Royal Crush

Chapter 8

Eight

ALERIC

“Cut! That’s it for the day. Thank you, everyone.”

I let out a tiny breath of relief, but it was followed by a rush of anxiety because I’d expected this scene to go on for maybe an hour or two. It was less than three minutes of screen time, but no one had their shit together, the left wheel on my chair fell off and I fell so hard I bit through my cheek, and then the queen’s throne lost an arm.

By the time we were finished, four and a half hours had gone by.

It was an absolutely shit day, and I couldn’t help but wonder if somehow I’d cursed it. Not to mention, if Camillo had agreed to meet me in my trailer, there was a snowball’s chance in hell he was still waiting after this long. I felt my stomach twisting as I made my way to wardrobe to change and wipe all the thick foundation off my face, and by the time I was heading to my trailer, I’d lost all hope.

Only…there was a ramp there. It was a black metal thing on wheels, and it was sitting right in front of my door, which was tightly closed. It didn’t mean anything, of course. It was possible Mellie had managed to get someone to put it there before Camillo told her to tell me to go fuck myself.

Or maybe he’d shown up for a minute, changed his mind, and left.

My breath was heavy in my chest, refusing to leave my lungs as I tested the stability of the ramp. It was solid. I turned the handle on the door and pulled, stepping inside as my heart attempted to beat through my ribs.

He was there.

Shit .

Camillo was on my little couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, his head lolling to the side, mouth open just slightly. And he was snoring.

The prince was a snorer .

I fought off an intense urge to pull out my phone and record him. Instead, I backed out quietly and glanced around until I found another far less nervous-looking PA. He had a hot nerd vibe going with his square-framed glasses and plaid shirt. But he didn’t look terrified when I got his attention.

“Is there any chance you can grab some food for me and a guest?”

He lifted a brow. “A… guest ?”

“Not that kind of guest. He’s my wheelchair coordinator on set.”

The guy coughed in surprise. “You mean Prince Camillo?”

“Mm.”

“Yeah. Yes. I mean, he has an entire staff here just for him. They bring him whatever he wants, so?—”

“Oh, great. Okay. Can you find out what he likes and bring it, then?”

He choked out a laugh. “Um, of course I can. I’m not interested in getting thrown in a fucking dungeon.”

I didn’t bother to tell him that the country hadn’t used dungeons for the last five hundred years. I had a feeling some of the royal family liked the old-school reputation of a monarchy. I had a feeling Camillo would laugh himself out of his chair if he’d heard that one.

I gave him a quick wave of thanks, then snuck back in. Camillo didn’t move other than to twitch his eyebrow and shift his fingers, which were resting over his stomach. This was the first time I’d gotten to really observe him without him knowing I was looking. And this was definitely the first time he’d ever been relaxed around me.

He was somehow even more beautiful in sleep. It took years off his face, and his natural expression wasn’t his angry frown. It was soft—a little boyish—and really sweet. He had the thickest lashes I’d ever seen, and I could only just make out a collection of freckles over the apples of his cheeks.

It was an interesting contrast to his thick, strong hands and the ink that decorated his forearms. I wished he didn’t hate me the way he did. Knowing him sounded…fun. Or, at least, interesting.

In a different life, we might have been friends. We might have been more. He might have used his love for bossing people around in a way that made my knees shake whenever I was brave enough to think about it.

“You know, watching people sleep is creepy.”

“Not when you’re playing them in a TV show,” I choked out, almost ruined by the sound of his rumbly, sleep-thick voice.

Camillo pushed himself up slightly with his hands, then rubbed at his eyes. “I can’t believe I passed out like that.”

“I have a feeling you don’t normally sleep well.”

He snorted. “Not unless they drug me.” His words were punctuated by a knock at the door, and he raised his brows. “Tell me you didn’t invite someone here to see me like this.”

“I’m not that much of a shithead,” I told him. I turned and opened the door. The PA was standing with one of Camillo’s security guards behind him, holding two paper bags.

