by Tracy Wolff
“Leave us, Roland.”
My father’s voice brooks no argument, though it’s not like Roland is about to give him one anyway. In fact, the way the man runs for the door as if it’s the only thing standing between him and an eternity of hellfire and brimstone has my senses on red alert.
And when my father pulls a bottle of two-hundred-year-old scotch out of the bottom drawer of his desk—despite it being only nine in the morning—I want to run for the hills, too.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-eight years it’s that when it comes to my father, nothing good ever comes with scotch.
He pours two generous tumblers full, then slides one across the desk to me. I’m almost afraid to touch it, terrified that when I do Hell itself is going to come raining down on me.
But the king is waiting, drink in hand. Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I hold the glass up to my father in a mini-salute, then take a long swallow to get it over with. It burns all the way down. I’m sure whatever my father is about to say will do the same thing.
I brace myself, but I’m still not ready when he says, “Garrett’s been compromised.”
“Excuse me?”
He glares at me. “You heard what I said.”
“I did. But I’m not sure what it means…”
“It means he was tortured for three months—”
“Believe me, I’m aware of that!”
“And we don’t,” he continues as if I hadn’t interrupted, “as of yet, know what classified information he’s given up. Nor do we know the extent of the brainwashing they attempted on him—”
“Wait a minute. I’ve been in every meeting with the medical community and the intelligence community before and after he was recovered and nobody said anything about brainwashing.”
The king—and at this moment he is very much THE KING—takes another swallow of his scotch. “You’ve been in every meeting I’ve allowed you to be in. It’s not the same thing.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Fear slams through me. “What’s wrong with Garrett?”
“I already told you. Garrett’s been compromised.”
“That’s about the country.” I slam my scotch down on his desk. “I want to know about my brother.”
“The crown prince—”
“Is a person,” I shout, throwing my glass with the damned scotch across the room. It hits the wall and shatters with a satisfying crash. “He’s a person before he’s a prince—”
“Now that’s where you’ve always gotten it wrong.” My father takes the last swallow of his drink before very deliberately putting the glass back on the table. “He is a prince before he will ever be a person. Just like I was. Just like you are going to have to become.”
I’m still reeling from the idea that Garrett might be more damaged than I’d imagined, so it takes a minute for my father’s words to sink in. When they do, a whole different kind of fear works its way through me.
“No,” I tell him, driven by my soul-deep instinct.
He laughs. It’s not an amused sound, but it is—very much—a laugh. “Do you think I care what you want? Do you think Wildemar cares what you want? You have a responsibility—”
“Garrett has a responsibility—”
“He is unfit to take the throne.”
I can feel the trap springing around me, can feel the peace I’ve found since I’ve found Savvy and recovered Garrett, start to drain away. “You don’t know that. He just got back. We need to give him time—”
“And we will. But he will not hold Wildemar’s throne. Not any time soon, and probably not ever.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re healthy as a horse. There’s plenty of time for him to recover—mentally and physically. We can find him the best psychiatrist, get him—”
“He’s damaged goods!” My father’s voice thunders through the room. “Wildemar does not need a leader who was preyed upon by some fringe group. It does not need a leader who was tortured and whose mental stability is in question. And it sure as hell does not need a leader who was so weak he allowed himself to be kidnapped like a child.”
The unfairness of what he’s just said chokes me up, has me strangling on the words I so desperately want to say.
The same cannot be said for my brother, however, whose voice cuts across the room like broken glass. “Wow, Dad. Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”
And shit. Just…shit, because a justifiably pissed off and hurt Garrett is exactly what this conversation was missing.
I turn to find him standing in the doorway behind me—white and swaying beneath his bruises, but holding his ground with the look of someone who refuses to buckle. He’s also well within my father’s view, which means the son of a bitch knew Garrett was there the whole time he was saying those fucked-up things.
Goddamn it.
I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to say in this situation—usually I’m the one my father is going after for some real or imagined indiscretion. Garrett’s always had a pass before, and the fact that he doesn’t now—when he needs one for the first time ever—pisses me off nearly as much as the bullshit my father was just spouting.
And while I don’t give a shit about smoothing things over between my father and brother—my dad’s asshole behavior deserves whatever it brings—I can’t stand the look on Garrett’s face. Can’t stand the fact that, after all he’s been through, my father just fucking sucker punched him all over again.
“He’s pissed off at me, Garrett. Not you—”
“I’ll thank you to not speak for me. I’m not senile yet,” my father says.
“Well then, stop acting like it!” I explode, crossing the room to my brother in a couple of big strides. “Whatever you’ve got planned is nuts, and I want no part of it.”
“You never want any part of it,” he snaps back. “You’ve been useless your whole life—taking all the perks of being royal and none of the responsibilities. That stops here. Get your shit together and do what needs to be done for your country.”
