Knocked Up by the Broken Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance

by Monroe, Lilian

  Of course it didn’t make me feel good. I haven’t had an orgasm in three years—not with a partner or by myself. There’s something in my mind that stops me from being able to let go.

  Maybe I’m just broken.

  Prince Beckett groans, sighing softly in his sleep as he shifts in bed and turns toward me. His eyes stay closed, a soft snore escaping his nose.

  I can’t take this anymore. When the envelope first arrived, I was too scared to look at the results of the test. I lied to Ivy, telling her it was negative. I’ve been living in denial for months, and it’s making me do stupid things like sleep with a Prince that I don’t really care about, and be needy with Ivy when I know she needs space.

  It’s time for me to face my fears.

  I need to know.

  Slipping out from under the covers, I tiptoe to the closet and reach up behind the stack of sweaters, feeling around until my fingers brush the sharp corner of the envelope. I pull it out, hands trembling, glancing up at the door of the walk-in closet.

  Beckett’s still snoring.

  If I hesitate, I won’t be able to do this, so I just bite down on my hesitations, take a deep breath, and tear the test results open.

  The envelope drops to the floor as I take the single sheet of paper out, unfolding it as my heart races.

  This is it.

  My future.

  My life.

  My eyes are filling with tears, and I can’t make out the blurred words on the piece of paper. I suck a breath in through my teeth, blinking a few times to clear my vision.

  It’ll be negative. It has to be. This has all been blown out of proportion. I’ve been silly. Everything will be okay. It’ll be negative. Negative. Negative.

  Blink.

  Wrong.

  Positive.

  I frown, shaking my head. Then, I read the letter over from the beginning, hoping the word will have changed by the time I get to it.

  It doesn’t.

  Positive. Positive. Positive.

  Every letter of the word is like a bullet piercing my chest. Standing in my walk-in closet, I grow roots. I can’t move.

  I’m going to die.

  The first tear falls from my eye and lands on the test results. The sound of my tear hitting the paper is as loud as a gunshot to my ears, forcing me to crumple the sheet and stuff it into a boot in the corner of the closet.

  I suck in a breath, but I can’t get enough air.

  I can’t breathe.

  Stumbling out of the closet, I claw at my throat as my vision starts to cloud. My body is clammy and my hair is stuck to my head, and Prince Beckett snores louder.

  I’m unsteady. I bump into my bedside table as I try to walk past, knocking a glass of water to the floor. It crashes down and Beckett jumps awake.

  I stumble, trying to make my way to the bathroom.

  “Margot?”

  I turn to him, mouth open, but I can’t breathe.

  “Are you okay?”

  My hands go to my throat. I manage to swallow, sucking in a labored breath. “Help,” I croak.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Panic.” I inhale. “Panic.”

  “Panic? What does that mean? Panic attack?”

  Falling to my knees, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to regain control over my body. What was it my therapist said? What do I do in this situation?

  I can’t remember. I can’t think. My thoughts are fragmented.

  “Hold on,” Prince Beckett says, scrambling to get up and head to the bathroom. “Do you have medication? What do you need? What do I do?”

  I crawl on the floor, propping myself up against the wall. My hands find the windowsill and I pull myself up, glancing outside.

  I frown when I see Ivy, naked, leading a man into the pool house. He’s also naked. My nose touches the window as I squint at them, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. He has his back to me, and then disappears into the building.

  “Oh, fuck, no,” Prince Beckett says behind me.

  Turning to look at the Prince, I see his eyes blazing and his lips turned down at the corners. His face is dark. Black. Angry.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head.

  I’m seeing things.

  Ivy doesn’t have a boyfriend—never has. She’s the pure one of the two of us. The one who stayed back to take care of Mama. The one who takes care of me.

  She’s the one who deserves this big house and all this money. She’s the one who holds me together every time I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.

  Why would Prince Beckett care if Ivy’s seeing someone?

