The Wrath of the King (2 page)

“Sander? Can you hear me?” Chey whispered. Nothing moved, nothing twitched. “I'm here, and I'm not leaving. All right? Not until you wake up. I promise.”

“Oh, Chey.” Wynn, arriving at her side, set a hand on Chey's shoulder.

“He'll be all right,” Chey said, pulling a chair closer to the side of the bed. The legs stuttered over the polished linoleum like morse code. Lowering to sit, still touching his hand, she choked back another sob and focused only on positive thoughts. He was strong, determined, with an iron will to live. He would pull through this.

“Visiting hours are until eight this evening--” Thomsen paused when Chey interrupted.

“I'm not leaving. Didn't you hear me? I'm not leaving his side. Do what you have to and get me cleared to stay. Have Hanna bring some clothes, please.” Chey didn't look away from Sander's face.

Silence greeted her request.

“Mister Thomsen?”

“Yes, your Highness. I'll see to it.” The sound of shoes on retreat announced Thomsen's exit.

“What can I do, Chey?” Wynn asked. Her voice barely rose above the
click-beep
of machinery.

“Pray. Just pray for him.” All the pep talks in the world wouldn't keep Chey from pleading for Sander's life. To keep him with her, to be there for their child. She couldn't imagine their baby growing up without a father—without
Sander.

Wynn pulled another chair next to Chey's and draped an arm behind Chey's back. After a quick look toward the doorway, Wynn said, “Who do you think did this? Who would have tried to end his life?”

“I don't know. Everything's been going so well the last few months.” Chey smeared tears off her cheeks with her fingers.

“Some enemy of the country? Someone that passed under their security's radar?” Wynn, wearing a troubled frown, glanced from Sander to Chey.

“Maybe. At this point, I'm not sure we can rule anything out. One thing is obvious though. They knew he was coming. They laid those traps because they knew the caravan was going on that road.” Chey couldn't concentrate on enemies, not now. Not this soon after finding him stricken. What mattered was Sander opening his eyes to tell her everything would be all right. She needed to see the gleam in his gaze, hear the rumble of his voice.

A nurse came in to adjust his IV bag. She curtsied to Chey and smiled in both sympathy and encouragement. “His vital signs have been holding steady since he came in. That's something.”

Chey inclined her head in agreement. It was better than hearing his heart had stopped or that there might be severe internal damage. “Yes. Is he in a coma?”

“The Doctor is coming in shortly to update you, your Highness.”

“All right, thank you.”

Less than five minutes later, a stern faced Doctor in a white lab coat and black slacks entered with a chart in his hands. Silvery gray hair offset an angular face and eyes with creases at their corners. The name embroidered neatly on the coat said,
Dr. Tahvo.

“Your Highness, I'm Doctor Tahvo.” He gave Chey a professional smile, not too personal and not
too
cordial.

“Doctor,” Chey said to acknowledge his greeting. “I'd like to know if he's in a coma.”

“Yes. He was unconscious when he came in and hasn't woken, yet. It's the blow to the head here,” the Doctor said, gesturing to the far side of Sander's skull. “But I can say that after examination of his MRIs, it appears he escaped a severe head injury.”

Chey had to lean half over Sander to get a look at the spot, taking care not to apply pressure to any other part of his body. His hair covered whatever injury he'd suffered, though several strands were mottled with dried blood.

“He'll wake up though, won't he?” Chey asked, easing back into her chair. She realized the Doctor probably couldn't give her an exact answer, but Chey needed something. Some kind of reassurance or even a tentative, optimistic thought.

“It's impossible to say for sure. I feel confident, however, that he has a very good chance to regain consciousness soon. The faster he comes around, the better. We'll know more in the morning.”

After checking his vitals, the nurse recorded the stats and departed the room.

“What of his other wounds?” Chey asked.

“Mostly superficial. He had a few lacerations that needed stitching, but considering the condition of the other men from his caravan, the King is in incredible shape. No broken bones, no ruptured organs. He was very lucky.”

“I'm pleased to hear it. Can you tell the nurses that I'll be taking care of his daily needs? Baths and the like?” Chey said. She didn't want anyone touching Sander unless they absolutely had to until she knew more about what happened. Even then, Chey wanted to be the one caring for him.

