The bumpy yet smooth skin of his scarred cheek feels warm to the touch. The edge of the burn mark crawls up the side of his cheek, covering one entire side of his neck. Asher closes his eyes for a moment, letting out a sigh as my fingertips brush the marred skin. It’s so…imperfectly perfect. He wears his scars on his body, while I keep mine hidden away. He’s brave—much braver than me. My eyes roam over every feature, feeling the edge of the smooth scar tissue where his stubble starts to prickle my finger. The boy I remember has grown to be a man I barely recognize, but somehow I feel like I’ve known him forever.
And this scar—that’s new to me, too.
“I heard about the fire at the dorms,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.”
Asher’s eyes open again, and he pulls his face away. My cheeks burn. I drop my hand, turning away from him. I shouldn’t have touched him like that.
He clears his throat and shakes his head. “It was a long time ago.”
When his eyes meet mine again, the pain inside them calls out to the agony I’ve pushed down. His suffering is so raw it makes me want to spill my heart open and show him, Look, I’ve suffered, too.
I’ve worked too hard to bury my own pain—I can’t let those rich brown eyes carve new wounds in my flesh.
“Roses have always reminded me of you,” Asher says in a gravelly voice.
I close my eyes, trying to ignore the thrill his words elicit. I shake my head. “I haven’t seen roses in a long time.”
Then, Asher surprises me. He extends an arm to me, letting his lips tug into a smile. “Walk with me,” he says. “Tell me how you’ve been.”
Every thought in my mind screams at me to turn away. I try to will myself to shake my head, to take my leave, to turn my back on this beautiful man and retreat into my castle made of ice.
But a delicious kind of warmth tugs deep in my core, and I find myself slipping my fingers into the crook of his elbow. When I fall in beside him, I inhale his scent.
Rugged. Spicy. Male.
It makes my head spin. For just a second, I close my eyes and let all my senses revel in the beauty that is Asher Gerhard. The strength that radiates from him. The need that pulses through me.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he rasps, his voice sending shivers tumbling through my veins.
“Me neither.” When I glance up at him, his eyes are on me. Drinking me in. Staring at me like nothing else in the world exists, and he’s perfectly happy to let it fall away.
“You look good, Pen.” His lips tug.
No one has said anything like that to me in years. So casual. Easy. No Your Majesty, or as you wish, or this dress will be appropriate in the eyes of the press.
A casual compliment layered with complicated desires. Blinking, I glance at Asher to try to see if he feels this fire, too. Have I been so cut off, so cold, that a simple compliment makes me feel like my world is spinning?
Asher’s smile widens. “You don’t believe me?”
“I’m getting new wrinkles every day,” I say. “I found two gray hairs last week. I don’t think I look that good.”
Asher laughs, as if I’m joking. He puts his palm over my hand in the crook of his arm, as if making sure that I’m actually real. His fingers are calloused, but their roughness sends another shiver tripping down my spine. As we let our feet carry us into the rose garden, I inhale the sweet scent of the flowers, mixed with the smell of him.
For a moment, I’m that happy little girl. I’m there, on the roof, showing Asher a pretty leaf I found in the school yard. I’m sharing the box of cookies I received from my parents in the mail. I’m laughing at the funny faces he’s making.
I’m happy.
We walk around the perimeter of the rose garden in silence, stopping at the arch near the pulpit where Gabriel and Jolie’s wedding will take place. My heart clenches at the sight of the chairs, the flowers, the flowing gauzy material.
Seeing me waver, Asher squeezes my hand. “It’s hard to pretend to be happy when the world you know is bleak, isn’t it?”
Meeting his gaze, I know he understands me. He must have heard about my husband dying. He must see that I have no children. He understands my suffering like no one’s understood it before, and I haven’t had to say a word.
Somehow, standing here with Asher, I feel like I’ve found someone who knows me.
And that is dangerous. That makes politics fall away. It makes me not care about mines in Roston or rich businessmen wanting to exploit my kingdom. It makes me not care about anything except the danger in Asher’s eyes and the warmth of his skin against mine.
