Royal Pain

by Tracy Wolff

  Then again, I’m sure mine is, as well.

  Slowly, I walk over to Garrett, torn between not wanting to wake him up and being desperate to hear his voice and know once and for all that he really is going to be okay.

  Jesus, he’s a fucking mess.

  His face is battered almost beyond recognition. His left eye is swollen shut—hell, the whole left side of his face is swollen and his perfect nose is crooked in two places now. His lip is cut and has obviously been stitched, and I can see the jagged cut on his cheek that the doctor says will require plastic surgery once the swelling goes down some.

  Most of the rest of him is covered by blankets, except his arms and hands—all of which are cut and bruised. His right hand is wrapped up, and bits and pieces of the doctor’s conversation—surgery in a day or two, once they’ve done at least one more MRI on his brain and had a prolonged chance to observe how Garrett is functioning with the concussion filter through to me.

  I want to grab him, want to pull him into a hug and hold him so fucking tightly that no one will ever have the chance to hurt him again. But at the same time, I’m terrified of hurting him, terrified of touching him as there doesn’t seem to be a spot on his whole fucking body that isn’t hurt.

  They tortured him. They fucking tortured him…and for what? To make a point? To gain top secret information? Or just because they hate him for no other reason than who he is and what he represents?

  Garrett doesn’t deserve this. No one deserves this, but certainly not him. He’s spent his whole life looking for the good in others, trying to do the right thing and help as many people as he can. He doesn’t deserve this.

  A sob catches in my throat at the thought, and I cough to disguise it. To swallow it down. Because I have no right to cry, no right to suffer, when Garrett looks like this. Ripped to pieces. So broken and fragile that I can barely wrap my head around the fact that the man in the bed is my indomitable older brother.

  As I stand here watching him—aware of my father doing the same from a few feet behind me—the fury inside me balloons into something so huge I can barely breathe, barely think.

  Fuck the law, fuck everything.

  I want to destroy the men who did this to him.

  Want to burn their fucking worlds to the ground.

  And I don’t give a shit that a royal isn’t supposed to think like that, isn’t supposed to act like that. Garrett spent his whole life playing by royal rules, doing what he was supposed to, when he was supposed to, always putting Wildemar first, and this is what it got him. More pain than any human being should ever have to endure.

  His hand twitches on the blanket and suddenly he moans, rocks his head back and forth on the pillow.

  “Garrett.” I step forward, lay the gentlest hand I can manage over his. “It’s okay. You’re okay now. You’re in the hospital and you’re safe. Dad and I are right here and we’re going to make sure of it.”

  He groans a little, but this time he opens his non-damaged eye. For seconds he doesn’t say anything, just licks his obviously dry lips and looks between our father and me.

  And then he half-laughs, half-groans as he brings the heel of his hand up to rest on his forehead. “Fuck. Am I dying?”

  “What?” The king steps forward. “No, of course not!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” I tell him firmly, even as I exchange an alarmed look with our father. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “I’m not certain I believe you.”

  “You should believe us.” The kingly voice is out in full force. “You’re getting the best care, and you’re going to be fine.”

  Which is when Garrett looks up at me and I see, just for a moment, a hint of the wicked sense of humor that he usually keeps under wraps. “Yeah, well, excuse my skepticism. But the two of you have managed to be in the same room together for at least five minutes and no one’s lost his shit yet. Hard to believe anything but my imminent demise would ever accomplish that.”

  Our father grumbles and growls a little, but I just laugh as relief pours through me. Because, for the first time since this nightmare began, I truly believe my brother is going to be okay.

  Chapter 27

  “I’ve got to tell you, man, your decorating style leaves much to be desired,” Garrett tells me three days later as two nurses wheel his hospital bed into his suite in the Palais des Fleurs.

  “Yeah, well, interior design always was more your area of expertise. Remember the hot pink chair and disco ball you begged Mom for when we were seven?”

  He flips me off, but he’s laughing, which is exactly what I was aiming for. And more than I have any right to ask of him. “Seriously, though, how many blood pressure machines does one bedroom need?” Garrett continues as they wheel him backward into the place I’ve had cleared for his hospital bed.

  “Three, obviously.”

  He rolls his one good eye, then tries not to wince. Kind of like what happens whenever he tries to sit up on his own instead of using the remote to lift the head of the bed into a sitting position.

  “Now, see, I was more concerned about the four IV poles. I mean, how many holes are they planning on sticking in you, anyway?”

  “None,” he answers firmly. “No one is sticking anything in me, ever again.”

  His voice goes a little hoarse at the end and…fuck. Just fuck. I can’t believe this has happened, can’t believe some crazy-ass fringe group got their hands on my brother and used him as a fucking pin cushion, among other things.

  I can tell from the way he won’t look at me, from the way his jaw is working, that he doesn’t want me to say any more—that he sure as shit doesn’t want me to ask how he’s doing. So I don’t, but I can’t help wondering if I’m making a mistake. Can’t help wondering if I should be asking him just that and so much more.

  It’s only been three days, I remind myself. He can barely hold his head up without puking, can barely open his swollen eye. How the fuck can I expect him to be ready to talk about what happened to him?

