Page 17 of Royal Love
“Tristan!” she cuts me off with mock horror, but her eyes sparkle with amusement.
I grin, unrepentant. These moments—when we can just be us, without the weight of a nation on our shoulders—these are what I live for now.
The beach house comes into view, its weathered wood exterior standing in stark contrast to the polished marble of the palace. It’s modest by royal standards, which is precisely why I love it.
This isn’t just a cottage. It’s freedom.
“This is heaven,” Lia sighs, sinking into the corner of the oversized couch, her feet tucked under my thigh. Outside, rain has begun to fall, pattering against the windows in a soothing rhythm. The security team completed their sweep hours ago, and now it’s just us—just Tristan and Amelia, not the king and queen.
“Better than the palace?” I ask, already knowing her answer.
“A thousand times better,” she says, reaching for another handful of popcorn from the bowl balanced on my lap. “No advisers knocking every five minutes, no formal dinners, no itineraries…”
“No suits,” I add, gesturing to my worn jeans and faded university sweatshirt.
“Definitely no suits, though you do look devastatingly handsome in them.” She winks, and I feel a rush of warmth that has nothing to do with the fire crackling on the hearth.
The movie plays on, some romantic comedy she picked, but I’m hardly paying attention. Instead, I’m watching her—the wayshe laughs without restraint here, how her shoulders have lost the tension they carry in the palace, how her hair falls loose around her face instead of styled for public appearance.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking away from the screen.
“I’m admiring,” I correct her. “There’s a difference.”
This pulls her attention from the movie. “Oh? And what exactly are you admiring, Your Majesty?”
I catch her hand, pulling it to my lips. “Everything. But mostly how you look when you’re not being watched by the entire country.”
Her expression softens. “And how do I look?”
“Free,” I say simply. “Like the woman I fell in love with.”
She sets the popcorn aside and shifts closer to me. “I am that woman. Always. Even when I’m playing the role of queen.”
“I know.” And I do. It’s one of the countless reasons I love her—her ability to remain authentically herself despite the crushing expectations of royal life.
Her lips find mine, soft at first, then with increasing intensity. I taste salt from the popcorn and something uniquely Lia that I’ve never been able to define. My hands find her waist, drawing her closer still.
“The movie,” I murmur against her mouth, though I couldn’t care less about it.
“Will still be there later,” she finishes, moving to straddle my lap, her belly a gentle pressure between us, a reminder of the miracle we’ve created together.
Her kisses become more urgent, and I match her passion, letting my hands roam beneath her oversized sweater, feeling the warmth of her skin. This is another kind of freedom—the freedom to touch my wife without concern for propriety or who might be watching.
“I love you,” I breathe against her neck. “God, Lia, I love you so much it terrifies me sometimes.”
She pulls back, framing my face with her hands. “Why does it terrify you?”
I hesitate, not wanting to darken the mood, but we’ve always been honest with each other. “Because I’ve never had anything this good in my life. Because I keep waiting for it to be taken away.”
Her eyes hold mine, steady and sure. “I’m not going anywhere, Tristan. Neither is this baby. We’re your family now, and nothing—not the crown, not anything—is going to change that.”
I want to believe her with every fiber of my being. And when she’s here, in my arms like this, I almost do.
She leans in to kiss me again when suddenly she gasps, her body going rigid.
“What?” Alarm shoots through me. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”
But instead of pain, her face shows wonder. She grabs my hand, guiding it to the side of her belly. “Wait,” she whispers. “Just wait.”
