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I clutch my stomach, groaning. “It’s not my fault coleslaw looks like chunky, wet slop.”
With one hand on my lower back, Asher guides me to my chambers. He helps me into bed and sits beside me, holding my hand while we wait for the doctor.
After a few minutes of Asher staring at me like I’m about to drop dead right here in bed, I start laughing. “Asher, come on. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t like you being sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“You haven’t eaten right in days.”
“It’s heartburn.” I wave a hand dismissively, even though I’ve never gotten heartburn in my life. Sure, my appetite has decreased—but it’s not my fault food suddenly seems unappetizing. Maybe it’s all the sex we’ve been having. It’s messing with my hormones. After a seven-year dry spell, my body has no idea what’s happening.
Dr. Williams knocks on the door and walks in, his eyes flicking between me and Asher. He bows, then straightens, his kind blue eyes landing on my face. “Your Majesty,” he says in a slightly nasally voice. “I hear you’ve been unwell.”
“I’m fine. Just a bit of heartburn.”
Asher throws me a glance, but I ignore it. He puts his hand on my arm, running his thumb along my wrist. A small bubble of heat expands in my chest. His protectiveness—the fact that he cares—it’s…nice. It makes me feel like I’m not alone in the world for the first time in a long, long time.
I’m the head of state. I’m the leader of this country, and I have been since I was a little girl. To have someone by my side who isn’t serving me, but is standing next to me? That’s indescribable. It makes my heart sing.
The slow movement of Asher’s thumb continues as the doctor moves to the side of the bed. He checks my pulse, blood pressure, listens to my lungs. Asks me a few generic questions. Then, Dr. Williams glances at Asher. He clears his throat. “Your Majesty, could I have a word with you…alone?”
“I’m staying,” Asher grunts.
“Ash.” I shoot him a glance, popping my brows. “I’ll be fine. Why don’t you go see what Wolfe is doing?”
After a moment of grumbling, Asher lifts himself off the bed and pads out of the room. He looks at me one last time, scowling at the doctor. I want to shout at him that this was his idea. Getting the doctor to come check me out was all Asher, and he shouldn’t be mad it’s happening.
I can’t get the words out, though, because the sight of Asher’s grumpy face in the door makes my heart flip-flop all over my chest cavity.
When Asher steps out and the door latches quietly, the doctor turns his clear blue eyes to mine. “Ma’am,” he starts. “You said you’ve been nauseous for how long?”
I tilt my head, thinking. “A few weeks. Three, four, maybe? Five?”
He clears his throat, unhooking his stethoscope from his neck and folding it into a large front pocket. “And, excuse the personal question, Majesty, but…” He drops his voice. “Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”
I laugh. I literally start laughing, because after ten years of knowing I’m infertile, the thought of a baby growing inside me must be a joke. I tortured myself with Xavier, punished myself for my failure to bear children. Does Dr. Williams not remember that? Does he not remember all the newspaper articles asking about an heir? Does he not remember how devastated I was, how many weeks I spent in bed, how many heartbreaking procedures and failures I had to endure?
So I laugh, and laugh, and laugh, but the doctor just stares at me, waiting for me to answer.
I straighten up on the bed, shaking my head. “No. There’s no chance. I can’t have kids.”
“And your menstrual cycle has been regular?”
“It’s gotten more regular in the past couple of years, yes,” I answer, frowning. “It was all over the place when I was younger. Since I turned thirty it’s almost been like clockwork—” I stop talking, eyes widening. Ice fills my veins as all the blood drains from my face.
Yes, my periods were irregular when I was in my early twenties. They stayed irregular for years, until my cycle leveled out when I got older. I ignored it, mostly, because it wasn’t relevant to my life. Being infertile had become such a part of my identity—a painful part that took years to accept—I never considered it could change.
Clearing my throat, I swing my legs off the bed. “It’s been six or seven weeks since my last one,” I say all in a rush. I walk to the table on the other end of the room where a calendar sits. When was the last time I had a period? When I was in Farcliff? When I got back to Nord?
My heart hammers in my chest as my hands tremble. I flip through the calendar as if it’ll give me the answer, knowing full well that what the doctor’s saying rings true.
“Your Majesty,” he starts quietly. “Perhaps we could double-check.”
“It’s not possible.” I shake my head, spinning to face him. My eyes are wide, breaths short and sharp. There’s a pain in my chest as my heart squeezes. This feels a lot like panic.
I can’t be pregnant. I’m not able to get pregnant. I tried every single fertility treatment available to me, and none of them worked. I’ve come to terms with my infertility.
