Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
A MNESIA .
Such a simple cluster of letters for a profound, life-changing turn of events. As an immutable safeguard, considering he was heir to a powerful throne, a DNA test to establish true paternity was unquestionably necessary. The doctor’s credentials and connection to Eden would also need to be verified.
But Azar knew .
He’d known the second he looked into the boy’s eyes.
Hell, he’d known it from fifty yards away as he’d sat frozen in the back of his SUV at the cemetery, watching Eden and the toddler placing flowers on his friend’s grave.
He had a son.
Abstractedly, he praised his strict palace childhood tutors for his ability to keep standing, breathing, reasoning when waves of shock threatened to drown him. When an avalanche of possibilities unravelled, pure and urgent, wrapping around his soul with the promise of doing things differently, of being the parent he’d always yearned for as a child—a desire he’d believed he’d rid himself of years ago.
Every instinct screamed at him to stalk next door, drop to his knees and just… stare at the beautiful child he’d help create.
And the boy was beautiful. If nothing else, Eden Moss had given him a healthy son…
‘Is my son well? Healthy?’ he asked, with a compulsion he couldn’t deny.
Her breathing stalled completely. ‘What are you talking about? He…he’s not yours—’
‘He is.’ He knew it to his very core. ‘He has the Domene eyes. He is mine.’
She lost a shade of colour, but even in her shock Eden Moss remained stunning. Eye-catching in a way he couldn’t believe still had such a raw effect on him, considering everything she’d done.
But that was an issue to be tackled later.
He turned on his heel and headed for the door.
‘Where are you—? Are you’re leaving?’
He clenched his teeth at the naked hope in her voice. Had it been anyone else, he would have felt a sliver of sympathy.
Every Domene since the fiery birth of Cartana half a millennia ago had sealed the formidable reputation of the European kingdom.
Those who’d imagined they might subsume or conquer the relatively small land mass sharing its borders with Spain, France and Italy had quickly learned that size mattered not one iota.
Enemies had been dispatched with brutal efficiency until its dominance had been widely and thoroughly accepted and respected.
These days the Domene men attempted to slap a veneer of civility and sophistication over their outward dealings on the world stage. But behind closed doors…in a matter such as discovering the next heir to the throne of Cartana was living in a squalid one-bed apartment in the back alleys of the world’s most decadent city, being raised by a woman who’d shown him the true meaning of duplicity…
Mercy was non-existent in the potent gaze he levelled at her.
‘No, Eden Moss. I’m not leaving. I’m going next door to see my son. To speak to him. To touch him for the first time.’
The words launched a seismic wave through him, changing his very essence from the inside out.
‘You can come with me, or you can stay here and pack your things. Either way, when I leave here in the next hour he’s coming with me.’
Her lips had parted with his first words. By the time he was finished her delectable mouth was gaping, the weight of his resolution widening her eyes.
And perhaps he wasn’t completely heartless, because that sliver of sympathy did flash through him. But he killed it in the next instant, when she blinked, then stepped determinedly towards him.
‘No. Wait!’
He didn’t. A simple equation had supplied his son’s age, reminding him of every small and big milestone he’d lost.
More than two years.
He’d never got to see his son take his first step. Hear his first word.
Dulce cielo.
Urgency propelled him down the corridor, and one bodyguard swiftly opened the elderly woman’s door. He entered the apartment and saw him—Max—tucked into a highchair, carefully setting down a cup that contained what looked like milk.
A plastic plate containing the remains of cut-up pancakes and fruit sat on a coloured mat decorated with prancing fish. His chin, mouth and cheeks were liberally sticky with some sort of syrup, but it was the cheeky grin of enjoyment on his face that wedged Azar’s breath in his solar plexus.
His son looked up. Azar saw the hint of a cleft in his chin, deepening the certainty in his soul that he was looking at his son and heir.
The urgency of that mandate pounded harder—to do better than had been done to him. To ensure his flesh and blood lacked for nothing emotionally. And, yes, he wasn’t entirely certain how he would achieve that, seeing as he’d often been referred to as ‘the Cold Crown Prince’, and hadn’t entirely rejected that moniker, especially when it served his purpose. But didn’t he thrive on the direst challenge?
He’d suffered a cold and distant mother who, despite being Queen, had been determined to wage a war of attrition on the woman she’d seen as her rival, and a father seemingly unwilling or unable to mediate in that war, resulting in his sons, especially Azar, being perennially caught in the crossfire. And hadn’t there been times past when he’d wondered whether the fallout of those battle wounds had ever healed? Enough to overcome his bitterness long enough to forge a half-decent marriage when the time came?
