Royally Unexpected: An Accidental Pregnancy Collection Page 22

  I guess I’m a forearm kind of girl—I hadn’t realized that until I saw the ones attached to Prince Damon’s body. He glances at me and smiles before starting the car.

  “There’s a quiet café about ten minutes away. We can go somewhere closer, but I’m afraid we won’t have time to talk to each other if people start recognizing me.” He pinches his lips and his cheeks turn pink, as if he’s embarrassed that he’s famous.

  I grin. “Ten minutes is fine.”

  We drive in silence for a couple of minutes. Then, the Prince glances at me. “I like your hair.”

  “Nothing in this world is harder than speaking the truth, nothing easier than flattery.”

  “What?”

  I look over at him, shaking my head and grinning. “Sorry. It’s a quote by Dostoyevsky. It pops into my head whenever someone gives me a random compliment in an awkward situation.”

  “Is this an awkward situation?”

  I think for a moment. “Not exactly awkward. Unusual, maybe.”

  “Do you always quote Russian novelists?”

  “Only when it’s appropriate.” I glance over to see a grin on his face. My heart thumps. “What about you?”

  “Do I quote Russian novelists?”

  “No,” I laugh. “Have you ever dyed your hair.”

  Prince Damon chuckles. “No. It wouldn’t exactly be appropriate princely behavior, as my father loves to say.”

  I scoff. “What about your brother Charlie? He has tattoos from head to toe. Is that ‘princely’?”

  “He and I are pretty different.”

  “Mmm,” I say. I glance out the window and try to still my beating heart. Is the Prince doing this to me? Am I nervous?

  Let’s get one thing straight: Dahlia Raventhal does not get nervous around guys. I make them nervous. I bring guys home whenever I want! I’m the one who has them begging for more—and this whole good-guy act that Prince Damon has going on isn’t my thing.

  I like guys with a little edge. Not goodie-two-shoes princes giving up their royal privileges to study medicine.

  So, why is my pulse so erratic?

  I hear the Prince take a deep breath and I can feel his gaze on me. I close my eyes for a moment and smooth my hands over my black leggings. By the time we get to the café, my palms are sweaty and my mouth is dry.

  I’m definitely nervous.

  I shouldn’t be with him. His family had my mother thrown out of the Kingdom. They’re the reason I didn’t even know my last name until I was sixteen years old.

  My mother warned me about the Farcliff family, but seeing how Charlie cares about Elle, and meeting Damon makes me suspect that my aunt Theresa is right. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about. What happened with my mother was a long time ago.

  Maybe this dinner party is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Maybe it’s my opportunity to find out the truth—and in the process, get rid of this silly superstition about a curse.

  Plus, Prince Damon has a point. We need to come up with a good back story if we’re going to convince the King that we’re in love.

  When we arrive, the Prince opens the car door for me again to get out, and holds the café door open for me, too. Mr. Goodie-Two-Shoes is a gentleman, apparently.

  Not my thing. I’m definitely not into him.

  Still, I smile at him, ducking my head as I walk inside. The café is cozy and quiet, with fabric draped over the ceiling and dim, colorful lamps on every table. It looks like a boho dream.

  I grin. “I like this place.”

  “I thought you might,” Damon replies. His eyes twinkle and it makes my heart do that funny flip again. “Here.” He leads me to a low table in the corner with a bunch of cushions around it. We sit down, Damon lounging and stretching his long legs across to the other end of the table. He leans on one elbow, flicking those bright, blue eyes up at me.

  We stare at each other for a moment, and my mouth goes dry. I lick my lips and his eyes follow the movement. Heat teases the edges of my stomach and I clear my throat.

  “So—this dinner. What’s that about?”

  Damon sighs. “My father is worried about Charlie. He’s got this idea in his head that Charlie has to marry a suitable wife, but he and Charlie don’t exactly see eye to eye about the definition of ‘suitable’. We just have to throw him off the scent.”

