by Jenna Sutton
“Let’s go back to Helios,” I suggest, trying to sound persuasive. “It’s late, and we’re both tired. We can talk about this tomorrow, after we’ve had time to think.”
“What is there to think about? The media tour is over. Ninety percent of Alsanians have a favorable opinion of you. You don’t need me anymore.”
“That’s not true.” I tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “I do need you. I need you to remind me who I really am.”
She shakes her head, visibly confused. “What does that mean?”
“When I’m with you, I’m not the future king of Alsania. I’m just Leo—your Leo.” I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. “I love you, Tessa.”
Tears fill her eyes. “You love me?”
“Yes.” I catch a tear on my fingertip. “I think I fell in love with you that day in the hospital when you compared yourself to summer squash.”
She laughs through her tears. “Oh, Leo. I love you too.”
I thought hearing Tessa say I love you would stop the anxiety speeding through me, but those three little words actually supercharge it. Because I want more than her love—I want a future with her. And she might not be ready for that right now. She might never be ready.
“I know you miss your old life, Tessa. I know you miss being a nobody. But I’m hoping you’ll consider being a somebody—my somebody.”
“Your somebody?” Confusion clouds her expression. “Does that mean you want me to be your girlfriend?”
“No.”
It crosses my mind that men drop to one knee to propose because they’re too nervous to remain standing. My legs are so shaky there’s a good chance I might tip over like a bowling pin.
“I don’t want you to be my girlfriend.” I gulp in a mouthful of air. “I want you to be my queen.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you proposing?”
“Yes.” Taking her left hand, I kiss her fourth finger, just above the knuckle. “I want to put a ring right here.”
She swallows so hard I can hear it. “Are you serious?”
“You’ll have to give up a lot if you marry me. You won’t have any privacy. Everything you do will be scrutinized.” Somehow, I muster a smile. “But you get me in exchange. I’m hoping you’ll think I’m worth it.”
She doesn’t respond. She just stares at me. And the longer she stares at me without saying anything, the harder it is for me to breathe. I have to focus on pulling in a lungful of air just so I can talk.
“You don’t have to answer right now.” I let go of her hand. “Take some time to think about it.”
“I don’t need time to think about it.”
Her smile is so remorseful and beseeching, my stomach flips over. My worst fear is coming true—she may love me, but she doesn’t want forever with me ... doesn’t want to be my queen.
Words spill from my mouth, sharp with all the hurt and disappointment and frustration inside me. “I can’t change who I am. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I love Alsania, and I love the Alsanian people, even if they hate me. It’s both my duty and my privilege to sit on the throne.”
Tessa shakes her head emphatically. “I don’t want you to change who you are. I’d never ask you to give up the throne.” She places her palm on my chest, right over my heart. “You’re going to be a wonderful king, Leo. And I’ll do my best to be a wonderful queen.”
It takes a while for her words to sink in, but when they do, I cup my hands around her face and kiss her until we’re both panting.
Regaining my breath, I say, “As soon as you have a ring, we can announce our engagement. I think the one my great-grandfather gave my great-grandmother on their thirtieth wedding anniversary would be perfect. I can show it to you tonight. If you don’t like it, we can meet with a few jewelers tomorrow. And if you don’t like anything they have, we can always—”
Her laughter interrupts my babbling. “People are going to say we’re moving too fast.”
“Some of them will,” I agree. “But I think most of them will be happy for us. We’ve experienced something only a few people have experienced. I want to make the most of every day we have together, but we can have a long engagement if you want one.”
“I don’t want a long engagement.” She shakes her head. “I love you. My heart is yours.”
Her smile makes my heart squeeze in my chest. I didn’t think it was possible to love someone as much as I love her.
“Seems like a fair trade—I gave you a piece of my liver, and you gave me a piece of your heart.”
She laughs. “You have my whole heart, Leo, not just a piece.”
“That’s even better.”
EPILOGUE
Four Years Later
Tessa
Using the remote, I adjust the medical bed until I’m reclining. As I pull the blankets over my stomach, I can’t help thinking about the last time I was a patient in this hospital.
It’s hard to believe almost five years have passed since I was on the verge of death and Prince Leo of Alsania saved my life by giving me a piece of his royal liver. But he didn’t stop there.
After giving me all of his heart, he gave me a wedding band and a crown. And now he’s given me a son.
That’s why I’m here, recuperating in this private hospital room. Early this morning, I gave birth to our first child, the newest member of the House of Trioni and first-in-line to the Alsanian throne.
The door opens a crack, allowing a slice of light from the hallway to permeate my dim room. When my transplant surgeon’s familiar face peeks through the space, I place my finger to my lips to warn him to be quiet then point to my husband, who’s snoring in an arm chair in the corner, and my newborn, who’s napping in a basinet next to my bed.
I touch my finger to my chest and gesture to Dr. Barchon, hoping the jolly-looking surgeon will understand what I’m trying to communicate. Fortunately, he gets the message and retreats into the hallway.
Trying to be quiet, I slide from the bed and shove my feet into the slippers I brought from home. I hurry to the door as fast as I can and squeeze through the crack.
