Page 83 of Fallen Crown

My heart kicks at how close we are to being the first to cross the finish line. For months, the emphasis was on finishing the race injury free, and I don’t think Tucker ever considered we’d be here, together.

Beside us, a gust of wind catches the Australian outrigger, and it lifts the vessel. They all cry out with surprise, and I can’t help glancing in their direction while the other three are focused ahead. The Australian boat wobbles but rights itself. The fluke wind has allowed us to inch ahead, and the muscles in my arms are burning from the strain of pushing my body to its absolute limits. When this race is over, I’ll be able to say I put my whole heart into it—in every way.

None of us are talking, and we’re all focused straight ahead. The shoreline comes into sight, and out of my peripheral vision, I can sense rather than see the Australian ship. They’re definitely behind us now but not by much.

“We’re paddling into shore,” Riker says. “Paddle hard up onto the sand, and then we need to grab our kit and run.”

As we near the shallower water, Riker instructs everyone to bear down and paddle. Adrenaline must be the only thing still making my muscles work. They’re wobbly from exertion, but I won’t be the weak link.

The outrigger shoots up onto the shore, and as it glides to a stop, everyone is scrambling for bags, grabbing whatever they can, and then we’re all running across the sand.

Behind us, the other boat makes contact with the shore, and the Australians are barking at each other. Feet pound on the path, and ahead, I can see the cameras, the host, and the finish line. We’re so close, I can taste it. Beside me, Tucker is wincing in pain, but I’m not sure if it’s from the run, the exertion on the outrigger, or her leg. I’d ask her, but I suspect she’d hit me if I talked to her right now when we’re so close to winning.

“Keep focused,” she says to me.

“I’m focused on the right thing.” Her. Always her.

Riker crosses the finish line, then Wren, and just before our feet cross, Tucker takes my hand, and we cross the red line on the path together.

“Holy shit,” I huff out with my hands on my knees. “We won?”

Tucker laughs from beside me. One of the cameras is likely zoomed in on both of us, but they could be a million miles away right now. Her leg has bled through the bandage, and there’s a trail of blood running down her leg.

“Medic,” I call, standing up to look around.

“Who’s hurt?” The show’s host appears at my side.

“Maren,” I say.

He points us toward the medical tent, and I draw her against my side while we walk there.

“Prince Brice,” the host calls to me. “Can we get an interview?”

“Once I know Maren is okay,” I call back.

“I’ll be fine,” she says, but I notice she hasn’t looked down to check her wound. She’s been focused on the path ahead of us the whole walk.

“The medic can be the judge of that,” I say as a tall, lithe woman emerges from the tent ahead.

“Got an injury?” she asks.

“Leg,” I say. “We patched it, but I wonder if she needs stiches or a visit to the hospital.”

“Let’s have a look.” The medic gestures for Maren to enter, and when I try to go in as well, the medic raises her eyebrows at Maren, and she shakes her head.

I take a deep breath and put my hands on my hips. Deep breathing my way through this is the only way I won’t lose my shit on television over Maren refusing to let me be with her when she’s injured. What’s it going to take to finally crack her shell wide open? I thought I was there, but clearly, I’m not.

While I’m standing outside the tent, Jag arrives with my phone in hand. “Your brothers have been trying to get in touch with you. Change of plans.”

Another flare of annoyance ignites, but I tamp it down as I scroll through my messages. Instead of returning to Bellerive, I’m to head to Denmark right away. The eighteen-hour delay on the course means I’ve lost my Bellerive window. At least Nick is meeting me there now. Something has shifted behind the public relations curtain if Alex and PR are sending both of us to this climate change fundraiser. Of course, only one of us is acting as Freja’s date. Not that it’s a real date, despite what the tabloids tend to print.

Still, the idea of getting into the complexities of what I’ve been doing for a year in Denmark when Tucker is already starting to pull away from me is not appealing. Now that the race is over, she has no reason to spend time with me other than because she chooses to.

“We’re headed to Denmark instead of home?” Jag asks. Gary is just behind him with the car.

I have no idea what proper race protocol is. Other teams might take hours to reach the finish line, so I’m assuming we go back to the hotel and wait for the rest of the teams to trickle in.

“Denmark,” I agree. “Nick is meeting me there with everything I need.”