  Breathe.

  I suck in some air.

  I’m positive for Huntington’s disease. I’m going to die.

  My thoughts swirl. My fingers dig into the window ledge and vaguely, I sense Prince Beckett moving away from me. I stare out the window, trying to focus on something other than the constriction of my lungs and the racing of my heart.

  There’s no evidence of Ivy and the man. Shadows on the pool deck make it look like there are wet footsteps leading from the pool to the small outbuilding, but when I blink, they turn fuzzy.

  I’m seeing things.

  There’s nothing there.

  Ivy doesn’t have a boyfriend.

  Prince Beckett shifts behind me, and I wait to feel his hand on my shoulder, his arms around me, his voice in my ear.

  I need comfort.

  I need love.

  Instead, I yelp when something sharp pinches my arm. My eyes widen as I see Prince Beckett with a syringe, pushing some liquid into my body.

  Trying to scream, nothing comes out. I try to move, but my limbs are too heavy. Words escape me. My vision blurs.

  The last thing I see is Beckett’s ugly snarl as he removes the syringe from my arm.

  23

  Ivy

  Luca spreads a towel out on top of the daybed and then lays back on top of it. Our bodies are still dripping with water from the pool, and goosebumps erupt all over my skin.

  I don’t know if it’s the cold, or the sight of Luca’s body that does that to me.

  His eyes are hooded as he stares at me, opening an arm toward me. I snuggle in beside him, my eyes taking him in. All of him.

  We don’t say much. The air between us is heavy, and a bundle of excitement grows in the pit of my stomach.

  I nestle my head on his shoulder and watch as he wraps his hand around his thick cock. My fingers go on an exploratory mission of their own, trailing down his chest and tracing the outline of his abdominal muscles, and finally coming to rest on his thigh.

  Without a word, the Prince releases his grip on his shaft as an invitation for me to touch it. It surprises me how smooth and velvety his skin is. My fingers barely reach all the way around, and my mouth goes dry.

  It’s definitely going to hurt if he puts it inside me.

  Gulping, I dispel the thought. Instead, I move my hand up and down his hardness, watching. His abs contract as I move my hand. With my head on his chest, I can hear his pulse speed up. With one hand wrapped around my body, the Prince makes me feel safe and comfortable beside him.

  His other hand moves on top of mine, wrapped around his cock.

  My heart stutters.

  Heat floods my insides. My cheeks are burning, and my eyes are glued to the movement of my hand. The tip of his cock seems to grow right in front of me, and I suddenly have an irresistible urge to taste it.

  When a bead of precum appears, I can’t resist.

  I shift my weight and lean over his cock, taking it between my lips.

  The Prince lets out a low growl, his hand splaying across my back as I kneel over him. I tremble, spreading my lips wider to sweep my tongue over his tip.

  It’s salty, but not unpleasant.

  I always thought going down on a guy was degrading. I thought it was a bit gross, and I didn’t understand the appeal. I never thought I would enjoy it. I never realized that it could make me feel this powerful,
this sexy, this completely in control.

  Prince Luca—strong, muscular, hyper-masculine—melts like butter in my hands. He moans as I move my mouth over his head, curling his fingers into my back.

  I take more of him into my mouth, closing my eyes and relishing the taste of him. Heat pools between my legs, and I moan with him.

  This isn’t degrading. It’s sensual and sexy. Giving the Prince a bit of pleasure after what he’s done for me over the past three weeks makes me feel good.

  I want him to come. I want him to feel as good as I did. I want to do this for him.

  A grunt escapes the Prince’s lips, and I feel his cock throb. Lifting my head up, I glance at Luca.

  “Are you close?”

  He nods, his lips parting as if he wants to speak, but can’t. His face is completely relaxed. He blinks slowly, dropping his gaze to my swollen lips. He moves his hand over mine again, and we slide our hands over his shaft together.

  Then, it happens.

