me.”
Ares laughed again, more for the benefit of their audience than because he found any of this funny. Or even tolerable.
And then, because he couldn’t see another option, he turned and made his way up the long drive that led from the family plot toward the big, hulking house that sat there at the top of the hill. But he took his time, chatting merrily with other guests, as if he was at a party instead of a funeral. As if he didn’t have what he suspected was the beginnings of a fat lip.
And as if he hadn’t been accused of impregnating a woman by her overprotective older brother, in full view of too many cameras.
He could leave, he knew. No one would keep him here, no matter what Pia’s brother imagined. His security detail would whisk him away at a moment’s notice.
But Pia’s condition was not his doing—could not be his doing—and he felt compelled to make that clear.
He walked inside the manor house, wondering, not for the first time, how it was these northern Europeans could tolerate their stuffy, dark houses. The palaces of Atilia were built to celebrate the islands they graced. The sea was all around, and invited in, so it murmured through every archway. It was there, shimmering, just around every corner.
He asked after Pia in the grand entryway and was shown into the sort of library that made him think of all the headmasters’ offices he’d found himself in during his school days. Usually en route to his latest expulsion.
She was standing at the window, staring out at the miserable British countryside, wet and cold. But what he noticed was her back was too straight.
And he didn’t know why she would claim that he was the one who’d impregnated her, but it was hard to remember that as he looked at her from behind.
Because he remembered that night.
It had been their second round, or perhaps their third. He had woken to find her standing by the window, wrapped in a sheet from the thoroughly destroyed bed, her fingers against the glass. Manhattan had gleamed and glittered all around. Ares had gone to her as if drawn there by some kind of magnet. He’d brushed aside the weight of her dark, silken hair and put his mouth to the nape of her neck.
He could still remember the heated, broken sound she’d made. Just as he could remember the chill of the glass beneath his palm when he’d braced himself there and taken her from behind—
He shook himself out of that now. Especially when his body responded with as much enthusiasm as he remembered from that night.
“I’m not the father of your baby,” he said, his voice grittier than it should have been when he knew he hadn’t done this.
“When I realized I was pregnant, I tried to find you, of course.” Pia didn’t turn around. She stayed where she was, her back to him and her arms crossed above her swollen belly. He couldn’t stop staring at it, as if he’d never seen a pregnant woman before. “It’s a decent thing to do, after all. But no matter who I asked, which was its own embarrassment, no one could remember any ‘Eric’ at that party.”
“And because I lied about my name, you think it appropriate to lie yourself? About something far more serious?”
She let out a small sound, like a sigh, but she still didn’t turn to face him.
“When I couldn’t find anyone by the name of Eric, I thought that was fair enough. Not ideal, but fine. I would do it by myself. As women have been doing since the dawn of time. But that’s easier to make yourself believe when no one knows. When you haven’t yet told your whole family that yes, you had a one-night stand in New York City. And you don’t know the name of the man you had that one-night stand with. But guess what? You’re pregnant by him anyway.”
“It is not my baby.”
“But I withstood the shame,” she said, her shoulders shifting. Straightening. “I’m figuring out how to withstand it, anyway. I never expected to see you again.”
“Clearly not.” Ares could hear the darkness in his voice. The fury. “Or you would not dare tell such a lie.”
She turned then, and her face was calm. Serene, even. That was like a slap.
Until he noticed the way her gray eyes burned.
“And the funny thing about shame is that I keep thinking there must be a maximum amount any one person can bear,” she told him. “I keep thinking I must be full up. But no. I never am.”
Something twisted in him at that, but Ares ignored it.
“You cannot wander around telling people that you’re having my child,” he thundered at her. “This doesn’t seem to be penetrating. It’s morally questionable at best, no matter who the man is. But if you claim you carry my child, what you are announcing is that you are, in fact, carrying the heir to the Atilian throne. Do you realize what that means?”
Pia looked pale. “Why would I realize that—or anything about you? I didn’t know who you were until fifteen minutes ago. Much less that you were a prince. Are a prince. A prince, for God’s sake.”
A man who had renounced his claim to a throne should not have found the way she said that so...confronting.
Ares pushed on. “Now you know. You need to retract your claim. Immediately.”
“Are you denying that we slept together?” she asked, her voice shaky.
“We did very little sleeping, as I recall. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“I’ve only ever slept with one man,” she threw out there. “You.”
Or so it seemed to Ares as it sat there, bristling in the center of the library floor.
The implications of that statement roared in him.
But Pia was still talking. “If you are not the father, we have a far larger problem on our hands.” She even smiled, which made the roaring in him worse. “Shall I contact the Vatican to notify them of the second immaculate conception? Or will you?”
Ares stared back at her as that scathing question hung in the air between them, too, joining in with all the rest of the noise. The roar of it. And it wasn’t until that moment that he realized that for all he liked to think of himself as an independent creature, in no way beholden to crown or kingdom unless he wanted to be, he really was a prince straight through.
Because he was wholly unaccustomed to being addressed in such a manner.
It had never occurred to him before this moment how very few people in his life dared address him with anything but the utmost respect. Yet today he had been punched in the face. And was now being spoken to in a manner he could only call flippant.
Pia swallowed as he stared at her, and then wrung her hands in a manner that suggested she was not, perhaps, as sanguine as she appeared.
Ares didn’t much like what it said about him that he found that...almost comforting.
“Happily,” she said in a low voice, “it doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not. There
