Ice Queen: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance Read online

  Some men chase sex. Some men appease their inner beast by finding unsuspecting women to pursue, fuck, and leave behind.

  Not me.

  Women are easy targets. Even with scars covering a third of my body, with burn marks crawling up my neck onto my jaw. Even with danger in my eyes, women still fall down at my feet and offer their warm orifices to me. Yawn.

  No, sex doesn’t thrill me.

  Companies are what I hunt. Businesses with an arrow in their flank that leave a trail of blood dripping behind them in the forest. I sniff them out and deliver the final blow, carrying them back on my shoulders with a triumphant grin on my face.

  My father may have hated what the fire did to my body and face when I was twelve years old. He may think I’m a grotesque beast, an ugly son, a disfigured monster—but he can’t deny that I’ve been the person who’s caused his business to expand beyond his wildest dreams. I am the hunter. I’ve acquired more businesses for our corporation than any other person in its history.

  I made my father a billionaire—but his lips still drip with disgust when he looks at my scars.

  No matter.

  Reginald Donovan is my next target, and any bitterness within me will pour out into this merger. It doesn’t matter what Donovan is planning, because I’ll find out. I’ll ruin his plans, acquire his company, and destroy his dreams.

  It’s what I do.

  The car pulls up to the front of the palace. My blood runs hot at the thought of meeting Donovan in there. Sniffing out his weaknesses. Crushing any hope he has of wriggling out of this deal. I’ll wipe that smug smirk off his ugly face.

  A staff member in a crisp black uniform opens the door and leads me up the steps and through the palace entrance. On the other side, a kind, old woman looks at me, her eyes brightening. “Mr. Gerhard!” She gives me a low curtsy, and two other staff members stiffen, spinning their heads to stare at me.

  My reputation precedes me—but then again, it always does. I wonder if they’ve heard of me as a ruthless businessman, or as the man with scars marring a third of his body?

  The old lady straightens, and a vague memory filters through my hazy mind. I remember her from summers at Westhill Palace—Mrs. Grey, maybe? Her face radiates joy and warmth as she gestures for me to enter. “Welcome.”

  I nod in thanks, wrestling my lips into a thin smile.

  Mrs. Grey sweeps her hand down the wide hallway, indicating I should follow her. There’s a buzz in the air as everyone readies for the wedding. Staff scurry from one door to the other. A few of them flash furtive glances my way, then tuck their chins into their chests and duck into the nearest door.

  I see eyes drop to my jaw and my neck, where the scarred skin from my accident pokes out from above my shirt. I should be used to it by now—it’s been twenty years. I’ve had to endure the stares since I was twelve years old.

  Still, I throw my shoulders back and mash my lips together. This is why I’ve become the ruthless businessman I am—because anything less than brute strength opens me up to their pity. I’d rather be hated than pitied. It’s only skin, charred and melted and ugly. Let them stare.

  I haven’t seen Gabriel in twenty years. Not since the fire. We went to boarding school together as children. He was one of my good friends, but we lost touch, as kids do. After the fire, I was in and out of hospitals for years. I didn’t go back to boarding school at all.

  The last day I saw him, the dorms were engulfed in flames. He was running away with all the other kids, ushered across the lawn by the teachers, and I was watching them from the window of my room on the top floor.

  Across the flat roof that separated the boys’ dorms from the girls’ dorms, there was no movement. My best friend had lived across the little strip of roof, but she’d been whisked away just the day before.

  I was stranded and alone in a burning building.

  Gulping, I push the memories down. That was another time. Another life.

  I’m not that weak little boy anymore. I’m not vulnerable and even if I’m alone, it’s by choice. I’ve recovered from the burns and built a name for myself. For this business of my father’s.

  A cushy wedding at a royal palace doesn’t exactly tickle me in all the right places, but I do feel a sick sort of curiosity at seeing Gabriel and his bride.

  Mrs. Grey leads me through the corridors. The carpet is soft beneath my shoes, and the whole place is bright with sunlight and twinkling chandeliers. “This way,” Mrs. Grey says. “There’s a cocktail hour happening in the garden.” She gives me a warm smile, but I don’t quite have the energy—or the desire—to return it.

