Heartless Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected Book 2)

by Lilian Monroe

  Yet, here, in this bohemian café, with Prince Damon sending heat zipping up and down my body, I can’t help but wonder if I’m wrong about him. What secrets does he keep hidden in the depths of his heart? What sharp edges does he have that haven’t quite been blunted by the royal life?

  A blush creeps up my cheeks and I take a deep breath. I can’t think like this. Prince Damon is off-limits. All of Farcliff royalty is off-limits. My mother was thrown out of this Kingdom over fifteen years ago, and she’s never missed an opportunity to tell me how dangerous it is to get involved with royalty. She wasn’t happy about me coming to Farcliff University in the first place.

  But my mother isn’t here, is she?

  It’s just me and the Prince.

  “So, our back story.” I tear my eyes away from his. “We met at the Prince’s Ball.”

  “I saw you across the room and I had to have you.” His eyes do that thing again, where they spark and then darken, and my whole body thrums. My blood pulses between my thighs and I clear my throat.

  Prince Damon definitely has some sharp edges—the kind of edges that make me want to slice my own heart wide open.

  One of the café workers brings us our drinks, and I use the opportunity to take a deep breath to compose myself. I bury my face in my coffee and try to get my thoughts in order.

  I can’t get involved with Prince Damon—even if he’s broad-chested, sexy, and strong. Even if he looks at me like he wants to devour me.

  Even if I’m dying for him to do it.

  “So, Dahlia, something I’ve been wondering…” Prince Damon clears his throat. His cheeks flush slightly and he avoids my eyes. “You seem to have an unconventional take on clothing.”

  I look down at myself. “What do you mean? I’m just wearing leggings and a sweatshirt. It’s basically the Farcliff University girl uniform.”

  “Well, maybe I should say lack of clothing.” His eyes flick up to mine and it’s my turn to blush.

  I try to play it off, rolling my eyes and waving my hand. “Don’t be so uptight, Your Highness. I swear, people in Farcliff think seeing someone without clothing is the most shocking thing in the world. Have you never seen anyone naked before?”

  “Nobody like you.” His voice is a low growl, and it sends a flame scorching down my spine. “Not before I even know their name.”

  “Well, you did know my name,” I grin. My heart is thumping. I can play the bad-girl act, I can pretend like the thought of being naked with Prince Damon is no big deal, but I’d be lying. The way he’s looking at me right now makes me feel more naked than I’ve felt in a long time. I shrug, even though my face feels hot and red. “I don’t see the big deal. It’s just a naked body. It’s natural.”

  “If only more people thought like you,” he chuckles.

  I bite my lip. “Well, you know, I don’t exactly make it a habit of letting people see me naked. But if I’m in my own house, I’ll do as I please, and I refuse to be made to feel bad about it.” My eyes drill into his.

  Not that I feel bad right now—quite the opposite, actually. I slide my eyes over the Prince’s lounging body and find myself wondering what he looks like without any clothes on.

  He flashes another smile at me and I blush… again.

  “Look, I don’t think that topic is going to come up at the royal dinner table,” I say as I take a sip of coffee. “Why don’t we talk about other things? Favorite color? Favorite movie? Life plans? Those are the things we should be covering. Back story, remember?”

  The Prince waves a hand. “My father won’t be interested in any of that. As long as you stroke his ego a little, he’ll believe anything you tell him.”

  “So why am I here?” I grin. “I thought we were supposed to get to know each other better so that we could convince the King we were dating.”

  “I might have made that up.” The Prince laughs and my insides melt. “I just wanted to get to know you for myself.”

  There it is again—that blush. I swear, I have never blushed so much in my life. Ask Elle—I’m usually great with men. I see one that I like, and I go for him.

  But Prince Damon has me feeling upside down. He drags his eyes over my body and sends my head spinning. He makes my fingers itch to touch his skin, to feel his body against mine.

  I’m attracted to his freaking forearms, for Farcliff’s sake.

