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“The crown prince—”
“Is a person,” I shout, throwing my glass with the damned scotch across the room. It hits the wall and shatters with a satisfying crash. “He’s a person before he’s a prince—”
“Now that’s where you’ve always gotten it wrong.” My father takes the last swallow of his drink before very deliberately putting the glass back on the table. “He is a prince before he will ever be a person. Just like I was. Just like you are going to have to become.”
I’m still reeling from the idea that Garrett might be more damaged than I’d imagined, so it takes a minute for my father’s words to sink in. When they do, a whole different kind of fear works its way through me.
“No,” I tell him, driven by my soul-deep instinct.
He laughs. It’s not an amused sound, but it is—very much—a laugh. “Do you think I care what you want? Do you think Wildemar cares what you want? You have a responsibility—”
“Garrett has a responsibility—”
“He is unfit to take the throne.”
I can feel the trap springing around me, can feel the peace I’ve found since I’ve found Savvy and recovered Garrett, start to drain away. “You don’t know that. He just got back. We need to give him time—”
“And we will. But he will not hold Wildemar’s throne. Not any time soon, and probably not ever.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re healthy as a horse. There’s plenty of time for him to recover—mentally and physically. We can find him the best psychiatrist, get him—”
“He’s damaged goods!” My father’s voice thunders through the room. “Wildemar does not need a leader who was preyed upon by some fringe group. It does not need a leader who was tortured and whose mental stability is in question. And it sure as hell does not need a leader who was so weak he allowed himself to be kidnapped like a child.”
The unfairness of what he’s just said chokes me up, has me strangling on the words I so desperately want to say.
The same cannot be said for my brother, however, whose voice cuts across the room like broken glass. “Wow, Dad. Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”
And shit. Just…shit, because a justifiably pissed off and hurt Garrett is exactly what this conversation was missing.
I turn to find him standing in the doorway behind me—white and swaying beneath his bruises, but holding his ground with the look of someone who refuses to buckle. He’s also well within my father’s view, which means the son of a bitch knew Garrett was there the whole time he was saying those fucked-up things.
Goddamn it.
I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to say in this situation—usually I’m the one my father is going after for some real or imagined indiscretion. Garrett’s always had a pass before, and the fact that he doesn’t now—when he needs one for the first time ever—pisses me off nearly as much as the bullshit my father was just spouting.
And while I don’t give a shit about smoothing things over between my father and brother—my dad’s asshole behavior deserves whatever it brings—I can’t stand the look on Garrett’s face. Can’t stand the fact that, after all he’s been through, my father just fucking sucker punched him all over again.
“He’s pissed off at me, Garrett. Not you—”
“I’ll thank you to not speak for me. I’m not senile yet,” my father says.
“Well then, stop acting like it!” I explode, crossing the room to my brother in a couple of big strides. “Whatever you’ve got planned is nuts, and I want no part of it.”
“You never want any part of it,” he snaps back. “You’ve been useless your whole life—taking all the perks of being royal and none of the responsibilities. That stops here. Get your shit together and do what needs to be done for your country.”
“Careful, Dad, or I’ll start thinking overthrowing the king will solve all our problems. Too bad total assholery isn’t a punishable offense.”
“If it was, you would have been indicted a long time ago.”
“Yeah, well, it turns out I’m quite the chip off the old block, after all.”
This is usually the part where Garrett steps in and tells us we’re both being idiots, but he’s gone from gray to white and he’s swaying so badly that I’m afraid he’s going to pass out any second.
I reach for him, and the fact that he doesn’t shrug me off—doesn’t insist that he’s fine—tells me just how poorly he’s feeling. Garrett’s not one to tolerate weakness in himself, or anyone else. And he’s definitely not one to tolerate our father and me going for each other’s throats.
“Come on, let’s get you back to your room,” I say as I wrap a supporting arm around his waist.
“I’m supposed to walk more. My PT says it will help build up my strength.”
