Fallen Heir (The Royals #4)
Erin Watt
To everyone who clamoured for more Easton Royal. This book is for you.
Chapter 1
“Remember that no matter what function you choose, the sum of the differences is controlled by the first and last,” Ms. Mann concludes, just as the bell chimes to signal the end of class. It’s the last one of the day.
Everyone starts packing up. Everyone but me.
I lean back in my chair and tap my pencil against the edge of the textbook, hiding a grin as I watch the new teacher desperately try to hold the quickly disappearing attention of her students. She’s cute when she’s flustered.
“Parts one-a and one-b for tomorrow!” she calls, but nobody’s listening anymore. They’re all racing out the door.
“Coming, Easton?” Ella Harper pauses at my desk, her blue eyes peering down at me. She’s looking thin these days. I think her appetite left her around the same time my brother did.
Well, not that Reed left her. Big bro is still head over heels for Ella, our kinda sorta stepsister. If he didn’t love her, he would’ve chosen to go to some fancy college far, far away from Bayview. Instead, he’s at State, which is close enough that they can visit each other on the weekends.
“Naah,” I say. “I got a question for Teach.”
Ms. Mann’s slender shoulders twitch as my words register. Even Ella notices.
“East…” She trails off, her pretty lips forming a frown.
I can see her winding up some lecture about how I need to clean up my act. But we’re only a week into classes, and I’m already bored out of my mind. What else do I have to do but mess around? I don’t need to study. I barely care about football. My dad has grounded me from flying; at this rate, I’ll never get my pilot’s license. And if Ella doesn’t leave me the hell alone, I’m gonna forget she’s my brother’s girl and seduce her just for the hell of it.
“See you at home,” I tell Ella, my voice firm. Ms. Mann has been flirting with me relentlessly since the first day of school, and after a week of exchanging heated glances, I’m going for it. It’s wrong, sure, but that’s what makes it exciting—for both of us.
It’s rare for Astor Park Prep to hire young, hot female teachers. The administration knows there are too many bored rich boys in here looking for a challenge. Headmaster Beringer has had to cover up more than one teacher-student relationship, and I’m not even relying on the rumor mill for this, since one of those “inappropriate” relationships was mine. If you consider making out with my nutrition teacher behind the gym a relationship. I don’t.
“I don’t mind if you stay for this,” I drawl to Ella, whose stubborn feet are rooted into the tile, “but you might feel more comfortable waiting in the hall.”
She gives me a withering look. Not much escapes her notice. She grew up in shady places and knows shit. Or she just knows how deviant I am.
“I don’t know what you’re chasing, but I doubt you’ll find it up Ms. Mann’s skirt,” she mutters.
“Won’t know until I look,” I quip.
Ella sighs and gives in. “Be careful,” she admonishes in a tone loud enough to carry to Ms. Mann, who flushes and stares at the floor as Ella walks out.
I tamp down a swell of irritation. Why the judgment? I’m trying to live my best life here, and as long as I don’t hurt anyone, where’s the harm? I’m eighteen. Ms. Mann’s an adult. So what if her occupation is currently “teacher”?
Silence fills the room after the door closes behind Ella. Ms. Mann fiddles with her pale blue skirt. Well, hell. She’s having second thoughts.
I’m slightly disappointed, but it’s all good. I’m not one of those guys who has to bang every girl I meet, mostly because there are so many out there. If one girl isn’t interested, you move on to the next.
I bend down to grab my backpack when a pair of pretty heels show up in my line of vision.
“Did you have a question, Mr. Royal?” Ms. Mann asks softly.
I raise my head slowly, taking in her long legs, the curve of her hip, the indentation at her waist where her prim white blouse is tucked into the equally modest skirt. Her chest heaves under my examination, and the pulse at her neck flutters wildly.
“Yeah. Do you have any solutions to my in-class problem?” I place my hand on her hip. As she gasps, I run a finger along the waistband of her skirt. “I’m having a hard time concentrating.”
She takes another deep breath. “Is that right?”
“Mmm-hmmm. I think it’s because every time I look at you, I get the feeling you’re having problems concentrating, too.” I smile faintly. “Maybe because you’re fantasizing about getting bent over your desk while everyone in Calc watches.”
Ms. Mann gulps. “Mr. Royal. I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re referring to. Please remove your hand from my waist.”
“Sure.” I slide my palm lower, so that my fingers are dusting the hem of her skirt. “Is this a better place for it? Because I can stop altogether.”
Our gazes lock.
Last chance, Ms. Mann. We’re both acutely aware of how I’m ruining her skirt and possibly her reputation, but her feet are glued to the floor.
Her voice is hoarse when she finally speaks. “That’s fine, Mr. Royal. I think you’ll find that the solution to your concentration problem is in your hands.”
I slide my palms underneath the skirt and flash her a cocky grin. “I’m trying to eliminate the problematic functions.”
Her eyelids flutter shut in surrender.
“We should not be doing this,” she chokes out.
“I know. That’s why it’s so good.”
Her thighs clench under my hands. The naughtiness of this scene, knowing we could be caught any time, knowing that she’s absolutely the last person I should be touching, makes this a million times hotter.
Her hand falls to my shoulders and her fingers dig into the two-thousand-dollar Tom Ford-designed school blazer as she tries to balance herself. My own fingers work their magic. Small, muffled sounds fill the empty classroom until there’s nothing but her heavy breathing.
With a satisfied sigh, Ms. Mann backs away, smoothing her hands across her wrinkled skirt before lowering herself to her knees.
“Your turn,” she whispers.
I stretch my legs out and lean back. AP Calc is absolutely the best class I’ve ever taken at Astor Park.
When she’s done giving me my extra credit, a hesitant smile settles on her face. Her hair brushes the tops of my thighs as she leans close to murmur, “You can come over tonight. My daughter is in bed by ten.”
I freeze. This could’ve ended in many directions, but I was really hoping to avoid this one. A dozen excuses race through my mind, but before I can get one out, the classroom door opens.
“Oh my God!”
Both Ms. Mann and I whirl toward the doorway. I catch a glimpse of ink-black hair and the navy Astor Park jacket.
Ms. Mann shoots to her feet and stumbles. I jump forward to catch her. She’s weak-kneed as I help her brace herself on a desk.