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Even now, after everything that’s happened, that version of Timothy still lives inside me. The one who chose me when it mattered most. I swallow hard, blinking back the burn in my eyes as the machines continue their quiet rhythm around us.

I stand. “That is not what he wants.”

“Doll Baby,” Damon’s tone is casual, but it’s obvious he’s shocked to hear me speak. It’s been days, and the words came out rough. “This isn’t something you should worry about.”

“That is not what he wants,” I repeat. “Because no one is taking his place. He’s going to get better, and then he’ll be stronger than ever.”

All three men watch me carefully, and I can’t blame them. Asserting myself isn’t one of my strong points, but this is important. It’s the most important thing I have ever said. I feel that in my bones.

“We are in this position because of me.” I swallow, getting used to the feel of words on my tongue again. “He is lying in that bed because of me. Because he protected me, and because of that, you two will go into that meeting and stand your ground. You will temporarily take the position of leadership so that when he is healed, the right people will be ready to hand it back over and he will rule again.”

“The Baroness is right,” Graves agrees. “Remington made his choice a long time ago, and the King accepts that. He would want you to step in until he’s ready.”

Even though they are reluctant, they ultimately nod, and a tiny string of tension unspools in my chest. My thumb brushes over his skin again, grounding, pleading. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be–for any of us.

3

Damon

I stay behind when Hunter peels off, heading back to the house to check on Ares, or maybe just to not be here. Can’t blame him for that. The walls feel like they’re closing in, too quiet in the worst kind of way.

“Text me if you need anything,” he mutters before he goes, already halfway turned, like if he doesn’t leave now he won’t at all. His eyes linger on Arianette, who has gone quiet again. “Keep an eye on her.”

“I will,” I tell him, then add, “Go. You’re making me twitchy.”

He huffs, and then he’s gone.

I get it, though. I really do. There’s only so long you can sit still, feeling useless, before it starts to get to you. There’s a knock on the door, the tight rap that signals staff is coming in. This time it’s a nurse, followed by two more, and a guy in scrubs already snapping on gloves.

“We’re ready to take Mr. Maddox down to prep for the surgery.”

“Do you know how long it will take?” I ask.

“A minimum of four hours,” the nurse says, “but more likely, six.”

Arianette hasn’t moved. She just stares at the King like she’s memorizing him. I’m about to touch her shoulder, make sure she’s heard the information, when she finally stands.

I watch her lean in, close enough that her mouth brushes his forehead. Her lips move, and I don’t hear what she says. It’s quiet–something just for him.

She straightens and looks at the nurse. “Don’t forget, he’s a King, if something happens to him, there will be consequences.”

They wheel him out a second later, machines and metal and authority moving with him, until the room feels cavernous. I push to my feet, rolling my shoulders like I can shake the tension loose. It doesn’t work.

“Yeah,” I say to no one, scrubbing a hand over my neck. “This is fine. Totally fine.”

Arianette doesn’t answer, curling back into herself in a way I haven’t seen since she first became Baroness. I give it another ten minutes before I crack from the pressure. Patience isn’t my thing.

“I need caffeine,” I declare suddenly. “What about you? Something sweet?”

She shakes her head no, barely. I exhale hard and finally head for the door. “Be back in a few minutes.”

The hospital corridor hits me like a slap—bright and loud. I shove my hands into my pockets and make my way to the elevators, riding it down with a couple of strangers. The coffee shop on the ground floor is a joke. Burnt beans and overworked baristas, but it’s something to do other than sit and wait, and that’s all I care about.

“Large. Black,” I tell the girl behind the counter.

She gives me a once-over, probably clocking the ink, the piercings, the general don’t-fuck-with-me vibe. “Rough day?”

“You could say that.” I let out a dry laugh and snag a few candy bars out of the basket next to the register. “Add those.”