Ice Queen: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance

by Lilian Monroe

  My one, my only, my everything. My Asher.

  Epilogue

  Penelope

  Asher and I get married on a cool September afternoon, about six weeks after our conversation in Roston. We do it at the Summer Palace, where we can have privacy. It’s quiet, with only family and a few close friends in attendance—but it’s perfect. Asher looks dapper in his navy suit, his eyes shining when he watches me walk down the aisle.

  I struggle not to cry the whole ceremony, which is a feeling I’m still not accustomed to. I’ve spent the past decade feeling cold distance from my emotions, but I can’t say I mind. Feeling all my emotions without restraint is intense, but it’s worth it. It means I can open myself up to love and let myself believe good things are coming.

  After the ceremony, when we make it to the main ballroom of the Summer Palace, I lean my head on Asher’s shoulder. Beside me, my husband stiffens. I follow his gaze to the corner of the room, where his brother Logan stands by the wall. Over the past few weeks, Asher’s told me about Logan—about how inadequate he felt next to him when they grew up. How Logan and he were pitted against each other, and how he wishes things had been different between them.

  Asher invited his whole family to the wedding and expected none of them to show up, but I guess he was wrong about that.

  His brother is handsome, in a prettier way than Asher. He doesn’t have the ruggedness that I love in my husband. Logan pushes himself off the wall and walks up to us, chin down. He glances at me, bowing. “Your Majesty.”

  I squeeze Asher’s hand, inclining my head at his brother.

  My husband clears his throat. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “To your wedding? I wouldn’t miss it.” Logan’s eyes shine, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “I just wanted to say…congratulations. You deserve happiness.”

  Redness flushes over Asher’s cheeks, and he drops his head. I can tell he’s struggling for words. My brave, selfless man, who gave everything up to prove his love for me, is surprised that his brother made the trip up here. Surprised to hear a kind word from him.

  I extend my arms toward Logan, wrapping him in a quick hug. “Thank you for coming.”

  Asher does the same, clearing his throat as he pulls away. He looks dangerously close to crying. He extends a hand toward his brother and they shake, holding each other’s gaze.

  Emotion chokes me—even more than when I walked down the aisle. Asher’s parents might not be here, but his brother’s presence means a lot. It means there might be a chance for reconciliation with his own family. It means, maybe, he didn’t give everything up to be with me.

  Music starts, a waiter appears with drinks of champagne and sparkling grape juice for me, and I welcome Logan to my palace, my kingdom, my life.

  Wolfe and Rowan appear at my side, along with Silas and Jonah. I’m surrounded by all the people I love, celebrating a union I thought would never happen. Little Wren dances and dances until he collapses into a heap and starts snoring. I smile, looking at my nephew as I sweep my hand over my stomach.

  The sight of Wren no longer fills me with fear and resentment. I look at my nephew with nothing but love, and I finally understand how Wolfe felt all those months ago. Love hits you right in the gut—and love for a child? Forget it. Mine isn’t even born yet, but I already feel overwhelmed.

  “Have I ever told you how gorgeous you are?” Asher nuzzles his face into my neck, dropping a soft kiss behind my ear.

  I smile, sliding my hand around his waist. Tonight, I’m not a queen. My responsibilities are shoved aside for a few blissful hours, and I just enjoy basking in the light of my new life. My new love.

  When the dancing winds down, I stand up and slip my hand into Asher’s. Silas grins, wrapping me in a big bear hug, then Jonah does the same.

  Finally, Wolfe comes to stand in front of me and drops a soft kiss on both my cheeks. “I’m happy for you, Penelope. I haven’t seen you smile this much since we were kids.”

  Leaning my head on Asher’s shoulder, we walk toward the exit. No one protests or asks us to stay longer. They let us leave and we let them dance and drink long into the night. I’d much rather be alone with Asher, anyway.

