A Royal Rage (The Crossovers. #3)

Prologue.

Worry flooding me, I stared out of the window in my tower. It gave me a few minutes to think clearly. Down below, the kids caused chaos, and while I was usually ambivalent to the noise, I couldn’t handle it today. I needed a minute to myself.

The reason? The man sat outside, staring at nothing. My husband. President of Rage MC, Drake Michaelson.

For a while, I’d witnessed Drake slowly spiralling.

Guilt rode Drake like a bitch—not just over the war.

He blamed himself for events that’d happened decades ago, and now they were destroying him.

Everybody had noticed but was helpless to stop it.

Unless Drake reached out, we couldn’t do anything.

The guy who had made Rage MC attend therapy for two months after the battle for Rapid City was ignoring his own mental health.

Distracted, I sipped a cup of tea and wondered what to do.

Leaving Drake to suffer was out of the question.

I refused to let that happen. He deserved more than being trapped in his mind.

His pain was tangible, and I hurt for my husband.

Sometimes Drake was a damn idiot, a blind, stumbling, chauvinistic twit, then other times Drake was almost enlightened.

However, there were occasions when I smacked Drake over his head with a sledgehammer.

I understood that Fury had once been linked to Rage MC.

But he’d left, and what Fury did afterwards was not Drake’s fault or burden.

Rage should not be held accountable for that raging wanker.

Fury was nobody’s responsibility but his own.

But people liked to point fingers, and someone had to be blamed for Fury.

I placed the blame where it should lie, on the shoulders of the Florida law enforcement who turned a blind eye and took bribes.

Those who ignored what was happening under their noses.

Them, and the twat-head president we’d suffered.

POTUS had let the citizens of Rapid City hang.

I hadn’t blinked twice at supporting Major General Winslow to become the new POTUS.

Winslow understood when to put people first.

Drake got up and stretched; he’d lost weight, a lot of it. His clothes hung loosely, and Mrs Ames despaired. The poor woman was cooking Drake’s favourites and trying to tempt him, but Drake barely ate a few mouthfuls.

“Phoe, what are we going to do?” Ace asked from behind.

“It’s getting to the point you might have to step up forcefully. Drake is suffering, and I don’t know how to help.”

“Can’t do that,” Ace snapped, appalled.

Angrily, I turned around. “If you don’t, who’ll run Rage? Ace, you’re VP.”

“I can’t just take over Rage,” Ace said.

“Something has to give, Ace. Drake barely sleeps, hardly eats. He’s slowly dying. If you can’t see that, then you’re not family!” I yelled.

Ace held my gaze, anger burning hotly in his own. “Bitch, I’d die for Drake!”

“Then help me!” I begged and burst into tears.

“Aw, shit!” Ace exclaimed. He crossed the floor and wrapped me in his arms. “We’ll find an answer. Somehow.”

That didn’t fill me with hope. Instead, dread sank into my stomach. Drake desperately needed help. Where did I turn to find it?