Lone Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected Book 7)

by Lilian Monroe

  My brand-new, fancy, leather ankle boots slip on the hard-packed snow and ice. I pause, legs shaking like a baby deer, lifting my eyes to stare at the long, dark, bleak road in front of me.

  I know how far it is. I’ve seen the topographical maps and studied the drawings of the area already.

  Just over two miles. In Farcliff, it would take me, what, thirty minutes? I wouldn’t blink at having to walk that distance.

  But now? With the wind finding every weakness in my jacket, with nothing but a pair of tights on my legs, with unlined boots on my feet?

  Two miles seem like the end of the earth, and my destination doesn’t look very friendly.

  Glancing down the road where the car disappeared, I shudder. The nearest town is twenty miles in the opposite direction. There’s a grocery store beside the train station that looks dark and definitely locked, and there are a handful of homesteads between here and the nearest town. There’s no guarantee I’ll meet someone along the way, so shouldn’t I choose the closest option?

  My eyes follow the long, straight road that leads to the Summer Palace. It looks…cold.

  The alternative to walking those two miles to the castle is standing still, which is a death sentence. I have no choice.

  Tucking my chin in my chest, I start the long walk to the Summer Palace, hoping I won’t freeze to death before I get there.

  2

  Rowan

  One foot in front of the other. Step, by step, by step.

  The soles of my feet are cold, as if the earth is reaching up through the rubber and freezing my skin. There’s a little strip of exposed skin between my jacket and my glove. It stings.

  Wind knocks me sideways, and I stumble off the road. My roller bag tumbles over, and I fall onto my hands and knees. Sucking a breath in through my scarf, I drag myself up. The castle is still so far away. Still so black and imposing. The landscape barren and desolate.

  Scrambling to right my bag, it feels like my limbs weigh twice as much as they usually do. I brace myself against another angry gust of wind. It feels like the weather is screaming at me. Howling in my ears.

  You don’t belong here.

  A chorus of gods laughs at me from above, watching me crawl along the surface of the earth like a lonely little insect, slowly freezing her little ass off.

  I keep going. If I stop, I die. If I turn back, I might find someone to bring me to the castle or give me shelter—or I might die.

  As long as I keep going, I can make it to the castle. Two miles. I’ll find Grandma, who will wrap me in a hug and hold me tight. She’ll smell like cinnamon and cherries, and it’ll feel like home. There’ll be a fire to thaw my frozen flesh, and a mug of something warm.

  Grandma will tell me why she didn’t pick me up. She’ll show me to my room, where there’ll be a huge, plush bed.

  A warm bed. With lots of blankets. Maybe even a bath.

  Everything will be warm, and soft, and nice.

  I just need to take one more step. And then another. And another.

  When did my bag get so heavy? I try to pull it loose from the snow and rocks that drag along the base of it. My lungs scream. My shoulders hurt.

  Somehow, I’m sweating. How can I be cold and sweaty at the same time?

  I blink, the crusty, frozen mass of eyelashes brushing my cheeks. My fingers are numb. My thoughts are slow.

  I start counting my steps, just to prove to myself that my brain still works. When I get halfway between three and four hundred, I lose count, so I restart.

  One, two, three, four, five…

  My chin stays buried in my chest. My shoulders hunched. My eyes glued to that little strip of ground directly in front of my feet.

  When my shoulders stop aching, it’s a relief. When I start to feel a bit warmer, I think it might be because I’m moving. A tiny, faraway voice in my mind tells me it’s a bad sign. It tries to scream at me, to warn me.

  I should be cold. I should feel the bite of the wind.

  This new warmth, snaking through my body? It should scream danger. The sleepiness that makes my eyelids droop should ring some sort of alarm bell in my mind.

  But that little voice is so quiet. The alarm bell sounds more like a lullaby.

  Warmth feels good.

  I can do this. I blink my eyes open, dragging them up to look at the castle.

  It’s so far away.

  Wind whips past me, making my eyes water. I stand still for a moment, squeezing them shut. Icy tentacles pierce my red jacket, my sweater, my dress. I feel naked.