  My steps feel heavy as I walk, like my limbs are too long and gangly to move gracefully. I should be happy for Gabriel, but there’s a piece of me missing. Empathy has never been easy for me. I’d much rather be the enemy.

  Even now, I hate the stares. The quick flick of the eyes down to my neck, followed by the rearranging of features and the awkward smile. Or the people who pointedly ignore my scars and struggle to hold eye contact for far too long. Just look, I want to scream at them. Stare. Grimace. I already know I’m ugly as sin.

  Mostly, I hate that it still bothers me. My scars have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. The burns covering a third of my body shaped me into who I am. Why do I care if someone looks at the skin on my neck with disgust?

  …But I do care. Every time I see the wrinkling of a nose, or the pity-filled stare, anger comes over me like a red wave.

  “Last time I saw you, you were eleven years old,” Mrs. Grey says. I have a feeling she likes to fill comfortable silences with pointless conversation.

  I grunt in response.

  She lets out a happy sigh, shaking her head. “You and Gabriel were thick as thieves. So much has happened since then. Gabriel changed, but now, with Lady Jolie, I see the happy little boy inside him again.”

  My chest constricts. I know Gabriel went through dark times. I know he came to Westhill to be alone, and I understand the urge to do so. I, too, crave isolation.

  But now, he’s magically healed? The touch of a woman changed him?

  Please.

  I wouldn’t be so foolish as to hope for the same thing. There hasn’t been a woman in my life who has pierced through the thick scar tissue that shelters me from the outside world.

  When we walk back outside, my hand lifts to shield my eyes from the sun. I squint, hating the feeling of being exposed out here. Mrs. Grey leads me down a flagstone path and around a low wall. To the left, a huge tent is set up with tables, chairs, waiters, and a fully stocked bar. Gauzy material twists around tent poles, gathered into rosettes every few feet. Flowers bloom over every surface, from the tent to the chairs to the tables. Uniformed staff walk around the guests with silver platters laden with bite-sized appetizers and tall crystal flutes bubbling with champagne.

  Mrs. Grey leads me to the edge of the tent, curtsies, and takes her leave.

  I should get a drink and try to mingle. I should find someone I recognize amongst the silk gowns and perfectly tailored tuxedos and pretend to be happy to be here. I take a step toward the bar, but my eyes are drawn across the lawn. An aroma floats along the summer breeze, faintly sweet and familiar. It reaches deep into my memories and stirs something in the cold, dark depths of my chest.

  Roses.

  Thousands of them in full bloom, bursting over every wall and trellis, fanning their petals out and showing their beauty to the world. Westhill is famous for them. The rose garden here is legendary, but I’d…forgotten. It’s not these particular roses that call out to my childhood, though. My feet carry me to the rose garden as my heart starts to thump.

  An aisle is set up in the center of the garden, with chairs lined up on either side. More gossamer covers every piece of furniture, with roses woven into garlands that line the aisle. Romantic. Beautiful. Fit for a prince and his princess.

  That’s where Gabriel will be married—but something else tugs at me. A memory. A wh
isper of the past.

  It’s the smell that carries me away. The sweet scent of the roses stops me in my tracks, and I remember the rooftop of the boarding school dorms. My room was the only one with a window that overlooked the flat roof connecting the boys’ and girls’ dorms. Across the narrow, flat strip, a single other window faced mine.

  Penelope Stone’s room.

  The little girl with the sunshine smile and hair like spun gold.

  The first time I saw her, she was climbing out of her dorm room window onto the roof, hauling a potted plant after her. I leaned on the windowsill, fascinated. Her cheeks had grown red and her hair fell out of its bun. Those wiry little arms strained with effort, but she managed to drag the miniature shrub up onto the roof, wiping her brow and letting out a sigh when she was done.

