Chapter 6

Garrett

She hung up on me.

Lola Barnes. Hung up. On me.

Hours later and my mind is still boggled.

No woman has ever hung up on me before. Nobody has ever hung up on me before. When you’re royalty, it just isn’t done.

Lola obviously didn’t get the memo, though. Then again, from the moment I met her, nothing about this woman’s reaction to me has been normal or expected. It’s why I’m still thinking about her two days later. And why I’m now more determined than ever to see her again.

The fact that she doesn’t feel the same way is a problem, but not an insurmountable one. I’ve brokered numerous treaties that government experts said couldn’t be done. Surely I can convince one sassy, intriguing, sexy-as-fuck woman to have a meal with me.

The old Garrett certainly would have been able to.

But as a knock sounds on my office door, I’m forcibly reminded that I’m not the old Garrett. And I probably never will be again.

“Come in,” I call, even as I pretend to focus on the laptop in front of me. Scrolling through email is a normal thing for a person to do, I remind myself. Even if there are no longer any messages of import to deal with.

“Hello, Your Highness.”

“Hello, Michael. How are you today?”

“Good, thanks. And you?”

“Great, as always.” I wave the man who has been both my nemesis and my salvation these last nine months toward a chair. “The sun is shining, the birds are chirping. Yada, yada, yada.”

“Optimistic as always, I see.”

“Optimistic is my middle name.” I gesture to the coffee service sitting on the table in front of me. “Would you like some?”

“Just had some, actually.”

“Well, have a seat, then. I’ll be with you in just a second.”

As Michael seats himself in the chair opposite me, I stubbornly keep my eyes on my laptop. It’s a weak power play, one I’m sure he’ll see through the way he always sees through me. But as I scroll down an email about yet another ridiculous gala I’m supposed to attend in a few weeks, I focus on it like it’s the most important thing in the world.

Buying time. Trying to pretend—to both of us—that everything is normal. That I’m normal and so is the life I’m living now.

He waits patiently. Everyone does when you’re royal—can’t rush the man who might be king, even if the gallows is no longer a thing. Michael’s patience is different, though. Part kind, part cunning, I’ve done enough of these song-and-dance routines with him to know that it’s designed to get me to speak.

And I will. I always do. I just need a minute to figure out what I want to say and how I want to say it.

Seconds tick by, become minutes.

Today—much like the first time I met with Michael—I don’t have a clue where to start.

He must sense my dilemma, because for the first time in months, he speaks first. “Rough night?”

I shrug, shake my head. No rougher than any other night this week. This month.

“If the meds aren’t enough, we can look at increasing the—”

“They’re enough.” I want off the damn pills, not to have to choke down more of them.

“How many hours of sleep are you getting a night?”

“I get by.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Maybe not, but it’s the only answer I’m willing to give. “I’m good. Some nights are rougher than others, but I’m solid.”

“I know you are.”

It’s not the answer I was expecting and when he laughs, I know my surprise shows on my face.

“Did you expect me to say something else? You’re the only one who thinks you aren’t doing well, Garrett—”

“That’s bullshit and we both know it. I’m the one who keeps telling you that I’m fine and you’re the one who keeps pushing back against it.”

“Because fine is a ridiculous word in the context of what you’ve been through. It means nothing. Says nothing.” He shifts, then leans forward. And though I want to look anywhere but at him, my pride won’t let me. I meet his eyes and wait, because I know he’s got more to say. “Unless you take it for an acronym: fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional. In which case…”

“In the old days you’d be beheaded for calling a prince fucked up.”

“Good thing we believe in speaking truth to power these days, then, isn’t it?”

“Truth, huh? You just said I’m doing well and now you’re saying I’m fucked up? Which one is it?” There’s a part of me that can’t believe how calmly we’re discussing this, as if my mental health is no more or no less consequential than the day’s weather.

“After what you went through, I’d be worried if you weren’t fucked up.”

“Nice to know I’m right on schedule. If that’s all…”

“It’s not, but nice try. You need to have a little empathy for yourself, Garrett—”

“The whole fucking world feels sorry for me. The last thing I’m going to do is feel sorry for myself. It doesn’t make me feel better, it doesn’t make me any healthier, and it sure as shit doesn’t get me closer to the throne.”

“And that’s still what you want more than anything? The throne?”

“You know that. We’ve been talking about it for months.”

He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to decide how far he wants to push. The knowledge just infuriates me more—that he’s one more person pulling his punches because he doesn’t know if I’m strong enough to take it.

“Just say it, damn it.”

An eyebrow arch. “Say what?”

“Whatever it is you aren’t sure you should say. I promise I won’t have you chained up in the palace dungeon.”

“The palace doesn’t have a dungeon. I checked before I started working with you.”

“Damn it, Michael—”

“Why do you think it is that you want the throne so badly?”

“It’s not that I want it. I’m not some power-hungry egomaniac.”

“So you don’t want it? You’ve been pretty focused on it ever since your father told you that he was taking you out of the line of succession.”

“Of course I’m focused on it. My whole life has been about preparing to sit on that throne.”

“You say that like it’s fact, but not everything is about the throne.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It is easy for me to say, because it’s the truth. I know it’s not easy for you to hear that there’s more to life than being king—”

“Not my life! My life has always been about being king!” I shove to my feet and start to pace. “It’s not about what I want.”

I spit out the words, sharp as glass. “It’s never been about something as simple as want. Being king is my duty. It’s my obligation. My whole education, my entire life, has been about being worthy enough to wear that crown.”

For long seconds, Michael doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pours a cup of coffee while he lets my words—and the emotions that generated them—hang in the air around us. And hang they do, until I can feel them crawling across my skin, hear them echoing deep inside of myself.