“Careful, Dad, or I’ll start thinking overthrowing the king will solve all our problems. Too bad total assholery isn’t a punishable offense.”
“If it was, you would have been indicted a long time ago.”
“Yeah, well, it turns out I’m quite the chip off the old block, after all.”
This is usually the part where Garrett steps in and tells us we’re both being idiots, but he’s gone from gray to white and he’s swaying so badly that I’m afraid he’s going to pass out any second.
I reach for him, and the fact that he doesn’t shrug me off—doesn’t insist that he’s fine—tells me just how poorly he’s feeling. Garrett’s not one to tolerate weakness in himself, or anyone else. And he’s definitely not one to tolerate our father and me going for each other’s throats.
“Come on, let’s get you back to your room,” I say as I wrap a supporting arm around his waist.
“I’m supposed to walk more. My PT says it will help build up my strength.”
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure your PT meant to walk when he was with you, so…let’s take this as a dry run and you can do the real thing when he gets here later.”
Garrett looks like he’s going to argue. The fact that he decides not to is just more evidence that he’s not feeling well.
“We’re not done talking about this,” my father says as I guide Garrett back through the door.
“You may not be done talking, but I’m done listening.”
“You’ll do what I tell you to do, boy.”
The look I shoot him over my shoulder would have dropped a lesser man in his tracks. “I’ll do what I think is best for the country. It’s my job, after all, and not even you are going to be able to pressure me to do something else. So back the fuck off before I walk out the front door and take Garrett with me.”
“Don’t make threats you aren’t willing to follow through on.” My father fol
lows us out the door, puts himself directly in our path.
I think of Savvy, of how much easier it would be if I was just an ordinary guy. Think of Garrett, and how much better he would be if he didn’t have to recover, didn’t have to face what had happened to him, all while being in the public eye.
“If you think I won’t follow through on this, then you don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do. Now get the hell out of our way, old man, or you’re going to learn exactly what a mutiny looks like.”
Chapter 31
Savvy
“I don’t know what to do. I feel so fucking helpless, you know?”
Kian’s pacing back and forth across my living room, looking more upset than I’ve ever seen him, and I have no idea what to say to make things better.
Getting off the sofa where we were both sitting before the inactivity got to be too much for him, I catch him halfway between my front door and the hallway that leads to my bedroom.
Wrapping my arms around his waist, I pull him into me. Hold him tight. And whisper, “Sometimes the only thing we can do is be there for someone.”
“I know that. I do.” He holds me for several long seconds, but then his feelings get the best of him and he starts to pace again. “But I can’t even do that right. You should have seen Garrett’s face when my father said that shit.”
“Do you think it was really a surprise to him?”
He turns to stare at me incredulously. “Well, it sure as fuck was a surprise to me. Garrett’s the heir—always has been, always will be. I’m just the spare.”
“I hate when you call yourself that.”
“Why? It’s true.”
“You make it sound like you’re expendable. And you’re not.” This time when I catch up to him, I wrap my arms around him from behind and hold him tight, forcing him to stand still.
“I’m a lot more expendable than Garrett is.” He slumps back against me, like somehow it’s easier to admit these things if he doesn’t have to look at me. “I’m not going to let my father do this to him.”
“Maybe everyone’s getting ahead of themselves,” I suggest, in between pressing soothing kisses to his silk covered shoulder. “Has Garrett even had a chance to see a psychiatrist yet? Or a counselor?”
“He’s seen both. He’s not talking to anyone.”
“So maybe you should just give him a few more days before you or your father bring the subject up again. I mean, he’s still healing, correct?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“So he can’t do the job right now, anyway, which means the whole argument is moot, at least for now. Give everyone some time and then you can revisit—”
“Time isn’t something I’ve got right now. Can’t you see that? The press are chomping at the bit, as is parliament and the public. Everyone wants a look at Garrett, and there’s no way I’m parading him around like some carnival prize until he’s good and ready.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying—”
“No, it’s not. Because he’ll never get better if he thinks our father doesn’t have faith in him. If he thinks Wildemar doesn’t need him. Duty to this country is Garrett’s whole life—healthy or not, that’s the truth. How can I take that away from him?”
I turn his words over in my head, trying to get to the heart of what he’s saying. Usually Kian’s so direct, but it’s obvious he’s working this out in his own head as we talk and right now it feels a lot like we’re going in circles without ever getting to the truth of what’s bothering him.
“Is that the real problem then?” I finally ask, wishing I could see his face. Then again, I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t be having this conversation if I could see it. “Not that you think Garrett is competent and not getting a fair shake, but that you’re afraid taking away his title will crush his will to get better?”
“His whole life he’s been crown prince. It’s his whole identity. It’s all he knows.”
I’m in no position to disagree, considering how our relationship had gone. Garrett might have said he was in love with me, but I never held a candle to his love for Wildemar. He’d never had any intention of doing anything but marrying Felicity when the time came, because he believed that was what his country needed.
