The Prince’s Secret Twins (Al-Sintra Family #2)

Chapter 1

The sharp crack of the slap shattered the air, tearing Joran Al-Sintra, Crown Prince of Lativa, from his thoughts. He staggered back in surprise, even though the slap didn’t hurt. It was the raw, unexpected force of the reaction that left him reeling in disbelief. The woman before him, dark eyes blazing with an unspoken fury, seemed like a tempest barely contained.

Perplexed, Joran scooped Tila into his arms and carried her into the quaint house she had inherited from her grandmother. As he turned to shut the door, his attention was caught by the chaos of her once-pristine garden. What had previously been a picturesque haven for berries and nuts now resembled more of a tangled jungle. The blackberry canes, once elegantly arching over the sidewalk, seemed to have taken on a life of their own, while the hazelnut bushes appeared to have had a run-in with a particularly mischievous squirrel. Even the fig trees, usually standing with a semblance of order, now looked as though they were plotting their escape. Whatever had happened in Tila’s life, it had turned her yard into a wild, unruly kingdom.

And his woman had also transformed into someone he didn’t recognize. Joran’s stomach clenched at the additional evidence that something was wrong. Someone had hurt Tila. Clenching his jaw tightly, he kicked the door shut and carried his woman into her small den.

That’s where he found more evidence that something was seriously wrong.

Amidst the disarray, piles of laundry towered like precarious skyscrapers, each heap teetering between the realms of cleanliness and questionable hygiene. A laundry basket in the corner raised suspicions, resembling more of a makeshift bassinet, while blankets strewn across the floor played host to a chaotic congregation of baby toys, as if a tiny rebellion had taken place in the midst of the domestic chaos. It was a scene straight out of a sitcom, where order had long since surrendered to the whims of entropy—and perhaps a mischievous infant or two.

The realization struck Joran like a bolt of lightning. Was Tila babysitting someone's child? It would certainly explain the scattered toys and laundry chaos. After all, Tila was known for her boundless generosity and willingness to lend a helping hand to anyone in need. Her heart overflowed with love for anyone she encountered, making it entirely plausible that she had opened her home to care for another's little one.

Before the upheaval in Lativa nearly eleven months ago, Joran had contemplated having a serious conversation with Tila. He felt the urge to caution her against being so overly generous, to warn her about the dangers of letting others take advantage of her kindness. Tila's eagerness to help knew no bounds, but Joran understood all too well that the world could be a harsh and unforgiving place. It was rife with individuals looking to exploit the unsuspecting, especially someone as altruistic as Tila, living alone in her own sanctuary.

With Tila cradled in his arms like a confused, overwhelmed kitten, Joran lowered himself onto the worn grey sofa, trying his best to navigate the precarious landscape of laundry mountains on either side. Settling Tila in his lap, he tightened his embrace, hoping to offer some semblance of comfort. But instead of calming her, his attempts seemed to amplify her sobs. It was a scene straight out of a melodramatic soap opera, with Joran playing the role of the bewildered hero, lost amidst a sea of chaotic laundry and overwhelming, unexplainable emotions.

Despite her current disheveled state, looking like she'd wrestled with a tornado and lost, Joran was still highly aware of his inexplicable attraction to Tila. It was a puzzle he'd never managed to solve. From the very first moment he’d laid eyes on her, there was an undeniable pull, a magnetic force drawing him to her, like a moth to a flame. He vividly remembered that surreal night when he’d found her conversing with her plants at midnight, a sight that had simultaneously bewildered and captivated him. While he and his special forces team were busy with covert operations, Tila was engaged in her own nocturnal rituals, oblivious to the chaos of the outside world.

During those adrenaline-fueled nights, when danger lurked around every corner, it was Tila who had become his sanctuary. She’d had a knack for taming the wild beast within him, soothing his restless soul with her gentle presence. Despite the dire risks in coming back, Joran had found himself irresistibly drawn back to her side, crossing borders and braving dangers, all for the chance to bask in her exhilarating aura one more time. It was as if she held the secret to his sanity, or perhaps just the key to his heart—though Joran suspected it was probably both.

And amidst the chaos of his mind, tangled with worries about his older brother Khal, it had been Tila who had occupied his thoughts more than his next breath over the past several months. It was a perplexing sensation, feeling like he’d been missing a limb without Tila in his life. While grappling with Khal's troubles over the past several months and navigating the complexities of his own life, Joran hadn’t been able to shake the absurd longing he’d felt for Tila, a longing that seemed to defy all reason and logic.

“It’s okay, love,” Joran soothed, rubbing a hand over her back, trying to calm Tila so that he could ask her what was wrong.

As he murmured words of comfort, Joran surveyed the scene, taking in the tumult that had overtaken Tila's once-orderly life. To his right, a towering stack of unopened mail stood like a monument to procrastination, threatening to topple at any moment. Some envelopes had already surrendered to gravity, scattering across the floor like confetti from a mailman's parade gone awry.

Joran couldn't reconcile the chaos surrounding him with the image of the responsible Tila he knew. After all, she was a small business owner who catered to her clients’ needs and requests with meticulous care. As a website developer, he understood the dedication and self-control that was required for remote work, yet Tila had managed to grow her business from scratch solely through word of mouth. It was a testament to her skill and reputation, each satisfied client becoming a beacon of praise for her talents.

