Royally Unexpected: An Accidental Pregnancy Collection

by Lilian Monroe

  “I’ll drive,” she says.

  “Who’s the patient?”

  “Young woman, twenty-three years old,” she starts. “Came in going into anaphylactic shock. She arrived with the Queen of Farcliff, can you believe that?” Dr. Adler glances at me. “Right—of course you can believe that. I forget who you are sometimes.”

  Alarm bells start ringing in my head. I touch my phone in my pocket, but it still hasn’t buzzed all day. My heart rate increases and I struggle to take a breath.

  “So, the patient?”

  “Allergic to bees and got stung by one up at the castle. Talk about unlucky. I thought bees hibernated.”

  Didn’t Dahlia say she was allergic to bee stings? Was I imagining that?

  Dr. Adler continues. “This way. She’s stable now, but was comatose when she made it to the hospital. That’s not what’s most interesting, though.” Her eyes are gleaming, as if she’s happy about this. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  We drive in silence—the other hospital is only a short drive away. Farcliff Royal is another teaching hospital, and we often have patients and residents transfer from one to the other. When we get there, Adler parks in the staff parking lot and leads me toward the Farcliff Royal Hospital’s ICU.

  Last time I was here was for my nephew’s birth. Now…

  Adler motions to another hallway and I breathe in through my nose. I need to calm down. It’s not Dahlia. It can’t be. There are many, many other people at the Farcliff Castle—it’s definitely not Dahlia. She’s probably in class or something, and that’s why she hasn’t answered my phone calls. Maybe she’s in the lab with her nose stuck in a book.

  Yes, she’s allergic to bees—but so are other people! She wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the hives. It’s probably one of the beekeepers or one of the gardeners who got lost.

  She came in with the Queen.

  It’s not Dahlia. It can’t be.

  I keep telling myself these things, trying to keep my panic at bay. My mouth is dry and I flex and unflex my hands as we ride up the elevator. My vision tunnels and I can hardly see straight. Dr. Adler doesn’t seem to notice. She’s rattling on excitedly. It’s the case of a lifetime, apparently.

  When the doors ding open, Dr. Adler motions down the hall.

  “Now, the interesting thing is that when she first came in, we weren’t aware that she was pregnant. We only found that out about six hours ago. That’s why I want to show her to you. Obstetrics has seen her, and the baby is fine, even though the mother is in a coma. She’s about two months pregnant. Incredible!”

  My heart is racing. My vision starts to blur. Pregnant? In a coma? No way. No fucking way.

  She’s not pregnant. We’ve been careful. It’s not her. I’m swinging between total panic and the certainty it isn’t Dahlia in that hospital bed.

  We reach the room where the patient is being kept, and I pause just outside the door. Glancing at the whiteboard beside the door, I notice that no one has written the patient’s name. Typically, the patient’s name is displayed outside the room.

  Maybe they do things differently at Farcliff Royal Hospital.

  Maybe they do things differently for members of the Farcliff Royal Court—people like Dahlia Raventhal.

  I’m going to throw up. Cold sweat is dripping down between my shoulder blades, and my vision is going blurry. I can’t face it. I can’t go in there.

  If it’s Dahlia, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath.

  When I open them back up, Dr. Adler is staring at me funnily. “Everything okay?”

  “Didn’t get much sleep,” I answer weakly.

  She nods. “Get used to it.”

  I look at the door and take a deep breath. It’ll only take me two steps to walk inside, and then I’ll know who the patient is. I’ll know if Dahlia is on that hospital bed.

  I’ll know if she’s carrying my child.

  My mouth is dry and I clench my hands into fists. I take the first step, sucking a breath in and strengthening my resolve. I take another step…

  …and my stomach bottoms out.

  Dahlia.

  My Dahlia. My love.

  She’s pale. Her eyes are closed and her arms are laying limply by her sides. Machines beep all around her, but I can’t hear anything. Dr. Adler’s voice fades into the distance and all I can do is stand there and stare.

