Heartless Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected Book 2)

by Lilian Monroe

  …but before any words make it out of my mouth, Tabitha Raventhal strides toward me and slaps me clean across the face.

  31

  DAMON

  I’M PUSHED out of the hospital room by the other staff. Stumbling, I catch myself on the hallway wall and gulp down a breath. Dr. Adler leaves the room to speak with me.

  “If I’d had any idea…”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say. “No one could have known.”

  “Well… Congratulations?” Dr. Adler’s eyebrows shoot up as she says the word. She cringes, and I scoff.

  “Thanks.”

  I can feel the dark rot poisoning my blood already. Glancing back toward Dahlia’s room, it feels like my heart is turning black in my chest.

  How could she have a bee sting in January? How could this happen?

  How could she be pregnant?

  I bring my hand to my forehead and let out a long breath. This isn’t right. None of this is right. My thoughts swirl around me like a black cloud, and I can’t make sense of any of them—except that Dahlia is lying limp in that hospital bed.

  “How many hours did you say she’d been in a coma?” I ask.

  Dr. Adler checks her watch. “She came in at about eight o’clock last night, so sixteen hours now.”

  I nod. “And the baby?”

  “The baby’s okay, for now.” She puts her hand on my arm. “There have been cases of women giving birth while in a coma.”

  “Giving birth in a coma?” Panic laces every word.

  Dr. Adler takes a deep breath. “I’m just saying, it can happen. The sooner she wakes up, the better for them both. You know as well as I do—the longer she stays in a coma, the more dangerous things become. We don’t know if she’ll wake up—or in what state she’ll wake up in. We’ll try to get her out of it, but for now all we can do is hope.”

  I shake my head.

  All we can do is hope? Hope?

  With all the years and years of medical research, the best we can do is fucking hope?

  I’ve spent the better part of the last decade studying every bit of the human body, and now all I can do is hang my life on a prayer?

  Is this a fucking joke?

  Tabitha Raventhal appears in Dahlia’s doorway. Her eyes are dark, and deep lines are back on her face. She stares me down and then closes the door firmly. It latches shut, and the sound pierces my heart like a dagger.

  I’m trying my best to keep it together, but I’m falling apart. Every part of my body is trembling and it’s all I can do to breathe.

  Dr. Adler puts her hand on my arm and leads me down the hallway. “You should go home,” she says softly.

  “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  I’m not really asking Dr. Adler. She won’t have an answer.

  Plus, I already know why Dahlia didn’t tell me about the baby. The answer to that question happened right here in this hospital, the day that baby Charlie was born. I saw it in her face when I told her I didn’t want kids.

  She was pregnant then, and I told her I didn’t want it. I said it right to her face.

  How could I be so stupid? How could I say something like that? Of course I want the child. Of course I want to be with her. These have been the happiest months of my life, but I told her I didn’t want a future with her.

  The darkness starts to overwhelm me. My fingers are tingling, and I’m starting to lose feeling in my feet. I stumble over the floor, and Dr. Adler catches me.

  “Go home, Damon. Is there someone who can pick you up?”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  Where is home, anyway? The castle? Every part of that castle reminds me of Dahlia. My bed, her bed, the throne room, the dining room, the solarium, my study—every single room is burned into my memory with her.

  Maybe I could go to her house in Grimdale.

  I snort at the thought. Yeah, right. She’s infused into the very fabric of that house. How can I go back there without wanting to tear my own skin off?

  I pace the hallway until Dr. Adler leads me to the foyer of the hospital.

  In the end, one of the royal cars comes to take me back to the castle. I pinch my lips shut and say nothing to anyone, dragging my feet up to my chambers and locking the door.

  I check the time—1:30pm. She’s been in a coma for seventeen and a half hours. I lay in bed and twist my hands into the bedsheets, trying to take a deep breath.

