Page 1 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

PRINCESS, PREGNANT, MINE

Emmy Grayson

Chapter One

Dominic

My head snaps up as the scent curls over me. Soft wood and a hint of orange blossoms. My eyes scan the crowd of elegantly dressed masqueraders.

She’s here. Princess Sophaya, my current client and official pain in my ass. I’ve spent almost every waking minute in that woman’s company for eight weeks. I know the scent of the custom perfume she wears. I thought I smelled it a minute ago when I was talking with my brother’s fiancée. But now it fills me, teases me as I sweep my gaze over the masked crowd.

Paying attention to details like that is what made Hawke Security the premier private security company in the world. Unless Sophaya gifted it to a random woman who just happened to be a guest at the gala, she’s in a crowd of people without protection.

I push off the wall and move through the crowd, my head swinging left and right as I evaluate the women dancing beneath dimly lit chandeliers. I note my adoptive brother, Aiden, and his fiancée, Seraphina, dancing again. I never expected Aiden of all people to get engaged, especially to his secretary. But judging by the way Seraphina gazes at him, and the attraction that’s been simmering beneath the surface for years, they have something real.

A scowl crosses my face. Seraphina is far warmer and kinder than my current client. When I met the princess two months ago, I never imagined she’d be a problem. She’d grown up with rules, structure, her own security team. But she fights me at every turn, questions my decisions and talks to me like I’m the dirt on the bottom of her Louboutin heels.

Which makes the spark between us even more infuriating.

The muscles in my neck tighten as I continue my search. I’ve never slept with a client. Ever. But when I walked into the throne room and saw her standing by the window, sable-brown hair pulled up in a bun and her striking face turned to the sun, awareness hit me and sank into my skin. The more we argue, the more that awareness deepens.

I hate being attracted to a client. I especially hate being attracted to a cold, prim, condescending princess.

Another sweep of the room yields nothing. Her Highness has made it clear on multiple occasions how she feels about having a private bodyguard in addition to her regular security detail. But after her brother abdicated the throne a few months ago, the princess was thrust into the spotlight. Not only did the international media become enamored with the future queen, but so did a deranged stalker. One who grew increasingly bolder until he managed to infiltrate a restaurant and leave a rose and a threatening note on the princess’s chair before she arrived.

The royal security team isn’t bad. They’re just not used to dealing with something like this. Siravelle is a sliver of a country tucked between France and Spain, with its western coast along the Bay of Biscay and its eastern border along the Mediterranean Sea. They have a good tourism industry and strong exports in everything from olive oil to timber, but they’ve never dealt with attention like this before. Siravellian law dictates its ruling royal cede the crown to the next heir on their sixtieth birthday, a law dating back centuries.

But there hasn’t been a ruling queen without a king in nearly two-hundred years. Nor was there social media to blast the news that Sophaya’s brother had relinquished his claim to the throne last fall, officially making her the heir. Someone had snapped a photo of her walking out of the library at Oxford the day after her brother’s abdication. As much as she irritates me, it was a good photo.

Damn it, stunning. Elegant. One newspaper described her as “ethereal,” and I couldn’t disagree when I saw it. Sophaya had been walking down a series of stone steps, a stack of books cradled in one arm. She’d been looking away from the camera, letting the photographer capture her sculpted profile. Snow had been falling, making the red of her sheath dress and the soft green winter coat even more vivid. Yet she’d left her hair down, dark waves dotted with snowflakes.

The world became obsessed overnight. Photographers and media swarmed Siravelle. And then the final straw: a stalker who decided he wanted to be a part of the crown princess’s story, too. A stalker who made it into a restaurant that had been cleared by her security team with two guards on the doors. Which is why the king and queen decided to hire me to accompany Sophaya on her European tour before she inherits the throne next year.

Had I been there, he wouldn’t have made it through the front door.

I ease back to the wall and wait, watching every dark-haired woman passing by. I didn’t expect her to lie to me. When I realized the princess’s European tour would take her to Venice the same week as my adoptive brother Aiden’s annual masquerade gala, I did the right thing and invited her to join me. She declined, saying she’d rather relax in her hotel room.

Relieved, I made sure one of her royal security guards, Claude, was on the door and left. Young and a little too eager to please, but I thought he could at least handle standing by a damn door and notifying me if she left. I wanted a night without thinking about her, fighting that hyperawareness. I wanted to be present for Aiden’s masquerade, to support him and the foundation created by John Hawke, the man who gave Aiden, Cassian and me a future.

Glasses clink as the music swells. The warm, rich scent of roasted meat underlain with an earthiness of herbs teases my nose as a waiter passes by with a silver tray loaded with appetizers. The guests may be shelling out thousands of dollars to attend, may be swayed by the glitz and glamour. But this event isn’t just a chance to play dress-up.

When John found Aiden, Cassian, and me scrounging on the streets of New York City, he took a chance on us. He gave us food, some sense of consistency in a world that had been anything but. And then, when we’d needed it the most, he opened his home to us, took the three of us in and legally made us a family.

Cassian, Aiden and I each plan a fundraiser every year for the Hawke Foundation, a charitable organization founded by John and carried on by us. We raise funds for various causes and charities, from foster-care support programs to shelters. It keeps us grounded, reminds us of where we came from and the responsibility we have to give back.

But instead of quietly observing the festivities and remembering the man who changed my life, I’m playing hide-and-seek with a spoiled princess.

Anger flares to life, simmers low in my gut. Sophaya sold me on it, answering the door in silk pajamas that somehow still managed to look sexy despite the loose, flowy fit. Her hair had hung in waves over her shoulders, making her look fragile and making me all too aware of the fourteen-year age gap between us. She’d even tossed in a yawn as she’d blinked at me with sleepy eyes and said she was going to bed early.

I bought her act. A mistake I won’t make again. If she ever gets tired of living in a palace, she’d make a damn good actress.

Laughter sounds to my left, a velvety chuckle that makes my body tighten. My head snaps around.

Even with a mask over her face, I know her in an instant. A dark blue filigree mask covers the upper half of her face. But there’s the slightly pointed chin, the subtle line of her jaw, the full lips colored in her signature red lipstick.

And her smile. I’ve seen her smile countless times, but there’s always been an aloofness, a distance. But now, as she smiles up at another man, anger twists in my chest. This isn’t a royal smile with no substance. No, this is a smile of joy, one I’ve never seen directed my way.

Not that it matters, I remind myself as I start to thread my way through the crowd. I don’t need a smile from the princess. I need her to follow my orders so she doesn’t get killed.