The Wrath of the King (Royals Book 5)

by Bourdon, Danielle

“Did you need something?” she asked in a brisk, business-like tone.

  “Actually, yes. I need you--” Paavo paused when his own phone chirped. He fished it out and put it to his ear. “Yes?”

  Wynn stuffed her cell away, hoping against hope for a crisis that wouldn't wait. She didn't want to be stuck in an office with him, transcribing or typing or anything else right now.

  After a brief back and forth, speaking too quietly to hear, Paavo ended the call and said, “It'll have to wait. I'll find you later tonight.”

  “All right.” Wynn would have bartered her soul to the devil just to get Paavo gone. She needed time to think about what to do, and whether Chey might be right. Perhaps she should depart the family seat for the hospital by any means necessary.

  Paavo pivoted on a heel and disappeared inside the castle.

  Exhaling a relieved breath, Wynn waited a full five minutes before following, taking all the short cuts she'd learned to her room.

  That had been too close for comfort.

  . . .

  Walking the long corridor between sections of the castle, Paavo took the least crowded way for another call he made en route to his suite. He wasted no time giving orders once someone picked up on the other end.

  “I've heard from one of the nurses at the hospital. Yes, she said there is very mild improvement. We can't wait any longer. You know what to do.” Hearing confirmation, Paavo severed the call and sent a text to someone else.

  Move into phase three immediately.

  Chapter Eleven

  A loud bang startled Chey into awareness. At some point after Wynn's phone call, she'd dozed in the chair, feet up on the ottoman. Now she sat forward with a grunt, glancing across the bed at Sander. There seemed to be no change. His breathing, even and deep, was the same as it had been that morning. A quick check of the machines assured her all was well. Next she sought Krislin, who wasn't anywhere to be found. The open bathroom door indicated Krislin wasn't in there, either.

  Getting up out of the chair, Chey hadn't gone more than three steps when Krislin burst into the room, closing the door with force.

  “Krislin, what's wrong?” The hair stood up on the back of Chey's neck seeing Krislin throw the bolt and drag one of the dressers in front of the door.

  “They're coming. Is there any other way out of here?” Krislin asked.

  To see the normally passive, calm woman in such a state alarmed Chey more than anything else.

  “I don't think so. I'm sure there's not, since that would potentially put royalty at risk if the news got out. Who is coming?” Chey glanced around the walls anyway, searching for anything that remotely resembled a hidden access panel. Instinct warned her that whatever was happening, it wouldn't bode well for her or her child.

  “Guards. They're fighting at the end of the hallw--” Krislin's explanation got cut off by the retort of a gun.

  Chey swerved to stand between Sander and the door, as protective over him as she was their baby. Krislin gave the heavy dresser another push, attempting to wedge the edge under the knob. Too tall for that, she settled for leaving it as a makeshift doorstop.

  While Chey watched Krislin attempt to provide a roadblock, she also started searching her mind for bargaining chips. Things that men on a mission might be swayed by. Bribery first, and threats second. She had little to use in the way of bargains except her position and her promises.

  Another gunshot rang out, followed by sounds of fierce fighting. Shouts peppered the hallway, muffled by sturdy walls and thick windows.

  This was it. They were coming for Sander. All her and Gunnar's fears were being realized right before her eyes. They should have taken more precautions, should have packed the halls with guards loyal to the King. The real King. Chey refused to lament what she couldn't change. And she wouldn't give up without a fight.

  “Are there any other things we can use as weapons in here?” Chey asked. The chair, if someone could heft it, might knock a man unconscious. It wasn't useful unless they could take the guards by surprise. “What about chemicals from the bathroom? Any sort of cleaning supplies? Something flammable we can aim at their face?”

  Krislin made a quick survey of the entire room followed by the bathroom.

  Out in the hallway, the fighting grew more violent.

  “Nothing. No chemicals left in here. They take everything in and out on a cart,” Krislin said when she emerged. “No medical equipment, either, except bandages and the machines Sander is hooked up to.”

