heel of my left shoe wedged down into a grate. I couldn’t regain my footing and fell. My body slammed against a metal trash can in a loud explosion of noise. The metal was rusted and a jagged edge gashed my leg. I gasped when I hit the ground, my head slamming against the brick wall and more tears pooled in my eyes. I tried to stand up but my feet wouldn’t work; a sharp pain shot up the leg that wasn’t cut while the bleeding gash on the other throbbed. A few of the photographers put down their cameras and moved to help me, but I shoved their hands away. I didn’t want them touching me. These were the people who had been chasing me.
I heard scuffling in the crowd and I looked up just in time to see Alex slam his fist into a photographer’s face when he wouldn’t move. The man went down with a thud and his camera exploded into a hundred pieces on the concrete. A few of the photographers protested over the treatment of their colleague, but most of them just took more pictures.
“Samantha?” The panic in his voice made my tears come faster.
Alex leaned down, his eyes checking my leg quickly before he scooped me up in his arms. The photographers went wild but gave him room. I buried my face in his shirt and tried to get control of the sobs that were trying to break free. Everything was wrong. My father was dying and I was here, being chased by the paparazzi. Even with my eyes squeezed shut I could see the bright flashes of the cameras.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered in my ear as he walked through the crowd. When someone moved to block his path, he practically growled. “Get the hell out of my way.” No one argued with him. I don’t know if that was because he was the prince or because he had laid a guy out.
Becca and Duvall were there, shoving reporters and spectators away from us so we could get to the car idling at the curb. Becca had disabled a large man and he was on his knees in front of her. One of the members from the detail opened the car door.
“Call the palace.” Alex slid into the seat, cradling me in his lap. “Samantha’s going to need a doctor.”
“There’s a first-aid kit.” Duvall was in the front passenger seat and began rummaging in the glove box.
The car pulled away from the curb and sped through the streets. I kept my face pressed against Alex’s shirt, unable to stop the tears. When he pressed gauze against the cut on my leg, I hissed between my teeth and tried to jerk away. He mumbled reassurances but didn’t let go.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I hiccupped and tried to calm down.
“What happened?”
“Patricia called.” A sob broke free and I had to take a second before I could finish. “Dad’s dying. I just panicked and ran out. I was going to go to the airport.”
“Samantha.” Alex’s voice was laced with pain.
“He’s dying, Alex. I left him and he’s dying.” I pressed my face against his shirt again. How could I live with myself? “I left him.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cancer Doesn’t Care Who You’re Related To
—New York Reports
Every light in the palace was on and there was a crew of people waiting for us when we pulled up. Alex refused to let anyone take me from him and carried me straight to his room. He laid me on his bed but refused to leave my side, telling everyone that wasn’t required to get the hell out.
A petite older woman followed us, issuing orders. “Samantha, I’m Dr. Rains. We’re going to get you fixed right up.” She patted me on the shoulder before moving to examine my leg.
Chadwick burst into the room and ran straight for the bed. There were tears in his eyes but he didn’t say a word, just reached out and squeezed the hand Alex wasn’t holding.
“You’re going to feel a pinch. I’m giving you a shot to numb the area. You need stitches.” There was a sharp stick, but I didn’t care. I don’t know if I was in shock, but my mind felt frozen.
Someone handed me a tissue and I realized it was the queen. Her eyes were gentle as she looked at me, her calm voice reaching through the haze that had filled my head. “We’ll take care of everything.”