Chapter 31

Garrett

She left.

She really left.

Lola’s been gone twelve hours and I still can’t believe it. How could she tell me she loves me and then just walk away like that? How could she give up on us without so much as a whimper? I trusted her with everything I am; why couldn’t she trust me about this one thing? Why couldn’t she believe me when I told her that she’s more important than the throne?

Why couldn’t she want me as much as I want her?

It’s the last question that haunts me, that keeps me pacing the suite long after the sun has gone down and Lola has boarded a plane bound for America.

I can’t believe she left me. Can’t believe she made me fall in love with her sassy mouth and her crazy attitude and the softness hiding underneath both, only to walk away when I finally told her how I feel. Because she’s so afraid of what-ifs that she refuses to see what’s right in front of her.

It’s infuriating. Rage inducing. And so painful that every breath I take is a razor blade slicing me to ribbons.

I don’t believe this. I don’t fucking believe this.

I survived being kidnapped.

Survived being tortured.

Survived six surgeries and the incredibly painful physical therapy it took to put me back together.

Survived losing the throne.

I survived it all, only to have this bring me to my knees. This is what’s going to finish the job my captors started all those months ago and my father has continued since I was rescued. Losing Lola is what’s going to shatter me into so many pieces even I won’t be able to recognize what’s left of myself.

How could she not trust me to stand by her? How could she not love me enough to stay? I was all in, would have done anything for her, would have given up anything and everything for her. I never would have been able to walk away, yet she did. She just spouted some lame-ass apology and waltzed right out of here like it hadn’t been only a few hours since she’d told me that she loved me too.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe she’s actually gone and that there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

A knock sounds on the door and I’m torn between snarling at Kian—I’m sure it’s him because no one else is stupid enough to show up here right now—and begging him to come in to save me from myself. There’s only so much wallowing a sane man can do after all, and after twelve hours of this bullshit, I’m pretty sure I’ve reached my limit.

The fact that part of me isn’t so sure is just another reason to let Kian in. Maybe he brought more booze. God knows, I’ve already drunk everything in the place.

Stalking across the suite, I start talking before I’ve even got the door halfway open. “You better have whiskey on you.”

He holds up two bottles of Macallan, one in each hand. “You don’t actually think I’d be stupid enough to come here without it, do you?”

“You can come in, then.” I grab one of the bottles and head directly for the bar. Then again, who needs a glass? I twist the top off the bottle and take a long swig. It burns all the way down, but that’s the point. If I focus on it hard enough, maybe I’ll forget how much I hurt.

“Whoa there,” Kian says as he sprawls on the chair opposite me. “Ever heard of pacing yourself?”

“Ever heard of minding your own fucking business?” I take another sip.

“So, we’re done with denial and have gone straight into anger, huh?”

I’m too busy guzzling whiskey to answer.

“Okay, then.” Kian rips the bottle away from me. “Let’s give that a little time to settle, shall we? Not really sure headlines about Wildemar’s Crown Prince getting alcohol poisoning are really the way we want to go here.”

“Don’t you mean ex–Crown Prince?” I make a half-hearted grab for the bottle, but he’s probably right. I’ve drunk enough in the last three hours to fell a rhinoceros. It hasn’t blacked out the pain yet, but I’m beginning to think nothing will be able to do that.

Fuck.

It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to start beating my head against the nearest wall at the thought. Jesus, I really am pathetic. No wonder my father doesn’t think I should be king.

“Actually, there’s some news on that front,” Kian tells me.

I don’t care enough to respond. Right now, my father and his bullshit machinations are about as far from my mind as they can get. Instead, I spend a few seconds thinking about ripping the bottle of whiskey out of Kian’s hands, then decide against it. Not because I don’t want another drink, but because the alcohol has pretty much shot my reflexes to hell. No reason to put myself through even more humiliation—Lola pretty much took care of that when she stomped all over my heart before she walked out on me.

