My preferred way to travel is with a royal family. Any will do.
Because royal families always travel in luxury.
The Darkland royals are no different—they’re one of the richest in the Seven Isles and they spare no expense. But they’re shit for travel companions. Unless I’m fucking them. Then they’re all right.
Amara Remaldi, Her Royal Highness The Duchess of Gordall, youngest princess of the Remaldi family, finds me in the portside dining room.
“There you are,” she says as she comes over.
I crack open a peanut shell, empty the contents into my mouth then toss the shell into a nearby ashtray.
She is excited to have found me, apparently. I can hear it in the upward lilt of her voice.
I suppose being buried nearly balls deep in her last night might have something to do with it. When she came for me, she quivered like a leaf.
Amara may be a princess but she likes being dominated and I like to make royals beg.
Keeps me looking young.
I crack another shell, then break the peanut between my sharp incisors. Amara winces.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Giselle and Holt wonder if you’ll join us for dinner.” She stops a few feet from me and clasps her hands behind her back. She’s wearing the Remaldi black velvet with the rearing lion embroidered in gold on the breast of her tunic. She’s more soldier than princess preferring violence over politics, but she’s never seen a battlefield in her life.
There is a long sword at her waist. The hilt is encrusted in cabochon rubies, making it nearly impossible to wield on a good day.
The weapon is for show, a blatant display of wealth.
It says, I’m so rich, I can make swords I don’t use glitter and gleam.
“Your sister just wants me to bend her over and pull her hair and make her feel like a dirty little whore.” I abandon the peanuts and light a cigarette, then spread my arms out over the back of the ornate settee that is bolted to the ship’s floor. The portside dining hall is only used on special occasions, but I’m special every day.
“Will you?” Amara asks me.
“Pull your sister’s hair?”
She clucks her tongue. She’s jealous of me fucking others at court. “No. Come to dinner.”
I sigh and lean my head against the back of the settee. “I would prefer not to.”
“Roc.” Her voice purrs on the R.
“Yes?”
She comes over to me and climbs on my lap, straddling me. I can feel the heat between her legs. The leather of her brand new boots groans as she settles in around my thighs. “Come to dinner, please.”
Pretty princesses asking please.
There is nothing quite so pleasing.
Amara has the family’s blond hair, but hers is curly. She keeps it straightened though, and pinned back most of the time to keep the rumors of her parentage at bay.
No one in the Remaldi family has curly hair.
But her father’s Captain of the Guard did.
And there were definitely rumors of the captain having an affair with the Crowned Queen.
I take another hit from the cigarette. Amara’s eyes sink to my mouth, to the way my lips pull on the paper. I let the smoke cloud out a second later, before I quickly suck it back in.
A little breath escapes her and she rocks against me, grinding her clit against my crotch.
But I’m in no mood.
Not when Neverland is drawing closer and my hour of need closer still.
“Come to dinner and I’ll make it worth your while.” She reaches between us to grope me.
Amara is arguably the least likely to rule, though I’ve been surprised before. After all, I thought a Lorne prince would currently be ruling over my homeland, and then my dear baby brother gutted the entire family with his bare hands. So…surprise.
But what Amara lacks in royal power, she more than makes up for in debauchery.
Before this nonsense, we were spending most nights in the Darkland Red Light District fucking and getting high until we couldn’t see straight.
“I suspect you will be making things worth my while with or without dinner,” I tell her and take another long pull on the cigarette. Her pale cheeks pink. I am far too old for her, even though we look the same age, which is twenty and six, give or take.
Probably I am far too old for half the people I fuck. Being immortal will have that effect.
“Sister wants to be sure your allegiance to us remains intact,” Amara goes on, “and that you won’t grow soft when it comes to your brother.”
I sigh. “I have not spoken to, nor laid eyes on Vane in years. There is no ground between us to grow soft.”
If Amara were adept at reading through her lust, she would know I was lying. I am pissed at my brother, yes. He chose Peter Pan over me. But would I betray him to the royal family? Never. Never in a hundred years.
So I have to tread lightly and I blame the fae queen for that.
After all, when she hailed for me, promising to reveal Peter Pan’s secrets, she sent the letter to the palace knowing full well the royal family would intercept it and insert themselves into the cause. They’ve been looking for any excuse to get the Darkland Death Shadow back from my brother. They’ve just been too terrified to confront him.