  “Okay. When they come in, you acquiesce to whatever they want. Don't fight, don't put yourself in harm's way. All right? We have nothing good to defend ourselves with, so we'll try something else.” Chey gave up on the idea of fighting the men off. They wouldn't stand a chance against guns, especially without weapons of their own.

  “I'm not going to just stand by and watch them hurt you or Sander,” Krislin said, voice filled with angst.

  Chey glanced at Sander. He looked so peaceful, face slack, body relaxed. Worry turned to anger that he might die without even having the chance to fight back. It wasn't fair.

  “Krislin, it's better this way. There isn't anything you can do, and if they just take me or Sander, we'll need you to alert Gunnar. He'll know who to call or what to do.”

  Krislin whimpered as the knob turned. A shoulder hit the door, coupled with shouts in the mother tongue to open it.

  Or else.

  Fighting off panic of her own, Chey prayed for a calm mind.

  With several more shoves, the guards got the door open enough to admit four armed men. Men in military uniforms with stern expressions and a no nonsense attitude.

  Krislin stood tall, blocking them from Chey and indirectly, Sander. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

  Chey, for the moment, allowed Krislin to speak.

  “Stand aside, Princess Krislin,” one of the guards said.

  “I will not. This is a pregnant woman you're terrorizing, the Queen of Latvala at that, and no quarter will be given any man who lays a finger on her.” Krislin lifted her chin when the guards stepped forward. With surprisingly gentle yet firm hands, one guard physically moved Krislin to the other side of the room.

  It left Chey face to face with the remaining three guards. She made eye contact with each one. “My husband will awaken, and when he does, he will have the names of every one of you acting against the crown. Have a care what you do in the next thirty seconds.”

  From the doorway, another man stepped in. Brusque, with cropped white-blond hair, this soldier stood apart from his brethren by more than the impressive ranking badge attached to his uniform. He exuded a commanding air above and beyond the others, with a slicing white scar over his chin that added something more feral to his appearance.

  “You will come with us peacefully, your Highness, or be escorted. The decision is yours, and rests wholly on your shoulders,” the scarred man said.

  “How convenient that you attempt to exempt yourself and your men from blame. I'd like to know what you plan to do with the King.” Chey schooled her features, smoothed her voice over a tremor that wanted to invade her words.

  The scarred man, a General Chey thought, halted before her.

  “Worry yourself not over his welfare. He'll be fine.”

  “Forgive my reticence in trusting the word of men with openly ill intent,” Chey retorted. She didn't want to leave Sander behind, didn't want to let any one of these men get their hands on him. The desire to physically fight them off was strong. At the same time, she was aware that she might hurt the baby, possibly push herself into labor. A bad position to be in either way.

  “There is no ill intent here, I assure you. We are securing you and his Majesty until the logistics of the regions have worked themselves out. Now then,” the scarred man said, gesturing to the door.

  Chey was not appeased. Standing her ground, she studied his expression, searching for lies or deception. Detecting nothing she could identify, Chey decided she wasn't m
oving. Just as when the council members came in, wanting time alone with Sander, Chey had the same sense that she needed to protect Sander any way she could. The General quirked his mouth when he realized she had no intention of obeying. He took one step closer and lowered his voice.

  “Do not make this any worse for either of you, or for the Princess, eh? I am offering you safe passage, as well as a guarantee that the King will not be harmed. All you need to do is come with me.”

  Chey wavered. His tone invited her to believe that she, nor Sander, would be harmed if she went quietly. It went against Chey's grain, rubbed her the wrong way to give in. Did she have a choice? Physically, she couldn't fight anyone off. Not really. They were armed, she was not, they were in excellent shape, she was mere weeks from giving birth. Any ideas of using bargaining chips or threats faded. This man, these men, wouldn't be cowed or coerced or bribed.

  “I want your word no harm will come to Sander,” she said.

  The General hesitated, then bowed his head. “You have my word no one will touch the King.” He used a hand to gesture toward the open door.

  Chey glanced at Krislin. The woman looked nervous and as wary as Chey felt. The General reached out to cup his hand at Chey's elbow, coaxing her into motion.

