Chapter 2

Malachi

Malachi Sanders strained his neck over the crowd of reporters following Prince Consort Kendal as they entered Windsor Hospital. Luckily for him, the royal family had allowed only two reporters to enter with them, and one of them was him. So, when the bodyguard called Nick waved him and another reporter forward, he squeezed his way through to the grumbles of the many surrounding him. He followed them at a sedate pace, not wanting to seem as excited as he was.

The Sutcliffes allowed a select few reporters to accompany them, depending on the event type, and they were fair about who they chose. Every credible reporter—no matter the tone of their reports—was allowed to accompany them. For example, there were two reporters for this event because it was based at a hospital, and the royal family didn't want to overwhelm the patients in attendance. At other events, such as dinners, more reporters could be selected. But each reporter would get the chance again when the other reporters had received their chance. Fair, but it took far too long for his turn to come around each time.

It had taken him by surprise when he'd received his first invitation to join them because they hated him—and Malachi couldn't argue with them. The tone of his reports was argumentative and aggressive, and he hated every minute of writing them. So why did he? Because he had no choice. Being the reporter for Windsor Chronicle came with certain contractual obligations, and since he hadn't worked his way through his five-year contract with them yet, he still had to abide by the original terms. No amount of negotiation had worked to get the terms changed, so Malachi was stuck.

Having to write each report in a negative light took a little more of his soul each time, but there was light at the end of the tunnel. As long as Tucker didn't go back on his word, Malachi would be free of the old contract in a year, and a new, better-tasting one would take its place.

Refocusing on the corridor they walked down, Malachi forced himself to listen to what the hospital administrator was saying to the king's partner.

"—the blood donor unit within the hospital is busy, but we need more donors all the time. As you can understand, blood is essential for many parts of the hospital, from transfusions to surgeries to accidents. There is always a need for it."

"How much blood do you go through each week?" Kendal asked as they entered the blood department.

"Well, we need around five thousand donations each day to keep up with demand over the entire NHS."

"Wow, that's…a lot," Kendal said. "I'm assuming you get what you need."

The administrator waved his hand back and forward. "Most of the time, yes. We're always asking for more donors to come forward because every day there are reasons current donors can't donate. It could be because someone got pregnant or their iron levels were too low. They could have a cold or the flu. They might've had a recent tattoo or a dental procedure. There are many reasons someone might not donate, which is why we ask for new donors as often as possible."

"I never thought of that."

Malachi studied the room. It seemed like any other hospital room, except there were several beds towards the back of the room and lots of chairs at the front. Hot and cold drinks and biscuits sat on a table to the side, where people sat to wait before they could leave. Malachi hadn't donated blood before, but with everything the administrator said, maybe he should start.

The conversation continued, and Malachi made a few notes, wincing with every stab at the royal family he knew he was going to make. It broke his heart every time he saw their expressions tighten with his words, and it was one reason he created an alter-ego.

"Does anyone have any questions?" Kendal asked, glancing at him and the second reporter, Stan Willows.

"Do you donate blood?" Malachi asked.

Kendal smiled at him. "Not currently. My iron levels have been too low, and I've been working to get them higher so I can start. But I know Kean does, and Andrew does occasionally."

"Why does the king not donate regularly?" Malachi asked.

There it was. The slight tightening of Kendal's eyes, and it broke another piece of Malachi's soul. "With his age and health in mind, his physicians believed it was better to reduce the number of donations he did each year."

"Is the king ill?" he asked, cutting the other reporter off again.

Kendal laughed, the gentle sound reaching his ears like soft music. "Not in the slightest." They glanced at his companion. "Stan, do you have any questions?"

As Stan spoke, Malachi wrote down some thoughts about how his report was going to go. A tingling shot down his spine and bumps raced across his forearms, the hairs lifting and lowering as the shiver made itself known. He glanced around and met Nick's gaze. His brown eyes narrowed at him, and Malachi froze, not wanting to startle the bodyguard into chasing him away. Because that's what it felt like. He was the prey, and Nick was the predator.

"Shall we move on?"

The question drew everyone's attention, and the administrator waved towards the door. Everyone followed suit, and Malachi dropped to the back of the group, not wanting to get more attention than he already had. He'd already decided what the report would focus on—the king's health—but he also had an idea for the corresponding report he would write. He would have to wait to see what the backlash was on his report and, undoubtedly, the one Adelaide Thompson would submit, but he believed he could counteract most of the damage they would cause.

Adelaide was a fox in a chicken house, and she made everyone else look like child's play, even Malachi, so whenever she wrote something about the royal family, his alter-ego counteracted it with a separate report, taking each of her points and giving alternative points of view. She hated Kai Ruffers with a passion, and every time she mentioned him, Malachi stood a little straighter. Because Kai Ruffers was the only way he could live with himself.

