Page 3 of The Prince's Secret Twins

Joran could only watch in exasperation as his supposedly fearless guards retreated like scared rabbits, leaving him to face the bizarre baby situation alone. It was a far cry from the bravado he had come to expect from his elite team, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of amusement at their terror. After all, who knew that two tiny humans could strike such fear into the hearts of trained soldiers?

“The house isn’t contaminated,” he hissed, then glanced nervously at Tila’s doorway and listened. Her soft breathing continued. So did the odd sounds coming from one of the babies. “It’s just an infant!”

The men shook their heads again, both visibly terrified.

"I need help.Now!" Joran barked, attempting to suppress the rising tide of panic threatening to turn him into a blubbering mess. The last thing he needed was to dissolve into a puddle of nerves while trying to soothe a tiny tyrant. He couldn't quite grasp why he felt so compelled to protect Tila from the crying baby, but one thing was certain: he was determined to do whatever it took to keep from waking her up.

Reluctantly, the two guards shuffled into the house, their movements akin to a pair of reluctant penguins trying to navigate a landmine. They made a valiant effort to silence the cacophony of clunking weapons against the doorframe, their faces a mix of terror and resignation as they reluctantly closed the front door behind them.

As the trio made their way deeper into the home, it was an almost comical sight to behold. Joran shed his tactical vest in a desperate bid to appear less intimidating to the tiny baby-dictator, but his guards remained clad in their fortress of black cargo pants and snug-fitting tee shirts, their muscles straining against the fabric. Their bulletproof vests were adorned with anarsenal of gadgets and gizmos, like a walking Swiss army knife. And let's not forget the pistols—each man was armed to the teeth with enough firepower to take down a small army of teddy bears.

“What does it need?” Joran demanded in a low hiss.

The three stared down at the squirming infant, their expressions a hilarious mix of horror and terror. After a prolonged silence that bordered on ridiculous, they collectively shrugged, as if to say, "Well, this is certainly a new pickle."

"Uh... Boss," one of the guards finally ventured, his voice tinged with a touch of incredulity, "we do just about everything possible to avoid this kind of situation." He shot a sheepish glance at his colleague, who nodded vigorously in agreement, their discomfort palpable.

It was a moment that begged for a laugh track, as if the universe itself couldn't resist adding a dash of absurdity to an already comical situation. After all, when trained soldiers found themselves at a loss for how to handle a squirming bundle of joy, you knew you were in for a wild ride.

Joran rolled his eyes. “I get that. But Tila is exhausted. You saw her earlier. She’s out of her mind.”

One of the guards burst into a grin, his thumbs tucked onto his pistol belt. “Does that mean I get to slap you when I’m tired?” Edin asked hopefully.

Algar dropped his head so his chin pressed against his chest in a pathetic attempt to smother his snort of laughter.

Joran rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Try it and find out,” he growled.

They turned their attention back to the infant. The wiggles were becoming more frantic. The tiny body was wearingsome sort of outfit that covered it from neck to toe. Joran wasn’t even sure how to get the thing off.

“Maybe it’s hungry,” Edin suggested.

Joran nodded. “That’s possible.” They all stared at the infant for another long moment, no one moving. Joran knew that this was the time for leadership so he then turned to the man. “Go make a bottle.”

Edin’s eyes widened. “A what?”

“A bottle!” Joran snapped, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the doorway. “I’m sure there are supplies in the kitchen.”

The man made a choking sound, then shook his head. “I don’t know how to make a bottle!” the guard hissed.

Joran rolled his eyes and turned to face the man. “You figured out how to booby-trap a doorway last year with a paperclip and a pack of gum. I’m pretty sure that you can figure out how to make a bottle for a baby.”

Edin stared at Joran for a long, horrified moment, then huffed. He shifted on his feet, still unsure. Finally, he turned and left the room, grumbling about neverwantingto learn how to make a bottle.

“And be quiet about it!” Joran hissed after him.

Then he turned and stared down at the wiggly baby again. “Okay, so now what?” he asked his other friend and bodyguard.

Algar shrugged. They stared at the infant again. Finally, Algar suggested, “Maybe you should…pick it up?”

Joran suspected that the guard was right. But how? Joran knew that he was a big guy. Joran stood at six feet, threeinches tall. Plus, his hands were accustomed to beating people up and holding weapons. He’d been well trained in defeating an enemy and figuring out military strategy. Those skills wouldn’t help him in this situation. He wasn’t sure how to pick up a tiny human being without crushing it.

That’s when he thought about Tila. She was small. Well, not exactly small, but she was smaller than he was. And her breasts were soft and tender. His body tightened at the memories of just how soft and tender. Gently. And with his mouth and…okay, he wasn’t going to do that with a baby. Gross. But he could lift the infant with the same gentleness with which he would use to touch Tila. He was always tender with her.

Bending down, he saw the startled expression in the infant’s eyes and knew that the tiny thing was about to scream.

“It’s okay, little one,” he crooned softly. He remembered reading something about how a baby’s neck wasn’t strong so he put one hand under the baby’s head and the other under his bottom.

Before he could fully comprehend the absurdity of the situation, Joran found himself cradling the baby against his chest, like a bewildered new parent thrust into the deep end of childcare without so much as a floatie. The infant, too startled to cry, stared up at him with wide eyes, as if trying to decide whether to burst into tears or laughter at the sight of this imposing figure trying his hand at baby whispering.

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