Page 11 of Heavy Crown

As I lead Dr. Bennett down the corridor back to Aurora, I hear Brice say, “He’s definitely acting weird.”

It’s that comment that centers me more than anything. Whatever emotion has sprouted in me in regards to this woman can’t be allowed to grow.

I need a wife, but it cannot be her.

six

Rory

When I wake up, a modern bedside lamp casts a soft glow over the unfamiliar room. In an armchair beside my bed is the man from the hospital. What was his name again?

Alex.

He’s not in his blood-stained suit anymore. Instead, he’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that stretches across his wide, firm chest. If I was going to be rescued by anyone, I couldn’t have picked a better knight in shining armor. Except this guy looks like a prince.

A prince?

My brain, too addled by injury earlier, clicks with realization.

He is a prince.

Prince Alexander.

I gasp, and he stirs in the chair beside me. His eyes open, and in the moment it takes him to focus on me, my chest flutters with an unexpected tenderness. The feeling from the hospital returns, as though I know him, not just from magazines and social media posts, but really know him. The blow to my head must have been of epic proportions if I’m hallucinating about being familiar with the first in line to the throne at a soul-deep level. That doesn’t happen, not to me, not to anyone.

I have a prince taking care of me. How is this my life?

“I know who you are,” I say.

“Do you?” He runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “Who am I then?”

“Prince Alexander, first in line to the Bellerive throne.” A dull ache persists behind my eyes. My neck is stiff, and my whole body feels like I went too many rounds in a boxing match, but my brain is sort of working now, even if there seems to be a Prince Alexander glitch in it. “You took me to your property?”

“To be fair, I did say I had a big house.” His lips quirk up into an almost smile.

“Unless I do not actually know where you live, this is not a house—it’s a palace.”

He peers over my shoulder out the window and glances around the room. “Yeah, it’s definitely a palace. I apologize for not meeting your expectations.” He places a hand over his heart.

Is he flirting with me? This feels like flirting. I scan his face. My head injury is definitely bad. Must be really bad if I think the future king is flirting with me while I’m dressed in—I peek under the covers—a double layer of hospital gown, no makeup, and a large bandage on my head. It’s pity flirting. He’s been raised to be such a gentleman that he’s flirting with me out of pity.

“What time is it?” I ask.

He flicks his wrist and brings his watch around to examine it. “Six in the morning. Are you hungry?”

I take in the darkness under his eyes and the way he’s stretching as though his body is sore. “Did you sleep in that chair all night?”

“I was told you needed to be monitored. I took that responsibility very seriously.”

I glance over at the other side of the king-sized bed and wonder why he didn’t just stretch out beside me, but even as I think it, I realize waking up to a Bellerivian prince in bed beside me might have induced some screaming. I’m not sure if the scream would have been from surprise, excitement, or fear, but I would have made an ear-piercing noise.

“But why?” I ask.

He rubs his face and leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “You needed someone, and I decided to be that someone. End of.”

His tone doesn’t allow for any argument or rebuttal. He’s probably grown up getting his way in almost every conceivable situation.

He rises and lifts his arms over his head in a lengthy stretch.