Page 18 of Royal Love
For a moment, there’s nothing. Then I feel it—a distinct tap against my palm, like a tiny knock from inside her.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, awestruck. “Is that?—”
“Yes.” She laughs, tears springing to her eyes. “That’s our baby.”
The tap comes again, stronger this time, a definitive kick. Something shifts inside me, the plates of my heart realigning. Until now, the baby has been an idea, a future. But this—this is real. This is my child, making their presence known.
“Hello in there,” I say softly, bending to speak directly to Lia’s belly. “It’s your dad.” The word catches in my throat. Dad.I’m going to be someone’s father. Someone worthy of this tiny person’s trust.
As if in response, there’s another kick, right against my hand. A laugh escapes me, part joy, part disbelief.
“I think they recognize your voice,” Lia says, her fingers threading through my hair.
“You think so?” The idea fills me with a fierce pride.
“Definitely. You talk to them every night before bed. They know who you are.”
I press my lips to the spot where I last felt movement. “I can’t wait to meet you,” I whisper. “We’re going to be okay, the three of us. I promise.”
Lia’s hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining over the swell of our child. In this moment, I believe it. We will be okay. We have to be.
The nightmare comes in the dead of night, as they always do. I’m in the palace, running through endless corridors, searching for Lia. I can hear her calling my name, her voice filled with fear, but every door I open leads to another empty room. Then I’m at the beach house, but something’s wrong—there are shadows where there shouldn’t be, whispers in the dark corners. I find Lia in our bedroom, but when she turns, her face is blank, her eyes empty.
“You couldn’t protect us,” she says, her voice not her own. “Just like you couldn’t protect the country.”
I wake with a gasp, heart pounding against my ribs, sweat slicking my skin despite the cool night air coming through the open windows. Beside me, Lia sleeps peacefully, one hand splayed across her belly, her breathing deep and even.
Careful not to wake her, I slip out of bed and pad to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The man in the mirror looks haunted, dark circles under his eyes no amount of royal advisers can erase.
“Get it together,” I whisper to my reflection.
But the unease lingers, that sense of something watching, waiting. The same feeling I’ve had for weeks now, the one Parker insists is just royal paranoia.
I return to the bedroom, but instead of getting back into bed, I go to the dresser where I put my grandfather’s old compass. It’s nothing special to look at—brass, tarnished with age, the glass face slightly clouded—but it was his most treasured possession. “So you always know which direction to go,” he’d told me when he placed it in my twelve-year-old hands.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running my thumb over the worn surface. My grandfather was the only one who understood the weight that awaited me. “Being a good king isn’t about never bending,” he’d said. “It’s about knowing when to bend so you don’t break.”
The compass needle swings, finding north with unerring accuracy even after all these years. There’s something comforting in its constancy, its certainty. No matter how lost I feel, north is still north.
I close my eyes, focusing on the solid weight of the compass in my palm, anchoring myself to the present. Lia is here. Our baby is here. They’re safe. I’m safe.
“Tristan?” Lia’s voice is thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
I turn to find her watching me, propped up on one elbow, her hair a tousled halo around her face.
“Just a dream,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “Go back to sleep.”
But she knows me too well. She sits up, reaching for my hand. “The same one?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She glances at the compass in my hand and understanding softens her features. “Come here,” she says, tugging me back down beside her.
I stretch out, and she curls against me, her head on my chest, her belly pressed against my side. I keep the compass clutched in my free hand, its edges pressing into my palm.
“We’re okay,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin. “We’re right here.”
“I know.” And in this moment, with her weight solid against me and the compass as my anchor, I do know. Whatever threats may be out there—real or imagined—they can’t touch this. They can’t touch us.
