Page 25 of Twins For His Majesty (Royally Tempted #1)

B EING DRIVEN BACK to the palace was strange.

They’d come here after the wedding and Phoebe had felt so estranged from Octavio.

But after two nights in close confines, sharing a bed, making love, expressing their deepest thoughts and feelings, Phoebe felt a closeness to Octavio that the palace could very well threaten.

Though they sat on opposite sides of the sumptuous back seat of the car, separated by the middle section, his presence seemed to wrap around her, making her skin flush and her heart race.

‘You’re quiet,’ he murmured, as the car cut through the beautiful countryside, the city in the distance reminding her of the real world awaiting them.

‘Am I?’

He bumped her knee with his. ‘You know you are. Is everything okay?’

His concern warmed her further. ‘Yeah,’ she agreed. But she glanced at him and his sceptical expression made her smile. ‘Okay, I’m not.’

‘What is the matter?’

‘I’m wondering about what happens next?’

‘In what context?’

‘When we go back to the palace.’ She pulled at a piece of invisible lint on her trousers.

It was an elegant suit, delivered with the rest of the clothes Marie had arranged for Phoebe.

She wasn’t sure who had packed the bag for her honeymoon, but they’d chosen a selection Phoebe had found beautiful and flattering all at once.

‘I’m still not understanding…’

Her cheeks flushed. ‘With—this.’ She gestured from her chest to his.

‘Our marriage?’

‘You’re really going to make me spell this out, aren’t you?’ she muttered, glancing towards the driver, who was separated from them by a thick glass screen.

‘It’s soundproof. Unless you press that button, our conversation remains private.’

She bit into her lip. ‘I just mean, we shared a bedroom back there. But in the palace…’

Octavio’s eyes darkened. ‘It was your decision not to share a bed at the palace before. On our honeymoon, it was your decision to change that. And when we get back, it will still be your decision.’

It was an answer that wasn’t an answer, and it didn’t tell her what he wanted.

She looked towards the side window, watching as the countryside zipped past in a blur of brightly coloured fields and then shocks of green—the vines lush and overgrown as the summer sun did its work to fatten and sweeten the grapes this country was famous for—and in her stomach she felt a tightening knot of frustration.

She’d come to Castilona in a knee-jerk reaction to Christopher’s betrayal. She’d come here because she’d always wondered about this place, because she’d felt alone and adrift. She’d come here seeking family and connection, wanting to learn about her father and to understand a part of who she was.

Instead, she’d met Octavio. There were times when they were together that made her feel as though none of that mattered.

Nothing mattered that had come before—there was only them, a moment, a shared consciousness, almost. But then reality intruded, and she was reminded of all the reasons this would remain a carefully navigated partnership rather than a true relationship.

The fact they were sleeping together couldn’t be allowed to derail the fact that neither of them wanted the complications of anything more serious.

‘If we were to share a room,’ she said, turning back to face him, ‘it wouldn’t change anything, would it?’

The relief in his face was palpable. He reached across and took her hand. ‘No. It couldn’t.’

She felt something strong and sharp inside of her. She wanted to believe it was a sense of relief, but it didn’t feel or taste like it. This was a bitter sensation, spreading through her and leaving emptiness in its wake.

But she was the one who wanted to be sure they were taking care. Sleeping with him didn’t mean she trusted him; it didn’t mean she would ever let her guard down with him. How could she, after what Christopher had done to her?

‘Well, we can’t really have the King sleeping on the sofa for the rest of his life,’ she pointed out, as though it were simply a matter of logistics.

‘There are other apartments we can move to. Bigger, with extra bedrooms…’

‘We’re going to need extra bedrooms,’ she reminded him, gesturing to her stomach.

‘A few extra,’ he agreed.

Her insides felt all squishy. She might never risk her heart again, at least not in the romantic sense, but she would fiercely love and protect their children and give them absolutely everything in life. She would no longer be alone. She would no longer feel adrift.

‘Yes, a few,’ she agreed.

‘But not one for me?’

Her eyes locked to his. It felt like an important question, as though it required an important, thought-out answer, but in the end, it was simple.