  I’d pushed my window up, the scrape of the window against its frame drawing her gaze. She’d smiled at me, then, and it was like a bolt of lightning straight to my chest. She told me her name, and I told her mine. I helped her drag three more little shrubs up onto the roof, fascinated. She told me they were roses, and they’d bloom this summer, if we were lucky.

  I reached out to touch one, pricking my finger and wincing.

  “Careful,” she said, grabbing my hand. “Roses have thorns.”

  I watched in fascination as she pulled a clean, white handkerchief out of her dress pocket and wrapped it around my finger. I didn’t want it to end. At twelve years old, my heart had never beat so hard. I wanted her to hold my hand forever.

  “Do you grow roses at home?”

  Penelope shook her head. “It’s too cold where I’m from.” There was sadness in her eyes. “So this is my only chance.”

  “Where are you from?” I asked, staring at her mouth and marveling at the softness of her skin. She was so delicate. So small. So, so perfect. I thought she was an angel.

  “Nord,” she told me with a smile.

  And we were friends.

  That rooftop became our sanctuary. We’d steal moments there, staring at the stars, watching miniature rose bushes bud and bloom. We’d skip class together and run to the roof or climb over the schoolyard walls to explore the forest beyond. Gabriel was my friend, but Penelope was my everything.

  As I stare at the Westhill Palace rose garden, it feels like all the blood has drained out of my heart. Like I’m so empty it hurts, but there’s nothing I can do to change it.

  I thought business filled that void? I thought hostile takeovers made me feel alive?

  Right now, it doesn’t seem so true.

  Penelope left the day before the fire. Before my whole life changed. Before loneliness and scar tissue became my only companions. Reaching out, I brush my fingers over a rose petal. In the deep recesses of my mind, I remember how it felt to have Penelope’s fingers brush my palm. How her skin was as silken as this rose, how sweet she smelled when she rested her golden head on my shoulder.

  “Careful,” a voice says behind me. Smooth and honeyed, but with a sharp edge that sounds unfamiliar. “Roses have thorns.”

  Startled, I jump. My hand drops, snagging on a thorn. I wince as it pierces my skin, a drop of blood beading on my fingertip.

  Spinning around, I see her.

  Penelope, Queen of Nord.

  Older. Colder—but here.

  My lips part as my eyes widen. I let a drop of blood drip off my finger and fall into the earth. I don’t have the energy to worry about my bleeding finger, though, because all that matters is Penelope. Pen.

  My first true friend. The girl I thought I loved. The girl who left.

  Her hair is still blond, but it’s lost some of the whiteness it had during childhood. Now, it’s a true golden color, gleaming under the sun like a million gilded strands. Her lips are still soft and pink, but her eyes look different.

  Haunted. Icy.

  Curious.

  My gaze drifts down her body, where a blue lace gown hugs every curve. She looks demure and regal and…delicious. Heat snakes through my stomach—a heat I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

  “Pen,” I whisper, unable to say anything else.

  She takes a step toward me, every movement measured. Every hair in place. Everything about her completely and utterly in control, when I feel like I’m falling apart at the sight of her. She lets her gaze drift down my body, taking in the slacks and white shirt that have become my uniform for the hunt. When her eyes climb back up to meet mine, there’s a new light shining in them. She dips her head. “Hello, Asher.”

  3

  Penelope

  I haven’t seen Asher Gerhard in decades.

  The last time I saw him, we were lying on the rooftop of the boarding school dormitories, staring at the clouds as they passed through the sky. He made me laugh, and every time his eyes would meet mine, a blade of excitement would pierce my belly.

  I thought I was in love with him. A little ten-year-old girl with stars in her eyes and a boy she thought she’d never leave.

  Then the headmistress came to my room and told me my parents had died in a car accident. In an instant, I became the Queen of Nord. The youngest in history.

  I left boarding school. I left Asher. Life swept me up in its current, carrying me far, far away from those happy memories.

  Cold distance is my constant companion now. There’s been so much tragedy and death in my life. So much grief. I hardly even feel the pain of it. I hardly feel anything anymore.

  Except…now.

