Consume Me (Royal World Book 3)

by Geneva Lee

  So why did I trust him? Why was I relying on a man who valued life so little?

  “Was it?” Smith slid behind the wheel. “I didn’t think so.”

  “I gathered that when you sold out Ethan Small.” I felt dirty for giving the name. I’d prepared myself to go as far as I had to in order to find Clara, but it felt different to have acted.

  “A price had to be paid.” Smith left the words hanging, a reminder that I’d had a choice and I’d chosen to sign the cheque. “You can’t question the choices you made after the fact,” he advised, pulling around the circular drive and waiting for the gates to open.

  I’d known. I’d do it again. “I’m not.”

  “Ethan Small hand-delivered the gun that killed your father,” Smith reminded me.

  “And he felt so guilty about it that he’s been cooperating with us ever since.”

  “Wanting to avoid jail time is not cooperating. His life for Clara’s isn’t even a question.” Something in his voice dared me to disagree. I was being tested again.

  “Let me be clear. No one will stand between me reaching her. No one.” There wasn’t a single person in this world that I wouldn’t trade for my wife and children’s safety. “Including you or your wife or our friends.”

  “Fair enough.” This revelation rolled off Smith’s shoulders. Possibly, because he would betray any of us for Belle.

  It was why we trusted each other. It was why we worked together. It was also why we’d never be friends.

  Knowing that made it easier to shift attention back to our current situation.“If this Colony is real, there’s one place to start asking questions.”

  “I assume you mean Oliver Jacobson,” Smith spat out the name. “What about our other lead? Or are you going to try to sell me that MI-18 doesn’t exist, too?”

  “You knew?” I asked, not trying to hide my disbelief. There were few more well-guarded secrets than its existence. Technically, even I wasn’t supposed to now.

  “No,” Smith admitted, turning the Bugatti in the direction of London, “but there was no reason for DeAngelo to bluff on that point.”

  I hadn’t given DeAngelo an inch on MI-18. Everyone knew about MI-5 and MI-6. There were a number of other sections, some in operation, most defunct. As far as the other departments, the public, even the monarchy were concerned, military intelligence section 18 had never been utilised. But MI-18 had been in continuous operation since the second world war when it had become necessary to track individuals and groups with more revolutionary tastes. The people undermining the allies while hiding in British fallout shelters.

  “Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to know about them,” I confessed. “It’s black ops. Completely covert. No records. No oversight. Only MI-18 knows about MI-18.”

  “So how do you know?” Smith asked slowly.

  I drew a deep breath before answering. I was about to betray a confidence—and it was a secret that could get someone killed. “Norris.”

  Chapter 6

  An obnoxious beeping filtered into the darkness. It ricocheted around his brain like a bullet. Blinking his eyes, Norris stared up at a white-tiled ceiling. The word hospital processed in his sluggish mind, but when he went to move, he couldn’t. Straining to see, he discovered two thick leather belts buckled around his wrists. He couldn’t feel his legs to know if they were similarly bound or worse. Instinct took over and he pulled against the straps as his last few memories filtered back to him.

  He’d been at a party. Something had happened.

  Mary, Alexander’s grandmother had collapsed. He was asked to take the Queen home.

  The rest of the night came in scattered pieces.

  Clara worried but holding herself together.

  Sarah sitting mute and shocked in the backseat.

  Moonlight catching the hood of the Range Rover and reflecting something odd.

  Then searing pain near his left kidney and Clara’s stricken face giving way to blackness.

  “Blue.”

  Clara.

  Norris could only hope that he’d managed to catch her attention. He hoped she’d understood what he was trying to say. The Range Rover wasn’t theirs. The royal family used exclusively black models. The car that had arrived was blue. Was it enough of a warning? Maybe she’d had time to scream or run. He was in a hospital. Whoever had tried to silence him—or more likely, kill him—failed.

  None of that explained why he was tied to the bed.