Doctor Tahvo cocked a brow. “Are you sure that's a good idea, your Highness? It will require you to roll his Majesty onto his side--”

“I can handle it, Doctor,” Chey assured him. She might be far along in her pregnancy, but she knew what she could and couldn't do.

“Very well. If you need anything at all from our staff, you have only to ask. I'll return in the morning unless there is a change overnight.” He inclined his head to Chey and Wynn and departed the room.

“I think that was pretty encouraging. It sounds like he thinks Sander has a good chance to fully recover,” Wynn said.

“I hope so.” She wouldn't feel any relief until he was walking and talking and doing all the things Sander used to do. Pressing a kiss to the back of Sander's hand, she whispered, “Please wake up. Please. We need you.”

Machines
click-beeped.
Sander's chest rose and fell with even, steady breaths. Time ticked off a clock on the wall, ushering in the darkness of night.

Chey waited. Watching. Hoping. Praying.

He had to wake up. Had to.

She didn't want to live without him.

. . .

“Councilman Andersen, you may deny your involvement about the money all you like, but I've got solid proof.” Paavo eyed the councilman with a shrewd gaze. Their conversation had come full circle once again, with Andersen insisting he hadn't been laundering money from the royal coffers.

“What do you mean,
proof
?” Andersen asked. Tall, built lean, the one-time soldier straightened his shoulders defensively. The fine Italian suit of black hung limp from his body, highlighting recent weight loss that hollowed his cheeks and made him more bird-like than not. A pair of pale green eyes stared at the Prince with obvious wariness.

“Remember that I tried to do this the nice way,” Paavo said. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a manilla envelope. Tossing it down within Andersen's reach, Paavo waited. Expectant. He knew solid proof would tip Andersen's hand.

Andersen glanced at the envelope. He licked lips as if struck by a sudden bout of nerves. Checking the contents—three grainy, black and white snapshots—Andersen hissed and shoved the photos back inside. He slapped the envelope down as if merely touching it burned his fingers. Swiveling away from the polished desk, the man paced Paavo's office.

Sitting back in his chair, Paavo propped his elbows on the arms and steepled his fingers. Andersen was the last councilman he needed to tip the balance of the majority in his favor. The rest had fallen in the same way as Andersen, succumbing to the pressure of blackmail after their filthy secrets had been exposed in private. One or two had accepted outright bribery, making his job easier.

“Now, you can keep on denying me, but if you choose to go that route, I'll make sure you're stripped of your position and jailed for the rest of your life. It's a high crime to steal from the monarchy, you know,” Paavo said.

“I know!” Andersen snapped. He cleared his throat after the outburst and ran a hand through his short, silver hair.

“You can't pretend to have morals after this,” Paavo added. “I don't see what the big deal is. All I'm asking you to do is throw your vote my way. When it's time, you back my proposition. I'll make sure you're compensated
much
better than what you were skimming off the coffers.”

“I know what you want, your Highness,” Andersen said. He stopped near a window, looking out at the dark landscape of Paavo's holding. Then, he turned just his head to bring Paavo back into view. “Compensation?”

“Yes, compensation. Give me your promise to stand behind me and I'll see that you not only don't go to jail, but you'll find five times your yearly pay deposited into your bank account.”

Andersen frowned. He stepped away from the window. “We all know your stipends have been cut. How are you affording this?”

Paavo rasped a laugh. “Leave the semantics to me, Andersen. Are you in, or are you out?”

“How many other men have you manipulated on the council?” Andersen asked.

“Don't worry, there are half going down the same road as you. Enough to get done what needs doing. You won't be alone when you vote.” Paavo regarded Andersen, knew the second the councilman's mind changed. Acceptance and resignation glittered in Andersen's gaze. Anger, too, at just how thoroughly he'd been used.

“All right.” Andersen threw his hands in the air. “All right. I want my entire family left completely out of this, no matter what happens.”

“As long as you stay your course.” Paavo pushed a different envelope across the desk, indicating Andersen should pick it up.

Inside, Andersen found an initial payment large enough to raise his eyebrows.

“Take that back with you to the family seat and wait. You'll know when to act.” Paavo reached into his jacket pocket and fished his phone out when it vibrated. Reading the text message, he stood from the chair and sent a text back. To Andersen, he said, “It may be sooner than we think.”

