Claiming His Princess_A Beauty and The Beast Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  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 Ninteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  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

  Chapter Twenty-FIve

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue, Part One

  Epilogue, Part Two

  Claiming His Princess

  A Beauty and The Beast Romance

  Parker Grey

  Copyright © 2017 by Parker Grey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover: Coverlüv

  Editor: Sennah Tate

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  I’m hard on my students.

  All semester, Melody has been sitting quietly in the back of my class - a straight-A student with a perfect 4.0 GPA. A nice, polite, well-behaved, good girl.

  The kind of girl I want to see on her knees in front of me, begging with her big, wide eyes. Even though touching her could get me fired and barred from teaching college ever again.

  But when she asks me to be her thesis advisor, I say yes, and soon sweet, almost-innocent Melody is in my office, her ripe curves and pouty lips practically begging me to take her.

  Dominate her. Claim her. Make this straight-A student my dirty girl.

  It’s just an innocent crush…

  I know it’s a total cliche to have a crush on your teacher, but I can’t help it - he’s ruggedly handsome, incredibly smart, totally in control…

  …and even from the back row I can see the monster in his pants.

  I know I shouldn’t be paying these dangerous games with him. If we get caught, the consequences would be total disaster — but every time he growls my name, I practically lose my mind.

  Take me, professor. Make me yours.

  Get it now - totally free!

  Claiming His Princess

  A beauty and the beast romance

  Chapter One

  Belle

  The doorbells chime, and I pop my head around the corner of a bookshelf so fast that I nearly smack myself in the nose on the dark wood.

  “You can get one book,” a man is saying, like he’s admonishing a child.

  “Aww!” a kid’s voice says.

  I crane my neck and finally get a look at them: a thirty-something guy in jeans and his son, maybe seven or eight. The kid races off to the next room, full of kids’ books, and the dad watches him go, then starts scanning the new releases.

  I rest my head against the cool wood of the bookshelf and sigh, half in disappointment and half in frustration, my nerves only getting worse.

  It’s almost seven and still no Papa, I think.

  Where the hell could he be? Did he get held up at the border?

  I know my father’s a grown man, but I can’t help worrying about him. He comes from a time when a man got married young and moved from his mother’s house to his wife’s house, meaning that he’s used to someone taking care of him.

  He’s used to someone cooking, someone cleaning, someone making sure there’s food and that the bills are all paid.

  He’s used to someone picking up his insulin prescription, so that when he needs it, it’s just in his medicine cabinet already.

  For years and years, my mom did all that, and the two of them got along fine — until pancreatic cancer meant that one day she felt sick, and then a month later she was gone. Now I’m all Papa’s got, and even though I’ve spent the last two years trying to teach him to make his own sandwiches, change can be hard when you’re past retirement.

  “Can I have this one?” the kid calls, his excited voice echoing through the bookstore.

  Even though I’m worried, I can’t help but smile. It’s heartwarming when kids love books, and when they beg their parents for just one extra novel, instead of more video games.

  “Sure,” his dad calls, not really paying attention as he tilts his head, reading the spines.

  I shelve the last of my shipment, then grab the empty cardboard box and deposit it behind the counter. I force myself not to look out the bookstore’s windows to the dark, snowy street outside.

  He was supposed to be home two hours ago.

  Did he even take his medicine with him? Last time he went to a University lecture across the border he forgot it, and even though he came home in plenty of time I was a wreck.

  I straighten some bookmarks that I’ve got displayed on the counter, trying to focus on them instead of on the million bad things that could have happened to Papa.

  Car wreck. Slipped and fell. Attacked by a mob of angry teenagers. Detained at the border for some silly reason, like they think his drawings of one of his inventions are a bomb.

  Detained at the border because he mouthed off again about how the monarchy should be deposed, and this time the wrong border guard was
listening…

  God, I wish any of these were less likely. Papa’s brilliant but scatterbrained.

  He’s probably just at the pub with some of the other club members, I remind myself. Especially if he’s wearing that watch he built himself, because it’s not exactly the most accurate…

  The phone rings, and I jump about a mile in the air, then snatch it from the cradle.