"You're not making any friends being like this, you know?"

Malachi didn't need to glance to the side; he already knew who it was. "I'm not here to make friends," he said, staring ahead.

"You might get more chances if you were."

He feigned ignorance, pouting his lips. "I get enough content without needing chances." Playing the role got harder every day.

"Well, I suppose if you can fall asleep at night with everything you write, you must be used to sleeping in dog shit." With that, Nick dropped back again, and Malachi swallowed against the words and tears that wanted to escape. No one understood. But that wasn't their fault.

After spending an hour touring certain areas of the hospital, they were led back to the exit. Kendal held out their hand and shook Stan's hand before offering it to Malachi—a move that shocked him.

"Thank you for being here. I hope you can help to bring some light to the need for more blood donors with your articles. It really is a worthy and essential cause," Kendal said.

Malachi understood the undercurrents of their words, but he would only be able to help with one column, and not the one the royal family knew about. Instead, he asked one more question.

"Do you have any plans for Prince Consort Kean's birthday?"

Kendal chuckled. "We're spending time with our families. That's a celebration right there."

Malachi couldn't help but commend Kendal's way with words, and how they diverted the attention when they needed to. It was taught to most royals, Malachi knew that, but Kendal seemed to have taken it to a whole other level.

"It truly is," Malachi agreed. "Thank you for the opportunity today."

"You're welcome."

He headed for the exit, Stan having already left, but felt the hairs on his neck prickling again. Glancing over his shoulder, he caught Nick's gaze once more. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have minded being studied like a specimen in a petri dish, but right then, that feeling of being the sole focus of someone was unnerving. Malachi ducked his head and left, exhaling heavily.

"Did you get whatever trash you're going to write about them now?" a voice said beside him as he finished writing his last notes.

He lifted his gaze to Stan's. "Everyone is entitled to write what they want, Stan. You know that." Though his stomach agreed with Stan. If he didn't work his way into an early grave with stomach or sleep issues before his contract ended, he'd be surprised.

"Of course they are, but even you can give them a break some days, surely."

"I write the story I see, Stan." Meaning, he wrote the stories Tucker wanted him to.

Stan huffed, shook his head and left, and Malachi swallowed down bile. I'm right there with you, Stan. One day, you'll all see.

Heavy with the burden of keeping secrets, he headed down the street, having not bothered with his car as he lived close by. His phone rang as he walked off his melancholy, and he pulled it from his pocket, grinning at the screen.

"Hola, Abuela," he said.

"Ah, Kai. Anyone who said you couldn't learn languages was wrong," his grandmother, Sally, said with a chuckle.

Malachi returned the laugh. "That's all I can manage. You're the one learning languages like you're five years old."

He could almost hear his grandmother's shrug as she brushed off his compliments. "What else do I have to spend my time on? Languages are there to be learnt. Spanish is a lovely sounding one."

"It is. I just wish I could do it justice."

"That you try is all I can ask. Are you still coming for dinner?"

Malachi wandered down the path to his front door. "I am. I just need to finish this article, and then I'll be over. Is everyone else joining us?"

He had an older brother and three younger sisters, who occasionally made time in their hectic—cough, cough—schedules to join them at their grandmother's house for dinner. They had their own lives, but Malachi could never understand why they wanted to distance themselves when Sally and their mother, Emily, were the best and most down-to-earth people he knew. But each to their own.

"Vanessa and Christine said they might make it, but Ben and Zara should be here. Are you being unkind to the royal family again?"

Malachi sighed, taking his shoes off just inside the door. "I'm doing my job, Grandma. That's all." Sally fell silent, and Malachi squirmed. "Not long left," he added when the silence became too much.

"Take care of yourself, too, Kai. Don't let them take your soul."

Too late."Never. I'll see you in a couple of hours."

"Ich liebe dich," Sally said, bringing a smile to Malachi's face. His grandmother was already fluent in German when she switched to Spanish, soaking up the languages quicker than anyone he knew despite her reaching past eighty years of age. She had used the same "I love you" phrase in German the moment Malachi had burst out laughing, thinking she'd said she loved dick. He was grateful his family weren't prudes because they threw sexual jokes and innuendos like best friends would.

"I love you, too, Abuela."

"See you soon."

Malachi hung up and headed for the kitchen to make a coffee, delaying the inevitable for as long as possible. When the coffee steamed in his mug and he inhaled the aroma with a blissful smile, he drifted towards the desk in the corner of the room, its only saving grace being the view behind the house. Each step was like trudging through knee-height snow, but he gritted his teeth and sat at his computer, booting it up. While it did its thing, he put his notepad down and checked the recording on his phone. He had the entire visit recorded, but he relied on notes as well, just in case his phone failed.

