by Ana Adams
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ANOTHER STORY YOU MIGHT LIKE
Royal’s Baby
By Sophia Lynn & Ana Adams
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Royal’s Baby:
A Royal Romance
By Sophia Lynn & Ana Adams
All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2016-2017 Sophia Lynn.
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Chapter One
The splitting headache was Anwar’s first sign of morning. Groaning and rolling to his side, his tongue connected with the sour taste in his mouth. Sunlight peeked through the velvet curtains on the far wall; under the window on the chaise longue, his cousin Ra’ees lay strewn, still clothed, snoring softly with a plastic crown cockeyed on his head.
Anwar pushed himself to sitting, peeling a piece of paper off his cheek. What the hell had happened last night? He squinted at the paper—a receipt for five hundred dollars. Champagne.
He groaned again, the need to pee far outweighing his desire to stay in bed and sleep off the hangover. Swinging his legs out of bed, he stepped on something plastic. A pill bottle. He swore, stumbling toward the bathroom attached to his bedchamber. Ra’ees stirred from the other end of the room.
“Eggs,” Ra’ees mumbled.
“I’m not your fucking maid,” Anwar retorted, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind him. He winced at the answering throb in his head. In the cool, quiet space of the bathroom, he sighed as he relieved himself. Last night had been a doozy—and maybe only a third remembered. Ra’ees would help him piece it together, though. As his cousin and best friend, it was his sacred duty to be not only his wing man, but also the unofficial court reporter of their comings and goings as the resident bachelor-playboys of the palace.
Back in the bedchamber, Ra’ees now sat upright, the plastic crown at his side. Anwar flopped onto the bed, exhaustion creeping in after such a small trek to the bathroom.
“That night about did me in.” Ra’ees yawned and stretched. “I swear I only sat down here for a minute.”
Anwar reached for the golden knob of his bedside drawer, fishing for a bottle of aspirin. “I don’t even remember going to bed.”
“I’d say you blacked out about halfway through the night.” Ra’ees waggled a finger at Anwar. “If I know my cousin like I think I do.”
Anwar grunted, his stomach making a defiant lurch in hunger. “Should we call for breakfast? I need something greasy immediately.”
Ra’ees yawned and nodded. Anwar fished around the bedside table for his phone; when he didn’t find it, he let a long sigh and pushed himself to standing again, wincing against the new wave of headache.
“I’ll call for a big spread,” he said. “And champagne.”
“For the hangover. Right.”
Anwar hefted open the large, gilded, oak doors of his bedchamber, squinting as bright light revealed itself in the main gallery of his palatial apartment. On a couch in the living room, three mostly-naked girls lay snuggled, still asleep.
Anwar turned to Ra’ees. “Shit. Did you invite these girls?”
“You did…remember?”
“Clearly not.” He stumbled out of the bedroom, sizing them up as he walked by. Gorgeous girls, model material. And he had absolutely no recollection of ever having seen them before. “Did we do anything with them?”
“Polished off those pills, and you wooed them with a bottle of champagne before you passed out like a fish out of water.”
Anwar scoffed, scouting the room for his phone. It had to be somewhere. He’d just replaced his last lost phone due to drunken shenanigans—requesting the fifth new one in as many months would be too embarrassing. His stomach lurched again, and a wave of misery crashed over him. He hated mornings, because he hated tying up all these loose ends. But the parties were so fun, at least what he could remember. Still, in recent mornings, something nagged at him, urging him to reconsider.
The blonde girl stirred, stretching long spindly limbs. “Is that Prince Anwar I hear?”
“The one and only.” Anwar snatched his phone from behind a beaded throw pillow. He might not be able to guess the girl’s name in a million years, but even if they hadn’t partied together in forgotten oblivion the night before, she’d know his name. Everyone did—he was the most sought after bachelor in the kingdom.
The only problem was he didn’t want to be sought after—not by women, not by men, not by anyone or anything. He just wanted to be alone—free of responsibility. Enjoying the wild life as long as he could before the inevitable shackles of duty came clamping down around his neck.
