The Duke’s Broken Angel Read Online Aria Cole, Mila Crawford

Categories Genre: Novella, Romance, Virgin Tags Authors: ,
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Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 83(@200wpm)___ 67(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
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Read Online Books/Novels:

The Duke's Broken Angel

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Aria Cole, Mila Crawford

Language:
English
Book Information:

The headlines call him broken.
A rebel prince with trouble on his mind.

Keir Marsden the dark mark on the royal family tree. The youngest son with the largest chip on his shoulder, he's nothing like the rest of them. He came back from war wounded, bossy, and demanding, with scars far deeper than he lets the world see.

The Queen hired me to take care of him, but what will she think when Keir Marsden, a proper Duke and painful thorn in my side, decides I'm the only thing that can heal him?
Books by Author:

Aria Cole, Mila Crawford



ONE

Keir

“Your mom’s a MILF, bro.” My childhood best friend, Gunnar, tipped his cider to his lips, eyes tracing my mom as she walked to us.

Her eyes were on me and she wasn’t happy. I cringed. There was no telling what she might be pissed at me for now.

“Have some respect for the Queen, you tool.” Our other friend, Kirk, knocked him in the shoulder.

My mom paused in front of our small table. “A word please, son.”

I held her gaze, tipping my cider to my lips and drinking in a slow chug. I finished the stein and slammed it on the table and stood. Pain shot up my spinal cord and landed in a death punch to my cerebral cortex. Another day in the life.

“What?”

“Keir, could you at least pretend to show some royal decorum while we’re in public?”

“I’m twenty-seven. You know, a war hero? Should I bow in your holy presence?”

She arched an eyebrow. She was poised, even when she was angry with me. Which was often. She’d thought she was honoring me with the title of Duke after I cam home wounded, really it made things worse. The headlines had had a field day with the new Duke of Debauchery title they’d christened me with after a late night bar fight was captured live on social media.

“I’ve hired a caretaker for the cottage. They’re starting in the morning. For the love of God, please be nice.”

“A caretaker? What? Why?”

She turned, peach pantsuit fading in the distance as she exited the clubhouse.

“Dude. Such a MILF.” Gunnar laughed at my shoulder.

“Fuck off.” I slammed another double shot of whiskey. Already my mother’s memory was fading in the liquor-soaked haze.

Thirty minutes and three more doubles later and I’d long forgotten I’d even talked to her at all.

I played a game of darts with the boys, and then I stumbled home. Drunk, lonely, angry, another day in the life of a prince.

I reached the front gate at my cottage, pausing before I went inside and unzipping my pants. I groped my cock in my hand, pissing in the Queen’s rosebush. Once I’d finished, I kicked my pants off the rest of the length of my legs and left them in the grass. I climbed the steps, stumbling into the front door before pushing my boxers down my thighs and throwing them over my shoulder.

I had just enough time to pull my t-shirt over my head before I passed out on the couch. Piss-ass drunk sweet dreams floating in my mind.

TWO

Anna

“Shit!” I grunted, twisting the key in the old cottage’s lock. I knocked one knuckle on the door, hoping for a miracle to shake the key into the right position to open it. Maybe the wrong key had been delivered. It’d arrived at my dingy hotel room by royal courier, that alone had raised some eyebrows from the owner.

Frustration climbed through my system. I was already running thirty minutes late for my new job. The train out of Copenhagen had been delayed, and I’d underestimated the amount of time it would take to get to Hopewell Cottage.

One of the Queen’s many royal cottages dotted around the countryside and I was the new caretaker. Not of the cottage, but of the royal pain who lived there.

“Son of a bi—”

“That old door sticks in the rainy season, here, let me.” A little old man, someone who looked like the gardener based on the tool he held in his hand, jiggled the doorknob with force and it popped open.

“Just takes a little wiggle.” He was already walking away. He paused at the evergreen hedge that bordered the small property.

“Thank you!” I called and he waved without looking. He went back to trimming and I went back to what I might find on the other side of that door.

“Here we go then.” I pushed open the door. The house was silent. A tiny kitchen greeted me, one that looked rarely used, while the adjacent living and dining room were stacked high with paperwork and books and boxes of personal items.

“This place is a shitshow.”

A low grunt came from somewhere. A distinctly human grunt.

“Hello?” I breathed. “I’m the new caretaker—”

Rustling could be heard and then, “Caretaker? What the fuck?”

A head popped up from behind the couch. Watery green eyes struggled to focus on me. A crop of mussed blond hair shot every which way.


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