Page 16 of Twins For His Majesty (Royally Tempted #1)

Sleeping on the sofa had been almost unbearable.

He’d craved her for more than a month and a half, but he’d put up with it.

He hadn’t even known for sure that she was still in Castilona.

But now she was in his palace, in his apartment, just one room away, and he wanted her with a ferocity that almost felled him.

Yet he’d stayed on the sofa, hadn’t pushed his cause, and he wouldn’t.

If they were together again, it would be because she asked him.

He wasn’t going to throw himself at her—he wasn’t going to debase himself by risking rejection.

Not from Phoebe. He’d known enough rejection in his life, and he’d survived it, but somewhere deep inside he understood that if Phoebe kept pushing him away it would be worse somehow.

In front of the trees, he stood as stiff as a board. Little wonder the renowned portrait photographer frowned. ‘Could you try a different pose? Just relax. Pretend we’re not here,’ she invited with a wry smile.

Phoebe turned around and her own frown echoed the photographer’s. ‘You look miserable,’ she murmured.

‘I’m not.’

‘Then why do you look as though you’re about to walk on a bed of nails?’

He flashed her a look and felt a weird tug on his lips. A half-smile.

‘Better,’ she said, tilting her head, ‘but not quite good enough.’

She stood on tiptoes, whispering into his ear so only he could hear.

‘I am pregnant with your children and in less than six months you’ll have your heirs.

Surely that’s enough to make you smile for a few photos?

Remember, this was your idea.’ But she tilted her head after she’d spoken and a form of madness overtook him, so instead of just saying he agreed, he angled his own face and caught her mouth with his, kissing her even though he hadn’t meant to and she hadn’t expected it.

Kissing her even though she wore lipstick and they weren’t alone.

Kissing her as if he had every right, as if they were a real couple, as if it was the only path for his salvation.

Kissing her even when he’d vowed to himself moments earlier that he wouldn’t keep putting himself in a position to be rejected by Phoebe.

He didn’t want to be rejected by her.

He pulled away and managed to control his reactions to her, to his body’s sharp physical need for her, assuming a mask of control.

‘I remember what we’re doing, Phoebe—pretending to be a couple in love.

Let’s just get this over with.’ He saw her frown and hated himself as soon as he’d said the words; he saw the hurt in her eyes and wanted to punch something.

He was so angry with her for keeping the pregnancy from him, for what had almost happened. If he hadn’t seen her in the hospital, quite by chance, he would never have known about these babies, and that was a reality he could never accept.

And yet she was here and had agreed to marry him. It wasn’t fair to continually punish her for a decision she’d made, according to herself, out of a desire to do what was right by him.

He opened his mouth to apologise, but she was already stepping back from him. ‘I just need to check my make-up,’ she said with a wave of her hand, gliding away from him as though he were a bomb set to detonate.

In the end, the photos they got were excellent.

Only Phoebe could see beyond the poses they’d chosen to imitate a happy couple to the lines of tension around Octavio’s eyes or the slightly too static line of her own smile.

The announcements had predictably set off a feeding frenzy.

Octavio had been wrong—sharing a couple of images and a press release hadn’t come close to assuaging the interest in their romance.

Some staff at the hospital evidently decided it would be more profitable to become royal informants rather than continue working their jobs and had breached clínica regulations by professing to be Phoebe’s dearest confidants and having all sorts of inside details on the relationship.

Of course, that was false. There had been no relationship, and what she and Octavio had shared had been kept completely private by Phoebe.

She’d had no interest in discussing her personal life with anyone.

She’d still been reeling from the breakup with Christopher and had learned not to trust anyone with anything.

Phoebe had left school at sixteen, when her mother had become sick and couldn’t work.

She hadn’t really kept in touch with any of those friends and yet a couple of them were also cashing in on their tenuous links to Europe’s new soon-to-be queen.

Old school photos surfaced on the internet, as well as silly anecdotes about her teen years.

