One of the young prince’s party boy entourage fastened a collar around my neck. I jerked my head away, which brought a sharp slap across my face. He pinched my cheeks, scrunching my lips up.

“None of that, or you’ll get your first whipping.

” His tone sounded cruel through the thick Austrinian accent, but he grinned as he twisted to look over his shoulder at his friends.

This was all just a big game to the pretty boy young royals.

“This one’s feisty.” I heard enthusiasm in his voice, like he relished putting me in my place.

Big shot dom wanted to show off his skills to his playboy friends.

Jesus, fuck. What had I gotten myself into?

He tightened the collar, and I gagged against it.

“Too tight,” I choked. I had strangulation issues. Always had. When I was a kid, my brother knew my best tickle spot was my neck because I hated being touched there. So it’s possible the collar wasn’t too tight, and it was my own panic that made me hyperventilate, but knowing that didn’t help.

My vision tunneled as I fought for breath. Lights started to dance in front of my eyes. I yanked at the wrist cuffs pinned to the wall above the giant, room-sized orgy bed, but couldn’t twist my hands free.

Through my hazy vision, I saw a dark figure approach.

Oh God—not him. Anyone but him.

Darius, the prince’s older and disgraced cousin. The angry, tattooed black sheep of the Halsburg royal family. His brows were down in slashes, mouth firm, and his gaze was locked on me.

I squirmed harder against my bonds. Of all the wild party boys, Darius was the last one I wanted to piss off.

He’d been charged with assault and battery on his girlfriend last year in a scandal that rocked the entire royal family and solidified the nickname he’d earned in his twenties— the Devil Duke.

He leaned over me. Lip curled in scorn, he slid a finger under my collar. “You’re not choking, princess.” For some reason, his accent was sexier than the rest of theirs. He unbuckled the collar anyway, and I went limp with relief.

“I’m taking this one.” He unclipped my wrist cuffs.

“What?” the prince called over the noise of boisterous laughter. “Where are you going?”

“I need a little private time with her.”

“Hell no! We want to watch,” one of them called in a stuffy British accent.

“Oh, come on,” another jeered. “We’re already short a girl, and Darius has to take one for himself?”

My heart slammed against my ribs. My head swam, and I was pretty sure I was close to cardiac arrest.

The duke pulled my wrists to lift me toward him, then angled his wide shoulder under me, tossing me upside down over it.

I shrieked, kicking, and his fingers tightened on my thigh as he strode out of the bedroom and into the tiny corridor.

I swung my head around, catching a view of the expensive, wood-paneled walls and the duke’s muscled ass, which filled his worn designer European jeans in a way that ought to be illegal.

The duke’s black dog, Shadow, trotted behind us, tail wagging, trying to lick my face, like it was a big game.

“Fucking dom wannabes,” I thought I heard Darius mutter before he kicked open a door at the end of the hallway, and I went flying onto a queen-sized bed in a small bedroom.

He shut the door, commanding his dog to stay outside, and folded his arms over his well-built chest. “Okay, little girl. Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?”

~.~

S ix Hours Earlier

Chelsea

I shoved my earplugs in deeper to block out the sound of my roommate puking and reread the lead paragraph of the long interview I’d written about an American who called herself DJ Sunshine.

My feature on the rise and popularity of female DJs in Ibiza would hopefully prove to my editor at Rolling Stone that I wasn’t just partying in Spain for the summer, but covering cutting edge music news.

And prove to myself that following Derek, aka, DJ Deadbeat—my boyfriend at the time—to the hip Spanish island hadn’t been a total loss.

My roommate, Allegra, stopped heaving and groaned.

I sighed and pulled out the earplugs. I should see if she needed anything. I hardly knew the tall, leggy model from Italy. Basically, we had nothing in common, other than both needing a place to stay for the month that didn’t cost an arm and a leg.

I’d moved in last week after I’d finally admitted to myself that Derek’s immersion in ecstasy and the party lifestyle was more than recreational.