  In Norris’s experience, which was considerable, it was never a good thing to wake up in a strange hospital room strapped down.

  It took longer than it should have for him to process what that meant. No doubt he’d been under sedation. If he was here, he’d failed. Clara hadn’t gotten help. There was no other accounting for the bindings. But what had happened to her?

  Taking a moment, he relaxed as best he could and tried not to think about why he couldn’t feel his legs. He needed to get his hands free first and foremost. Then, he would worry about his feet. Getting out of leather restraints was tricky, but not impossible. It was a skill he’d picked up before he came to work for Alexander’s family. But it had been years since Norris was a special operative and even longer since he’d found himself in this position.

  And he didn’t have time to waste. He’d have to do it the hard way. The trick was to break the bones fast enough that he could unbuckle the second restraint before swelling made it too difficult.

  Breaking bones wasn’t exactly a walk in the park either. Twisting his wrist hard, he jammed it against the leather as hard as he could. It was faster with metal handcuffs.

  He needed more leverage, but when he tried to move his torso, white-hot lighting shot through his side. A cold sweat broke over his brow and he fell back panting. It was a stab wound, judging by his memory and the way it hurt now, and it wasn’t going to make life any easier. This was no time to feel sorry for himself, though. Not while his family was in danger. Resuming his efforts, he was finally rewarded with a splintering crack.

  Only a few more and he’d be able to slip his hand free. Next to him a monitor spiked and he cursed. He hadn’t been considering his heart rate. Willing it down, he watched it fall a few beats per minute while he continued his manipulations of the cuff.

  But it was too late.

  A woman in a white lab coat rushed into the room. “Mr. Norris, please control yourself. You’re injured.”

  Norris stilled and considered his position. She didn’t know that he’d nearly freed one hand, but the longer she talked, the more swelling would occur and he’d be in worse shape if he had a broken, swollen hand ballooning against the leather.

  Still, he needed to gather info. “Undo these and I won’t need to struggle. Doctor?”

  She didn’t correct him. Instead, she made her way to the monitors, her eyes beady as she took in the numbers. She was younger than him, but not by much. There was no hospital insignia on her lab coat and under it she wore street clothes.

  A private physician of some sort. The fact that she didn’t give her name was also telling.

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible given the circumstances. You’ve been deemed a flight risk,” she informed him, remaining interested in the machines and refusing to speak directly to him.

  Norris wasn’t entirely certain what to make of her, but his gut feeling wasn’t good. Nothing added up here, particularly her.

  But why keep him alive? Unless…

  “I want to speak to the king. He would never allow this.” It was a test.

  “Who do you think ordered you here?” She failed it entirely. There was no circumstance under which Alexander would have sent him to be confined to a hospital. But she wasn’t through digging her grave. “You’re being held on suspicion of conspiracy.”

  “Conspiracy of what?” He asked quietly. He was running out of time. His hand was beginning to pound.

  “Kidnapping, to start,” she said. “Attempted murder.”

  Soon, the
re would be a real reason to hold him for murder. When he managed to get free, no one would stand in his way.

  “I’ll send someone in to attend to your hand.” She trailed an icy finger along the spot where he’d broken the bone. Norris bit back a yelp. “We’re not stupid, Mr. Norris. We’re aware of your particular skills.”

  He didn’t bother to comment. If he was stuck here, he might as well get as much information from her as possible. “And the Queen? Is she safe?”

  That was all that really matted. If he was being held on conspiracy charges that would be sorted out soon enough. No matter what danger he was in, his family was his primary concern.

  She leveled a long look at him. “Why don’t you tell us?”

  Chapter 7

  CLARA

  The bright lights and white walls felt familiar and safe—I knew I was anything but. On the other side of the unlocked door, I found myself in a standard hospital wing. I felt like Alice falling through the rabbit hole. Nothing was what it seemed here. Not that I had any idea where here was. But regardless of the lights and busy clinic, I knew I wasn’t safe. There were no windows and every door locked behind me.