“I have it on good and terrifying authority that this will make him happy,” the guy said, thumbing at the older man behind him.

I took the bags. “What’s your name?”

He looked surprised. “You actually want to know?”

“Yes. I actually do.”

The guy bit his lip, then shrugged. “Oisin.” He pronounced it with his light Dublin accent: Ush-een.

“Oisin,” I repeated, and he nodded. “Thanks a bunch.” I stepped back and closed the door so no one could get a look at Camillo. I figured if his guard wanted in, nothing I could do would stop him, so I turned back to the prince and held out the food. “I have no idea what this is.”

“Did…I order that?” he asked, frowning.

“No, but if you’ve been in here as long as I was on set, I figured you’d be hungry.”

He leaned forward and finally took the bag from me, peering inside. His brows flew up toward his hairline. “Shawarma-stuffed pita? How did you know? That’s so creepy, Aleric.”

“I didn’t know,” I defended myself as I sank into the small chair near the coffee table. “God, why do you think I’m some whacko?”

“Because you’re really nice and fairly respectful sometimes, and other times, you look like you want me to—” He stopped abruptly and swallowed thickly.

“To what?”

He shook his head, and it was clear he wasn’t going to finish that sentence. “Sometimes you’re insulting the entire disabled community and acting like we don’t matter. Then you find me a ramp and get me my favorite dinner. I feel like I’m in a fucking snow globe being constantly shaken.”

I snorted as I pulled out a foil-wrapped pita and peeled it open. It smelled amazing. It was stuffed with chicken and veg, covered in tzatziki. “Okay, you actually have good taste.”

He laughed through a stuffed mouth. “Mm. Trust me, it didn’t come naturally. I was all about poached fish and whatever the fuck health kick my mom was on until I started playing basketball. I met real people after that and had my world changed.”

“Remind me to send them a muffin basket,” I said, halfway through the pita. “This tastes like someone’s yaya made it.”

He choked as he tried not to laugh through his bite. “Someone’s yaya did. It’s this little mom ’n’ pop shop over on Kane Street. If you don’t piss me off for the rest of the night, I’ll give you the name.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly, not pointing out that I doubted there was more than one mom ’n’ pop Greek shop on Kane Street. Hopping up, I walked to my minifridge and grabbed a couple of waters, passing one over.

We finished the rest of our meal in silence, and it was in that post-comfort-food half-coma that I remembered I’d asked him here for a reason.

“So,” Camillo said after he balled up his wrapper and tossed it on the table, “you were going to prostrate yourself?”

My entire body flushed so hot I felt dizzy. My cock thickened in my sweats, and I did my best to shift so he couldn’t see the movement of it. Fuck, why did he have to keep saying shit like that? “That was not on my agenda. But an apology was.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Alright.”

He really wasn’t going to let this go, and I knew I needed to make it a good one. “I’m going to fuck up again. This is all very new for me, and you’ve done nothing but make sure to remind me at every turn that I don’t belong in this role.”

“Because you don’t.”

“I know. But I’m here, and I want to do a good job. I actually do respect you, and I respect the story we’re trying to tell. I’m not here to insult you or make you look like an incompetent twat.”

“You said something like that before, and then when I tried to show you what you were doing wrong?—”

“I know. I got defensive and turned into the same type of asshole who torments me,” I told him.

His mouth had been open, probably to talk more shit, but it snapped shut at my words. He stared at me for a long second, his gaze both piercing and gorgeous. And maybe a little terrifying. He really did feel like a prince right then.

“How?”

“How…what?”

“How are you tormented? And why?”

I supposed it was only fair. It wasn’t like no one knew my story. I’d spoken out about the way child actors were treated, but people didn’t believe me. They didn’t want to believe me. “I was…” I knew the word my therapist wanted me to use, but it was hard to say it. “Mistreated on set when I was younger. And when I got older, the mistreatment got worse. And more creative. And…darker.”

