Prince's Son of Scandal

Trella looked up and saw Xavier staring at her like her hair was made of snakes.

It was the most humiliating moment of her life. She couldn’t make it worse by having her sister come to her like she was a child. Couldn’t.

“No.” She turned back to her phone. “You’re married now. You have to stay with Kasim.”

“He understands. I’ve already sent someone to tell him and prepare the helicopter.”

It sounded so outlandish. What other person had family flying in from all corners to save her from imaginary threats?

“No, Gili.” She managed to sound firm, even though turning away her sister felt like plunging a knife into her own chest. “I don’t want you to come. I mean it.”

“Bella,” her sister breathed as though she’d felt the knife, too, in the back.

“I have to learn, Gili. I have to. I’m going to hang up and I’ll call you later—”

“Wait! Let me speak to the Prince. He needs to understand.”

Since there was no way Trella could explain it herself, she pushed the phone toward him.

“It’s a panic attack,” Gili said. “She doesn’t need drugs or a hospital or strangers making her relive why this is happening. She needs to feel safe. Is there a hotel where you can secure a room? I don’t mean book one. I mean secure it.”

“We’ll be at the palace in ten minutes.”

“Good. Get her into a quiet bedroom, keep the lights low, blinds down, guards at the door. She needs to let it run its course without fearing people are going to see her. Keep her warm and whatever she says, remind her she’s safe. If you can’t stay with her, I’ll come.”

“I’ll stay with her.” His voice was grim. He handed back the phone.

She ended the call, mortified by how needy her sister had made her sound. Appalled because it was true. She hadn’t tried to weather a spell on her own since they had first started. It had been a disaster.

Nevertheless, she screwed up her courage, pressed the phone between her breasts, and spoke some of the hardest words that had ever passed her lips. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

She held her breath, dreading the prospect of going it alone.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight until that baby is born.”

The harsh words jarred, taking her brief flash of gratitude and coating it in foreboding.

CHAPTER SIX

XAVIER HAD THE car drive to the postern gate, where delivery trucks and other utility vehicles came in. They took a lane through the back garden to the private apartments. It was a longer, slower, but much more discreet entrance into the palace built by a king three hundred years ago.

Did coming in this way also allow him to avoid Mario and any mention of his grandmother’s expectation that he present himself? A man did what he had to for the mother of his unborn child.

Xavier didn’t do emotion. Fits and tempers were signs of poor breeding. He’d been taught that from an early age. When women became histrionic, he offered space.

Not possible today. And as much as he wanted to hold himself apart from the way Trella was behaving, he couldn’t. She was shaking, hair damp at her temples, eyes darting. When he helped her from the car, she clung to his sleeve and looked to every shadow.

It was unnerving. Even stranger, her sense of threat put him on guard.

He kept reminding himself this was a panic attack, something he knew very little about except that it was a false response. Nevertheless, her fear provoked a very real primal need in him to offer protection. His heart pounded with readiness and he scanned about as they moved, fingers twitching for a weapon. He’d never experienced such an atavistic, bloodthirsty reaction. He was not so far removed from his medieval ancestors as he had imagined. He was completely prepared to shed his cloak of civility and slay if necessary.

Staff leapt to their feet as they walked through the kitchen. He said nothing, only pulled her into the service elevator.

Gunter came with them, frowning as he saw how distraught she looked. “Are you in pain?” He tried to take her pulse.

Trella shrank into Xavier.

“Leave her alone.” He closed his arms around her. Her firm bump nudged low on his abdomen, reminding him that her panic attack was only the tip of the iceberg where this confounding day was concerned.

His valet, Vincente, met them as they entered his apartment. Xavier had moved into his father’s half of the rooms when he’d finished university and never even glanced toward the adjoined feminine side, but it was kept dusted for the ghosts of past queens.

He pressed Trella toward the canopied bed of gold and red then started to close the doors, telling Vincente, “I’m locking us in. Leave sandwiches in my lounge. If I need anything else, I’ll text. No one comes in here. No one.”