  There were more people here, though no one looked my way as I passed in my too-small clothes. No one seemed at all interested in my presence. I was a ghost gliding among the living—unseen, unnoticed, uninteresting. I tried to take in small details—the man in the lab coat testing a vial of blood, a series of numbered rooms with tinted glass doors, an empty bed being wheeled by—but there was nothing remarkable about any of it. Its mundanity made it all the more chilling. This could be any clinic if not for the fact that it connected to an anonymous prison and that I hadn’t walked in here of my own volition. Then there were the people—presumably, doctors and nurses—did they know I’d been taken? Was everyone here in on my disappearance?

  And why? It always came back to that one question: why?

  “The doctor will be with you in a moment,” June told me as she waved a badge over a card reader and showed me into a room.

  Before she had waited until someone unlocked a door. Here, that badge was like waving a magic wand.

  She pointed to the exam table and a folded cloth resting on it. I picked it up—it was such an ordinary, familiar thing: a cotton hospital gown. It didn’t match with my circumstances. The last time I’d changed into one of these I’d been waiting for my doctor with my best friend by my side.

  I fingered the worn fabric, stomach churning as I realized it had been washed many times. What was this place? Maybe none of this was real. Maybe I was trapped in a nightmare.

  “Please change into that. I’ll see that some clothes are delivered to you. Obviously, someone forgot to see that your quarters were stocked properly.” She drew a curtain down the center of the room and waited on the other side.

  Her attitude only made things worse. Cheerful, kind—it was as though none of this was wrong. They’d kidnapped me, held me captive, and now I was being treated like…like…

  I didn’t understand it. I didn’t know what I was—something between a guest and a prisoner. I wasn’t free to go but I wasn’t being treated poorly. The rumble of my stomach reminded me I wasn’t being treated well, either.

  “Can I get something to eat?” I asked, rubbing my belly.

  “Oh, you poor duck, of course. After the tests. It’s necessary for you to be in a fasting state,” she explained, taking the ill-fitting garments from me. She handed me a cup and pointed to a bathroom.

  I knew exactly what to do. I’d done it dozens of times before, but I couldn’t continue to pretend this was normal. I wanted answers. I wanted reassurances. I wanted my husband.

  “What are they going to do?” I asked, panic finally winning out. “What are they going to do to my baby?”

  “Don’t you worry about that. You’re in good hands,” she said calmly. “Everyone deserves the best care no matter what they’ve done.”

  Her words stole my breath for a moment. “Done?” I repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t have access to more than your medical file, Miss Bishop,” she said, “but a woman gets sent here for a reason.”

  “Where is here?” I felt like a scratched record, repeating the same line over and over, jolting with each skip. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Clara Bishop,” June said, blinking. She cocked her head and studied me for a moment as though diagnosing me.

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “I was Clara Bishop. Now I’m the Queen.”

  “The queen?” Her eyebrows shot up before she began to laugh. “I haven’t heard that one before.”

  Why was she acting like this? Why was she pretending I wasn’t who I said I was? She had to know. I hadn’t wound up here accidentally. The world began to spin around me—or was I the crazy one? What if I was right? What if none of this was real? What if nothing I believed was true? I stumbled a step, my hand closing over my stomach. The baby kicked and instantly I felt anchored. There was my proof. Alexander’s child grew inside me. We’d made this baby with our love—love that was the a living, breathing passion. I felt it now. Even separated, I was always with him. It was his heart in my chest. It was his strength that kept me from falling.

  Someone wanted to play a game. I suspected it wasn’t June. She wasn’t lying. She believed every word she said. But if she knew the truth—if she could be convinced—would she help me?

  “It’s true. Someone took me,” I told her in a rush, clutching her arm. “You have to help me. You can’t let them hurt me or my baby.”

  “No one is going to hurt your baby,” she reassured me, dismissing me like I was a hysterical woman. “The doctor will be with you in a moment.”