  I know this feeling. I haven’t felt it in months—not once since Dahlia and I have been together. It’s overwhelming—the blackness, the hurt, the torture in my own mind. I’m eating myself from the inside out. My whole body is in pain, but not the kind of pain I can latch onto.

  Nigel could help me. I could spend the night on a dirty cot and wake up with sweet, painful bruises all over my body. I could bleed for her.

  But then, I remember her face when she asked me to stop going to the warehouse. The way her eyebrows drew together, and the sadness in her eyes. I remember the way she kissed me and melted into my arms.

  I resist.

  I don’t deserve to let go of this feeling. I don’t deserve the release.

  So, I just lie there and suffer.

  THE HOURS TICK BY, second by second, eternity by eternity. I replay every moment I’ve had with Dahlia, wishing I could go back and change something.

  Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t she trust me?

  I should have told her I loved her. I’ve loved her for months, but I was too chicken to tell her. I should have held her tight and told her I loved her every single day.

  What if I never get the chance?

  After eight hours, I get out of bed. My stomach is in knots, and I feel like I’ve just done a thirty-hour shift. In reality, though, I’ve just been lying in bed, catatonic.

  Making my way back to the hospital, my stomach is in my throat. Someone would have called if Dahlia had woken up.

  They would have called if something bad had happened.

  Still, when I ride the elevator up to Dahlia’s floor, I’m nervous. I lean against the wall to hold myself upright, slinking down the corridor toward her room.

  I glance at the clock and count the hours since she was brought in.

  Twenty-two hours. Every hour feels like a year. Every second feels like a lifetime. And still, Dahlia sleeps.

  Is the baby okay? Is she okay?

  My breath becomes ragged and I take a moment to compose myself. When I reach her room, the door is closed. There’s a window into her room, and I peek through the edge of it. Dahlia’s mother is sitting beside her bed, her forehead resting on the edge of the mattress. She’s holding Dahlia’s hand in both of hers.

  Dahlia is still laying in the same position.

  Still limp.

  Still comatose.

  I die all over again.

  I don’t need Tabitha Raventhal to hate me—I already hate myself. I don’t need her to torture me with guilt—I’m already doing that to myself.

  Finding the nearest staff room, I slump down into a chair and put my head in my hands. No one talks to me, and I’m glad.

  When I can’t sit any longer, I wander the hospital hallways. I pace for another three hours, until I feel like my head is going to explode. Dahlia’s condition doesn’t change. I sleep on a couch in the residents’ staff room for three or four hours, and then I walk the hallways once again. It’s not the hospital where I’ve been working, but the staff let me stay there anyway.

  Dahlia’s parents don’t leave her side. I peek in through the window and I ask the nurses for updates.

  No change.

  All we can do is hope.

  Easy for Dr. Adler to say—but when I’m walking back and forth through the hospital, trying to think of every possible time that I could have avoided this situation, hope is very hard to come by.

  I swing by Dahlia’s house in Grimdale, and I sleep in our bed for a few hours. I find some scraps to eat, and I let myself sink into a deep, dark hole.

&
nbsp; Dahlia’s condition doesn’t change.

  Every minute drags on, and on, and on. I count the hours and pray that she wakes up, but she doesn’t. Another day and night passes. I don’t even know how I spend it. I ball my hands into fists so tight that my nails slice my palms open. I pull at my hair until a small bald patch appears at the back of my head.

  But for all my pain, all my suffering, all my hoping and praying… Dahlia doesn’t wake up.

  Is it day, or night? I don’t even know anymore. I struggle to see straight, and look at the clock for the millionth time. Every minute that goes by is more dangerous for Dahlia—and for the baby.

  If she doesn’t wake up soon, I’ll lose Dahlia just like I lost my mother—silently, in a bed, with nothing I can do to help. With only myself to blame.

  The sun starts to go down on the third day, and still, Dahlia sleeps. Still, her parents guard her room and I can’t see her. Still, I wander the hospital, the city, the castle.