‘I always knew she was destined for something amazing. Phoebe’s the kind of person who could do anything she wanted in life.

She’ll make a wonderful queen.’ That quote had been from her high school English teacher, and it made her smile.

Of all the people who’d been interviewed about Phoebe, Mrs Warwick was the one who had actually known her. She’d pushed her to stay in school.

‘You’re too bright to walk away from this, Phoebe. You have such potential.’

There were trolls, too. Everyone had opinions on Phoebe, and apparently, she didn’t live up to what they saw as Octavio’s match. The comments, whether good or bad, were infuriating. She was tempted to throw her phone into the lake that sat perfectly in the south gardens of the palace.

By the fourth day, the palace’s PR machine was approaching her about doing an interview.

‘The world wants to know about you. If we don’t give them the information, they’ll fill the void.’

Phoebe wasn’t interested in that.

On the fifth day she received a message, out of the blue, from Christopher. It was so unexpected she clicked into it without taking the time to prepare and read his words with a wave of nausea:

Phoebe, we need to talk. Call me. X

She flicked out of the message, with warm cheeks and a sense that she’d done something wrong.

The palace continued to gently question her about doing an interview. She broached the subject with Octavio two nights before their wedding. ‘If you want to do an interview, then do one.’

Hardly helpful.

Nor was it helpful that he continued to sleep on the sofa, that he hadn’t even suggested joining her in bed since that first night.

To be fair, he was doing exactly what she’d asked him to do, but Phoebe’s whole body was screaming for him now, and in the maelstrom of all this, she could only think how comforting it would be to have him.

To at least have that touchstone to cling to, when everything else felt so wildly out of control.

Not that sex with him was in control, but it was predictably wild, and reassuringly passionate.

It made Phoebe feel alive and in the moment.

It made it impossible to think about anything else, to worry, to stress. It was just…good.

But Octavio was acting as though she barely existed. He was in the apartment sparingly, the palace was too huge to run into him, and she gathered he was busy with government matters, meaning Phoebe was left to do her lessons with the private tutors that had been arranged for her, in peace.

Too much peace.

Too much time to scroll her phone and read the comments and articles and predictions and feel like her tummy had been hollowed out.

The worst were the ones that were true. Comments like:

It’s obviously just because of the babies. No way would sexy King O marry someone like her except for the pregnancy.

On the morning of the wedding, Phoebe got through the extensive preparations by separating herself from her body.

She stood in the middle of the suite as a team of stylists set to work on her hair, skin, make-up, nails, feet.

Everything. She extended her arms when they asked her to, pursed her lips, angled her head, whatever they needed she did, and when it was time to slip into the stunning designer gown Marie had arranged for her, she was careful and neat and very still as they fastened the dozens of buttons that ran down the back.

In the fuss of preparations, when Phoebe was ready, the door opened and a beautiful woman with hourglass curves and shiny honey-brown hair sashayed confidently towards Phoebe.

She had a kind of beauty that was rare, and unfair to other women.

Her skin was soft and supple, youthful, her eyes were stunning in shape and colour, her lips a full, curving line, painted a dramatic red.

But she also seemed to glow with kindness. ‘Can we have a moment?’

Phoebe knew who she was immediately. This woman had the same innate confidence as her royal cousin—this must be Xiomara, whom she’d heard Octavio speak of a couple of times.

‘I’m glad I finally get to meet you,’ Xiomara said, when they were alone. ‘My cousin is very protective of you.’

‘Is he?’

‘Oh, yeah. He’s been keeping you locked up so you had time to get ready for the wedding. I told him I’d be better at helping you than anyone else, but he disagreed.’ Xiomara rolled her eyes. ‘You know how insufferable he can be.’

‘Oh, I sure do,’ Phoebe agreed, liking the other woman immediately.

Xiomara grinned, then studied the bride. ‘You look beautiful, by the way.’

