Page 152 of The Unlikely Heir
“Your Royal Highness, we’re going to have to ask you questions at some point,” the detective who has stayed behind says to me.
“I’m sure it can wait,” Nicholas says protectively.
But I have questions of my own.
“Was Amelia the one who pulled the trigger?” My throat is dry, but I force the question out.
“The gunwoman was a member of the Welsh resistance league. We believe Princess Amelia smuggled the gun into the castle.”
I blink. “How did you discover that?”
“The prime minister regained enough consciousness in the ambulance to warn a paramedic that Amelia was involved in the conspiracy against you.”
The knowledge gnashes at me.
Oliver, who just wouldn’t stop trying to save me.
I stagger back, sinking onto a chair, my head in my hands as my brain tries to process it all.
Disbelief runs rampant through me.
Somehow, I’m living in a world where my sister will conspire to have me killed.
It’s a world where someone can shoot at me, and it’s also a world where the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom will literally take a bullet for me.
I feel someone sit in the chair next to me, and suddenly the weight of Nicholas’s shoulder is against mine again.
I raise my head, turning to him, words slipping out unfiltered.
“I thought you were the one who wanted me gone. I thought you were trying to get me to step down from the line of succession.”
His face twists. “Amelia was the one who urged me to ask you to make sure you were certain you wanted to be Prince of Wales.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think to question her motives.”
“I was so tempted to stand aside,” I say quietly.
“Because of Oliver Hartwell?”
“Yes.” I rub my forehead. “It turns out being in love with the prime minister isn’t all that compatible with being heir to the throne.”
“He risked his life to save you.”
“I know.”
I don’t think I will ever forget that fact.
It’s a knowledge that feels seeped in my bones. It will always be part of me.
“If he survives, what are you going to do?” Nicholas asks.
If he survives? I simply cannot contemplate the idea that he won’t.
Oliver’s dog tags are still in my hand. I trace my finger around the extra holes that were cut out by his great-grandfather.
“I don’t know,” I say.
We stay like that, sitting side by side, until a surgeon slips into the room.
“Your Royal Highnesses,” he says.