  The night is dark, and I live somewhere between life and death. When the sun starts to come up, I allow myself to hope as I make my way to the hospital again.

  The eightieth hour ticks over, and Dahlia doesn’t wake up. My heart dies.

  32

  DAMON

  CHARLIE CALLS me and asks me to come back to the castle. He sounds like the King already, commanding and authoritative, and I know I can’t refuse him.

  With one last look at Dahlia’s room, I leave the hospital. It’s midday. My entire life has been reduced to watching the clock. The danger for Dahlia increases with every passing hour, and all I can do is wait.

  If I thought going to the warehouse and getting the shit kicked out of me was painful, I had no idea.

  This, right here—waiting for Dahlia to wake up and being completely powerless to help—this is real pain. This is torture. This is never-ending suffering.

  Charlie and Gabe are waiting for me in the King’s personal offices. I look around the room, taking note of all the changes Charlie’s made since he’s been King. He’s replaced some of the artwork, and moved the furniture around, but I still see my father’s influence in the room.

  “Damon,” Charlie says gravely. “Thanks for coming.”

  Gabe’s hair is mussed, and he nods to me. “Sorry about Dahlia.”

  I grunt in response. I guess everyone knows about us being together, and about the baby. At least it means I don’t have to tell them. I slump down in a chair, and my whole body aches. I’ve slept in snippets over the past three and a half days—if you could call it sleep. It’s more of an exhausted daze.

  Charlie’s sitting behind his desk with his hands laced in front of him. He pinches his lips.

  “As you know, we exhumed Mother’s remains late last year. Her autopsy is complete. I have the results here.”

  My stomach clenches. I don’t know if I have the energy for this. I drop my head in my hands and sit still. Hearing of my mother’s death only makes Dahlia’s condition more excruciating. How will I handle it if I lose them both?

  Charlie takes a deep breath. “Mom died of arsenic poisoning.”

  “What?” I lift my head up, frowning.

  Charlie nods. “They tested her hair.”

  “How did we not know this before?” Gabe demands. “Are we living in the fucking 1800s? Who poisons people with arsenic?”

  “You know who,” Charlie says darkly. His eyebrows draw together and he shakes his head. “Father must have had the tests suppressed, or not performed at all. You both know how chaotic that time was.”

  I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

  Poisoned?

  Gabe snorts. “I was four. I don’t know how chaotic it was. I barely remember anything. Damon was eight. How the fuck are we supposed to…” His voice trails off and he shakes his head.

  Charlie takes a deep breath. “There are a few more things in the report, but I can stop now if you want.”

  “No,” I say. “Tell us everything.”

  What do I care? What’s another bit of horrible news to add to my growing pile? My life is already a heap of shit—I might as well know what I’m dealing with.

  Gabe’s face crumples, and he nods.

  Charlie takes a deep breath. “Well, obviously all we had were skeletal remains, so we weren’t able to test any of the soft tissue.”

  I cringe and try to forget who he’s talking about.

  “Looks like she ingested the arsenic,” Charlie continues. His voice is strained. “We were able to trace the purchase of the poison to Father’s old advisor, Talin Thorne. We’re not sure how he administered it, but we have enough evidence to prosecute.”

  I don’t hear anything else he says. I already know what happened that day. I remember my father nodding to the pot of tea, saying that my mother would appreciate it. The dark look in his eyes, and the sick feeling in my stomach.

  My sense of duty, and the love I had for my mother. I brought her the drink, feeling my father’s eyes on my back. My mother kissed me on the forehead, and told me what a sweet boy I was.

  She’d been reading a book, and she’d finished the whole pot.

  I went to bed in my room, and when I woke up, she was dead.

  It was me. I killed her.

  Noise is screaming in my ears. My head is pounding, and my throat is dry. I can’t speak. I try to focus on Charlie’s lips—he’s saying something, but I can’t hear it.

