by Iris Morland
And so the public had to come to terms with this upending of everything they’d been told of the future of the Salasian monarchy.
I’d slowly begun to withdraw from public life, allowing Niamh to take over. It was through her hard work that she earned the love and respect of the people. And when the palace realized that the two of us together were the biggest draw, it didn’t take a genius to realize that it would be better if I became the consort to the hereditary princess of Salasia.
As for Connor Gallagher, he’d died within three months of the story breaking. We hadn’t heard another word from him since that fateful day at the estate. Niamh, softhearted as she was, had attended the funeral, along with Liam. Neither sibling had shed a tear.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m here.” Niamh straightened her tiara. “Is it falling off? I feel like it’s falling off.”
I made her stand straight so I could inspect it. “It’s fine. You look beautiful.”
Niamh looked me up and down. “And you look fine as hell. I’m tempted to ravish you in a closet instead of going to this thing.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I don’t think the attendees would appreciate it much.” I leaned over and said in a lower voice, “Besides, I want to strip that dress off of you as I kiss and lick every inch of your skin.”
She shivered and began to fan herself. “You rogue! Where are my smelling salts?”
The music began, and taking Niamh’s gloved arm, we began to descend the staircase. My parents followed behind us, along with other important personages. Niamh’s expression turned angelic, as if she hadn’t just been wanting to have sex with her husband in a closet moments before.
All eyes were on my wife. If I were a jealous man, I would’ve felt slighted. But I didn’t blame anyone for keeping their gazes on Niamh. She was radiant. Not just because she was dripping in jewels or wearing that blood-red gown. She looked like she’d stepped from another plane entirely.
“The Sovereign Prince and Princess of Salasia, Their Highnesses, Princess Niamh and Prince Olivier,” a voice boomed overhead.
The two of us then stood in the center of the ballroom began waltzing. We’d practiced this dance so many times that I’d begun having dreams about it. Niamh had been especially nervous about it. She wasn’t a bad dancer, but the pressure of doing it in front of a crowd had made her less confident.
Tonight, though, she floated. I mouthed the word gorgeous to her, and she gave me a radiant smile in return.
After our solo dance together, other couples began waltzing with us. I twirled Niamh around and then pulling her to me, saying, “Have I told you how proud I am of you?”
“Not since two hours ago, I think.”
“How remiss of me.”
“It’s okay. I know you’ll make it up to me tonight.”
The night flew by in a flurry. Liam, Mari, and their three children—Fiona, Dahlia, and Henry—were in attendance. I made sure to dance with both Fiona and then Dahlia, while Niamh danced with a very somber-looking Henry. According to Mari, he’d taken his dancing duties with his aunt very seriously.
Niamh and I were eventually parted, as we conversed with all of our guests. By the time we’d found each other again, I was tempted to sneak out and go straight upstairs with my wife.
Niamh, though, was looking rather pale. I peered at her closely. “Are you all right?”
“Um, I don’t know. Could you get me a glass of water?”
I had a waiter go get a glass while I led Niamh to a room nearby that was empty of guests. After the waiter had arrived with the water, I sat next to her, waiting for the color to return to her face.
“I thought I was going to faint back there.” She wiped a bit of sweat from her forehead. “That was really weird.”
“You never faint. Or almost faint.” I touched her forehead. “Do you think you’re getting sick?”
“No, no.”
“I can tell Laurent to take you upstairs. You’re clearly coming down with something. What if you actually faint out there?” I didn’t want to take that chance.
“I’m fine. It was just hot in there.” Niamh started to get up, but apparently it was too fast, because she was soon falling back down onto the sofa.
“Now you’re scaring me. Should I take you to the hospital? We can call the palace doctor. It’s late, but he could be here within the hour—”
Niamh sighed. “I don’t need to go the hospital. Olivier, I’m fine.” She let out a breath. “I wasn’t going to tell you like this. So much for best-laid plans.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m pregnant.”
I stared at her. I’d been expecting her to say anything but that, and it took me a long moment to understand.
“Pregnant? Since when?”
“Um, since six weeks ago, I think? I just took a test a few days ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
She waved her hands. “It’s way too early, and I wanted to get a blood test done, make sure it was real, but with the ball and everything, it had to be put on hold. And then I wanted to tell you in a fun way, but I guess that’s not happening now.”
She looked so put out that I had to restrain myself from laughing. Sitting back down, I said, “You should’ve just told me.”
“Yeah, yeah, looking back now that makes sense. But when do I do things that make sense? I married you, for instance.”
“I’d put you over my knee right now for that.”
“But I’m pregnant. Get out of jail free card! I guess pregnancy does have its benefits.”
“Niamh, be serious.”
“I’m never serious.” But then her expression sobered. “I’m sorry. The whole thing was kind of freaking me out. You know I make jokes when something freaks me out.”
I swallowed, my mouth dry. “Do you not want to be pregnant?”
“Oh no, I do. We’ve been talking about it for a while now, but now it’s happened, it’s hard to wrap my head around.”