But now, as he sat amidst the disarray of her home, it seemed like a glitch in the matrix. How could someone so organized and successful let things spiral so badly out of control like this?

The tension coiled tighter around Joran's chest as he grappled with the nagging question: What had happened to Tila? He couldn't shake the gnawing guilt that clawed at him, a reminder of his prolonged absence. He knew he had stayed away for far too long, but each attempt to steal a moment for a visit had been thwarted by some pressing matter, as if fate conspired to keep him away.

And it wasn't just a matter of dropping by for a casual visit. Tila didn't reside in Lativa; she lived across the border in Uftar, a country secretly governed by Prince Amit el Sandir —a formidable figure who commanded both respect and wariness. While Uftar wasn't openly hostile toward Joran's government, it certainly wasn't rolling out the welcome mat either. Joran couldn't afford to underestimate the complexities of crossing into Uftar, where every step carried the weight of political tension and potential danger.

Secretly, Joran harbored a grudging respect for Crown Prince Amit. The man had taken on his responsibilities around the same time Joran's father had tragically passed away, leaving Joran's older brother, Khal, in charge of Lativa. It had been a delicate dance of diplomacy and power dynamics, one that Joran and his brothers navigated with caution and a healthy dose of admiration for their Uftar adversary.

As Joran kneaded the tension from Tila's shoulders, he couldn't shake the sense of bewilderment that clung to him like a stubborn shadow. Here he was, tasked with making crucial military decisions for his brother, yet he found himself utterly perplexed when it came to unraveling the mystery of Tila's distress. What was he supposed to do now? His midnight visits to her place had come to an abrupt halt when he’d taken on the responsibility of aiding his brother. It was a sacrifice he had made willingly, but now he grappled with the consequences.

But amidst the constant rush of his duties, Joran couldn't ignore the undeniable pull he felt towards Tila. He couldn't bear the thought of not seeing her again, and he hated her current state of distress. She’d been his anchor in a stormy sea of uncertainty, his rock when the world seemed to crumble around him. Leaving her now, when she needed him most, was simply out of the question. After all, how could he abandon his woman when she was obviously in such turmoil? It was a conundrum that left him feeling torn between duty and desire, uncertainty clouding his every thought.

“It’s okay, love,” he whispered, then kissed the top of her head. “Everything is going to be okay. Everything is fine.” He looked at the pile of mail again and noticed the bank statement. Unopened. The bank statement was the account that Joran had set up for Tila. Looking around at the mess of her home, it was obvious that she hadn’t been spending the money he’d set up for her.

Her soft, sweet body shifted against him, pulling his focus away from the mail. He looked down at her, his heart aching at the puffy, swollen eyes. “Not…okay,” she whispered, then hiccupped and wiped her tears with one hand while the other remained fisted against his dark shirt. “Never okay again.” Those words, muttered in a hushed, tender voice, made his stomach clench even tighter.

Without warning, his beautiful, sweet, vibrant Tila began to relax. The torrent of sobs gradually subsided, and her head gently lolled against his shoulder. Joran felt a glimmer of hope that perhaps the worst was over, but as he looked down at her, he realized she had fallen asleep.

It was a moment of bittersweet relief. On one hand, the cessation of tears signaled a respite from her distress. On the other hand, the sight of her peaceful, sleeping form stirred an unexpected mixture of emotions within him. He couldn't help but marvel at her vulnerability, even in sleep, and the tenderness of the moment tugged at his heart.

As he watched over her, Joran's resolve solidified. No matter the challenges he faced or the sacrifices he had to make, he knew he couldn't bear to let Tila face her demons alone. She was his anchor, his sanctuary. He’d had to be away from her for too long. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t answered any of his text messages. He couldn’t leave her again. And now he was going to ensure her well-being, even if it meant navigating whatever the hell was going on in her life.

Still confused despite his resolve, Joran looked around, trying to find clues as to what had happened to his lovely Tila.

After several moments of looking around, Joran gently carried her into the bedroom. As soon as he entered the familiar room, he paused, shocked by additional evidence of whatever trauma she’d endured. Whatever had happened, maybe it was the reason she’d stopped communicating with him.

Amidst the chaos of Tila's disheveled bedroom, one thing immediately stood out: her obsession with a perfectly made bed. If Tila wasn’t in it, the bed was made. His Tila made a point of always having her bed made. However, the bed was currently a mess! The sheets were tangled while the soft, cotton blanket trailed onto the floor. There were towels on the floor and only one pillow perched precariously on top of the bed. Three other pillows were…nowhere to be found.

Where once her grandmother's hand-stitched quilts adorned the walls like cherished trophies, they now lay in disarray, in haphazard piles on the floor and the rumpled bed, as if staging a protest against their mistreatment. And more laundry! The clothes seemed to have declared a mutiny, taking up residence on the hardwood floors like an invasive species.