I should walk away, but I already know I won’t.
4
Asher
Prince Gabriel’s wedding is beautiful, I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing. I spend most of it staring at the back of Penelope’s head. The complicated twists of her blond hair capture my attention for minutes at a time. The sun catches the strands as she moves, gleaming when she gracefully bows her head and reveals the column of her neck, the pearl of every vertebrae straight all the way down her spine. Every inch of her is enchanting. I want to run my fingers up her back and sweep them over the nape of her neck. How does her hair look when she lets it down? When it cascades over her shoulders and frames her beautiful face?
She’s sitting near the front—a place fit for a queen.
My seat, on the other hand, is in the back row. Childhood friend and rich businessman I may be, but I’m no noble. Just like in boarding school. My family was wealthy enough to send me there, but my father’s fortune was self-made. I was always half a rung below the rest of the kids. I saw it in the way they sneered at my last name. How they made fun of me when I didn’t know someone’s proper title or family history. How they laughed when I said I never played polo.
Except Penelope. The little queen who treated me as her equal.
When the bride and groom walk back down the aisle, Gabriel puts his hand on Lady Jolie’s stomach and looks like the happiest man alive. His daughter, Flora, slips her hand into Jolie’s, and the overjoyed family walks back toward the castle together. My gaze shifts to Penelope, whose face is completely still. I’m the only one who notices the flash of pain that crosses her features, and how quickly it disappears behind a smooth mask. I can tell it’s a mask she’s honed to perfection over the years. One she wears often.
It doesn’t take me long to walk through the crowd and stand beside her. Another cocktail hour is beginning while Gabriel and Jolie greet their guests. Gabriel comes straight over to the two of us, wrapping me in a big bear hug.
“Gerhard,” he grunts, pulling away. His hands are on my shoulders, pure joy blazing in his eyes.
“Highness.”
“Oh, shut up.” He laughs. “You refused to call me anything but Gabe when we were kids, and I don’t expect that to stop now. Here, meet my wife.” His beaming bride nods to me, extending a hand. She glances at Gabriel, one hand on her stomach, unable to stop herself from smiling.
It’s sickening—their love. Beside me, Penelope tenses. She paints a forced smile on her face and congratulates the couple, speaking in platitudes that sound appropriate for a queen and not an old friend.
Within seconds, Gabe is whisked away to another guest, and Pen and I are left alone. My brows climb up my forehead. “You okay?”
Gulping, Penelope nods. “Fine. Just…weddings, you know? All that…happiness.” She pinches a smile and shakes her head. “Sorry. Debbie Downer.”
“Never apologize. I happen to think weddings are torture, and I’m planning on leaving as soon as I can.”
Penelope’s shoulders soften, and she flicks those ice-blue eyes my way. A jolt of heat pierces my stomach and I lean in Penelope’s ear, inhaling the sweetness of her perfume. “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper.
Her eyes widen. “And go where?”
“See how this palace compares to yours.”
Penelope rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch into a smile.
>
“Come on, Pen,” I whisper. “Just like old times.”
A flash crosses her pale blue eyes, and warmth knots in my stomach. She rests her hand on my arm and lets me lead her around the perimeter of the tent. My heart hammers as we walk, but I gather every scrap of composure and use it to keep my breath steady and my steps measured.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Reginald Donovan downing a glass of champagne in one gulp. Now would be the perfect time to try to pull information out of him. He’s tipsy and distracted by all the beautiful women around, which means he’s vulnerable.
Any other day, I’d be beside him, asking him just the right questions to find out what he’s planning, and why he doesn’t seem scared of the Gerhard Corporation acquiring his sorry excuse for a company. I’d be in his ear, intimidating him and letting him know that this merger will go ahead, whether he likes it or not. Whatever he’s planning is irrelevant.
Now, though? With the Queen of Nord hanging off my arm and a new kind of warmth flowing through my body?