  The Prince’s lips tug upward in a mischievous kind of grin. My insides melt.

  There’s a spark in Prince Damon’s eye that I didn’t expect to see. Something that says there’s more to him than they write in the papers.

  Or maybe I’m just hoping there is, because my body is rebelling against me.

  He’s one hundred percent not my type. Prince Damon always has his hair cut short, he’s clean-shaven, and he’s a star student. He ticks all the boxes that he’s supposed to tick.

  Me, on the other hand? If someone asks me to tick a box, I usually end up covering the page in glitter. I’ve managed to make it into one of the best microbiology programs on the continent at Farcliff University, but I’m far from conventional.

  Yet, here, in this bohemian café, with Prince Damon sending heat zipping up and down my body, I can’t help but wonder if I’m wrong about him. What secrets does he keep hidden in the depths of his heart? What sharp edges does he have that haven’t quite been blunted by the royal life?

  A blush creeps up my cheeks and I take a deep breath. I can’t think like this. Prince Damon is off-limits. All of Farcliff royalty is off-limits. My mother was thrown out of this Kingdom over fifteen years ago, and she’s never missed an opportunity to tell me how dangerous it is to get involved with royalty. She wasn’t happy about me coming to Farcliff University in the first place.

  But my mother isn’t here, is she?

  It’s just me and the Prince.

  “So, our back story.” I tear my eyes away from his. “We met at the Prince’s Ball.”

  “I saw you across the room and I had to have you.” His eyes do that thing again, where they spark and then darken, and my whole body thrums. My blood pulses between my thighs and I clear my throat.

  Prince Damon definitely has some sharp edges—the kind of edges that make me want to slice my own heart wide open.

  One of the café workers brings us our drinks, and I use the opportunity to take a deep breath to compose myself. I bury my face in my coffee and try to get my thoughts in order.

  I can’t get involved with Prince Damon—even if he’s broad-chested, sexy, and strong. Even if he looks at me like he wants to devour me.

  Even if I’m dying for him to do it.

  “So, Dahlia, something I’ve been wondering…” Prince Damon clears his throat. His cheeks flush slightly and he avoids my eyes. “You seem to have an unconventional take on clothing.”

  I look down at myself. “What do you mean? I’m just wearing leggings and a sweatshirt. It’s basically the Farcliff University girl uniform.”

  “Well, maybe I should say lack of clothing.” His eyes flick up to mine and it’s my turn to blush.

  I try to play it off, rolling my eyes and waving my hand. “Don’t be so uptight, Your Highness. I swear, people in Farcliff think seeing someone without clothing is the most shocking thing in the world. Have you never seen anyone naked before?”

  “Nobody like you.” His voice is a low growl, and it sends a flame scorching down my spine. “Not before I even know their name.”

  “Well, you did know my name,” I grin. My heart is thumping. I can play the bad-girl act, I can pretend like the thought of being naked with Prince Damon is no big deal, but I’d be lying. The way he’s looking at me right now makes me feel more naked than I’ve felt in a long time. I shrug, even though my face feels hot and red. “I don’t see the big deal. It’s just a naked body. It’s natural.”

  “If only more people thought like you,” he chuckles.

  I bite my lip. “Well, you know, I don’t exactly make it a habit of letting people see me naked. But if I’m
in my own house, I’ll do as I please, and I refuse to be made to feel bad about it.” My eyes drill into his.

  Not that I feel bad right now—quite the opposite, actually. I slide my eyes over the Prince’s lounging body and find myself wondering what he looks like without any clothes on.

  He flashes another smile at me and I blush… again.

  “Look, I don’t think that topic is going to come up at the royal dinner table,” I say as I take a sip of coffee. “Why don’t we talk about other things? Favorite color? Favorite movie? Life plans? Those are the things we should be covering. Back story, remember?”

  The Prince waves a hand. “My father won’t be interested in any of that. As long as you stroke his ego a little, he’ll believe anything you tell him.”

