Epilogue
Elliot
Eight months later
“You know I like you, Rothesby, but I think we’ve reached a point where I have to draw the line.” I take a deep breath, baffled by the words about to come out of my mouth. “No, I don’t need you to come into the stall with me.”
Rothesby gapes at me. “But sir—”
“No.” I hold up a hand. It was already weird that he followed me into the bathroom; joining me in the stall is too much.
Now I get why Freya was so annoyed with me my first week on the job, and I would go and apologize to her right now if I didn’t think she would lord that over me for the rest of our lives. I never followed her into the bathroom, but I didn’t give her any privacy beyond that.
Rothesby has made himself one of my favorites from the palace guards, but he’s really starting to get on my nerves today.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I say, folding my arms and giving the guy my most intimidating stare-down.
“I’ll let you check the stalls and make sure there’s no one in here with us.
” There isn’t. I’ve been watching the bathroom door all morning, keeping track of who has been in and out for the last two hours, and the place has been empty for the last fifteen minutes.
“Then you’re going to go out into the hall and keep guard outside until I’m done. Okay?”
He grimaces, hands curling into fists. “Sir, I really don’t think—”
“Come on, man. Work with me here.”
The thing is, I don’t even need to go. I just need a chance to breathe. A single moment to myself.
It’s depressing that the only place I could think to find some peace was in a bathroom.
Glancing at the door behind him, Rothesby seems to debate his options.
He could stand his ground, which he usually does and is one of the reasons I like him, or he could give me this one compromise.
He sighs, and then he stomps to the nearest stall and shoves the door open, hints of petulance in each of his actions.
Maybe I shouldn’t have picked a guy so much like me to be my bodyguard.
Once he’s checked all three stalls twice over and searched every corner of the facility for anything nefarious, Rothesby reluctantly heads out into the hall, warning me that he will come back in fifteen minutes if I’m not done by then.
He must have a lot of fiber in his diet if he thinks that’s enough time for some people.
Now that I’m finally alone, I can breathe a bit easier, but I don’t think anything is going to get rid of the knot in my chest that has been slowly but steadily growing for the last eight months.
It’s a constant reminder that I’m nowhere near good enough to be in the position that I’m in, and one of these days someone is going to figure that out and do something about it.
I can take care of myself—Rothesby would likely disagree—but I could never live with myself if someone else was put in danger because I made a mistake. I can’t go through another Griff situation.
After using the toilet—I guess I did have to go—I splash my face with cold water and study my reflection.
I look exhausted, but that’s understandable given how chaotic the last twenty-four hours have been.
I also look like I’ve aged a decade in the last half a year, and I can’t fathom how Derek manages to keep his glowy, youthful look when he’s under almost as much pressure as I am.
My perfect older brother is a pain in the neck sometimes, but I’m glad to have him in my life.
I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve forgotten about the time difference and called Derek in the middle of the night, desperate for him to talk me off the ledge when I’m convinced I’ve made a huge mistake by going down the path I have.
He always answers, and he always has some magical solution to anything I’m facing. I don’t know how he does it.
Especially because there’s something he’s not telling me.
I don’t know what it is, but it’s slowly eating at him to the point where I’ve been genuinely worried about him.
Eventually he’s going to crack if he doesn’t let someone else help him with it.
So far, he refuses to admit anything’s wrong, no matter how hard I push, which is pretty par for the course with him.
But I hate that I can’t get past his shields.
If I can’t even help my brother, how am I supposed to help an entire country?
My watch buzzes, and I tug my sleeve up to look at the message even though I won’t be able to respond because Rothesby has my phone. The curse of not having any pockets at the moment.
Bax:
So now that Reid is a motherfreaking king, does that mean we get diplomatic immunity in Candora?
I chuckle, bracing for the texts that will follow. Wherever my old ODA is right now, they must have either just woken up or not had internet access until now. I’ve been a king for a whole three hours now.
Wade:
Are you planning on needing immunity, Bax?
Schulz:
Will anyone be surprised if he does?