“You’re not even going to ask me?” my brother demands after I pry myself off the couch and walk over to stand near the balcony.

I’ve already forgotten what we were talking about. But saying that to Kian will cause more trouble than it’s worth, so I give what I hope is a careless shrug but, in actuality, could be anything from a nod to a full-body convulsion.

“Jesus, Garrett. I know it sucks that she left, but nothing’s forever. If she means that much to you, give her a little time to miss you and then go after her.”

“When she left here, she seemed pretty determined to never see me again.”

“That was then, in the heat of the moment. If she really is in love with you, it won’t take much to convince her to give you another shot.”

“Why do I need another shot? I’m not the one who left.”

Kian snorts. “If you have to ask that question, you obviously don’t know women.”

“And you do?”

“I’ve managed to hold on to Savvy for ten months.”

I roll my eyes. “She always did have terrible taste in men.”

Needling Kian with the fact that I dated Savvy first is strangely satisfying. He’s never admitted it, but I know my brother well enough to know just how much it bugs him. I guess misery really does love company.

“Keep it up and I’ll take my whiskey and go back to my room. Where, I might add, my woman is waiting for me.”

“You’ve gotten mean in your old age, you know that?” I snatch the whiskey from his hand and down a fair bit of it in one long swallow.

“I learned from the best. And speaking of Dad, did you hear what I said earlier? I talked to him about an hour ago and he seems ready to talk about putting things back the way they belong.”

“Good for him.” I take another drink.

“Are you so drunk that you don’t understand what I’m saying?” he demands. “You’re going to get the throne back! And I am going to get my blessed, blessed freedom back.”

“I heard you. I just don’t give a shit. I’m not taking the throne.”

“What do you mean you’re not taking the throne? It’s not a party favor. You can’t just leave it sitting on the table on your way out the door! It’s the throne. You know, that thing you’ve wanted your whole life? The thing we’ve been scheming to get you for months now?”

“Yeah, well, I changed my mind. It’s yours now.”

“Wait. What the hell is going on here? I know you’re upset Lola left—”

“This has nothing to do with Lola,” I tell him so convincingly that I almost believe it myself.

“Of course it does. Twenty-four hours ago, you were all about being king. Now you don’t give a shit? The only thing that’s changed is her, so…”

“She’s not the only thing that’s changed.” Anger slams through me, burning off a good deal of the alcohol. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m sick of being yanked around by the old bastard?”

“Of course it occurred to me. I feel the same way. That’s why this is such good news. Once you get the throne back, he won’t be able to yank you around anymore.”

I shoot him a disbelieving look. “You don’t really believe that bullshit, do you?”

“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.

“Garrett, stop!” Kian looks gray, looks sick, but I’m too far gone to give a shit. Way too far gone to listen. Everything I’ve shoved down for the last weeks and months is bubbling up inside of me until I feel like I’m choking on it. Until I feel like I’m going to explode if I hold it in one second longer.

Blindly, I reach for a tumbler and let that fly too. Then another and another, the sound of breaking glass the only thing keeping me sane as the rage becomes a furor and the furor becomes a frenzy that I can’t hold in. That I can’t shove down, not for one more goddamn second.

I upend the coffee table, then pick up a chair, sending it crashing into the French doors that lead to the balcony. The glass shudders under the onslaught, but it doesn’t break.

I want it to break just like me.

I grab a second chair and this time I don’t throw it. Instead, I slam it against the doors with every ounce of strength I’ve got inside of me.

The glass cracks with a satisfying crunch, shards falling out of the individual panes and raining down on my hands, my feet. I’m bleeding now, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the madness inside me, the need to wreak as much destruction in the world around me as those three months in captivity wrought inside of me.

When the doors are completely destroyed, I turn on the chair itself, beating it against the wall until it breaks to pieces. As I do, I’m aware of what’s going on around me in only the vaguest of terms. I can smell the copper tang of my blood dripping on the carpet, can see Kian circling me, can hear him yelling to the security detail to stay out even as he tries to talk me down.

