He could hear Jasiri encouraging him in his head to tell Regina the truth. Even in Aléx’s imagination, his fellow king was just as bold and insistent.
Aléx took a deep breath, preparing to follow Jasiri’s advice, trying to convince himself that he was stronger than his past, when the memory of what he’d become when he’d let his grief consume him flooded his mind. Weak, empty, and unfit to take care of himself, let alone an entire nation. Aléx’s pain had shredded him into tiny pieces, some of which he’d never recovered.
All Regina saw was the strong man she believed she’d married. He couldn’t help wondering what would happen if he shared his truth with his wife. Would she still look at him the same?
Too afraid of losing her favor and too selfish to give up how she made him feel, Aléx decided now wasn’t the right time, if there ever was such a thing. Until he could be sure he wouldn’t revert to the broken man he was in the midst of his grief, he’d keep his truth locked behind closed doors.
Chapter Thirteen
Aléx sat straightup in bed from a deep sleep. His heartbeat thudded in his ears as his lungs gasped for air.
“Mmm, Aléx…what’s wrong?”
The sound of Regina’s groggy voice coming from the other side of the bed was like a slap across the face. It provided just enough control, just enough clarity for him to pull himself together.
He leaned down to her, placing his hand lightly at the base of her stomach. At sixteen weeks, she wasn’t quite showing yet, but he could feel the slight firmness the small swell of their child caused. It was an ever-present reminder that this was real, and he would in fact be a father soon.
He placed a ghost of a kiss on her cheek and whispered, “Nothing, I just need to use the restroom. Go back to sleep.”
She covered his hand with hers, its warmth battling with the cold chill his nightmare had left him with. He wanted to stay there, to curl around her and hold on to her and their child until the rays of the morning sun broke through the blinds and started him on his day.
He couldn’t, though. Not like this. His heart was still racing, and he was barely keeping his respiration at an even level. Regina would know something was wrong. He refused to burden her with this. Her job was to grow their baby. His was to protect them at all costs. He would not fail that mission.
He slipped out of bed and into the en suite bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him, then turning on the faucet atfull stream to drown out the loud pulls of air he was trying to tug into his lungs.
It had happened again. The dream had found him and had nearly strangled him in his sleep. The first time it happened had been after her eight-week doctor’s visit where the first sonogram was done. The sound of their baby’s heart pounding so strong through the exam room had nearly brought Aléx to his knees with joy.
They’d gone back to the palace and spent the rest of the day in bed. His heart was too full to speak, so he’d shown her his appreciation with every touch, stroke and pleasure he knew how to give to express to her how happy he was to share this with her.
That night, the first dream had come. The crash of water slamming down on a vessel, screams from the crew and passengers. Another punishing wave hitting, tipping the vessel over on its side until it capsized and was dragged beneath the waves into the abyss.
He knew that memory was real. He’d watched those very events happen. But the sound of the small voice saying, “Daddy, save us,” was very much a new development. And the worst of it was that the faces of that “us” changed from blond hair, blue eyes and tanned skin to a million nearly invisible dark braids with deep, reddish-brown skin and the deepest brown eyes that had captivated his soul.
It wasn’t Regina. It wasn’t the child you share with her. They are safe. They are still here.
Paternal anxiety was the name for what he was suffering from. It was when an expectant father had recurring fears about his wife and baby dying in childbirth. It was rather common, especially in expectant fathers who’d experienced a loss.
He washed his face in the sink, hoping the hot water would soothe his nerves. When he caught sight of his reflection, he saw a frightened man with haunted eyes.
He came out of the bathroom, taking a quick glance at Regina in their bed. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest made a fraction of his fear subside. Satisfied that she and the baby were okay, he grabbed his robe and headed for the only place his scattered mind would let him go.
He walked down the still corridor to the door at the end of the hall. He tried his best not to twist the knob open. He knew there was nothing but pain behind that door. That’s why he’d locked it away from him and the rest of the world for the last five years.
Save for the one person tasked with cleaning this room, no one stepped inside it but Aléx. His father had known about it, along with his sister. His house staff knew about it too. There was no way to keep such a thing from spreading among the staff. But they’d all been warned that if they spoke of it in the open, they’d be let go immediately.
While they all knew about the room, with the exception of his father and sister, they’d only known that an old friend with a young child was coming to stay, and Aléx had wanted the visitor and the child to feel at home. Since the existence of the room, Charlie’s true connection to him, and what the room held captive behind its doors hadn’t shown up in the gossip rags in the last five years, Aléx was inclined to believe the staff didn’t know who Charlie was, and they’d taken his threat about losing their jobs for speaking out of turn seriously.
Unable to stop himself, he placed his thumbprint on the scanning panel above the knob, the resulting audible click letting him know the door was unlocked.
Aléx, you are pathologically masochistic.
He stepped inside, the motion light flickering on to show him what he’d known would be there. It was exactly the same as the day he’d closed it.
A platform bed covered in expensive pink frill. A ridiculous number of pink-and-white pillows filling up the top half of the bed.
An antique white rocker settled in one corner of the room. Matching furniture with the same accents and design strategically positioned throughout the room. This included a custom-made vanity whose mirror, surrounded by white painted iron, spelled out “Charlie” in elegant cursive letters.
He’d had this room commissioned the day he’d found out he was a father. He’d taken great joy and care in creating it. Happy fantasies of reading to his little girl in that rocker and tucking her into bed at night had danced through his head with every swatch of fabric he’d selected and every fixture he’d commissioned. When it was finally complete, he’d never been prouder of any other project he’d ever undertaken.
