The Prince's Pregnant Mistress. Maisey Yates

made him pause. He was going about this with all the ruthless efficiency of a commander going into battle. And each and every protest issued from her lips, he struck down like an enemy of war.

      “Does none of this bother you?” she asked. “I mean, you say you don’t like being in the tabloids, but you say it with all the fire and passion of an iceberg. Meanwhile, I feel like my life is falling apart. I feel like I’ve been dropped into some third-rate reality show.”

      “That’s insulting. This is first-class,” he said, his tone dry, “all the way.”

      “Is this a joke to you? Your life has been easy, I get that. It radiates off you in waves. Your privilege. Your wealth. Everything I’ve had I’ve worked for. Every day of my life has been infused with some kind of struggle. Every single thing I own was purchased at great cost. You spend more on bottled water in a week than I spend on groceries in a month.”

      “That is probably true. But now this is your life. Do not worry about your roommate, by the way. I made sure to give her several months of rent so that she would not feel your absence too keenly.”

      “Nice of you to consider her feelings,” she said, though she was grateful that Samantha wouldn’t be left high and dry. Suddenly a wave washed over her, leaving her feeling adrift. Weightless. “I think I’m in shock,” she said, sinking further back into the chair across from him, her limbs suddenly feeling very shaky.

      “Bailey,” he said, his expression concerned. “Are you able to breathe?”

      She laid her head back, feeling dizzy.

      “No,” she said.

      Suddenly he was next to her, his large hands cupping her face. He was warm, and he was so very Raphael. “Bailey,” he said, his tone stern. “Keep breathing.”

      Her vision went fuzzy around the edges for a second, then dark...

      It came back, with too much clarity, too much brightness. She felt sick to her stomach, a cold sweat on her forehead, her fingers icy. “What happened?” she asked.

      “You passed out,” he responded. He looked...he looked genuinely concerned. Though she wondered if it was for her or for the baby.

      “Don’t touch me,” she said, pulling away from him. He complied, removing his hands from her face. She hated it. Hated that when he touched her she still felt something. Hated that he wasn’t touching her anymore. Hated herself for caring.

      “Have you been passing out regularly?”

      “No,” she said, trying not to watch him as he stood up and crossed to the bar. Trying very, very hard not to pay total and complete attention to his every movement. “I’ve had a little bit of a shocking day. I walked into a grocery store and saw that my ex-lover was a prince. Seeing as I knew I was having his baby, it suddenly occurred to me that I was having a prince’s baby. Then I went home, and said prince was in my bedroom. Then he dragged me onto a private plane, all the while demanding that I marry him or he’ll take my baby away. I think I’m just suffering the aftereffects.”

      He opened up a bottle of sparkling water and poured it into a glass, his movements deft and swift. Then he crossed the space to her, handing her the drink. “I found out I was going to be a father today, and I seem to be handling it well.”

      “Because you’re a robot,” she replied, taking a sip of the bland, fizzy liquid.

      “I think that you can attest to the fact that I’m all man, Bailey. Not a robot.”

      “Not all. Parts of you,” she said. “You seem to have Tin Man syndrome. No heart.”

      “I love my country,” he responded, his tone cool. “I am eternally loyal to it. And I will do whatever is necessary to preserve the legacy. There is no reason for me to panic about the situation we find ourselves in. There is no question that I must marry the mother of my child. And while who you are will require a little bit of damage control, I was already set to be married in the next month. And, presumably, sometime after my wife would have given birth to a child. That has always been the course plotted out before me. All in all, only the bride has changed.”

      “So...women and the children they bear are interchangeable to you?” she asked.

      “A wife and child are necessary components to my life,” he said, his tone hard. “Essential to the continued health of the kingdom and bloodline. The importance cannot be overstated.”

      “But who the woman...”

      “Matters in terms of bloodline, political affiliation and the ability to have children. You have one out of three—I think you’re smart enough to guess which.”

      He said it with such calm. As though the bride were the most incidental part of the marriage. As though he didn’t care at all whether he was married to her or to the shiny brunette she’d seen in the tabloids. “You’re horrible. Just horrible. How did I manage to convince myself for eight months that you were Prince Charming? No reference to your actual royalty intended.”

      “We see what we want to see, Bailey. You wanted to see me as something that I wasn’t. It was convenient for you at the time. I was an easy lover for you to have. Don’t pretend that it didn’t suit you on some level to be with a man who was only around part of the time.”

      “Or I was an idiot virgin who had finally found a man that she wanted to sleep with, and had her judgment completely clouded by her orgasms.”

      Her words hung between them, tense and heavy. She despised herself for bringing that up. For bringing up the pleasure they had found together. She would rather forget it. It kept her up at night. All day, she would drag herself around, feeling exhausted and heartbroken. But night was worse. Because then she would dream. And when she dreamed, it was that Raphael was in bed with her. Touching her, kissing her. And when she woke up, she was alone. Hideously, depressingly alone, and she ached. For a touch she would never have again.

      “I am sorry you were hurt,” he said, his tone clipped. “That was never my intention. But I have known who I was to be, what sort of woman I was to marry, from the time I was a boy.”

      “And that woman isn’t me.”

      “No.” He pushed his hand through his dark hair. “It is important to make the best choices I can for my country. And someday my child will do the same. It is what was instilled in me from the beginning. My mother reinforced my father. She had been raised to be the wife of a prince, and she knew her place. That is what it takes to raise the heir to a throne, Bailey. You must understand it is not snobbery on my part—at least not entirely—when I say you are not suited.”

      “I...” She swayed slightly in her seat. “I really don’t even know how to have this conversation.”

      “You should get some rest,” he said, stunning her with that declaration. “When we land we will be very close to the palace, and you can get settled in. In the meantime, I am afraid that you are overtaxed.”

      “I don’t feel like you’ve earned the right to comment on my level of taxation.”

      “As ruling government of an entire nation, taxation falls under my purview.”

      “Oh, well, that’s fabulous. I guess we know which things are certain. Death, taxes and Raphael.”

      “I’m hardly going to kill you, cara. I’m going to make you a princess.”

      Suddenly, she felt so tired she could barely hold her head up. She could not be a princess. She was a waitress. And waitresses didn’t become princesses. “I’m going to have that nap now.”

      Bailey wandered to the back of the plane, opening the door to the bedroom, then closing it tightly behind her. It was bigger than her bedroom in her apartment. With a large, ornate bed that looked like it was designed for much more than sleeping. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. This whole thing was ridiculous.

      She kicked her shoes off, crossing to the