  My lips part and my breath catches as I watch the white, sticky seed shoot out of his cock. He angles it toward himself so that it lands across his chest and stomach. Again, and again, and again, his cock throbs under my hand and covers him in cum.

  I watch as it pools in the valleys between his abs. A streak of it dribbles down over his side, and I move to stop it with my finger.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I lift my finger to my mouth to taste it. Meeting the Prince’s eye, he lets out a growl and shakes my head.

  “You’re killing me.”

  “Salty. A bit bitter.” I wrinkle my nose. “Not great.”

  He sighs, leaning his head back on the pillows. I grab another towel and hand it to him, watching in fascination as he wipes himself clean.

  There’s a funny mix of curiosity and desire swirling inside me. It turns me on to see him like this—completely satisfied because of something I did—but not in a burning, needy way. It’s like a deep, steady thrum inside me. I snuggle in beside him, leaning my head on his shoulder.

  He kisses the top of my head, wrapping his arms around me.

  “Did that satisfy your curiosity?” I can hear the grin in his voice.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Always happy to oblige.”

  I giggle, feeling my cheeks heat up. I’m not embarrassed. I’m just blushing because I never could have imagined that sex could be like this—comfortable, sexy, and fun.

  When my alarm goes off on my phone, I groan.

  “I have to head to the castle for work,” I say.

  “I’ll drive you.”

  I glance up at the Prince’s face. He leans toward me and lays a soft kiss on the tip of my nose, smiling.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Us, together, driving into the castle grounds?”

  The Prince’s lips pinch, and he shrugs. “I don’t care if it’s a good idea or not. I don’t care if people see us together, Ivy. I’m with you. No one else.”

  “How would I get home? I think it’s better for me to take my scooter.”

  “As you wish,” he says, forcing a smile.

  I’ve said something wrong. I feel closer to the Prince than ever before, but it still feels like there’s a distance between us that I can’t bridge.

  Of course there’s a distance between us—he’s royalty, and I’m a pastry chef. This is going nowhere, and we both know it…

  …but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it for a little while, does it?

  Standing up from the day bed, I stretch my neck from side to side, gather my clothing, and get dressed. The Prince wraps his arms around me again, laying a soft kiss on my lips.

  “When can I see you again?” he whispers.

  A smile tugs at my lips, and I shrug. “Probably in about an hour at the castle.”

  My heart flutters as he brushes his lips against mine, and then I watch him walk out of the pool house with a smile on my face.

  When I make it back to the house, everything is quiet. My stomach grumbles, so I inhale a bowl of oats. I lean against the marble counter, letting my mind drift over the events of the past few weeks.

  In a little over three weeks, I’ve gone from only having experienced sloppy, drunken kisses, to nearly going all the way with Prince Luca.

  A persistent smile tugs at my lips, and I grab a banana out of the fruit bowl on the counter. Turning the coffee machine on, I sing to myself and float through the kitchen, buoyed by my happiness.

  He wants to see me again. I want to see him again.

  Against all odds, I’ve found a guy who’s choosing me over my sister, and not the other way around. He looks at me the way guys usually look at her, and it makes me feel powerful, and sexy, and completely overwhelmed. Even when he goes out with her, I no longer feel jealous. I see the way he puts his arm around her as if she were his sister. Nothing at all like the way he touches me.

  I trust him completely.

  The coffee machine gurgles, and I glance at the staircase that leads up to the bedrooms. As I think of my sister, I hear a loud thump.

  Frowning, I leave half of my banana on the kitchen counter and step lightly toward the stairs. I pause at the bottom, craning my neck to try to hear any noise.

  There’s shuffling, and maybe a muffled moan.

  I frown. My heart starts to thump, and alarm bells blare in my ears.

  Something’s wrong.

  I grip the staircase railing, simultaneously wanting to fly up the stairs and too terrified to move.

  “Margot?” I call out, my voice shrill in the empty house.

