Chapter 12 Polite Interrogation #2
“I don't know. Probably not.” I picked up the box again, ran my fingers over the smooth wood. “Pride is a powerful thing. So is the belief that you're the only one who can fix what's broken.”
Akintola nodded. “Thank you for your time, Your Highness. And for your honesty.”
“I'm not sure I've been particularly honest.”
“More than you think.” He opened the door, paused.
“The vigilante, whoever he is. He's going to get himself killed.
Or kill the wrong person. Or cross a line he can't uncross.
When that happens, I'll be there. I just hope he realizes before then that heroism and self-destruction aren't the same thing.”
He left. Door closing with a soft click.
I found Viktor in the security office, standing with his back to three monitors that cycled through palace feeds. His shoulders were locked tight, jaw working as he reviewed something on his tablet. He looked tired. More tired than usual.
“Viktor.”
He turned. Those steel-gray eyes found mine, and for half a second, something unguarded flickered there before the professional mask slammed back into place.
“Your Highness.”
I hated that title from his mouth. Made the space between us feel like miles instead of feet.
“I need you to accompany me somewhere,” I said. Kept my voice level. Reasonable. Not a command. Not quite a request either.
His eyebrow lifted. “Where?”
“St. George's Hospital. Children's ward.” I watched his expression, looking for... what? Judgment? Refusal? “The toys are finished. All of them. I need to deliver them tonight.”
Silence stretched between us. He studied me with that careful intensity that made my pulse kick. Like he was reading subtext I hadn't meant to write.
“You want me to escort you,” he said slowly. “Not sneak out. Not disappear. Actually coordinate security.”
“Don't sound so shocked. I'm capable of reasonable decisions occasionally.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Occasionally.”
“Don't let it go to your head.” I finally looked at him. “Will you come with me?”
Something shifted in his eyes. Softened. Just for a moment. “Of course.”
The children's ward smelled like antiseptic and artificial cherry. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. Nurses moved between rooms with practiced efficiency, checking monitors, adjusting IVs, offering tired smiles to families camping in uncomfortable chairs.
I hated it here. Hated the sounds of machines keeping small bodies alive. Hated the way hope and despair lived in the same hallway. Hated that kids like Emma and Marcus and Aiden had to fight battles most adults would crumble under.
But I came anyway. Because they deserved better than my discomfort.
Nurse Rachel spotted us first. Mid-thirties, Jamaican heritage, kind eyes that had seen too much suffering. She'd been working this ward for a decade, knew every patient by name, every parent's coffee order, every small victory worth celebrating.
She also knew me.
“Your Highness.” She kept her voice low. No fanfare. No fuss. Just the way I'd asked. “I wasn't expecting you tonight.”
“Finished ahead of schedule.” I lifted the bags. “Where should I start?”
“Emma's been asking about you. Keeps telling everyone she's getting a treasure chest fit for a princess.” Rachel's smile went soft. “She's been rough this week. Infection after her last treatment. But she's awake now if you want to go in.”
My throat went tight. “Yeah. Okay.”
Viktor stayed close as we moved down the corridor. Not hovering. Just... present. His bulk somehow reassuring in this place that felt fragile and temporary.
Emma's room was at the end. Small. Private. Walls covered in drawings she'd made, taped up by nurses who understood that beauty mattered when the world was mostly pain.
She was tiny in the hospital bed. Eight years old but looking younger without hair, without the vitality that should've been her birthright. Dark eyes too big for her face. Brown skin gone ashy from treatment. An IV snaking into her thin arm.
But when she saw me, she lit up. Actual light, like someone had switched on a lamp behind her eyes.
“Prince Sebastian!”
“Hey, Em.” I moved to her bedside, set the bag down carefully. “Heard you've been having a rough go of it.”
“The medicine makes me throw up.” Matter-of-fact. Like nausea was just another part of her day. “But I don't care because I get ice cream after and Nurse Rachel says I'm the bravest girl she knows.”
“Nurse Rachel is correct.” I crouched down so we were eye level. “I brought you something. Something I've been working on for a while now.”
Her eyes went wide. “Is it...?”
“See for yourself.”
I pulled out the chest. Cedar wood, smooth under my hands. The carved animals danced around the sides, each one detailed enough to feel alive. The rabbit on the lid sat proud, ears up, ready to bolt or stay. Lucky, like her mother said.
Emma's breath caught. Her small hands reached out, hovering over the wood like she was afraid touching it would make it disappear.
“It's yours,” I said gently. “Go ahead.”
She traced the rabbit with one finger. Slow. Reverent. Then she opened the lid and the music box mechanism inside played a soft, tinkling melody. Something my mother used to hum. Something I'd spent hours getting right.
“It's beautiful,” Emma whispered. Tears streaked down her face. Not sad tears. The other kind. “It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”
“You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” I reached out, touched her cheek softly. “You're fighting so hard, Em. Every day you wake up and choose to keep going, even when it hurts. That's beautiful. That's brave. That's everything.”
She threw her arms around my neck. Small and fragile and fierce all at once. I held her carefully, like she was made of glass, feeling her silent sobs shake against my chest.
When she pulled back, she was smiling through the tears. “Can I keep treasures in it?”
