King Size: A Royal Bad Boy Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  When Owen comes back to me, he’s exasperated and clearly over the evening’s festivities. He takes my hand in his. “Let’s do the obligatory last dance and get the hell out of here,” he says, pulling me toward the raised dance floor at the head of the hall, not waiting for my answer.

  I’m so exhausted I’m running on adrenaline and muscle memory, and nothing else. I follow Owen’s steps, grateful he’s a good dancer and has very strong arms and hands. He’s the only thing holding me upright.

  “I know this has been an exhausting, insane few months,” Owen whispers in my ear as we dance. “And I know it’s not perfect. But I do love you. I’m going to do my best to take care of you and our family. Great partnerships have started with arrangements like ours. Maybe someday you’ll come to love me, too, in your own way.”

  I look up at him, heartened by his speech, wishing I had to energy to meet it. “Owen I… I… I don’t even know what to say. I’m an exhausted mess. I can’t find the right words.”

  He pulls me close. “It’s okay, Duchess. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  When the dance is done, we waste no time making lengthy goodbyes. The crowd assembles to see us out to the waiting car, which will take us to the port at Barmouth and a couple nights spent on the royal yacht, sailing back to Cymrea.

  I guess I’ll get something to eat or drink when we get to the yacht.

  The press is assembled in an organized line just outside the front door of Hereford Abbey, positioned to photograph us as we leave the private reception. These are the only press images of the wedding, so we’re obligated to stand a moment, posing for the cameras, smiling politely as the rowdy group shouts questions at us.

  I’m blinded by the relentless strobe of flashes exploding in my eyes, and feeling dizzy, when out of the corner of my peripheral vision a familiar image catches my attention. I turn to look just in time to see Eric rush headlong at me like a football linebacker ready to tackle.

  It happens so fast, no one has time to react. He hits me with a force so intense it knocks the wind out of my lungs. I don’t have breath enough to scream. I fall backward with all his speed and weight propelling me down.

  I should have told Owen just how much I love him. I wish…

  22

  Owen

  I’m looking to my right, smiling for the cameras, blinking in time with the flashbulbs, blinded in the glare, when I feel a hard shove from the left and I stumble. Norah’s hand is torn from mine before I know what’s hit us. I swing around, recovering my balance, and see a man tackling Norah. She’s flat on her back on the flagstones with the man on top of her, his fist drawing back, ready to strike.

  Duncan’s on him first, grabbing his raised arm, twisting it back, hauling the guy backward. Eric Wembley! Rage explodes inside me.

  I’m on him next, pounding with stony fists against flesh, feeling bones crunch with each connection made. A second later security surrounds me, dragging me backward on my heels. That’s when I see…

  She’s motionless. Eyes open, but nothing in them. He knocked her out of her shoes. They lay on the stones a yard away from her limp body.

  I fall to my knees at her side as a crowd encloses us.

  “Call emergency services,” I hear someone say.

  A hand falls to my shoulder. “Sir, we need to get you back inside.”

  I shrug it off, leaning down, taking her hands in mine. They’re lifeless. I reach down to lift her up and feel warm liquid spill over my hand. A pool of blood spreads on the stones beneath her head.

  “Oh my God, my dear duchess,” I hear a familiar voice cry from what seems a long way away. “Oh God, please. Don’t do this. Please don’t take her away from me. Not like this.”

  Somewhere, a thousand miles off, I hear shutters clicking while the strobe of flashbulbs illuminate the horror in front of me in vivid technicolor. I lift Norah into my arms, cradling her against my chest.

  Duncan appears at my side. He presses two fingers to her throat.

  “She’s alive,” he says. “Let me have her. I know what to do.”

  Duncan takes her from me, moving fast back into the abbey. We bypass confused, shocked guests, heading—I realize quickly—toward the kitchens. He clears the main island in the center of the kitchen, laying Norah out. Then he finds the ice-maker. Gathering up towels, he packs them with frozen cubes, then packs the towels around Norah’s head. He elevates her upper body, dropping her legs off the edge of the table top.

