Lone Prince (Royally Unexpected #7) - Lilian Monroe Page 0,71

on, heading for the kennels. I’m back on the dog sled within minutes, returning to the castle.

Even with the wind whistling past my ears, and the blue bird sky singing above, I feel the weight of my own loneliness. The sled flies over hard-packed snow and the dogs huff in front of me, running fast as they were meant to do, but it feels empty.

It just reminds me of Rowan. How bright her eyes shined when she sat in the sled for the first time. The mischievous little grin on her lips when she threw a snowball at me.

How is it possible to lose so much in such a short period of time? I wish I’d never met her. I wish I hadn’t believed I could be happy, because this feels worse than grief.

The staff gives me lots of space. Even Eyvar is quieter than usual—if that’s even possible. They let me mope in the palace and spend time with my dogs, and I do my best to forget about the woman who plagues my dreams.

Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and soon, the mornings are brighter and the evenings are longer. I watch water droplets dripping down from the eaves outside my bedroom window, spying the first of the birds returning for the summer.

This place will be alive again, but I’ll remain dead.

In late March, a long procession of royal vehicles drives along the slushy road leading to the palace. My sister, or maybe one of my brothers, has arrived.

I pad through the silent halls to the front entrance, ready to greet them. I can’t quite put a smile on my face, so I don’t try.

What is there to smile about? Spring will burst into summer, and soon it’ll be winter once more. The world will keep turning, and I’ll keep standing still.

My sister emerges from the second vehicle in the convoy, a thick jacket wrapped around her slim body. She lifts her eyes to mine, dipping her chin down in greeting.

“Hi, Pen,” I say, too exhausted for formalities.

She puts her hands on my arms, squeezing. Her eyes search mine. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” I shrug her off.

“It’s that bad, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your broken heart.” She throws me one more glance, then brushes past me to walk into the palace.

You could say my sister is callous. Heartless, even, but I know the truth. She’s been hurt, too, and the only way she knows how to shield her pain is through a thick layer of frost. Who am I to try to change that? I’d rather hide away in the Summer Palace year-round than deal with my own scars. We’re more alike than I want to admit.

My sister’s heels click on the floors as she pulls off her gloves, handing them to a footman holding a silver tray out for her. When her jacket is stripped off, Penelope turns to glance at me. “Come to the office. We have construction logistics to discuss.”

Following my sister to the office near the palace library, I try not to think of what this will mean—constructing the design that Rowan spent months—years—working on. Erecting the building that came from her mind. Will I really want to live in a building she drew? Every aspect of this renovation will have Rowan’s essence soaked into it. I won’t be able to escape it. It’s stifling and exhilarating all at once.

When I sit down across from my sister, she nods to one of her personal staff members, who pulls out a laptop and a stack of large, rolled-up construction drawings. I listen as they outline the project’s timeline, various stages of construction, and expected disruption to the current palace staff and myself.

It’s beautiful. Rowan changed her design from a modern mansion to a full-scale restoration. The three-dimensional images she’s created make my heart swell.

Rowan gets it. She understands this palace—this land. In her design, I see how much she belongs here. When I first met her, I thought Rowan was an outsider. I thought she’d never feel at home here—but her design shows otherwise. She’s restored this palace to what it was a century ago, while still maintaining all the eco features and modern touches her original design boasted.

It’s fucking perfect, and it makes me want to cry.

Big, bad Wolfe indeed.

When the presentation is over, Penelope glances at me. “Any questions?”

“Rowan,” I croak. Even saying her name is painful. I haven’t spoken it since I left Stirling, and I try to ignore the burning pain