“They’re done already?”
I spin the computer toward him. “Three weeks ahead of schedule. Penelope told me we were all expected to head up there for the ceremony. Wants to show a united front and open the cottage up to tourism. She’s announcing it at the unveiling.”
Jonah kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, leaning back in his seat. His eyes stay trained on me.
I arch an eyebrow, meeting my brother’s gaze. “What?”
“Will she be there?”
“Who?”
“Come on, Wolfe.” Jonah snorts. “Rowan Reed.”
I stiffen at the sound of her name. No one has said it out loud since she left. No one’s said anything to me about the Summer Palace project, except to tell me to leave during construction and ask me to be there for the re-opening.
It doesn’t mean I haven’t thought of her, but hearing Jonah say her name stirs something deep inside me. I’ve been lying to myself if I think I’m over it. Her leaving Nord last autumn cut me deep, and I’m not sure how I’ll recover.
I could deal with Abby’s death, in a way. It was sudden and senseless and rocked my whole existence—but there was a finality to it. Her heart malfunctioned, and she died. A sad, tragic end to a beautiful life.
But it was an end. It was over.
With Rowan, though? There’s no end, only an old reel of memories playing on repeat in my mind. Seven beautiful weeks where I thought life was sweet again. Seven weeks where I felt hope for something more.
Then, it was over—but it doesn’t feel final. She wasn’t ripped away from me in some tragic accident. Rowan left of her own free will. She looked at her options, and she chose to walk away.
How am I supposed to deal with that when my heart is still cupped in the palm of her hand? For the past four weeks, she’s been tantalizingly close, but I’ve stayed put in Stirling. Am I supposed to just go back to the Summer Palace and ask her for my heart back? Bow my head and beg her to release me?
Jonah punches my arm, arching his brows. “Well?”
“Sorry, what?”
“Will Rowan be at the ceremony?”
I shrug, trying to look more nonchalant than I feel. “No idea.”
Jonah stands with a sigh, dropping a hand on my shoulder. “How long are you going to live like this, Wolfe?”
I meet my brother’s gaze, frowning. I don’t know how to answer that.
He pinches his lips together, shakes his head, and walks away. My head spins as my brother leaves.
What am I supposed to do? Knock down the Summer Palace and plead with Rowan to come back to me? She made her choice, and her choice was to walk away. I’m not going to get down on my knees and beg like some pathetic little dog, and I’m not going to treat her like she doesn’t know what she wants.
Rowan left because she thought it was best for her and the baby. She chose this.
Sighing, I shut down my computer and scrub my face with my hands. Next week, I’m going to the unveiling ceremony of the visitor’s cottage, and I’ll do my best to ignore Rowan.
I mean nothing to her, so she can’t mean anything to me.
My siblings and I arrive at the Summer Palace in a convoy of black vehicles. Inside the palace gates, there are already throngs of security-approved reporters and media representatives, cameras poised and ready. There’s a new road leading across the flat meadow toward the former visitor’s cottage—now an official museum. My chest clenches, a kernel of tension weighing heavy in my stomach.
I’ve spent the winter and spring successfully avoiding the public eye. I’d forgotten how much anxiety churns in my gut when I see those hundreds of lenses pointed toward me—but it’s impossible to ignore now. My heart hammers as we drive toward the palace. Eyvar is in the driver’s seat, his hands clenching over the steering wheel. He can feel the tension radiating off me.
I gulp, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment to compose myself. Every time I see a big pack of reporters, it takes me back to that moment nearly five years ago, when Abby died in my arms—except now, it’s not her death that really hurts. I feel like my grief has dulled, but there’s still an ache in my chest. A sense of deep loss—loneliness, maybe.
Plastering a sorry excuse for a smile on my face, I exit the vehicle and join my siblings on the landing of the palace stairs. Security personnel surround us, but reporters still shout and snap pictures. I raise an arm, waving, knowing this picture will be online within minutes.
My stomach is tied up in knots, but I swallow down bile and try to keep my face steady. Jonah puts a hand on my forearm, giving me the tiniest nod of encouragement.