  No response.

  A lump forms in my throat, and I try to shake the dread that creeps into my heart. A black hand squeezes my lungs, pushing all the air out of me. It’s hard to take a full breath.

  One step at a time, I make it up the stairs. I walk to Margot’s room, placing my ear against her door.

  “Margot?” I repeat, tapping my knuckles against the wood.

  Again, nothing.

  My heart bounces against my ribcage. Fear ices my veins, and I squeeze my eyes shut to compose myself.

  She’s just sleeping. The thump I heard was something falling off the bed, or her fist hitting the wall in her sleep. The shuffling and moaning was a bad dream.

  Everything is fine.

  Yet even before I push the door open, I know that everything isn’t fine.

  Far from fine.

  Everything is about to fall apart.

  24

  Luca

  When I get back to Farcliff Castle, I make my way back to my chambers and flop down onto my bed. My body is still buzzing from what happened in the pool house. For the first time in years, I’m not waking up with debilitating nerve pain.

  I can walk. I can move. I can laugh, and talk, and feel Ivy’s hands on my body without feeling like I’m lying on a bed of pins and needles. I haven’t needed a painkiller in days. I haven’t smoked in over a week.

  Turning my head to the side, I see a fresh bottle of painkillers on my bedside table.

  The doctor must have brought it while I was out.

  I take the little white bottle in my hands, turning it around and listening to the pills rattle inside. These pills have been everything to me. They’ve blanketed me in a haze of numbness for the past five years. They’ve been my crutch ever since my body failed me.

  At first, painkillers helped me live. They helped me learn to walk again, and made it possible for me to live my day-to-day life.

  Now, I realize that I’ve been relying on them for something different.

  It’s not physical numbness I’ve been chasing. It’s the chemical haze in my mind that has attracted me. I shake the bottle again, sighing.

  If Ivy can make me feel brand new again, why do I need these?

  Maybe the doctors are right, and a lot of my nerve pain is psychosomatic. It’s created by my mind—not my body.

  At first, when the doctor to
ld me that the pain might be in my head, I was deeply, deeply offended. How dare he tell me that I’m imagining it? How dare he insinuate that my body was healthy, when I couldn’t even lay in bed without feeling like my spine was being torn apart by a giant’s hands?

  I realize now that the doctor may have been right.

  It’s not that I was imagining it, it’s that my mind was sick—not my body.

  Now, I’m pain-free. Without drugs. Without pills, or weed, or alcohol.

  Without Cara.

  It hits me like a bolt of lightning. Over the past three weeks, I’ve thought of Cara less than I did in a single day over the past five years. I haven’t felt like gouging my eyeballs out with my own fingernails, or tearing the skin off my flesh one strip at a time.

  To put it simply, I haven’t cared about her at all.

  Blowing the air out of my lungs, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I take the bottle of pills over to the ensuite bathroom and unscrew the top.

  Frowning, I notice that the seal is broken.

  Underneath the cotton ball at the top of the bottle, I pour out a couple of pills into my palm.

  Staring at them, something stirs in the depths of my chest.

  You should take a couple, for old time’s sake, a voice croaks in my head. Chase the numbness once more. Feel nothing today, and then tomorrow you can give it up. You can stop anytime you want—why not enjoy it one last time?

  The thoughts seep into my bloodstream, and I stare at the pills. My hand begins to shake.

  Just one won’t hurt. Dump the rest.

  I pour the contents of the bottle into the toilet before I change my mind, and then turn my attention to the six pills that remain in my palm.

  They feel heavy. All I have to do is angle my palm downward, and they’ll tumble into the toilet with the others.

  But I don’t.

  I stare at them, listening to the voice in my head.

  Come on, it says. It’ll be fun. Get high. Get numb. One last time.

  I realize I’m trembling. I look up and see myself in the mirror, shocked at what looks back at me. The hollowed-out cheeks, the dark eyes.