Page 2 of Twins For His Majesty (Royally Tempted #1)

Nineteen years later

F ROM THESE PARTICULAR windows in the prestigious Clínica San Carlos, King Octavio de la Rosa had an unimpeded view of his palace.

The place that defined who he was in life—a king of this prosperous Mediterranean island country.

He stared across at the palace now, the sky a jet-black.

Even the stars were blanked out by low cloud cover, giving the impression the heavens were utterly bereft of light, the darkness almost bleak enough to match his mood.

Grief flooded him. Grief, for his uncle Rodrigo had just died and with him, the last touchstone to his life before.

Before his parents had been killed and he’d been orphaned, before his life had been turned upside down.

He felt it deeply, but there was also a dark anger, so intense it burned through him, alongside frustration, despair and a cloying sense of being truly alone in the world.

In reality, he wasn’t.

He was rarely alone—as the King, that wasn’t possible.

But Rodrigo was different. Rodrigo had been a last link to his parents.

The man his mother had always joked she might have married if she’d met him first had died, and Octavio had been powerless to save him.

Maybe if he’d known about Rodrigo’s ill health sooner?

A noise startled Octavio out of his reverie.

He glanced up, on autopilot, to see one of the hospital’s cleaners stepping into the luxurious suite he’d been appointed since arriving at the facility.

He’d seen her before and noticed her. Even in his state of grief, he couldn’t fail to notice her.

She was beautiful, but it was more than that.

She was graceful, like a ballerina, and there was a wistfulness in her gestures that couldn’t help but convey itself.

The clínica was the last word in medical excellence, but it also shared some hallmarks with a five-star hotel—there were several suites such as this made available for guests of patients.

For Octavio, the biggest and best had been reserved, allowing him to spend days at a time sitting vigil by his uncle’s bedside.

Not that it had made a difference.

His stomach churned, impotent fury at his inability to help Rodrigo a slick of regret deep in his chest.

The woman busied herself clearing rubbish, keeping her head bent, evidently trained as his palace staff was, to exist without being seen.

It had never bothered him before. He’d been surrounded by staff all his life and had learned to live with the constant intrusion, but now, something about her self-effacing attempt to fade into the background was galling to him.

He attributed the sensation to his grief, to the shock of having sat at his uncle’s bed not one hour earlier as the machines began to beep in that awful way, a flatline appearing on the equipment.

Soon he’d return to the palace, but he needed a little longer to process his loss.

To work out what he’d do next.

His uncle had died, but it had been preventable. The truth was, one uncle had all but killed the other, and Octavio had to work out how to deal with that.

The woman was lifting glasses now, stacking them on a tray, her fingers so delicate, even when they were capable.

He stared unashamedly, as one might watch a performance.

Her uniform was dark blue, a dress that fell to her knees and cinched in at the waist, with buttons up to her throat.

Her neck was elegant, swan-like, the alabaster colour of her skin revealed by the way her long blonde hair had been swept up into a ponytail.

If she wore make-up, it was minimal. Her face was clear, her eyes wide set and a striking shade of green.

As if his ruminating on their colour had somehow conveyed itself to the woman, she glanced across at him then, her cheeks flushing pink when their eyes connected.

Her lips parted on a quick exhalation of breath, and she looked away once more, turning her back on him.

Frustration, anger, irritation grew.

Suddenly, he didn’t want her to fade into the background. He didn’t want her to clear his plates and glasses and act as though she wasn’t there.

‘What is your name?’ His voice was gruff from disuse. Even as the hospital director, an efficient, impressive woman named Lola Garcia, had gently explained the procedures from this point onwards, he’d barely spoken a word.

The woman’s shoulders squared as she turned back to face him, and there was a caution in her features that should have served as a warning.

He wasn’t himself. He wasn’t remotely like himself.

Famed for his control—a control that had been etched from the fires of his life—he was disciplined at all times.

Only, he didn’t feel disciplined right now.

His veins were coursing with emotions he couldn’t control, with a need for something he couldn’t explain.

And this woman was in the firing line.

‘I asked for your name.’