As soon as I close the door and turn to face Dr. Barchon, he carefully enfolds me in a hug. “Congratulations, Tessa!”
“Thank you,” I reply, appreciating both his words and his gentle embrace.
After twelve hours of labor, my entire body aches as if someone had pounded me with a meat tenderizer. I know it could’ve been a lot worse though, so I’ve kept my whining to a minimum, especially around Leo, who has a tendency to overreact when it comes to my health.
I know my husband, and I can tell when he’s worried, even when he tries to hide it. He’s been a nervous wreck for months now, ever since my gynecologist removed my IUD. Despite Dr. Barchon’s assurances that my liver was healthy enough for me to carry a child, Leo’s anxiety swelled in direct proportion to my baby bump.
Fortunately, my pregnancy was normal in every way—some morning sickness and sleepiness in the beginning, followed by three lusty months during which I craved Leo like a caffeine addict craves coffee, and then finally, a period marked by discomfort and insomnia.
Now that our son is here, I hope my husband can relax. I don’t know how likely that is, since having a child tends to create more worry rather than less.
Over my surgeon’s shoulder, I spot two black-suited guards standing at the end of the corridor. They’re part of an eight-person security team that Leo personally selected to protect me.
Whenever I go out in public, even if it’s just to the grocery store, at least two guards come with me. While the security prevents people from hassling me, it’s primarily there to protect me from kidnappers. Like every member of the royal family, I’m a high-value target for terrorists and other criminal groups seeking a hefty ransom.
Dr. Barchon loosens his arms and lets me step back so I can see his face. “I just reviewed your bloodwork,” he says.
“And?”
“Everything looks good.” Smiling widely, he pats
my shoulder. “You’ve made it through pregnancy and childbirth completely unharmed.”
Tell that to my vagina.
“Leo will be relieved to hear my bloodwork is normal,” I say.
Dr. Barchon arches his bushy white eyebrows. “Have you chosen a name for the new prince?”
“Yes. We’re announcing it tomorrow morning.”
“Can I get a preview?”
“His name is Lorenzo Alessandro Maximilian Bernardo.”
“That’s quite a mouthful, isn’t it?”
I smile wryly, thinking about the three titles and four surnames I didn’t mention. “We followed royal tradition and named him after ancestors and relatives, but we’re going to call him by a nickname: Enzo.”
He sighs. “Well, I just lost five hundred euros.”
I can’t help laughing. Bookmakers across Europe received more than two million euros in bets on my baby’s name, according to an article I read last night before bed.
“What name did you bet on?” I ask.
“Rafael.”
“That was our second choice.”
“Too bad.” He snaps his fingers. “Maybe next time.”
Wincing, I say, “Can I at least leave the hospital before you or anyone else starts talking about the next one?”
He chuckles. “Did you know people are celebrating the prince’s birth by dancing in the streets and drinking champagne straight from the bottle? Hundreds of people are camped outside the hospital right now, waiting to catch a glimpse of the baby when you leave.”
Panic assails me, just for a few seconds, before I force myself to breathe deeply and evenly. It’s not easy being a public figure, but I’ve never regretted my decision to marry Leo, not even on the days when the paparazzi are in hot pursuit.
Leo predicted that I’d have to give up some things to be with him, and he was right. I had to sell my flower shop because my notoriety was killing the business. No one wanted to buy flowers from it; they just wanted to gawk.
Selling my shop broke my heart, but my husband did what he could to lessen my pain—he built greenhouses and workshops for me at the palace and at Helios. And now, working with a few assistants, I handle the flowers for all royal events, from masquerade balls to state dinners. It keeps me just as busy as my shop did.
Dr. Barchon touches my forearm, bringing my attention back to him. “Please convey my felicitations to the king.”
“I will. And thank you for delivering the results of my bloodwork personally. I know you’re busy with your patients and the transplant center.”
A few months after Leo and I got married, he introduced a bill to change Alsania’s organ and tissue donation laws from opt-in to opt-out. The bill garnered a lot of support—only a few members of parliament voted against it. The new law took effect three years ago, and since then, organ donation surgeries have almost quadrupled.
Changing the organ donation law was just the first step in Leo’s grand plan. Two years ago, he surprised me by donating nearly thirty million euros to construct a state-of-the-art transplant center. He gave me the news on the anniversary of our liver surgeries.
Leo wanted to name the center after me, but I wasn’t too keen on the idea. Buildings should only be named after dead people, and I’m still alive, thank God.
We ended up compromising. When the center opens next year, it’ll be known as the National Transplant Center. When I die, it’ll be renamed after me.
Leo asked Dr. Barchon to chair the transplant center’s board of directors, and he eagerly accepted the position. Under his leadership, I know the center will be one of the best in the world.
After saying goodbye to my transplant surgeon, I gingerly pull open the door and slip into to my room. The blueish glow emanating from the phototherapy machine over Enzo’s bassinet provides just enough light for me to see that he and his daddy are still asleep.
Although my son is healthy—ten fingers, ten toes, and one nose, as the saying goes—he has a mild case of jaundice. The condition is caused by elevated levels of bilirubin, which is a natural by-product of decomposing red bloods cells.