Then again, maybe this isn’t about Garrett at all right now. Maybe it’s more about Kian than he wants to admit. “What about what you know? What about what you want?”
Now he does turn to look at me, incredulity ripe on his face. “What the fuck does that mean?” ’
I back off immediately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”
“You didn’t hit a nerve. I just want to know what you mean by that.”
Fuck. When am I going to learn to keep my big mouth shut? “I just wonder if deep down you agree with your father? That maybe you think Garrett isn’t capable of being crown prince again—through no fault of his own, of course. Just…it might be a hard sell to the people, trying to get them to follow a leader who might have been compromised. It’s not a reflection on you if—”
“Why the fuck does everyone keep saying that?” He shakes me off none-too-gently, which tells me just how upset he is as Kian’s never been anything but careful with me. “He’s not compromised!”
“Okay.” He’s obviously really upset and I’m not going to fight him on this. Partly because it’s not my fight and partly because I recognize a losing battle when I see one. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”
“No, you’re not.” He’s staring at my face now, his green eyes dangerously narrow.
“Excuse me?”
“There’s obviously more you want to say. So say it.”
“There’s nothing more I want to say,” I lie.
“Really? That’s the story you’re going to stick with?” His eyes narrow even more. “You’ve never had any trouble speaking your mind to me before. So what’s different now?”
Something in his tone gets my own back up. Puts me on red alert even as I tell myself not to get worked up. Kian’s upset, rightfully so. With everything that’s gone on in his life these last few days—and few months—he deserves to have someone cut him some slack. “I was just trying to present both sides—”
“Bullshit. There aren’t two sides to this issue. There’s right and there’s wrong.”
I bite my lip to keep from disagreeing. “Okay. If that’s how you feel—”
“See. You’re bullshitting me again.” He shoves a frustrated hand through his hair. “What the fuck, Savannah? I thought I could trust you of all people.”
“You can trust me.” I pause as his words sink in. “And what does that mean, anyway. Me of all people?”
“I came to you because I wanted your advice, wanted to know what you thought about this whole thing. Yet all you’re doing is blowing smoke up my ass?”
Okay, now my back really is up. “First of all, I tried to be honest with you and you jumped down my throat. Second, are you sure you really want me to be honest? Because it feels like all you want is for me to agree with you since you jump down my throat every time I say something you don’t like.”
“Because you don’t get it!”
My brows hit my hairline. I’m understanding it—and him—by the second. I don’t say that, though. Instead, I suggest, “So explain it to me. Tell me what really has you upset.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” He storms toward to the kitchen. “My father—”
“This isn’t about your father.”
He pulls a mug out of the cupboard, pours himself a cup of coffee. “Of course it’s about my father. He blindsided me, blindsided Garrett…”
“I think you want to feel like he blindsided you, but you’re a smart guy, Kian. You had to at least have had an inkling this was coming.”
He takes a brutally big sip of the coffee, then grimaces when he obviously burns his tongue.
“This isn’t what I want,” he says after a minute.
“I never said it was what you wan
t, just that it isn’t as big a shock as you’re telling yourself it is.”
“Fuck.”
He sits down at my kitchen table, then slumps over, his head in his hands. He doesn’t say anything for several long, interminable seconds.
When he finally does speak, his voice is muffled. “I’m not Garrett. The whole self-sacrificing for Wildemar thing doesn’t come naturally to me.”
And there it is. The root of all this angst. I don’t know why I’m surprised, considering I figured we’ve been heading here all along. My heart trembles in my chest and my throat closes up, but I force the words out anyway. “You know, you don’t have to worry about me making waves. That’s not who I am.”
He stares at me for long seconds. “What does that even mean?”
“I just…when you have to end things, I won’t make a fuss. I—”
“Is that what you think?” He’s up and around the table in a flash, his hands gripping my biceps as he hauls me toward him. “That I’m going to dump you for Wildemar?”
“This isn’t about me. I was just—”
“You just made it about you. Actually, you made it about us.” He studies my face. “Have you been waiting for me to drop you all along?”
“No!” I force the word out my suddenly dry mouth. Because yes, of course I have. His Royal Hotness may hook up with a bartender/waitress/writer from America, but he sure as hell doesn’t get himself in it for the long haul. I learned that lesson a long time ago.
“Fuck, you have!” He drops his hands then and backs away from me like he can’t stand to touch me. “I can’t fucking believe this! All this time I’ve been falling in love with you and you’ve just been waiting for me to walk?”
“It’s what people do, Kian.”
His eyes blaze into mine. “What people do or what I do?”
I don’t know what to say to that because, shit. Just…shit. “You have to admit. Your reputation—”
“Fuck my reputation! Fuck what everybody says about me. I’ve been completely honest with you from the first day we met, which is way more than you can say.”