The Wild Heir(9)

I know why. That whole sex tape elephant in the room. He’s not ignoring me either because from time to time he’ll look at me and give me a reassuring smile, though I’m not sure if he’s reassuring me or himself that everything is going to be okay.

He makes it through the first salad before he clears his throat and announces to us that he doesn’t want to risk passing out on top of Gette’s famous roast grouse. I wonder if I should arrange to speak with him privately because I know we have a lot to talk about, but as Mari helps him out of his seat, my mother comes over and lays a hand on my shoulder and whispers into my ear, “When we’re done with dinner, he’d like to speak with you.”

After that, dinner seems to drag on, no matter how engrossing Cristina’s tale about her trip to the Amazon rainforest the other month or how delicious the roasted grouse is.

When it’s finally over and I’ve pushed back a half-eaten slice of cake and slammed back the rest of my red wine, my mother gives me a nod and it’s time to go.

I follow her out of the dining room and into the opulent halls of the palace, heading to the elevator at the end that will take us to the north wing on the third floor.

My mother pauses outside the large doors to his room and I almost ask if they’ve always slept in separate bedrooms and if I’ve only just noticed now or if this started since he became ill.

I don’t ask and she doesn’t say a word to me, except with her eyes which always say the hardest words for her. Now she wants me to be here, be grave, be present.

I nod back at her and step inside.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’m relieved to see that things look as grand and formal as ever in this room with the high ceilings and long velvet curtains, dark wood floors, and a smattering of paintings.

My father isn’t in his double poster bed at all but instead is in a chaise lounge by the crackling fireplace, a heavy wool blanket drawn up to his chin. The only things out of place are the IV drip connected to one of his arms, the bag hanging from a wheeled stand beside him, and an unblinking female nurse who seems to appear from the shadows.

“There you are,” my father says to me with a big smile before nodding at the nurse. “This is Ingrid, my nurse. She’s on her way out. Just wanted to make sure I got my vitamins before bedtime.”

Ingrid hurries past me without making eye contact, then she’s gone out the door. I think I hear my mother’s voice talking to her out in the hall.

“Does that hurt?” I ask my father, sitting down in the chair across from him as I nod at the IV. I’d been in the hospital plenty of times as a child for carelessly caused broken bones and sprains but I don’t remember getting an IV.

He rolls his eyes. “Hurt? My boy. A needle to the arm feels as sweet as a kiss when it takes away the real pain.”

My throat feels dry, scratchy. I swallow but it doesn’t seem to do any good.

“Don’t look so worried,” he says to me, his eyes squinting briefly as he takes me in. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“I would have come to see you sooner. I had no idea you were…”

“I’m fine,” he says, then winces as he adjusts himself. “I promise. I’ve been better, of course, and things have taken a little turn for the worse this last week, but I’ll pull out of it. I’m in good shape otherwise, you know. The doctors say I should be grateful for all those years running and skiing. I have to say that’s all because of you, Magnus.”

“Me?” It was rare that I felt anyone was better off because of me.

“You were as much of a handful then as you are now. All those sports you were always active in, I had to keep up with you somehow. Honestly, the only downside to all of this is that I can’t drink anymore. God, I wish for a snifter of something but dying is a pretty big trade off. Cristina has me drinking this awful new stuff called Kombucha. Have you heard of it? She says it’s healthy for me.”

“I’ve heard of it,” I tell him softly. I’ve missed talking with him on this level. Not that we ever discuss business either, but sometimes it gets hard trying to separate my father from the king, or my mother from the queen.

He lets out a soft sigh, his eyes closing briefly. When he opens them, they’re sharper than they were before—he’s getting down to business.

“Magnus, I’m not going to bore you with the details of what has happened. I’m not going to tell you about the fallout behind closed doors that you have no idea about, I’m not going to try and make you feel bad or guilty about what you’ve done because it’s all a moot point. It doesn’t change anything to just talk about something that’s happened. There has to be a mental and physical change.”

“I know. Father, I am so sorry,” I tell him, hating how much I’ve disappointed him, hating that I hear it in his words and on his face even though he’s trying hard not to say as much. But I know. “What happened…it was stupid and I wasn’t thinking and—”

“It’s done,” he says emphatically with a heavy gaze that goes right into my soul. “It’s in the past.”

“But it’s affecting things right now.”

“It is, but you can’t change what was done. I forget sometimes that you’re my heir, you know? It’s my fault as much as yours. You wanted freedom so we gave you freedom. We wanted you to have the life you chose for yourself, not a life that was imposed upon you. My childhood was stifled because of my duties and we didn’t want that for you at all. But somewhere along the way you stopped being an heir entirely. It’s gone on for too long. You’re turning thirty soon, and you haven’t spent a single day at my side, learning what this role takes. Now, I’m afraid you either have to step up and learn and show you’re serious about this business or…you won’t be the king at all.”