Page 23

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?”

“The one that says you’re thinking decidedly un-kingly thoughts.”

I laugh, the sound rumbling in my chest. “Guilty as charged.”

Her fingers finish with my buttons, pushing the shirt from my shoulders. “Good thing I’m thinking decidedly un-queenly thoughts then.”

I reach behind her, finding the zipper of her dress and slowly drawing it down. “Care to elaborate on these thoughts?”

The dress loosens, and she allows it to slip down her body, pooling at her feet in a whisper of expensive fabric. Standing before me in nothing but lace undergarments, her body changed by pregnancy in ways that make my heart race, she’s never been more beautiful.

“I think,” she says, stepping closer, her fingers tracing the waistband of my trousers, “I’d rather show you.”

I let her lead me to our bed, marveling at how this woman—my wife, my queen, the mother of my child—still affects me like this. Every touch of her skin against mine sends electricity coursing through my veins.

“Wait,” I say, suddenly remembering. “Is this…are you comfortable with this? The doctor said?—”

She silences me with a kiss. “The doctor said everything is perfectly normal and healthy. Unless you’d rather not?”

Her challenging smile is all the answer I need.

“I’d rather very much,” I murmur against her lips.

We take our time, finding new ways to fit together around the curve of her belly.

There’s laughter when something doesn’t quite work, whispered suggestions, and adjustments that lead to gasps of pleasure.

It’s different now, but no less passionate, no less meaningful.

Perhaps even more so, knowing our child sleeps safely between us.

After, as we lie tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest and my hand stroking lazy patterns across her back, I feel a contentment that still surprises me.

This quiet domesticity was never something I expected to cherish, yet here I am, treasuring these moments more than any state dinner or royal engagement.

“What are you thinking about?” Lia’s voice is sleepy, her breath warm against my skin.

I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Just how lucky I am.”

She makes a soft sound, somewhere between agreement and amusement. “We both are.”

I don’t tell her about the momentary flash of worry that crossed my mind—the constant, nagging fear that all of this happiness could be snatched away. Instead, I hold her closer and listen to her breathing slow as she drifts off to sleep.

“I’ll protect you both,” I whisper into the darkness. “Always.”

Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, pulling me from sleep.

Lia is still curled against me, her body warm and soft.

For a moment, I simply watch her sleep, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks.

Then I carefully extricate myself from her embrace, smiling as she mumbles something unintelligible and burrows deeper into the pillows.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and pad quietly to the sitting area of our chambers.

Parker has already sent the morning briefing—security reports, weather, and the day’s agenda.

But it’s the news notification that catches my eye.

I open it to find pictures from last night splashed across the front page of the Haldonia Daily.

“ROYAL ROMANCE: king tristan and queen amelia enjoy rare night out.”

The images are surprisingly tasteful—Lia and I entering the restaurant, her hand on my arm, the two of us leaving, my hand protectively at the small of her back, a candid moment caught through the window where we’re both laughing, her head thrown back and my eyes fixed on her face with unmistakable adoration.

A year ago—hell, six months ago—these photos would have infuriated me. The intrusion into our private life, the constant lens focused on our every move. I would have called Parker, demanded to know how the photographers got so close, insisted on stricter measures for our next outing.

Instead, I find myself studying the images with something like gratitude.

“What’s got you looking so serious this early?”

I glance up to find Lia watching me from the doorway, wrapped in her silk robe, hair tousled from sleep.

“The paparazzi were busy last night,” I say, holding up my phone.

She crosses the room and curls up beside me, taking the phone to examine the photos. “Oh, these aren’t bad at all. I actually look decent for once.”

“You look stunning,” I correct her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “You always do.”

She turns to look at me, brow furrowed slightly. “You’re not upset? Usually, these kinds of pictures put you in a mood for the entire morning.”

I consider this, thinking about how to explain the shift I feel within myself. “I think I’ve realized something. These pictures…they’re part of our story. Part of our child’s history.”

My hand drifts to her stomach, and she places hers over mine.

“Someday, our son or daughter will look at these and see how much we loved each other. They’ll see that before they were born, we were just Tristan and Amelia, stealing moments together despite the crown.”

Lia’s eyes soften. “That’s a beautiful way to look at it.”

“I’m learning,” I say, surprised by the truth of it. “The man I was before would have seen only the invasion of privacy. But now…” I pause, looking again at the images of us together. “Now I see the preservation of memories I might otherwise forget in the daily chaos of ruling.”

She leans her head against my shoulder. “Your father would have a conniption if he heard you talking like this.”

I laugh, the mention of my father no longer stinging as it once did. “All the more reason to embrace it then.”

“Rebel,” she teases.

“Only for the right causes,” I reply, pressing a kiss to her temple.

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the palace waking up around us.

Soon, we’ll be swept into the machinery of royal obligations—meetings, appearances, decisions that affect millions.

But for now, in this quiet morning light, we’re just Tristan and Lia, expectant parents, marveling at how different life looks from the other side of love.

“We should frame one of these,” Lia suggests suddenly. “The one where we’re laughing. For the baby’s room.”

The thought of our child growing up with tangible evidence of our happiness before their arrival fills me with unexpected emotion.

“I’d like that,” I manage, my voice rougher than I intended.

She looks up at me, her eyes knowing. “You’re going to be an amazing father, Tristan.”

“God, I hope so,” I whisper, the weight of that responsibility settling on my shoulders alongside the crown. “I hope I can be everything this child needs.”

“You will be,” she says with such certainty that I almost believe her. “You’re already everything I need.”

I capture her lips with mine, pouring into the kiss all the words I can’t quite form—my gratitude, my fear, my overwhelming love for her and the life we’re building together.

When we part, she smiles that smile that still makes my heart stutter. “Now, Your Majesty, shall we face this day together?”

I stand, pulling her gently to her feet. “Together,” I agree, and for the first time in a long while, I’m not afraid of what tomorrow might bring.

Because whatever comes, we’ll face it side by side.