Donovan can wait.
Pen and I walk around the side of the castle behind the rose garden. She glances over our shoulder.
“Anyone notice us leaving?” Not that I care.
“Probably.” She laughs, the sound making my heart thump. Glancing at her, I catch the tail end of the laughter on her face. Bright, open, and so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache. I want to make her laugh again, all the time, every day.
Intertwining my fingers with hers, I pick up the pace. She giggles, jogging alongside me before telling me to stop. I watch her lean over to slip off her heels, flashing a smile at me. Mischief gleams in her eyes, and another tug jostles my heart.
“Torture devices,” she huffs. “Heels are my least favorite part of being a monarch.”
“I can think of torture devices that might be more fun.” The words slip out of my mouth, and I half-expect Penelope to pull away.
Instead, her eyes darken and her gaze drops to my mouth. “Asher Gerhard,” she chides, sending lava pumping through my veins. “You are not the boy I remember from boarding school.”
Does she have any idea what the sound of my name on her lips does to me? What it makes me want to do? When her tongue slides out to lick her bottom lip, I follow the movement with sick fascination. My pulse thickens, and I can’t think of anything except how perfectly shaped Penelope’s mouth is. Always has been.
Holding her shoes in one hand, Pen flashes a smile at me and threads her fingers through mine. A sizzle of heat flows through my skin where it touches hers, and I want more. More, more, more. All of her. Whatever she’ll give me, then more again.
I glance around and, seeing no one, hurry toward a side door. Grinning when I find it open, we sneak inside. It’s a dark, narrow hallway with bare stone walls.
“Servants’ entrance,” I say in a hushed whisper. Delicious thrills thread through my body and it feels like we’re doing something very, very wrong. No one would question us, of course, but being here with Penelope…it makes my ribs crush inward.
Penelope nods, her eyes shining with a light that wasn’t there before. Her lips tug at the corners, and a bolt of lightning passes through my chest. I’m twelve years old again, sneaking away from the drudgery of boarding school with my best friend and partner in crime.
This is better than hunting companies. It’s better than talking to men like Reggie Donovan. It’s better than seeing the satisfaction in my father’s eyes when I lay another wounded business at his feet, ready for official acquisition.
Being with Penelope beats all of that, because she makes my blood pump hot in my veins. I feel alive for the first time in years. Decades. For the first time since we were at boarding school together, hiding on the roof and spending hours together away from everyone else.
We tiptoe down the hallway, ducking into a deserted room when we hear voices around the corner. I close the door and lean my ear against it, listening as the voices pass. I turn the lock in the door as softly as I can, listening for the soft snick as I keep my ear pressed against the rough wooden panel. Staff members hurry down the hallway as Penelope giggles, staring at me with fire in her eyes.
More voices approach, and Penelope lets out another laugh. She clamps her hand over her mouth, eyes flashing.
“Shh,” I say, lifting a finger but not wanting her to stop laughing at all. “They’ll hear us.”
The voices get louder, stopping right outside the door. We hear doors opening and the clinking of plates and cutlery. My eyes widen. “They’re getting ready for the meal service. We must be near the kitchens.”
“Should we go back?”
“Do you want to?”
Penelope bites her bottom lip and I have to stifle a groan. In the dim light of the room, she looks like a fallen angel. Beautiful and dangerous, like she could tear me apart with nothing more than a look. I…I kind of want her to. Her dress glitters as sunlight filters through the sheer curtains, and her face glows with wicked light.
“I feel like a kid again,” she says, shaking her head. “We used to do this kind of thing all the time.”
“If we go out now, all those staff members will see us. Do you want to have those rumors swirling about us?”
Pen rolls her eyes. “I’m sure at least one person saw us walk away. If we miss dinner, the rumors will be flying anyway.” She glances at the door, but makes no move to leave.