Camillo’s eyes narrowed. He looked angry. “I’ve heard stories. Not about you, but others.”

“They’re probably mostly true. For a long time, the industry went unchecked when kids were involved. And when we got older and wanted to speak out or fight them, the press ran stories about us being dramatic drug addicts who were impossible to work with. They could kill a single career with one article and a well-timed phone call to a studio exec.”

Sitting back, Camillo’s gaze was fixed hard on me. He was listening in ways most people never did.

“Obviously, you know what people say about me. Most of it isn’t true. But everywhere I turn, they want me to admit on camera that it was my fault. That I was the one behind my meltdown. That I was some drug fiend who was forced into rehab, and now I’m on some apology tour. But I’m not sorry for what happened when I was a kid. It wasn’t my fault.”

“No,” Camillo said softly. “I suppose it wasn’t.”

“But I am sorry tonight. I was practically shitting myself with nerves about you watching me. I knew I wasn’t getting it all right, but I just…fuck. It’s so ridiculous.” I didn’t want to say it, so I looked away.

“Aleric.” His voice was so fucking commanding. I couldn’t help but meet his gaze. “What did you need from me?”

“It wasn’t something I needed. It was something I wanted.” I took a long, slow breath, then decided I’d let myself be humiliated for the truth. “I wanted to get something right on the first try. To be told I’d done a good job. It’s unrealistic, I know. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I didn’t do enough research before I started this whole thing.”

“No, you didn’t. But it doesn’t have to stay that way. I don’t love this whole…thing”—he waved his hand around the room—“but you don’t have to fly by the seat of your pants, and you don’t have to keep guessing. I’m here for a reason. You can always ask me if you’re feeling lost or unsure.”

I let out a small laugh of disbelief. “You don’t exactly make that easy, you know. Your Highness .”

He blushed and glanced away. “Yeah. I guess I deserve that. I don’t know how to not be angry that they didn’t cast one of the hundreds of wildly talented disabled actors for this role. I just don’t understand why you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they were moved by my begging.”

He choked a little and bit his lip as he finally looked back at me. “ Did you beg?”

I shook my head, and it felt all…soft and buzzy and strange. “Well…no. My agent got me the audition, and I didn’t think I had a shot in hell, so when they called me back, I was a little surprised. But I’ve always liked you, and after I got hired, I thought, if I can do this—if I can do something that feels both entertaining and important—maybe I can prove to everyone I’m not some giant fuckup looking to recover from all the bullshit people believe about me.”

He looked unmoved, which I supposed was fair enough. “You know that disabled people aren’t some conduit for?—”

“That’s…I didn’t go for the role because of that,” I said quickly. It was a half lie. It had crossed my mind more than once. Those roles always got a shitload of sympathy and attention. But there was more to it. “I needed something different.”

“Don’t say a challenge,” Camillo warned.

I couldn’t keep lying. “Anything outside of my lived experience is some kind of challenge. But mostly, I wanted to be anyone in the world who was nothing like me.”

His face softened just a fraction. “You really think we’re so different?”

“Well. You’re more of a dick than I am.”

He stared for a second, then burst into laughter so hard it shook his whole body. No, wait. Shit. His whole body was shaking .

“Fuck,” Camillo gasped, grabbing at his legs.

“Is this a seizure?”

He gave me a murderous look. “Have you ever seen a seizure?”

“No! Why is that a normal question to ask someone?” I all but shouted back.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to lean over his thighs and massage his shaking legs, but he couldn’t seem to reach that far. “It’s a spasm, dipshit.”

“Oh. Oh !” Without really thinking, I jumped up and fell to my knees beside him, reaching for his legs.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

I whipped my hands back and turned to face him. “Please let me help.”

Our gazes locked for a long, long moment. “If this ends up in an interview anywhere?—”

“I wouldn’t,” I told him. “Trust me. Of all people, you have to know I wouldn’t.”

