Page 132 of American Royals
Neither of them saw Himari rise drowsily from the couch and head toward the back stairs, the ones off the downstairs hallway. Even in her drugged-out state, she was determined to go up to Jefferson’s bedroom, to tell him the truth about Daphne. And probably for other reasons.
It wasn’t until she heard the unearthly sound of Himari’s screams that Daphne realized the other girl had made it halfway up the stairs—and tumbled right back down.
Daphne shifted on the hospital chair, her grip still closed over her friend’s hand. She wished more than anything that things had gone differently. That she’d listened when Ethan had tried to talk her out of this ridiculous plan, that she’d forced Himari to negotiate—hell, that she had done what Ethan wanted in the first place, and told Jefferson the truth herself.
Losing her virginity to Ethan was bad enough, but drugging Himari was far, far worse. It didn’t matter that Daphne had only meant for her to pass out and sleep it off. It was her fault that Himari had fallen and hit her head—her fault that her friend had been in a coma for the last eight months.
No one could ever find out the truth of that night. Especially not Jefferson.
“I’m sorry,” Daphne whispered again, and let out a sigh.
What was done was done, and now that it had happened, Daphne felt more permanently fixed on her path than ever before. She had lost too much—hurt her friend, traded away the last tattered scraps of her conscience—to give up now. She needed to see this through. Too many sacrifices had been made along the way for her to go anywhere but ruthlessly forward.
Daphne glanced up sharply. There was a slight pressure on her hand.
A shiver trailed down her spine. Her eyes cut sharply to Himari’s face, but it was as blank and drawn as ever. Still, her fingers tightened around Daphne’s in a barely perceptible squeeze. Almost as if she wanted to reassure her friend that she was still in there.
Or to let her know that she’d been listening to every word that Daphne said.
BEATRICE
It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.
The words echoed over and over in Beatrice’s head, an awful, hideous mantra, and there was nothing she could do to dispel them, because she knew that they were true.
She had told her father that she didn’t want to be queen, that she wanted to renounce her rights and titles so that she could marry her Guard, and the shock of it had given him a heart attack. Literally.
Our Father, who art in heaven … All the prayers that Beatrice had memorized as a child came rushing back, their words filling her throat. She kept reciting them, because it gave her something to occupy her brain, a weapon to wield against her overwhelming guilt. Love believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.
But what kind of love was that verse talking about? The kind of love she felt for Connor, or for her father, or the protective love she felt for her sister? What about the love Beatrice felt toward her country?
If her father died—
She couldn’t bear to finish that sentence. She wanted to scream, to beat her fists against the walls and howl her anguish, but there was a blade of strength within her that refused to let her break down.
Connor was here, in uniform. He stood unobtrusively to one side of the waiting room, trying to catch Beatrice’s eye, which she steadfastly refused to do. She couldn’t bring herself to send him away—but she didn’t dare talk to him alone, either.
“Your Royal Highness, Your Majesty.” One of the doctors hovered in the doorway, addressing Beatrice and her mom. “Could I have a moment with you both?”
Beatrice felt her heartbeat skip and skid all over the place. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and followed her mom into the hallway.
The doctor shut the door behind them. “The king’s condition is not very promising.”
“What do you mean?” The queen’s voice was as level and calm as always, though her hands visibly trembled.
“As you know, the king’s cancer is spreading from his lungs. What he suffered last night was a coronary thrombosis, meaning that one of the blockages caused by his cancer made its way into an artery, cutting off blood flow to his heart. That caused the heart attack.”
Thrombosis. Even the word itself seemed evil, those sibilant Ss coiled together like a nest of snakes, about to sink their fangs into you.
Beatrice’s mom leaned against the wall to steady herself. She hadn’t even been aware that her husband had cancer until they reached the hospital last night and the king’s chief surgeon informed her. “Shouldn’t he have recovered from the heart attack by now?”
“It did some damage,” the doctor said delicately. “The greater problem is that the cancer is still there. And now we’re having trouble stabilizing His Majesty’s breathing.”
Tears shone in the queen’s eyes. Her earrings from the party last night were still twisted in her ears: a pair of enormous canary diamonds, so big they almost looked like miniature lemons. “Thank you,” she managed, and returned to the waiting room. But Beatrice didn’t follow.
She glanced up at the doctor, swallowing her fear. Even though she already suspected the answer, she had to ask. “Could the coronary thrombosis have been caused by a shock?”
The doctor blinked, politely puzzled. “A shock? What do you mean?”
