Literally.
I try to breathe, but I can’t seem to drag even a single molecule of oxygen down my throat. My windpipe has effectively sealed itself off. In the distance, there’s the dull sound of many someones yelling my name; a chorus ofEmilia! Emilia! Emilia!that makes me want to shrink down until I’ve disappeared completely. A mote of dust on the sidewalk, invisible to whatever danger is about to unfold.
“Emilia, it’s okay!” A detached voice assures me from above. “Everything’s okay. It’s not what you think.”
No, no, no.
Not again.
“E, get up. You have to get up.”
Leave me here.
Let me disappear.
But then, there are arms around me — big hands sliding beneath kneecaps, around shoulders. I’m hoisted up, up, up, until I’m cradled against something very broad and very warm, even through the suit jacket. A chest.
Carter.
He came for me.
“You’re here,” I murmur, pressing my eyes to the fabric of his suit. “You came.” A tear escapes. “I knew you’d come for me.”
“Of course I’m here, My Queen.”
The voice — it’s all wrong. No rasp, none of the faint sarcastic edge, not even a flicker of wry humor.
It’s not him.
My eyes open as I realize I’m not in Carter’s arms at all, but Alden’s. He’s breathing a bit heavily, the strain of holding me in his arms apparent, but his eyes are full of comforting warmth as they peer down into mine.
“It was just one of the press van engines backfiring, Emilia. We are not under attack.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling my panic dissipate. In its wake, embarrassment floods me as I realize my PTSD has just been put on full display for not only the crowds, but also the world. There are dozens of cameras trained on us, recording a scene that is sure to be trending live on Twitter within seconds.
I open my mouth to tell Alden to put me down but before I can, he turns to face the cameras head-on, cradling me more firmly against his body.
“Queen Emilia, are you alright?” one of the reporters yells from a forest of telephoto lenses, her microphone extended toward us. “What happened?”
“Are you all right, Your Majesty?”
“Lord Sterling!” another shouts. “Look over here!”
A stream of other questions are hurled our way, a barrage of curiosity and concern coming at us from all sides. When Alden clears his throat to address them, the reporters fall silent.
“Our queen is feeling a bit faint. We will return to the castle at once.” His grip tightens on me, hauling me closer. “I assure you, she will be looked after with the utmost care and caution. There is no task in the world of greater importance than protecting my Emilia.”
The crowd lets out an audible gasp at his accidental informality. I can practically hear the cameras zooming closer, immortalizing the image of me in Alden Sterling’s arms for all time.
What a sight we must make.
“QueenEmilia, that is,” Alden bleats, practically stuttering, a tinge of red staining his cheeks.
But it is a flimsy recovery for a monumental fumble. A gauze bandage on a gushing wound. The press has exploded once more — this time yelling a new set of questions that make my head spin far worse than the imagined terrorist incident.
Are the two of you engaged?
Can we expect a royal wedding?