Maybe he understands my pain, even if he hasn’t lost anyone.
Jonah, Silas, Penelope, and I enter the Summer Palace. It feels different in here. I can hear the distant whine of angle grinders and saws, along with the low hum of generators and machinery. The renovation of the main palace won’t be done for weeks, and the place feels…foreign.
Palace staff usher us to another room and prep us for the grand unveiling ceremony that is set to start in less than an hour.
My heart squeezes.
Is Rowan here? Will she be at the visitor’s cottage?
I know she’s thirty-five weeks pregnant. I’ve been counting every week on my calendar, because I’m that pathetic and hung up on her. She’s about to give birth to my child, and I might get to see her before that happens.
Dropping my head in my hands, I try to suck in a breath. I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure I can see her like that, knowing she doesn’t want me in her life. It hurts so damn much. It makes my whole body ache, pain racing through my veins.
I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.
When I look up, Penelope’s staring at me. She’s the regal, frigid Queen of Nord now, not my sister. Her face is a mask of regal propriety and her spine straight as she sits on the edge of a chair. But her eyes flash, and I know she’s able to read every thought and emotion racing through my mind.
She stands, motioning for the staff to bring the cars around. “It’s time,” the Queen says, allowing her lady-in-waiting to fluff her hair and dust another bit of powder across her forehead.
This is a joyous ceremony. A proud moment where we give back a monument to the people, giving access to the visitor’s cottage to anyone who would like to see it. We’re unveiling all the artwork and sculptures that have been restored in honor of the people of Nord.
It’s a celebration—but it only fills me with dread.
We all pile into two cars—my sister riding in the last one, and my brothers and me in the first—and we make our way across the grassy plains toward the visitor’s cottage. When I close my eyes, I see the snow-covered landscape and the bright red flush on Rowan’s cheeks. I hear the clinking of the dogs’ harnesses and I taste the fresh, cold air.
This is where I fell in love with her, but it’ll never be the same. The visitor’s cottage where our baby was conceived is gone—and whatever love existed between us has disappeared with it.
Maybe it’s a blessing. I won’t be able to see where my relationship with Rowan began and ended, right there on that bed.
Bracing myself against my emotions, I grit my teeth and watch the beauty of the landscape pass me by, seeing nothing.
When we step out, another hundred cameras are pointed at me. A small stage with a microphone has been set up, along with a row of chairs behind it. Beyond, the new museum gleams, the lawns around it well-manicured and the façade given a new lease of life. It looks beautiful—old and new all at once. I can see different placards set up along the pathway leading to the front door, and a huge banner with each of Nord’s six provinces’ coat of arms proudly displayed. Through the open doorway, I glimpse art on the walls and glass cases full of artifacts from Nord’s history.
A staff member opens the car door for me, leading me to a chair near the microphone. I stand in front of it, waiting for my brothers to take their places, and watch as my sister wal
ks up the steps and turns, waving to the assembled crowd.
Penelope makes her way to the microphone, motioning for my brothers and me to sit. There are still empty chairs beside us, but all I can do is stare at the mountain peaks that surround us. They ground me, reminding me I’m home. This is my kingdom. My land. The place where I feel most comfortable.
My sister starts talking, welcoming the assembled crowd and reading a prepared statement from the podium. She speaks clearly and eloquently, pausing for applause at all the right moments.
“We are honored to welcome the lead architect who made this project come to life. The award-winning, much acclaimed Rowan Reed.”
Penelope turns to the side of the stage, and all eyes follow.
Including mine.
My heart doesn’t stand a damn chance. Rowan is still the goddess of my dreams. An angel sent down from heaven. My princess.
Using the handrail to help her up the steps, Rowan places a hand on the bottom of her pregnant stomach as she toddles onto the stage. It’s the sexiest, most beautiful waddle I’ve ever seen. My heart feels like it’s growing and shrinking all at once.
I fucking love this woman. The months have done nothing to erase that. I love her with every fiber of my being, and she’s here. She’s here.
