Ice Queen: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance

by Lilian Monroe

  But Penelope knows. She’s wriggled her way under my skin and made me rethink everything I used to believe mattered to me. Since we left Stirling, I haven’t thought about work once. I haven’t thought about my father, or the merger, or the mine.

  I’ve been totally consumed by Penelope. I’ve been…happy.

  As a lump lodges itself in my throat, I sweep my fingers over Pen’s cheek. I can’t speak because I’m afraid it’ll come out as a croak. I don’t have the words to tell her how I feel, because I don’t even understand it myself. It feels like I’m ready to leave everything behind for her. To disappear into this northern land and leave my whole world in the past without another look.

  I’m ready to give her my all.

  When my lips touch hers, she lets out a delicious, soft moan. I gobble it up like a man starved, then sweep my tongue into her mouth. Within seconds, our kiss is ravenous. Demanding. Her fingers curl into my shirt, fisting it as she swings a leg over my lap. I drop my lips to her neck, her breasts, and back up to her lips. I kiss her like she’s my sustenance. Like I need her to live.

  In a way, that’s how it feels.

  Isn’t she the one who said this felt real? We’re two people who’d been resigned to a lonely life. We were so convinced that love and life and happiness were closed off to us, that seeing the possibility of actually having it seems like a gift from the divine.

  As Penelope grinds her core against mine in the light of the fading sunset, my whole body lights up with the strength of my emotion.

  I love this woman. Truly and completely love her with every fiber of my being. I’d do anything for her, including stand in front of cameras and extoll her praises, or go back in front of those cameras and proclaim to the world that she’s mine.

  I’d turn my back on my father’s company. Let Logan have it—I doubt it ever would have been mine no matter what I accomplished. I’m done seeking approval where it’ll never exist.

  This, here, with Penelope—this is what matters.

  She grips the back of the wicker furniture, pressing her hips into mine. “You always make me want you in the naughtiest places,” she growls in my ear. “Anyone could walk out here.”

  Slipping my hand under her dress, I feel the soft lace of her panties. My cock throbs when I feel the dampness soaking through, and I let out a low moan. “Let them watch.”

  She shivers at my touch, rolling her body against my hand, demanding more. I tug her panties aside and slide my fingers through her honey, unable to hold back the groan that rumbles through my chest. I can’t get enough of touching her. She’s soft and warm and wet—for me. All for me. All mine.

  “Penelope.” I sigh, kissing her shoulder.

  “Shh.” She nibbles my ear, her hands curling into my shirt as her hips keep rocking over my hand. When I press my thumb against her bud, the way she shivers makes me want to claim her right here, like this.

  But I lean back against the seat, driving my fingers inside her as I twirl my thumb around her clit. I watch her eyes close, lashes fanned out over her high cheekbones, and I take in every angle of her face. Her lips drop open, head bowed, as if she can’t believe how good her body feels when I touch her.

  “Asher,” she whispers, and my name sounds like magic on her lips.

  The wicker loveseat creaks as she rides my hand, and I urge her on with dirty whispers. I want her orgasm on my hands. I want the stain of her wetness on my crotch.

  With one hand inside her, I slide my palm over her outer thigh and feel the soft curve of her ass. My fingers slide down the cleft of her ass and feel the tight pucker behind, circling it with slow, steady movements. The cries that fall from her lips are my reward. My sustenance. Everything I’ll ever need.

  Heat winds through my core as I watch Penelope come apart in my arms, quivering over my hands as she wrinkles my shirt in her fists. She gasps, twitching, her core clenching around my fingers in a way that makes my whole body ache for her.

  The words are right there, on the tip of my tongue. I love you. They’d be so easy to say, just three little words, but they don’t come. The lump in my throat grows and all I can manage to do is kiss the corner of her lip as I slide her panties back in place.

  “Asher,” she whispers again, boneless on top of me. I slide my arms around her waist and hold her close, knowing she holds my whole heart in the palm of her hand.

