“It could be hours. It could be days.”
“What’s the point of having a doctor around if they have no definitive answers about anything?” The girl lets out a scream of frustration. “Shoo! Get out! Come back when you actually have something useful to tell me.”
I hear the click of a door closing.
There’s a beat of silence before the sound of soft sobbing fills the air, punctuated by regular beeps from my heart monitor.
My eyelids are heavier than anvils, but I manage to crack them open a sliver. The first thing I see is Chloe curled up in a chair beside my hospital bed, her head bowed into her hands. I’ve never seen her cry. I didn’t even know the girl had tear ducts, to be perfectly honest.
“Did you seriously just shoo the doctor away?” I ask, my voice scratchy and faint.
Somehow, she hears me. Her head flies up and her bloodshot eyes lock on mine.
“You’re awake! Oh my god, you’re awake!” With a scream, she hurls her body onto the bed, hitting my chest with a thud that knocks the wind from my lungs.
“Oof!” I wheeze, but she only hugs me tighter.
The door opens with a bang and Carter rushes into the room, no doubt drawn by his sister’s screams. The fear on his face changes swiftly to relief as our eyes meet over Chloe’s shoulder and he realizes I’m alive. He’s halfway to my side when he pulls up short, seeming to regain control over his emotions. He stops five feet away, breathing rapidly, staring at me with a look in his eyes I’ve never seen before — hope warring with something a hell of a lot more intense.
“Hi,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say.
Carter sinks slowly into the side chair, as if his legs have given out beneath him. “Chloe,” he mutters a second later, never looking away from me. “You’re crushing her.”
“Sorry! Sorry.” She pulls back so her weight is off my chest, but she doesn’t leave my side. Her eyes gloss over with fresh tears as she stares into my face. “I’m just so happy you’re alive! And your brain still works!”
“Worried I was going to wake up a vegetable?” I ask wryly.
“Maybe. But you’re not!” She drops a kiss onto my forehead. “Christ, don’t ever do that to me again.”
“I’ll try,” I murmur, trying to remember what, exactly I did to land myself here. “My mind feels all… foggy.”
Carter and Chloe trade a glance.
“That’s from the concussion and the pain meds they gave you,” Chloe says finally. “It might take some time for everything to come back to you. You were out for nearly twelve hours.”
I look to the window, trying to gauge what time it is, but strangely, there isn’t one. Just cement walls and fluorescent lighting that reminds me of a storage locker. It doesn’t look like any hospital I’ve ever been in.
“Where am I?”
“Fort Sutton.” Carter runs a hand through his hair. “It’s an off-the-books facility used as a military base, nuclear bunker, and royal hospital whenever there’s an… incident.”
Incident?
I nod absently, still feeling rather sluggish. “Is Linus here?”
They trade a worried glance, but I hardly notice. My brain is otherwise occupied, piecing together details at a snail’s pace, like a jigsaw puzzle of memories that don’t quite fit.
The square…
The stage…
The speech…
The screams…
“Oh my god,” I whisper, my voice a hollow shell of devastation as it all comes rushing back. “Oh my god, the truck… All those people.”
Chloe’s gone pale. She grabs my hand and squeezes hard.
“Tell me it’s not real,” I beg, eyes filling as I glance from her to Carter. “Tell me it was just a bad dream.”
“Honey…” Chloe’s voice breaks.
My vision blurs as a flood of tears begins to leak down my cheeks. The first drops from the sea of pain inside me, crashing through my mind in waves as memories play out.
The truck culling a path through the crowd like a scythe through a field of wheat. Cutting them down before they could even run for cover.
People running, falling, dying.
A terrified woman in a blood-spattered coat.
A tiny baby in a pink blanket who’ll never grow old.
It’s too much. Too much to process, too much to feel all at once. Chloe’s arms go around my frame, holding me close, absorbing the torrent of anguish pouring out in great heaving sobs.