“Ladies. Out.” Ra’ees pocketed his phone and pointed toward the door, his face stern.
“Aw, come on,” Anwar protested. “Breakfast isn’t even here yet. We could still have some more fun.” He winked at the brunette blinking sleepily his way, but his heart wasn’t in it. Maybe it was the hangover; or maybe he was finally tiring of the constant partying, a thought that jarred a cold fear into him. How could he, Anwar Prince of the East, be tired of partying? It was practically his primary princely duty.
But he’d started feeling it sometime earlier that year; he even remembered the moment the thought first occurred to him, the morning after a particularly raging party where he’d bedded a circus contortionist. She’d been so beautiful his heart nearly stopped. He still thought of that girl and the way her eyes danced in the firelight.
“We have a visitor on the way.” Ra’ees sent him a look that told Anwar he was being serious. The only visitor that would warrant clearing out the apartment would be Diaab, his uncle and Ra’ees’s father.
The girls groaned and sighed, but Ra’ees hurried them toward the door while Anwar called for a maid to bring a lavish breakfast spread. Just as his cousin ushered the last girl out the arched entryway, Diaab strolled into view.
“Good afternoon.” His voice cut like steel through the air, making Anwar wince. The last girl out the door giggled and shut the door behind her. Diaab’s disapproving gaze moved between him and his son.
“Hello, Father.” Ra’ees sat on an overstuffed arm chair, clearing his throat.
Anwar busied himself with checking his emails. He hated Diaab’s unannounced visits, especially when they cut into his morning-after. At least Ra’ees had the decency to try to herd the girls out before Diaab spotted them, but Diaab could also make the effort to not impinge upon their lives.
“I trust you’re both rested and ready to address some affairs at hand.” Diaab’s steely eyes focused on Anwar. “I come with some news.”
“Go ahead.” Anwar continued scrolling through his phone, not meeting Diaab’s gaze.
The tension in the room spiked. Ra’ees let a soft sigh. “Anwar…”
Anwar pocketed the phone and yanked his gaze to meet Diaab’s. “I’d appreciate more than thirty seconds warning when you come to my chambers.”
“This was urgent, and I’m under no obligation to respect your privacy since we all live under your father’s roof.” Diaab smiled tightly. “Which brings me to my principal point: your father’s health has taken a turn for the worse.”
Anwar frowned, studying the far wall without really seeing anything. “How much worse?”
Diaab let a terse sigh. “We should begin the funeral arrangements, I believe. Just to make sure everything is in place. He’s still coherent, but this last illness pushed him to death’s door, as you know. He won’t be with us much longer.”
Anwar’s throat tightened, and he leapt to his feet, pacing the far wall. Anger and fear and panic coiled inside him; he’d been trying to pretend like this wasn’t the only sure outcome of the situation, but it was unavoidable. And part of the reason he’
d been drinking himself to oblivion more and more on the weekends…and sometimes during the week.
He didn’t want his father to die, no matter how much they had butted heads during his adolescence. Anwar was barely twenty-five. That was too young to be king.
He wasn’t ready. Not now.
He took a shaky breath, pausing to look out the bay windows overlooking the inner courtyard. Neatly manicured bushes lined stone walls around a cobblestone patio. This had been his view his entire life, with his father at the helm.
“We should arrange another meeting to go over the final affairs,” Diaab said. “It would be worth your while to take a break from the womanizing and drug abuse, as well.”
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” Anwar spat. “And I don’t abuse drugs.”
“Really, Anwar, it is time.” Ra’ees sounded concerned suddenly, even though he’d been alongside him for the debauchery since time eternal. “Don’t you think we’ve partied enough? I’m tired, frankly.”
Anwar turned in time to catch the approving look that Diaab sent to his son.
“When shall we meet?” Anwar straightened his back, picking at the sleeve of his button-up. He’d deal with Ra’ees later.
