Page 72 of How to Date a Prince

Oh fuck.

Fuck.

I fly headfirst through the air—all blue sky, the blur of the turf course, and the ceaseless pounding of the horses—and Thomas curled in a ball below us.

It’s the last coherent thing I remember.

—an explosion of agony, like I’ve been thrown into an acid inferno?—

— hooves pound over the turf?—

—I see horse legs and grass?—

—relentless shouting continues from the riders and crowd?—

And then, there’s nothing but pain and darkness.

ChapterTwenty-Five

Everything that follows comes in small bursts.

The sight of Thomas’ mud-covered, bloody face as he stares down at me. His lips move.

The sound of sirens.

The too-bright lights at the hospital.

The relentless beep of machines.

And I drift.

* * *

“…trying to get in touch with his family, but the palace isn’t responding… we’re talking to the Prince’s security… doctors are discussing surgery…”

“…we’ve been trying his emergency contacts…”

I try to lick my lips. They’re so dry.

“He’s coming around.”

Someone leans over me, wearing a mask.

“Prince Augustus?”

“Japan,” I say clearly.

Then I promptly pass out.

* * *

The thing with being unconscious is that you have no idea how long you’ve been out or what you’ve missed. So when I come around again, I’m aware enough that I’m semi-reclined in a bed and machines are still beeping.

My head and neck and arm are in thundering pain. Hell, everything hurts.

I cough slightly.

The curtain stirs, and then I see Thomas’ bruised face peeking around. He’s in a blue hospital gown, pulling an IV. He’s blurry.

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