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Nope. Can’t handle that. I run from the room, puke rising up in my throat. As I tear toward the kitchenette sink, Clare calls out, “Bailey, are you alright?”
I’ll be perfectly fine once I paint the sink a lovely shade of my breakfast.
“We’re locked down, Your Majesty,” someone says, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, not trusting myself to lift my head out of the safe zone yet.
“Hannah, my friend, my assistant, she’s still out there.” I shoot pleading looks at all the guards. “I need to at least know that she’s okay.”
“We’ll have a report once the situation is secure, Your Majesty,” is all the head officer tells me.
I almost say, “Go back! This is your job, go back and find my friend!” but it’s not their job. Their job is to protect me.
I rinse my mouth out and try to stand as regally as I can after tossing up my guts in front of my subjects. I turn to where the medics are still working on Tara, but with less urgency now. Clare is at her side; if our big sister couldn’t fret over us, she’d be as freaked out as Tara.
So that left me to do…what? Just “be queen”? How does that work? Do I make a radio address about this?
That just reminds me of what started this whole mess in the first place. Queen of Toronto and Greater London. Why didn’t Nathan tell me? It’s obvious now that his romantic getaway to London wasn’t just a regular serving of adultery. He went there to set this up.
I glare at the door, where my liar of a mate is screaming and dying. You better live because I have some words for you.
He falls silent.
My stomach roils again.
“He’s sedated,” someone calls from in the bedroom, and my knees weaken with relief. “He’s still with us.”
“Your Majesty,” a thrall says, taking my arm. He gently guides me to a chair. “What do you need?”
I just stare at him.
“Can I get you a blanket, some juice, are you hungry—”
Somewhere in the room, a phone rings. It’s not someone’s cell. There’s a red cordless landline on the wall near the entry. The thralls closest to it give me a look, as if wondering if they should proceed, and the head of security barges over and picks it up.
I drop my head to my hands and await the bad news.
To my surprise, after a brief, quiet conversation, he brings the phone to me. “Your administrator. From Greater London.”
“My…” I get to my feet. “I’m the queen.”
The man nods at me.
I take the receiver with shaking hands. How does a queen answer the phone? Clearing my throat, I say, “This is Her Majesty.”
“Your Majesty, it is an honor to speak to you on the day of your coronation. Your subjects in London are—”
The man has a grossly obsequious tone, only made worse by his upper crust accent. I can hear his bowtie. “Thank you, but we are in the middle of a violent attack at the moment.”
“Yes, that was the purpose of my call,” he says hastily, not interrupting his pack leader but not letting me shut him down. “Additional security forces have been dispatched and will arrive later this evening. We’re also sending members of our council, who will be available for anything you may need.”
“I—” It’s a good thing I’m sitting down. “How do you know about this? It happened just a few minutes ago.”
“From our delegates, of course,” he says.
The men on the side of the room, who seemed so out of place…
Nathan kept all of this from me.
Well, now Nathan’s probably going to die. I don’t kid myself that being eviscerating is something easily fixed with first aid; they can’t just stabilize him indefinitely while we wait for a hospital. And if he’s unable to rule, that only leaves one other option.
I force a calm, impervious tone. “The king is severely injured and currently sedated as first aid is administered. I am currently ruling in his place. As you are currently my most direct contact with the world outside this bunker, I need you to coordinate with my head of security. You will take no orders from anyone on the Toronto council. I know the pack has their fingers in every pie, so I want the passports of all members of the Toronto pack revoked and their assets frozen, effective immediately. It’s only a temporary measure, but I don’t want anyone leaving until they’re investigated. In fact, let’s make sure no one leaves the city at all.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man says automatically.
Since nobody in the room is arguing or making faces like I’m fucking anything up, I add, “If there are any Saint-Laurent wolves in either the Toronto or Greater London area, I want them detained. And if they resist capture…have the thralls use lethal force.”
