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I’m. Not. Pregnant.
It’s not possible.
My head shakes from side to side as my thoughts swirl around me like a hurricane. Dr. Williams takes a step toward me, holding his hands out as if he’s trying to calm a nervous animal.
“Ma’am, if there’s a chance—”
“I’m infertile.” I spit the word like a curse as my heart bangs against my chest. “I have PCOS. I don’t ovulate. It’s not possible. You know that, Doc. You know.”
“Yes, your fertility issues were caused by a lack of ovulation, Majesty,” the doctor says patiently, taking another step toward me. “If your menstrual cycle has become more regular and you’ve started ovulating, it’s perfectly possible for you to conceive.”
Eyes wide, I stare at the man before me. He has gray hair and glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and is wearing a shirt two sizes too big tucked into pleated trousers. He motions for me to sit down in the chair next to me and pulls out a chair of his own. Leaning an elbow on the desk, he folds his hands and lets out a small sigh.
“We need to rule out the possibility. With your fatigue, nausea, heartburn, and the timing of your last menstrual cycle, pregnancy is a possibility.”
I open my mouth, then close it to gulp, then open it again. Words…just won’t come.
My head is spinning. The doctor says something else, moving to his black satchel and producing a glass vial, tubing, and a sterile needle. I stare at him, seeing nothing.
The diagnosis for my infertility has weighed heavy on my spirit for a decade. It drove a wedge between Xavier and me, and it made me feel like a failure. I’ve dragged it around with me for years. I’ve woven my infertility into my very identity. The cold distance at which I keep people—that’s because I saw myself as empty. Barren. Broken. Failed.
I’ve never been a woman who can conceive, because I’m not a woman. I’m merely a queen. I’m a figurehead. A monarch.
But…
My heart clenches, and I shift my gaze to the floor. My eyes trace the intricate patterns in the Turkish rug at my feet, and I try to make sense of my thoughts. They fly through my fingers like fireflies, elusive. Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath. The doctor says something, but I don’t hear it.
His hand appears on my arm, and he starts tapping the inside of my elbow. He’s saying something else, but it sounds like it’s coming at me underwater.
I nod, knowing he needs to take my blood. He needs to confirm what I already know to be true: I’m not infertile. I’m not barren. I’m not a failure of a woman.
I’m pregnant with Asher Gerhard’s child.
20
Asher
I don’t like leaving Penelope’s room, and I hate how long it takes for her to come out. After an hour, I find myself in one of the sitting rooms in the palace, staring out at the mountain peaks in the distance.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I turn to see Rowan walking into the room. She’s carrying the baby in her arms, and there’s a soft smile on her lips. She looks…happy. Truly happy. Like her heart is at peace. She has bright eyes, and I can see in an instant why Wolfe fell in love with her. She has spirit.
She reminds me of Penelope, in a way. A strong woman with a mind of her own.
Rowan nods to the landscape. “I fell in love with it here as soon as I arrived, and that was the start of winter in one of the worst storms the palace has seen. I nearly died.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “It was a crazy time, but it led me here. To Wren.” She puts the child down, hanging onto his hands as he takes a few tentative steps. Rowan grins. “Lord help me when he truly learns to walk. It was a lot easier when I could just swaddle him and know he wouldn’t be running all over the place on me.”
I smile. There’s a strange clench in my chest as Wren breaks from his mother’s hands, making a run straight toward me. His chubby little legs run, head tipped forward, as if he’s seconds away from face-planting on the floor. He catches himself against my legs, falling back onto his bottom, giggling so hard spittle drips down his chin. Wren squeezes his little fists toward me, still laughing, until I bend down and pick him up.
“I think he likes you.” Rowan’s eyes soften as she takes her son’s hand in hers. She nibbles on his fingers, kissing every one, and Wren giggles harder.
Then, the boy leans over to me and leaves a sloppy kiss on the side of my cheek. I laugh, pulling away.
Rowan takes him from my arms and apologizes. “He hasn’t quite learned how to keep his saliva to himself. I swear this year, I’ve seen more bodily fluids than I ever thought possible. Motherhood isn’t pretty.”
