by Adora Crooks
“What are you—?”
That’s all I hear from Roland before I straddle the railing. The water bobs not far below me. High tide. I’m guessing it’s about fifteen, twenty meters down before I hit the bottom. I push off the side and into the river. The cold, black water splashes up and swallows me.
The channel is narrow, and it wouldn’t be hard to swim to the other side, hop on the dock, and hide in one of the small craft boats. I scan the choppy river until I see him. His white head stands out like a mooring ball, bobbing through the water to get to the other side.
I propel myself forward. I need to catch him before he gets there. I see him turn around, spot me, and pick up the pace. This far down river, I get nothing but mouthfuls of salt water as I jet after him. We’re about midway across before I grab the bulky man by his shoulders. He veers around and throws a punch. Using land tactics in the water—bad idea. I dodge it, lock my legs in his, and push him back so he dips under.
He’s gasping when I pull him back up, eyes buggy like a trout.
“Who sent you?” I shout.
“Go ask the queen yourself!” he growls. We twist and spin, water splashing around us in the struggle. I kick, grab at him, and I feel my hits make contact, hear him grunt. Then he grabs me by the back of my head, and I barely have time to catch a breath before he shoves me underwater.
I’m a good swimmer, but this man is twice my size and twice as strong. When he pushes me down, I know I’m not getting back up. As much as I try to twist out of his grip, he’s there. I might as well be pinned under the hull of a ship. He’s unrelenting, solid as a tanker. I reach up and grab his arm, digging in. The cool air I crave kisses my fingers, but my head remains trapped under his hand.
So I stop fighting it. I sink. I fan my arms behind me and draw myself deeper under the water. Constricted around me like a boa, my attacker has no choice but to sink with me.
If I’m going down, he’s coming with me.
We’re both submerged and only getting deeper. When he realizes what’s happening, he tries to pull off me, but now I latch to him. I know this river. It’s not incredibly deep, but if I wind myself around him, it doesn’t have to be. A man can drown in two inches of water if he can’t find the surface. We’re no longer fighting each other. We’re fighting the pull of the river.
I can see nothing but darkness. I can hear nothing but the rush of water filling my ears.
Oxygen is precious at this point. It burns in my chest. My lungs are at half capacity at best. I hold on to every bubble of air, only releasing it in small increments. I focus all my attention on keeping him locked in my arms and keeping my breath in my body. His elbow slams hard into my ribs, and sharp pain licks through my bones. I’ve broken a rib, probably, maybe two, but nothing hurts more than the bubble of air that escapes my lips.
I’ve got less than a single breath left inside of me. The pressure is intense, and my eardrums feel like they might burst. I can feel my lungs straining, wanting desperately to expand.
We thrash together in the river. Our bodies spin, turn, until I can’t tell if I’m upward or down. I ignore the ache in my lungs, the pain in my body, the burning in my eyes. I cling to his body with everything I have.
I can’t let him resurface. I can’t let him finish what he started. I have to keep Rory safe. I have to keep Roland safe. I have to…
His body goes limp. Just like that, my arms feel weightless, as though I’m holding nothing more than a pile of laundry. He burps out a bubble of air, and his heavy, dead weight sinks to the floor.
I release him. The white of his skin gets sucked into the cold darkness.
Never try to outswim a Limehouse boy from the docks.
I go into full survival mode now. My limbs are growing heavy and threaten to follow him. My chest is on fire. I scratch at the water and climb. I think I’m going toward the surface, but I can’t be sure. For all I know, I could be going deeper. There’s nothing but inky blackness above, inky blackness below. I scramble and my desperate lungs gulp in seawater. I feel my consciousness fading to a black, noisy hum.
Just a little more, I think. Just a little farther…
I kick and claw my way up until I break the surface. The murky, sour London air is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. I choke on it, gasping, coughing, as my lungs suck it down greedily.
