Page 73 of Handle Me

I looked up to find Georgia, Clara’s personal bodyguard, slinking from the shadows like she belonged to them. She was in her usual black leather. It seemed not even the joyful arrival of a baby could get her to soften up.

“Anders and Alexander.” I didn’t need to say more. Georgia snorted and nodded.

“Those two...”

“Exactly.” I nodded toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Is she in the nursery?”

“Resting,” Georgia told me. “The nursery has been turned into a medical suite until William has recovered.”

I gulped, imagining the tiny human I’d seen through the glass at the hospital, still surrounded by wires and machines. “How is she holding up?”

“She’s tough.” Her eyes flashed and I found myself surprised because Georgia looked impressed.

“Should I wait?”

“She’s awake.” Georgia hesitated for a minute before adding, “She’s having a hard time sleeping.”

Of course she was. My sister had a toddler and a newborn recovering from heart surgery. She might have guards and nannies and doctors but she was still a mother. She had to be worried sick.

And I was about to give her something else to worry about.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ANDERS

My brother’s office was as devoid of personality as he was—a cold, masculine remnant of the establishment he now headed. The only personal touches were a few framed pictures of Clara and their kids. I picked up the photo of Clara from the polished desk. She was smiling in front of the London Eye, eyes shining, her arms full of red roses. It was the exact opposite of Alexander, spontaneous, joyful, alive.

“Put that down,” my brother said harshly, stalking into the room and looking as pleased to be here as I felt.

I replaced the photo and leaned against the desk, crossing my arms. “You summoned me?”

“We need to talk.” He didn’t bother to look me in the eye. I understood why. The only trait we remotely shared were our father’s eyes.

Did he hate looking into my eyes and seeing that as much as I did?

“About what?”

“A couple of things, it seems.” He took a chair by the unlit fireplace and gestured for me to take the one opposite.

My muscles tensed, and I stared at him, waiting for him to make more demands. It was always orders and commands with him. Not just when it came to me—he acted that way with everyone. And that was why we’d never see eye-to-eye.

He cleared his throat, still studiously avoiding my eyes. “I’m giving you a title.”

I’d considered what he wanted to talk to me about. I’d assumed it was some new rule I needed to follow, or concern about my relationship with Lola. This had never crossed my mind. Even now, it was the last thing that seemed possible.

He finally looked at me, impatience knitting his eyebrows as he waited for my response.

“Why?” I finally blurted out.

His calculating gaze looked past me again. “You’re my brother. It makes sense.”

“Bullshit.” I jumped to my feet. This made no sense, and we both knew it. “I’m a bastard. Your father never married my mother. He hid me away—”

“Lucky you.” His voice dripped with acid.

“Is this some new attempt to piss off Parliament, or the whole of England?” I demanded.

He ignored me. “You will also move into the line of succession, although pretty far down it.” It sounded like he was reading off a list of my fucking nightmares. “You can use the moniker His Royal Highness, Prince Anderson of...”