Page 2 of Scarred Crown

“Yes,” George mutters. “She’s not happy with me, but she understands we can’t tarnish Alexander’s moment. He’s been groomed to take over from me since birth. He should bask in the experience without the sadness of my diagnosis clouding every move.”

When he puts it that way, I understand a little more why he might want to shelter his kids, even when they’re all either in their thirties or rapidly approaching it. “You want the coronation to be joyous.”

“I don’t want it tied to my death sentence. A celebration. There will be lots of time for mourning. The road may be narrow, but I fear it will be long.”

“How long?” Tears spring to my eyes again, and I blink them back.

“In total? Years, I fear. They won’t be good ones though, will they?”

“What—what do you want me to do?” The sheet with his diagnosis is a block of concrete straining against my fingertips, weighing down my hand and my heart. It flutters onto the desk.

“Bring Nicholas home to make a few more memories before it’s too late. Your mother is coming out of retirement to help with the transition and to serve me while you’re gone.”

“Where is Nicholas?” Dragging Nick’s globetrotting ass home isn’t going to be fun, despite what legions of women around the world might think. He can be a stubborn asshole.

We used to be the greatest friends, so close he sometimes felt like my other half when we lay under the stars, drinking stolen alcohol, talking about what the future might hold. But lately, I’m not even sure he likes me. His feelings for me might be easier to decipher if he ever actually spoke to me.

“Africa.” He seems lost in thought for a beat as though searching for more. “The Serengeti? He didn’t leave a detailed itinerary, and he’s not answering his phone.”

“Typical Nick,” I mutter. “He didn’t take any staff with him?”

George raises his eyebrows because we both know, of the three brothers, Nicholas has the hardest time with his elevated social status. He likes the women and the wine, but the media storm isn’t his forte. He’s been burned many times by the press and his gaggle of crown bunnies. Loose lips sink ships, and he’s got a graveyard of unveiled secrets big enough to circle the island.

Once a year, he goes completely off the grid for weeks, hides out someplace very few people will know or care who he is. I guess this year it’s the Serengeti. At least Tanzania is a place I’ve always wanted to go.

“He might not want to return,” George hedges. “It may take you a while to convince him.”

“And you won’t let me tell him why he must return early.”

“The coronation should be enough.”

“So, you only want him back in time for Alexander’s coronation? That’ll be his argument.” I eye him. Even with everyone working flat out, the succession will take months. If he’s not going to tell any of them the truth, he should at least give Nick a pressing reason to return.

George’s lips twitch. “If he gives you too hard of a time, tell him I’m arranging his marriage. For every week he delays, the suitability of his life partner goes down. The threat should get his ass back here.”

An answering smile tilts my lips. No doubt that will get Nick back to Bellerive. He’s a man allergic to commitment. “I’m not sure he’ll believe me.”

“You have my permission to push every single one of his buttons as long as you get him home.” George chuckles.

Now that, I can do.

Nicholas

My sundowner is halfway to my lips when her voice catches my ear, a tune I’ve tried to banish from my brain since I was sixteen. When we were kids, her voice was a comfort amongst the sea of people who wanted something from me. Then puberty hit, and her lilting tones started sending Morse code to my dick. Win-win, right? Except she didn’t see it that way, and I couldn’t see it any other.

Her blue-gray eyes were stuck on my older brother’s broad shoulders. Remembering never stings any less.

The voice dips to a murmur, and I tilt my head, trying to soothe my curiosity without turning around. She’s not here. How could she be? Strange for someone at this camp to sound so much like her. I used to think her voice was unique. Guess I was wrong about that too.

Then the woman behind me laughs. I tense. The pitch of this woman’s voice might be a coincidence, but her laugh too?

No fucking way.

I twist in my lawn chair, away from the roaring fire in the middle of the tented camp. The grasses of the Serengeti stretch into the distance. Three weeks ago, I left Bellerive and the Crown behind for some peace and quiet. The last person I should be seeing in the middle of the Serengeti is Julia Jensen.

The woman beside me, who’s been trying to figure out a way to get invited into my tent for the last hour, slides her hand along my forearm that’s grown brown in the Serengeti sun. Our chairs are so close together that mine wobbles with hers. Earlier, she gave me some bullshit about coming to the Serengeti to ‘find herself’ as though this place has all life’s answers. No one truly finds themselves by running away—I should know.

“Someone you recognize?”