My head is spinning. I’m incredibly disoriented. There’s a dock a couple of meters away. I push my sluggish muscles, even though my very blood burns with the lack of oxygen, and swim to the dock. It creaks as I climb up on it, and I savor the solid wood under my hands and knees. I retch, my stomach expelling salt water. Even the act of clenching my gut sends shooting pain through my ribs.
Okay. Get it together. I’m shaky, but I’m alive. I have to find Roland and Rory. I have to make sure they’re okay. I find a ladder, and my fingers scratch on the barnacles as I climb it. My bare feet leave wet traces on the walkway as I make my way down. The tide pulled me down the river, and I pass a few streetlamps before I see them—two figures crouched down under the lamplight.
I pick up the pace until I’ve reached them. Rory is wide-eyed and panting lightly in Roland’s arms. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” Rory says, but her vision is unfocused and her face is white.
Roland cradles her against his chest. When he looks up at me, his eyebrows knit. “Where’s the guy?”
I half shrug. “The river took him.”
If he reads between my lines, he doesn’t make a note of it. Roland simply nods once in confirmation. I had a job to do. I did it. That’s all there is to say about that.
Roland’s eyes lock on mine meaningfully, and he tilts his head to the side to motion me around. I step beside them when I see it. The handle of a knife sticks out of Rory’s side, right above her hip. For a second, I don’t understand why she isn’t screaming, and then I realize—she’s in shock. She probably can’t even feel it. Even as the fabric on her shirt turns crimson, she remains utterly unaware.
“She’s fine,” Roland says, his voice hardened. He’s staying calm for her sake. Now is not the time to frighten her anymore. “I called an ambulance,” he adds to me, under his breath.
I nod. My stomach constricts. I’m sick with worry now. I sit down beside them, collapsing gracelessly on the ground.
Dear God, I pray quietly, please let Rory be okay. Please. Please.
In the distance, sirens begin their pitchy wail.
34
Roland
I can’t tear my eyes away from the windows. My graze follows the stained glass depictions of an eagle stretching its gold-tipped wings with the royal crown above it. The words Per ardua ad astra encircle the bird.. Through adversity to the stars.
The King Edward VII’s Hospital is discreet, private, and just about the best comfort and care one can get. The walls are polished hardwood, which makes the whole place feel less like a hospital and more like a country club. Nurses occasionally walk by with muffled voices and clicking heels, but no one disturbs Ben or me.
I’m incredibly sober at this point—fear is a hell of a hangover cure. I still clutch my small plastic cup of ice water. Ben sits quietly beside me. His clothes are still sopping wet, even though he now has a terry cloth over his shoulders, and every now and then, I hear a plink of Thames water hit the ground.
He’s holding his side. He hasn’t let go of it since we got here. “Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” I ask him.
“I’m fine,” he says shortly. His gaze is also fixed ahead.
Neither of us has said a lot to each other in the past hour. We’re just waiting for those damn doors to open. I need to hear something—anything. I need to know Rory is okay.
Around the corner, I can hear a light bustle of commotion. I don’t pay much attention to it until a familiar voice floats our way. I brace myself as the sharp sound of heels on hardwood grows louder.
My mother rounds the corner and comes to a stop bes
ide me. She’s wearing a black dress, black heels, and a black clutch. I nearly wonder out loud what funeral she came from, but verbally suggesting anything close to death feels like a bad omen, so I hold my tongue.
“How is she?” Mum asks, her eyes darting sharply over me.
I scoff and turn away from her. “Don’t act like you care now. You hate her.”
“I certainly never wanted her dead, darling. There’s a difference.”
The curtness in her voice makes my teeth grind.
“Roland,” she presses. “I need a word.”
“And I need to stay here,” I argue. “Rory needs me right now.”
“It will only take a moment.”
She has a quiet command in her voice that leaves no room for argument. Ben turns to me. “I’ll let you know if they open the doors,” he says.
I nod with gratitude. I don’t want to leave my spot, but I set my cup down and rise to my feet. Reluctantly, I follow my mum around the corner. There’s no one but nurses and doctors to overhear us here, and in my mum’s world, that makes us as good as alone. Normals are barely people to her, after all.
