Page 13 of Her Royal Master (Master Me #1)

T wo Months Later

Darius

I sat in my father’s office—I still thought of it that way, even though I’d been duke for six years—and stared out the window at nothing.

I’d been sitting there all night. Hadn’t bothered going to my bedroom.

Hadn’t bothered with dinner. I’m not sure whether I’d slept or not.

I’m not sure I would’ve noticed the difference.

The darkness outside lightened to a dull gray, but I felt no more illuminated.

Like the walking dead, I’d been doing the same thing for the last two months. I was empty. Numb. It seemed nothing could bring me back to life. Not even the drinking and drugs of my wilder days. Not that I hadn’t tried. Not women, either.

I couldn’t dredge up excitement for any female, no matter how beautiful.

No one compared to Chelsea, the woman I couldn’t make care about me.

It confirmed my darkest suspicion—the one I’d had all my life.

I wasn’t worth caring for.

I kept wondering if I should have done something different. Held my treacherous reporter hostage, or asked her to marry me. What would’ve convinced her to not to walk off that yacht with my heart on the sole of her fucking flip flop?

Except then I tell myself she wasn’t worth it. She was using me, and hanging onto a girl like her would inevitably end this way.

But something in my heart didn’t believe that.

This was a girl who’d risked her life for a fucking dog—and not even her own.

Did she really fit in the hole my rational mind kept trying to shove her?

But she had to. Right?

To make matters, worse, I’d been waiting for the shoe to drop. When would Chelsea publish her tell-all?

Like a coward, I hadn’t told my aunt it was coming. I didn’t want her to know her beloved Kaspar had been anywhere near the paparazzi. And despite it all, I did trust Chelsea’s word she wouldn’t mention my cousin.

She may be ambitious, but she wasn’t a liar.

My cell phone buzzed on the table, and I looked at it with disinterest.

The queen.

That was a call I was definitely not up for taking.

Why in the hell was she calling me at six in the morning?

Not even that question had me curious enough to answer. I let it go to voicemail. And the next five calls that came in, too.

D-day.

Chelsea’s story must have hit. Did I want to know what she’d said?

My gut twisted. No. Definitely not.

It was enough to push me out of my seat, though. I stumbled to the bathroom and took a too-hot shower, hoping the steaming water would be enough to scald me back to life.

No such luck.

I shaved off the two month’s worth of scruff on my face. Not because I wanted to look good for the influx of paparazzi that I expected would soon be camped outside the manor gates. Only because I knew if I didn’t, the queen would screech until it happened.

After the Madison incident, she’d threatened to strip me of my title.

“Go ahead,” I’d told her. “I never asked for this life.”

She’d then gone on a diatribe about my responsibility to family and country and ended up crying over my wasted life.

Yeah. It was a good time.

I do believe she cares for me, and I know Kaspar does, which is the only reason I ever make half an attempt to redeem myself.

Except everyone knows I’m irredeemable.

I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower.

A tap sounded on my bedroom door.

I couldn’t force any sound of acknowledgement out of my throat. It just took too much effort.

“My lord?” Edwin, my butler tapped on the door. “The queen is on her way to the manor, sir.”

Of course she was.

“What is the news, Edwin?” I asked with a sigh, toweling off.

Edwin cracked the bedroom door and spoke through the gap. “A story broke during the night in America. Rolling Stone Magazine revealed the truth about what happened with that woman last year.” He spat the words ‘that woman,’ his anger over what Madison had done always apparent.

I went still. “An exposé on Madison ?”

“Yes, my lord. Interviews with her friends, past and subsequent play partners, photos of her in the BDSM scene. The press here are running the story non-stop. Support for you on social media is through the roof.”

My heart pounded. Not about the results of the story. About Chelsea. What she’d done. “Bring me the article, Edwin.” The urgency to connect with her, to read words she’d written had every cell in my body flaring to life.

I yanked on my clothing and stalked out into the living room in my bare feet to meet Edwin, who carried a laptop, open to the story.

By Chelsea Chase. I read the byline.

Chelsea Chase. I repeated her name in my head, loving that I finally had her full name.

“Get Samson to research this reporter, Chelsea Chase. She’s American. I need an address for her. And call over to the hangar to ready the jet.”

“Where should I say you’re going, sir?”

“Wherever Chelsea is. Find out. I leave immediately—as soon as you have the location.”

“Yes, sir.” Edwin bowed, moving swiftly away.