“You were abducted because of that crown.”

I roll the statement around in my head, looking for pitfalls. For land mines. “Yes.”

“You were tortured because of that crown.”

“I was tortured because my captors were sadistic fucks who wanted to see if they could break me.”

“But they didn’t.”

“No.” Even if most of the time it feels like they did.

“What they did to you was because of who they were, but the fact that it was you they did it to? That was because of who you are.” He leans forward and picks up his coffee cup. “That was because of the crown. Because of a seven-minute accident of birth.”

“Are you trying to make me hate myself? Or my brother?”

“I’m trying to figure out how you feel about yourself and how you feel about being king.”

“I already told you how I feel about it.”

“You told me why you think you should be king—”

“Why I know I should be king.”

He inclines his head. “Okay. Why you know you should be king. But how does that make you feel?”

Rage slams through me. “Are you fucking kidding me with this? How does it make me feel? Should we all hold hands now and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

“Interesting that that’s the image that comes to you when I ask about your feelings.”

“Would you prefer I throw a temper tantrum like some bad-mannered child?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“What?” I shake my head, trying to figure out if I heard wrong. “You want me to throw a fit?”

“I’d say you’re about nine months overdue. Despite everything you’ve been through, despite all the pain you’ve suffered and everything you’ve lost, you’ve never thrown a temper tantrum. Never slammed your fist into a wall. You’ve barely even raised your voice.”

“What good would it do? Me being out of control isn’t going to help Wildemar and it sure as hell isn’t going to convince my father that I’m capable of ruling, so what’s the point?”

“The point is that walling up your anger isn’t healthy.”

“Who says I’m angry?”

Michael looks pointedly at the fists I wasn’t even aware of clenching. Slowly, I force my hands to relax, my fingers to uncurl.

“The past is the past,” I tell him when I’ve finally got my body back under control. “Dwelling on it isn’t going to help me move forward.”

“In normal circumstances, that’s absolutely true. But there’s nothing normal about what you’ve been through. Especially since the past is having such a profound impact on your present.”

“The nightmares aren’t as bad.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But I’m not talking about the nightmares.”

I fight the urge to shove him out the door. All he’s doing is talking in riddles and after two sleepless nights, I have no patience for it.

He must see it in my eyes—how close I am to done—because he abruptly gets to the point. “Are you afraid that being abducted and tortured makes you less worthy of wearing the crown?”

It’s a quiet question, unassuming, but it feels like an attack. Suddenly the riddles don’t seem so bad.

“Garrett?” he prompts when I don’t answer.

“My father thinks it makes me less worthy.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Maybe not, but it’s still the reality.”

“But is it your reality?”

“My reality doesn’t matter.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Right now, your reality is the only one that matters.”

“I owe it to my people to do what’s best for them.”

“Even if what’s best is stepping aside?”

“It’s not.”

“You owe it to yourself to do what’s best for you.”

“No.” My rejection is instantaneous, absolute. “That’s not how it works.”

“Why? Because you owe it to Wildemar?”

“You make it sound like being king is a game. It’s not. I owe the people of Wildemar…”

“What do you owe them? Your blood? You gave it to them. Your life? You almost gave that, too.”

“My life comes with a lot of privileges. But it comes with a lot of responsibilities, too.”

“Of course it does. But it’s been less than a year since you were abducted, beaten, tortured, and starved. Less than a year since you saw your security detail—who also happened to be your friends—murdered in front of you. Less than a year since you sustained injuries that took months to heal and that changed your life forever.”

His tone is matter-of-fact and I appreciate it. I’m so fucking sick of the cloying sympathy, so fucking sick of being poor Garrett. I just want to be me again, just want to have a conversation where the person I’m talking to isn’t thinking about what happened to me, isn’t feeling sorry for me.

Maybe that’s why Lola intrigued me so much. Even after it became obvious that she knew who I was, she didn’t give me sympathy and she didn’t act like I was a head case. I appreciate that more than I can say.

“I know you want to go back to being the old you,” Michael continues. “But I’d be remiss as your therapist if I let you believe that there’s even a chance that that’s going to happen. What you went through changed you in deep and lasting ways, and you’ll never be the man you were before the abduction.”

Helplessness explodes deep inside me at his words, along with a panic that enrages me even as it terrifies me. “What the hell does that even mean? It’s your job to fucking fix me—”

“It’s my job to help you cope with what happened to you and come out healthy on the other side. You’re not broken, Garrett. You’re hurt and you have every right to be hurt. You suffered unimaginable things.”

“I survived.”

“Yes,” he says as he leans forward and stares directly into my eyes. “Yes, you did. Without breaking and without giving your captors anything to use against Wildemar. You have more than done your duty to your country. Now it’s time to give yourself a little of the same consideration you have always given Wildermar.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“I know you don’t. Maybe it’s time you found out.”

I sink back onto the sofa, my mind racing with everything he’s thrown at me this week. “How?”

“Only you can answer that, but I can help you start. What’s one thing you want—besides the throne?”

“I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t have to be big. It can be me getting the hell out of this room and leaving you alone. Don’t think too hard about it. Just spit it out. Name one thing you want, right now. Just one—”

“Lola.” Her name comes out of nowhere and I’m not sure who’s more surprised—Michael or me.

“Who’s Lola?” he asks.

“A woman I met a couple of days ago.”

“And you’re interested in her?” He sounds cautious, but more optimistic than he was a couple of minutes ago.

“I’m intrigued by her.”

Michael lifts a brow. “Intrigued sounds like a good place to start.”

I think about his words for a second, then think about how Lola had me smiling on the phone this morning before she had to take her work call. “It really does, doesn’t it?”