  “Isabelle’s Bookstore, hi this is Isabelle how can I help you?” I say in a rush, the words spilling out of me.

  There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line.

  “Am I speaking with Isabelle Marchand?” a man asks, carefully and slowly, like he’s reading from a piece of paper.

  “Yes,” I say, my heart seizing in my chest. I can tell from just the way he says it that this is no good. No good at all.

  “You are Jacques Marchand’s requested phone call,” he says, again sounding like he’s reading off of something. “Do you accept?”

  “Yes!” I shout. The guy in the store looks up at me in surprise, but I’m too anxious to even smile at him.

  Oh god oh god oh god.

  There’s a long, long pause. Static. Clicking. Voices I can’t make out, but then finally, someone breathes heavily into the receiver.

  “Sweetheart, everything is okay,” Papa’s voice finally tells me.

  I feel like I’ve swallowed a pound of ice, because that means there is no way everything is okay.

  “What happened? Where are you?”

  “I’m just, ah, in a temporary situation right now,” he says. “I may not be home for a bit—”

  “Are you at the border?” I ask. “Are they detaining you? You’re a citizen, I know you know your rights, they have to give you cause.”

  Even though Griskold is a monarchy, we’re not living in the year 1350. We’ve got a constitution; the people have rights. It’s not an absolute monarchy.

  Of course, I suspect Papa’s in this situation because he told someone he thought it shouldn’t be a monarchy at all.

  “I’m not at the border,” he says, his voice sounding faraway. “They, ah, well, sweetie, I’m at the palace.”

  The palace?

  Why in the ever-loving fuck is Papa at the palace?

  “What did you do?” I nearly shout, and the dad glances back at me quickly.

  “Nothing,” Papa says indignantly.

  Of course he won’t tell me. I’m sure someone else is listening in on our conversation, so he’s not going to admit to anything.

  If only he’d been that clever earlier.

  I sigh, looking over my bookstore, my stomach a thick knot of worry. Papa’s getting older, and he’s not exactly frail, but he’s no spring chicken either.

  More importantly, he’s all I’ve got.

  “Hold on, I’m coming,” I say, the knot in my stomach tightening.

  “Sweetheart, no,” he says, his voice suddenly tinged with panic. “Don’t do that, it’s—”

  I hang up the phone, the receiver clattering onto the counter.

  Like hell I’m letting this happen.

  Chapter Two

  Julian

  I open the fridge and stare in until I find what I’m looking for: a glass tupperware container labeled Saturday. On top of it is a much smaller glass container filled with sprigs of parsley.

  A garnish. Fucking cute.

  I ignore the smaller container, pull Saturday out, and pop it into the microwave, leaning against the counter with my arms crossed over my chest, watching it spin slowly. I think it’s beef stew, not that I particularly give a shit.

  Bouchon, my chef, has pretty much given up on me, though he’s fucking determined with the damned garnishes. I keep him on staff, of course — I’m a prince, for God’s sake, I’ve got neither the time nor the inclination to cook for myself — but I’d just as soon eat a pile of raw potatoes as filet mignon.

  The microwave beeps. I grab a kitchen towel and take it out, steaming, carry it into the tiny side room where I prefer to dine. There’s a table setting left for me, of course, along with fresh flowers on the table.

  All wasted on me.

  I wolf down the stew with one hand while I check my phone with the other, because the fucking anti-monarchy faction of Griskold has been getting vocal again. My people all suspect that Petrovinsk, our next-door neighbor, is encouraging some of them, but we’ve got no way to deal with it.

  My ancestors fought the Petrovians on and off for as long as anyone bothered keeping records. Since about 1900 we’ve had an uneasy truce, but old habits die hard.

  As I’m scrolling through my notifications, there’s a knock at the door and I drop my spoon, irritated.

  “What?” I call.

  The door squeaks open, and Lumien’s face peers through.

  “Your Grace—”

  “I’m eating.”

  “That’s true. It’s also true that Mademoiselle Marchand has shown up at the palace, demanding her father’s release, and she’s raising quite a fuss.”

  “Send her away.”