She shook her head, because there was not a single doubt in her mind that when it came to their marriage, the physical side of it was something she couldn’t—and didn’t want to—fight.

Octavio felt as though he could run ten marathons.

He felt as though he could box with a wild bear and win.

He felt as though he was a king not just of Castilona but of everyone everywhere.

Power thrummed through his veins as he stared down at his wife’s passion-ravaged face, her eyes huge, her cheeks flushed, and he had a primal, animalistic thrill because he had done that.

He had caused her voice to grow hoarse from screaming his name, had caused her to run her nails down his back as though wanting to draw blood and reclaim her sanity.

And when his own pleasure had burst through him, it had been like a wildfire, totally untamed, all-encompassing, dangerously addictive.

Danger?

He pushed the word aside. There was no danger here.

Phoebe was his wife. She was his country’s queen, the mother of the children they were expecting.

She was his lover. She was many things to him, but none of them represented danger.

Each aspect was separate, easily contained, kept distinct from the other, and he would never allow the lines to blur.

It was the key to a successful marriage, he was sure of it.

He pulled away from her with regret, but only for a moment.

He fell onto his back, the sheets crisp beneath him, and then drew her to his chest, enjoying the feeling of her soft skin against his, her breathing as she exhaled, her breasts crushed to his side.

Even her stomach was sensual, growing with the lives he’d put there.

Something like euphoria burst through him.

It had been a long time since Octavio had felt that everything in his life was going to work out, but with Phoebe at his side and the babies she was growing in his future, he felt a level of complacency he hadn’t known in a long time.

Since his parents had died and Rodrigo had been banished.

Since Mauricio had taken over his life.

He stroked her spine slowly, gently, wondering if she would fall asleep? It was late, but he wasn’t tired. In fact, he was the opposite—energised after the return from their honeymoon and this—their first night in the palace as a married couple.

It had gone so well.

A shared dinner, during which she’d asked questions about Castilona and its history, the palace and its importance, his goals for the country’s future. Her eyes had zipped with excitement, so he’d felt her shared love for this place, despite the fact she’d only been here a matter of months.

What did that matter?

Castilonian blood ran through her veins and that side of her was just waking up, stirring to life.

She was Queen of a country to which she belonged but had never known—Octavio could certainly help fix the latter.

They agreed that dinner would be a time to strengthen her understanding of Castilona.

Though she had tutors, their lessons covered the basics in an academic sense, whereas Octavio spoke with passion and duty, with the loyalty and love of a man raised to rule.

Phoebe had seemed completely swept up in his stories, and he’d enjoyed that feeling, too.

Afterwards, she’d stood and held her hand out to him, inviting him with that simple gesture, but also with her eyes, which seemed almost to plead with him…

and he’d pleaded right back, until they were riding a wave of ecstatic contentment together, bodies entwined, pleasure wrapping around them, through them, in a way they both needed.

‘Octavio.’ She tilted her face, so he felt her eyes on his features. His breathing was still rough, his chest moving with each inhalation. ‘May I ask you something personal?’

He continued to stroke her back, ignoring the flicker of wariness in the pit of his gut. Why shouldn’t she ask him whatever she wanted? They were married, he’d already shared things with Phoebe that he hadn’t intended to and the world hadn’t stopped spinning.

‘Of course,’ he said, his voice easy, hiding his initial reaction to her entreaty.

‘After your uncle sent Rodrigo away, where did you live?’

It was the last thing he’d been expecting, and yet it shouldn’t have surprised him. He’d glossed over his childhood, and yet someone as astute as Phoebe must have wondered.

Nonetheless, he tried to keep emotion out of his voice. ‘I was moved to a smaller palace, in the south.’

‘Why?’

His smile was a ghost of that expression, laced with the kind of bitterness even time couldn’t dull.

‘He said it was to shield me from the press, from my grief. But in removing me from this palace, he removed me from everything that was familiar, everything that reminded me of my parents. And he surrounded me with new people. New staff, new tutors. A nanny he’d hired.

’ The final sentence he spoke with undisguised resentment.

‘You didn’t like her?’