I squeezed her hand. “I feel the same way. But I’m still very, very happy about it.”
“Me too. Ever since that day at the estate when you thought I was pregnant, I’d been wanting to give you a baby.” She said the words shyly. “I knew it was too soon, though. I wanted to wait, yet a part of me didn’t want to wait, either.”
“We were trying to be responsible for once,” I said wryly.
Kissing her, I told her how much I loved her, Niamh saying the same. Although I wanted her to leave the ball to rest, Niamh was adamant about staying. I kept close to her side, keeping her so well-hydrated that she complained about how many times she had to pee in her giant gown.
It was after midnight by the time we went to bed. Sitting at her vanity, Niamh was brushing her hair when I placed the antique clock in front of her.
After Connor’s passing, I’d had the clock returned to the royal family. My mother had subsequently burned the letters inside.
“A gift,” I said, kissing the side of her neck. “For the mother of my child.”
Niamh picked up the clock. “This is your mother’s. Did you steal it again?”
“No, she wanted me to give it to you. The letters are not included,” I added, when Niamh opened the hidden drawer. “And I would advise that you don’t place your own adulterous letters inside it, either.”
Niamh snorted. “I’d keep them on a secret hard drive, duh.” She turned to face me. “I love it. We’ve come full circle, haven’t we?”
“We have. And soon, we’ll have a baby of our own.”
“You realize any kid we have will be a thousand times worse than all of the kittens I’ve fostered combined.”
I kissed her nose. “You’ve prepared me well for that, my love.”
The End
Thank you for reading The Princess I Hate to Love! I hope you enjoyed the conclusion to Niamh and Olivier’s romance.
If you fell for Niamh’s older brother Liam, don’t miss his whirlwind romance wi
th Mari in He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not.
I’m a good girl—until I got drunk in Vegas and married a panties-flaming-hot Irishman.
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From He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
The moment I woke up after my best friend’s raucous bachelorette party in Las Vegas, I realized two things in quick succession:
I was spooning with a man who was very, very naked.
And I had no idea who he was.
To my horror, the man had his arm slung across me, and it weighed at least a thousand pounds, I was sure. My bladder yelled profanities at me as I pushed at the ridiculously heavy arm trapping me against the bed.
Finally, he turned over, taking his arm with him. I shuffled to the bathroom and didn’t feel the panic hit me until after I’d peed and saw the ring on my left hand.
Ring. Left hand. I didn’t wear a ring there anymore since I’d caught my ex-fiancé cheating on me. I’d thrown the ring David had bought me in his face.
This ring wasn’t that diamond David had gotten me. I peered more closely at it. It was—plastic? Was it from a ring pop?
Did I call the police? No, that was stupid. 911, I got married last night to a stranger. Yeah, that’d go over well. I was sure the Vegas police would just laugh and tell us to get a lawyer.
I heard movement in the room. I froze. Glancing in the mirror, I saw a wild-eyed woman with bedhead, smeared lipstick, raccoon eyes from melted mascara, and a whole bunch of hickeys across my collarbone.
I very rarely swore, but at that moment I wanted to swear until I was blue in the face.
What had I done last night? And who was in my bed with me?
I wasn’t that kind of girl—you know, the wild girl. The girl who had one-night stands in Vegas. The girl who threw caution to the wind.
I’d been about to get married to a man who drove a Prius and was an accountant. I always got the perfect attendance certificate in elementary school. I’d been one of the valedictorians at my high school; I’d gotten an A- once because my teacher had dared to think my essay on fashion in The Great Gatsby was “insipid, at best.” (She’d been wrong, by the way.)
I was Marigold Wright, and I was a good girl.
I prided myself on my good girl-ness. Where my sisters were either oddballs or outright deviants (at least in my mind), I never crossed lines. I liked lines. Lines were comforting. They existed for a reason; otherwise the world would be in utter chaos.
My one real indulgence in life was my makeup obsession. My collection was scattered across the bathroom counter—an excessive amount of products for one person on a brief trip—and strangely enough, having this man see it all seemed like a violation of my privacy. Even more than being in bed with me and him being naked. I began to put my makeup away, knowing in my haste I’d have to go through it and reorganize it when I got home.
“Are you done in there?” a growling male voice said through the bathroom door. “I’m fuckin’ dying out here.” An accent tinged his speech, but I was too tired to try to place it.
I tossed the last products into my makeup bag and scrubbed at my face. Realizing it didn’t matter, I opened the door with a frigid expression.
The man—who wore only a sheet draped around his hips—smiled down at me. No, he didn’t smile; he smirked. I’d never been the recipient of a true smirk before, but this man clearly had perfected the look.
He was tall, so tall I had to tilt my head back. He had to be at least six-five; I was five-ten, so it was rare that men were tall enough that I felt short in comparison. But what arrested me most was how dark his eyes were. Oh, and the fact that he was jacked. Muscles for days, his chest covered in dark hair that matched the beard shadowing his cheeks and jaw.