  A cloud passes over Lumien’s face, like he wants to disagree but isn’t quite brave enough. I sigh.

  “What?” I growl.

  “I’m not sure that will work, Your Grace.”

  “And why not?”

  I shovel another spoonful of stew into my mouth, wishing that for once, I could have a single meal in uninterrupted peace and quiet. But no, I’ve got a palace guard who can’t even deal with one young woman.

  “She’s lying down in the palace’s entrance hall and refuses to be moved, except by force.”

  Then there’s an obvious fucking solution, isn’t there?

  “So move her by force.”

  His eyebrows go up, and I roll my eyes.

  “I’m not saying hurt her,” I growl, rubbing my forehead with one hand. “I’m saying pick her up and move her. We’re keeping her father because we suspect him of treason against the crown and collusion with a foreign country, can I be any fucking clearer?”

  “She’s also recording us and broadcasting via social media,” he says primly. Like this Mademoiselle Marchand has some sort of trump card.

  “Jesus,” I mutter, standing from the table and my half-finished dinner. “Move. I’ll come deal with her myself. Cut cell signal for the palace for a few minutes, interrupt that broadcast.”

  He bows, then vanishes through the doorway. I bend down, scoop two more spoonfuls of stew into my mouth, then follow him out.

  I came here to get away from everything, I think. Not for problems to land on my doorstep.

  The main palace of Griskold, where my father rules from, is on the other side of the country, fifty miles away. I came to the palace outside Inversberg after I was nearly killed serving my country.

  I needed to recover. I didn’t want anyone to see me, especially at first, though even after a few years, I still don’t go out in public. The people of Griskold deserve a handsome, charming ruler, not the beast I am now.

  I also came here hoping the dreams would stop. That hasn’t happened either.

  I push through a few more heavy wooden doors, stride through hallways. Everyone whose path I cross bows their heads to me, and I grunt in response.

  She’d better not still be broadcasting this to the world, I think. If Lumien hasn’t cut off the signal by now…

  I walk into the throne room, heads turning as I do. I’m well aware that I’m not in my formal regalia at the moment, but I don’t care. I was interrupted to do a guard’s job while I was in the middle of my dinner, because apparently no one else in this palace is even remotely competent.

  They can deal with their prince looking like a regular person instead of royalty for once.

  I head through the huge doors at the other end of the throne room, fully ready to start bellowing at the guards there, to take this woman’s phone away from her, grab her, and throw her back out into the snowy night.

  And there she is, lying prone on the marble floor of the
entryway, her arms crossed in front of her, phone clutched uselessly in one hand, her hair fanned around her head.

  But as I loom over her, the words get out or pay the price on my lips, I suddenly can’t speak, the air sucked from my lungs.

  Mademoiselle Marchand, the troublemaker, is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

  Chapter Three

  Belle

  The door to the entryway slams open. All the guards, who were tittering among themselves up until right now, all stop at the same time as a hush falls over the room.

  I force myself not to look.

  I’m not going to give these power-mad assholes the satisfaction. I’m more than aware already that I’m going to pay dearly for this little bout of civil disobedience, so why help them out any more than I have to?

  Footsteps come toward me. I can just barely feel their vibration through the cold marble floor, and I clench my jaw, forcing myself not to speak or even look at whoever’s coming.

  The footsteps walk, slowly. Deliberately. Like whoever’s walking has all the time in the world, like I guess he does since they’ve cut off the cellular signal.

  They stop a few feet away, just out of my range of vision. I refuse to move my head to look and keep staring ahead, stone-faced.

  You could hear a pin drop in here, it’s so quiet. No one moves. I don’t think anyone breathes, and I start to get nervous.

  Whoever it is clearly has a hold over everyone else, I think. Must be the commander of the guard, or their captain, or…

  I hold my breath as a thought occurs to me.

  It’s not him. He wouldn’t come down for this.

  Would he?

  The footsteps move again, my heart locked in an iron vise. I wonder if I could still get up and run out the doors of the castle, make it into the cold night before they caught me.

  But I can’t leave my father here. I can’t.

  Suddenly, there’s a man in my field of vision. He’s standing to one side, peering down at me.