Only to conclude that it wouldn’t matter in the end. That all he needed was to ensure any prospective spouse and queen understood there would be strict intolerance of melodrama or vitriol.
If that directive had to be adjusted now, in respect of how he believed he’d tackle fatherhood, at the unexpected appearance of his flesh and blood, then by God he would rise to the challenge.
He dragged himself from the past to see Max’s grin had begun to slip—until he looked past Azar and it re-emerged.
Azar didn’t need to look behind him to know Eden had followed hot on his heels. She zipped past him, sending him a wary look before she positioned herself defensively next to her— their —son.
‘Mama! Pancakes!’ the boy exclaimed.
She brushed her hand over his curls and leaned in to kiss his cheek. ‘They look yum-yum! Are they good?’
‘Yum-yum,’ he concurred.
Azar made a note to supply him with as many pancakes as he could handle. The boy picked up a plastic fork, speared one square and started to offer it to his mother—then froze at Azar’s stare.
‘Maybe you should sit down? Let’s take the…tension down a notch?’ her shrewd neighbour said, her gaze darting between them.
As much as he wanted to scoop up the boy and hightail it to his private plane, he took a beat and paced away exactly three steps. He couldn’t stomach a greater distance.
He might be able to call upon his diplomatic immunity status for many harmless things, but he was certain the authorities would frown upon him prising his son from his mother’s arms. Not to mention the scandal and stress it would cause his homeland and his ailing father.
The father from whom Azar couldn’t quite maintain his customary cold detachment, despite the unsettling dysfunctionality that had marred his formative years.
So he curbed the urgency rampaging through his blood, pulled out a chair that didn’t look as if it would support his weight and sat.
‘Coffee?’ the neighbour asked.
About to shake his head, he met her steady stare and changed his mind. It was obvious she cared about Max. This might go smoother if he chose sugar instead of vinegar. ‘Sí, gracias.’
Her eyes widened at his response, then her cheeks flushed lightly as she rose to fetch a cup.
Eden glared and he curbed the smile, welcoming the tiny distraction. Until his son’s gaze found his again and he was thrown into a vortex of unfamiliar emotion.
He wasn’t sure how long he stared. At some point his coffee was placed before him. He sipped it, smoothly hiding his grimace at the poor taste.
But everything and everyone else might have ceased to exist, for all he cared. Well, everyone bar Max’s mother. Her mother hen act was hard to ignore. Not to mention the allure that had captivated him three years ago, which remained potent enough to drag his gaze repeatedly to her.
That was how he knew she was stretching out the moment. Delaying the inevitable.
He put an end to that by draining his cup five minutes later and staring pointedly at her.
A faint flush rose in her cheeks as she grabbed a napkin, cleaned the boy up, then started to gather the dirty plates. At his nod, one of his bodyguards stepped forward and relieved her of them, took them to the tiny kitchen.
Azar rose. ‘Thank you for the breakfast, Mrs Tolson. We’ll take our leave now.’
‘No thanks needed. Max is adorable. Eden’s doing a great job raising him.’
The clear warning and pointed endorsement triggered a dash of admiration and respect for the old woman.
Not so much Ramon, who visibly bristled. ‘You need to address His Highness correctly when speaking to—’
Azar held up his hand. ‘We’ll let it slide this once, Ramon.’
This woman had looked after and fed his son, after all.
His gaze slid to Max, who now clung to his mother, one hand fisted in her hair. ‘Shall we?’
Another flare of rebellion lit her eyes and, maldita sea , it shouldn’t feel this hot to be locked in silent battle with her. A battle she conceded after ten seconds, her feet gliding gracefully across the floor towards him.
As he turned to head out, he was too busy suppressing his suddenly inappropriately roused libido to heed the whispered conversation between the women. But he breathed easier when Eden reassured the older woman with a murmured, ‘It’s all right. I’ll be fine.’
She might not be entirely fine—not if he discovered even a crumb of misinformation in her narrative. But that was an issue for later.
At her door, he met her intensified glare. Skin tingling, he was startled to admit he hadn’t felt this enlivened since— In a long while. The dark gloom surrounding his father’s illness had dimmed his already sombre temperament. That was why he hadn’t had a liaison in several months.
Only his brothers’ insistence on keeping their birthday tradition had placed him on the royal jet to Vegas a few days ago.