  Our wedding night is tender. Slow and passionate, then intense. Asher worships my body and makes me feel his love from head to toe. I do the same for him and when it’s over, we’re sweaty and tangled in each other’s arms, smiling as a blanket of happiness covers us both.

  “How do you think the public will react to the news about the baby?” Asher slides his hand over my stomach.

  “Well, when we announced our engagement, the reaction was supportive. They might not expect it to happen this fast, but any controversy will blow over. It has to.”

  “They want you to be happy, you know.” Asher kisses my temple.

  His words ring through me, and I let them sink in—the true meaning of them. The people of Nord want me to be happy. There was no outrage when Asher and I announced our engagement. Not talk of corruption and controversy. There was only…celebration. Happiness that I had finally found someone after Xavier.

  The articles and editorials shocked me, if I’m honest. We broke the news about a month ago, and the positive reaction was another reminder that my isolation and my coldness were a defense mechanism that only hurt myself. I can only imagine the celebration in the kingdom when we announce the pregnancy.

  Asher tightens his arms around me, letting out a long sigh. “I love you, Penelope.”

  Warmth floods me from head to toe. “I love you, too, Asher. More than you know.”

  Our baby girl is born at the beginning of March, healthy and screaming her little lungs out. Asher and I cry—a lot. My love for my daughter is overwhelming. It drags me under, and I let it.

  Of course people do the math. They know it’s only six months between the end of September and the beginning of March, and rumors fly. It’s not exactly what I’d like as the Queen of Nord, but if I’m honest, it’s hard to care.

  I have a daughter. I bore a child of my own body.

  The words of a few people in the kingdom? Whispers and gossip?

  Meaningless. My daughter is a princess, and anyone who denies it isn’t worthy of my attention.

  The negative whispers about my affair with Asher soon fade, though, and when we release the first pictures of Princess Neva, there’s nothing but rejoicing. The whole kingdom celebrates our daughter as the miracle she is—the heir no one thought would exist.

  Asher’s father doesn’t speak to him for a full year. We send pictures of our baby girl and try to reach out every couple of months, but silence answers back. Mr. Gerhard is angry with his son, which is understandable. Asher sold off a huge chunk of the company without remorse, then handed in his resignation. He basically launched a grenade at his relationship with his father and was ready to accept the consequences.

  Even though Asher assures me it was worth it—and every time I see him with Neva, I believe him—it still pains me to think he can’t have a relationship with his father. Every time we hear nothing back from Farcliff, I know it hurts Asher, but he brushes off his pain and gives me a soft smile. My brave man, ready to face anything for the sake of our love.

  Finally, before Neva turns one, we receive a letter in the mail. Asher opens it, jaw clenched, then lets out a long sigh. His shoulders drop, and it looks like some of the pain he’s been carrying is finally easing. “He wants to meet her,” he says, lifting his eyes to mine. “My father wants to meet his granddaughter.”

  I smile, nodding. “Let’s invite him to Nord.”

  And so, another relationship begins to mend. It started with Asher and me, mending our own hearts. Then that healing extended to our families, to our kingdom, to everyone who had called me cold and heartless and barren. The love we have for each other permeated every nook and cranny in Nord, and it healed all the bitterness it touched.

  His father might never fully forgive Asher, but at least the conversation is s
tarting. That frost can melt, just like the ice that used to encase my own heart. Love has the power to do that. Asher’s love, my love, Neva’s love—it blankets everything in warmth and goodness and makes me forget what it felt like to be alone.

  With Asher by my side and Neva in my arms, I’m not turning my back on my duty. I’m a better queen than I was before, because I have them. I have their love and support—and I can give it back tenfold to my people.

  I thought my coldness made me strong, but I was wrong.

  Asher’s love makes me stronger. Unbreakable.

  He makes me, quite simply, happy.

  Thank you for reading!

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  Psst.. keep reading for a preview of Book 9: Rogue Prince

  Rogue Prince

  Royally Unexpected: Book Nine

  1

  Jazz

  Adjusting the pink pig’s snout strapped to my nose, I throw a sideways glance at my best friend. “Was this really the only Halloween costume left?”