He sat back with a heavy groan and waved his hands at his legs. “Massage the calves with a lot of pressure, okay? You’ll think it’s too much, but I promise you it isn’t.”

I sat high on my knees, but I couldn’t get a good grip on both at the same time. I had an idea, but I wasn’t sure if he would allow me to manhandle him if he wasn’t entirely comfortable with me touching him. “Can I flip you on the couch?”

He bit his lip, then finally nodded. “Don’t drop me, please.”

There wasn’t a chance in hell I would. I’d die first.

Gripping him by the trembling ankles, and with the help of his impossibly strong arms, we managed to get his body horizontal on the cushions. I let my legs drape along his sides and pulled his feet into my lap, then used the strongest grip I had to work at his muscles.

They were like stone. Trembling and small and almost impossible to manipulate. It was like everything was worked into a compact charley horse, and my fingers barely sank into his skin. But as I worked up and down, my forearms and hands burning with the effort, the trembling began to slow.

And eventually, after what felt like forever, his legs began to unclench. His feet, which had been pointed sharply down, relaxed. In his socks, I could see the tops of his feet to his toes were swollen, and I wondered if that was a side effect of his injury. The rest of his legs were so thin.

“Ask,” he grunted. “I can see it on your face.”

I sighed. I was still rubbing because he hadn’t asked me to stop, and frankly, I didn’t want to. There was something inherently soothing about holding him like this, but I had no idea why. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes. It’s not the kind of pain you’d understand though. I have absolutely no sensation below my injury line.”

“Do you feel hungry?”

He laughed a little and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I feel hungry.”

“Can you feel when you need to piss?

At that, his cheeks went very ruddy pink. “No. We went through a lot of toddler-level pants-pissing days before it was decided I would have a permanent catheter. But if there’s a blockage and nothing’s coming out, my body has a super-fun way of letting me know my bladder is too full.”

I stared at him, afraid to ask for the answer because he was open right now, and I didn’t want to ruin that.

“My blood pressure goes haywire, my heart goes crazy, and I pass out.”

“Fuck.”

He laughed again, though not as intensely. “Good word for it. It’s all pretty fucked.”

The last four words startled me. I hadn’t been expecting him to say that, but I tried to hide it.

“What?” he pressed. Apparently, my poker face was total trash when it came to this man.

“I’m not used to you saying that any of this sucks.”

“That’s because I never say it where people can hear me. But just wait until you know me for longer. You’ll know exactly how I feel about a lot of things.” He grunted as he pressed his hands into the sofa cushion and pulled away from me. He took one leg at a time, bending them at the knee so he could sit up higher. They flopped to the sides, heavy and motionless, and a small part of me wanted to know what it felt like.

The bigger part of me didn’t.

“Look,” Camillo said from behind a sigh, “it does suck. Most of us who have spine injuries don’t talk about that part out loud. At least, not with people who haven’t been there. Our reality is most people’s worst nightmares. I’ve literally had people tell me that they’d rather kill themselves than be in my shoes.”

“Christ,” I blurted.

His smile was a little bitter, but not entirely. “Most of the time, when people like us are portrayed on a TV show or a movie or a book—whatever—it’s tragic. It’s some angry, sad sack of shit lamenting how horrible his life is. Every now and again, you get some story where a quirky, doesn’t-know-she’s-pretty girl comes along and turns his world upside down. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes the guy dies anyway because why the fuck would you want to see one of us have a happy life, right?”

I grimaced because I knew it was true. But in my research, I knew that a good percentage of people living with spinal injuries had spouses and families and jobs and hobbies. A lot like Camillo.

Well, maybe not like Camillo. I’d never met anyone like him before, but that was for other reasons.

“In the past, princes who were hurt the way I was get shuffled off to some asylum or…I don’t know…a private island to live their life in secret so the rest of the country can forget that it can happen to us too. My parents didn’t make all the right choices when it came to me, but letting me live my life the way I want was the best gift they could give me after the accident.”