  Like a mule looking up hill, Chey didn't budge. Not at first. She resisted, panic over riding common sense. A niggling fear that she wouldn't ever see Sander alive again kept her feet rooted to the floor.

  The General applied a bit more pressure to his hold. Chey twisted her arm, giving it a sharp yank to remove his hand.

  He pressed his lips tight, then slung an arm low around her back, preparing to propel her forward.

  That was all it took for the war to start. Chey struggled against him, pushing at his shoulder, swiveling her hips out of his arm.

  “No! I'm not leaving him. Let go!” she shouted, catching a glimpse of Sander during the scuffle. Lying so still, breathing in, breathing out. Unaware of everything and everyone. Defenseless.

  The General moved her bodily toward the door, using sheer strength and agility against her futile attempts to get free.

  Chey didn't stop twisting and writhing in his grip until she was at the door, about to pass into the hallway. She shot a desperate look at Krislin, who was blocked in by a guard. This was it, there was nothing else they could do. Shaking off the General's hold, Chey stood alone and untouched in the corridor, where bodies littered the floor from the fighting. Two guards held the doctors and several nurses at bay.

  It was the hardest thing she'd ever done, walking away from Sander's room. Leaving him without protection, not knowing what fate lay in wait. The tears that stung the back of her eyes were tears of fury and outrage. Why hadn't they prepared sooner for something like this? All those days of sitting at Sander's side could have been better spent planning for emergencies of this nature. In the world of Royalty, the idea of being 'too paranoid' didn't exist. Paranoia kept a person on their toes, kept them alive. She should have known to expect trouble from any angle, even from Sander's own family.

  Especially his family, given the recent history with Aksel and Helina.

  Feeling like a prisoner on the last walk to the executioner's chair, Chey followed several guards who stepped in front of her to lead the way. The General came behind. Into the elevator, up to the rooftop.

  Chey's last glimpse of the hospital was from a helicopter seat as the aircraft lifted off and swung away, destination unknown.

  . . .

  The sound of arguing voices drifted in and out of his hearing. Jumbled words, fast sentences, too confusing to keep up with. In those first seconds of his return to awareness, Sander couldn't figure out why it was taking him so long to wake up, or why people were arguing in the first place. His bedroom was typically a quiet place, undisturbed by this kind of ruckus and upheaval.

  You're not in your bedroom. The thought slithered to the fore and receded. He tried to lift his head. Open his eyes. Although he couldn't make out explicit details through the blurry view he had of the world, Sander knew one thing: he really wasn't in his bedroom. The melting colors on the walls were too monochrome and plain. Yet he was prone, on a bed, which served to confuse him further.

  Blinking against the blurriness, he tried to sit up. Dizziness swelled up from the black abyss he'd so recently left behind, threatening to pull him back under. Fighting it off, wondering at the sense of urgent alarm beginning to buzz through his head, he groaned and succeeded in getting the top half of his body upright.

  “Dare! Thank God you're awake,” a female voice said.

  Someone touched his arm.

  “Quit shouting,” he mumbled. If he didn't know better, he thought he might have had the worst hangover of his life. A hangover that included unusual pain in his mid-section, along his left side, and down one arm. He ran a hand over his chest, tugging at the strange robe-like thing covering his torso. A few wires and sticky discs came with it.

  “Sander, it's Krislin. Here, let me take these things off you and remove the IV.”

  Krislin? What the hell was she doing here?

  “I'll get it. Watch the door,” a woman said.

  Sander pegged the second voice at last. Natalia.

  “What's going on?” he asked, bracing his weight with one hand while Natalia ripped more of the sticky discs from his skin and slid a needle out of his vein. A machine beep-beep-beeped somewhere behind him.

  “You've been in a coma for almost a week and you need to wake up right now,” Natalia said. “I'll get your clothes. How does your head feel?”

  “Woozy. A what?” Coma? Sander only knew he'd been asleep. Vaguely, he recalled hearing Chey cry, a man's voice he didn't recognize. A few times, he'd felt almost on the verge of waking from a long dream. Unable to fully rise from the mist, he'd succumbed to the lure of slumber.