“It’s okay,” she whispers against my hair, trying her best to soothe me. “You’ll be okay.”
But deep down, I know she’s wrong.
I’ll never be okay again.
EVENTUALLY, I cry myself out.
The grief is still there, filling me up from the inside until I’m barely able to pull breath into my lungs, but my eyes physically refuse to produce any more tears. A valve has been shut off, leaving my swollen eyes dry for the first time in hours.
Chloe and Carter are still here — one on either side of my bed, watching me with wary eyes. Neither of them speaks. I wonder if it’s because they’re afraid they’ll set me off again.
Clearing my throat, I strive for a level tone. I almost succeed.
“How many?”
Chloe’s mouth opens, but it’s Carter who answers. His voice is stripped bare, giving me straight facts. As if he knows displaying any emotion at all will be enough to send me over the edge.
“Thirty-seven dead. They expect that number will rise. A lot of people made it to the hospital, but the gravity of their wounds…” His Adam’s apple bobs roughly. “It’s likely more will die.”
I crane my head back, trying desperately to breathe. “Children?”
He pauses. His voice is thick as he chokes out the number. “Twelve at last count.”
God.
No.
No.
No.
Pain lances through me, a dagger straight to my heart. I take a moment to gather my composure before I’m able to meet Carter’s eyes again. “Do they know who did this? And why?”
He shoots a look at his sister, hesitating.
My pulse begins to pound. I glance at Chloe and find her pretty features twisted into a mask of dread. She avoids my eyes.
“Just tell me.”
“E… this is a lot for one day.” Her voice is shaky. “You have a mild concussion, plus other injuries from the shrapnel. You’re still recovering. We just don’t want to overload you with too much…”
I look back at Carter. “You know I’ll find out eventually. I’d rather hear it from you than read it in some newspaper on tomorrow’s front page.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, then nods. “The bomb squad is still sifting through the wreckage, but they believe the truck was packed with C-4. Enough to blast half a city block. If you’d been even a few feet closer to that stage when it detonated…”
“I’d be dead, too. Just like all those innocent people.” I shake my head. “I cannot understand why someone would do something so terrible. That crowd was full of first responders, families, firefighters… Good people. They didn’t deserve this. It doesn’t make any sense. Who would target Germania’s heroes? What possible reason could they have?”
Carter’s eyes fill with remorse. “Emilia…”
My brows lift.
“The men with the bombs. They weren’t targeting the crowd. It’s more likely that…” He pulls in another breath, bracing himself against the next words. “They were targeting you.”
“Me,” I echo stupidly. “No… No, that’s not possible.” I shake my head, faster and faster, feeling myself begin to spiral again. “No! No. That can’t be true. Carter, tell me it’s not true.”
His jaw locks. His hands curl around the arms of his chair so tight, his knuckles turn white.
“E…” Chloe whispers, weeping steadily. “Oh, honey…”
“It can’t be true,” I say again, feeling everything I thought I knew splinter into pieces. �
�Because if it is… I killed them. I killed all those people.”
Carter’s voice is tight. “That’s not true, Emilia.”
“It is, though!” The tears are flowing again. I don’t even bother to brush them away. “If I hadn’t been there, the ceremony wouldn’t have been a target… and all those people would still be alive. They’d be home with their kids, tucked in bed, instead of… of… of lying in a m-m-morgue somewhere blown to p-p-pieces.”
My words choke off into gasps, then my gasps into sobs. Closing my eyes, I fall back against my pillows and let the pain take over. All the while, three little words play in my head over and over, haunting me like a melody I’ll never forget.
You killed them.
You killed them.
You killed them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE DOCTORS officially discharge me as soon as the sun rises.
Normally, I’d protest being carted out of the top secret military bunker like an octogenarian in a wheelchair, but I can’t quite summon the will to feel anything, anymore. No embarrassment over the too-loose sweatpants and cotton shirt they found for me to wear in lieu of a hospital gown. No outrage over the state of my hair or the smudged makeup beneath my eyes.
