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“You’ll do what I say, Eyvar.” I level him with a glare. “This woman will die.”
“Your Highness, your safety—”
“This woman isn’t going to magically wake up and try to stab me, Eyvar. She’s ice-cold and hypothermic. Go.”
Eyvar glances at the woman and finally lets out a long sigh. He turns his back to me and slips out the door without another word.
Turning my attention to the woman, I lay the back of my hand against her chest.
Frigid.
Sighing, I drag her closer to the fire and heap another blanket on top of her. I take a seat in an armchair, letting out a long breath.
For a few moments, I tent my hands under my chin and stare at the flames. Orange and yellow, they dance as logs crackle. The smell of wood smoke fills the lodge.
It would be pleasant if my mouth didn’t taste so bitter. I don’t want to be here. I shouldn’t need to be here. I should be in the capital beside my three brothers and sister, where I belong. I should be standing tall, protecting them like any good brother would do. My sister, the Queen, is the eldest, but I’m the oldest man in the family. I’ve always been there to look out for them.
But I’m weak. Every year, October eighteenth rolls around, and the kingdom mourns. This year, I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stay at the balcony of the Stirling Castle and watch the thousands of candles flickering at Abby’s yearly vigil outside. I couldn’t stand the songs and dedications. The video compilations set to sad, mournful music.
The inevitable resurgence of those videos and photos of her last moments in my arms.
The memories of everything the media didn’t know—that none of us knew at the time. Abby’s autopsy doubled my grief all over again.
I was supposed to read through my public statement for the press and send back comments, but when I glance at the mystery woman’s immobile body, the last thing I want to do is official royal business. Moving to her bag, I unzip the front pocket to see if she has any identification. I open it up wider, and a lacy black thong tumbles to the floor. Picking it up with the edge of my finger, I arch an eyebrow.
Who did she think she was going to wear that for? Did she know I was coming to the Summer Palace? Is she here to try to seduce me?
I scoff.
You can try, baby girl.
In the soft light of the fire, her hair looks like glowing copper. A smattering of freckles covers her cheeks and forehead, barely visible on her pale skin. Her lips are a dull pink color, tinged with blue, and firelight dances over her skin.
I rummage through her things until I find a wallet. Bingo.
Rowan Reed.
I frown. Reed? That’s the name of the palace manager who just had an accident. Earlier today, she fell on the ice and broke a hip. Had to be airlifted out of here before the storm came in.
Taking another step closer to the hypothermic woman, I lean over her face. Could she be related? Is she here to take Mrs. Reed’s place? I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, heart clenching at the softness of her skin.
Do I see a hint of the old woman in the shape of the nose? Or am I making connections that don’t exist? Whoever she is, she’s gorgeous.
And almost dead. I touch her forehead with the back of my hand, happy to find her skin isn’t quite so cold. But when I reach down further, I feel the snow melting on the neckline of her dress. Her clothes are wet with sweat and moisture, and just as cold as her skin.
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath, flipping the blanket back. Her dress is soaked through and clinging to her body. Still fucking freezing.
The radio crackles by the door.
“Your Highness? Come in, Your Highness.”
I walk to the desk, seeing one new yellow bar on the device’s battery indicator. I grab the handheld radio and press the button on the side.
“Yeah?”
“You need assistance at the security lodge, sir?” I recognize Doctor Williams’ pinched, nasally voice.
“Hypothermic woman,” I respond. “Found her outside the gates. Her clothes feel wet to the touch and she’s not warming up.”