  I reel my thoughts back in again. I can’t be thinking like that. This is just to help Elle. It’s a one-time dinner. I’m not actually getting involved with the Prince. I’m not dating him.

  Dating a prince when you’re living your life with an unbreakable curse is a recipe for disaster.

  I’ll do this for Elle, I’ll get as much information about my mother as possible, and then I’ll never go to the castle again.

  Easy, right?

  DAMON

  WHEN I DROP Dahlia back off at the campus library, I watch her walk away and adjust my pants for the thousandth time. It’s a miracle I can walk, or talk, or think, or do anything when all the blood in my body is occupied with one particular appendage. I swallow, unsure of exactly what I’m getting myself into.

  The Raventhals have a long history with the Farcliff family. Tabitha Raventhal—Dahlia’s mother—was my mother’s best friend. Then my mother died, and Lady Raventhal started making all kinds of accusations against my father—accusations that included murder. That didn’t go down well.

  As a result, I’ve always been told that the Raventhals are bad people.

  But talking to Dahlia, learning about her studies, about her growing up with her aunts in the Rocky Mountains—it doesn’t seem like the upbringing of a bad person. It seems like the upbringing of a very wholesome, intelligent girl.

  My mother’s death was the beginning of the end for me. I was young, but that’s when I learned that there’s badness inside of me.

  Inside Dahlia, though? I don’t see any.

  I need to know more—and, fuck it, Charlie’s already dating someone he shouldn’t. Why not me? I’m not even in line for the throne! I should be able to do whatever I want.

  I head straight to the Farcliff National Library, near the center of the city. The library sits on the same streets as the court, the city council, and the main cathedral. All three institutions are cornerstones of Farcliff Kingdom, and all three of them sit in the shadow of the castle.

  I glance up at the castle—at my home—rising high above the entire Kingdom. I bite my lip.

  My father, as he grows older, is getting more aggressive. He’s not getting along with Charlie, and he seems to be unwilling to surrender his power.

  Throwing Dahlia Raventhal into the mix isn’t a good idea.

  But… I can’t quite bring myself to care. I’ve always been the perfect son, the perfect Prince, the perfect everything. I’ve kept my own suffering private, away from prying eyes, like a good Prince. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do.

  So what if I pursue this girl? At least I can find out who she really is.

  But I need to know exactly what kind of ripples this will cause with my father. I was young when my mother died—only eight years old. The memories of that night still haunt my dreams, and try as I might to keep them buried, they’re never quite gone.

  There’s still the voice in my head that says it was all my fault.

  I need to put that voice to bed, and the only way to do that is to discover the truth about what happened to my mother. Meeting Dahlia almost seems like a sign that it’s time for me to face my past head-on.

  Plus, there’s a part of me—not a small part, either—wants to know more about Dahlia. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met, from her hair, to her laugh, to her unique perspective on nudity.

  A unique-good perspective, that is.

  So, with a deep breath, I push the National Library doors open and I make my way toward the back of the library. The head librarian, Mrs. Hill, is at the front desk as usual. The elderly woman’s gravity-defying glasses are perched on the
end of her nose. She glances at me and gives me a small nod. She’s used to me. I like coming here to study whenever I need a break from the castle. My usual study space is on the fifth floor of the National Library, in a little hidden corner that no one ever visits.

  This time, though, I don’t go up the stairs—I go down. The Archives are in the basement. The sound of my steps is muted as I make my way down the narrow stairwell. It smells stuffy and old down here, and the air is heavy with history and forgotten stories. I make my way to the microfilm machine, where all the old newspapers are kept on file. Nothing has been digitized yet, so it’s a painfully slow process to do any kind of research.

  Settling into a chair, I take a deep breath. I know this will take a while. I don’t even really know what I’m looking for. I just know I need to know more.

  More about Dahlia. More about Tabitha Raventhal. More about my mother. Talking about her at the castle is almost taboo, and her death left a dark patch in my heart that never really healed.

  It was my fault, the Darkness inside me says. The words echo in my mind until I shake them away.