But there’s a roaring in my ears, an off-rail train careening through my head. And suddenly I’m yelling too, a low, guttural scream that comes from deep inside me.

I’ve lost control now, not just of myself but of the memories I worked so hard to keep at bay.

They flash through me, one after the other, in a rush of sensations that has my head throbbing and my knees knocking together.

Memories of lying, bleeding, on a stone-cold floor for hours—days—darkness pressing in from all sides as time inches forward one excruciating second at a time.

Of pain—overwhelming, all-consuming pain—sliding along my every nerve ending as my body jerks and twitches.

Of terror and then, eventually, relief when the kidnappers held a gun to my head, asking questions and pulling the trigger again and again in their own fucked-up version of Russian roulette.

There are more, so many, many more, and they hit me all at once.

Michael wanted them out and now they’re out. But as I stumble under the weight—under the power—of them all, I throw back my head and howl against the onslaught.

“Jesus, Garrett, I’m sorry.” Kian circles me, arms outstretched like he wants to grab me. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

He’s my baby brother and I want to tell him it’s okay, want to tell him that it doesn’t matter, that I’ll be fine. But I can’t stop thinking of how easy it was for him to talk about the abduction. How easy it was for him to suggest I supplicate myself in front of the King when I’ve done nothing wrong.

He wants me to grovel to my father, wants me to beg him to make me heir again when the throne should have been mine all along? Even knowing that if I do grovel, it will just give the King more power over me. Just give him the ammunition he needs to hold the throne over my head for the rest of his life, threatening to take it away whenever the fuck he wants, and to hell with what I’ve sacrificed for it.

I won’t do it. Not for him, not for me, not even for Wildemar.

The suite door bursts open and I whirl around, the small part of my brain that is still rational expecting to see paramedics or a doctor. Can’t have me doing any more damage to the Presidential Suite, after all. Can’t let anybody know that Gorgeous Garrett is actually human.

The optics would suck.

But it’s not a doctor standing there at the entrance to the suite. It’s Lola, eyes wide and mouth open.

“You’re not here,” I tell her, suddenly afraid that I’m hallucinating. “You’re on a plane back to America.”

“I didn’t go,” she answers, walking slowly, steadily, toward me.

“Get back.” I’m not in control yet and I’m terrified that I’ll somehow hurt her by mistake. “Get out.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And then she’s charging straight for me. “It’s okay,” she says. “It’s okay, Garrett.”

I shake my head. “It’s not okay. It’s not.”

Her face crumples, her gorgeous blue eyes filling with tears as she nods. “You’re right. It’s not. But it will be.”

“No.” It will never be okay again. The memories can’t be put away, the rage can’t be shoved back down, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make the pain stop.

She reaches for me and I try to fend her off. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t hurt her. I can’t—

“Lola, don’t!” Kian orders.

“Shut up!” she snaps back. And then she’s grabbing onto me, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me into her. “I’ve got you,” she whispers to me, her forehead pressed to mine. “I’ve got you.”

I shake my head. “You don’t. You can’t.”

“I do,” she tells me, holding me tighter. “I do.”

And just that easily, I crumple. My legs go out from under me and I hit the ground, taking her with me. We land in a pile on the floor.

I’m exhausted, out of it, but still I try to push myself off of her so I don’t crush her. “No,” she tells me fiercely, wrapping herself around me like a limpet and hanging on for all she’s worth. “You stay right here with me, Garrett. I’ve got you. This time, I’ve got you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not hurting me, baby.” She presses kisses to my hair, my face. “I promise, you’re not hurting me. Please, just let me hold you.”

It’s her tone that does it—half-desperate, half-loving, it burrows inside me and breaks me wide open. Burying my head against her shoulder, I feel the rage that’s been a part of me for so long finally, finally, start to drain away.