  An awkward silence descends and this time, I’m the one who clears his throat. “Are you hungry? Lucille’s been working overtime making your favorites. She’s got bouillabaisse, fresh bread, paella, salted caramel pudding, chocolate cake. Can I have anything sent up?”

  He lowers his head back to the bed, rolls it back and forth. “No thanks.”

  “You sure? I can get you a strawberry-banana milkshake.”

  “Nah. I’m good.”

  “How about a smoothie? Or a grilled cheese? You need to eat something. Maybe—”

  “Jesus, Kian, I said I was fine,” he snaps. “Stop fucking hovering. You’re not my fucking babysitter.”

  That shuts me up, has me sitting down in the chair next to his bed and looking anywhere—and everywhere—but at him. Silence stretches, sharp and awkward, between us. It’s not a problem we’ve ever suffered from before, but then my brother’s never been tortured before so…

  I know I should apologize—I am the one hovering over him like he’s a child, after all. It’s just, I was so worried for so long that I’m a little afraid to let him out of my sight now that I’ve finally got him back. A little afraid that if I’m not right here with him all the time, I’m going to wake up and find out that getting him back was just a dream. That the true nightmare is he’s still trapped in that hellhole, just out of reach.

  But that’s not on him. That’s on me, and I owe it to Garrett to give him whatever space he needs right now. “I’m s—”

  “Look,” he says at the same time. We both stop for a second, waiting for the other to continue before I finally gesture for him to go ahead.

  “I know you’re trying to help, and I appreciate it. I do. I just…I just need a few days to wrap my head around all this, you know?” He’s still refusing to look at me, and his fists are clenched as he stares out the window at the gardens that were my mother’s pride and joy for her whole life here at the palace.

  “I tho
ught I was going to die. Every day I woke up, positive that it was going to be the last day of my life. At first I fought it, but eventually I resigned myself to it. And now that I’m out…it’s just going to take me a little time to really accept that I’m not going to die.” His laugh sounds rusty. “At least for a while, anyway.”

  “I thought you were going to die, too. A lot of our advisers told dad and me to accept that you were already dead, but I could still feel you, you know. I knew you weren’t dead—or at least, I thought I knew. But I was terrified pretty much every second of every day you were gone, so it’s going to take me a little while to adjust, too.”

  “Kian—”

  “I’m not done.” I hold up a hand to stop him. “But I’ll try to back off the whole playing-nurse routine. And if I forget and get a little crazy—which I’ll probably do—just slap me back again. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  My phone vibrates with a text and I pull it out, swipe it open. It’s from Savvy. I start to answer her back, but I can feel Garrett staring at me and it just doesn’t feel right to be texting her while he’s watching. At least not until I tell him about the two of us.

  I shove the phone back in my pocket and stand up, just as one of his two day nurses bustles in with a tray of medicine. “You sure you don’t want me to get you anything?” I ask as I get shuffled off to the side. “The caramel pudding is really good.”

  For a second it looks like Garrett’s going to lash out at me again and I brace myself for the explosion. But he just kind of smiles at me, instead, and says, “Okay, yeah. I’ll try the pudding.”

  “Really?” I try not to get my hopes up.

  Now he’s wearing a full-blown smile. “Yeah, absolutely. And make it a big bowl.”

  “Yeah, of course. I’ll get it right now.” I’m so excited that he’s willing to eat, that he’s willing to try, that I’m halfway to the kitchen before it hits me that the pudding—that the trying—isn’t for him. It’s for me.

  The knowledge breaks my heart all the fuck over again.

  But I still get the pudding, because he needs to eat. And if I have to manipulate his emotions to make that happen, then so be it. Because now that I’ve got him back, nothing is going to take my brother away from me again. Not even his own demons…

  Chapter 28

  Savvy

  He didn’t call. Or text. Or email. Hell, he could have sent a fucking SOS via smoke signal and I would have been okay with it. But he didn’t do that, either

  It’s been four days and Kian hasn’t sent so much as a thought—or a fucking carrier pigeon—my way. And I don’t know what to do about it. Or what to think.

  “I need a cranberry vodka and a coconut mojito, Savvy. And I need it fast. This table’s been waiting for a while, and the guy is pissed.” Carter leans over the bar and bats his extra-long eyelashes at me.

  “I’m already on it,” I answer him, grabbing a bottle of vodka off the top shelf and pouring a healthy shot into a glass. “Tell him we upgraded on the house. That should calm him down.”

  “So many reasons I love you!” he tells me as he delivers a smacking kiss to my cheek.

  I’m too busy mixing up the coconut mojito to return the favor.

  Samantha hits the bar just as I slide the drinks across the sleek wood to Carter, and I spend the next few minutes making specialty cocktails for her table of eight. But even as I make my third flaming dragon of the night—being careful not to set myself on fire along with the top of the drink—I can’t stop thinking about Kian.

  I get it. I really do. Right now Garrett is the most important thing to him—and he should be. The man has just escaped a living hell, if what I’ve heard on the news is true. Of course Kian wants to spend all his time, all his energy, on his twin right now. I’m sure I’d feel exactly the same way.

