Lone Prince (Royally Unexpected #7) - Lilian Monroe Page 0,84
life alone.
A queen doesn’t buckle or bend or break.
She takes her suffering and buries it under a thousand miles of ice. As she stares out at the cold, snowy kingdom over which she rules, she sees the next decades of her life laid out at her feet.
She’ll walk through the snow and embrace the numb coldness in her heart. She’ll leave behind the wife she used to be. The mother she never was. The girl who smiled and laughed.
She’ll give her kingdom what it needs.
A monarch.
A leader.
A queen.
1
Penelope
A bead of sweat starts a long journey at the nape of my neck and travels down my spine. Another adventurous droplet gets a head start from right between my boobs. They both trickle in unison down my body, and I wonder which will reach my panties first. Surprisingly, the sweat race currently taking place on my overheated skin is not the worst thing about today. At least if I focus on how uncomfortable I feel physically, I don’t need to think about the emotional riot currently taking place inside my chest.
It’s been nearly seven years since my husband died in a skiing accident, but going to weddings still makes my gut twist. Time, it seems, doesn’t heal this wound.
Seeing other people’s happiness—remembering how full of love and hope I used to be—makes me realize just how frigid I’ve become.
I guess the names I’m called in the kingdom’s newspapers are accurate.
Ice Queen. Heartless Witch. Cold. Bitter. The Worst Thing to Happen to the Arctic Since Climate Change.
Okay, okay. I made that last one up, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw it splashed across the front page of a tabloid.
A waiter hands me a flute of champagne. He bows his head with trembling reverence, making sure to never make eye contact. I take the glass without a word and relish the cool feeling of the glass beneath my fingertips. The waiter lifts his eyes up to stare at my face and immediately reddens and drops his head.
I know people call me a bitch. I suppose I probably am one. How else am I supposed to act? I have a kingdom to run, and pleasantries aren’t high on my list of priorities.
The waiter scurries away as I sip my drink, my lipstick leaving a dusty pink mark on the rim. It tastes terrible—but maybe that’s just my own discomfort at having to be here. The champagne is probably lovely and expensive. Fit for royalty.
A warm breeze ruffles my hair. My armpits are soaked. Who the heck decided an outdoor wedding is ever a good idea? And an outdoor royal wedding? Somewhere as warm as this?
Please.
That’s just asking for soggy paparazzi photos.
Sure, the series of tents they’ve set up beside the rose garden at Westhill Palace are immaculately decorated. The sun is shining and a string quartet plays delicate melodies that accompany the birds in the trees. It’s…gorgeous. I guess.
Farcliff Kingdom is beautiful. It’s located between the United States and Canada, to the east of the Great Lakes. The summertime is warm and sunny. Picture-perfect. In the countryside, where we are, the air tastes sweet and flowers are in full bloom.
I just…prefer the cold. I like being wrapped up in a warm jacket, staring out at a vast, white expanse of tundra. I like sitting on the edge of the Arctic, feeling alone in the wilderness with my people. I like staring into a fire, watching the flames dance and knowing my frail, human body is no match for the elements. My kingdom is called Nord, and I love every jagged coastline, every frozen lake, every explosion of life that happens during the short summer months.
Muggy heat? Happiness? Birds singing in trees and flowers bursting to life all around me while I feel altogether too damp?
Stifling.
My brother, Silas, nudges me with his elbow. “Lighten up, Pen. You’re supposed to be happy for Prince Gabriel and his bride.”
“It’s too warm in Farcliff,” I grumble.
“For your cold, dead heart?”
“Don’t you have some poor woman to swindle into sleeping with you?” I arch a brow at him.
“I’ve never swindled anyone.” Silas grins, mirth dancing in his deep blue eyes. A curl of rich, chocolate-brown hair falls over his forehead. Somehow, Silas’ brow isn’t damp with sweat like mine. He looks roguish and happy, not a bit bothered by the sticky heat.
I turn away from him, casting an eye over the wedding guests and all their finery. “No, you just leave a trail of heartbreak wherever you go.”