“I’ve come here to tell you one thing,” she says, cutting straight to the chase.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Speak.”
Her cerulean eyes meet mine. “This could have been prevented,” she states.
“So you’re saying this is all my fault?”
“No. I’m saying this could have been prevented.”
She stares at me with the haughty look of someone who knows they’re right. My stomach tightens at her words. I feel as though the hospital has gotten ten degrees colder.
I know there is truth behind her words. If I hadn’t gone out… if I hadn’t gone to the club… if I hadn’t been such a bloody selfish idiot…
I tighten my arms on my chest.
“Think on it,” she tells me.
“Roland.” There’s Ben’s voice—saved by the Ben. He peeks around the corner, his hand on the wall. “Rory’s awake.”
35
Rory
I’m drowning in cushions. The mattress swallows me like a big, fluffy cloud, and I sink into it. My head is fuzzy, my skull extra heavy, and it feels like a watermelon on a stick when I try to lift it. There’s a bleeping sound, a whoosh, and a woman in a white pencil skirt and folded hat smiling at me.
This is a bizarre resort, definitely.
“Welcome back, Miss March,” she says cheerily.
“Did I go somewhere?” My mouth is dry, like I’ve been chewing on chalk.
“Nearly, miss. How are you feeling?”
I put my hand on my forehead. “Like my head is a balloon with too much air.” When I shift my arm, a sharp pain stabs my gut and bolts up my side. I gasp and move my hand to my hip. I touch the rough edges of a bandage.
“You won’t want to be touching that much,” the nurse explains. “Your stitches need to heal.”
Stitches. Oh. That’s like a splash of ice water. Memories come flooding back—I’m not in a resort. I’m in a hospital. And not by accident, either. I remember his grip on my wrist, so tight it hurt. The scar that ran down his face. His cold knife against my throat. That dry, raspy voice: Be still, little slut. Wouldn’t want to have to stick ya.
My heart trembles in my chest, and I can feel the panic rising. My eyes flee to the door and back to the nurse. I imagine him bursting in here any second, while I’m weak and my bones are too heavy to fight him off. “Is there… um. Does that door lock?”
Her lips press in a sympathetic, reassuring smile. “No one comes in here without our approval. Okay?”
“Okay.” Logically, I know I’m safe here. My heart doesn’t listen to reason, however, and it continues to beat out of my chest. “Roland and Ben… are they okay?”
“They’re just fine, miss. Prince Roland is right outside, waiting to see you. Would you like that?”
My throat tightens already. “Please.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll send him in right away.”
The nurse clicks out with poised steps. I bite the inside of my lip and try to keep my composure when the door reopens.
Roland slips around the door, blond hair in disarray, his grin crooked on his mouth. “Hey, kitten,” he says. “How’re we holding up?”
He calls me kitten and immediately the air leaves my lungs. It’s okay. I’m safe with him here. Cold prickles fizzle through my blood, and my anxiety defuses.
“Oh, you know.” I shrug. “Besides a little stabbing, I’m fantastic.”
A single, abrupt laugh escapes his chest. He shakes his head and sits down on the side of my bed. “Leave it to you to find the humor in any situation.” He pushes my hair back, and I nudge into his touch. His kitten is practically purring.
“The guy… did they get him?” I ask.
Roland nods. “He won’t come after you again.”
“It just seems like such a nightmare,” I sigh and lean against his chest. “When you stood in front of him… I didn’t know what was going to happen.”
“It’s okay.” Roland’s arms go around my shoulders. He hugs me to him. His voice is strong and exactly what I need right now. “Everyone’s okay. That’s the important part. I’m more worried about you.”
He’s not lying about that part. The bright, boyish humor has gone out of his expression. His eyes are raincloud gray and just as stormy.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he assures me. His gaze fixes on the wall, and his jawline seems sharper than ever. He reminds me of the man I saw when I first met him—a prince locked up in a cage of his own design. A man whose very bones seemed bolted together, every motion rehearsed and robotic.