I re-read her name. Chelsea Chase. A sweet name for a beautiful girl. Why had she done this? Crazy girl. I didn’t need saving any more than my dog had. But she must have believed I did.

Sources close to the duke say it was out of an ingrained sense of chivalry that kept Halsburg from reporting the truth. “A gentleman never contradicts a lady,” or so the duke believes, said one close friend.

I sank into the closest chair at my dining room table, reeling. For the first time since the day I’d watched Chelsea run off the Sweet Surrender, the constant ache in my chest eased. The heaviness in my limbs lifted.

Chelsea had gone to bat for me.

Ridiculous.

Adorable.

I was going to spank her silly for this.

A grin on my face, I headed back to my bedroom to pack a bag, only to find Edwin had already done so.

“You may wish to change your clothing, my lord,” he said as he breezed out of the room. “I laid a change out for you.” When I gave him a blank look, he reminded me, “The queen’s on her way.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “Thank you, Edwin.”

My elderly butler—one of the many manor employees who’d known me since the day I was born—beamed as he bowed. “If I may say so, sir, I’d quite like to send my thanks to Ms. Chase.”

I shoved off my jeans and pulled on the pair of dress pants he’d laid out for me. “Hopefully, you’ll have the chance to do that in person, Edwin.” I couldn’t stop the goofy grin from stretching across my face.

“Is this woman the cause of your despondency the past months, my lord?”

“A misunderstanding with the lovely reporter, yes, Edwin. Very perceptive.”

Edwin bowed again. “Well, then, I will make haste in preparations for your departure.”

Crunch of tires on the gravel drive outside signaled the queen’s arrival.

I wondered what her reaction would be.

I probably would’ve sworn I didn’t give a fuck, but considering how light I felt knowing I’d done something right for my family, for once, I knew it wasn’t true.

Chelsea believed in me. She’d cared enough to defend me, wielding her mighty pen. Cared enough, even, to sacrifice our relationship to do so.

Some of my newfound buoyancy dipped. I rubbed my forehead. That part still didn’t sit right with me. Had our time together been nothing more than her chance at a big story, and she wrote the one that would cause me the least pain?

No.

She’d been in tears when she left that yacht. I know her heart was in ribbons, same as mine.

And then, suddenly, it all came together for me.

My mom abandoned her career for a man.

Chelsea had a history of choosing career over relationship. It was a habit I planned to cure her of, but it made sense. In her mind, men don’t stick around. The best bet is on career.

Okay, I got it. I could work around this challenge.

If I wanted Chelsea to leave her position at Rolling Stone and move in with me, I’d have to offer an equal career exchange.

I was sure I could figure something out.

~.~

C helsea

I drove home in darkness after a thirteen-hour day at the office.

My story on Madison James had published yesterday.

Rolling Stone ’s office had blown up with calls and requests for interviews and quotes.

I’d already given four Skype interviews with major news stations and talk shows.

My boss was ecstatic at the publicity and had even told me I’d just sealed my career as an investigative journalist.

Why didn’t I feel happier, then?

All this time, I’d been telling myself that I’d made the right decision. The only decision.

So why hadn’t my misery lifted?

What did I think would’ve happened if I’d signed the NDA to make Darius happy? Did I really think he’d ask to see me again after the yacht returned to Ibiza? He was on a summer cruise. He wasn’t out looking for a relationship.

Hell, he’d said publicly many times, much to the devastation of every single woman in his country, that he had no interest in taking a duchess. Was I so conceited, so delusional that I thought I would be different for him?

That he’d drop to one knee and offer me a ring and a title and I’d wear ball gowns and tiaras for the rest of my life?

Please.

It was absolutely ludicrous.

So yeah, I’d made the right decision.

And the residual sadness I felt was just because, well, I’d fallen for the duke. Despite my best intentions. But time heals all wounds. Some day I’d be over him, and I’d find some nice, boring man to marry. The kind who would only want missionary style sex but who would never leave me.

Ugh. What a pitiful picture that made.

I parked on the street in front of my apartment complex and locked the car. The sound of male voices rang out from the front gate, as if there was a gathering there. Maybe a party waiting to be buzzed in.

As I stepped closer, I caught snippets of another language and I froze, my heart pounding.

Darius was here.

Unready to face him, I ducked around the side of the building, pressing my back against the wall. I dragged a ragged breath in through my nose. I felt too raw, too exposed to face Darius. What would I say? Would he understand?