And then there was the velvet chair—an unlikely survivor amidst the wreckage of Tila's bedroom. Tila had told Joran the story about how she’d rescued it from the side of the road, a Cinderella story in the world of furniture. With her DIY skills on full display, she had transformed it from rags to riches, albeit with a few rough edges still lingering in the form of unfinished upholstery hidden on the back of the chair. But Tila had laughed off any criticism, her eyes sparkling with pride and amusement at her own handiwork. After all, who needed perfection when one had personality?

Laying her gently down on the bed, Joran plucked one of the quilts from the tangled mess on the floor and carefully laid it over her, tucking her bare feet tenderly under the blanket and kissing her forehead.

Once he’d straightened up, Joran looked down at Tila, noting how pale she was. She sighed in her sleep, then tucked her small hands under her cheek.

Joran stared at her for a long moment, remembering the way she’d slept with that cheek against his shoulder so many nights in the past.

Well, sleeping was a bit of a stretch. She’d rested in between bouts of making love with him. They’d been voracious for each other from the beginning and that need had never waned. In fact, the better he’d gotten to know Tila, the more his desire had grown.

Stepping out of the bedroom, he pulled the door nearly closed, then he went in search of answers.

Before Joran could take another step, a faint, unfamiliar sound emanated from the second bedroom, sending a shiver of alarm down his spine. He scanned the room, his mind racing to identify the source of the noise. Could there be an intruder? The thought ignited a surge of adrenaline, heightening his senses and sharpening his focus.

Instinctively, he reached for the pistol holstered at his side, tensing in anticipation. He contemplated calling for his guards, but the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins drowned out any rational thought. He relished the familiar thrill of danger, the electrifying sensation of being on high alert. It was a feeling he had sorely missed—the surge of adrenaline, the heightened awareness, the exhilarating dance with danger.

Every fiber of his being was primed for action, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, scanning for any sign of threat. In that moment, Joran was a predator, his instincts honed to a razor's edge, ready to confront whatever danger lurked in the darkness.

He heard the sound again. It was definitely coming from the second bedroom. Whoever was in there, the sounds didn’t seem…human. At least, those weren’t sounds that he’d ever heard from a human he’d ever met. It was more of a squeak or a squawk. A wild animal? Tila’s home had been her sanctuary and she’d worked hard to maintain the residence. But obviously her world had changed dramatically. The Tila he’d known would never let her home become this messy.

With stealthy precision, Joran approached the door to the second bedroom, each step a calculated maneuver in the shadowy game of cat and mouse. As he gently nudged the door open, his muscles tensed, poised for a potential battle. In that tense moment, he found himself teetering on the edge of anticipation, almost craving the rush of violence.

It was a familiar sensation, one he understood all too well. Joran was no stranger to the art of combat, adept at navigating the labyrinth of physical confrontation. In the face of danger, he found solace in the clarity of battle. Not that his bodyguards would allow it. Not anymore.

In a strange twist of fate, the prospect of a physical skirmish held a certain allure—a welcome distraction from the bewildering chaos of Tila's unexpectedly disheveled home and the enigma of her distress. Amidst the clutter and confusion, the prospect of a straightforward brawl offered a brief respite, a temporary escape from the tangled web of emotions that had ensnared him.

With a nudge, the door swung open with eerie silence, revealing the dimly lit room cloaked in shadows. Joran's heart hammered against his ribs as he scanned the room, trying to pierce the darkness. But what he saw didn't quite compute—the room was furnished with not one, but two beds, a bizarre juxtaposition that added to the surreal horror unfolding before him. He struggled to reconcile the potential threat with the incongruous setting, a blend of fear and absurdity churning in his gut.

That’s when he heard it again—the strange squawk followed by a barely noticeable movement. His gaze dropped lower and there it was—a sight that nearly sent him stumbling backward in disbelief.

A tiny bundle squirmed in the crib, barely visible in the dim light. Joran blinked, trying to process what he was seeing. Holy hell, was that...a baby?!

The absurdity of the situation threatened to overwhelm him, a bizarre mix of horror and humor playing out in the cramped confines of Tila's bedroom. Here he was, a trained warrior, caught off guard by the most unexpected of adversaries—a squirming bundle of innocence amidst the chaos of the cruel, unforgiving world.

Joran stared at the tiny bundle in the crib, struggling to comprehend the surreal scene unfolding before him. Had that baby really made the sound? Or was there some other threat still hiding amidst the shadows? His grip tightened around his firearm in a futile attempt to regain control in the face of the inexplicable.

But as he scanned the room in a desperate bid to assess the threat, his gaze landed on the second crib. Within it was another baby, peacefully slumbering, oblivious to the world around them. The juxtaposition of the two infants—one awake and wiggling, the other asleep and serene—was both unsettling and strangely comical.

Joran stared. Two babies, seemingly conjured out of thin air, had materialized in Tila's house. It was like a twisted nightmare, one that he couldn't wake up from no matter how hard he pinched himself.

Glancing over his shoulder at the closed bedroom door, a realization dawned on him. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly falling into place. Tila wasn't just a victim of chaos—she was babysitting someone's kids for extra cash. The absurdity of it all threatened to tip him over the edge into hysterical laughter, but the horror of the moment kept him rooted in stunned silence.