  Rhea’s lips tug into a shit-eating grin. “You flaked on me at the last minute to go shopping, so I guess you’ll never know the answer to that question.”

  “I was working. You know I leave for the royal tour next week.” I touch the snout again, pulling the elastic digging into my cheeks as it holds the snout in place. “I’m the youngest journalist on tour, Rhea, and the only one who’s come out openly against monarchy in Nord. I need to be prepared for everything. I’m not expecting Prince Wolfe to be friendly with me when we get on that plane.”

  “Yes, Jazzypants, I know. How could I forget that my best friend is the badass known as Jacinthe Crawley? The journalist who takes no prisoners and says exactly what she wants with no fear of retribution.” Rhea reaches over to pinch my bony hip. “The woman who somehow forgets to eat, which is entirely beyond my ability to comprehend.”

  I dodge her hand and swat it away. “I eat plenty. Maybe I forget to have lunch once in a while when I’m busy with work.” I stare pointedly at my friend. “Like when I’m preparing for the biggest assignment of my career, for example, and don’t have time to go costume shopping for a party I never even wanted to go to in the first place.”

  “Sounds horrible. All the more reason to take an evening off and come out with me. You’ll be gone for three whole months. How will I cope?” My best friend pouts at me in the mirror, putting a hand on her wide hip. No boniness there, only lush, womanly curves.

  Rhea’s been by my side since we were college roommates at eighteen, and every Halloween she seems to somehow convince me to dress like an idiot. I turn back to the mirror hanging by my front door, checking how my black, slinky dress looks in the back, then grimacing when I see the way my spine protrudes, every vertebrae clearly visible all the way up to my neck. Maybe Rhea’s right—I need to work less and eat more. I shift my cheap, synthetic wig so it falls in shiny yellow curls halfway down my back. At least that’ll hide the worst of the boniness. Huffing, I scratch my scalp. “This wig is itchy. I don’t think I’m meant to be a blonde.”

  “Do you ever stop complaining?” Rhea laughs, adjusting her bra to make sure her generous chest is on full display. Dressed as a sexy version of the Queen of Hearts, Rhea is a total knockout. Her tight leather miniskirt hugs her in all the right places, complemented by the strategically placed playing cards glued to her bodice.

  At least I know I’ll be able to follow the trail of male drool to find her if I get lost at this dumb party.

  “Ironic that I’m the Queen of Hearts when you’re the one who keeps screaming, ‘Off with their heads.’” Rhea’s eyes twinkle as she meets my gaze. “I saw your article online today. You made the homepage of the Stirling Times website.”

  I wave a hand. “The monarchy is an outdated institution, and I’ll never stop talking about how it should be abolished.” Letting my gaze drift from her costume to mine, I frown. “I find it hard to believe there was no sexy Alice costume to match yours.”

  “I find it hard to believe you would disrespect Miss Piggy by being so upset about representing her,” Rhea counters. She arches an eyebrow, light twinkling off her glittery red eyeshadow. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll find your Kermit tonight.”

  I snort, the sound more pig-like than I intended. “Doubtful.”

  “With that attitude, it is.” Rhea hooks her arm through mine, laughing. “Come on. No more grumpiness. You’re done working for the day. Leave all your stress at the office, Jazz. It’s Halloween! We’re dressed up, on our way to the wildest party in Nord. You can hook up with a man dressed up like a Smurf and wake up covered in blue body paint, then go back to work on Monday and pretend it never happened. You can live tonight.”

  I grumble in response, but a hint of a grin tugs at my lips.

  Rhea doesn’t miss the half-smile. She laughs, nudging me with her shoulder. “See? I knew you needed a night out. You can go back to being the serious journalist when you get on that royal jet for the tour. Your boss has been too hard on you lately.”

  “He’s just doing his job.”