I have gone numb.
The broken, barely-pulsing organ inside my chest is encased in ice, and I fear nothing will ever convince it to beat warmly again.
Carter pushes my wheelchair and Chloe walks beside it, both determined to stay strong for me despite the fact that they’ve been awake for well over twenty-four hours. Galizia and Riggs, both sporting minor cuts and bruises, trail directly behind us. Two dozen King’s Guard line the hall from my room to the below-ground hanger where six identical black SUVs are waiting. A security motorcade, to keep me safe during transport.
It looks like a funeral procession, I think hollowly. How appropriate, since I’m already dead inside.
As I roll past the guards, I can’t help noticing that they’re saluting me — elbows bent at sharp right angles, fingertips raised to their temples. It’s a gesture of respect usually reserved only for the King.
Odd.
I don’t have time to give it much more than a passing thought, because we’ve reached the line of SUVs. Carter helps me to my feet, supporting my weight so I don’t further injure myself. The damage to my body wasn’t too severe — just a lot of colorful bruising down my left side from the force of the impact — but I’m sore and weary down to my bones. When Carter’s arm goes around my waist, I have to fight the urge to lean into him. To let him carry my emotional baggage along with the physical.
His hands wrap around my waist and he lifts me up into the backseat, leaning over me to buckle my seatbelt. He’s so close, I could count each individual eyelash ringing his deep blue eyes. The belt clicks into place and he pauses briefly before pulling back, just staring at me.
I remember the first time I ever saw him — sitting in the back of a black SUV just like this one, my whole world on the brink of utter destruction.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
A muscle jumps in his cheek as he nods, stores the folded wheelchair on the floor, and shuts my door with a soft click. Chloe scrambles in the other side a moment later. She curls up against the leather seat without so much as a word, her eyelids fluttering closed. Exhaustion is etched on every line of her face; she’s been awake all night, waiting by my side for news.
That’s what family does.
The realization is enough to put a small chip in the thick ice around my heart. I brace myself against it, afraid if I let in any emotion at all, the rest will come flooding back as well.
Carter hops into the front passenger side. Riggs is already behind the wheel; he turns over the ignition and slides the SUV into gear.
I can’t see much of anything through the blacked-out windows as we slowly make our way from Fort Sutton to Waterford Palace. The whole world has gone dark, and not merely due to the time of day. Every street is empty; I don’t see a single soul outside for the duration of our drive.
Later, I’d realize this is because all of Vasgaard effectively shut down after the attack — roads closed, government buildings cordoned off, emergency curfews in effect. But right now, I’m so dazed by all that’s happened, I think very little of it as I stare out my window at the deserted city streets.
The mood of the car is decidedly somber; none of us possesses either the energy or the desire for conversation. I can’t say I blame Chloe for nodding off. In fact, I envy her. I wish I could sleep — it would be an escape from the constant pain — but I’m terrified of what I’ll see when I close my eyes. Terrified of whatever new nightmares await me on the fringes of my subconscious.
The drive takes no time at all without any traffic to slow us down. Before I know it, we’re pulling up to the palace. The first thing I notice is a massive security presence. There are more guards than I’ve ever seen stationed at the secluded back entrance to the grounds. I’d imagine the main gate looks like a scene from the WWII resistance, when the Nazis cordoned off Vasgaard and attempted to seize control of the castle; a full scale show of military force.
All to keep me safe.
We pull around the circular driveway and stop before the looming front doors that lead into the Great Hall. I suck in a breath when I see the entire palace staff — maids, cooks, pages, stablehands, guards, grooms, drivers — all lined up in full uniform on the stone steps, waiting for us.
The Master of Stables, Hans, is there, looking gruff as ever in the very back row. I spot Anita, one of the royal seamstresses, standing beside Patricia, who just so happens to make the best chocolate chip cookies in the country. At the very center of the greeting party, Simms and Lady Morrell stand shoulder to shoulder, color coordinated in their navy outfits.
