Chapter Eighteen
The doctorsofficially discharge me as soon as the sun rises.
Normally, I’d protest being carted out of the top secret military bunker like an octogenarian in a wheelchair, but I can’t quite summon the will to feel anything, anymore. No embarrassment over the too-loose sweatpants and cotton shirt they found for me to wear in lieu of a hospital gown. No outrage over the state of my hair or the smudged makeup beneath my eyes.
I have gone numb.
The broken, barely-pulsing organ inside my chest is encased in ice, and I fear nothing will ever convince it to beat warmly again.
Carter pushes my wheelchair and Chloe walks beside it, both determined to stay strong for me despite the fact that they’ve been awake for well over twenty-four hours. Galizia and Riggs, both sporting minor cuts and bruises, trail directly behind us. Two dozen King’s Guard line the hall from my room to the below-ground hanger where six identical black SUVs are waiting. A security motorcade, to keep me safe during transport.
It looks like a funeral procession,I think hollowly.How appropriate, since I’m already dead inside.
As I roll past the guards, I can’t help noticing that they’re saluting me — elbows bent at sharp right angles, fingertips raised to their temples. It’s a gesture of respect usually reserved only for the King.
Odd.
I don’t have time to give it much more than a passing thought, because we’ve reached the line of SUVs. Carter helps me to my feet, supporting my weight so I don’t further injure myself. The damage to my body wasn’t too severe — just a lot of colorful bruising down my left side from the force of the impact — but I’m sore and weary down to my bones. When Carter’s arm goes around my waist, I have to fight the urge to lean into him. To let him carry my emotional baggage along with the physical.
His hands wrap around my waist and he lifts me up into the backseat, leaning over me to buckle my seatbelt. He’s so close, I could count each individual eyelash ringing his deep blue eyes. The belt clicks into place and he pauses briefly before pulling back, just staring at me.
I remember the first time I ever saw him — sitting in the back of a black SUV just like this one, my whole world on the brink of utter destruction.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
A muscle jumps in his cheek as he nods, stores the folded wheelchair on the floor, and shuts my door with a soft click. Chloe scrambles in the other side a moment later. She curls up against the leather seat without so much as a word, her eyelids fluttering closed. Exhaustion is etched on every line of her face; she’s been awake all night, waiting by my side for news.
That’s what family does.
The realization is enough to put a small chip in the thick ice around my heart. I brace myself against it, afraid if I let in any emotion at all, the rest will come flooding back as well.
Carter hops into the front passenger side. Riggs is already behind the wheel; he turns over the ignition and slides the SUV into gear.
I can’t see much of anything through the blacked-out windows as we slowly make our way from Fort Sutton to Waterford Palace. The whole world has gone dark, and not merely due to the time of day. Every street is empty; I don’t see a single soul outside for the duration of our drive.
Later, I’d realize this is because all of Vasgaard effectively shut down after the attack — roads closed, government buildings cordoned off, emergency curfews in effect. But right now, I’m so dazed by all that’s happened, I think very little of it as I stare out my window at the deserted city streets.
The mood of the car is decidedly somber; none of us possesses either the energy or the desire for conversation. I can’t say I blame Chloe for nodding off. In fact, I envy her. I wish I could sleep — it would be an escape from the constant pain — but I’m terrified of what I’ll see when I close my eyes. Terrified of whatever new nightmares await me on the fringes of my subconscious.
The drive takes no time at all without any traffic to slow us down. Before I know it, we’re pulling up to the palace. The first thing I notice is a massive security presence. There are more guards than I’ve ever seen stationed at the secluded back entrance to the grounds. I’d imagine the main gate looks like a scene from the WWII resistance, when the Nazis cordoned off Vasgaard and attempted to seize control of the castle; a full scale show of military force.
All to keep me safe.
We pull around the circular driveway and stop before the looming front doors that lead into the Great Hall. I suck in a breath when I see the entire palace staff — maids, cooks, pages, stablehands, guards, grooms, drivers — all lined up in full uniform on the stone steps, waiting for us.
The Master of Stables, Hans, is there, looking gruff as ever in the very back row. I spot Anita, one of the royal seamstresses, standing beside Patricia, who just so happens to make the best chocolate chip cookies in the country. At the very center of the greeting party, Simms and Lady Morrell stand shoulder to shoulder, color coordinated in their navy outfits.
They did this for me.
To welcome me home.
My eyes are suddenly stinging again and, despite the ice block inside my chest, I feel a pang of real emotion.
Maybe that mangled organ isn’t entirely dead after all.
Chloe’s still fast asleep beside me, snoring lightly. I suppose I could wake her, tell her we’re home… but she looks like she could use the rest, if the bags under her eyes are any indication.