Royals Untamed!. Annie West

blonde doll seemed to be driving a racing car around the furniture and over most of the other toys. She was making noises again—a brrrrmm for the racing car and a gasp as the doll plummeted over the bedcovers.

      His heart twisted in his chest. If Sophia had lived would their little girl have been like this? It was a horrible thing to consider. It meant facing up to facts—facing up to a responsibility that he’d thought he had fulfilled.

      Ruby thought differently.

      He couldn’t hesitate any longer. He walked into the room, keeping his voice bright. ‘Hi, Annabelle. I’ve brought a picture for you.’

      He put the silver frame on Annabelle’s bedside table.

      There was an audible gasp. It almost ripped him in two.

      The picture was almost exactly at Annabelle’s head height. She tilted her head to one side, her eyes wide.

      He could have picked from a million pictures of Sophia. Once Annabelle was old enough to use the internet she would find another million pictures of her mother online.

      But this was his favourite. This had always been his favourite. It was the picture he still had of Sophia in his mind—not the frail, emaciated pale woman she’d become.

      This picture had Sophia on a swing, her blonde hair streaming behind her, her face wide with laughter and her pink dress billowing around her. She was around eighteen in this picture and it captured her perfectly. It captured the fun-loving human being she’d been before illness had struck her down.

      He had other pictures. Pictures of her holding Annabelle not long after the birth and in the following months. There were lots of those.

      But all of those pictures were touched with inherent sadness. The inevitability of a life lost. He’d put some into a little album for Annabelle. Those were for another day.

      She reached out and touched the photo, obviously captivated by the joy in the picture. That was the word it conjured in his brain. Joy.

      He knelt beside her. ‘That’s your mama, Annabelle. She was a very beautiful woman and you look just like her. I thought it was time for you to have a photograph of your own.’

      Her little brow furrowed for a moment. He could almost see her brain trying to assimilate the information. Her lips moved, making the M movement—but no sound came out.

      He rested her hand at her back. ‘Look—your dress is the same colour as hers.’

      He could see the recognition on his little girl’s face. His whole body ached. Why hadn’t he done this sooner?

      A wave of shame washed over him. He should have known to do this. He should have known that his daughter needed this. But Alex had no experience around children. He had no relatives with youngsters, and as an only child he didn’t have much experience to draw on.

      He’d had friends—peers—during his life. Sophia had been among them, as had his schoolmates and university friends. But he hadn’t been exposed to a life of looking after other people’s children.

      His sole experience of children before the birth of Annabelle had been on royal tours, where he was expected to talk to kids and hold babies. That was all fine, but it only lasted minutes. It didn’t give him a taste of real life.

      He looked down at the little girl in front of him. She’d gone back to her dolls and was racing them around the room again. Just like any three-year-old should.

      His eyes glanced between his daughter and the photo. The wave of grief was overwhelming. Ruby was right. Sophia hadn’t just been his friend.

      Would he have married her if she hadn’t been sick? Probably not. Their relationship hadn’t been destined to go that way. Sophia had had wanderlust. She would likely have travelled and married someone from a distant country.

      But the genetics of life had changed all that.

      He took a deep breath. He hadn’t felt the surge of emotion around Sophia that he felt around Ruby. There hadn’t been that instant connection. More like a slow-growing respect. But other than Ruby she was the only woman on this planet he’d actually felt anything for.

      In his head it had all been about duty and loyalty. He hadn’t wanted to let his heart get involved. But if he wanted to move on with Ruby he had to acknowledge that she’d been more than just a friend.

      He held his hand out to Annabelle. ‘Annabelle, honey. Come with Daddy. We’re going to go and put some flowers on your mama’s grave.’

      Another tiny step. Another massive milestone.

      When was the last time he’d visited Sophia’s grave?

      He knew for sure he’d never taken his daughter there.

      That was all about to change.

      * * *

      The changes were subtle at first.

      The first thing she noticed was the picture in the silver frame next to Annabelle’s bed. It made her heart squeeze in her chest. One, because he’d done it himself, and two, because Annabelle’s mother had indeed been beautiful.

      She wasn’t jealous. She couldn’t bring herself to be jealous of a dead woman. Those initial little pangs of frustration had disappeared. On dark nights—for some horrible moments—she’d wanted this woman never to have existed. Irrational and unreasonable thoughts had filled her head momentarily: Sophia had stolen those ten years she could have had with Alex.

      All nonsense.

      Life was life.

      There was a gorgeous little girl running about around her legs and that was what she should focus on.

      Her brain could be logical. It could tell her that she was there to do a job. It could tell her that she was the best person possible for Annabelle.

      And there were discernible changes in Annabelle. Small ones—as if the little girl’s walls were being finally worn down.

      She wasn’t quite so reserved. Her play and interaction at the nursery had changed. Humming was rapidly becoming normal now. Little noises, little sounds would be made with excitement—or sometimes fright if they were watching Finding Nemo again.

      A small flick-through book of photographs of Annabelle and her mother had appeared. The picture on the front was amazing. One half in black and white, one half in colour. Annabelle and her mother, both sitting on the fountain, at around the same age. Two captured moments in time.

      Anyone who didn’t know Annabelle would think it was the same little girl.

      Ruby could already predict that in her teenage years Annabelle would blow up that picture for her bedroom wall.

      The first time she’d flicked through the book with Annabelle talking her through the pictures had been hard. A weight had pressed down on her chest and it had been all she could do to stop the tears rolling down her cheeks. But it became easier, and soon part of their routine every day involved five minutes of flicking through the photos.

      It had also become part of Alex’s bedtime routine with Annabelle. The staff had finally got the message and stopped queuing outside the door at night. Alex was adamant that this time was Annabelle’s.

      And it had done them both good. Alex was more relaxed around his child. He knew what her favourite foods were. He knew who her best friends were at nursery. He could sing along to all the songs in Finding Nemo. And gradually the sad tone in his voice was replaced as he told stories of happy memories while they flicked through the photo album.

      Ruby stayed in the background although she was working tirelessly with Annabelle. There were no more romantic interludes with Alex, no matter how much she hoped for them. No other heated moments when the air was so thick a wrecking ball couldn’t pound its way through.

      He still watched her. Sometimes when she lifted her head she would meet his bright blue gaze. The