  I suck a breath in through my nose and push myself up to my feet. I don’t know how I make it to my bed chambers, but somehow, I do.

  The rest is a blur. I hyperventilate, standing in the middle of my room as it spins around me. I grab a pillow and scream into it. I punch the wall.

  I hate myself.

  Crumpling onto the floor, I start laughing. I thought medical school was my calling? I thought it was a way to make up for my mother’s death? A way to make sure that I could stop that from happening to someone else?

  How fucking naive could I be? How fucking stupid am I?

  Medical school isn’t my calling—it’s my atonement. I always knew the truth, deep down in the bottom of my heart. That’s why I am the way I am. That’s why I need pain. That’s why I know I’m not fit to be a king, or a prince, or part of this family at all.

  Medical school was my penance. Giving up my royal privilege was my punishment.

  Now, I know why.

  I lay on the thick rug that covers my floor and I laugh. Someone pounds on the door, but the lock holds. I just laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

  I choke on my laughter. Turning on my side, I cough and splutter, and then I take a painful breath. My ribs hurt, as if a giant’s hand is squeezing my bones, crushing me with the weight of my own guilt.

  On my hands and knees, I take a breath and heave myself onto my feet.

  I never deserved Dahlia, and I certainly don’t deserve to be the father of her child. She’s better off in a coma than she is with me.

  Self-pity is ugly, but it’s addictive.

  I shouldn’t be a doctor. I shouldn’t be a prince. I shouldn’t be anything. What a fool I was, to think I deserved Dahlia’s love! I thought that she completed me, that I had a right to the happiness she delivered!

  All I gave her was a baby she never wanted, and a bee sting that might kill her.

  I shouldn’t be in this castle. I shouldn’t be anywhere near the people that I love. I’m no good for anyone. All I bring is pain.

  But I’m weak, and I know I need to see Dahlia again. I need to touch her skin one last time before I go away. I need to tell her the thing that I was too scared to utter while she was awake.

  I need to tell Dahlia that I love her.

  And that’s what I do. I make my way to the hospital, my hands gripping my car’s steering wheel so hard my fingers go numb. Every breath makes pins and needles pierce my lungs. I stumble to her floor and glance through the window to her room.

  By some slight grace, she’s alone.

  I slip inside the room and sit
on the chair by her bed. She doesn’t stir. She doesn’t move. Intertwining her fingers into mine, I let the tears drop from my eyes.

  My heart is rotten—it has been since I was a child. It died long ago, along with my mother.

  With Dahlia, I thought I had a chance at a better life—but I was wrong. The only thing I did was bring my misery onto her.

  She thought she was cursed? The only curse she had was the one that brought me into her life.

  Tears drop from my face onto her arm, and I wipe them off gently.

  “I love you, Dahlia,” I whisper. “If there was any way for my heart to love someone, you showed me how. I love you, and I love the child you’re carrying.”

  My breath catches, and I cup her cheek. “I love you, and I’m so sorry.”

  Leaning over her, I press my lips to hers one final time. My tears wet her cheeks, and I brush them away, feeling the softness of her skin once more.

  Hope flutters in my heart as her eyes move under her eyelids. My breath stills and I stare at her… but nothing happens.

  She doesn’t wake up, and I know there’s no hope for me.

  33

  DAHLIA

  They tease me now, telling me it was only a dream. But does it matter whether it was a dream or reality, if the dream made known to me the truth?

  —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Dream of a Ridiculous Man

  34

  DAMON

  I GLANCE at the clock as I leave Dahlia’s room. She’s been in a coma for ninety-six hours.

  For four days, she’s been lying in that hospital bed. For four days, I’ve prayed for her to wake up. I’ve suffered, and ached, and hoped, and died in every moment since I learned she was here.

  I don’t have the heart to look at her again, so I just walk out of her hospital room and leave. I exit the hospital, and I know I won’t be coming back. I get in my car and drive to Grimdale.