Royally Unexpected: An Accidental Pregnancy Collection
Page 1
Royally Unexpected
Farcliff Kingdom: Books 1-3
Lilian Monroe
Contents
Foreword
Bad Prince
1. Elle
2. Charlie
3. Elle
4. Charlie
5. Elle
6. Charlie
7. Elle
8. Elle
9. Charlie
10. Elle
11. Charlie
12. Elle
13. Charlie
14. Elle
15. Charlie
16. Elle
17. Charlie
18. Elle
19. Charlie
20. Elle
21. Charlie
22. Elle
23. Charlie
24. Elle
25. Charlie
26. Elle
27. Charlie
28. Elle
29. Charlie
30. Elle
31. Charlie
32. Elle
33. Charlie
34. Elle
35. Charlie
36. Elle
Epilogue
Heartless Prince
1. Dahlia
2. Damon
3. Dahlia
4. Damon
5. Dahlia
6. Damon
7. Dahlia
8. Damon
9. Dahlia
10. Damon
11. Dahlia
12. Lady Malerie
13. Damon
14. Dahlia
15. Damon
16. Dahlia
17. Damon
18. Dahlia
19. Damon
20. Lady Malerie
21. Dahlia
22. Damon
23. Dahlia
24. Damon
25. Dahlia
26. Damon
27. Dahlia
28. Damon
29. Dahlia
30. Damon
31. Damon
32. Damon
33. Dahlia
34. Damon
35. Damon
36. Dahlia
37. Dahlia
38. Lady Malerie
39. Damon
Epilogue
Cruel Prince
1. Jo
2. Gabriel
3. Jo
4. Gabriel
5. Jo
6. Gabriel
7. Jo
8. Gabriel
9. Jo
10. Gabriel
11. Jo
12. Gabriel
13. Jo
14. Gabriel
15. Jo
16. Gabriel
17. Jo
18. Gabriel
19. Jo
20. Gabriel
21. Jo
22. Gabriel
23. Jo
24. Gabriel
25. Jo
26. Gabriel
27. Jo
28. Gabriel
29. Jo
30. Gabriel
31. Jo
32. Gabriel
33. Jo
34. Gabriel
35. Jo
36. Gabriel
37. Jo
Epilogue
Broken Prince
1. Ivy
2. Luca
Also by Lilian Monroe
Copyright © 2020 Lilian Monroe All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author except for short quotations used for the purpose of reviews.
Resemblance to action persons, things living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
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Bad Prince
An Accidental Pregnancy Romance
Royally Unexpected: Book 1
1
Elle
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 bead 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.
Bleary-eyed and grumpy, I somehow make it to practice on time. In the locker room, I pull on my thermal, skin-hugging workout tights. My sports bra has so many straps and support mechanisms that it looks like it was designed by NASA for a trip to outer space.
I strap the bra on and adjust it, locking the girls down nice and securely. When I pull on my workout top and lean over to shove my bag in my locker, I feel the chill of the air over my lower back. Clothes never fit properly over my tall, athletic body, but I’m used to it by now.
I used to hate my height when I was a kid. As a teenager, I’d see all the boys going gaga o
ver petite, delicate little waifs—and I felt like an ogre in comparison. Then I grew these massive knockers and I hated them, too, because all the boys went gaga over my boobs and forgot that there was a person attached to them.
I’ve always been taller, broader, and stronger than most men. My size isn’t great for my love life, if I’m honest—I get friend zoned more often than I’d like to admit.
But my height means I can row. When I’m rowing, my breasts can be strapped down and kept out of the way. My rowing scholarship allows me to attend Farcliff University, where I’ll hopefully make something of myself—and I wouldn’t trade that opportunity for anything. With just over a year left until I graduate, I can honestly say that rowing has been my ticket out of a shitty, dead-end Grimdale life.
Would I like a gaggle of boyfriends to follow me around like a parade of little ducklings? Sure—why not? But am I going to stop rowing to get them?
Hell no.
Someone opens the locker room door and a blast of cold air whips through the room. I shiver, but I know as soon as I get out onto the water and start rowing, I’ll be warm.
Then, a nasally, pretentious voice pierces my ears. My lips turn downward.
“Did you get your invitation yet?” Olivia Brundle’s falsetto voice makes my stomach turn. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to deal with her this early in the morning—at least not until after I’d been on the water.
“Got it last night,” Olivia’s clone, Marielle Davenport, replies. “What are you going to wear?”
“Well, Charlie likes it when I wear something that shows off my legs,” Olivia says. She comes into view around the corner, flicking her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “So I’ll probably wear something short, or at least something with a thigh-high slit.” She titters, checking her nails.
Charlie.
Even at four o’clock in the goddamn morning, Olivia is name-dropping the Crown Prince of Farcliff. She talks about him as if they’re engaged already, even though Dahlia told me Olivia has only met him once before at a state event four years ago. Olivia’s father is the Prime Minister of Brundle, our neighbors to the south, so not only is she supremely annoying, but she’s also been told that she’s important since the day she was born.
Wonderful.
I tie my shoelaces loosely, knowing I’ll take them off as soon as my boat is in the water. I stand up, and Olivia steps into my path.
