It’s a talent I’ve never wanted before tonight.
Because right now, I want to shut down. I want to lock up tight every emotion burning inside of me. Want to be as stone-cold and impassive as my father is. As a crown prince should be.
But I’m not the crown prince anymore, the little voice in my head reminds me. Garrett is back, and now things can go back to the way they should be.
The elevator dings on the second floor, and we step off into the ICU, which looks more like a police station than a hospital wing right now. Police are here manning every exit, entrance and hospital room while the Royal Guard has personnel posted up and down the hallway and at the nurses’ and doctors’ stations.
I don’t know Garrett’s room number, but it’s hard not to know what room is his. Five members of the Royal Guard are standing at attention outside of it, while two more are literally in the doorway, examining nurse credentials before letting anyone pass.
What a fucking mess. And that’s not even counting the fact that we haven’t been able to control this the way we wanted to. We got Garrett here in secret, but news of him being found leaked out from one (or more) of the medical personnel who worked on him, and there’s a feeding frenzy going on outside the hospital’s front doors. Press from all over Europe—all over the world—are desperate to get in here, desperate to get the first photo and the first word and the first interview from Wildemar’s injured Prince Charming.
And no, I didn’t make up that name. One of the big news websites is actually referring to Garrett that way.
It’s one more reason I want to punch a wall. I get that as crown prince, Garrett belongs to Wildemar—and the world—as much or more than he
belongs to himself and to us. But whoever he belongs to, whoever he is, he deserves the chance to recover in peace. Deserves to not have his pain and anguish played out for ratings on the six o’clock news.
We’re outside the closed door now, and my stomach is one big knot. The doctor wants to talk to us before we go in, and though I understand the importance of what she’s telling us as she details Garrett’s very significant injuries, all I really care about is getting through that door.
Seeing my brother, talking to him, hearing his voice after the three worst months of my life.
It’s not that I don’t want to know how badly he’s injured—or how I can help him. It’s that I need to make sure this isn’t a hoax, need to make sure he’s really alive, really here, and the only way I’ll believe it is for me to see him, live and in person, with my own two eyes.
For a moment, just a moment, I wish that Savvy was here. That she was beside me to hold on to when I walk into that room. But I’m pretty sure neither one of us is ready to kick off a Royal Wedding Watch right now. Besides, I can only imagine how messy her past relationship with Garrett, combined with her present relationship with me, could make this reunion.
That doesn’t mean I don’t wish she was here to wrap herself around me and promise me that it’s all going to be okay. Because I need that right now. I really, really do.
The doctor finally finishes talking—I’ve caught enough to know that Garrett is in both worse and better shape than I feared. Worse, because there’s been a lot of damage inflicted to cause the most amount of pain possible. Better, though, because the bastards obviously wanted to keep him alive so with proper medical care none of his injuries is life-threatening.
It’s probably my father’s right to push the door open and go into Garrett’s room first, but I can’t take it anymore. So while he thanks the medical staff, I shove the door open and walk inside.
It’s dim in here—probably because of Garrett’s concussion—but there’s enough light for me to see that Garrett is sleeping. Sitting next to his bed are Nigel and Benedict, two senior members of my father’s own protection detail. They stand at my entrance, their heads bowed respectfully, but their faces are grim and their anger palpable.
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.