  “So why am I here?” I grin. “I thought we were supposed to get to know each other better so that we could convince the King we were dating.”

  “I might have made that up.” The Prince laughs and my insides melt. “I just wanted to get to know you for myself.”

  There it is again—that blush. I swear, I have never blushed so much in my life. Ask Elle—I’m usually great with men. I see one that I like, and I go for him.

  But Prince Damon has me feeling upside down. He drags his eyes over my body and sends my head spinning. He makes my fingers itch to touch his skin, to feel his body against mine.

  I’m attracted to his freaking forearms, for Farcliff’s sake.

  I reel my thoughts back in again. I can’t be thinking like that. This is just to help Elle. It’s a one-time dinner. I’m not actually getting involved with the Prince. I’m not dating him.

  Dating a prince when you’re living your life with an unbreakable curse is a recipe for disaster.

  I’ll do this for Elle, I’ll get as much information about my mother as possible, and then I’ll never go to the castle again.

  Easy, right?

  4

  Damon

  When I drop Dahlia back off at the campus library, I watch her walk away and adjust my pants for the thousandth time. It’s a miracle I can walk, or talk, or think, or do anything when all the blood in my body is occupied with one particular appendage. I swallow, unsure of exactly what I’m getting myself into.

  The Raventhals have a long history with the Farcliff family. Tabitha Raventhal—Dahlia’s mother—was my mother’s best friend. Then my mother died, and Lady Raventhal started making all kinds of accusations against my father—accusations that included murder. That didn’t go down well.

  As a result, I’ve always been told that the Raventhals are bad people.

  But talking to Dahlia, learning about her studies, about her growing up with her aunts in the Rocky Mountains—it doesn’t seem like the upbringing of a bad person. It seems like the upbringing of a very wholesome, intelligent girl.

  My mother’s death was the beginning of the end for me. I was young, but that’s when I learned that there’s badness inside of me.

  Inside Dahlia, though? I don’t see any.

  I need to know more—and, fuck it, Charlie’s already dating someone he shouldn’t. Why not me? I’m not even in line for the throne! I should be able to do whatever I want.

  I head straight to the Farcliff National Library, near the center of the city. The library sits on the same streets as the court, the city council, and the main cathedral. All three institutions are cornerstones of Farcliff Kingdom, and all three of them sit in the shadow of the castle.

  I glance up at the castle—at my home—rising high above the entire Kingdom. I bite my lip.

  My father, as he grows older, is getting more aggressive. He’s not getting along with Charlie, and he seems to be unwilling to surrender his power.

  Throwing Dahlia Raventhal into the mix isn’t a good idea.

  But… I can’t quite bring myself to care. I’ve always been the perfect son, the perfect Prince, the perfect everything. I’ve kept my own suffering private, away from prying eyes, like a good Prince. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do.

  So what if I pursue this girl? At least I can find out who she really is.

  But I need to know exactly what kind of ripples this will cause with my father. I was young when my mother died—only eight years old. The memories of that night still haunt my dreams, and try as I might to keep them buried, they’re never quite gone.

  There’s still the voice in my head that says it was all my fault.

  I need to put that voice to bed, and the only way to do that is to discover the truth about what happened to my mother. Meeting Dahlia almost seems like a sign that it’s time for me to face my past head-on.

  Plus, there’s a part of me—not a small part, either—wants to know more about Dahlia. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met, from her hair, to her laugh, to her unique perspective on nudity.

  A unique-good perspective, that is.

  So, with a deep breath, I push the National Library doors open and I make my way toward the back of the library. The head librarian, Mrs. Hill, is at the front desk as usual. The elderly woman’s gravity-defying glasses are perched on the end of her nose. She glances at me and gives me a small nod. She’s used to me. I like coming here to study whenever I need a break from the castle. My usual study space is on the fifth floor of the National Library, in a little hidden corner that no one ever visits.

