Royal Pain (His Royal Hotness 1)

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…