  I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to smash every window in this room and shake Dahlia until she wakes up. My stomach rolls, and I feel like I’m going to vomit.

  I can’t make any sense of it.

  Anaphylaxis. Coma.

  Pregnant.

  My breath is coming in short, ragged bursts. I stumble, catching myself on the wall as I bend over double and try to fill my lungs. I can’t get enough oxygen. I can’t think straight. I squeeze my eyes shut and put my head between my legs.

  Dr. Adler’s hand appears on my back and vaguely, I hear her calling for help. She drags a chair over and forces me into it, propping my head up and staring into my eyes. A nurse rushes in and I snap back to the moment.

  “Damon!”

  “I’m okay,” I wheeze. “I’m okay.”

  “What the fuck just happened?”

  “I know…” I’m still panting. I can’t get a full breath in. My tongue feels too big for my mouth and I can’t string words together properly. I point to the bed. “Dahlia.”

  “You know the patient?”

  I inhale sharply and squeeze my eyes shut, digging my fingernails into my legs to try to get myself together. The pain sharpens my senses and I finally take a full breath.

  “I know Dahlia,” I say. “I’m the father.”

  Dr. Adler’s eyes widen. She stumbles backward, staring at me as if I’ve just sprouted another head. I swing my eyes over to Dahlia’s bed, and panic starts to rise in my throat again.

  Then, someone clears their throat in the doorway. My heart sinks even lower when I see Mr. and Mrs. Raventhal staring at me with the same expression Dr. Adler has on her face.

  I struggle to my feet, opening my mouth to say something—anything. I want to apologize, but what am I apologizing for? I want to tell them I love her—I’ve loved her for months, but how will they believe me? I want to tell them I care about her, and I’ll do anything to bring her back…

  …but before any words make it out of my mouth, Tabitha Raventhal strides toward me and slaps me clean across the face.

  31

  Damon

  I’m pushed out of the hospital room by the other staff. Stumbling, I catch myself on the hallway wall and gulp down a breath. Dr. Adler leaves the room to speak with me.

  “If I’d had any idea…”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say. “No one could have known.”

  “Well… Congratulations?” Dr. Adler’s eyebrows shoot up as she says the word. She cringes, and I scoff.

  “Thanks.”

  I can feel the dark rot poisoning my blood already. Glancing back toward Dahlia’s room, it feels like my heart is turning black in my chest.

  How could she have a bee sting in January? How could this happen?

  How could she be pregnant?

  I bring my hand to my forehead and let out a long breath. This isn’t right. None of this is right. My thoughts swirl around me like a black cloud, and I can’t make sense of any of them—except that Dahlia is lying limp in that hospital bed.

  “How many hours did you say she’d been in a coma?” I ask.

  Dr. Adler checks her watch. “She came in at about eight o’clock last night, so sixteen hours now.”

  I nod. “And the baby?”

  “The baby’s okay, for now.” She puts her hand on my arm. “There have been cases of women giving birth while in a coma.”

  “Giving birth in a coma?” Panic laces every word.

  Dr. Adler takes a deep breath. “I’m just sa
ying, it can happen. The sooner she wakes up, the better for them both. You know as well as I do—the longer she stays in a coma, the more dangerous things become. We don’t know if she’ll wake up—or in what state she’ll wake up in. We’ll try to get her out of it, but for now all we can do is hope.”

  I shake my head.

  All we can do is hope? Hope?

  With all the years and years of medical research, the best we can do is fucking hope?

  I’ve spent the better part of the last decade studying every bit of the human body, and now all I can do is hang my life on a prayer?

  Is this a fucking joke?

  Tabitha Raventhal appears in Dahlia’s doorway. Her eyes are dark, and deep lines are back on her face. She stares me down and then closes the door firmly. It latches shut, and the sound pierces my heart like a dagger.

  I’m trying my best to keep it together, but I’m falling apart. Every part of my body is trembling and it’s all I can do to breathe.