‘It’s all their work.’ She gestured towards the closed door. ‘I’m just the canvas.’

‘Don’t be so self-deprecating.’

Phoebe opened her mouth.

‘No, I mean it. Don’t . There’s a pack of wolves out there, and they’ll eat you alive if you give them the slightest chance. You have to appear confident even when you don’t feel it, okay?’

‘You’re right, you would have been way better at preparing me. What else?’

‘Bet you wish you could have some champagne right now, huh?’

Phoebe laughed. ‘Actually, I wish I could have a shot of something stronger, but I’m not even drinking water because I don’t want to have to pee again.’

Xiomara grimaced. ‘Right. So let’s run through the day.’

Xiomara was thorough and so confident that it couldn’t help but rub off on Phoebe, and they spent thirty minutes discussing the wedding, the dinner afterwards and the people she should avoid.

‘You’ll have to meet my father, but take my advice and don’t get stuck with him for long. I’ll try to manage that for you. The King and he…they don’t see eye to eye at all.’

Phoebe nodded.

‘One last thing.’ Xiomara reached into the small designer clutch she carried. ‘Tavi asked me to give you this.’

Tavi. Her heart twisted. What a sweet nickname for a man who seemed far too intimidating to ever have such a thing.

‘What is it?’

‘No idea, sorry. I’m just the messenger.’ She handed over a small velvet pouch. ‘Would you like me to leave you in privacy?’

‘No, that’s fine. It’s probably just something… I don’t know.’ Her fingers trembled a little as she opened the pouch and removed a fine platinum chain on which a locket was suspended. It was dainty, oval shaped and with diamonds inlaid. She ran a finger over them. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘A locket? What’s inside? Don’t tell me he’s put a picture of himself in there,’ Xiomara said on a soft laugh.

Phoebe separated one side of the locket from the other, hinging it open, and her breath caught in her throat while her heart rammed into her ribs.

‘It’s my mum,’ she whispered, staring at the picture of her mother smiling back at her.

‘Oh, God. That’s actually really sweet.’ Xiomara’s arm came around Phoebe’s waist, squeezing her. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘Yeah, she was.’ Phoebe blinked back tears. ‘I can’t cry. My mascara will run.’

‘He should definitely have given you that himself,’ Xiomara said with a shake of her head.

‘It’s just so thoughtful of him,’ Phoebe said unevenly, her mind spinning. Had he understood how badly she was missing her mother? Not just today, but ever since learning of her pregnancy and feeling so alone on that journey?

A knock sounded at the door. Xiomara looked at Phoebe. ‘You ready?’

Phoebe nodded, but tears still sparkled on her lashes.

‘Come in,’ Xiomara called, then turned back to Phoebe. ‘Would you like to wear it?’

‘Of course.’ She nodded quickly. ‘Would you mind helping me?’

Xiomara clasped the necklace in place and Phoebe glanced at the mirror. It was perfect.

Marie entered the room with two guards, one of whom carried a velvet cushion with a diamond tiara on it.

Of course there’d been mention of a tiara but stupidly Phoebe had envisaged something small and, well, cheap, something almost for show.

But this was quite obviously from a royal vault of some kind, and it was most definitely not small, nor cheap.

‘This tiara was commissioned for the King’s great-grandmother,’ Marie explained. ‘It has one hundred and eighty carats of diamonds, a mix of pear and marquise cut, and is set in platinum. It’s very, very special and we all think it will look perfect on you. Do you like it?’

Phoebe’s jaw dropped. ‘Did you say one hundred and eighty carats?’

‘Don’t think about it,’ Xiomara advised quickly. ‘Trust the stylish people.’ She wiggled her perfectly shaped brows and Phoebe laughed.

‘Okay,’ she said with a nod. ‘Show me.’

She stood still as the team worked their magic, and by the time they were done Phoebe had to admit she definitely looked the part. There was nothing more to do now but act it.