“They seem like good people.”

“I love them,” he said. It was weird to hear someone talk about the king and queen like they were average humans, but I supposed if you compared DNA, they were just people. “They’d spent so much time focusing on my brother that when I got hurt, they didn’t know what to do with me. They’d prepared themselves for some rebel, you know? An angry teen who wanted to make waves because he wasn’t getting enough attention.”

“Were you ever that?”

Camillo’s lips twitched. “That might have been why I was reckless when kissing a boy that day. But, ah…I hadn’t planned on being a total rebel. I wanted to travel and take photos in nature and maybe write a little. I think they could have handled that. But instead, they had to learn how to handle the first openly gay member of the royal family who was also the first disabled one in…two centuries, I think? Maybe three?”

I ran my fingers through my hair as I tried to recall my history lessons, but I wasn’t sure we’d ever studied anything like that.

“They love me. But they also think this fucking TV show will be good for me.”

“What, like it’ll build character? Because trust me, you have enough of that.”

He burst into another peal of laughter, and it sent shivers up my spine. Watching him grin, just like when he was asleep, took years off his face. He was beautiful no matter what, but when he looked happy, he was ethereal.

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, I think you definitely have enough character,” I told him honestly. “Though you could smile more. And laugh. Your laugh is fucking beautiful.” Oh fuck, why did I say that.

He went quiet, and I followed suit. After a beat, he used his hands to push his legs to the floor, and then he shifted over a little. Then a little more. He was touching my thigh, and I knew he couldn’t feel it, but he was watching where the space between us had disappeared.

“You’re not what I expected,” he eventually said.

My breath caught in my chest. “Better or worse?”

He looked up at my face, dark eyes catching mine. “Different. It’s not a bad thing. You’re…strange.”

“I don’t mind being strange. Better than what most people think.”

He lifted a hand, his fingers hovering near my jaw. I waited, holding my breath to see if he would touch me. He did, but not there. His touch dropped to my collarbone, where I had a black widow tattoo. “I wish you thought better of yourself.”

“My therapist says the same thing. And most of the time, I do.” I stopped, then shook my head and amended, “I try.” Leaning back a bit, I recalled the list I was busy making for my therapy homework. “I’m smart—even though I never went to real school. I’m funny when I don’t try.” Those were the two things I’d managed about myself that day. “I made you laugh and feel comfortable when you thought the night was going to be shit.” That was one thing.

Camillo frowned at me. “What are you doing?”

Flushing, I glanced away. “Sorry, uh…my therapist gives me homework when I’m having a hard week. She makes me think of a number of things that I like about myself and a number of things I do for other people to make their lives better.”

He stared at me for a long beat. His hand was still touching my tattoo. “You got me a ramp.”

“That’s bare minimum. Something I already fucked up with,” I said, reminding him of the café.

His smile twitched up a little higher. “It should be bare minimum. But it usually isn’t. You wanted to see me, and you made that possible. It counts, Aleric.”

Jesus, the way he said my name when it wasn’t full of hate or disdain. I forced myself to look up into his eyes. God, they were so intense.

Camillo licked his lips, then moved his touch up the side of my neck. I shivered, terrified to move. I had no idea what was happening—what he was doing, what he wanted. What I wanted, except I knew I wanted more of this.

I wanted him to shove me over and pin me to the sofa, which was wild because I was pretty sure in spite of this evening, we still didn’t like each other very much. Then again, I’d had sex feeling a lot worse about a person than I did right now.

But…was this going to lead to that? I had no idea how he—ah—did any of that, and I was too terrified to ask.

“Aleric,” he said. Now, my name sounded like a prayer on his tongue.

“Your Highness.”

“I hate the way you say that,” he murmured, leaning in closer. I could feel his breath on my cheeks.

“I can stop.”

