His Forbidden Pregnant Princess. Maisey Yates

gathered herself up, drew in the deepest breath possible, hoping that the burning in her lungs would offset the rest of her physical response. That it might drown out the erratic tripping of her pulse.

      Then, she pushed the door open.

      And all the breath left her body in a rush.

      There was no preparing for him. No matter how familiar she was with his face, with that imposing, muscular physique of his, it was like a shock to her system every time. Those dark eyes, eyes that she sometimes thought might see straight through her, but they couldn’t. Because if they did, then he would know. He would know that she was not indifferent to him. He would know that her feelings toward him were in no way familial.

      He would be disgusted by her.

      It took her a while to notice that there was a woman standing next to him. The new stylist, presumably. It took her a while, because as far as she was concerned when Luca was in the room it was difficult to tell if anyone else was there at all.

      “You must be Princess Sophia,” the woman said. “I’m Elizabeth.”

      “Nice to meet you.” Belatedly, she decided that she should try and curtsy or something, so she grabbed the edge of her sundress and bent forward slightly. She looked up and saw that Luca was watching her with a disapproving expression on his handsome face.

      If she bowed down and called him King of the Universe he would disapprove. He was impossible.

      “She needs something suitable for an upcoming event,” Luca said. “She must look the best she ever has.”

      “I am confident that I can accomplish such. It is simply a matter of knowing what sort of energy Sophia should be projecting. All these colors that she’s wearing now are far too drab. And from what I have seen in pictures and publications over the years, her overall color palette doesn’t suit her. I have plans.”

      Suddenly, Sophia felt very much like she was being stared down by a hungry spider. And she was a fly caught in the web.

      “Just leave it to me,” she said, shooing at Luca.

      “I must approve the selection,” he said. Obviously not taking kindly at all to being shown the door in his own palace.

      “You will approve,” Elizabeth said, her tone stubborn. “You will see soon.”

      The rest of the afternoon was spent styling and plucking and scrubbing.

      Sophia felt as though she had been exfoliated over every part of her body. This woman did not try to have her hair completely straightened, but rather, styled it into soft waves, which seemed to frame her face better, and also—so she said—would not revert halfway over the course of the evening. Which was the problem that Sophia usually had with her hairstyles. Her hair wasn’t curly, but it was not board-straight, either, and it could not hold such a severe style for hours on end. It became unruly when she got all sweaty. And she supposed it was not a good thing to sweat when you were a princess, but she did.

      Then there was the matter of the gown she chose. None of the navy blue, black or mossy-green colors that her mother’s stylist favored. No, this gown was a brilliant fuchsia, strapless with a sweetheart neckline that did nothing at all to cover her breasts. It draped down from there, skimming her waist, her full hips. Rather than making her look large like some of the high-necked gowns that had been chosen for her before, or blocky like the ones that hit her in strange places at the waist, she actually looked...curvy and feminine.

      Typically, she didn’t show this much skin, but she had to admit it was much more flattering when you could see that she had cleavage, rather than a misshapen mono breast.

      Her lipstick matched the dress, and her eye makeup was simple, just black winged liner. Her cheeks were a very bright pink, much brighter than she would have normally done, but all of it created a very sophisticated effect. And for the first time she thought maybe she looked like she belonged. Like maybe she was a princess. Not a girl being shoved into a mold she resolutely could not fit into, but one who’d had a mold created just for her.

      “He will approve of this,” Elizabeth said.

      “You know he is my stepbrother,” Sophia pointed out. “He doesn’t need to approve of it in that way.”

      The very idea made her face hot. And that she wanted him to...that she wanted him to want her was the worst humiliation of all.

      “I know,” the woman said, giving her a look that was far too incisive. “But you wouldn’t mind if he did.”

      Sophia sputtered. “I... He can’t.”

      “That has nothing to do with what you feel. Or what you want.”

      Sophia felt like she had been opened up and examined. Like her skin had been peeled away, revealing her deepest and most desperate secrets. She hated it. But she didn’t have time to marinate in it because suddenly, the door was opening, and Luca had returned. Obviously, Elizabeth had texted him to say that Sophia was ready. But she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to face him, not with the woman next to her knowing full well how Sophia felt about Luca. Because now she felt like it was written across her skin, across her forehead, so that it could clearly be read by the man himself.

      Her earlier confidence melted away, and her skin began to heat as Luca stopped, his dark eyes assessing her slowly.

      Her body tingled, her breasts feeling heavy, her nipples going tight as though his fingertips were grazing her skin. As if he was doing more than simply looking.

      “It will do,” he said, his tone as hard as his features.

      Her throat felt prickly, and she swallowed hard, feeling foolish, her heart fluttering like a caged bird trying to escape. How could she feel so much when he looked at her, while he felt nothing for her at all? While he clearly saw her as an annoyance.

      He didn’t look impressed; he didn’t look awed or surprised with what she had felt was a total transformation.

      “I am glad that I reach at least the bottom of your very lofty standards, Your Majesty,” she said stiffly. “I can only hope that a certain Swedish noble has a slightly more enthusiastic response.”

      “I said that it will do,” he reiterated. “And it will. What more do you want from me, sorellina?”

      “I spent the entire day receiving a makeover. I would have thought it would garner a response. But it seems as if I am destined to remain little more than wallpaper. It is okay. Some women are never going to be beautiful.”

      She grasped the flowing skirt of her dress with her fists and pushed past Luca, running out of the room, down the hall, running until her lungs burned. The sound of the heels she was wearing on the floor drowned out the sound of anything else, so it wasn’t until she stopped that she heard heavy footsteps behind her. And she was unprepared for the large, strong hand that wrapped around her arm and spun her in the opposite direction. It was then she found herself gazing up into Luca’s impossibly dark and imposing eyes.

      “What is it you want from me?” he asked, his voice low and hard. Shot through with an intensity she had never heard in his voice before. “What do you want me to give you? What reaction would have been sufficient? In the absence of the one man you have ever wanted, what is it you expected me to give you? Do you want me to tell you that you’re beautiful? Do you want me to tell you the curves would drive any man to distraction? That every man in that ballroom is going to imagine himself holding you in his arms? Feeling those luscious breasts pressed against his chest? Kissing those lips. Driving himself inside you? Is that what you want to hear? I can give you those words, Sophia, but they are pointless. I could tell you that any man who doesn’t want you was a fool, but what is the point in saying those words? What could they possibly mean between the two of us?” He released his hold on her, and she stumbled backward. “Nothing. They mean nothing coming from me. It will always be nothing. It must be.”

      “Luca...”

      “Do not speak to me.” He straightened