royally-endowed # 3 by Emma Chase

209 Pages·2017·2.15 MB·English

by  Emma Chase

Copyright © 2017 by Emma Chase
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any
form whatsoever.

Cover Design: By Hang Le
Interior Book Design: JT formatting
Photography: Thomas Watkins
Cover Model: Vincent Azzopardi

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0997426243
Also by Emma Chase

THE ROYALLY SERIES
Royally Screwed
Royally Matched
Royally Endowed

THE LEGAL BRIEFS SERIES
Overruled
Sustained
Appealed
Sidebarred

THE TANGLED SERIES
Tangled
Holy Frigging Matrimony
Twisted
Tamed
Tied
It’s a Wonderful Tangled Christmas Carol
To sweet crushes and slow burns.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
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
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Preview of Love Another Day by Lexi Blake
SOME MEN THINK WITH THEIR cocks.
You know the type. Quick smooth-talkers, shifty eyes always scanning for a nice pair
of legs, a set of full tits, or a tight arse they can pant after.
Other blokes think too much with their brains. You know that type too. Annoyingly
careful, slow-moving, constantly parsing their words like they already know whatever
they’re saying is going to come back and take a bite out of them.
I’m not either of those.
I always go with my gut. When it clenches with a warning, I act—no hesitation. When
it tugs and nudges, I pause and reevaluate. When it twists and writhes, I know, guaranteed,
I’ve cocked up big-time.
My gut is my best friend, my conscience, my most lethal asset.
And it has never let me down.
It’s my gut that drags me to her door. That roots me in place as I knock. That gives me
the words—pleading, unfamiliar remorseful words—I’ll gladly say to make this right.
To get her back.
Because while my gut is brilliant, sometimes I can be a real fucking idiot.
Yesterday was one of those times.
“Ellie. It’s me—open up, we need to talk.”
I sense movement on the other side of the solid oak door—not in sounds or shifting
shadows beneath it, but more of an awareness. I can feel her in there. Nearby and
listening.
“Go away, Logan.”
Her voice is tight, higher-pitched than usual. Upset.
“Ellie, please. I was a twat, I know …” I’m not keen on begging from the hallway, but
if that’s what it takes … “I’m sorry. Let me in.”
Ellie is difficult to anger, quick to forgive; she just doesn’t have it in her to hold a
grudge. So her next words fall like an axe—cutting my legs right off from under me.
“No, you were right. The princess’s sister and the East Amboy bodyguard don’t make
sense—we’ll never last.”
Did I actually say that to her? What the fuck is wrong with me? What I feel for her is
the one thing in my life that makes sense. That matters.
But I never told her that.
Instead … instead, I said all the wrong things.
I brace my palm against the smooth wood, leaning forward, wanting to be as near to
her as possible. “Elle …”
“I’ve changed my mind, Logan.”
If a corpse could speak, it would sound exactly like my Ellie does now. Flat, lifeless.
“I want the fairy tale. I want what Olivia has … castles and carriages … and you’ll
never be able to give me that. I would just be settling for you. You’ll never be able to
make me happy.”
She doesn’t mean that. They’re my words—the insecurities I put on her—that she’s
hurling back in my face.
But God, it fucking hurts to hear. Physically hurts—stabbing deep into the pit of my
stomach, crushing my chest, grinding my bones. I meant it when I said I would die for her
… and right now, it feels like I am.
I grab the doorknob to walk inside, to see her face. To see that she doesn’t mean it.
“Ellie—”
“Don’t come in!” she screeches like I’ve never heard her before. “I don’t want to see
you! Go away, Logan. We’re done—just go!”
I breathe hard—that’s what you do when pain wrecks you, breathe through it. Then I
swallow bile, straighten up, turn around and walk down the hall. Away from her. Just like
she wants, like she asked. Like she screamed.
My brain tells me to move faster—get the hell out of there, cut my losses and lick my
wounds. And my heart—Christ—that poor bastard’s too battered and bloody to express
anything at all.
But then, just over halfway down the hall, my steps slow until I stop completely.
Because my gut … it strains through the hurt. Rebels. It shouts that this isn’t right.
This isn’t her. Something’s off.
And even more than that … something is very, very wrong.
I glance up and down the quiet hall—not a guard or a maid in sight. I look back at the
door. Closed and silent and still.
Then I turn and march straight back to it. I don’t knock, or wait, or ask for permission.
In one move, I turn the knob and step inside.
What I see there stops me cold.
Because whatever I was expecting, it sure as fuck wasn’t this.
Not at all …
Five years earlier

“YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, Prince Nicholas?”
Here’s a confession: when the powers that be first offered me a position on the royal
security team, I wasn’t interested. The idea of following around some self-important
aristocrats who were in love with the sound of their own voices—and the smell of their
own arses—didn’t appeal to me. The way I saw it, guards were only a step above servant-
boys—and I’m no one’s servant.
I wanted action. A blaze of glory. Purpose. I wanted to be a part of something that was
bigger than myself. Something noble and lasting.
“Yes, Logan—have a seat.”
I’d distinguished myself in the military pretty quickly. And Winston—the head of
Palace Security—had taken notice. They were looking for very particular qualities in
Prince Nicholas’s personal team, he’d said. Young lads who were quick on their feet, loyal
and ferocious when required. The type who’d be just fine bringing a knife to a gunfight
—’cause he wouldn’t be needing a fucking knife or gun to win.
After only a few weeks, I had a different take on the position. It came to feel like a
calling, a duty. Important men make things happen, get things done—they have the power
to make life easier for the not-so-important people.
I protect them, so they can do that.
And the young prince sitting across from me, behind the desk in the library of this