  Maybe I should take a break. Just a little breather. That snowbank on the side of the road looks soft. I could just curl up and…

  No.

  Raking a painful breath through my lungs, I bring my brows together. Must get to the castle. Must keep walking.

  Step, by step, by step.

  My toes are so cold they sting. The leather of my boots is frozen stiff, and every step makes the material dig into the top of my foot. It hurts so much. Everything hurts.

  Maybe I should just stop. I feel warm now. I could strip off one of these scarves. Pushing the material down past my chin, I gulp down a breath of air. It doesn’t taste so cold anymore.

  I frown and try to focus on the castle. I must be Alice and this is Wonderland, because it’s not getting any nearer. Perspective and distance are all messed up. The farther I walk, the farther the castle is. It still looks dark and dangerous and so, so far away.

  Keep walking, a voice screams. Don’t stop.

  My grip on the suitcase handle is weak, but I drag it as best I can. I bury my chin in my chest and walk. On, and on, and on.

  When I see the gate looming up ahead, I stumble forward and fall. It almost feels like I’m watching it happen to someone else. An out-of-body experience. Everything is so hazy. So slow.

  But at least it’s not cold. The warmth is back, and it feels good, even as I fall to the ground.

  I catch myself on my hands and knees and snow slides into my glove. Slowly, almost curiously, I tug my glove off and watch the white powder fall out.

  My hand doesn’t feel cold. It almost doesn’t feel like my hand at all. I turn it around, staring at my palm as if it belongs to someone else. It’s almost as white as the snow on the ground. My fingertips are a pretty shade of purple. Huh. Wow.

  I can’t think straight. It’s so very hard to stand up again.

  A gust of wind blows snow across my face, partially obscuring the tall, wrought-iron gate and the fence that seems to go on for miles. The palace is so far beyond the gate, it feels like I’ve made no progress at all. I lean against my suitcase, resting my eyes for just a moment.

  I just need a second. I’m so, so tired.

  Then, a creak. A distinctly unnatural sound in this otherwise silent landscape. It doesn’t sound like the wind. It’s almost like some animal, letting out a howl in the fading light. The screech gets louder, grinding against my ears as I struggle to open my eyes.

  Movement.

  Something black.

  The gate.

  When did it get so hard to breathe? I try to stand up, holding on to my suitcase for support, but another gust of wind knocks me back, and I fall on the hard, frozen asphalt.

  Everything goes dark.

  3

  Wolfe

  I look up from my laptop when Eyvar, my driver and personal bodyguard, makes a low noise. It’s a cross between a huff and a grunt, but it speaks volumes. The big Icelandic man looks like Thor himself, with a big beard and ice-blue eyes. His hands are so big they nearly cover the top half of the steering wheel and his shoulders bulge out beyond the width of the seat.

  He doesn’t usually speak. It’s one of the reasons I hired him.

  Even a soft grunt from Eyvar means something’s wrong, and as soon as I glance up from the screen, I know what the problem is.

  A woman in a red jacket collapses on the road just ahead of our vehicle. She lands on her back and doesn’t move as the car inches forwa
rd, her black suitcase making a slow nosedive into the ditch.

  Eyvar slows the car. He wouldn’t normally make an unscheduled stop without my instruction, but we both know what it means for someone to collapse outside in these temperatures.

  This is the worst storm I’ve seen in all my life. It’s not even October, but it might as well be the depths of winter, it’s that cold.

  The woman has minutes to live if we don’t do anything. Anger flashes through my chest, hot and bright. What kind of idiot goes walking in these temperatures? By the look of her clothes, she forgot she was only a few miles from crossing into the arctic.

  Did she not see the storm? Thought it was a good day for a stroll? Has no sense of self-preservation?

  Fucking southerners. I can tell just by the look of her unconscious form that she’s not from Nord. Stupid, stupid southerner. They don’t understand this place. They don’t understand the danger. The weakness of the human body. Just how vulnerable we are.

  She doesn’t belong here. I know it already.