  “He’s treating you like a robot instead of a person. You’ve written more articles about abolishing the monarchy in the past six weeks than any other journalist has in their whole life. I think it’s affecting the way you look at this country. You think it’s all going to fall apart just because our head of state is the Queen.”

  “If we were a republic, we could govern ourselves.”

  “Ugh, forget I said anything.” Rhea flicks the tip of my pig’s snout. “Tonight, we focus on finding you a man with a very large, thick, throbbing—”

  “Rhea!”

  My best friend laughs as a car honks outside. “Cab’s here,” she says, tugging my hand toward the door. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

  “For what?”

  “For pulling you away from your computer, for once.”

  I let Rhea lead me outside, knowing what she’s actually doing when she’s dragging me to this Halloween party. This weekend is the anniversary of my father’s death, and every year I bury myself in work to forget how much it hurts. Somehow, Rhea always manages to pierce through my shell. This year, it was the promise of a massive Halloween party and weeks—weeks—of pestering me to go with her.

  As we step outside, a blast of cold air makes me hug my jacket tighter. I exhale sharply and shuffle to the waiting taxi. The weather has already turned in Nord, and soon the whole kingdom will be covered in snow.

  Nord is an arctic country, north of Canada. Winters are long here, but they’re beautiful. There’s something special about the silence of a land smothered in snow for months at a time, the life that thrives in a place as inhospitable as this.

  Right now, my existence feels less like thriving and more like clinging on for dear life.

  We slide into the cab and I touch the ring on the middle finger of my right hand. My father’s ring. It’s always been loose, and twisting it around my finger brings me comfort. I know I should get it resized, but the thought of handing it over to a jeweler makes my stomach knot. I keep meaning to buy a chain for it so I can wear it around my neck, but I just… I haven’t gotten around to it.

  So, slightly oversized and not exactly my taste, but it’s on my finger—always. A little gold ball sits on the band, surrounded by twelve tiny diamonds. Running my finger over the band, then the ball, then each of the diamonds, I stare out the window. I twist the ring around my finger once, then do it all over again. Band, ball, diamonds, twist. Band, ball, diamonds, twist.

  It’s soothing.

  My father received the ring for thirty years of service at Lord Birchal’s manor. Thirty years tending Birchal’s gardens and maintaining the huge mansion. My father managed the house and land for a man who called him the wrong name for every one of those thirty years—every time
Birchal said Mr. Crawford instead of Mr. Crawley, I wanted to scream, but Dad said nothing. He stood there, head bowed, answering to the wrong name.

  All those decades, he toiled while Birchal and his family sat on their plush cushions and waited for their breakfasts to be delivered in bed. My father worked himself to the bone, waking up at dawn every single day, never taking a day off—and for what?

  For a ring? For a man who was supposedly noble but couldn’t find his way out of a bathtub without the help of a servant?

  The fact that my father prized this ring above everything else infuriated me. He never realized that this ring was nothing but a symbol of our servitude. It was a shackle around his finger, chaining him to his lord.

  When my father gave me the ring on his deathbed, I wanted to hurl it at Lord Birchal’s face, or shove it down his son’s throat. Sniveling, lying Liam Birchal, who promised me the world then pretended he’d never said a word. I don’t know if my hatred for the monarchy started with my father’s treatment by Lord Birchal or after what happened between me and his son.

  But Dad had stared at me, his withering body too weak to do anything but wheeze. He patted my hand with cold fingers and forced his lips into a smile. “Take care of your mother, Jazz. She only has you, now.”

  I’d nodded, holding back the river of tears threatening to spill onto my cheeks. I would have promised anything.

  Watching my father die with no one but me beside him, I wanted to wring the Queen’s neck for letting this happen. I wanted to set the capital city on fire and show all those monarchist assholes what they’d done to him. They did this. They worked him too hard. They made him forget to take care of himself and stole all the years we could have had together.

  They didn’t even come to the hospital to pay their respects.