The lie tastes like ash and copper, like blood from a bitten cheek. Teddie hasn't opened his eyes in thirty-six hours. The last time Isaw him, his skin was the color of old parchment, and his hand in mine felt like holding a bundle of twigs that might snap if I squeezed too hard.
But the press eats it up, scribbling notes, already crafting the narrative.Prince Teddie, the dutiful heir, working even in grief. The royal twins, united in purpose even in tragedy.
They don't know that I'm shattering.
They don't know that every word I speak is a betrayal of the truth sitting heavy as stones in my stomach.
I don't wait for follow-ups. I turn, and my mates close ranks around me without a word, without a signal. It's instinct for them now, this protection.
Ridge and Colter flank me, walls of muscle and menace that clear our path through the crowd. Kylian walks backward, watching for threats with a predator's patience, while Luka guides me with a hand at my elbow, his touch light but insistent.
We make it to the limousine. The door seals with a heavythunkthat sounds like the closing of a tomb.
And then?—
I break.
The sob tears out of me, violent and ugly, ripping through the careful façade I've maintained for days. It's not graceful. It's not cinematic. It’s not pretty. Crying your heart out normally isn’t, despite what movies want you to believe.
I collapse, folding inward like a dying star consuming itself, grief and terror and exhaustion finally winning the war they'vebeen waging against my composure. I don't just cry; Iwail, a sound I've never heard myself make, animalistic and raw.
Strong arms catch me before I hit the floor. Ridge pulls me into his lap and cradles me like something precious and fragile, his new beard scratching against my temple as he murmurs nonsense—"I've got you. I've got you."—over and over like a prayer.
Colter strokes my hair, his skin cool against my fevered skin. Luka presses a water bottle into my hand, practical even in crisis. Kylian… Kylian wraps himself around us both, his face buried in my neck, and I feel the wetness there that tells me he's crying too.
“I need—” My voice cracks, splinters, reforms. “I need to see him. I need to see Teddie.”
No one argues. No one reminds me of protocols or appearances or the receiving line I'm supposed to attend, where foreign dignitaries will offer condolences I don't want and expect gratitude I can't give.
Colter taps the partition and gives directions to the driver, his voice rough with emotion he won't show. The car changes course, tires squealing against wet cobblestones, heading not toward the palace but toward the medical center Teddie’s been transferred to, reserved exclusively for politicians and royalty.
Doctor Tamara herself is overseeing his care.
The waiting room is surprisingly small, with fluorescent lights buzzing like angry insects overhead. It smells of despair and industrial cleaner, the scent of places where people come to pray for miracles and settle for survival.
And there, in the hard plastic chair by the window, is Caran.
He looks terrible. Not just tired—ravaged. Pale as paper left in the rain, dark circles carved beneath his eyes like trenches, his omega pheromones sour with stress and sleeplessness.
He was beautiful once, all golden skin and sharp cheekbones and smiles that could light up ballrooms. Still is, technically—but grief has hollowed him out, scraped him clean like a pumpkin at harvest, left him a shell of the man who'd once smiled at my brother across a crowded room and changed both their lives.
My chest aches with complicated pain, a Gordian knot of emotion I don't have the energy to untangle. He betrayed me, technically. Sold secrets, compromised security, all to save Teddie.
Yes, it was technically Sam who got his hands dirty, but Sam wasn’t acting alone. Caran was the one who knew everything about me, about Teddie, about our parents. He simply fed the information to Sam, who, in turn, gave it to the Noths in exchange for medicine.
I should hate him. Part of me does—a hot, bright coal of rage that glows in my gut. But looking at him now, watching his hands shake as he clutches a coffee that's probably gone cold hours ago, I understand too well what desperation does to a person. It twists love into something ugly. It makes monsters of mothers and traitors of friends.
I cross the room. My heels click against the linoleum, too loud in the hushed stillness. He looks up, startled, and something breaks in his expression when he sees me—not just breaks,shatters. The coffee cup slips from his fingers and hits the floor with a plastic clatter that no one moves to clean up.
I sit beside him. The chair creaks under my weight, protesting the intrusion. For a moment, we just breathe—his inhales ragged and wet, mine steadier but not by much. The silence stretches, elastic and tense.
Then I reach out.
He falls into me like a man drowning, his thin frame racked with silent sobs that shake us both. I hold him because he's holding Teddie in his heart, just like I am, and right now, that's enough. That's everything.
We cling to each other like shipwreck survivors, two people who love the same dying boy, bound together by guilt and hope and the terrible understanding of what we'd both sacrifice to keep him breathing.
“He's going to be okay,” Caran whispers against my shoulder, but it sounds like a prayer rather than a statement, like he's trying to convince himself by repetition.