  Before he’s done her entire head is swaddled in bulky, ice-packed towels.

  “If her skull’s cracked, this will slow down the swelling that could cause a stroke or worse,” Duncan says, feeling again for a pulse, pressing his head to her breast, listening to her heart.

  I look down on her. She’s as pale as death. I take her hand in mine and find it cold and moist.

  “She’s going into shock,” Duncan says calmly. “Body temp is dropping. It’s normal. It’s not a bad thing. Once the ES is here, they’ll stabilize her.”

  I look around. This kitchen is ancient and cavernous. The only people in it are royal guard, all standing at ready posture on high alert, all of them prepared to do whatever is required to defend this room. They’re stationed on point at doorways and windows. All looking outward, anticipating assault.

  The towels around Norah’s head slowly go crimson with her blood. Somewhere off in the far distance, the waling sound of sirens pierce the evening air.

  I approach the table bearing Norah’s lifeless body with grief and trepidation. I lift her hand to my chest, placing my other hand on her belly. “I’m here, Duchess. I’m here. I love you more than you’ll ever know. Please baby, hang on.”

  A hospital emergency room knows no distinctions between class, color, creed, or credit rating. This place is like Purgatory. Everything is leveled. All distinctions evaporate to the barest priorities.

  A small woman dressed in sky blue nurses’ garb puts her hand firmly to my chest, shoving me backward with remarkable power. “You need to wait outside,” she barks, and couldn’t care less that I’m her king. “The doctor will come to you as soon as he can.”

  Duncan presses his hand to my shoulder. “Come on, Owen. We’ll be in their way. We can’t help now.”

  The waiting room is dingy, lit by dull fluorescent lights. The floor is dirty. The walls in this place are grimy. The seats are soiled so thoroughly that the pattern of fabric covering them is completely obscured by the left-behind stains of suffering and human exposure.

  Twenty minutes pass before Norah’s parents and my mother join me here. Mother hugs me, slipping her arms around me in a way that she hasn’t done in years. “She’ll be okay,” she whispers.

  I’m not so sure.

  An hour passes while we wait in silence, Duncan to my left, Mother to my right, Norah’s parents directly facing me, both of them wearing grave expressions.

  In that hour, my mind goes places I didn’t know existed. I’ve lived my life mostly alone until these last few months with Norah. In that time, she’s become my everything. She laughs at me, and with me. She listens. She shares herself. She never lets me take myself too seriously. She makes waking up in the morning something I finally look forward to. She makes crawling into bed at night the thing I love most, because that’s when we talk together, solving the world’s problems on pillow-tops. I sleep with her against me. I can’t imagine sleeping alone anymore.

  And the babies. Our babies. We made them together.

  I can’t do this alone. I can’t lose her.

  “Sir?”

  I look up. A young man in rumpled, stained scrubs regards me with caution.

  “How is she? Is she okay? Tell me.”

  The doctor, a young man not much older than me, sits down across from us. “She’s stable,” he says. “She’s suffered a blunt force trauma to the back of her head, resulting in a hairline crack to the base of her skull. So far, swelling is minimal thanks to the quick thinking of your security people
, but that’s a temporary measure. She’s bleeding internally, which is putting pressure on her brain. She needs surgery to relieve the pressure.”

  So she can be helped?

  “She has other complications,” the doctor continues. “She’s anemic, which means her blood isn’t carrying the full complement of oxygen required for optimal organ function. With a head trauma, the body automatically starts shutting down unnecessary functions to preserve oxygen for brain tissue. I’m concerned because I’m seeing a restriction in blood flow through the umbilicus. Her body is starving the babies, trying to save her brain function.”

  Oh God… No.

  “She needs emergency surgery to fix this. London has an excellent neurological surgical unit at the City Medical Center. We’ve already called for medevac transport; they should be here within half an hour.”

