Macalister wouldn’t be deterred, not even when his son stepped in the way, blocking the exit. It brought him to a jerking halt, and he spat it at Royce. “Move.”
It was clear there would be dire consequences if he didn’t obey, but Royce didn’t understand something was wrong with me. All he saw was his fiancée cradled in his adversary’s arms, and tonight he was Ares, the god of war. “Fuck you. Get your hands off her.”
“I’m taking her to the hospital, because she’s dying. Get out of my way.”
I was close enough now I could mostly make him out, and Macalister’s statement went through him like a bolt of Zeus’s lightning. It froze Royce in place, which meant he was still blocking the exit. “What?”
Macalister’s grip was iron, but still I worried I was going to fall as I took one hand off and reached out for my fiancé. “Royce,” I whispered.
The second my fingertips found the smooth skin over his cheekbone, it spurred him into action, and we were moving again. It was darker, and wind ruffled through my hair, signaling we were outside, but it was nearly impossible to keep my eyes open. I was sluggish, and everything took too much energy to do.
Thinking.
Breathing.
My heart to continue beating.
Down the steps we flew, my body jostling in Macalister’s arms. The sound of a car door opening rang out, followed by warm hands on my shoulders. Royce’s. Both men worked together to load me into the back seat of the town car until I was stretched across their laps.
For once, getting the two Hales to become a team was easy. All I had to do was die.
A door slammed shut, sealing us in the dark, cramped space.
“Port Cove hospital,” Royce yelled at the driver. “As fast as you fucking can.”
The force of the car peeling out drove me against the two pairs of legs I was lying on top of. At least the bulk of my body was resting on the center of the seat. Royce’s arms circled around my shoulders as my legs draped over his father’s.
“What happened?” It wasn’t clear who my fiancé’s question was directed at.
“She said she was poisoned. Call the hospital and explain we’re on our way.”
There was something cold resting on my ankle, and at that moment I realized what it was. Macalister’s hand. He hadn’t stopped touching me since he’d found me on the stairs, like he was afraid if the connection were severed, he’d lose me forever.
I was shifted gingerly in Royce’s embrace as he pulled out his phone, but then his father was speaking, making a call of his own.
“Nigel,” Macalister said, “have Sutton or one of his men meet you at the house. Alice is not to leave the premises. In fact, I’d prefer she stay in her room until I return. No one speaks with her until I have.”
There was no conversation. He’d issued his orders and expected his assistant to execute them without question, the phone call ending as abruptly as it had begun. The cold hand wrapped around my ankle felt like a manacle, but I was too weak to do anything about it.
Shock and disbelief weighed down Royce’s words. “Alice . . . did this?”
“Yes.”
Macalister could have said I’d accused her. That it hadn’t been proven yet, but his resolute tone left no room for doubt. He didn’t just take my word—he absolutely believed his wife was capable of murder. If I’d had any energy left, I would have shivered.
The car careened through a corner, and tires wailed against the asphalt.
Royce was still on the phone with the emergency room when I jerked with new panic. Turmoil bubbled in my stomach, and I struggled to escape his arms, only to have him drop the phone and clamp down his hold. My only option now was to turn my head away from him as my stomach erupted.
I made a horrible retching sound while the drugged tea and champagne from earlier tonight spilled from my mouth, narrowly avoiding his legs. Royce let out a sound of surprise, but he didn’t let go of me.
“Oh, Jesus, Marist,” he whispered. He stroked a hand over my hair, helping to hold it out of the way. “It’s going to be all right.”
I might have believed him if he wasn’t trembling when he said it, but I took comfort anyway. It was strangely satisfying to feel him coming unglued. He was a great actor, but this moment was too real, too unscripted to be pretend. Maybe he loved me or maybe he didn’t, but at least he cared about me.
That was undeniable.
The upside to throwing up was it temporarily cut through my nausea. I used the back of my hand to wipe my lips and swallowed the acidic taste from my mouth as best I could, then focused.
“She gave me tea,” I said. Was there still any left in the teapot in the kitchen? Maybe they could test it and figure out what she’d used to drug me. I tried to think back, but time bled together, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be lucid or conscious. I peered up at the prince I’d once hated and now loved, seeing flashes of his chaotic eyes as the highway lights streaked past. “Royce.” My throat was burned raw, but I pushed through. “Tell me you love me. Again.”
The cold hand on my ankle tensed, reminding me we weren’t alone, but I didn’t care. The night of the initiation, Macalister had told me during our waltz his son wasn’t capable of love.
Maybe it was true, but I wanted him to at least believe he’d been wrong.
And I wanted to prove him wrong.
I didn’t get to hear if he responded. Perhaps with a little more time I could have, but it slipped through my grasp. It poured faster than the red sand had through the hourglass in the flickering candlelight of the dining room months ago. When the sand ran out now, everything slowed to a stop, including my heart.
The hallucinations were the worst part. One moment I’d be convinced everything was real, and in the next, reality would evaporate. I couldn’t trust anything. For a while, I was sure the drugs flowing into my veins from the IV weren’t saving me, they were just prolonging the inevitable, and Royce had to stop me when I tried to unhook myself.
It had been hours since that dark moment, and the delusions were finally tapering off.
Once again, Macalister and Royce were in total agreement about my care, and as soon as I was stabilized, my transfer to Mass General was cleared. I wasn’t sure which of the Hale men the staff at Port Cove Hospital were happier to be rid of. Macalister’s tone was the sharp sting of ice, but Royce was fire and fury, and no answer the medical team gave either of the men was ever good enough.
The helicopter flight to Boston’s premiere hospital was terrifying. I was sure at any moment the rotating blades overhead were going to stop turning and we’d fall from the sky. At least it’d be fitting that the first time I rode on the Hale’s helicopter, I’d bring it down.
It seemed everything I touched in this new world came undone.
The seats had the HBHC logo embroidered in the leather, and I sat slumped in the back bench, my throbbing head resting on Royce’s shoulder. Across from us in the rear-facing captain chairs sat Macalister and his personal physician, who’d come along to monitor me during the short flight. However, he’d been on the phone since we boarded, on hold with the lab to hear the results of the toxicology report.
As his private helicopter cut through the night, Macalister’s gaze never wavered from me. I was the opposite. My focus flitted away. I was barely able to look at him or the emotions teeming in his eyes. It was unnerving.