A knock at the door some minutes later preceded the entrance of General Ingvar. Paavo remained standing, as he was wont to do in this man's presence. A master of strategy, Ingvar was also a warrior's warrior, built thick but lean where it counted, which made him lethal and quick. Several inches taller than Paavo, Ingvar had a wicked scar on his chin, whiter than the rest of his skin. His eyes were so pale blue they were almost white, making him appear eerie and angry all the time.

Ingvar looked Andersen up and down once, briefly, then inclined his head. He put his attention on Paavo and stopped near the desk to bow his head. “Your Highness, I come bearing news.”

Sliding the phone into his pocket, followed by his hands, Paavo eyed Ingvar. “Yes?”

“There has been an attack on His Majesty's caravan. The King lives,” Ingvar paused, then said, “but is currently in a coma. It is unclear whether he will survive.”

Paavo heard Andersen suck in a surprised breath. “Aren't you glad you decided to side with me?” he said to the councilman without taking his eyes off Ingvar. To the General, Paavo replied, “I will, of course, come up to the family seat immediately to support Mattias.”

The General's cheek twitched. “We have been unable to locate Prince Mattias for the last four hours. The council has recommended
you
step in to take temporary reign.”

“When did the council decide this?” Andersen blurted. “Obviously, not
every
person was in attendance.”

Paavo swung his gaze to Andersen at the same time Ingvar did. “Emergency intervention, Andersen. The protocol is that the council in attendance at the time puts it to a vote and the majority prevails, even when all members are not present. If Mattias cannot be found in a timely manner, someone else must take over.”

“I know what the protocol is,” Andersen said. “I wasn't even contacted,” he added, pulling his phone from his front pocket. No messages awaited.

“Likely, they knew you were all the way out here. Busy. You wouldn't have made it back in time anyway. You'll be there, however, for the
next
big item up for vote.” Paavo switched a look back to Ingvar. “The troops?”

“All in place. It was a stroke of luck, however, about Prince Mattias,” Ingvar added.

“Yes, it was. Prepare for an early morning departure. We can't leave the country leaderless in a time of crisis.” Paavo exited the room, prepared to use the rest of his time tonight preparing to move his agenda forward. There wasn't a second to waste.

Chapter Three

“Chey, Chey wake up.”

A familiar, masculine voice pulled Chey from a restless dream. Lifting her head, she suffered a few moments of confusion, blinking sleep from her eyes. “Yes?”

“It's Gunnar, Chey. You awake?”

Gunnar's face came into view. Machines beeped and a clinical, stringent scent hit her nose. The hospital. She was at the hospital. Sitting up straighter, rubbing a spot on her stomach where part of the metal railing had been digging into her skin, she checked on Sander—no change—before looking up at Gunnar again.

“I'm awake. When did you get in?” Chey touched Sander's hand, feeling for warmth, for a pulse. Both were present, one more vivid than the other.

“Very early this morning. I've been in and out, but I didn't want to disturb you while you were sleeping until I had to.” Gunnar walked around the other side of the bed and stared down at Sander. He touched his brother's arm, then trained his gaze on Chey.

Brushing loose strands of hair out of her face, Chey leaned back in the chair to give her spine a rest. She'd fallen asleep with her head on Sander's bed, leaving her body torqued in an awkward position for hours on end.

“I'm glad you're here. Have the doctors said anything more? Any news?” she asked. Her bladder demanded attention, but Chey waited for Gunnar's answer.

“Nothing. He's the same, they said, as he was last night. I was hoping he would come to this morning.” Gunnar stared down at Sander again. “Sander, you need to wake up. Do you hear me? It's imperative.”

“Gunnar, can you watch him a moment? I need the ladies room.” Chey couldn't wait another second. She didn't want to leave Sander without someone in the family remaining right at his bedside.

“Sure, go ahead. I've got something else to tell you.” He didn't glance up.

“I'll be right back.” Chey went into the bathroom and closed the door. Quick about her business, she washed and dried her hands, wondering what else was on Gunnar's mind. On her return to Sander's bedside, she spied Krislin out in the hall talking to Wynn and mouthed a
hello,
which Krislin returned.