Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Toby
I’m in a daze.
I get it. From the questions they’re asking, it appears they still have no idea who is behind the plot to kidnap us. With an election looming, they need to determine who is trying to interfere in our democracy. Fast.
But a strange emotion overtakes me as I talk through what happened in the Finnish wilderness. It feels weird to tell the story without Harry there.
I keep stumbling over my words, which is understandable, given I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. And it hasn’t exactly been the most relaxing of times.
As I emerge from the briefing, I’m still struggling to get my brain to engage in coherent thought.
I want to see Harry.
That is the only thought shining through the fog in my brain.
But Harry is with his wife. He’s got Prunella here.
And I don’t have anyone.
Just as I’m thinking that, an official approaches me, his eyes slightly wide.
“Mr. Webley, you have some visitors here to see you.” He motions for me to follow him into a room.
When I go through the doorway, I see the reason for his wide eyes.
The Prince of Wales and the Prince Consort are standing there.
“Your Royal Highnesses,” I manage to choke out.
“We were in Kenya when we got the news. We came as fast as we could,” Oliver says as he pulls me into a hug.
Oliver and I have never had a touchy-feely relationship, but I don’t hesitate to hug him back.
When we pull apart, I notice the bags under his eyes, the extra creases on his face I’m sure weren’t there before.
“You look terrible,” I say.
“Well, my best friend has been missing for over a month. It has not been the easiest of times.” He gives a creaky smile.
“We never gave up hope though,” Callum says.
“He means he spent all of his time researching survival-against-all-odds stories while I moped around in a pit of despair,” Oliver says.
“I’m glad one of you used your time productively,” I say.
“He did harass the prime minister and the foreign secretary quite extensively,” Callum says.
“I might have simply checked in with a few ex-colleagues now and again to see if there was any news on the investigation.”
Callum throws an exasperated look at his husband. “Three times a day, sometimes more.”
“I can imagine the foreign secretary and a few other members of the government were torn between their want to get me back and their desire to keep Harry Matheson stranded out in the wilderness,” I say.
“There was actually a lot of speculation that if you had been in a plane crash, even if both Harry and you survived the initial crash, only one of you would be left to rescue.” Oliver raises an eyebrow. “But you obviously managed to resist the urge to strangle him.”
“We learned to work together. We had to.”
It became a lot easier once we started having hot sex.
Oliver and I have never talked in detail about my love life, but for a strange second, I want to blurt that out now. I want to tell him every last word, look, and touch that happened between Harry and me.
I want to ask the question burning inside me right now. What do you think it all means? Because that’s what I’m struggling with. How should I process everything that happened between Harry and me? What should I do now about these oversized feelings I’ve never had to cope with?
It’s definitely not something I’m going to talk through with the psychologist I’m scheduled to see tomorrow.
But Harry was Oliver’s political foe for so long. Could I actually find the right words to explain what Harry ended up meaning to me out in the wilderness? Can I explain to Oliver who Harry is, the real Harry? Would I believe it myself if I hadn’t lived with him side by side for forty-two days?
Instead, I turn to Callum.
“So, what interesting survival stories did you learn?”
Callum’s face brightens. “Juliane Koepcke survived as a seventeen-year-old in the jungle for eleven days after the plane she was in disintegrated in midair, and she fell two miles while still strapped to her seat. And there was the Robertson family who survived in a small life-raft for thirty-eight days in the Pacific Ocean by eating raw fish and drinking turtle blood and rainwater.”
“Thankfully, turtle blood wasn’t on the menu for us,” I say.
Oliver regards me slightly incredulously. “What was on the menu for you? How on Earth did you survive out there?”
I shrug.
“We caught fish, and once we found a cabin, we made snares to trap squirrels, hares, and rabbits.”
“How did you survive the cold?”
“We had a ferro rod on the multitool that was in the survival kit to make fire. And we had survival blankets, and we used our body warmth to keep the temperature up.”
Oliver blinks. “Sorry, I’m just trying to cope with the vision of you and Harry huddling together to stay warm.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat.
“Yeah, well, it turns out you’ll do almost anything when necessity requires it,” I say, a brittle note in my voice.
Fortunately, Oliver doesn’t comment on that.
Instead, he clamps a hand on my shoulder.
“You look knackered. We’ll leave you so you can sleep.
The media interest is going to be intense over the next few days.
As you can imagine, the search for you has dominated the headlines for over a month.
And I’m sure there’s also going to be political maneuvering from both parties about who can manipulate this situation to their advantage. ”
“Something to look forward to,” I say.
“The tabloids have somehow got hold of pictures of you and Harry when you were being transferred to the RAF flight in Helsinki. There are now TikTok and Instagram profiles devoted to your beards,” Callum says.
I roll my eyes. “Of course there are.”
My head throbs when I imagine how the media will salivate over this story. All wanting the inside scoop on what happened in the wilderness.
Oliver engulfs me in another hug as he goes to leave. “I’m so glad to have you back safe and well.”
I appreciate the sentiment behind his hug, but it disorients me.
Because it is the wrong arms hugging me. And that throws me even more, that I would ever consider Oliver wrong and Harry Matheson right.
“Thank you for coming, Your Royal Highness,” I say when he pulls back.
“Get some sleep,” he instructs.
Once Oliver and Callum have left, I try to obey Oliver’s instructions as I head to the room in the medical wing I was assigned earlier because I’m aware I’m beyond exhausted.
But as I settle into the bed with crisp white sheets and try to sleep, I can’t drift off. Because something essential is missing.
Harry. I want to see Harry.
It’s like a hunger, only it feels more unbearable than any of the hunger pangs I endured in the last forty-two days.
My need is overwhelming.
I pull on my clothes before I can question myself too closely about what I’m doing. Once I’m outside my room, I ask an officer where Harry’s room is, then stumble down the corridor.
When I reach Harry’s room, his door is ajar.
But Harry is not alone inside. He’s sitting in a chair chatting quietly with another man, an older version of himself.
His father.
I stop still.
Harry has shaved off his beard, and his hair is back under control. He looks exactly like the Harry I used to know and loathe.
They’re so alike, the two Matheson men. These two men of the aristocracy, whose breeding goes back generations, have the same tall blond haughtiness, the same stiff posture that exudes authority and control.
It feels like a punch to my gut, so hard I’m unable to breathe.
The flippant comment I made after Harry and my first sexual encounter echoes in my head, “What happens in the Nordic wilderness stays in the Nordic wilderness.”
I need to adopt that motto starting right now.
I take a step backward.