She blinked quickly, her lips, full and pink, quirking down a little in one corner. ‘Phoebe.’ Her voice was soft, like her hair.

‘Phoebe what?’

‘Phoebe, Your Majesty.’ She grimaced in apology.

The dark emotions in his gut twisted. He didn’t want to be ‘Your Majesty’ in that moment.

How different might his life have been had he not been born royal?

If his parents hadn’t been travelling on behalf of the kingdom, if his uncle Mauricio hadn’t desperately sought the power of the throne? How different might it all have been?

‘I meant to ask for your full name.’

‘Oh, right.’ Her tongue darted out, licking her lower lip.

His veins pulsed with unexpected and not entirely unwelcome heat.

‘Phoebe James.’ Her words were lightly accented.

Where was she from? What brought her to Castilona?

In a fog of grief, he fixated on this woman, on the distraction she might provide.

‘Take a seat.’ He gestured to the chairs opposite, aware that he had no right to ask it of her, aware that she might feel pressured to agree because of who he was. He softened the request by muttering, ‘If you have time.’

She hesitated and he immediately regretted adding the second statement.

However, a moment later, she glided towards the armchair, pressing her hand into the back of it.

She didn’t sit, but she moved closer to him.

He caught a hint of her fragrance, vanilla and strawberries, reminding him of summer fields.

‘Did you need something, sir?’

Did he?

Yes. But what?

He knew only that he didn’t want her to leave. Perhaps he was hiding from reality, avoiding his return to the palace as long as possible. Whatever the reason, it changed nothing. He was here and so was she.

‘My uncle just died.’

Her eyes widened and her skin paled. ‘I’m so sorry. I should leave. I didn’t know, or I would never have intruded on your privacy at this time. My condolences, Your Majesty.’

She spoke quickly, the words tripping over themselves, and her sympathy was so obviously genuine that it pulled at something deep in his chest. If he allowed it, her words could weaken him, could erode his outer shell to reveal the grief and desolation deep at his core.

He straightened, infusing his spine with steel, showing strength even when he didn’t feel it, as was his way.

As had been expected of him since his parents had died.

‘It was expected.’

She hesitated, not leaving, not moving, just standing there like a deer in headlights. Then she exhaled quickly, so he was conscious of the way her body moved with the action of breathing, her breasts shifting beneath the dark blue dress.

‘That doesn’t make it any easier, in my experience.’

‘Do you have experience with this?’ Or did she mean working at the clínica ? She must see such loss all the time. Except that wasn’t what she’d meant, he was sure of it. Her teeth pressed into her lower lip, and her eyes turned a stormy green, like the ocean far, far out in its deepest parts.

‘Yes, sir. And I don’t think you can ever really prepare for the loss of someone you love. Nor do I think you ever fully recover.’

Fascinating. He knew her words were true—he lived them every day.

There was an emptiness at his core that had been created on the day of his parents’ death, an emptiness he had no hope of filling.

Then again, perhaps that had as much to do with what happened to him after his parents’ death as their actual loss itself.

Whatever the reason, he’d spent his adult life avoiding anything like emotional dependency.

Soon he would marry the Princess his parents had chosen for him, but that was an arranged marriage, without any kind of personal connection—it was a step he would take for the good of the country.

He had no interest in exposing himself to any kind of loss ever again: he would be a far more effective ruler that way.

‘Anyway…’ Her voice trailed off a little.

His eyes slammed back to her, a frown etched on his face.

He reached for his tie and unfastened it, removing it completely before flicking open the button at his throat to reveal the column of his neck.

Her eyes dropped betrayingly to the gesture; her cheeks flushed pink again. ‘I should leave.’

‘Stay.’ There was command in his tone now and he didn’t care.

If she’d wanted to go, she would have done so by now.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have cared, because Octavio was not a man who needed anyone else in his life, even temporarily.

But tonight, grief had weakened him, temporarily, and to himself he admitted that this woman choosing to remain with him carried more weight than he welcomed.

‘Why?’

It was a whispered plea, a request for truth, and so he spoke the truth that was at his core in that moment.

‘Because I don’t want to be alone right now.’

She hesitated. ‘Is there someone I can call for you?’