No, they’re hoping his terrifying older brother will do their dirty work for them.
But I suppose all of that will depend on what these secrets are that the fae queen is holding over my head.
If they are worthless, I will find something else to occupy my time.
If these secrets hold value…
I think Vane might have a hard time deciding which side he lands on—mine or Peter Pan’s and I think if he has a hard time deciding, I will decide for him.
I don’t hate Pan. I don’t like him either.
We had a good time, cutting off Hook’s hand as punishment for what he did.
But good times are not the same as obedience and loyalty.
And I could never control Peter Pan, either blatantly, or surreptitiously. And he sure as hell would never be loyal to me.
Which means I automatically like him less.
“Come to dinner,” Amara says again, edging on a beg this time.
I’m not getting out of this one, not when I’m stuck on a fucking ship.
“Fine.”
Her teeth gleam beneath her satisfied smile.
I groan and pull out my pocket watch, checking the time.
“I’ll have to leave early,” I tell her. “No exceptions.”
“You and your watch.” She leans forward, drives against me again, and brings the wet swell of her lips to mine.
All right, maybe I am in the mood.
I grab her ass with my free hand. Her tongue flicks forward, chasing mine and the kiss deepens.
My cock hardens. Amara wiggles her hips, bringing the heat of her core closer to me.
Fuck.
And then she’s gone.
My heavy eyes snap open to find her looking amused several steps back. “That’s all you get for now.” She drags the backside of her hand across her mouth. “Come to dinner. Then you’ll get the rest.”
“You deviant little slut,” I tell her and finish off the cigarette and fight the urge to readjust now that my cock’s so hard, it’s being strangled by my pants.
“Eight o’clock,” she says and turns away. “Do not be late. Sister hates tardiness.”
She and I have one thing in common—we are devotees to every minute of every hour.
Darkland may be one of the wealthiest islands in the island chain, but it also loves to deal in another currency—gossip.
And the gossip in court is that Giselle and Holt—eldest and second eldest Remaldi siblings—are either trying to fuck each other or kill each other.
Really I think it could go either way.
When I enter the starboard dining hall, I find Giselle at the head of the family table, a goblet of brandy in her hand. She’s wearing a gold dress stitched in crystals that glimmer in the light. Giant Summerland diamonds hang from her ears and more hang around her neck.
Giselle is the type of woman who is made beautiful by her wealth. I think if she were born in the Umbrage under the smoke and ash of the factories, her nose would appear just a little too big for her face and her eyes too close together.
“Roc,” she says and smiles at me.
Because I’m a dutiful asshole, I greet her with a kiss on her bare knuckles and she blushes beneath the attention.
Two nights ago, I shot a rope of cum on her face.
She wasn’t blushing then.
“Your Majesty,” I say to her. “You look ravishing tonight.”
“As do you. I see you’re wearing the gift I bought you.”
The gift is a three-piece suit tailored specifically for me. It’s the same dark shade as the Remaldi velvet but made of mohair. It hides most of my tattoos save for the crocodile mouth and sharp teeth that half wrap around my throat and the ink on my hands.
“It looks divine,” she says.
“Thanks to you.”
She demurs.
“Sit,” she orders and gestures to the chair on her left. Holt usually sits there. I see tonight she’s chosen violence.
I sit.
She flicks a finger and one of the servants brings me a tumbler of Summerland whisky. It’s one of the sweeter blends and tastes like caramel and spice.
“Is it too early to talk business?” she asks.
“Is it ever with you?”
The laughter that bubbles out of her throat is not amused. “Not when the future of my island is at stake. But you know that.”
“Of course.”
The rest of the family files in. Holt comes to a jarring halt when he sees me in his chair. His jaw flexes. I smile innocently at him.
I have not fucked Holt. Holt hates my fucking guts.
Sometimes I fantasize about liberating him from his.
Giselle holds his gaze for a second too long and then he sits in the chair on her right.
Holt is just one year younger than Giselle, but he thinks he’s the one in charge because he’s a man.
Clearly Holt knows nothing about the might of women.
Amara takes the chair beside me and leans in close. “You look so fucking hot in that suit.”
“I know.”
On the other side of the table, the two youngest cousins of the family share a laugh. There’s Julia, whose parents are dead. And Matthieu whose parents are not.