“That's what it's for. Special things. Important things. Things that remind you why you're fighting.”
“I'm going to put my rabbit collection in it. And the card my dad sent from America. And the bracelet Nurse Rachel made me.” She looked up at me. “And I'll remember you made it for me. When I'm scared at night and the medicine hurts. I'll look at it and remember.”
I had to look away. Had to blink hard against the burning in my eyes.
Viktor stood by the door, and when I glanced at him, his expression was wrecked. Raw. Like seeing this had cracked something inside him he'd kept carefully sealed.
“I'll come visit again soon,” I told Emma. “Bring you some new drawings to hang up. Maybe some of those terrible jokes you like.”
“The ones about chickens?”
“Those are the ones.”
She giggled. Actual joy. In this terrible place, surrounded by machines and medicine, she still had space for laughter.
We left her examining her treasure chest, running her fingers over every carved detail like she was memorizing it through touch.
Marcus was next. Five years old. Cerebral palsy that affected his legs but left his mind sharp and quick. He was in the play room, strapped into a specialized chair that kept him upright, watching other kids run around with an expression that broke my heart.
“Marcus, my man.” I dropped into a crouch beside him. “How's it going?”
“Okay.” He had this way of talking, slow and careful, like every word cost effort. But his eyes were bright. Curious. “Did you bring me something?”
“What makes you think I brought you something?”
“Because you always bring me something.” He grinned. Gap-toothed and perfect.
I pulled out the rocking horse. Painted in blues and greens, mane carved to look like it was mid-gallop.
The rockers were wide and stable, designed for a chair to lock into.
Marcus could sit in his chair, lock into the horse's frame, and rock.
Move. Have agency over his body in a way his condition usually denied him.
His mouth dropped open. “Is that...?”
“For you. Want to try it?”
Viktor helped me set it up while Nurse Rachel unlocked Marcus's chair. We transferred him carefully, Marcus's thin legs dangling, his torso supported by the specialized seat. Then we locked the chair into the horse's frame and stepped back.
“Try rocking forward,” I said.
Marcus leaned. The horse moved. Back and forth. Back and forth. Momentum building with each shift of his weight.
And he laughed. Pure, unfiltered joy. The kind of laugh that makes you believe good things still exist in a broken world.
“I'm riding a horse!” He rocked harder, faster, grinning so wide I thought his face might split. “Look, I'm riding a horse!”
Other kids stopped what they were doing. Came over to watch. Clapped and cheered as Marcus rode his horse in place, moving and free and happy.
I looked at Viktor. Found him staring at Marcus with an expression I couldn't read. Pain and wonder mixed together. Like watching this hurt and healed him simultaneously.
“Good?” I asked Marcus after a few minutes.
“The best.” He was breathless. Flushed. Alive. “Can I keep it forever?”
“Forever's a long time. But yeah. It's yours.”
We stayed while Marcus rocked, showing the other kids his horse, letting them take turns trying it out. Nurse Rachel stood beside me, arms crossed, smiling.
“You're going to spoil these kids,” she said softly.
“They deserve to be spoiled.”
“That bodyguard of yours looks like he's about to cry.”
I glanced at Viktor. She was right. His jaw was locked tight, eyes bright, hands flexed at his sides like he didn't know what to do with the emotion coursing through him.
“He's not used to this kind of thing.”
“Good thing you're teaching him then.”
We made six more deliveries. Aiden got his puzzle box and immediately started trying to solve it, fingers flying over the carved surfaces.
Sophie got a mobile of wooden birds that caught the light and cast dancing shadows.
James got a train set that could be operated from his bed.
On and on, each child receiving something made specifically for them.
Each face lighting up. Each small moment of joy pushing back against the weight of illness and fear.
By the time we finished, it was past midnight. The ward had quieted. Kids were sleeping, parents dozing in chairs, machines beeping their steady rhythms.
Viktor and I walked back to the SUV in silence. Rain had started again, cold and relentless. I climbed into the passenger seat, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical effort.
Viktor sat behind the wheel but didn't start the engine. Just stared out the windshield at the rain-streaked glass.
“You okay?” I asked finally.
“I do not know.” His voice was rough. Thick. “I have seen many things in my work. Violence. Death. The worst humans can do to each other.” He turned to look at me. “But I have never seen this. Never seen someone give so much for no reason except it is right thing to do.”
“It's not that noble. I'm just making toys.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You are giving them hope. Dignity. Proof that someone sees them as worth the effort.” His hand reached across the console, stopped just short of touching mine. “You are giving them what they need most. And you ask nothing in return.”
My throat was too tight to speak.
“Emma will keep that chest for rest of her life,” Viktor continued.
“Whether she beats cancer or not, she will remember that someone cared enough to make her something beautiful. Marcus will rock on that horse and feel free even when his body limits him. Aiden will solve puzzles and know that being different does not make him less.” He swallowed hard.
“You did that. Not because cameras were watching or because it looks good for palace. Because you believe they matter.”
“They do matter.”
“I know.”
“We should go,” I said instead. “Before someone notices we're gone.”
Viktor nodded. Started the engine. Pulled out into empty streets.