Page 30 of The Royal in Room 3

I grabbed the nearest dish towel and waved it to disperse the smoke, but that only stirred it around. My elbow clipped the open carton of eggs still on the counter and knocked it sideways. Two rolled to the floor and splattered against the tile.

The kitchen smelled like smoke and sulfur.

“What the hell happened?”

I froze.

Jude stood in the doorway, his gaze moving slowly over the kitchen. He took in the burnt toast on the floor—I didn’t even know how it got there—the cracked eggs, the open microwave dripping yellow sludge, the tipped bowl inside it, and the saltshaker lying on its side in a small white mound.

His eyes finally landed on me, and the expression on his face made my earlier confidence collapse. I expected him to be angry, but he wasn’t. He looked horrified, and somehow that was worse.

“I was making breakfast,” I said, but the words came out shaky.

The smoke alarm continued shrieking overhead as I lowered the dish towel and finally saw the kitchen the way he must have seen it. His beautiful kitchen. The counters he had made with his own hands. The cabinets he had built. The orderly room he had trusted me to use, and I had destroyed it in less than twenty minutes.

My throat tightened.

Of course I had.

The useless prince. The one who could memorize state protocols but not boil water. The one who needed valets, assistants, secretaries, and guards. The one whose brothers could ride, hunt, debate policy, and charm diplomats.

And me?

I was quite proficient at ruining breakfast.

My eldest brother had laughed once and called me decorative. I’d laughed along at the time, but now I’d finally gained enough clarity to understand it hadn’t been a joke. It had been an insult that I deserved.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He rushed by me to open the kitchen windows, and the smoke alarm finally stopped as the sea breeze rushed in to clear the space. Only then did he turn to me.

“Soren—”

“I know it’s horrible.” I took a step back and slid on the eggs. My legs decided to go their separate ways—I couldn’t blame them—and I went down. Strong arms caught me and pulled me into a solid chest before I could hit the floor.

“Don’t!” I cried, trying to pull away. “I’m a mess. I got eggs all over me, and⁠—”

“Soren, it’s okay.”

His voice sounded strained, and shame burned hotter beneath my skin. He was trying not to lose his temper. Of course he was. Anyone would be angry after walking into this nightmare of the deposed prince who couldn’t even light a stove.

“I didn’t mean to ruin anything,” I said, tears filling my eyes. “I thought the toaster could cook sausages because it cooks bread, and then the eggs exploded, and I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s probably for the best because I don’t think I got all the shells out. If I could have lit the stupid stove, none of this would have happened.”

I cringed as I said it because I didn’t even believe that. Maybe it was a good thing I couldn’t light the stove, or he might not have had a roof over his head tonight.

Jude made a strange choking sound, and my heart cracked. Now he was going to regret agreeing to be my Daddy.

His shoulders shook. Was he crying?

“Are you—” I pulled back to look at him.

He covered his mouth, but it was too late. A laugh escaped him, low and muffled. Within seconds, he was laughing so hard he had to brace one hand against the counter.

I stared at him, confused. Wasn’t he upset?

“You’re laughing?”

“I’m sorry.” He tried to stop, but one glance at the kitchen set him off again. “I swear I’m not laughing at you.”