I rest my hand on his leg. “Hey. Look at me.”
He does and there’s a chip in his façade. For a second, his eyes brighten and his features soften. His throat unlatches slightly, and a sigh escapes. “No,” he confesses. “I’m not okay.”
“So talk to me.”
His lips press together. Such plump lips. I want to kiss them then. I want to kiss every gray cloud out of his day.
“I didn’t want to do this now,” he says. “I was going to… wait. Until after you got better, at least. Didn’t seem right to… rub salt in the wound. So to speak.”
“Salt in the wound?” My head is spinning, and I don’t think it’s from the painkillers. “What are you talking about?”
Then I see it in his eyes. Oh no. No, no, no. It’s that look. Equal parts reluctance and regret. The look of a guilty dog who just ripped up your favorite shoes. Roland—for all his practice—can’t help but wear his emotions on his face.
I sit up straighter against the sturdy pillows. “Roland… are you breaking up with me?”
“This isn’t easy,” he states.
“No, algebra isn’t easy,” I counter. “This is out of the blue.”
“It’s not you, Rory,” he says and rests his hand on my shoulder. “Truly. It isn’t.”
But now his touch stings, and I shrug out of it. “I don’t understand,” I say lamely. My heart feels like it’s fallen straight into my gut and is boiling in my stomach acid.
“The time I’ve spent with you… well. It’s the happiest I’ve ever been.” There’s a tremor in his voice as he speaks. “You’ve shown me just how big this world can be. You’re the most courageous woman I know. I love you, Rory—”
“Why?” The breath has gone out of my lungs again. I feel useless and limp when I look at him.
To his credit, he doesn’t look away from me. He doesn’t dance around the subject or try to pump me full of more sugar-sweet nothings. “I can’t imagine a world without you in it,” he tells me. “Life with me… it’s dangerous. And I can’t put your life on the line like that.”
“Every day is dangerous.” I throw up my hand. “Crossing the street is dangerous.”
“This isn’t crossing the street!” His eyes go vibrant when he loses his temper, and I close my m
outh. The lion roars and you shut up. He seems to remember himself and rakes his fingers through his mane quickly, soothing the beast. “You were stabbed. That’s not a risk I can take.”
I know I should back down in the face of his anger, but his frustration only piques mine. “Life is about taking chances,” I argue. “Scary chances. If Ben hadn’t taken a chance, he’d still be a dock boy in Limehouse. If I hadn’t taken a chance and left the States, I’d have never met you. Taking that risk—that plunge of faith—that’s what makes life so amazing.”
“Maybe for Normals.” The temperature of his voice has dropped to something low and cold. I’ll take his temper any day over this quiet resignation. “Not for me. I take chances, people die.”
“No one died.”
“Not this time.” He looks at me, and those blue eyes are full of pain. It breaks my heart clean in half. “What about the next time?”
I wind my fingers through his and squeeze. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I already have.” Roland untangles our fingers and retracts his hand. He leaves my bed and gets to his feet. “You need to leave London. There’s no telling how many people are out there like the man we ran into tonight. I’ll make sure you’re cleared to use my private jet. They’ll take you wherever you want. Back to Michigan. Anywhere.”
Roland presses a small, lingering kiss to my forehead. I feel my hair move when he sighs against me. “Take care of yourself, Rory,” he murmurs.
With that, he makes to leave. He twists his signet ring on his finger as he walks to the door. My throat tightens and my heart hammers in my chest. I feel paralyzed. “Roland,” I finally get out. He stops at the last second and turns to face me. My lower lip feels swollen and trembles. “Please. Don’t do this.”
I swear, his eyes go glassy for a second. But then he blinks, and the hardened mask falls over his face once more. “I’m sorry,” he says.
With that, Prince Roland walks out of the hospital room and out of my life.
