Royally Unexpected Book 1: Bad Prince

The rhythmic squeaking of my housemate’s bedsprings gets louder as the sound of her first moan floats through the wall. I stuff my earplugs in deeper, hoping they’ll help block out the noise—even though I already know they won’t. Dahlia’s headboard taps against our shared wall. It starts gently, barely grazing the thin separation between our bedrooms.

And then it gets louder, and louder, and louder…

… until the wall actually shakes.

Another moan sounds out and a man says something barely audible. I assume it’s something filthy. Dahlia, my best and weirdest friend, likes it dirty.

Why do I know this?

Because I hear everything in this rundown, mouse-infested house of ours.

Everything.

Groaning, I turn to my side, stuffing my pillow over my head to try to muffle the noise. I check the time on my phone. It’s already past midnight, and I have to be up in four hours for crew practice. I’m going to be out on the water, rowing my little heart out as I train for the biggest regatta of my life, with less than four hours’ sleep.

Sunday is—or rather, was— my day off, as usual, and Monday practices are notoriously tough after a rest day. Coach Bernard doesn’t tolerate lateness, sleepiness, or excuses like my roommate is a sex maniac.

The banging on the wall continues, and my blood pressure rises. Every knock on the wall cranks my nerves tighter.

Bang. Bang. Bang.
Moan.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Moan.

Dahlia goes to Farcliff University too, but she’s far from athletic—well, not in the traditional sense of the word. She runs her own athletics department from the comfort of her own bed.

No, Dahlia doesn’t need to wake up at four o’clock in the morning, or practice twice a day, six days a week. She doesn’t need to manage her protein intake down to the gram, or make sure her performance is stellar every single day just to keep her scholarship.

Unlike me, Dahlia can have manic, crazy sex every night of the week until the sun comes up…

… and she does.

When her voice goes up a couple octaves and a scream finally pierces the partition, I’ve had enough. My frustration boils over and I clamber onto my knees on the bed, banging my fist against the paper-thin wall so hard my knuckles bruise.

“Come on, you idiot! Make her come already!”

The squeaking stops. The moans pause.

Silence.

Then the bed creaks once more as their weight shifts, and peals of laughter sound through the wall. I slump back down on my own bed, exhaling as I rub my hands over my face.

If Dahlia wasn’t the friendliest person I’d ever met—and if I could afford to live somewhere other than this rodent-plagued sex den—I’d definitely move out.

Unfortunately, though, I’m stuck here.

They move to the floor, thankfully. The floorboards aren’t nearly as noisy as the bed.

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