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“I’ll see you around nine,” she tells me. “With furniture ordered.”
We hang up and I address Charles. “How is the king?”
“Alive, Your Majesty,” Charles answers without hesitation. But he adds, “For now. You’ll have to speak to his medical team.”
“Bring someone to me, at once,” I instruct. “Also, my assistant, Hannah Hunter, will be coming and she will be admitted to the residence.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He moves to leave, but pauses, his shoulders going rigid before he turns back. “I hesitate to ask this of Your Majesty, as it is a sensitive topic. But His Majesty’s…friend.”
“Amber?” My jaw tightens against the bile in my throat. “Has the king asked for her?”
“No, ma’am. The king has, as far as I’m aware, not regained consciousness yet.” He clears his throat. “But she has been quite persistent in her requests to see His Majesty. She’s become increasingly upset by our refusals.”
“Hmm.” I nod thoughtfully, but I already know my answer. And it’s hell no. “Please advise Ms. Bennett to remember that her place is not at Aconitum Hall, and it never will be. Remind her that her place in the pack in tenuous, regardless of how much the king enjoys her company. And tell her, from me, that if she continues to attempt to gain access to the king, I’ll be forced to view her with suspicion of treason. My husband might pass light sentences for that offense, but I will deal with her swiftly. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. You’ve made it perfectly clear,” Charles replies.
“Good. See that she understands, as well. I think she forgot that she’s no longer queen of this pack.” Not that it would be so bad if she was queen again, even just for a few hours, so I could take a break. “Where have they taken the king?”
“His Majesty is still in the safe room, as are your sisters, Your Majesty,” Charles informs me. Before I ask a follow up, he supplies, “Their rooms aren’t in the residence, so I felt it best to keep them where they’re secure.”
He felt it best to keep an eye on them, I think. I hope they’re at least comfortable.
When I go to the safe room, my sisters are decidedly not comfortable. They’re still wearing their gowns from the coronation, and they’re sleeping on the couches with thin emergency first aid blankets over them.
That’s ridiculous. Nathan has a whole medical team to sit around and stare at him, so I decide to take care of my sisters, first.
Their mistresses haven’t been trying to insert themselves into a pack-wide crisis. They get priority.
“Tara?” I whisper, giving her a little shake. She looks so much better now, even after having slept with a throw pillow twisting her head at a weird angle all night. “Wake up. Let’s get you to my room. You can sleep in an actual bed.”
I look to one of the thralls standing by. “My sisters need clothes from their rooms. Find someone whose job that is?”
“Right away, Your Majesty.”
Tara laughs sleepily. “Wow. You got the hang of the job quick.”
“I had to,” I say quietly, moving to wake Clare. I barely touch her shoulder before she flails awake, and I have to dodge her sleep-drugged karate moves. “It’s just me. Go up to my room, get some sleep in a bed.”
She sits up and yawns, shaking her head the whole time. “Once I’m up, I’m up.”
I almost argue that the bags under her eyes are telling a different story, but a medic steps out of the room where Nathan is being monitored.
“Your Majesty.” The thrall has an English accent, thank god. I don’t know why I trust the Greater London pack so much more than the Toronto pack. I don’t know any of them and it’s pretty clear that they’re trying to take over Toronto, but nobody from Greater London tried to gut my husband yesterday, that I know of.
“Would you like to see His Majesty?” the thrall asks.
I nod and walk stiffly to the door. I don’t know what to expect or how I’ll feel when I see what’s happening in the other room. I badly want to run away. I’m angry at Nathan for springing the Greater London crown on me. I’m angry that this was the result.
And I’m kind of angry that he didn’t die for such a stupid stunt.
The room is full of beeping. It’s basically a hospital room; when I was in here last night, I didn’t notice exactly how like a hospital room it actually is. There are outlets on the walls for plugs I don’t recognize, an IV pump dripping several bags of fluids into Nathan’s arm, and a ventilator assists his breathing.
None of that seems good.
“It looks worse than it is, Your Majesty,” the thrall doctor assures me. “He came through the surgery well. The bowel was exposed, but not injured, which was our main concern. But he had some signs of brain injury, so we elected to keep him sedated for now.”