“Did you get your invitation to the Prince’s Ball, Elle?” She arches her perfectly groomed eyebrow and taps the side of her face with a manicured finger.
I don’t answer.
“Is that a no?” Olivia glances at Marielle, grinning, before turning back to me. “Oh, right, you’re just here as a charity case.” She laughs, and Marielle follows suit.
I try to step around Olivia, but she moves with me. Her expensive perfume wafts toward me as she blocks my path. She’s infuriating—right down to her long hair, curled into perfect, beachy waves that fall all the way down to her waist.
Seriously, who has time to curl their hair this early in the morning? I can just about manage to run a comb through my hair, and it’s so short it barely gets tangled to begin with.
As I take another step to the side, Olivia mirrors my movements again to stop me.
“What, cat got your tongue?”
“I just want to practice, Olivia. You already know I haven’t gotten an invite to that stupid party.”
Marielle snorts. Her beachy blonde waves are already tied back in a high ponytail. The look she gives me is just as withering as Olivia’s. “Stupid party? Elle, this isn’t a ‘stupid party’. This is where Prince Charlie chooses a wife.”
I bite back my laughter, looking between the two of them. Everyone talks about the Prince’s twenty-fifth birthday ball as if it’s some magical, mystical, marriage-inducing event.
It’s a freaking party—and a pretentious one at that.
Marielle and Olivia blink, staring at me.
“Wait, what? Are you being serious?” I scoff. “He chooses a wife at this ball? Is this the Middle Ages? It’s his birthday party.”
They roll their eyes in unison, like two creepy plastic dolls.
“Fucking peasants,” Olivia says, finally brushing past me. She takes care not to let any part of her body touch any part of mine, as if I’m some diseased leper.
“Pathetic. Of course she wouldn’t understand, Ollie, she’s from Grimdale.” Marielle turns her big blue eyes to me. “Things are done differently in Farcliff, Elle. We actually have this thing called class. You should look it up.”
She saunters past me without another look.
Rage.
My blood boils. My face turns beet red. Every stupid day of every stupid week, I’m made to feel like less. Less womanly. Less intelligent. Less worthy. Just… less.
Grimdale is only half an hour’s drive away, but I might as well be from another planet for the way I’m treated here. It’s not just Olivia and Marielle, either. All my teammates never waste an opportunity to make me feel like I don’t belong here—like working my ass off for this stupid scholarship was a waste of time, because I’ll never be accepted into this world no matter how hard I try.
I stomp out of the locker room and down to the warm-up area, even though my body is already burning hot. Olivia and Marielle will take their time to change their clothes and re-apply their makeup.
Yes, they need to re-apply their makeup before dawn. I’ll never understand it.
I’m not complaining, though. It’ll give me time to warm up and make my way to the shells on my own.
I heave a single scull onto my shoulder and grab my oars. The weight of the boat is already starting to calm me down. Thank goodness I row singles, because I might not be able to resist capsizing us if I had to share a boat with either of those two egotistical, uppity little turds.
Coach Bernard is already waiting at the pier. He watches me put the shell in the water and set the oars in place. I keep my head down, not wanting to look up at the massive, stone building across the lake. Farcliff Castle looms above me, visible from almost everywhere on the university grounds. It’s just one more stark reminder of how much I don’t belong here. I’ll always be the orphan girl from Grimdale, even if I do get this expensive, overrated university degree.
Coach clears his throat. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fucking peachy, Coach.” I kick my shoes off and set them on the shore before walking back toward my shell. My boat shoes are waiting for me at the end of the timber pier.
Coach looks at me under his dark, wiry eyebrows. He’s assessing me—mentally, physically, emotionally—just like he does with all his athletes. I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, meeting his steely gaze. He drills his eyes into mine for a moment, then nods and looks down at his clipboard, satisfied.
“We’re going for a steady, long interval practice today, Elle.” Coach checks his notes.
I sweep my hand through my short brown hair, pushing it off my forehead. Between last night’s sex party in Dahlia’s room and this morning’s encounter with the evil blonde twins, I’m having trouble focusing.
“Nice and easy,” he continues. “I want you doing nine-minute 2k intervals. We’re doing ten of them, so I hope you’re nice and rested. It’s going to be a long practice today. Here.” He hands me the small headset I wear to hear his commands.
I slip my boat shoes on and get into the shell. The boat rocks from side to side and I take a deep breath to calm myself down. The last thing I need is a dip in the lake at this hour.
When I’m set up near the marker buoys, I look up at Coach Bernard. His voice comes through the headset. “All ready…”
I grip the oars and close my eyes for the briefest moment. Inhaling deeply, I take in the scent of the water and the smell of the trees that line the shore. I savor the fresh, crisp taste of the air as it fills my lungs. My shell feels steady beneath me. My muscles coil in anticipation as I wait for my coach’s com
mand.
“Row.”
My oars bite the water.
This is where I’m meant to be. I may be from Grimdale, and I may never get fancy little invitations to fancy little parties. I know I’ll never become ‘Charlie’s’ wife—or even see the Prince face-to-face—but I can row.
As my shell shears through the water, my whole body moves in sync—from my breath, through every muscle, and right down to the boat that supports me.