  “London!” Mother gasps. “Why can’t you do it here?”

  The doctor shakes his head. “We don’t have the facilities or surgeons trained on procedures like this. Most critical injuries or traumatic brain injuries get sent abroad. Anglesey doesn’t have the infrastructure or talent to deal with those sorts of things.”

  How can that be?

  “Can I fly with her?” I ask.

  The doctor shakes his head. “I’m sorry, no. Only the patient.”

  I look over to Duncan. “Call for the jet. Have someone from the household meet us there with some fresh clothes for me—a week’s worth.”

  He nods, leaving the room to make the arrangements.

  The waiting rooms at City Medical Center in London are not dimly lit, with dirty floors, grime on the walls, or stained furnishings. The hospital gleams. The staff are numerous, immaculate, and unwaveringly competent. We’re greeted by a family services liaison who explains to me everything that’s happened so far, and everything that is going to happen.

  “Once she’s out of surgery, she’ll be sedated heavily to place her in a medically-induced coma. This will give her brain time to heal. It may be for only a few hours’ duration based upon her progress, or it may take longer if the injury is more severe.”

  “What about the babies?” I ask.

  “She’s being transfused with an oxygen-packed mixture that should protect the babies. The doctors are doing everything they can.”

  Mother squeezes my hand. “The doctors will do everything possible, Owen. We just have to be patient.”

  I don’t want to be patient. I want the love of my life back in my arms, calling me ludicrous names, and I want our unborn babies to thrive.

  While we wait, I observe the comings and goings in this state-of-the-art medical facility. Companies of young doctors-in-training trail seasoned physicians, taking notes, observing. Platoons of nurses and other staff attend to patients. Legions of service staff clean, transcribe records, deliver meals, and some just sit with patients and their families, providing support and counseling.

  It’s so different than at home. Here, nothing is overlooked. Here, every need is addressed. A volunteer brings refreshments, reminding us there’s a restaurant on the ground floor with a full breakfast. Outside the big windows, the sun rises. I can’t imagine eating. I’m sick to my stomach. But the idea that this hospital has a capable neurological unit taking care of Norah, along with a fully functional restaurant for staff and patient families, makes me question what in the hell Anglesey has been doing with its money.

  “Sir. Ma’am. You have a visitor,” a volunteer says, holding the door open on our small waiting room.

  I’m astonished to see Mother’s cousin Charles come in, flanked by his own security detail.

  “Charles,” Mother says, stepping forward, offering her hand and her cheek.

  Norah’s parents stand up stiffly, their eyes wide with instant recognition.

  Charles is this country’s Crown Prince, and a distant cousin on his mother’s side.

  “I heard what happened,” he says, his tone grave, his cut-glass Windsor accent pinched and nasal. “Awful business. How is Norah?”

  “We don’t know.”

  I’ve met Charles two dozen times in my life. I always liked him. He seems solidly steady, if slightly out of touch. His mother is the Queen of England and a legend. She’s the longest reigning monarch in history, making Charles the longest reigning frustrated prince in waiting.

  Charles is at least thirty years older than mother. I always fancied him as a dodgy, ancient great uncle.

  “We’ve closed the hospital to the press,” he says.

  Maybe he’s not so dodgy.

  He turns to me. “Owen, my security people will work with yours to make this as seamless as possible. After she’s out of recovery, we have a fully staffed, pristine rehab facility at Buckingham Palace. We’ll take her there to recover if you’re amenable. The Queen has extended her invitation.”

  “We’ll see what her doctors say,” I offer. “I just don’t know yet what care is going to be needed.”

  “Understood,” Charles says. “May I stay with you until she’s out of surgery? Until you know more?”

  While we wait, Charles and my mother chat about his work with The Prince’s Trust, a charity he established decades ago to bring opportunity and social justice to marginalized people throughout the UK.