Red-haired beauty, with a simple burgundy wrap dress on, showing off her advancing pregnancy. She makes it to the top of the stairs, pausing to regain her balance—and that’s when she sees me.
Her eyes widen. Those perfect, pink lips drop open. My heart does a backflip, because her chest flushes and her shoulders soften ever so slightly.
She wasn’t expecting me. Didn’t think I’d come. How could I not? How could I turn down the possibility of seeing her again, even in front of cameras?
A murmur ripples through the crowd, and Rowan’s face rearranges itself. She gulps, glancing at the assembled media. Cameras click-click-click like a beast’s clacking teeth, and Rowan sucks in a sharp breath.
Then, her face twists. She puts a hand to her stomach, frowning—then cries out.
My heart stills, and blood turns to ice in my veins. That noise pierces my flesh like an arrow. I feel her pain in every nerve ending in my body. In an instant, I’m out of my seat and across the stage. She falls to her knees, arms clutching her middle.
Rowan screams again, pain and panic flashing across her face. Another arrow pierces my heart, and my body screams with her. Her eyes are wide as a bead of sweat sprouts on her temple. Her breath comes in short gasps as her face crumples. A trickle of blood seeps down the inside of her leg as my panic rears higher.
I fall to my knees. When I wrap my arms around her and pull her to me, Rowan whimpers. Her breath skates across my skin as her body tenses in pain.
“Wolfe.” Rowan pants, eyes wide with fear. Her fingers cling to my shirt. “The baby.” A grunt escapes her, followed by another cry. She stumbles away from me, falling to her hands and knees, and my whole world collapses to a pinpoint of light.
There’s only Rowan. She’s the only thing that exists right now, and she’s in pain. Suffering.
Panic laces my blood, pumping hard and fast through my veins. I’m re-living the worst moment of my life. It’s happening again. The love of my life fading in my arms. The mother of my child, collapsing as I watch.
Cameras click, immortalizing this moment. Again.
I hear the noise, and the present moment rushes back to me. No. I won’t let it happen. It’s not going to happen. No, no, no. Inhaling sharply, I come back to myself. Scooping Rowan in my arms, I carry her off the stage. I’m so pumped full of adrenaline that I hardly even feel her weight in my arms. It’s just like the first moment I carried her, nearly a year ago. She needs me. I need to be here for her.
Cameras flash. Reporters shout. Staff members and security agents rush around me, but none of it matters. I don’t care that this moment is being filmed. I don’t care that our relationship is on full display.
Let them watch. Let them see this moment and draw whatever conclusions they want from it.
The media doesn’t matter. Controversy doesn’t matter.
All that matters is getting Rowan to a hospital. Now. Right now. Right fucking now.
My breath is shallow as I fly toward a vehicle. Eyvar’s already there, holding a door open for me. I put Rowan in the back seat, cradling her head in my lap just like I did last winter.
“Drive, Eyvar,” I say and this time, he doesn’t protest. The engine revs, and we’re gone, skidding toward the main palace.
Vaguely, I hear Eyvar radioing ahead for Dr. Williams. I hear arrangements being made for a helicopter to take Rowan to the nearest rural hospital. I hear it all, but the only thing that exists is Rowan.
Her cries of pain physically hurt me. I try to shush her, smoothing my palm over her forehead.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say gently. “You’re with me. You’re fine.” I’m not sure I believe it, but I say it anyway.
Rowan gasps, clutching her belly. “Wolfe, the baby—”
“It’ll be okay. I’m here, Rowan. I’m here.”
Her clear, blue eyes stare into mine, and she reaches up to cling onto my shirt. Her forehead creases in pain as her lips part, and I hang onto my breath as I wait to hear what she has to say.
“I’m so sorry, Wolfe.” Tears fall from her eyes as her grip on my shirt loosens, and she loses consciousness.
My heart collapses as my tears mix with hers. I press my lips to her forehead, her nose, her lips. I grip her hand in mine and put it on top of her stomach, praying to everything I can think of to keep her safe. Keep our baby safe. Keep her with me.
Please, don’t let me go through this again.