  Dr. Adler puts her hand on my arm and leads me down the hallway. “You should go home,” she says softly.

  “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  I’m not really asking Dr. Adler. She won’t have an answer.

  Plus, I already know why Dahlia didn’t tell me about the baby. The answer to that question happened right here in this hospital, the day that baby Charlie was born. I saw it in her face when I told her I didn’t want kids.

  She was pregnant then, and I told her I didn’t want it. I said it right to her face.

  How could I be so stupid? How could I say something like that? Of course I want the child. Of course I want to be with her. These have been the happiest months of my life, but I told her I didn’t want a future with her.

  The darkness starts to overwhelm me. My fingers are tingling, and I’m starting to lose feeling in my feet. I stumble over the floor, and Dr. Adler catches me.

  “Go home, Damon. Is there someone who can pick you up?”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  Where is home, anyway? The castle? Every part of that castle reminds me of Dahlia. My bed, her bed, the throne room, the dining room, the solarium, my study—every single room is burned into my memory with her.

  Maybe I could go to her house in Grimdale.

  I snort at the thought. Yeah, right. She’s infused into the very fabric of that house. How can I go back there without wanting to tear my own skin off?

  I pace the hallway until Dr. Adler leads me to the foyer of the hospital.

  In the end, one of the royal cars comes to take me back to the castle. I pinch my lips shut and say nothing to anyone, dragging my feet up to my chambers and locking the door.

  I check the time—1:30pm. She’s been in a coma for seventeen and a half hours. I lay in bed and twist my hands into the bedsheets, trying to take a deep breath.

  I know this feeling. I haven’t felt it in months—not once since Dahlia and I have been together. It’s overwhelming—the blackness, the hurt, the torture in my own mind. I’m eating myself from the inside out. My whole body is in pain, but not the kind of pain I can latch onto.

  Nigel could help me. I could spend the night on a dirty cot and wake up with sweet, painful bruises all over my body. I could bleed for her.

  But then, I remember her face when she asked me to stop going to the warehouse. The way her eyebrows drew together, and the sadness in her eyes. I remember the way she kissed me and melted into my arms.

  I resist.

  I don’t deserve to let go of this feeling. I don’t deserve the release.

  So, I just lie there and suffer.

  The hours tick by, second by second, eternity by eternity. I replay every moment I’ve had with Dahlia, wishing I could go back and change something.

  Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t she trust me?

  I should have told her I loved her. I’ve loved her for months, but I was too chicken to tell her. I should have held her tight and told her I loved her every single day.

  What if I never get the chance?

  After eight hours, I get out of bed. My stomach is in knots, and I feel like I’ve just done a thirty-hour shift. In reality, though, I’ve just been lying in bed, catatonic.

  Making my way back to the hospital, my stomach is in my throat. Someone would have called if Dahlia had woken up.

  They would have called if something bad had happened.

  Still, when I ride the elevator up to Dahlia’s floor, I’m nervous. I lean against the wall to hold myself upright, slinking down the corridor toward her room.

  I glance at the clock and count the hours since she was brought in.

  Twenty-two hours. Every hour feels like a year. Every second feels like a lifetime. And still, Dahlia sleeps.

  Is the baby okay? Is she okay?

  My breath becomes ragged and I take a moment to compose myself. When I reach her room, the door is closed. There’s a window into her room, and I peek through the edge of it. Dahlia’s mother is sitting beside her bed, her forehead resting on the edge of the mattress. She’s holding Dahlia’s hand in both of hers.

  Dahlia is still laying in the same position.

  Still limp.

  Still comatose.

  I die all over again.

  I don’t need Tabitha Raventhal to hate me—I already hate myself. I don’t need her to torture me with guilt—I’m already doing that to myself.

  Finding the nearest staff room, I slump down into a chair and put my head in my hands. No one talks to me, and I’m glad.

