Page 9 of Crown of Thorns
“I don’t think I like you calling me that in such an ugly tone.”
“You’re not going to like a lot about what I’m going to say, and I don’t bloody care,” he replies. “You’regoing to wear my mother’s bloody ring. You’re going to walk your fantastic ass out of this hospital on my arm. You’re going to fucking smile at our people who are devastated that you’ve been gravely injured, and then you’re going to climb in the car with me and go home. And then you’re going to do what you’re told for the foreseeable fucking future. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” I whisper, because I don’t know who this man is and I’m not sure I ever did. He’s scaring me and I know there’s nothing I can do, at least right now. I survived the crash, that has to be for something, right? Now I just need to see this through, but I’ll do it being wary of the man in front of me and careful not to look like I’m going to get in his way.
“Good.”
“I don’t think I like you,” I whisper carefully.
“I don’t fucking care,” he says, and that just speaks volumes about everything that makes up this situation. I’m the loser and he doesn’t care. Yay for me.
His security officers, people I don’t recognize, are flanking the doors.
My cheeks burn when I wonder if they heard him yell at me like a puppy who peed on the floor. I’m mortified. I look away as he leads me down the hall. Do they blame me for Harris’s death? Do I blame me? A man is dead because I couldn’t suck it up and learn to live a life of luxury even if it was without love and family.
Was I being selfish?
I just don’t know anything anymore.
Heavy doors push open, and Rhys leads me outside. I let out a shocked gasp as I see what has to be thousands of people standing in the roadways and grounds outside the building. They’re holding handmade signs, cards, flowers, and even balloons.
A little girl pushes forward with a bunch of flowers. She bobs a curtsey and her little hand thrusts the blooms forward.
“For you, ma’am,” she says.
I crouch down to see her at her level. “Why, thank you,” I say with a gentle smile. “They’re lovely.”
“I picked them out myself,” she says. She’s so precious. Was I ever this brave as a child? Probably not. Even when my parents were alive, I often hid behind my mom’s legs.
“You did? How special. I love them,” I tell her honestly.
“I love yellow,” she tells me in that cheeky way that children share something. “Pink is silly. Yellow is much better.”
“I agree,” I tell her.
“See?” she asks. “I knew you were special.”
“Really?” I ask. I’ve never been special.
“Yes.” Children and drunks never lie.
I feel honored that this little girl thinks I’m worthy of her admiration. If only she knew what a coward I am. I’ll have to pretend to be special, if only for her. I’d hate to let her down.
“I think you’re pretty special,” I tell her, my voice full of honestly.
“You do?” she asks with wide eyes.
“I do.”
“But you’re going to be queen.”
“That’s a big deal,” I tell her. “But I’d wager a guess that whatever you do with your life will be equally as special. What do you think you’d like to do when you grow up?”
“Well…” she thinks. “Now that the king is taken, I can’t be queen.”
“That’s true.” I smile.
“I’d like to work with animals like my mum,” she says.