She turns to look at the room, and I finally drag my eyes away from Penelope long enough to notice we’re in a disused kind of common space. The staff must use this as a break room. Saggy, worn sofas line the walls, and a bookcase leans against the corner, piled high with dusty old paperbacks. A television sits on a rickety table in the corner, and a thick layer of dust covers its top panel. Penelope looks completely out of place in her elegant gown and perfectly styled hair.
In her bare feet, she steps onto the rug in the middle of the room, making a slow turn. I drink her in, committing every angle of her face and body to memory. She stares at the furniture, the walls, the small window covered in dusty blinds and sheer curtains. Then, she lifts her eyes to me.
On the other side of the door, someone turns on a stereo. Music starts blaring and the kitchen staff let out a holler.
Penelope grins. “At least the staff is having fun.”
“You’re not?”
“I’m having a lot more fun than I thought I would.” She extends her hand toward me, and I find myself walking to meet her in the center of the room. She places her hand on my shoulder, taking my arm and hooking it around her waist. “Dance with me.”
“This isn’t exactly slow dance music.”
“Shh, Asher. Just be quiet and let me feel like a woman instead of a monarch, for once. No one’s watching me here.”
My heart thumps. Can she feel it hammering against my ribs? I hook my arm around her waist, letting my other hand slide down her arm. I curl my fingers around Penelope’s waist and pull her close.
She fits perfectly. Her body melts into mine as if she was made to be there. She leans her head against my chest, right above where the worst of my scarred skin covers my body. Thank goodness I’m wearing a shirt. I stiffen for a moment, then close my eyes and rest my cheek against her head.
No one has seen my body in years. The last time I let a woman see my bare skin, the disgust was written all over her face, her desire for me evaporating in an instant.
I don’t want Penelope to look at me like that. Not now. Not ever. I don’t want her to see the monster under these fine clothes. I hold her close, feeling her breath wash over my neck, trying to push the thoughts away. As much as I love having her in my arms like this, I know it would never last. She’d take one look at my ugly skin and the light would leave her eyes. I’m not sure I can handle seeing that.
Even after all these years. After all my bravado and all my toughness, the thought of Penelope looking at me with disgust in her sky-blue eyes makes my stomach turn.
; Penelope removes her hand from mine, hooking both arms around my neck. Staring into my eyes, the Queen of Nord looks like the Penelope I knew in school, grown into the most beautiful woman I could ever imagine. If I took all the best bits from every person I’d ever come across and put them in one body, she’d be standing right here with danger dancing in her eyes, swaying softly in the disused common room of a foreign castle.
There’s a connection between us. An unsaid understanding. An intimacy I’ve never felt before. She knows me. Knew me when I was a kid, and somehow knows me even better now. The skin on my jaw still tingles where she touched the edge of my scar—where most people are afraid to even look.
My hands hook around her waist, and I trace the lacy patterns of her dress plastered over her lower back. Penelope’s eyelashes flutter closed at the touch, her lips falling open as her face softens.
Has anyone seen her like this, I wonder? Has she let herself relax with another man?
I tighten my hold on her waist, already knowing the answer. She hasn’t. In this dimly lit break room, with nothing but dusty, stained sofas and worn-out books, I know she’s showing me something special.
And, hell, I’m showing her the same. I’m not the ruthless businessman. I’m not the grotesque burned man who makes people avert their eyes.
Here, I’m just a man, and she’s just a woman.
“Penelope,” I groan.
She presses herself against me, letting out a soft sigh. “I love the way you say my name,” she whispers.
“How do I say it?”
Pen opens her ice-blue eyes, glancing up at me. “Like you know me.”
We sway in the middle of the room as my body heats up. Blood flows between my legs, and I know she can feel my arousal. She presses herself harder against me, her breasts crushing against my chest. I let my hands drift lower, resting on top of her ass as Penelope grinds her hips toward me.
We’re crossing a line. Stepping over it with eyes wide-open, knowing we shouldn’t go anywhere near it.
But do I care?
Staring into Penelope’s eyes, I let out a sigh. “Maybe we should go back.”
Ice Queen: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance Page 3