  When I can’t sit any longer, I wander the hospital hallways. I pace for another three hours, until I feel like my head is going to explode. Dahlia’s condition doesn’t change. I sleep on a couch in the residents’ staff room for three or four hours, and then I walk the hallways once again. It’s not the hospital where I’ve been working, but the staff let me stay there anyway.

  Dahlia’s parents don’t leave her side. I peek in through the window and I ask the nurses for updates.

  No change.

  All we can do is hope.

  Easy for Dr. Adler to say—but when I’m walking back and forth through the hospital, trying to think of every possible time that I could have avoided this situation, hope is very hard to come by.

  I swing by Dahlia’s house in Grimdale, and I sleep in our bed for a few hours. I find some scraps to eat, and I let myself sink into a deep, dark hole.

  Dahlia’s condition doesn’t change.

  Every minute drags on, and on, and on. I count the hours and pray that she wakes up, but she doesn’t. Another day and night passes. I don’t even know how I spend it. I ball my hands into fists so tight that my nails slice my palms open. I pull at my hair until a small bald patch appears at the back of my head.

  But for all my pain, all my suffering, all my hoping and praying… Dahlia doesn’t wake up.

  Is it day, or night? I don’t even know anymore. I struggle to see straight, and look at the clock for the millionth time. Every minute that goes by is more dangerous for Dahlia—and for the baby.

  If she doesn’t wake up soon, I’ll lose Dahlia just like I lost my mother—silently, in a bed, with nothing I can do to help. With only myself to blame.

  The sun starts to go down on the third day, and still, Dahlia sleeps. Still, her parents guard her room and I can’t see her. Still, I wander the hospital, the city, the castle.

  The night is dark, and I live somewhere between life and death. When the sun starts to come up, I allow myself to hope as I make my way to the hospital again.

  The eightieth hour ticks over, and Dahlia doesn’t wake up. My heart dies.

  32

  Damon

  Charlie calls me and asks me to come back to the castle. He sounds like the King already, commanding and authoritative, and I know I can’t refuse him.

  With one last look at Dahlia’s room, I leave the hospital. It’s midday. My entire life has been reduced to watching the clock. The danger for Dahlia increases with every passing
hour, and all I can do is wait.

  If I thought going to the warehouse and getting the shit kicked out of me was painful, I had no idea.

  This, right here—waiting for Dahlia to wake up and being completely powerless to help—this is real pain. This is torture. This is never-ending suffering.

  Charlie and Gabe are waiting for me in the King’s personal offices. I look around the room, taking note of all the changes Charlie’s made since he’s been King. He’s replaced some of the artwork, and moved the furniture around, but I still see my father’s influence in the room.

  “Damon,” Charlie says gravely. “Thanks for coming.”

  Gabe’s hair is mussed, and he nods to me. “Sorry about Dahlia.”

  I grunt in response. I guess everyone knows about us being together, and about the baby. At least it means I don’t have to tell them. I slump down in a chair, and my whole body aches. I’ve slept in snippets over the past three and a half days—if you could call it sleep. It’s more of an exhausted daze.

  Charlie’s sitting behind his desk with his hands laced in front of him. He pinches his lips.

  “As you know, we exhumed Mother’s remains late last year. Her autopsy is complete. I have the results here.”

  My stomach clenches. I don’t know if I have the energy for this. I drop my head in my hands and sit still. Hearing of my mother’s death only makes Dahlia’s condition more excruciating. How will I handle it if I lose them both?

  Charlie takes a deep breath. “Mom died of arsenic poisoning.”

  “What?” I lift my head up, frowning.

  Charlie nods. “They tested her hair.”

  “How did we not know this before?” Gabe demands. “Are we living in the fucking 1800s? Who poisons people with arsenic?”

  “You know who,” Charlie says darkly. His eyebrows draw together and he shakes his head. “Father must have had the tests suppressed, or not performed at all. You both know how chaotic that time was.”

  I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

  Poisoned?

  Gabe snorts. “I was four. I don’t know how chaotic it was. I barely remember anything. Damon was eight. How the fuck are we supposed to…” His voice trails off and he shakes his head.