To think if he hadn’t come he would never have discovered this life-changing event that had come and gone without so much as a butterfly’s wing fluttering against his skin, never mind the sonic boom it deserved.
The enormity of it firmed his resolve.
‘You have half an hour left.’
‘You can’t just toss about edicts and uproot Max from the only home he’s ever known. I won’t allow it!’
His eyes shifted to his son and a different tingling overcame him. He wanted to touch him. Hold him. But what she’d said needed addressing first.
‘You claim you don’t remember—’
‘It’s not a claim—it’s the truth,’ she hissed, then smoothed a hand down the boy’s back when he whimpered.
He swallowed a growl of frustration. ‘Very well. You’ve had a little time to absorb the fact that he’s the future heir to the Cartana throne. But, as much as I’m sure you would prefer swathes of time to come around to the idea, unfortunately it doesn’t work that way. As we speak there will be several media entities wondering what I’m doing here. It’s only a matter of time before the paparazzi arrive and camp outside this apartment building, hounding your neighbours and digging through your trash.’
It was a slight exaggeration, since he’d been meticulous about evading the media, if only for a short time, because those bloodhounds could sniff out news buried on an asteroid circling the Milky Way. But he intended to use every tool in his arsenal to move things along quickly.
Far be it from him to turn histrionic, but destiny itself pounded at him. And he wouldn’t be denied.
‘Is that what you want for yourself? For him?’ he prodded softly.
She sucked in a shaky breath, her eyes darkening with a swirl of emotion. Her soothing hand had worked, but his clever son could clearly sense the tension in the air, and was watching him with an intensity Azar silently applauded.
Now that he’d delivered the unsettling scenario, he was prepared to relent. Just. ‘Pack what you will both need for the day. We’ll return to my hotel.’
For now.
‘Then what?’ she parried wisely.
He shrugged. ‘I’ve already delayed my return home for a day. I can probably toss in another. That should be enough time for you to wrap your head around the fact that your life isn’t going to remain the same. No matter how much you wish it.’
* * *
To her credit, she was packed in fifteen minutes. Although judging from the meagre things she’d glumly thrown into a backpack, she didn’t intend for it to be a long-term outing.
Azar stifled his objections, reminding himself that Max was his responsibility too now, and whatever the boy needed would be more than adequately provided for.
‘You don’t have a car seat?’ he asked.
Her delicate jaw tightened. ‘I don’t have a car.’
That explained why they’d walked back from the cemetery.
He turned to his chief of security. ‘Ramon—?’
‘Already taken care of, Your Highness. I suspected we might need one and sent Alfredo out to get it. It’ll be here presently.’
This was the reason he’d kept his childhood friend on as the head of his royal guard, even after his brother Valenti had started a very successful security consultancy, and he always excused Ramon’s occasional grumpiness and rigid sticking to protocol.
He nodded his thanks. Then at last he approached his son, where he sat on the carpet, playing with a giraffe and a tower of Lego.
Crouching down next to him, he caught the faint baby scent mixed with talcum powder. A scent that was instantly imprinted on his senses for ever.
‘May I?’ he muttered to Eden.
He saw her swallow before, eyes wide, she assented with a tiny nod.
Azar reached out, touched the thick curl resting at his son’s temple. Smooth. Springy. Then he moved his hand lower, over his warm, soft skin.
A shudder went through him.
Then more powerful, alien emotions invaded his very bones.
A need to protect. To cherish. To claim . In a way he’d never been cherished nor claimed. With affection and acceptance—not out of militant duty and obligation because of the title destiny had thrust upon him.
Max glanced up, stared solemnly, and then, with a smile breaking out on his cherubic face, he held up his toy. ‘Giwaffe?’
‘ Sí …yes. Giraffe. He’s very handsome,’ Azar murmured, lying through his teeth.
The toy was worn to the point of being tattered, but it was clear it was much loved. He tossed a trip to the toy store into his immediate itinerary as he indulged himself with another caress of his son’s cheek. Obsession bloomed, and he felt his heart pounding as emotions filled every corner of his consciousness.
He was a father.
‘Prince…um…?’
‘Your Highness.’
His head snapped up. Ramon stood a respectful distance away, holding the car seat. Eden stood next to him, rebellion and apprehension sparking in her eyes.
He’d been completely lost in his son’s presence and he didn’t feel one iota of guilt. Going one better, Azar wrapped gentle hands around Max and stood, his small, precious weight making Azar inhale shakily.
