Lone Prince (Royally Unexpected #7) - Lilian Monroe Page 0,1

one by one, waiting for my grandmother to toddle through the door. I kept a thin thread of hope alive, picturing her rosy cheeks and happy smile.

As my shoulders drop two hours later, I finally resign myself to the fact that she’s not coming.

It’s out of character for her. Something isn’t right.

Trying to stifle the panic that threatens to well up inside me, I hug my favorite red peacoat tighter around my body. It won’t be enough to keep out the cold, but it’s all I have.

Balmy Farcliff, remember? They don’t sell arctic-proof jackets down there. Plus, I was told the weather wasn’t that cold this time of year up here. Google told me a peacoat would be fine.

Um, yeah. Wrong.

It’s not even October. I can only imagine how much worse it’ll get once the real winter hits.

Dragging my small suitcase over to the ticket office window, I bite my lip. A steel roller door has been padlocked over the opening and I haven’t seen anyone come in or out of the office behind it.

Still, I knock. I’ve done it a dozen times already, but maybe someone’s in there. Maybe they were asleep. Or busy. Or deaf.

Who am I kidding? It’s hopeless, but I do it anyway.

Surprise surprise, no one answers.

A few steps down a dingy hallway, I find a door marked ‘Office’. I pound my fist on it as panic rears higher inside me.

Nothing.

I’m alone.

Sucking in a breath, I squeeze my eyes shut.

Stay calm, Rowan. There’s an explanation for this. Maybe she forgot I was arriving today?

I shake my head. I spoke to her this morning. Grandma wouldn’t forget. She has a better memory than I do, and she’s been managing the Summer Palace for over thirty years. Her mind is sharp. She would’ve sent someone to get me if she couldn’t make it to the station herself.

Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones—although that might just be the cold making my skeleton tremble.

Walking back out to the main station lobby, I take a deep breath. The place looks like it’s about two hundred years old. Thick, stained glass windows are set high in the walls, and crumbling mortar is sandwiched between discolored bricks. The tiled floor has a worn-out strip through the center of the lobby, where passengers have walked from the front door to the platform.

And most importantly, there’s not another soul in here.

Just me and my inadequate jacket.

I could sleep in the train station and wait for the staff to arrive tomorrow morning. That’s probably the safest thing to do, isn’t it? Wait here, where there’s shelter?

Maybe Grandma just got delayed. Maybe she’s on her way, but the storm outside held her up.

I should stay.

But what if she’s just outside? There could be a taxi waiting for me, or a royal vehicle ready to take me to the palace. Or maybe someone outside will be able to help. One of the locals. They could point me in the direction of the palace. Give me a ride. Call a taxi for me. Anything.

A cold draft snakes around my legs, and I curse myself for wearing a dress. My tights may be thick, but they’re no match for the cold. I thought I’d be in a warm train, then a warm car, then a warm castle. This is my first time in Nord since I was an infant, and my only chance to make a good first impression. Dress to impress, they say.

Ha.

Dress to freeze to death, more likely.

If I stay in the lobby, will I even survive the night? I lift my chin and exhale, watching my breath dissipate in a white puff before me.

It’s frigid in here.

I need to find some help.

Glancing at my phone once more, I lift it up above my head to try to get a signal. Nothing. I open the messaging app to try to sneak a message through to my grandmother, but it bounces back as soon as I hit send.

When I click out of the message screen, I see the very last message I received while I was on the train. My ex-boyfriend of six months sent me a nasty slew of insults at three o’clock in the morning last night. Drunk, probably.

Gerry: Don’t expect me to be waiting here when you get back, Rowan. Enjoy Nord. It’s as cold as your fucking heart.

I read the message for the thousandth time, my fingers squeezing my phone so tight my nail beds turn white. My eyes prickle. For