  Asher’s grown into a man. A perfect male specimen, broad chested with carved angular features. He stares at me, mouth open, letting his gaze sweep down my body and back up again. Heat follows wherever his eyes fall, my body reacting to nothing more than the way he stares. Heat. It’s…unfamiliar. It almost hurts to feel the warmth wash over me, because I’ve felt so cold for so long.

  Asher’s tall, with big, strong shoulders. More muscular than most courtiers I’ve met, but with a leanness that reminds me of a warrior.

  He could snap me in half, I find myself thinking, but it’s not an unpleasant thought. Excitement trills through me as his deep brown eyes finally meet mine again.

  “Pen,” he whispers, his voice full of gravel and longing.

  A tremor passes through my stomach. I feel the need in his voice, echoing my own. I see the loneliness in his eyes. The hunger. Has he spent the past few decades battling a hostile world? Has he been beat down by life the way I have? Does he feel like a shell of who he used to be, with his heart frozen in a block of ice?

  He doesn’t call me Your Majesty, which I like. I’m still Pen to him. I’m still the little girl who convinced him to haul rose bushes onto the roof. The girl who dragged him across the boarding school lawn to catch fireflies in the evening. The girl who got him in trouble for climbing over the school walls on a moonless night.

  I want to get in trouble with him again.

  I want to feel.

  But I’m a queen now, not a little girl with mischief in her eyes. Still, when Asher looks at me with those hungry eyes, I want to be the girl I was before. My body riots under its layer of ice, and it takes every bit of self-control to keep myself together.

  My feet take a step toward him, as if unable to resist the pull of his presence. I stop myself, throwing my shoulders back as I dip my chin down. “Hello, Asher.”

  He sucks in a breath, as if the sound of his name makes his heart skip a beat. Saying his name feels familiar and foreign all at once. Like my tongue enjoys the movement of his name as it rolls over it, but my body hasn’t quite caught up to the feeling of speaking it out loud. My heart tries to thump harder, but it’s been dead for so long it hurts. My ribs creak and bend under the pressure of my pulse. I gulp, trying to regain control over my body.

  I’m a monarch now. The Queen of Nord. I’m not a little girl who can thread my fingers with Asher’s and wonder what it would be like to press my lips against his.

  Asher looks down at his finger, where a small trail of blood is still flowin
g. He brings the finger to his lips and I watch in fascination as his tongue swipes over its bloodied tip. Perfect male lips, wrapped around the tip of his finger. I want to kiss him. Desperately. The thought crashes into me without warning and the need to feel those lips against mine overwhelms me, as if nothing else ever existed.

  My heart hammers, like it’s trying to burst free of a cage I built years ago. I lift a hand to my chest, watching how Asher follows the movement. His eyes are dark brown, almost black. Whenever his gaze meets mine, I feel like I’m on the boarding school roof once more.

  Blinking, I look away. His gaze is an assault. Why do his eyes make my body burn up like that? Why do I care about the little boy I left behind?

  “You’re a queen now,” Asher says, his unreadable eyes dropping to my lips. He shouldn’t be looking at me like that. No one should look at me like that.

  He says the word queen, but what he means is woman. His gaze shifts down to my shoulders, my clavicle, my breasts. Everything is sensitive beneath his gaze. Every stitch of fabric feels rough. My heart thumps as I watch him take in my waist and the fluttery fabric of my gown. He shouldn’t be staring. I shouldn’t allow it.

  I’m not a woman. I’m not a widow. I’m not a wife.

  I’m a queen.

  Nothing more, nothing less. I gave up my life to serve my kingdom. Seven years ago, I gave up my future when my husband died. I gave up my desire for an heir. I gave up everything except my duty.

  Asher has no right to make me feel anything again. He has no right to look at me like I’m anything more than a monarch. He has no right to want me, or to awaken this hungry desire.

  Clearing my throat, I nod. “I’ve been a queen for a long time.”

  My feet won’t cooperate. They should be walking away from him. I shouldn’t allow him to remind me of all the things I’ve lost or left behind—but I find myself taking another step closer. As if watching someone else, I notice my hand rising and my fingers brushing his jaw.