Julia is destined to be married off to one of the Darkland viscounts. I actually like Julia. We play chess when the mood strikes. She’s spectacularly bad at it but I let her win.
The servants bring out the first course—toasted bread with cheese and slivered roasted vegetables drizzled in balsamic vinaigrette.
“Have you decided how you’ll approach your brother?” Giselle asks as she cuts into the bread with a knife. The bread cracks, then crunches beneath the blade.
“It’s best if I approach him alone.” I drain my whisky and gesture for another.
“You think we’re just going to let you wander off on Neverland without us?” Holt asks. “So you can warn Vane? And Peter Pan? Absolutely not.”
“Come on, Holt.” Amara is talking with her hands, waving her silverware around. “Roc has been with us longer than he was with his brother. He no longer holds allegiance to Vane.”
Giselle is watching me.
I drain the second whisky the servant brought over.
If anyone can spot my lies, I think it would be her.
“Time means nothing to blood,” Holt says.
“Time means everything, Holt,” I counter.
Speaking of which…
I check my pocket watch.
I have an hour and three.
We’re only on the first fucking course.
“Once we’ve visited the fae queen to find out what we’re dealing with, I suggest you all stay in Darlington Port,” I tell them. “Do not wear your royal crests. Stay inconspicuous. Don’t flaunt your wealth. And for the love of god, do not provoke Peter Pan or the Lost Boys. When the time is right, I’ll call for you.”
“How about instead you bring Vane to us?” Holt fingers the giant rock hanging from his neck. It’s about the only remaining magic in the Remaldi family, and it’s both Holt’s line of defense and his last hope.
The Darkland Life Shadow has been misplaced for centuries. And magic has been waning with the Death Shadow off-island.
They’re getting desperate.
Of course the magical rock will work against my vicious little brother who possesses one of the most powerful entities in the Seven Isles. I’m sure it’ll be fine.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell Holt but I won’t.
The second course comes out. It’s a thick red soup.
Now I’m hungry for something else.
By the third course, I can literally hear the seconds ticking down in my head.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
I check my watch again.
“Have somewhere to be?” Giselle asks.
“You know I like to meditate at a certain time every day.”
“Meditate.” Holt snorts as he saws into his steak.
Almost everyone in Darkland knows me as The Crocodile, the Devourer of Men.
But they don’t know why.
They don’t know what happens when the seconds run out.
“Eat,” Holt orders. “You wouldn’t want all this food to go to waste, would you, Crocodile?”
“Of course not.” I give him a tight smile.
When the plates are cleared again, dessert comes out last.
“I’ll skip the last course tonight,” I tell them and shove back my chair.
“Oh must you?” Giselle pouts.
“I must.”
“I think you should stay,” Holt says.
Technically anyone beneath the dominion of the royal family has to follow a direct order.
Holt isn’t stupid. It was more a suggestion than an order to test me, but not risk his limbs.
“I really must go,” I counter. “But I appreciate the hospitality as always.”
My skin crawls as I hunch over Giselle and kiss the back of her hand again. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”
“Goodnight, Crocodile.”
She has that look on her face—a promise that I’ll see her later.
Not tonight. Not if I can help it.
I start for the door.
“Wait.”
My stomach churns and it takes everything I have not to lose my fucking mind.
I turn back to the dining hall.
Holt says, “We’ll be on the island soon. I’ll expect you to be ready to disembark.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
I need to get the fuck out of here or I’m eating Holt for dinner.
“You’re dismissed,” he says and I bow to the room and push through the swinging door.
I have my watch in hand as I barrel down the hallway, then use the railing on the stairwell to slide down to the lower decks.
I find a servant girl and take her hand. “Come with me,” I tell her and she tries to object but there is no try with me.
The clock ticks louder in my head.
Sweat breaks out along the back of my neck.
Too close.
Too fucking close.
I yank the girl into my cabin and slam and lock the door behind us.
“My lord,” she says and wrings her hands.
They all know my reputation. But I don’t need to fuck.
I need to eat.
“Apologies, little girl,” I tell her as the shift hammers behind my eyes and I catch sight of my glowing irises in the mirror over the desk.
The girl gasps, lower lip trembling.
“This will only take a moment.”
And then I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and drag her to me.
