Page 36 of Royal Love
“You know this will be on every front page tomorrow,” I say, nodding subtly toward the windows where camera lenses are pressed against the glass.
“Good,” he says, his voice a low rumble that travels down my spine. “Let them see how a king worships his queen.”
His hold tightens, and I melt against him, following his lead as we move across the floor. In this moment, the crown feels lighter, the responsibilities less daunting. We are simply a man and a woman in love, dancing in a beautiful restaurant.
“I don’t tell you enough,” he murmurs against my ear, “how proud I am of you. The work you’re doing for those children—it matters, Lia.” His hand caresses my belly gently. “And you’ll be an incredible mother to our child. The way you fight for those who cannot fight for themselves—I see it in everything you do.”
I pull back slightly to look into his eyes. “It’s what any decent person would do.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s what you do. You see needs others ignore and refuse to look away. It’s one of the countless reasons I love you.” His hand spans protectively over our growing child. “Both of you.”
My heart swells, and I don’t care about the cameras anymore. I reach up to touch his face. “Take me home, Tristan.”
His eyes darken. “We should stay a bit longer. Make it worth their while,” he gestures subtly to the other patrons, who are watching us with undisguised fascination.
“Then kiss me,” I challenge. “Give them something to really talk about.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “As my queen commands.”
When his lips meet mine, the restaurant fades away. There is only Tristan—his taste, his scent, his strength surrounding me. I don’t hear the murmurs of approval from the other diners or the frantic clicking of cameras outside. I am entirely his, and he is mine.
When we finally part, his expression is tender and fierce all at once. “Let’s go home,” he says, his voice rough. “The rest of tonight belongs to us alone.”
As we leave the restaurant, his arm firmly around my waist, I lean into his strength. The paparazzi calls our names, begging for one more photo, one more moment. One particularly bold photographer shouts, “Your Majesty, a hand on the royal bump!” Tristan doesn’t even hesitate—he turns me gently toward him, placing both hands on my rounded belly in a possessive, protective gesture, his eyes never leaving mine. The cameras go wild, capturing the intimate moment between king, queen, and unborn heir.
Then he guides me steadily to our waiting car, his focus entirely on me.
Tomorrow will bring more work, more responsibilities, more challenges as we navigate our roles as monarchs. The charity gala will demand attention to a thousand details. The children who lost parents in the war need advocates and support. And in a few months, our lives will transform again with the arrival of our child.
But tonight—tonight is ours. And as the car pulls away from the curb, Tristan’s hand finds mine in the darkness before coming to rest on my belly, his thumb tracing gentle patterns across the taut skin where our baby grows. In this moment, I am not just Queen Amelia of Haldonia.
I am simply Lia, loved completely by the man beside me, carrying the physical manifestation of that love beneath my heart. And that is the greatest privilege of all.
CHAPTER 22
TRISTAN
The door to our private quarters closes behind us with a satisfying click. I loosen my tie, watching as Lia slips off her heels with a sigh of relief that makes me smile. Tonight was good for us—a rare evening out, just the two of us, away from the constant scrutiny of royal duties. Parker managed to keep the paparazzi at a respectable distance, and for once, I didn’t mind their presence hovering at the periphery of our evening.
“God, my feet are killing me,” Lia groans, padding across the plush carpet in her stockings. Her hands move to the small of her back, supporting the gentle curve of her belly where our child grows.
“You shouldn’t have worn those torture devices,” I say, shrugging off my jacket and draping it over a chair.
She throws me a look over her shoulder. “A queen has standards to maintain, even with a basketball under her dress.”
“That’s hardly a basketball.” I laugh, crossing the room to her. My hands find her waist, sliding around to cradle her stomach. Five months along, and the swell of her pregnancy still takes my breath away. “More like a softball—maybe.”
“You’re not the one carrying it,” she counters, but leans back against my chest, her body relaxing into mine.
I press my lips to the curve of her neck, breathing in the scent of her perfume. “You’re right. And you’re magnificent for doing so.”
She turns in my arms, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt. “Such flattery, Your Majesty. What are you after?”
“Can’t a man appreciate his wife without ulterior motives?” I ask, even as my hands drift lower, tracing the line of her spine through the silky fabric of her dress.
“Not when that man has that look in his eyes.” Her voice drops to a whisper, and I watch as her pupils dilate slightly.
I raise an eyebrow. “What look would that be?”