  This time, though, I don’t go up the stairs—I go down. The Archives are in the basement. The sound of my steps is muted as I make my way down the narrow stairwell. It smells stuffy and old down here, and the air is heavy with history and forgotten stories. I make my way to the microfilm machine, where all the old newspapers are kept on file. Nothing has been digitized yet, so it’s a painfully slow process to do any kind of research.

  Settling into a chair, I take a deep breath. I know this will take a while. I don’t even really know what I’m looking for. I just know I need to know more.

  More about Dahlia. More about Tabitha Raventhal. More about my mother. Talking about her at the castle is almost taboo, and her death left a dark patch in my heart that never really healed.

  It was my fault, the Darkness inside me says. The words echo in my mind until I shake them away.

  I start flicking through the microfilm reader, starting around the time of my mother’s death. My throat tightens as I read the headlines about her passing. My eyes mist up as I see the grief in all the articles and reports about her life.

  She was loved by everyone.

  I dab at my eyes, feeling old wounds being ripped open as I think of my childhood, and how difficult my mother’s passing was. I find myself reading article, after article, after article, smiling and letting the tears fall down my cheeks as I read how beloved the Queen had been.

  As I flick through the newspapers, the headlines start to change. They take a sharp turn when Tabitha goes public with her accusations of murder. I’m perched on the edge of my seat, scanning the headlines and trying to untangle what exactly happened.

  After a couple of dozen articles, a clear picture starts to emerge from the newspaper reports and editorials. My mother died mysteriously, and the official autopsy never revealed a conclusive cause of death. My throat tightens and I push down memories of the night she died.

  Tabitha Raventhal went on the record accusing the rest of the royal family—the King of Farcliff included—of murder.

  She claimed to have compelling evidence, but that evidence was never revealed.

  Aunt Malerie, my father’s sister, denounced her claims and called for her to be exiled. Tabitha Raventhal was disgraced, accused of desecrating the Queen’s memory, and banished from Farcliff.

  No Raventhal set foot in Farcliff for fifteen years.

  Until now.

  When my back starts to ache and my neck feels stiff, I lean back and stretch my head from side to side. I inhale as my mind spins circles around me.

  I never knew about any of this. How could I? I was barely eight years old. All I remember was that I’d be
en terribly sad, and everything was confusing. It was the start of a dark, downward spiral that I never really recovered from. I threw myself into school, sure, but the pain is still there, buried underneath it all.

  I’ve dealt with that pain in my own way. I have the bruises on my ribs and scars on my back to prove it. I keep them covered, so no one can see what I do to myself, but I know they’re there. Scars help me remember what it’s like to dive head-first into sharp, pulsing pain. They help me remember what it’s like to feel release.

  Sighing, I flick through the archived newspapers again, trying to glean any sort of truth about the Raventhal accusations.

  The only thing I learn is that Tabitha Raventhal was largely ridiculed and accused of stirring up controversy. Any explanation as to why she would make those accusations was never provided. I suspect a lot of the news reports were influenced by the Crown—by my father, and possibly Aunt Mal, as well. Judging by how much the King wanted to shut down any talk of my mother’s death as I grew up, I can only imagine how desperate he was to stop these news stories from spreading.

  I didn’t mind. I didn’t want to talk about my mother’s death, either.

  In all these archives, there’s nothing about Dahlia. Nothing about a daughter, and no mention of Tabitha’s children. I frown, flicking back through the microfilm a few years. Dahlia is probably, what? Twenty-one? Maybe twenty-two?

  It takes me another half-hour to find anything about Dahlia, and when I do, my breath catches in my throat. I lean over the microfilm machine as my heart thumps harder. There’s a grainy picture of Tabitha Raventhal and a little bundle in her arms that I assume is Dahlia. She’s standing next to my mother, and the three of us boys. I’m staring at the camera with wide eyes—I’m probably no older than three years old.

  I release my clenched breath. I don’t even know why I’m relieved. Maybe because Dahlia exists? Because Tabitha did indeed have a daughter? Dahlia’s parentage, at least, isn’t a lie?