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Penelope sighs, pulling away from me. She puts her hands on either side of my face, pulling me down for a soft kiss. “You walked through fire and lived, Asher. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. In the few times I’ve seen Penelope, it’s like she understands my deepest fears. My greatest shame. And, amazingly, she doesn’t judge me for it.
Penelope smiles sadly, shaking her head. “I feel a lot of shame for never having given Xavier an heir. He died knowing I couldn’t give him the one thing he really wanted.”
“A child? Were you trying?”
Penelope lets out a snort. “Trying? We were desperate for it. I was desperate for it. We tried for many years. I…I’m infertile.” When her eyes meet mine, I see nothing but sadness in them. There are no tears, but it’s something deeper. An old wound that refuses to heal. Scar tissue so thick, it’s impossible to ignore. Penelope pinches her lips. “I have polycystic ovary syndrome,” she explains. “The doctors kept telling me there was nothing wrong with me because I was a healthy weight and things seemed normal. They couldn’t find anything wrong with me. But there were little things, you know. My cycle was messed up, and we found out later I wasn’t ovulating. I knew something was off. I let doctors push me around and tell me I was fine. I guess, I just…I never advocated for myself. Maybe if I’d known sooner, I could have done something. I don’t know what, because we tried every single fertility treatment we could find, but…”
My heart squeezes. I hold Penelope, my fingers sliding over the silky fabric of her robe. She doesn’t meet my eye. Tightness in my throat makes it hard to swallow, but I manage to take a full breath. “That’s not your fault, Pen.”
“And the fire wasn’t yours, but we still have to deal with the consequences, don’t we?” Her voice has sharp, jagged edges. She shakes her head, dropping her eyes. “Sorry.”
“Never apologize for speaking your mind.”
“It’s not something I’m supposed to do.” She grins. “I’m the Queen. I don’t have a mind of my own.”
“You have a mind, and it’s beautiful.” My voice is gruff as I sweep my finger over her cheek. Penelope closes her eyes, tilting her head toward me. She melts into me as if my touch is made of magic, as if there’s some connection between us that can’t be ignored.
I feel it, too.
“I wish you were here under different circumstances,” she whispers.
“What do you mean?”
“Not business related,” Penelope says, her eyes still closed. “So we could…spend time together.”
So there was no conflict of interest. So you didn’t feel like I’m using you to make a profit.
I hear her unsaid thoughts, and I want to respond. I want to tell her that I wish the same. I wish I’d had the courage to walk away from my father’s company so I could stand next to her. I wish I’d come to Nord without pretense, without needing a shroud of business to give me an excuse. I wish I hadn’t lied about Donovan. Lied by omission—but a lie is a lie, and this one hangs heavy on my mind.
I wish I’d had the courage to come to Nord simply because I wanted to see Penelope again—because after all, isn’t that the truth?
15
Penelope
Asher and I share a late night meal in the kitchen. It’s intimate and quiet and…nice. He makes me laugh when he teases me about my time at boarding school and makes my heart warm when I catch him glancing at me across the kitchen island.
I feel nothing like a monarch and I forget the responsibilities I’ll have tomorrow. For a few hours, I just…exist.
Then, with one last soft kiss, I head upstairs and disappear into my room. Lying in bed by myself isn’t where I want to be, but I know it’s what has to happen. After all, what happened in the kitchen felt special, but I have to remember who I am and why I’m here.
If word got out that I was sleeping with, well, anyone, it would cause a splash. But if word got out that I was sleeping with the man who had just been awarded the right to mine Nordish land? That would be more than controversy. It would taint not only my reputation as Queen, but put a stain on Asher’s reputation, too.
The best thing for me to do is stay away from Asher until the discontent in Nord subsides and the mining operation is well underway…but it doesn’t make it any easier to stay on my own. Asher’s the first person to make me feel almost whole.
I turn onto my side, hugging a pillow to my chest, enjoying the soft warmth that permeates my stomach. Closing my eyes, I do my best to push the thoughts of Asher out of my mind.
My team ushers me away from Asher’s house in the early hours. We say a rushed, polite goodbye, with nothing but a flash in Asher’s eyes to remind me of what we did last night. Then I’m whisked off to the plane and back to Stirling.
Once I’m home I feel somehow colder. I walk to my office and bury myself in work, asking not to be disturbed.
I don’t hear from Asher that day. Or the next.
Protesters still picket outside the castle gates, but their numbers seem to lessen. Then, on the third day after the official announcement of the mine, I turn on the television in my office to see Asher doing an exclusive interview with one of my greatest critics.
Jacinthe Crawley, the woman who wrote the front-page article on Asher, is on the screen. She’s a staunch abolitionist, wanting to strip me of my titles and make Nord a republic. With deep, black hair and angular features, she makes a striking image on the television.