  Hell, I do feel the same way. It’s been years since Garrett and I dated, nearly as long since we tried being friends only to have that fizzle out, too. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about the guy, doesn’t mean I haven’t spent the last three months worrying about him and praying that he’s okay.

  Now that he is, now that he’s safely back with his family, it’s only normal that they all take some time to adjust. To heal. To try to figure out what the new dynamic looks like. The only way for Kian to do that is to be there, in the palace, with his father and his brother.

  But does that mean he has to totally ignore me? I don’t need a phone call or a carrier pigeon, but a ten-second text would have been nice. A quick I’m okay and will call when I can doesn’t seem too much to ask considering the last time I saw him he told me that he loved me.

  How does a guy go from that—from I love you—to you don’t fucking exist for me?

  I don’t understand. I don’t fucking understand. Then again, I never have.

  I finish making the drinks and slide them over to Samantha, then start on Paige’s drinks as she cashes out a different table.

  I’m overreacting, I am. Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself as I grab the whiskey and pour two neat shots. I’ve seen the news, have heard all the stories. Kian definitely has his hands full right now.

  And maybe if I hadn’t broken my own rules, maybe if I hadn’t broken down and texted him—clearly begging for attention that he isn’t prepared to give me—I wouldn’t be this pissed off. This hurt.

  But I did text him, just a simple How are you? How’s Garrett? Do you need anything? But it was still a text. And I’ve still waited all afternoon and evening to hear from him, all to no avail.

  It makes me feel cheap. More it makes me feel stupid. There’s a part of my brain that keeps telling me that I should have known better. That I’ve been down this road before, a million times. Texting someone I love, waiting for them to remember that they love me, too.

  I did it with my mother a million times through the years, but her job was always more important than anything I might need.

  I did it with Garrett for the six months he and I were together, only to be told time and again that Wildemar was more important. That he couldn’t take time for me when I needed him because he had people depending on him.

  I swore when I left him—when I got on that plane back to America—that I’d never do this to myself again.

  I’d never waste my time waiting around for someone to get in touch.

  Never waste my time trying to get the attention of someone who didn’t want to give it to me.

  And I sure as hell was never going to wait around for someone to love me again.

  Yet here I am, doing just that. Checking my phone every five minutes, praying for a text or a missed call. Checking the door almost as frequently, praying that—despite everything—he’ll walk through it.

  It’s disgusting. No, it’s worse than disgusting. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.

  Even as I acknowledge it—and how angry I am at myself—I’m pulling out my phone and checking my texts. Again.

  Still nothing, which surprises exactly no one.

  “Two glasses of the house cab and a lemon drop,” Carter tells me as he hits the bar again.

  “On it,” I tell him as I reach for the limoncello.

  “Hey, you want to get something to eat after the bar closes?” he asks. “Paige, Samantha and I are thinking about checking out that all-night coffee shop that opened a couple blocks from here.”

  Normally I’d be all in—I like pretty much everyone I work with and I enjoy hanging with Carter and Sam, especially. But I’m pretty sure I’ll be lousy company tonight, and I should probably save everyone from my bad freaking attitude.

  “Thanks, but I’m tired tonight. Can I take a rain check?”

  “Tired? Girl, you’re in your mid-twenties! These are the best nights of your life—you’re supposed to stay out late drinking and gossiping and having a good time. Don’t you know anything?”

  “Hit me up next time and I’ll go, I swear. Tonight’s just not a good night.”

  �
�Every night’s a good night,” Carter tells me with a roll of his eyes. But there must be something on my face because, suddenly, he leans across the counter and asks, “You okay, Savvy? You having man trouble or something?”

  “Are you kidding? I take my advice from the fabulous Carter Blandeis. And what is it you say? If you’ve got a man—”

  “You’ve got trouble,” he finishes with a laugh and then a sigh. “Ain’t that the truth, baby girl.” He snatches up the two glasses of wine and the lemon martini and drops them on his tray. “I’ll let you off the hook this time, but when we go out on Friday, I want all the details. Understood?”

  “By Friday night the details won’t matter because I’ll be over this…malaise…long before Friday A.M. ever rolls around.”

  “Of course you will, darling. That’s the spirit.” And then he’s whirling around and heading off again, tray of drinks in his hands.

  I can’t help smiling as I watch him sashay through the crowd. Forget men—thank God for friends.

  Except I can’t stop thinking about Kian as the night goes on, can’t stop worrying that things with Garrett are way worse than the palace is letting on to reporters. Is that why Kian isn’t talking to me? Because he thinks he can handle this on his own?

  Or is it because His Royal Hotness really doesn’t care about me at all? It seems strange to think that considering he just said he loved me, but…I don’t know. Maybe he was just carried away in the moment when he said that.

  Or maybe he was just fucking with me.

  The Kian I know doesn’t seem the type to do that, but His Royal Hotness? The guy who’s just in it for the fun and the fucking? Maybe he had a different agenda all along…

  I hate that I don’t know, hate that I’m this uncertain about a guy. Hate that—after all the promises I made myself—I’m right back here, letting some prince mess with my head.