  I start flicking through the microfilm reader, starting around the time of my mother’s death. My throat tightens as I read the headlines about her passing. My eyes mist up as I see the grief in all the articles and reports about her life.

  She was loved by everyone.

  I dab at my eyes, feeling old wounds being ripped open as I think of my childhood, and how difficult my mother’s passing was. I find myself reading article, after article, after article, smiling and letting the tears fall down my cheeks as I read how beloved the Queen had been.

  As I flick through the newspapers, the headlines start to change. They take a sharp turn when Tabitha goes public with her accusations of murder. I’m perched on the edge of my seat, scanning the headlines and trying to untangle what exactly happened.

  After a couple of dozen articles, a clear picture starts to emerge from the newspaper reports and editorials. My mother died mysteriously, and the official autopsy never revealed a conclusive cause of death. My throat tightens and I push down memories of the night she died.

  Tabitha Raventhal went on the record accusing the rest of the royal family—the King of Farcliff included—of murder.

  She claimed to have compelling evidence, but that evidence was never revealed.

  Aunt Malerie, my father’s sister, denounced her claims and called for her to be exiled. Tabitha Raventhal was disgraced, accused of desecrating the Queen’s memory, and banished from Farcliff.

  No Raventhal set foot in Farcliff for fifteen years.

  Until now.

  When my back starts to ache and my neck feels stiff, I lean back and stretch my head from side to side. I inhale as my mind spins circles around me.

  I never knew about any of this. How could I? I was barely eight years old. All I remember was that I’d been terribly sad, and everything was confusing. It was the start of a dark, downward spiral that I never really recovered from. I threw myself into school, sure, but the pain is still there, buried underneath it all.

  I’ve dealt with that pain in my own way. I have the bruises on my ribs and scars on my back to prove it. I keep them covered, so no one can see what I do to myself, but I know they’re there. Scars help me remember what it’s like to dive head-first into sharp, pulsing pain. They help me remember what it’s like to feel release.

  Sighing, I flick through the archived newspapers again, trying to glean any sort of truth about the Raventhal accusations.

  The only thing I learn is that Tabitha Raventhal was largely ridiculed and accused of stirring up controversy. Any explanation as to why she would make those accusations was never provided. I suspect a lot of the news reports were influenced by the Crown—by my father, and possibly Aunt Mal, as well. Judging by how much the King wanted to shut down any talk of my mother’s death as I grew up, I can only imagine how desperate he was to stop these news stories from spreading.

  I didn’t mind. I didn’t want to talk about my mother’s death, either.

  In all these archives, there’s nothing about Dahlia. Nothing about a daughter, and no mention of Tabitha’s children. I frown, flicking back through the microfilm a few years. Dahlia is probably, what? Twenty-one? Maybe twenty-two?

  It takes me another half-hour to find anything about Dahlia, and when I do, my breath catches in my throat. I lean over the microfilm machine as my heart thumps harder. There’s a grainy picture of Tabitha Raventhal and a little bundle in her arms that I assume is Dahlia. She’s standing next to my mother, and the three of us boys. I’m staring at the camera with wide eyes—I’m probably no older than three years old.

  I release my clenched breath. I don’t even know why I’m relieved. Maybe because Dahlia exists? Because Tabitha did indeed have a daughter? Dahlia’s parentage, at least, isn’t a lie?

  The picture is her christening. My mother was named godmother, apparently. There are three other women there—Dahlia’s aunts. I flick to the next frame of the microfilm and my eyebrows arch. Aunt Malerie wasn’t happy about not being invited to the christening, apparently. There’s a whole article about her reaction.

  I lean back in my chair and exhale. Even through old newspaper articles, I can sense the tension between my mother, Tabitha Raventhal, and Malerie Farcliff. It’s palpable in these stories—but I still can’t really gather any meaningful information from them.

  All I know is Tabitha and Aunt Mal didn’t like each other, but what else is new? Aunt Mal’s always had a short fuse and a mean temper.