  Eyvar pulls the parking brake and opens his door. A bitter blast of wind slams it closed behind him, and I button my jacket all the way up. My driver crouches over the woman, putting his huge palms to her face and neck, checking for a pulse. I exit the back seat of the car, standing by the open door.

  Fuck, it’s cold out. I should have stayed in Stirling, the capital city, instead of coming all the way to the Summer Palace—but then I’d have to deal with the yearly memorials for my dead fiancée. Coming here was supposed to be my escape, and I’m greeted with yet another woman collapsing at my feet.

  My heart aches.

  Eyvar glances up at me, pale eyes somber. With a grunt, he scoops the woman up and starts marching toward the car. Even that mountain of a man has to brace himself against the wind, the woman limp in his arms. A strand of red hair falls free from her hat, whipping against her lily-white face.

  Between her hat and her scarf, I see delicate features. A pink mouth. Eyes closed, with frost clinging to the lashes. Her skin so frozen it’s almost transparent. She looks like some sort of ethereal ice goddess.

  What the hell is she doing walking to the Summer Palace in this weather?

  A protective instinct flares inside my chest. I nod to the back seat. “In here,” I say.

  “I can put her up front,” Eyvar says. The back seat is reserved for me.

  I shake my head. “Lay her down there. I’ll try to wake her up. Grab her bag.”

  Eyvar grunts, his eyes lingering on mine. He doesn’t approve. I don’t give a shit.

  Why don’t I give a shit?

  I’m not some Good Samaritan out to save some moron who decided to take a walk along the Arctic Circle. Does she have a death wish? As far as I’m concerned, this woman deserves to freeze. Where was she headed, anyway? The castle? With a fucking roller suitcase?

  After Eyvar puts her in the car, I slip into the back seat and lift her head onto my thighs. Her skin feels like ice, but there are soft breaths passing through her lips. I close the door again, thanking everything that’s holy for heated seats.

  Unwinding the woman’s scarf from her head, I toss it aside. It’s half-frozen-stiff and half-soaked with melted snow. She’s wearing a second scarf underneath, soaked in sweat. Her hat is the same. If she’s hypothermic, those garments will only make it worse.

  She needs to get warm and dry. Fast.

  Eyvar hauls her suitcase over, slams the trunk, and gets in the front seat. My bodyguard glances at me in the rearview mirror. I jerk my head at the gate. “To the security lodge. It’s closer, and it’ll be easier to warm up a small room. We don’t have much time.”

  “You know her?” His eyes narrow, flicking to the woman in my lap.

  I bristle. I don’t like his tone. Maybe my employees are getting a little too comfortable with me. No matter how close we are, Eyvar still works for me. I’m his liege. He should act accordingly.

  “Drive, Eyvar.” I don’t owe him a fucking answer. I don’t owe anyone anything.

  There’s a hole in my heart and poison leeching into my soul. When Abby died, she took part of me with her—and it was just like this. Head in my lap, eyes closed, the Reaper stealing her away from me in a few short breaths.

  I belong here, alone in the frozen north. Surrounded by cold and death. The lord of a castle made of ice, with no one to answer to but the elements. This is my home.

  But my hand moves to the woman’s cheek, and I feel the silkiness of her skin. She doesn’t belong here. She’s too soft. Too fragile.

  And unlike Abby, this woman is still alive.

  Eyvar sets his jaw and puts the car in gear. He cranks the heat up as high as it’ll go, and I unzip the top of the woman’s jacket. The skin on her chest is so cold, she might as well have been walking naked out here.

  My eyes drift down her body, imagining just that. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to dispel the thought. The last fucking thing I need to do is think about this woman naked. As soon as she’s awake and alert enough to speak, she has a lot to answer for. She’ll be getting on the first train back to whatever place she’s from, with strict instructions to never return.

  If she has a death wish, it won’t be fulfilled here. I won’t have another soul on my conscience.

  Eyvar parks the car by the security lodge. I jerk my head toward it. “Unlock the door and crank the heat. Start a fire, too.”