  A little bit of my hope died. If she wouldn’t help me—if all these people would stand by and treat me like I was a raving lunatic—what could I do?

  She pried my fingers free, backing up a few steps and I saw it. Fear. Not of what I said. Of me. I’d scared her. She wouldn’t be my ally. Whatever they’d told her about me, she’d believed it. I didn’t know if I was a criminal or a lunatic in her eyes, but I couldn’t be trusted. As the door shut behind her, I went to it half-heartedly. Locked. I had to be sure. I managed to make it back to the bed before my legs gave out.

  Dread broke over me in cold waves. I’d faced death before. I thought I was prepared to face it again, but this wasn’t simply about me. I loved my child. I would do anything to protect him, even give my own life. But the baby didn’t stand a chance here. They knew about his heart condition and they’d taken me anyway. Why go to the trouble of pretending to care if he lived or died?

  And then it hit me. This wasn’t about me. It was about the baby. It had to be. Who would take the child of a king? This wasn’t the work of a mad man. I knew what that looked like—chaos and blood and death. I’d seen it spread crimson on the tiles of Westminster Abbey. It was violence and insanity. It was missing the mark but hitting another.

  This? It was precise and planned. It reached it into my life and pulled strings until we’d taken our proper places. This was the work of something else: hatred or greed or power.

  Maybe the doctor would be willing to talk. He had my chart. He had to know the truth. When the door finally opened, I was glad I didn’t have anything in my stomach or I would have thrown up.

  Because the doctor did know the truth. He’d known for some time, but did I?

  “Clara,” Doctor Rolland greeted me. He looked as though he’d just strolled in to my doctor’s office rather than some secret torture clinic. “How are you feeling?”

  He strolled into the exam room, checking the file he’d carried inside. I’d trusted this man. He was the one who had confirmed the baby’s diagnosis. He’d acted concerned. He had advised me to tell Alexander the truth. To what end?

  “How can you ask me that?” I spat back at him. How could he stand there and casually thumb through my paperwork? “What is this? Are you a part of this?”

  “I’m
a contractor. I don’t ask questions, especially ones with answers I might not like. I understand this must be difficult for you,” he said, “but I am a physician and I adhere to the Hippocratic oath like everyone else in my profession.”

  I doubted that very much. “Then you’ll tell my husband where I am. You’ll tell him that I’ve been taken.”

  “My patient is the baby,” Rolland stopped me. “I’m here to oversee his safe delivery.”

  “His?” I repeated weakly.

  “It’s a boy.” Rolland nodded, stealing the joy of knowing I’d been right. “I realize you wanted to keep it a surprise, but you may as well find out now.”

  “What are they going to do to the baby?” I asked softly.

  “He’ll be well-cared for, I promise. But there are issues that could complicate his birth. Your tests show elevated protein in your urine. The nurses will be monitoring your blood pressure for signs of pre-eclampsia.” He took a seat on a nearby stool and abandoned the chart to finally look at me. His forehead was creased and worn, his eyes gentle—he was either doing a remarkable job of playing the concerned doctor or he truly was. I wasn’t entirely sure if it mattered which was the truth.

  “What does that mean?” If he was here to care for the baby that was all that really mattered. I would focus on that even if what I really wanted was to find the nearest sharp object and stab him in the throat.

  This was as close to an ally as I would find here. I allowed the realization to slowly sink in. So long as I was pregnant, we would both be safe and cared for, but after?

  “Pre-eclampsia can happen later in pregnancy, particularly high risk pregnancies. We’ll need to monitor your blood pressure and watch for other signs. For instance, if your ring starts to feel tight or you begin to notice swelling.” He pointed to my wedding band and I covered it with my hand.

  It was still mine. It was proof that I was who I said I was. I’d forgotten it earlier. Now it stood for more than my marriage vows. It stood between life and death. I twisted it nervously around my finger. Was it tighter than it had been a few days ago? “And if this gets worse?”