‘Are you ready to go an adventure, Max?’ he asked.
The wide silver-grey eyes he’d seen reflected at him since childhood—from his father, and in recent years from his brothers—blinked at him.
‘Out?’
‘Out,’ he confirmed thickly, moving to the door.
He only realised he was holding his breath when it was released at hearing Eden’s footsteps behind him.
Five minutes later, as they were pulling away, a previous thought returned, demanding an answer.
‘Earlier, you mentioned being threatened by Nick’s people. Did you tell them about Max? That you thought he was Nick’s?’
The very idea of anyone else attempting to claim his son lanced jagged fury through him.
There was a moment’s hesitation, then she shook her head. ‘I thought about it, but I didn’t in the end.’
Her eyes flickered, then her lashes swept down as a wave of heat coloured her cheeks. Azar was faintly amazed she could still blush.
‘I wanted my memories to return,’ she continued. ‘To be absolutely sure.’
He suppressed the peculiar sensation whistling through him at being so forgettable to a woman—an unheard-of thing before this one, whether by design or accident.
Instead, he dwelled on her answer. Commended her for it, in fact.
Because he knew what she meant.
There were those who knew better than to pick a fight with the powerful Domene family and a kingdom like Cartana. But a few had tried to slap false paternity on Azar, thinking they could use the widely known circumstances of his birth to their advantage. They’d soon learned the folly of that.
He was secretly thankful that Eden had waited. The last thing he needed with his father’s ill health was for his grandson’s paternity to be gossip fodder.
‘A wise decision. It’ll prevent any unpleasant publicity.’
Unreadable emotion flicked across her face, then she turned away to fuss over their son. The urge to cup her chin and redirect her gaze bit at him. He forestalled it, plucking out his phone and placing the first of many calls in the fifteen minutes it took them to arrive at the discreet entrance of his five-star hotel.
Once he had the nod from Ramon, he plucked his son from the car seat and entered the private elevator that shot them up to a floor reserved solely for his use.
‘About damn time you turned up.’ The deep voice echoed from the royal suite’s living room. ‘Not sure what you’re playing at, but pulling a no-show isn’t cool. I don’t care if you’re the Crown Prince or not.’
Azar stifled a groan. He’d forgotten about his brothers and their brunch plans today. Hell, he’d relegated every damn thing to the go to hell list the moment he’d seen Eden and the toddler at the cemetery.
Now, as he carried his son into the room, he watched his brothers’ shrewd gazes flit from him to Eden to Max. Then stay on Max. Lingering for long moments and seeing the exact thing he had the moment he’d seen his son up close.
They both grew slack-jawed with shock.
‘Holy—’
* * *
‘Watch it. Young ears and curse words don’t mix, brother.’
Eden watched the slimmer of the two men shove at the hand that had covered his mouth before he’d released the curse.
Azar Domene’s half-brothers—the ones the Crown Prince had spent most of last night with out on the terrace during his birthday party. The two other parts of the trio every red-blooded woman had ogled and whispered feverishly about throughout the event.
Their combined magnetism had cautioned her to stay away from them the moment she’d spotted them on arrival. And she’d almost succeeded.
She couldn’t remember their names, but she’d come across many articles about them on the internet while looking up Nick’s accident—especially the talkative one who ran a renowned haute couture label.
She recalled him being a little wild—a playboy who attracted women likes flies to a feast. Not that the identical brother didn’t command the same attention, but his was a brooding, jarring sort of intensity, unlike the Crown Prince’s fiery, magnetic force field that gripped and compelled and didn’t let go no matter how much you tried.
‘Are you just going to stand there, Your Highness ? Or are you going to introduce us?’ the Playboy muttered.
He hadn’t taken his eyes off Max, and a peculiar expression drifted over his face when Azar moved closer to them.
It seemed anyone who met her son was completely enthralled by him. She understood the sentiment. Hadn’t she fallen deeply in love the moment the doctor had placed him in her arms? But their infatuation didn’t diminish the apprehension spiking through her.
She’d seen Azar’s reaction the moment he’d touched Max.
Had known without a shadow of a doubt that he was making irreversible plans where her son was concerned.
Just as she had seen and hadn’t been able to dismiss the clear resemblance between father and son…the inescapable reality that her suspicions last night had been correct.
Crown Prince Azar Domene of Cartana was the father of her child.
Which meant she’d had sex with this man at some point three years ago!
‘I know. He has the same effect on most women.’