  Eyvar’s teeth grind. He doesn’t like me being near an uncleared person. It’s a security risk, and he knows my head is a mess right now. Isn’t that the whole reason I’m at the Summer Palace? Keep me safe from the media and the masses and myself? Stay tucked away on my own, where no one can see me break down?

  My tone of voice leaves no room for argument, though, and Eyvar is too well-trained to protest. He heaves his massive body out of the car and unlocks the lodge as I get out of the car and carry the woman to the building.

  She’s light, as if I’m just holding a bundle of clothes. Her legs are covered in nothing more than a pair of thick tights, which is about three layers less than she needs out here.

  Is this her first time in Nord? What kind of lunatic would start walking along the road to the palace in a peacoat and a fucking dress?

  Anger winds its way through my core, setting everything aflame. But the woman’s eyelids flutter, and she mumbles against my neck. Her soft breath washes over my skin, easing the bite of the wind.

  I don’t hate having her in my arms. As I march toward the lodge, she melts against my chest. She smells sweet, like candy. It feels good to hold her.

  Too good.

  I shouldn’t enjoy it. I shouldn’t want to protect her. To save her.

  It’s just the gremlins of my fucked-up past, poking their ugly heads out ahead of the fourth anniversary of Abby’s death. Fate is sending this woman to me, unconscious and near death, to remind me of everything I’ve already lost.

  Well, don’t worry, Fate. I remember. Every fucking day, and I know I’ll never forget.

  When I kick the door closed behind me, the heat is already blasting in the lodge, and Eyvar is stoking a roaring fire. I jerk my head to the closet. “Blankets.”

  Eyvar complies without a word. That’s better.

  I lay the woman on a long sofa, dragging it closer to the fire. She whimpers, trying and failing to open her eyes.

  “Gran…Grandm…” she whispers.

  “What’s that?” I say, cupping her cheek. “What’s your name? Who are you?”

  Her eyelids flutter, but her gaze is hazy. They close once again. My heart clenches. My bodyguard takes off her boots and jacket, then spreads two thick blankets over her, moving quickly and efficiently. She’s limp as we tuck her in, her eyes staying closed as her breath grows shallow.

  “Radio the palace and get the doctor.” I tuck the edge of the blanket around her and touch her cheek again. I need her to be okay. I need her to live. It feels almost desperate, a sense of doom looming just beyond my
consciousness. This woman can’t die. Not here. Not with me.

  Not again.

  Eyvar moves to the desk by the door. He presses a few buttons to turn on the radio, then grunts in frustration. I glance over to see him frowning. “Dead battery. Must have been left unplugged. Maybe a power outage.”

  “Drive, then,” I say. “Get the doctor. And quick, Eyvar. She needs medical attention.”

  “Your Highness, I can’t leave you here with—”

  “You’ll do what I say, Eyvar.” I level him with a glare. “This woman will die.”

  “Your Highness, your safety—”

  “This woman isn’t going to magically wake up and try to stab me, Eyvar. She’s ice-cold and hypothermic. Go.”

  Eyvar glances at the woman and finally lets out a long sigh. He turns his back to me and slips out the door without another word.

  Turning my attention to the woman, I lay the back of my hand against her chest.

  Frigid.

  Sighing, I drag her closer to the fire and heap another blanket on top of her. I take a seat in an armchair, letting out a long breath.

  For a few moments, I tent my hands under my chin and stare at the flames. Orange and yellow, they dance as logs crackle. The smell of wood smoke fills the lodge.

  It would be pleasant if my mouth didn’t taste so bitter. I don’t want to be here. I shouldn’t need to be here. I should be in the capital beside my three brothers and sister, where I belong. I should be standing tall, protecting them like any good brother would do. My sister, the Queen, is the eldest, but I’m the oldest man in the family. I’ve always been there to look out for them.

  But I’m weak. Every year, October eighteenth rolls around, and the kingdom mourns. This year, I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stay at the balcony of the Stirling Castle and watch the thousands of candles flickering at Abby’s yearly vigil outside. I couldn’t stand the songs and dedications. The video compilations set to sad, mournful music.

  The inevitable resurgence of those videos and photos of her last moments in my arms.