and her breathing increased in speed and force; soon the heated air fanned his hand across the distance. The two fingers, thumb, and partial palm felt the flutter like the barest breeze.
“Get used to seeing me around here. I’ll try to keep the cameras away, for Ben’s sake.”
Her open-mouthed breathing turned to choking, and he realized she was going to be sick a half-second before she turned and flung herself over her office trash bin and retched. Her whole body convulsed with the force of each spasm.
His stomach lurched too.
Damn.
They’d both changed. The last vestiges of the man who’d married her, who’d loved her, felt sick too, wanted to look away.
But the realist he’d had to become couldn’t feel too badly. What had even made her sick? Hearing how he’d lost his fingers, or the idea the cameras that invariably ended up following him might catch sight of her?
As if it mattered. He should leave her there, let her get on with it, savor the little thrill of revenge that had run through him at her visceral reaction.
He wouldn’t pull her hair aside and soothe her back. He wouldn’t apologize for not softening the brutality of that situation for her, the way he’d softened it for his family.
She wasn’t his family anymore. She’d been the one to leave. And he’d never gotten to say anything to her about it, since his family had shipped him off to boot camp directly afterward.
What was a little vomiting in that context?
NEVER BEFORE IN his homeland had Quinn felt so tense while riding in the back of a car. Every prior leave, he’d been able to disconnect that hyper-alert state traveling in a Humvee usually triggered while on duty.
First Ben, then Anais—both wrecked him. But going home for real—not just another leave—was the cherry on top of a terrible day.
Despite his late arrival—and he hadn’t missed the fact that it had grown dark—Quinn had been requested to arrive by the main entrance. Usually he’d have gone around to a smaller, more private entrance.
It was showtime for the press.
But it looked relatively empty now, only a few cameras lingering to the side.
If he had to climb the grand entrance to go inside, he’d let himself out of the car. Quinn jumped from the back as soon as it stopped, thanking the driver over the seats, closed the door and jogged up, waving in passing at the few tenacious photographers who’d waited. No talking. No posing. He barely smiled.
Once inside, he bypassed servants, ignoring the familiar opulence he’d been raised in, and hurried across the foyer to the King’s wing. Within two minutes, he knocked and opened the door to the King’s study, but found Philip sitting behind the desk.
“You’re not the King,” Quinn murmured, making sure to gently close that door too.
His youthful habit had always been to bound through doors and expect them to close behind him—the same tactic he’d used with nearly everything: bound through, expect it to get sorted out in his wake. A tactic his family had spent years trying to talk him out of, and which his divorce and sudden soldier status had actually accomplished. Now he paid attention to doors. It was something small he could always control, and doors often presented a hazard or added protection. Doors now mattered.
Philip rose, checking his watch, but smiling anyway. “And you’re not here at noon.”
“No, I’m not.” He should try to be amiable, but at that precise moment all he could hear was Anais’s confession that Philip had changed her name. “Why didn’t you tell me Anais was back in the country?”
He tried to sound calm, but even a dead man would’ve heard the bitterness in his voice.
Philip had rounded the desk, hand out to shake Quinn’s, but he dropped it to his side with the question. “I was going to tell you when you got here. It seemed like an in-person kind of conversation to have. You’ve seen her already?”
“She’s working at Almsford Castle with amputees. I went there to visit my friend, Ben Nettle; I told you about him. And that’s...a story I really would rather not get into right now. But you know she’s not fooling anyone by dipping herself in brown dye.”
“She fooled me.” Philip shrugged, and then reached out to grab Quinn by the back of the neck and pull him into a hug.
“That’s because you’re an idiot.” It didn’t feel like a time for hugging to Quinn, but he went along with it. A little brotherly ribbing was as playful as he could get right now. Clapping one another on the back a few times, they both retreated and Quinn went to help himself to a Scotch.
“She’s changed more than that. I was surprised when she told me where she was going to work. I don’t think she realized that the new facility was at Almsford Castle,” Philip said, returning to his seat. “How was it to see her?”
Quinn eyeballed three fingers of booze since he had two fingers on that hand to measure with, and took it to the front of the desk to sit. “I don’t know. Unpleasant. I guess. I don’t want to talk about Anais.”
“You brought her up.”
“I did. Now I’m bringing up Grandfather. Is he here or did he go off on vacation for his rest?”
“He’s here.” Philip sat up straighter suddenly, his voice growing suspiciously softer.
The hairs on the back of Quinn’s neck rose. This apprehension was more than he’d felt when deciding he needed to start serving the family and the people again as a prince. Something was wrong. “Where is he?”
“Sleeping. He spends most of the time sleeping now.”
Those words had never fit their grandfather. Despite his advancing age, he was a vibrant man, always on the move. But the sober tones in which Philip delivered the news gave them weight, gave them truth. And gave him that feeling in the pit of his stomach for the third time that day.
The heat returned and he knew it for what it was: helpless anger.
“Was that something else you wanted to tell me in person?” He truly hadn’t come home to fight with anyone, but it seemed to be all he’d been doing since he’d stepped foot into Almsford Castle.
The grimace that crossed Philip’s face confirmed his suspicions.
“He didn’t want you worrying when you were away,” Philip admitted, his voice trailing off.
Quinn noticed for the first time the three-day growth of beard his always immaculately groomed brother now wore.
“He has good days and bad days, but is usually awake for a few hours in the late morning, early afternoon.”
When Quinn had been supposed to come earlier.
“What’s wrong with