Jaundice affects roughly half of all newborns, and it’s not a big deal as long as it’s treated. The most effective way to get rid of bilirubin is putting the baby under a bright fluorescent light and letting him bake like a tater tot until the yellow tinge disappears.
I move deeper into the hospital room, my gaze darting back and forth between my bed and my snoozing family. When I reach the bed, I kick off my slippers and climb back under the covers. As I lean back against the stack of pillows, a wave of exhaustion crashes over me, and I let it pull me under.
I awaken to the sound of Leo’s deep voice. I can tell he’s trying to be quiet, but it’s no use. Even when he whispers, his baritone is rich and rumbly.
Turning my head, I see my husband sitting in the arm chair with his white dress shirt unbuttoned. I don’t know what’s sexier—his bronzed torso with its well-defined muscles and smattering of dark hair or the way he’s cradling our son against his bare chest.
While I read a couple of pregnancy-related books (ignorance really is bliss), Leo carried a stack of them around as if he were studying for a test. He read that skin-on-skin cuddling creates a stronger bond between daddy and baby, so I’m not surprised to see his pecs on display.
I look at Leo’s big hand, which easily spans the width of our son’s body. Let me tell you, he didn’t feel that tiny when I was pushing him out. He measured twenty-two inches long and weighed eight pounds, three ounces.
Leo was by my side in the birthing suite the entire time. And when I say by my side, I mean that literally—I refused to let him witness the action between my legs. There are some things you can’t just unsee.
When our son came into the world, after twelve hours of intense labor, the man formerly known as the Polar Prince burst into tears. While the baby wailed indignantly and kicked his chubby little legs, his father vacillated between laughing and sobbing.
No one could’ve accused King Leo II of being cold and unemotional just then. And if they’d seen him throughout my pregnancy, fretting over every little ache and pain I suffered, they wouldn’t doubt his warmth or his ability to love.
When we announced our engagement, I was shocked by the response. I was worried people would fixate on my commoner status and accuse me of being a gold digger, but they didn’t.
Instead, they fixated on Leo’s reserved demeanor and questioned his suitability as a husband. The overall sentiment was that I was too good for him. Idiots.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Leo whispers to our son. “I’ve been waiting to meet you for the longest time.”
He ends the sentence with a word I’ve never heard before. “What did you just say?” I ask.
Leo’s head snaps up, and his eyes find mine in the shadowed room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I was trying to whisper.”
“I know. It’s okay.” I use the remote to raise myself into a sitting position. “What was that word? The one at the end of your sentence. I’ve never heard it before.”
“Castagnole.”
“Sounds Italian,” I say.
“It is.”
“What does it mean?”
“Nothing,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb down the baby’s arm. “It’s the name of a dessert that’s available only during Carnevale.”
“What kind of dessert?”
“Little fried balls of dough. Usually, they’re covered in powdered sugar. And sometimes, they’re filled with jam or chocolate or almond paste.”
“Sounds like a donut hole.”
“Exactly.”
I moan under my breath. Right now, I’d kill for some donuts—holes or whole, I don’t care.
“Is castagnole a common endearment?” I ask. “Like honey or sugar.”
“No.”
He cups his palm over our son’s head and plays with his dark-as-midnight curls. They’re the same shade as Leo’s hair.
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“Then why call him castagnole?”
“It was the first word that popped into my head when I first saw him. He’s small and round. And so sweet I just...”
“Want to gobble him up,” I say, finishing his sentence.
He laughs softly. “Yes.”
I press the button on the remote that turns on the overhead lights so I can see my husband more clearly. Once my eyes have adjusted to the brightness, I give him an appraising glance. He looks nothing like the perfect, polished prince whom I met in this hospital years ago.
Tired eyes. Dark stubble. Messy hair. Sexy smile.
He’s gorgeous, and he’s all mine.
I watch him as he slowly rises from the arm chair and carefully navigates around the empty basinet. He stops next to the bed and waits for me to untie my robe and undo the buttons on my gown before passing the baby to me.
Enzo is awake, but obviously drowsy since his little mouth opens wide in a yawn. Once he’s settled on my chest, Leo scoots into the bed with me.
As he drapes his arm around my shoulders, he says, “You are the most incredible woman I’ve ever known.”
“Are you sure about that?” I tease. “You know soldiers and astronauts and professors and musicians and—”
“I’m sure.”
His tone is so serious I immediately stop joking around. “And you are the most incredible man I’ve ever known.” I shift so I can meet his eyes. “You’re an incredible king and an incredible husband. And I know you’re going to be an incredible father too.”
A sheen of tears makes his eyes gleam like obsidian. So much for being cold and unfeeling.
“I love you, Tessa.”
I lean over and press my lips against his in a brief kiss. “I love you too.”
Enzo wiggles on my chest and lets out soft mewl. I look down at him, marveling over the delicate eyelids that remind of the inside of a seashell and the tiny fingers that are spread like a starfish.
“He’s so beautiful,” my husband says, his voice congested with tears.
I stroke my finger over the wispy hair along my son’s forehead and across the yellow-tinged skin of his cheek. “He looks like the summer squash my dad grows in his garden.”
