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“I don’t know,” Theodore admitted, his gaze fixed on the blur of city lights. “But I have to believe they will be.”
“Tell me what you need from me,” she urged, reaching out tentatively to touch his arm.
“Just stay with me,” he whispered, allowing himself the briefest moment of vulnerability as he turned his hand over to clasp hers.
They were ushered through the sliding doors by security into the flurry of activity.
“Your Highness!” a nurse called out, recognition flashing in her eyes before she bowed her head slightly and rushed away.
“Have there been any updates?” Theodore inquired of a passing doctor, who paused mid-stride.
“Prince James is stable. He took a bullet to the shoulder,” the doctor replied. He was gone before Theodore could ask about Amanda.
Theodore scanned the crowded hallway, noting the royal insignia on the doors. He could hear the low murmurs of officials conversing in hushed voices.
“Your parents,” Nicole said under her breath as King Albert and Queen Beatrice appeared through the throng, their faces drawn and pale.
“Mother, Father,” Theodore greeted them
“Who is this young lady?” Queen Beatrice’s gaze settled on Nicole, a glimmer of curiosity breaking through her somber mien.
“Nicole Wintere, the curator of the gallery,” Theodore introduced her, feeling the strangeness of intertwining his two worlds. “She’s been a friend.”
“Ah, the girl in the painting,” King Albert remarked with a nod.
“Are we certain of their safety here?” Theodore asked quietly, his eyes scanning the bustle of royal guards stationed around them.
“Every precaution has been taken,” his father assured him.
“You must be strong for your brother,” Queen Beatrice added softly. She rarely left the palace, but her firstborn son and eldest grandchild were at risk. There was no way she would have stayed home.
“Of course, Mother,” Theodore replied, though waiting and doing nothing were the polar opposite of what he wanted to do.
Theodore stood at the guarded door where James and Amanda were being cared for, and after a brief exchange with the guard, he entered the room.
“James,” Theodore whispered, his voice carrying a weight of relief as he moved to his brother’s bedside. Prince James managed a weak smile at the sight of his brother.
“Theo,” he breathed out, his voice a mere thread of sound. “You came quickly.”
“Of course,” Theodore responded, his hand closing around James’s. “I would ride through fire to be here for you.”
Amanda lay on the adjacent bed, her usually vibrant eyes now clouded with fatigue and pain.
“Theo,” she greeted him, her voice steadier than her husband’s but laced with underlying worry.
“Amanda,” Theodore acknowledged her with a tender nod, his gaze filled with concern. “How are you feeling?”
“Concerned for our little one,” she confessed, her fingers resting protectively on her belly. “But grateful we’re both alive.”
“Were you shot as well?”
Amanda shook her head. “No, I knocked James down and hit the ground hard...an old habit. I broke a couple of ribs, but I wasn’t hit.”
“Thank you for saving my brother,” he told her. “Have they said anything more about the baby?”
James’s expression darkened. “They’re monitoring closely,” he said, his grip on Theodore’s hand tightening. “There’s been some trauma, and...” He trailed off, his voice thick with emotion.
“Then we must hold fast to hope,” Theodore replied, though a cold undercurrent of fear ran through his veins. “
