“Of course I do. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You just have to know how to play him.”
“And you’re going to tell me how?”
“Dude. I spent the first twenty-nine years of my life fucking up all over the place. I’m an expert at playing the King. All you have to do is prostrate yourself at the foot of the throne, grovel a little. You know the routine. He’s looking for an excuse to change his mind—you just need to give it to him.”
“That’s the whole point. He shouldn’t need an excuse! Maybe I’m not entirely the same person I was before I was abducted, but the important parts are still here. I never lost them. My love of country, my belief in duty, my political knowledge, my desire to do what’s best for Wildemar…none of that has gone anywhere. So why the fuck should I have to prostrate myself before him when he’s the one acting like a total asshole? He’s already cost me the woman I love. No way in hell am I giving him what’s left of my pride.”
“Fuck your pride.”
“Excuse me?”
“Seriously? What’s your pride going to get you at this point? We both know you were born to be king. You are who Wildemar deserves and you are who it needs. But the only way that’s going to happen is if you do the whole grovel-at-his-feet thing and let him bully you until he’s satisfied.”
“He’ll never be satisfied! I’m damaged goods and we all know it.”
“Yeah, well, so am I,” Kian says with a snort. “And here I am, with the throne at my feet.”
The unfairness of it is a punch to the gut. “So you should just take it, then.”
“Why would I do that when all of us know you should be king? You’ll be the best one Wildemar’s had in generations—which, if you ask me, is part of the reason our father is being so stubborn about this. He knows you’ll do more for Wildemar than he ever could.”
“Talk about bullshit.” The rage is back, swelling inside me until I’m nearly choking on it. And this time, there’s not enough alcohol in the world to beat it back down.
“Not saying it isn’t,” he tells me. “But are you going to let a little bullshit keep you from getting the throne back and giving Wildemar what it deserves?”
My whole body is recoiling, swelling up with the fury—with the hurt—I’ve been shoving down for way too long. “I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Of course you can do it. You’ve done way more for Wildemar. Just do the mea culpa thing Dad wants and it’ll all be over.” He says it so matter-of-factly, as if what I went through nine months ago was nothing more than my political duty. Nothing more than something to be picked over and used for my own personal gain whenever I need it.
And though I know Kian doesn’t mean it, though he might not even be thinking about the abduction, it’s the last fucking straw in nine long, excruciating months of last straws.
Because I can’t not think about the abduction. I can’t not think about what it was like to watch my friends murdered in front of me. Can’t not think about what it was like when they tied me up.
When they waterboarded me.
When they beat me and cut me and electrocuted me.
When they left me chained helpless and vulnerable and alone in the dark for days without food, without water. Just because they wanted to.
Just because they could.
I can’t forget about it and I can’t talk about it carelessly, like it’s something that happened a long time ago. Like it’s something that happened to somebody else. I’ve shoved it down for months because I can’t.
The fact that Kian doesn’t realize that slices through me like a blade. It makes me ache, makes me bleed.
And just that easily, my temper hits its flash point. Boils over.
Without conscious thought, I let loose the glass in my hand, watching—fascinated—as it slams into the wall on the other side of the living room. I’ve never done that before, have never even thought about letting myself give in to all the things seething inside of me.
It feels good. So good that I pick up the whiskey bottle Kian left sitting on the coffee table and let that fly, too. So good that I follow it with the second bottle.
“Jesus, Garrett—” Kian looks shaken as he reaches for me.
“You want me to just do the mea culpa thing and get it over with?” I demand as we stand in the middle of thousands of pieces of shattered glass. “You want me to just say that it’s my fault that my guards—my friends—were murdered in front of me? That it’s my fault I was kidnapped and locked in that hellhole? That it’s my fault that a group of madmen took turns electrocuting me? Cutting me? Breaking my fucking bones and then stomping on them just because they could? That’s what you’re saying, right? That’s what you want me to take the blame for. Or do you want me to take the blame for the rest, too? The fact that Dad pissed off the fucking militia so badly that they pulled this shit to begin with?
“Of course, you don’t know anything about that, do you? You were too busy partying and fucking anything that moved to care about shit like domestic terrorism or home-grown militias. But, fuck, yeah, tell me to apologize for that. Oh, and should I just go ahead and apologize for the fact that it took you and him over three goddamn months to find me? That’s my fault too, right? Even if you were too busy playing prince and falling in love with Savvy to actually look for me. It’s my fault. It’s all my fucking fault, isn’t it, Kian? Every goddamn thing that’s happened in the last year is my fault. I just need to admit it, just need to grovel at the King’s fucking feet, and then everything will go back to normal, right?”
With a swipe of my arms I send everything on the bar tumbling to the floor. Then I lash out at the closest end table, sending it crashing to the ground.