“Perhaps this evening. However, there is one other matter we must attend to first.”
“What?” Anwar nodded at the maid who came in quietly, leaving a tray of food under silver domes on the low, round table between Ra’ees and himself. He lifted a dome, pleased by the sight of the eggs benedict, exactly as he liked it.
“We have a visitor.” Diaab’s brow knitted as he spoke. “She’s adamant to see you.”
“She’ll wait until late afternoon.” He sat down in the chair, unwrapping the silverware from the cloth napkin. “Let me enjoy breakfast and then take a rest before I see her. What does she want to speak to me about?”
Diaab hesitated. “Actually, you must see her now. We cannot wait.”
Anwar glowered at him, fork poised over the first bite of eggs. “Can you not see me here? I need to eat.”
“You must see her now.” Diaab leveled him with his gaze. “Get dressed and follow at once.”
Anwar looked to Ra’ees, who shrugged. Anwar sighed, shoved the bite of eggs into his mouth and hurried to his bedroom. He hated being interrupted, surprised, and most importantly, overruled. Diaab normally had a special way of pushing each of those buttons, but today he was hitting all three at once. He tugged off his bedclothes and slid into a pair of dress slacks and a light blue button-up shirt, practically his work uniform around the castle. He pushed his hair into place as quickly as he could, then hurried to follow Diaab out of the bedchambers.
They wound through the western wing and headed for the far end where the receiving chambers lay. Maids scurried by, nodding and curtseying briefly as they passed him. Diaab paused in front of mahogany doors, so dark they were nearly black from age, and lowered his voice.
“We must hear her out.” Before Anwar could reply, Diaab pushed open the door and they entered the round room, sparse yet stately with a handwoven rug in the center bearing the country’s emblem over gleaming marble tiles. Candelabras dotted the walls, unlit because afternoon sun streamed into barred windows lining the upper part of the room. Anwar stood in the center of the room facing the guest door, the standard protocol for hosting a guest. Diaab stood behind him, hands behind his back.
“You may enter.” Diaab’s voice echoed slightly in the chamber. The audience door swung open, the wooden door connecting heavily with the stone wall as it opened. An attendant led a figure in flowing robes into the room.
“Miss Rawnie Badzo.” The servant bowed and then disappeared through the audience door. The guest approached slowly, keeping her head bowed . She clutched something to her chest.
“You may reveal yourself. And you may bow to your prince.” Anwar was already annoyed. His head still hurt, and he was dying to finish his breakfast. If he were lucky, he could dismiss this person within a few seconds and continue his afternoon as he pleased.
The woman fell to her knees, head down. When she looked up, dark eyes found his, her round face framed by soft curls. Heat zipped through him; he knew this face. He would know this face anywhere.
This face had been haunting him for months.
Anwar swallowed hard. “Please state your name, age, and business.”
“I am Rawnie Badzo, age twenty-four, of the Badzo Family Circus.” She spoke slowly, belabored.
He turned to Diaab, brows creased severely. This had to be a joke.
As Anwar opened his mouth to speak, the cry of a baby interrupted him. Rawnie’s face creased with pain and she revealed a small infant at her chest, bundled in dark cloth.
“I bring the son of Prince Anwar.” Rawnie held out the small baby, eyes wet and imploring as she watched them.
And then she brought the baby to her chest and collapsed onto the gleaming marble floor.
***
Rawnie awoke with a start. The bed beneath her was too soft; much softer than any bed she’d felt in recent history. Immediately she reached for baby Anwar at her side.
Nothing.
She shot up, chest tight as she struggled to adjust to her surroundings. Where was she? The last thing she remembered was presenting Anwar’s son to him, and then blackness, silence, total oblivion.
Until now.
The bedchamber was quiet and dim; in the corner, a woman sat in a rocking chair.
“I have your son, my sweet.” Her voice was husky, soothing. “Please do not fear.”