  19

  Penelope

  There’s nothing cold about me when I’m with Asher. Everything is warm and tingly. Heat flows through my veins like never before, and I realize just how much I’ve been missing.

  One week turns into two. We spend our days hiking and traipsing through the countryside, taking a trip up to the Arctic Ocean to go fishing, even though Asher pretends to hate it. It’s the first real break I’ve had in years. I sleep better than ever before, but still somehow have nagging tiredness. I don’t feel quite…right. Not sick, exactly, just…odd.

  The nagging nausea and lack of appetite that started in Stirling seem to get worse. I thought I was just nervous about being apart from Asher. But he’s here and my stomach is still tied up in knots. I’m a schoolgirl with a crush.

  During our second week at the Summer Palace, when I have to take a break in the woods for my fourth pee break, clutching my stomach as I come out from a small copse of trees, Asher tilts his head. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  “I think so,” I say, putting a hand to my chest. “Maybe it was those sandwiches we had. Having a bit of heartburn.”

  “Let’s head back. There’s a doctor at the palace, right?”

  I shrug. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Pen.” Asher’s face is deathly serious, his brows knitted together. The fact that he cares about my well-being this much makes everything inside me flush. He walks toward me, putting his hands on my thighs and making slow circles with his thumbs. “Just get checked out and rest. I don’t like you feeling like this.”

  His worried expression makes my heart do a funny kind of flip. He really cares, even if it’s just a bit of heartburn. If only just to pacify him—and maybe to enjoy the warm flush of having him take care of me—I agree to head back toward the castle. We walk back down the side of the mountain, and all my limbs feel heavy. I lean against Asher, and he hooks his arm around my shoulders.

  I haven’t had someone to lean on in years. Literally or figuratively. Over the past few months, Asher’s been there for me at every turn, and I’m not sure how I’ll cope if he ever goes away. He’s supported me in public, making sure no one says anything bad about me in his presence. And in private? Well, sometimes it feels like he’s the only person who sees me as Penelope, and not as a vague shadow with a crown sitting on her head.

  When we make it to the palace, deep frown lines are cut into Asher’s forehead. He glances at me, then asks one of the castle staff to fetch the doctor.

  “I’m fine, Ash. Really.”

  “You’re not. You look pale and almost green. You’ve been peeing nonstop and I saw the way you looked at that coleslaw at lunch.”

  I clutch my stomach, groaning. “It’s not my fault coleslaw looks like chunky, wet slop.”

  With one hand on my lower back, Asher guides me to my chambers. He helps me into bed and sits beside me, holding my hand while we wait for the doctor.

  After a few minutes of Asher staring at me like I’m about to drop dead right here in bed, I start laughing. “Asher, come on. I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t like you being sick.”

  “I’m not sick.”

  “You haven’t eaten right in days.”

  “It’s heartburn.” I wave a hand dismissively, even though I’ve never gotten heartburn in my life. Sure, my appetite has decreased—but it’s not my fault food suddenly seems unappetizing. Maybe it’s all the sex we’ve been having. It’s messing with my hormones. After a seven-year dry spell, my body has no idea what’s happening.

  Dr. Williams knocks on the door and walks in, his eye
s flicking between me and Asher. He bows, then straightens, his kind blue eyes landing on my face. “Your Majesty,” he says in a slightly nasally voice. “I hear you’ve been unwell.”

  “I’m fine. Just a bit of heartburn.”

  Asher throws me a glance, but I ignore it. He puts his hand on my arm, running his thumb along my wrist. A small bubble of heat expands in my chest. His protectiveness—the fact that he cares—it’s…nice. It makes me feel like I’m not alone in the world for the first time in a long, long time.

  I’m the head of state. I’m the leader of this country, and I have been since I was a little girl. To have someone by my side who isn’t serving me, but is standing next to me? That’s indescribable. It makes my heart sing.