She jumped at the mocking whispered comment and snatched her gaze from where it had latched on to Prince Azar, to find the Playboy a few feet away, his hand unfurled in greeting.
‘That’s enough, Teo,’ Azar grated.
‘Really? I’ve barely started.’ He stepped closer. ‘Let me formally introduce myself. I’m Teo Domene.’
She offered her hand and suppressed a gasp when he started to raise it to his lips. A thick rumble from Prince Azar made him freeze. He smiled and winked, before shaking her hand formally and releasing her.
‘Eden Moss,’ she murmured.
Before he could say anything else, the brooding one nudged him out of the way. He didn’t offer his hand, and his gaze was direct, but not as piercing as his brother’s. ‘Valenti Domene,’ he returned. Then, after a moment, ‘You’re Eden Moss.’ It wasn’t a greeting—more like a calibration of past events. ‘Three years ago. Arizona. The Magnis Club.’
‘The Magnis Club?’ she echoed dazedly. Then his words truly sank in, making her inhale sharply. ‘Wait… You know me? You remember me?’
His stare intensified. ‘Any reason why we wouldn’t?’
He opened his mouth, but Azar interrupted. ‘No, there isn’t.’ When both men turned to him, he said, ‘We’ll have to reschedule brunch. As you can see, there’s been a development.’
Both brothers’ focus switched to him, then to Max.
‘The understatement of the century. But understandable,’ Valenti rasped. ‘Is he well?’ he asked gruffly.
Eden barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes as Teo held up his hands.
‘No. Wait… You can’t just throw us out. I have so many questions,’ he protested.
‘They’ll have to wait. But you can say a quick hello to your nephew before you leave.’
The dizzying rollercoaster that had been revving up since Prince Azar had turned up on her doorstep took another one-eighty loop.
‘You don’t know yet that he’s yours,’ she blurted, voicing the same objection as before.
Three pairs of eyes swung her way.
Then Teo barked out a disbelieving laugh. ‘You’d have to have been living in a cave without internet access or to be stone-cold blind to mistake this angelic rascal as anyone but Azar’s.’ Approaching his brother, he smoothed a gentle finger down Max’s cheek, much as Azar had done. ‘How similar is he to that childhood photo of Azar at the same age, Valenti?’ he murmured softly.
‘Similar enough to fool my security software for a minute or two,’ his brother replied. ‘Show her.’
Teo dropped his hand long enough to fish out his phone. Within seconds he was striding back to her, displaying an image that made her heart jump in her chest.
Until that second, Eden had held out some half-hearted hope that the obvious wasn’t true. That once her memory returned there would be some far less overwhelming explanation for what was unfolding.
Reality battered her with hurricane force, driving home the fact that she really had—at some point—shared touches, kisses, bodies with this man. This man who, on paper, was so like her father—everything she abhorred about wealthy and powerful men and the way they wielded that power.
The way they only needed to snap their fingers to alter lives.
Like hers. Like her son’s.
And yet heat scorched her at their continued scrutiny and the thoughts cartwheeling through her head. Thoughts of what that moment— those moments —had been like.
Had she enjoyed it?
Had he blown her mind and she his?
Her nipples started to tighten, and she swiftly averted her gaze to her son. Her beautiful, caring, harmless son.
Who was now second in line to a European throne.
Stumbling to the nearest chair, she sank into it uninvited—protocol be damned. A moment later a glass of water was pushed into her hand, and she looked up into the eyes of Valenti Domene. His fierce examination had her murmuring quick thanks and refocusing her attention on the plush carpeting.
She didn’t care if she looked weak. She needed to get through the next few minutes, collect herself and plan her next move.
Because what Azar had suggested—that she and Max would never be going back home—was preposterous.
Wasn’t it?
‘Hasta luego, hermanos,’ Azar repeated pointedly.
Valenti was the first to move, pausing to slide Max a half smiling look before clasping his brother’s shoulder briefly. Then Teo repeated the gesture.
Seconds later, they were gone. And Azar was moving towards her.
Max reached for her, and Azar reluctantly handed him over. She’d hoped having him in her arms would focus her attention, but the compulsion she couldn’t seem to fight dragged her gaze to Azar’s again.
‘You’ll have to make a list of what he needs and I’ll make sure—’ He stopped when a knock came at the door, his nostrils flaring with displeasure. ‘Yes?’
A man slightly older than Azar entered, his steps slowing when he saw them. ‘Your Highness, I’ve made the alterations to your schedule, as requested. Do you need anything else?’
