I go totally still, hardly able to breathe, and send up a prayer to whoever might be listening for the cousin I’ve never met.
Please survive, Henry.
You have to survive.
You have to rule.
A solemn hush descends once more over Hennessy’s — the nondescript little dive around the corner from campus we frequent when I don’t have class and Owen isn’t stuck at work. On a Friday night, it’s typically ground zero for debauchery. Now, it’s eerily silent, with even the drunkest patrons seeming to hold their breath.
Owen’s hand settles on my hipbone — heavy and warm, pulling me close. It’s an intimate touch; one that might make my brows lift, under normal circumstances. But these circumstances are anything but normal. I can’t spare more than a moment to wonder whether my best friend is crossing the unspoken boundary that’s been there for as long as I can remember, because the anchor is back, her voice piercing the airwaves with fresh horror.
“Though we still await official confirmation, we are now hearing reports that Crown Prince Henry is alive but unconscious. He has been admitted to the intensive care unit in critical condition, undergoing treatment for third degree burns, smoke inhalation, and severe head trauma. It is not known whether he will survive the night.”
The room is so silent, I can hear the rhythmicdrip-drip-dripof a leaky sink behind the bar. Each droplet sounds like the report of a gun in the stagnant air. The newscaster takes a deep breath and steadies her yellow-blazered shoulders. She stares straight into the camera, her brown eyes unwavering, and delivers a broadcast that will be replayed on a loop for the next hundred years, archived in history museums and national annals until the world fades into dust.
“According to our source at the palace… several moments ago, Linus Lancaster, the Duke of Hightower, was officially sworn in as King Regent. As we wait to see if Prince Henry recovers… he will rule in the interim.” Her voice goes faint as she recites the official motto of Germania, so quietly it sounds like a prayer. “Non sibi sed patriae.”
Not for self, but country.
“God bless King Linus,” the newswoman says starkly. “Long may he reign.”
“Long may he reign,” the bar-goers around me echo back at the screen, their voices morose and fearful as they stare at the projected image of their new monarch. A man with thick dark hair and cold green eyes. A man I’ve spent my entire life attempting to avoid.
His Majesty.
King Linus.
My father.
Chapter Two
Suddenly,it’s all too much.
The press of the crowd, the dull roar of the television, the weight of an unknown future resting sharply on the blades of my shoulders. I can’t catch a breath, can’t hear anything over the rising tide of panic rumbling between my ears.
Owen is saying something to me; I can see his mouth moving, but none of his hushed syllables permeate. I mutter something about needing air and shove out of his grip, beelining for the front exit. He’s close on my heels as we cut a path through the dense crowd. No one seems to know where to look or what to say. They are paralyzed, unable to process the news that their kingdom has crumbled, staring dazedly at the televisions as though they’re trapped in a nightmare from which they’ll wake at any moment.
The bouncer who checks IDs at the front door barely spares me a glance as I barrel out into the crisp October night. I take a few halting strides until I reach the side of the brick building, where an abandoned cobblestone alley offers a modicum of privacy.
I focus on things I can wrap my spinning mind around. The feel of cool brick pressed against my forehead. The half-moons of my fingernails cutting into my tight-clenched palms. The breath inside my lungs, expanding and emptying, emptying and expanding. An endless vacuum.
After a few moments, I sense Owen’s presence at my back. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t say a word. He simply stands there, offering silent comfort. Just as he has through every skinned knee and failed grade, bad date and broken heart.
My best friend.
“Ems…”
“I’m fine,” I whisper in a strangled voice. “Totally fine.”
“But—”
“No!”
Whirling around to face him, I plant my hands on my hips and fix him with a severe glare. At five-foot-two, I’m hardly an intimidating figure — Owen towers at least a foot above me — but height is the least of my problems if I look even half as ragged on theoutsideas I feel on theinside. My dyed curls cascade around my shoulders in a messy lavender curtain. My chest heaves against the fitted crop top, exposing a pale sliver of stomach muscle with each labored breath. My mini-skirt is riding high on my thighs, which are tensed from the urge to bolt. My green eyes are a bit too wide, too wild, as they glare up into his.
In other words, I’m about two seconds away from a total breakdown.
All aboard the Hot Mess Express.