32
Rowan
I wake up in a hospital bed with a numb sort of haze clouding my brain. Blinking my eyes open, I listen to the steady beeping of a machine behind me. There’s a large shape in a chair beside me, and I furrow my brow to try to focus on it.
Wolfe.
A sharp intake of breath from me is enough to wake him up. He falls out of his chair and kneels next to the bed, clutching my hand and pressing his lips to my fingers. “You’re awake.” He’s breathless, eyes shining.
I nod. “Yeah.” My voice is nothing more than a croak, and I frown. So dry. My brain is fuzzy. What’s going on? Why am I here?
Wolfe reads my mind, scrambling for a little plastic container full of water—like the ones you get on an airplane. He peels the top off the container for me and helps me lift it to my mouth, wiping away a drop of water as it dribbles down my chin. Sighing, I nod. “Thank you.”
“How do you feel?”
My eyes snap open then, hands reaching down to my stomach. Fear spikes my blood, making my blood pump hard and triggering an alarm from the machine behind me.
A nurse rushes in, checking the machines hooked up to me and saying a few calming words.
“Where’s the baby? Where’s my baby?” I’m screeching. My nails are digging into her arm.
“You had to have an emergency cesarian section,” she explains, pushing me back down on the bed. “Your baby is in the NICU and doing fine. He’s currently on oxygen support, so we’ll have to keep him there until he can breathe on his own.”
It’s hard to explain the kind of gut-twisting anxiety that grips me. Everything I’ve lived for over the past eight months is gone. My birth plan is out the window. Worst of all, my baby isn’t even here. I didn’t get to hold him when he was born. I don’t even remember giving birth. That moment was taken from me. He can’t breathe on his own.
He’s a he! I have a son! I didn’t even know it until now, and this is how I find out?
I blink, trying to make sense of the thousands of thoughts invading my mind. I stare at the nurse, shaking my head. “My baby…”
“He’s doing well. He’s already passed some of the early tests we’ve done, and he’s responding well to treatment. All signs point to your baby being fine, Miss Reed.”
“It’s too early,” I say. “There’s still five weeks.”
“He was premature,” Wolfe says, finding my hand again. He interlaces his fingers in mine, squeezing. “I guess he was just too excited to meet me.”
My heart is still beating erratically, but I manage to force a scoff. “Arrogant as always, Your Highness.”
“The doctor told me he’s doing well. They need to keep him in the neonatal ward for now, but I’ve gone to see him every hour since he was born.” Wolfe smiles softly. “He’s beautiful, Rowan. Looks just like me.”
That makes me laugh, which sends pain spearing through my stomach. I groan, feeling a thick gauze bandage across my abdomen. Wolfe smooths my hair off my forehead and kisses my clammy skin.
“I want to see him,” I croak, glancing from Wolfe to the nurse.
She purses her lips and checks my vitals on the machine next to my bed. “You shouldn’t really be moving right now—”
“I need to see him,” I plead, eyebrows drawing together. “Please.”
The Prince makes a soft grunt, which draws the nurse’s gaze. She lets out a sigh, nodding, and disappears for a minute before coming back with a wheelchair. It takes a minute of painful movement as Wolfe picks me up and sets me down in front of the wheelchair. By the time I’m settled, I’m flushed and sweaty and aching all over.
But I’m in the chair, and I’m going to see my son.
A part of me feels robbed. This isn’t what I’d imagined for the birth of my child. It’s not what I wanted. I wanted to bring this child into the world surrounded by happiness and family and feel his tiny heartbeat against mine. I wanted my grandmother beside me. I wanted to kiss my baby’s forehead and let him wrap his tiny little fingers around my finger. I wanted to be the first to hear his cries. The first to touch his skin. I wanted so much, and this is all wrong.
But I’m alive, and the nurse assures me my baby is doing well, so I guess I have to be grateful for that. Wolfe tucks a blanket over my legs, placing my feet on the wheelchair footrests, then places his hands on my thighs and gives me a soft smile. “You haven’t told me to leave yet.”
Lone Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected Book 7) Page 19