  I start searching the files for anything else about Dahlia, but I come up empty. It’s like she disappeared from the public record when she was just a baby.

  Then, the sound of voices makes my spine stiffen.

  “Just down here, dear,” Mrs. Hill’s voice comes down the corridor. Her shoes clack on the hard floor, growing louder as she nears.

  Another muffled voice sounds, and I stare at the door. My heart thumps, and I flick the microfilm away from the article I was reading. I shuffle my notes and stuff them into my shirt pocket, smoothing my clothes down and trying to still the thumping of my heart.

  It feels like I’m doing something wrong. Like I shouldn’t be here, and I shouldn’t be reading about these things…

  …but why? I’m the son of the King of Farcliff, and if anyone has the right to be down here, it’s me.

  Mrs. Hill’s voice is near now, and it’s only a matter of seconds before the door opens. I jump out of my chair and grab my jacket, ready to brush past the newcomers on my way out.

  The door opens and Mrs. Hill comes through with none other than Dahlia Raventhal.

  “Oh! Your Highness! I thought you’d be on the fifth floor, as usual. If I’d known…”

  “It’s fine, Mrs. Hill.” I nod to Dahlia. “Miss Raventhal.”

  She curtsies, and my lips tug at the corners. Seeing her behave like a proper lady is the diametric opposite of how she’d been at her own house—naked and casual and unashamedly herself.

  Mrs. Hill mutters a few more words until I send her away with a nod. Dahlia shifts her weight from foot to foot, biting her lip and staring at the microfilm reader.

  I wait for her to speak, but she says nothing.

  Finally, I clear my throat. “What are you doing here? I don’t think there’s much about microbiology in the Archives.”

  Dahlia’s cheeks flush pink and she lifts her eyes up to mine. She takes a deep breath, tucking a strand of lavender hair behind her ear.

  “I was coming to find out about my mother… and the Queen. What are you doing here?”

  A grin tugs at my lips and I chuckle gently. “Same, actually. Reading up on you.”

  “Anything interesting?” Dahlia throws her bag down on the floor and strips her jacket off, tossing it onto a chair. A low growl rumbles through my chest and I want nothing more than to tear her clothes off and take her right here, right now.

  With my hands itching to to
uch her and my tongue dying to taste her, I just swallow and shake my head. “Apart from the news of your birth and your christening, you don’t exist in Farcliff archives.”

  Dahlia grins. “Just the way I like it. I’m a woman of mystery.” She walks up beside me, her arm brushing mine as she leans over the microfilm reader. She glances back at me as a shy smile stretches over her lips. “You don’t mind me being here?”

  I shake my head. “Not at all.” Surprisingly, it’s the truth.

  Dahlia smiles at me, and a bolt of lightning passes through my chest. Up until two days ago, I didn’t even know this girl existed. Now, she’s everywhere…

  …and I like it. A lot.

  DAHLIA

  NOTE TO SELF: avoid confined spaces with Damon Farcliff.

  His presence is intoxicating. His body is big, and broad, and it’s calling out to the primal side of me. He fills up the room that we’re in, his aura pressing against me and making me feel like all the oxygen in the world wouldn’t be enough to fill my lungs.

  I haven’t had sex in days, and I’m starting to feel it. The ache between my legs is almost unbearable. Ever since he walked through my front door, no other man seems like enough. Usually, I’m into one-night stands. I love the passing nature of them—the quiet understanding that it’s temporary.

  This week, though? The thought of a one-night stand bores me.

  Damon, on the other hand, doesn’t. What I feel around him is the opposite of boredom. It’s electric and addictive.

  I try to focus on the headlines on the microfilm in front of me, but my mind keeps drifting to his arm, and how it brushes against mine. To his spicy, fresh scent. To the sound of his voice, the low timbre of it that makes something deep in my stomach tremble with need.

  This isn’t supposed to happen. I’m only supposed to be doing Elle a favor. It’s just one dinner, and then I go back to my regular life. I’m not supposed to be reading up on Prince Damon or trying to find out what exactly happened between his mother and my own.