  The slow movement of Asher’s thumb continues as the doctor moves to the side of the bed. He checks my pulse, blood pressure, listens to my lungs. Asks me a few generic questions. Then, Dr. Williams glances at Asher. He clears his throat. “Your Majesty, could I have a word with you…alone?”

  “I’m staying,” Asher grunts.

  “Ash.” I shoot him a glance, popping my brows. “I’ll be fine. Why don’t you go see what Wolfe is doing?”

  After a moment of grumbling, Asher lifts himself off the bed and pads out of the room. He looks at me one last time, scowling at the doctor. I want to shout at him that this was his idea. Getting the doctor to come check me out was all Asher, and he shouldn’t be mad it’s happening.

  I can’t get the words out, though, because the sight of Asher’s grumpy face in the door makes my heart flip-flop all over my chest cavity.

  When Asher steps out and the door latches quietly, the doctor turns his clear blue eyes to mine. “Ma’am,” he starts. “You said you’ve been nauseous for how long?”

  I tilt my head, thinking. “A few weeks. Three, four, maybe? Five?”

  He clears his throat, unhooking his stethoscope from his neck and folding it into a large front pocket. “And, excuse the personal question, Majesty, but…” He drops his voice. “Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”

  I laugh. I literally start laughing, because after ten years of knowing I’m infertile, the thought of a baby growing inside me must be a joke. I tortured myself with Xavier, punished myself for my failure to bear children. Does Dr. Williams not remember that? Does he not remember all the newspaper articles asking about an heir? Does he not remember how devastated I was, how many weeks I spent in bed, how many heartbreaking procedures and failures I had to endure?

  So I laugh, and laugh, and laugh, but the doctor just stares at me, waiting for me to answer.

  I straighten up on the bed, shaking my head. “No. There’s no chance. I can’t have kids.”

  “And your menstrual cycle has been regular?”

  “It’s gotten more regular in the past couple of years, yes,” I answer, frowning. “It was all over the place when I was younger. Since I turned thirty it’s almost been like clockwork—” I stop talking, eyes widening. Ice fills my veins as all the blood drains from my face.

  Yes, my periods were irregular when I was in my early twenties. They stayed irregular for years, until my cycle leveled out when I got older. I ignored it, mostly, because it wasn’t relevant to my life. Being infertile had become such a part of my identity—a painful part that took years to accept—I never considered it could change.

  Clearing my throat, I swing my legs off the bed. “It’s been six or seven weeks since my last one,” I say all in a rush. I walk to the table on the other end of the room where a calendar sits. When was the last time I had a period? When I was in Farcliff? When I got back to Nord?

  My heart hammers in my chest as my hands tremble. I flip through the calendar as if it’ll give me the answer, knowing full well that what the doctor’s saying rings true.

  “Your Majesty,” he starts quietly. “Perhaps we could double-check.”

  “It’s not possible.” I shake my head, spinning to face him. My eyes are wide, breaths short and sharp. There’s a pain in my chest as my heart squeezes. This feels a lot like panic.

  I can’t be pregnant. I’m not able to get pregnant. I tried every single fertility treatment available to me, and none of them worked. I’ve come to terms with my infertility.

  I’m. Not. Pregnant.

  It’s not possible.

  My head shakes from side to side as my thoughts swirl around me like a hurricane. Dr. Williams takes a step toward me, holding his hands out as if he’s trying to calm a nervous animal.

  “Ma’am, if there’s a chance—”

  “I’m infertile.” I spit the word like a curse as my heart bangs against my chest. “I have PCOS. I don’t ovulate. It’s not possible. You know that, Doc. You know.”

  “Yes, your fertility issues were caused by a lack of ovulation, Majesty,” the doctor says patiently, taking another step toward me. “If your menstrual cycle has become more regular and you’ve started ovulating, it’s perfectly possible for you to conceive.”

  Eyes wide, I stare at the man before me. He has gray hair and glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and is wearing a shirt two sizes too big tucked into pleated trousers. He motions for me to sit down in the chair next to me and pulls out a chair of his own. Leaning an elbow on the desk, he folds his hands and lets out a small sigh.