  He rubbed at his eyelids, which made the blurriness worse before it got better. Finally, he was able to take in the hospital room, the bed he sat on, and Natalia yanking clothes out of the closet against the wall. Krislin hovered near a window, peering out through a crack. Once more, a shiver of alarm coursed through his system. He made a more concentrated effort to get his bearings.

  “Coma. You were in an accident. Do you remember the accident?” Natalia asked as she brought jeans and a tee-shirt to the bed along with socks and boots. “Put these on. We don't have a lot of time.”

  Mention of the accident brought images to the surface of his memory. Charred flesh. Black metal. The crack of fire. Pain.

  “Yes. What happened?” He shucked the gown and fumbled into jeans with Natalia's help. Feeling too dizzy to stand up, he tugged them up over his boxers and left them unbuttoned for now. On went the tee-shirt while Natalia crouched in front of him and put on his socks. He wondered why Chey wasn't doing it.

  “Someone attacked the caravan. Almost everyone died. You've been unconscious ever since.” Natalia jammed the boots on and laced them up the front with deft motions.

  “Where's Chey?”

  Natalia stood up, holding his eyes. “Several guards took her. I'm not sure where. Krislin said--”

  “Took Chey?” That seared through some of his haze in a hurry. He stood up, tilting to the right. Natalia was there, letting him lean on her until he got his balance back.

  “Yes. I got here with reinforcements just a few minutes too late. We have to get you out of here before more of his men show up.”

  Sander snarled. Clarity returned at a faster clip. “What the hell is going on, here?”

  “Krislin, is it safe to poke your head out and ask the doctor for some smelling salts?” Natalia turned a look up at Sander. “It's Paavo. He's been planning a coup for months. And he's been busy the last week, signing decrees to divide Latvala into regions.”

  “I'll get them,” Krislin said. She slipped out the door into the hallway, where Natalia's guards stood watch.

  “That bastard. I should have known he wouldn't leave it alone.”

&nb
sp; Krislin returned shortly, walking a few small packets over to Natalia. Ripping one open, Natalia gave Sander no warning before waving the stick under his nose.

  “I hope this doesn't do more harm than good,” Natalia said.

  Sander reared his head back as the potent sting hit his nose. Sucking in a breath, he pushed at Natalia's hand. She waved it around a few more times anyway.

  “Get that out of here,” he groused.

  “Is it working?”

  He had to admit it was. Although he still felt woozy, at least he could see and hear without it sounding like he was underwater. “It's good enough. Let's go.”

  “I have just enough guards to get you out of here, I think. I hope. There's no telling how many more are on the way, or that might be waiting downstairs,” she said.

  “Do you have a phone?” he asked, heading to the door. His legs kept wanting to give out.

  “Yes,” Natalia said.

  Krislin opened the door and stepped into the hall.

  “We're not going down the usual way,” Sander said. He veered into the hallway, one arm around Natalia's shoulders for extra stability.

  “Your Majesty, you shouldn't be up and walking. Let me check--”

  Sander cut the doctor off. “No time. Pop the latch for the other door.”

  The doctor retreated into his office.

  Sander grouped the guards ahead and behind, directing them along with Krislin and Natalia down another intersecting corridor. Right away he opened a different door on their left with a Supplies sign on the front. A distant buzzing noise indicated the doctor had activated some sort of release function.

  “Move that rack out of the way,” Sander ordered two of the guards, who did so immediately. The rack swung away from the wall, revealing another door and a keypad. He had to concentrate to recall the code. Once entered, the latch clicked. Pushing instead of pulling, Sander stepped onto a broad landing with stairs leading down.

  “Help him,” Natalia said to the guards when she saw the stairs.

  “I got it,” Sander argued, starting down. He suffered bouts of vertigo, forcing him to hang onto the railing or pitch head first down the whole flight. Replacing Natalia, two guards got on either side and hurried the process along. Sander didn't fight it. His mind was on Chey and their child—and on Paavo. He seethed with anger both at his brother and at himself. Although he'd tracked Paavo's movements through the summer, apparently he hadn't done enough.