They did this for me.
To welcome me home.
My eyes are suddenly stinging again and, despite the ice block inside my chest, I feel a pang of real emotion.
Maybe that mangled organ isn’t entirely dead after all.
Chloe’s still fast asleep beside me, snoring lightly. I suppose I could wake her, tell her we’re home… but she looks like she could use the rest, if the bags under her eyes are any indication.
In a surprising show of chivalry, Carter hops out of the front seat and pulls open my door before any of the servants have a chance. He reaches for the folded wheelchair by my feet, but I shake my head to stop him.
His brows lift in question. Our gazes clash and, suddenly, we’re having one of our wordless conversations.
What the hell do you think you’re doing?
I’m walking in there on my own two feet!
Don’t be stubborn, Emilia.
Don’t tell me what to do, Carter.
You’re impossible.
He sighs, as if he’s already regretting this, and offers me his arm to help me down. I grab it gratefully, ignoring the tinge of pain that shoots through my leg whenever I put any weight on it. In full view of the household staff, we hobble slowly from the SUV toward the stairs. I feel Galizia and Riggs hovering behind us, waiting to step in if I fall. But I know Carter won’t let that happen.
It takes a long time to make it a dozen feet — an embarrassingly long time. But I do it with my head held high and my face composed.
I will not be brought to my knees by a senseless act of terror.
I will not cower or hide from those who wish to destroy me.
I am Emilia Victoria Lancaster.
The Crown Princess of Germania.
The Heir Apparent.
The People’s Princess.
I will not falter.
Not now, when they’re looking to me for strength.
Not ever again.
No one laughs at me. No one looks bored or restless or annoyed by my crawling pace. They look… proud. As though they know exactly why I have to make this halting, heartbroken walk on my own volition. As though they
understand perfectly that I am reclaiming something here, step by step, inch by inch.
By the time we make it to the bottom of the stairs, I’m breathing hard, leaning heavily on Carter, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He supports my weight easily, keeping me steady when I begin to sway off balance.
My eyes meet Simms’ and, between the space of one blink and the next, they fill to the brim with tears. I’ve never been so glad to see the pudgy Press Secretary in my life. His absurd pinstripe suit, that familiar pompous expression. Last I saw him, he was standing onstage beside me in the middle of the melee. I wasn’t even sure he got to safety in time, and I was too afraid to ask. I couldn’t bear to add another casualty to my kill-list.
It’s long enough already.
He’s looking a bit red around the eyes as he walks down the steps to us. He stops a customary four feet away, always careful to leave a proper margin of distance between himself and the royals he serves.
“Welcome home, Your Majesty.” His voice is thick with unspoken emotions. “I’m— I’m quite relieved to have you back here, safe and sound, where you belong.”
I wait a beat, simply staring at him. Trying to think of something suitable to say. Finally, I decide the best way to express what I’m feeling isn’t with words at all. Launching my body forward, I fling my arms around his massive shoulders and hug him as tight as I can manage.
“Oh!” he exclaims stiffly, stunned beyond words. He doesn’t return the hug but, when I release him, I notice his eyes are glossed over with tears. He dabs at them with an embroidered handkerchief as he pivots around to flee back up the steps, muttering some excuse about Lady Morrell needing him.
Old softie.
I start to sway again, but Carter’s suddenly there — looping his hand around my waist, taking on my weight. I wind my arm around his back and press my fingers into his side, eyeing the long set of stairs stretching upward to the door.
“Thank you for helping me,” I whisper under my breath, wondering how the hell we’re going to make it all the way to the top.
“You can thank me after we make it up these damn steps,” he growls darkly. “And then thank me again later, when I call your doctor back to treat you for overexerting yourself with this pigheaded endeavor.”
Torrid Throne: The Forbidden Royals Trilogy, #2 Page 17