The Crown Prince hesitated for a second before he beckoned him in. ‘Eden, this is Gaspar—my private secretary. He’ll ensure the transition runs smoothly.’
Unlike the Prince’s brothers’, Gaspar’s face remained carefully neutral as he nodded to her. He was probably used to the eclectic demands of royalty.
‘I need you to draft a press statement to be released by the palace after I speak to my father and the royal council.’
‘Right away, Your Highness.’ The man’s gaze darted briefly to her, then to Max, before returning to his prince. ‘And the subject matter?’
Azar’s lips flattened for a moment. ‘I have recently discovered that I’ve fathered a son. He was born…?’ He raised his eyebrow at her.
Rebellion, and the stomach-hollowing reality that she was losing control of the situation, urged her to withhold the information. But she knew his clever minions would unearth it within the hour. In clipped tones she supplied it, then listened as he gave succinct instructions about the wording of his statement.
It was neither flowery nor stark. But it didn’t hide the naked truth despite withholding specific details. It merely stated that at some point three years ago he’d fathered a son, whose existence he hadn’t discovered before today. It left little doubt that Azar Domene intended to claim his son and proudly insert him into the dramatic fabric of his life, groom him to take the Cartana throne one day.
The raw facts shook her to the foundation of her soul, made the blood roar in her ears until it blocked everything else out.
‘You have objections?’
She looked up and realised that Gaspar had left. That she could freely express her deep reservations. ‘Of course I do. This is madness. You’re moving too fast.’
‘Let me guess: you’re still hellbent on insisting you have unbreakable ties to that apartment? Or to your mother, perhaps?’
Her insides chilled. ‘What do you know about her?’
He shrugged. ‘I would prefer you tell me. I don’t wish to harm your recovery by supplying information that might unduly distress you.’
A tiny, bewildering knot unwound inside her. This small display of consideration, so unlike any she’d known before, was certainly not something her father would’ve granted her mother under similar circumstances. But it meant nothing. It could very well be a lure to achieve his ends. She couldn’t risk lowering her guard around this man whose determination to wrest her son from her was anything but quiet and understated.
‘The last I heard from her two years ago, she was in a commune near Joshua Tree.’
She saw a layer of tension ease off him. ‘That ties in with what you told me about her being in California,’ he said.
Her eyes widened. ‘I told you that three years ago?’
He stared at her for moment, then nodded. ‘Now we’ve established she isn’t a mainstay in your life, what other hurdles do we need to overcome?’ he asked archly.
Irritation replaced bewilderment. ‘Please don’t belittle my concerns.’
‘Tell me you truly want to stay in this city, in that apartment, with my son, working menial jobs while an old woman who can barely stand up straight looks after him, and I’ll endeavour to take your concerns seriously.’
The accurate assessment of everything she’d yearned to better in her circumstances brought a guilty flush. But she wasn’t ready to give in. Not by a long shot.
‘Just because my circumstances aren’t as ideal or as rosy as yours, it doesn’t mean I’m going to you let you ride roughshod over the direction of my life.’
‘ Mi linda , I hate to remind you again, but you slept with a crown prince three years ago and bore his son. The only direction your life is going to take now, if you wish to put him first, is to secure his birthright. And making that happen involves him transitioning entirely to his fatherland and taking his rightful place as first in line to the throne.’
‘First? Don’t you mean second?’
The flash of bleakness in his eyes was searing. ‘No. I don’t.’
The gravity of that response, words uttered with no further elaboration, washed over her, and then settled deep to weigh her down.
‘What’s the hurry? If he’s first in line surely he can have a normal li—?’
‘No,’ he interjected forcefully. ‘He was born extraordinary. The quicker you wrap your mind around that, the better. Besides…’ His voice dropped, and further dark shadows rushed over his face. ‘There’s little time to lose.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
For a moment his sensual lips remained pursed. Then, dragging his fingers through his hair in an aberrant show of agitation, he said, ‘It means that my father’s health is failing. He’s abdicating in a matter of months. It means that our son will soon become first in line to the throne. I’ve already missed more than two years of his life. No more, Eden. You and I will take him home and we will do the right thing. So he can, with minimal turmoil, take his rightful place in due course as the Cartanian Crown Prince.’
And because she knew that influential, powerful men like him created their own versions of right and wrong, she insisted on clarification.
‘What exactly does “the right thing” mean?’
‘The only way my son can rightfully inherit the throne when the time comes is for us to be married.’