“Don’t,” he whispered. He was close now. The smallest push forward and we’d be kissing. I could almost feel the movement of his lips and jaw against my own. “Say it again.”

“ Your Highness .”

He was blurry this close up, but I saw his eyes close, and then his hand tightened against my neck, and suddenly, all the space between us was gone. He was kissing me. It was a tender press, but only for a second. Then I groaned, and his lips parted. Mine followed his, and his warm, wet tongue slid against mine. He tasted like spices from our dinner and something else entirely.

Something so… him .

I shivered and reached for him, unable to stop myself, pressing my fingers into his ribs. He let out a heavy, full groan.

“Fuck. Aleric. More .”

I dug my fingers in deeper, dragging them from his front around to the middle of his back. His grip on me tightened, one hand against my neck, the other in my hair. He curled his fingers through my locks, then pulled until my head tilted backward, and he went for my tendon with sharp teeth, sucking a vicious mark that makeup would kill me for.

But I didn’t care. Fuck , I didn’t care.

This was amazing. He was perfect.

He was?—

“ God yes, your Highness !”

Camillo shoved me back before I registered the banging on my trailer door, and I looked to him with frantic eyes. Did someone know? Was it illegal to kiss a prince like that without…I don’t know? Some kind of chaperone?

Camillo’s cheeks were ruddy, his lips parted. He was panting and a little wild-eyed. Was he having a blood pressure episode? Oh fuck, was he going to faint?

“Get the door,” he rasped.

“Are you okay?”

“Get the fucking door before they burst in here!” he hissed angrily. “Christ.” He dragged his fingers through his hair as I jumped up. I watched him reach for his chair, and just as he lifted himself from the sofa to the seat, the banging started again.

“Coming, sorry!” I called. My voice was thready and a little too soft. My dick was also still hard—and I only noticed because Camillo stared at me in horror.

“Fix that,” he hissed.

I shoved my hand down the front of my pants and tucked my cock into my waistband, shoving my shirt over the front and saying a little prayer as I walked to the door. I hadn’t realized I’d locked it after getting the food.

That was…bold of me.

“Hi,” I said to the guard I’d seen earlier. “Sorry, we got caught up going over a few scenes.”

“I’m here to escort His Highness to his car,” the man grunted.

I turned and almost tripped over Camillo, whose wheels were at the backs of my knees. I swore, all but jumping over him as he shoved past me. “Uh. See you?”

Camillo looked back for a brief second, and there was nothing in his face that said we’d just done what we’d done. It felt a little like a fever dream.

Was this how it was going to go? Was this how it had to go?

After a short second, he gave a stiff nod, then gave a hard push and rolled all the way down the ramp, past his guard, and to the door that led to the parking garage. It opened with a heavy creak, the hinges moving slowly from the automatic button, and then it closed the same way.

The guard was still standing in front of me. He looked a little old for his post—greying hair, crow’s feet, and a novel of lines on his forehead. He gave me a swift up and down, then turned on his heel and stalked off.

I had no idea what to think. My body was still on fire from where he’d touched me. My lips were aching for his again. How was I supposed to go on knowing what he tasted like with no idea if I’d ever have the chance again?

Just as I got the door closed, my phone began to buzz on the table, and my heart kicked up a few notches as I walked over to pick it up. I was entirely unsurprised to find Camillo’s name on the screen.

I didn’t want to read the message. There wasn’t a chance in hell it was going to say what I wanted it to say.

But I did it anyway.

HRH Camillo: Tell no one.

I didn’t want to reply. I wasn’t going to tell anyone, and while I understood why he had to say that in writing, I couldn’t help but feel an ache behind my ribs at realizing it was the only thing he was going to say to me.

Flopping back down on the sofa, I pretended like I couldn’t still feel the echo of his warmth in the fabric. I tapped my fingers on my phone, then finally took a breath to give him the peace of mind I wasn’t sure he deserved.

Me: You got it. Not a word. It never happened.

There was no reply.