  “We need to rule out the possibility. With your fatigue, nausea, heartburn, and the timing of your last menstrual cycle, pregnancy is a possibility.”

  I open my mouth, then close it to gulp, then open it again. Words…just won’t come.

  My head is spinning. The doctor says something else, moving to his black satchel and producing a glass vial, tubing, and a sterile needle. I stare at him, seeing nothing.

  The diagnosis for my infertility has weighed heavy on my spirit for a decade. It drove a wedge between Xavier and me, and it made me feel like a failure. I’ve dragged it around with me for years. I’ve woven my infertility into my very identity. The cold distance at which I keep people—that’s because I saw myself as empty. Barren. Broken. Failed.

  I’ve never been a woman who can conceive, because I’m not a woman. I’m merely a queen. I’m a figurehead. A monarch.

  But…

  My heart clenches, and I shift my gaze to the floor. My eyes trace the intricate patterns in the Turkish rug at my feet, and I try to make sense of my thoughts. They fly through my fingers like fireflies, elusive. Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath. The doctor says something, but I don’t hear it.

  His hand appears on my arm, and he starts tapping the inside of my elbow. He’s saying something else, but it sounds like it’s coming at me underwater.

  I nod, knowing he needs to take my blood. He needs to confirm what I already know to be true: I’m not infertile. I’m not barren. I’m not a failure of a woman.

  I’m pregnant with Asher Gerhard’s child.

  20

  Asher

  I don’t like leaving Penelope’s room, and I hate how long it takes for her to come out. After an hour, I find myself in one of the sitting rooms in the palace, staring out at the mountain peaks in the distance.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I turn to see Rowan walking into the room. She’s carrying the baby in her arms, and there’s a soft smile on her lips. She looks…happy. Truly happy. Like her heart is at peace. She has bright eyes, and I can see in an instant why Wolfe fell in love with her. She has spirit.

  She reminds me of Penelope, in a way. A strong woman with a mind of her own.

  Rowan nods to the landscape. “I fell in love with it here as soon as I arrived, and that was the start of winter in one of the worst storms the palace has seen. I nearly died.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”

  She laughs, shaking her head. “It was a crazy time, but it led me here. To Wren.” She puts the child down, hanging onto his hands as he takes a few tentative steps. Rowan grins. “Lord help me when he truly learns to walk. It was a lot easier when I could just swaddle
him and know he wouldn’t be running all over the place on me.”

  I smile. There’s a strange clench in my chest as Wren breaks from his mother’s hands, making a run straight toward me. His chubby little legs run, head tipped forward, as if he’s seconds away from face-planting on the floor. He catches himself against my legs, falling back onto his bottom, giggling so hard spittle drips down his chin. Wren squeezes his little fists toward me, still laughing, until I bend down and pick him up.

  “I think he likes you.” Rowan’s eyes soften as she takes her son’s hand in hers. She nibbles on his fingers, kissing every one, and Wren giggles harder.

  Then, the boy leans over to me and leaves a sloppy kiss on the side of my cheek. I laugh, pulling away.

  Rowan takes him from my arms and apologizes. “He hasn’t quite learned how to keep his saliva to himself. I swear this year, I’ve seen more bodily fluids than I ever thought possible. Motherhood isn’t pretty.”

  “You seem to be doing a good job.” I chuck the boy’s cheek as my chest expands.

  I’ve never been one to like kids. They’re too…soft. Slobbery. Innocent. I guess a part of me realized I’d never meet anyone who would want to have kids with me, so I just closed that part of my brain down. I thought I didn’t have a parental bone in my body—it’s not like I had good role models. I was shipped off to boarding school as soon as I was old enough, and my entire adult life has been a long exercise in witnessing my father’s disappointment whenever he looks at my scars.

  But this feels different. Rowan and Wolfe have so much love for their baby boy that it makes me think I might have missed something in this life. Maybe I’ve shut myself off from a type of happiness I didn’t even know existed.