North:
Seriously, Reid, you have to tell me your secret! King of a whole country!
Doyle:
I’m still trying to figure out how he convinced a princess to even give him the time of day.
Roche:
Just because you can’t get a girl to talk to you doesn’t mean the rest of us ever had a problem.
Voss:
Are you forgetting that Reid never went out with us? Who knew he even had game?
Berg:
Yeah, I thought he was nothing but business and hogging the coffee.
Bax:
Still bitter that you didn’t come back to the team, Reid.
Wade:
But it makes sense.
North:
In what world does Elliot Reid running a country make sense? This is the guy who tried to befriend a wild goat and got headbutted into next week.
I silence my watch before any more messages come in, suddenly feeling better.
I’m still going to panic every time I remember the shiny crown sitting on my head—this thing is ostentatious to the max—but I have to remember that I’m human.
Like any king or queen that has come before me, I’m never going to be perfect.
Sounds like my old brothers-in-arms won’t be afraid to remind me of that.
There’s a soft knock on the door, and I groan. “Rothesby, there’s no way that was fifteen minutes.”
But when the door opens, the face on the other side makes all of my frustration and nerves disappear in the space of a breath. “Are you hiding?” Freya asks, slipping inside the bathroom and looking around as she approaches.
Her dress swishes around her, sparkling in the overbright lights.
The gown is monstrous and frankly ridiculous, but the shimmery gold of the fabric complements my navy-blue doublet and gold-adorned cape.
We look like we stepped out of a painting from the eighteenth century, and I vowed early this morning that I will never wear knee-high boots again after today.
But I also get to wear a sword at my hip with no one questioning me, so the outfit’s not a total wash.
The instant this coronation party is over, I’m dumping all of this nonsense—it’s overkill of the worst kind—but I’ll never forget the way Freya looked at me this morning when she first saw me in my royal clothes.
It was the kind of look that made me suggest skipping the coronation and staying in bed together instead.
Granted, I’ve suggested that alternative every morning since our wedding last week, so she’s come to expect it. We won’t get a proper honeymoon for another two weeks, but at least we were able to spend the last week on our own in Stonemere.
“Hiding?” I repeat, moving forward until my legs push into the vast expanse of her dress. I press a hand to her waist and pull her in close. “A royal never cowers.”
“Did Hex tell you that? Because I caught him hiding behind a statue this morning when he thought Astrid was with me, so he has no room to talk.”
Laughing, I press a kiss to her forehead and linger there, trying to soak up some of her strength. I’m grateful for a topic of conversation that doesn’t involve my newly crowned status. “He’s still avoiding her?”
She snickers. “Like a sailor dodging sirens.”
“I’m still convinced Astrid only agreed to be your temporary bodyguard because it gives her easy access to your brother.”
Agent Storme—Astrid—was heading up the investigation into anti-royalists until a month ago when Parliament voted to grant me special citizenship.
While I don’t love knowing she isn’t at the forefront of that task force anymore, given the amount of evidence she and her team have been digging up about a whole underground ring of potential threats, I’m glad someone competent is looking after my new wife.
Wife. I love that word.
Freya sighs, tucking herself into my chest and relaxing in my hold. “I only wish she would stay. I like her.”
I chuckle and take hold of her hand, lacing our fingers together against my chest. “But you also like half a dozen of the new guard recruits, and some of them show a lot of promise.”
“Yes, because they are women.”
Her matter-of-fact tone makes me laugh again, and I am so glad that she came to find me.
I wasn’t hiding from her, but she is almost always surrounded by nobility at these events, and now that I’m both her husband and king, I was surrounded too.
Freya’s a lot better at faking civility with guys like the Duke of Rensvik than I am.
I would have much rather been on the other side of the room, where Hex and Sander were chatting and laughing with members of the House of Commons. That group is way less pretentious and the reason I can stand here with my wife in the first place.
Freya’s first executive act after reaching the six-month threshold of sitting on the throne was allowing women to join the palace guard, much to the delight of many female Candorans (and many of the current guards).