I headed out to the bathroom, but a knock at the door interrupted my planned check-in. Damn. I hoped it wasn’t Derek.

A tall blonde with a miniscule waist and fake boobs stood at the door, her face tight. “Where’s Allegra?” she demanded in a thick Slavic accent—probably Russian.

“She’s sick. She’s been throwing up since midnight last night.”

“No,” the blonde groaned, slapping her pretty forehead through a thick layer of makeup. She pushed her way through the door on her red fuck-me stilettos.

The sound of retching from the bathroom made her stop and wrinkle her nose.

She turned and looked speculatively at me—a full up and down sweep. “You’re pretty enough. You look a little like her. Can you take her place?”

“On a model shoot?”

“No.” She tapped one manicured nail against the screen of her phone in a rapid nervous gesture. “Escort.”

Escort. And I’d thought Allegra was a model.

She glanced at the screen of her cell phone. “The Prince of Halsburg has a yacht leaving in thirty minutes. I needed six girls. Already one canceled. I can’t show up with four, he will never contract with me again.”

The Prince of Halsburg? As in the future ruler of Austrinia?

“Five thousand Euros for three days; confidentiality is assured. Required, actually. I’ll give you a bonus of one thousand Euros for stepping in at the last minute. But don’t tell the other girls.”

Whoa, whoa, what?

An escort to the hot young royal whose face had adorned every tabloid for the last two years?

The Prince of Halsburg was in Ibiza, and I’d missed it?

What kind of reporter was I, anyway? The young twenty-two-year-old royal was fast following his older cousin, Darius, in developing a reputation for partying, showing up in places like Ibiza, London, Paris and New York with an entourage of his sexy and wealthy friends from Cambridge.

And I was being offered three days on his private yacht.

Yeah, I’d probably have to put out. Either for him or one of his buddies.

But from the photos I’d seen—and believe me, I’ve stalked the prince and his posse a fair bit—none of them were hard on the eyes.

Would sex with a hot young royal really be a hardship?

Couldn’t I consider it my rebound after Derek?

I’d come here hoping for adventure, hadn’t I?

And in exchange, not only would I get paid more than I made all summer, but I’d probably have enough material to write my first book.

The book that would solidify my career as a journalist. A book that would sell millions of copies.

The book that would make up for my mistake in trusting a man.

I drew in a deep breath, knowing I was crazy. “Okay.”

“Good.” The blonde stuck out her hand. “I’m Marina. You’re Allegra.” She gave me a hard look. “I already have paperwork and photos approved for Allegra. It’s too late to change. Understand?”

Perfect for me—I’d officially be undercover. I nodded.

“Let’s go,” Marina urged.

“I just need to pack a bag.” I spun around in the tiny Spanish flat, trying to get my brain on straight.

“You need nothing.” Marina’s thick accent made it sound more like nothingk . “A bikini, nothing more.”

A bikini. Right. Because I was going as a call-girl.

Whatever. Reporters make sacrifices for the good stories.

I dashed to my room and threw a few bikinis in a bag, along with my toiletries, and what really mattered for this job—my laptop and phone.

New York Times bestseller list, here I come.

~.~

D arius

O ne of the escorts boarding Sweet Surrender didn’t fit the mold.

I stroked my black Labrador Retriever Shadow’s ears and stared at the beautiful brunette standing in line, trying to figure out why she made warning bells go off.

Too wholesome.

No, it was the way she looked around the yacht. She lacked the giddy excitement of the girls who couldn’t wait to be on a yacht, or meet royalty, or even the practiced boredom of Marina, the professional who sees the whole thing as a job.

I sat above deck, watching as Samson, my cousin Kaspar’s head of security and handler, double-checked the call girls against their paperwork as they boarded the yacht.

I’d insisted each woman undergo a background check and sign an extensive non-disclosure agreement, along with her individual contract, which itemized hard limits.

Between Samson and I, we had to make sure this rodeo never went public.