Tears crept into Rawnie’s eyes. “Oh, thank God.” She swallowed hard, looking around the room. The palace—she had to be in the palace. Anwar hadn’t thrown her out—yet. She still had a chance to present his son.
“Who are you?” Rawnie’s voice came out forced, wispy.
“I am Fatin.” The pudgy woman stood, baby nestled in her arms like she was carrying produce at the market. She offered a hand. “You are Rawnie, so I’ve heard.”
Rawnie let a small laugh. “I bet you’ve heard. My presentation didn’t go quite as planned.”
“You were exhausted. Have you traveled far?”
“Too far.” Emotion made her chest tighten. She’d traveled six hundred miles, leaving her whole life and family behind. She’d traveled the world over with her family’s traveling circus—yet this trip was the most difficult of her life. And perhaps her last.
“You need to get healthy now,” Fatin said, tucking the covers around her, forcing her back down onto the bed. “I will watch the babe while you rest. Food will come soon, if you want it.”
“Let me kiss my baby,” Rawnie whispered, desperate to feel the touch of her son’s skin against hers. Fatin smiled knowingly, proffering the sleeping baby for Rawnie to brush her lips against.
Rawnie slipped back into a restful but brief sleep. When she awoke again, Fatin was nowhere to be found.
Feeling slightly more able, Rawnie slid out of the bed, noticing for the first time that she wore a foreign nightgown, light and silken, finer than any cloth she’d touched for months. She approached the only door in the room, hands poised to push it open but stopped when she heard voices through the cracked doorway.
“He is a beauty.” Fatin’s husky, accented voice immediately calmed her. “And he looks like you.”
“Oh, please.” The voice made her belly tighten, but it could be only one person—Anwar. “He looks nothing like me. Babies don’t look like anybody. They’re just…faces. And tiny limbs.”
Fatin chuckled. “But these limbs and this face look like yours. These eyes…” She tutted. “These eyes tell all.”
Rawnie smiled sadly. Fatin was right—Anwar Jr.’s eyes were the giveaway. They were the reason she’d been disavowed by her family, cast out of the business, and sent traveling on her own for the first time ever to seek a new life.
Anwar Jr. had a set of eyes equal to his father’s: stunning blue, so clear and bright they could stop an army marc
hing to battle. The same eyes had snagged her from across the room a year ago while she performed for the royal court, nearly toppling her while she executed a precision contortion maneuver. Those damn eyes…
She was desperate to see them again with a clear mind, now that she’d rested. The year apart from him, growing his child and now traveling back to his country, had taken a toll on her; not just from the stress and the drama, but because ever since she’d met him she’d wanted more of him.
Ridiculous desires she had no control over. Made even more dumb by the fact that the prince was a renowned playboy, wanted by the world over.
He’d had her and abandoned her. And if she had any sense in her, she’d have never thought of him again.
Footsteps sounded, and panic shot through her—she couldn’t miss him. She pushed open the door. Fatin turned to greet her, the baby in her arms. Anwar spun on his heel to face her, his blue button-up undone enough to let the tight coils of his chest hair show.
She swallowed hard, her voice disappearing. The eyes snagged her again, even a year later, like it was the first time seeing him all over again. Desire thrummed through her.
“Hello.” She reached for her baby, and Fatin handed him over. She brushed her lips against his forehead, breasts aching for a release. At her bosom, her son started fussing so she snuck him under her loose shirt to feed.
Anwar looked dumbfounded, eyes soldered to her chest. “Hello. You, uh…you have rested, I trust?”
She nodded, wincing as Anwar Jr. latched. “Thank you for the lovely accommodations. I rested very well. I hope you’ve taken the time to look at your son.”
Anwar smiled tightly. “There’s no certainty that he is, in fact, my son. However, while you rest we will seriously consider your claim and deliver a response at our earliest convenience.”
Rawnie furrowed her brow. He was treating her like he’d never seen her in his life. “Don’t you remember me?”
He opened his mouth to speak but didn’t say anything. Fatin cleared her throat and excused herself into the adjoining room.