“Are you done or can I take a piss now?” he said.
I blushed to the roots of my hair. Being a redhead, my blushes tended to be bright and extremely obvious, and this man in front of me seemed very amused with my red cheeks. I wanted to ask him if he remembered what had happened last night, but it was as if the words had dried up in my throat.
Or maybe it was because I had a large male glaring down at me because I wouldn’t let him pee.
“Be my guest,” I said, ducking under his arm. I tried to look as prim as I could, but it was difficult when I looked like a total wreck and didn’t even know this man’s name.
He shut the door with an ironic bow, giving me some time to collect my thoughts. Actually, I didn’t need to collect my thoughts: I needed to run. But as I got dressed and began to toss things into my suitcase, I realized he was the one who needed to leave. This was my room.
I stopped packing when memories started to surface, like images from a movie. I remembered stumbling down the Las Vegas strip, and I could remember this man’s voice beside me. Then the bachelorette party where the bride-to-be, Jenna, kept shoving tequila shots in front of me. Or had that happened before we’d stumbled down the strip?
Worst of all, I remembered the touch of a man—this man—who made heat lick through my veins.
But he wasn’t just any man. He had a name. I remembered that now, because we’d met the day prior to the bachelorette party.
Liam. His name was Liam, but his last name eluded me at the moment. He’d sat next to me at the rehearsal dinner, and then at the hotel pool after that—
Oh God, had I slept with him last night? Based on the hickeys, it certainly seemed plausible. But I couldn’t remember, and that made my stomach curdle.
I needed a bottle of water, ibuprofen, and some explanations. I scrambled around in my suitcase, only to find a gift bag from the bachelorette party the night before. Right as I pulled out a pink dildo that said Pleasure for your pink on the base, Liam emerged from the bathroom.
“I’m flattered, love, but pink isn’t really my color,” he said over my shoulder. “Besides the fact that I’m always the one who does the penetrating,” he added with a wry chuckle.
I tried to stuff the dildo back into the bag, but I only proceeded to empty the rest of its contents, which included: a handful of condoms—ribbed for her pleasure, so obviously there was a theme here; a butt plug with a diamond handle; and a bullet vibe that started buzzing way too enthusiastically for my pounding head.
I could’ve cheerfully strangled Jenna for giving us these party favors last night. Whatever happened to a piece of jewelry or a gift certificate from Starbucks? Something benign, something that didn’t involve things that went up your butt. Although anything could become a butt plug if you really tried, I reasoned.
“Oh my God,” I groaned. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening—”
I turned to face Liam, only to see that he was naked.
And no, the dildo was no match for him. Jesus Christ on a stick, how could a man look that good naked? He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. He was built like a linebacker, although, admittedly, I didn’t know exactly how any football player should look. I’d always been more into slender guys.
Then again, my slender in all things ex-fiancé had cheated on me so my taste in men was clearly suspect.
Liam just waited for me to speak. He wasn’t at all embarrassed by his nudity, and based on how perfectly built he was he had no reason to be modest. To my utter shock, he was soon half-hard.
I watched in fascination as his cock grew before my very eyes. He had a delicious V that cut past his hips and pointed straight to his package. I wanted to lick both of those lines until I reached his cock—
I finally found my voice, because I did not have time to stare at a semi-stranger’s erection. “Put some clothes on!” I screeched. “And get out of my room!”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest, that
dumb smirk on his handsome face. “Last night wasn’t that bad.”
Last night? I scowled. “I’m not having this discussion until you put some pants on.”
“Funny, considering how much you wanted them off last night.”
I ignored that remark, even though butterflies exploded inside my stomach. That was probably from the alcohol still digesting, I thought. Or maybe I was still drunk. I touched my forehead, as if being drunk were the same as having a fever and thus diagnosable.
I suddenly felt perilously close to tears, but I knew it would only make my headache worse. I pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail, ignoring Liam behind me getting dressed. My heart pounded so hard that I felt light-headed.
“You can look now. I’m decent,” he said.
I turned, noting that, despite the fact that he was dressed, he did not look decent. At all. His collared shirt stretched across his chest, accentuating the width of his shoulders, while he’d rolled the sleeves up his arms to showcase his muscular forearms. He radiated a combination of masculinity and blatant confidence that edged into arrogance.
I didn’t know what to do with men like him. David had never radiated anything but safety. Consistency.
Boredom, my mind whispered.
“What happened last night?” I whispered.
Liam lifted a dark eyebrow and sat down on the edge of the still disheveled bed. “You really don’t remember?” Once again, his accent made my toes curl into the plush hotel room carpet. He’d told me where he was from—hadn’t he?
God, how much tequila had I drunk? I didn’t do things like this for a reason. I was the friend who drove drunk friends home.
“I really don’t remember,” I said in exasperation. “I mean, it’s coming back, but…” I was too afraid to ask if we’d slept together.
“You look like you’re about to vomit. Is it me or is it the hangover?”