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“Henry,” Simon murmurs as he steps between me and Percival. “First things first,” he reminds me to push through my vicious instinct. He’s always been the mild-tempered one of the two of us, the mediator of the pack. “Your mother.”
“My mother,” I growl, inhaling the leafy scent that overwhelms my surroundings.
Anger, grief, and all these unsurmountable feelings that I cannot contain. And that goddamn smell. Tea. I hate tea. I loathe it so fucking much that—
My hand swipes over the table, hurtling the teapot to the floor.
“Your mother,” Simon states, clearing his throat.
“Where is she now?”
Percival sighs with his downcast gaze fixed on my feet. “At his side.”
“Security?”
“The Duchess is safe, Henry,” Percival tells me with a solemn nod. “Margaret won’t leave your father’s side. She’s refusing to let the coroner take his body until you get there.”
“Good,” I spit down at the floor through my grinding teeth. “No one touches him.”
Pushing past him and Simon, I don’t give Percival time to warn me of the danger surrounding us. I’ve lived with it all my life, the same way my father, his father before him, and every other Sloane heir has lived with it. As long as there’s a threat to the crown, we will always be in danger. I’m past caring if they come for me; in fact, I would welcome it. I would relish painting my hands with their blood.
Treasonous blood for royal blood—the life force that blazes in my veins.
“I’m coming with you,” Simon tells me, following me out to the front of the club. The early June morning is cool, and the air is quiet. Eerily so. It seems that I might hear ghosts whisper through the green branches of the wolf tree in front of Hush if I listen past my roaring pulse.
I could waste time arguing with him, but the only thing I need right now is to get back to Kensington Palace to check on my mother and see my father’s corpse with my own eyes.
“Get your head straight,” Simon says when we’re in the back of the chauffeur-driven sedan.
Two unmarked police motorbikes overtake us as we leave the gated mews behind St. James’s Palace. They race ahead to clear the way while another sedan follows behind. The procession hits home, slamming into my burning lungs with a force that causes me to sputter, but I pull it back with a clench of my teeth.
The drive to Kensington Palace from the club feels too long. With every second that ticks past, it gets harder to contain my fury. The Palace Avenue gates are open, with police guarding the long road leading to the residency gates that are opening in the distance. There are no police, and the guards seeing us through these gates hold their composure. It’s all quiet and still as always, with the faint hum of London traffic in the distance muffled by the tall trees protecting our privacy.
When we round the corner of my parents’ apartment, my heart stops. The pounding in my ears falls silent at the sight of my father’s Aston Martin.
“Fucking Seychelles blue,” Simon chuckles dryly. “Every fucking motor ruined by that god-awful paint job.”
A laugh erupts from deep down in my gut. Shock. Realisation. I don’t know what it is, but it’s choking me. I can’t fucking breathe as we come to a slow stop behind my father’s black Maybach, and the driver’s door opens.
“You’re going to take my mother inside and keep her there until I’m done.”
“If you think she’s going to let me drag her away—”
Before he can finish, I jump out of the car, telling him, “She doesn’t get a choice.”
Simon may be faint-hearted with his poetic view of the world, but I’m not. Not even the sadness in my mother’s eyes as she looks up at me when I pull her from the car gives me pause. My only concern is how this happened. With all the guards and security in this place, how did anyone get to him, and how could they get away?
“Don’t make me leave him,” she hiccups breathlessly, blood-crusted hands grappling at my forearms. “Don’t make me walk away.”
A hand grips mine to steady herself as she coughs through her relentless sobs. The dishevelled state of her is fucking tragic. Black tracks run down her cheeks, bleeding through the lines of her face. I pity her and the pain she feels. I wish that I could rip it from her. The sight of her falling apart like this, so broken, is wrong for a princess and a Royal Lady of the Order of the Garter. She’s better than this. Made of strong stock.
“Get inside, Mother,” I order as softly as I’m able. Emotions may not be something I tolerate, but I feel our loss too. I feel it twist my bones as it shrieks, crying for justice. “Clean yourself up.”
“Henry…”
“Go!”
At my gritted remark, she pulls back with a shudder. “How can you be so—”