  It occurs to me, listening to him talk about marginalized people in former colonies, that I live in and rule a nation that barely avoided becoming a British colony. The English set their sights on Ireland first, postponing invading and subduing Anglesey for another day. The English Civil War got in the way, and they never got around to conquering us. Just my luck. Now we’re trading partners and allies. It wasn’t always the case. Something in my DNA bristles at his offer for help.

  “I hear you’re working on a trade deal,” Charles says. “Since all the Brexit nonsense, we’re a hungry nation.”

  I really, really don’t want to talk about work right now.

  “I envy you,” Charles says. “You get to lead on policy and national decisions. All British royals do is cut ribbons and smile approvingly, no matter what the Parliament and Prime Minister do to bugger things up.”

  He envies me? That’s ludicrous.

  “By the looks of things, your parliament and prime minister are doing a fair job,” I reply. “London is the gleaming capital of the world and still growing. I’m here because Anglesey doesn’t even have a hospital capable of taking care of its own people. Don’t envy me—I rule a feudal backwater run by a kindergarten of over-indulged nobles.”

  “Owen!” my mother admonishes me.

  “It’s true,” I say. “Look around. The best thing that ever happened to England was Oliver Cromwell and the guillotine. If I thought offering my head would improve things at home, I’d step right up.”

  Charles laughs at me. “Well Owen, the thing is, you’re the one man in the country who can change things. The nobles may be brats, but they’re your brats—they exist at your pleasure. If you’re willing to risk your head, you could take it slowly and simply risk their outrage. Confiscate some lands. Redistribute some wealth. Seize their offshore bank accounts and reinvest the assets into your country.”

  It would take a very brave man to do that.

  The waiting room door opens. An authoritative-looking man in green surgical scrubs appears. He blinks when he sees Charles, nodding to him as if they’re old friends. He’s got intelligent, stony gray eyes, and short, salt and pepper-shaded hair. He’s wearing pristine Adidas track shoes with his scrubs, making him slightly comical—if his face wasn’t so grave.

  “I’m Dr. Turner,” he says, stepping forward, shaking my hand.

  “Owen,” I say. It’s always strange meeting people who are not my subjects. I’m just Owen. No title. No last name.

  “Miss Ballantyne is in serious but stable condition,” he says. “The pre-surgery CT scan showed extensive swelling and bleeding in the occipital lobe of her brain, with a three-inch fracture of the cranium at the same location externally. In surgery, we
were able to release the pressure caused by the bleeding and stop further hemorrhaging by surgically repairing the torn vessel.”

  “When will she wake up?” I ask.

  “We’re going to do another CT scan in six hours to make sure there’s no addition bleeding or persistent swelling,” he says. “We’re keeping her sedated until we make the determination that the swelling is completely gone. That may take several days. Maybe longer.”

  “Is she going to be okay?” I ask, hearing the desperation in my voice. “Are the babies okay?”

  “She’ll recover,” the doctor says cautiously. “Brain injuries are tricky. She went a long time between the injury and receiving proper care. It’s impossible to say what the short- or long-term damage might be until she wakes up. It’s likely she may have some vision issues, at least initially, as the injured lobe controls vision and the processing of visual information.

  “She’s pregnant, and there’s an ongoing risk to the fetuses,” he goes on. “Some of the medicines we’ve administered are contraindicated with pregnancy. The fetuses’ heart rates are elevated, and there’s indication they are in distress. All we can do is wait and watch closely.”

  Mother slips up beside me, circling her hand around my upper arm. “Doctor, my son and Norah were just married this morning. Please take very good care of her. She’s wife of the acting king of Anglesey, and mother to the next monarch. She’s…”

  The doctor nods, smiling awkwardly. “Yes ma’am,” he interrupts. “Believe me, ma’am, all my patients are important. I do my very best for each of them.”

  “Can I see her?” I ask. “Can I be with her?”

  Dr. Turner nods. “She’ll be placed in a room as soon as she’s out of surgical recovery. Someone will come get you. It won’t be much more than an hour.”