Page 153 of The Unlikely Heir
“How is he?” I ask urgently. I want to stand, but I don’t trust my legs to hold me.
“The bullet embedded itself in the prime minister’s upper chest cavity, narrowly missing the lung itself. We have successfully removed it.”
“He’s going to be okay?”
“He lost a lot of blood, which will leave him weak and fatigued, and we’ll monitor him for anemia. But with rest and proper wound care to prevent infection, he should make a full recovery within a few weeks.”
Sobs rise inside me, deep and unfiltered, like they’re coming from someplace inside me that only Oliver has ever touched.
My tears of relief flow freely as my brother tries to comfort me in his stiff, upper-class way. I grasp Oliver’s dog tags so tightly that the metal digs into my palms.
My question about what to do about Oliver and me?
Surely the emotions pulsing through me right now provide an answer.
ChapterForty-Four
Oliver
Consciousness comes to me slowly, random thoughts floating through my mind that I cling to. The feel of soft lips on mine on a park bench in Essex. A vision of Callum lying in the sun on a Scottish river bank, sending one of his special smiles my way. The intensity of his gaze when I was inside him.
The light behind my eyelids grows brighter.
There’s discomfort in my shoulder, a low, throbbing pain.
And suddenly I’m aware of noises, a beeping of some machine, the sound of a door being shut in the distance, someone breathing close by.
I open my eyes, and it takes me a few moments to focus on the person by my bed.
Toby looks haggard, like his whole face has slumped since I last saw him. Dark circles underline his eyes.
I’m in hospital, the crisp white sheets starchy against my skin.
And now my memories are like an assault.
Callum, with his crown glinting in unexpected sunlight. A gun being raised, my frantic race to get to him, then immense pain unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
Then flickers afterward: Callum urging me to talk to him but finding myself slipping away, then wrestling myself awake in the ambulance, trying to cling to consciousness so I could tell someone, anyone, that it was Amelia because if they didn’t know, she could still get to Callum…
“Callum,” I manage to croak out.
“He’s just gone to get a coffee. He spent the night in that chair over there.” Toby nods at an upholstered chair in the corner.
Relief shoots through me, almost overwhelming in its intensity. Callum is alive. The pressure in my chest eases.
“Is he all right?”
“He’s doing as well as you can expect, given he’s been shot at, been frantically worried about the man he loves, and has discovered his sister betrayed him.”
I close my eyes.
Callum is alive. I desperately want to see him, touch him, reassure myself that no one has hurt him. My whole body craves him.
But what am I actually going to say?
Nothing has changed. I might have saved his life, but he’s still the Prince of Wales. And I’m still the prime minister.
“How did you get here?” I ask Toby.