By the time he was ready to start his article, he had bolstered himself against the words he had to write. He always wrote the hardest article first because then he could counteract his words, and the words of other reporters, in the easier one. Plus, he needed the pick-me-up after writing such soul-destroying things about the royal family.

Staring at the cursor blinking on the empty page, he held his fingers over the keys. Breathing deeply, he started typing, wincing and swallowing hard with every blade he sliced through the royal family. When he finished, he stared down at his arms, expecting blood to be dripping from his vein where he'd torn them apart. Shoring himself up again, he read through the article, checking for errors, and finally emailed it through to Tucker.

Then he raced to the bathroom and threw up. Same routine every time.

He flushed and splashed water over his face before pouring himself a glass of water from the kitchen. He sipped it, hoping the coolness of the liquid would settle his stomach, but only one thing could.

His counter-article.

The Malachi Sanders title was Is The King Ill? But the Kai Ruffers title was Leading By Example.

Writing the positive side of the event soothed his soul but made him feel no better about what he'd already done. The stress of his job didn't help his health, and insomnia was a friend he wished wasn't so faithful.

When he was done, he slumped back in his seat but smiled. He wouldn't release this version until after the other reporters had released their own. He'd need to check that he counteracted any of their remarks as well. Before he finished, he checked his emails, unsurprised to find one from someone who had been in his inbox many times over the past few weeks. They seemed to enjoy his Malachi articles, and often commended him on his choice of words and commiserated that the country was beholden to the royal family. Fans were everywhere, and he responded to some emails from them, but that one… Something was off about him, though he'd spoken to him several times as a source, he still emailed in after every article was published.

After checking the clock, he switched his computer off and headed for the door, and by the time he arrived at his grandmother's house, he'd relaxed somewhat. The underlying tension from his first article wouldn't disappear for hours, but he needed his family right then.

"Kai!" his mother said, dragging him into her arms when she reached him. He stumbled with one shoe on and the other half off.

"Hey, Mum. How are you?"

Emily pulled back. "I'm good." She cupped his cheek, tracing beneath his eyes with her finger. "You look tired again."

He tried for a smile. "I'm okay. I promise." He changed the subject. "Anyone else here yet?"

"We beat you here, loser!" Zara called from the region of the kitchen.

"Zara!" Their grandmother went off in a tirade of German, which none of them could understand fluently, but no one could mistake the telling-off tone of her voice.

"Yes, Grandma," Zara said as Malachi entered the kitchen. She probably had no idea what Sally had been saying, but they knew not to argue.

"Kai!" Sally enveloped him, and he clung to her, closing his eyes and breathing in his grandmother's scent. Whatever it was soothed him time and again. "You need to stop this, Kai. It's destroying you," she whispered.

"Not long left." He pulled back and smiled. "I visited the hospital today. They were talking about blood donors and how they always needed more people to donate. It's something to consider."

He settled at the dining table while his mother bustled around. She was someone who enjoyed taking care of her family and wouldn't let anyone help. Except when it came to setting the table and making drinks for everyone. Oh, and washing up afterwards. Those chores were down to the kids.

"Have you finished being mean to the royal family yet?" Ben, his brother, asked.

Malachi shook his head and pursed his lips. "Not yet. Soon, though."

"I don't know why you let him control you like you do. There are other jobs available."

It was an argument they regularly had. "There aren't as many journalist jobs as you think. Everything hinges on who you know. Reputation is everything in this job, and if I can just finish this contract out, I'll be home free."

"You hope," Ben countered.

Malachi didn't answer because it was something that scared the hell out of him. Yes, contractually, he didn't have to work for the Windsor Chronicle at the end of the following year, but what was stopping him from making his life hell and blackmailing him into working for him longer? Malachi would do everything in his power to keep his family safe, healthy and to keep food on the table, but Tucker was capable of a lot of things Malachi chose to ignore. After all, if he ignored them, they weren't happening. He didn't need any more burdens on his shoulders.

"Enough work talk," Sally said. "Ben, any luck in the romance department?"

Thankful for the distraction, he joined in with ribbing Ben about his lack of luck with girls. It would turn on him eventually, but he didn't mind. As long as they weren't focused on how he was destroying his soul, he could weather anything.

Sharp assessing eyes flitted through his head, followed by a turned-down mouth and creased forehead. Malachi shook the image away. He couldn't think about that bodyguard now because every time he did, his body fought between cold and hot. Cold because those eyes could spear anyone with hatred, and hot because the man was sex personified. It hadn't been that long ago that Malachi had stared at the screen with a dawning sense of horror as he watched the king's assassination attempt where too many bodyguards were killed or hurt, including Nick Tennant. One particular camera had caught Nick slamming to the ground and blood pouring from his wounds as his head hit the pavement and he stopped moving.

At the time, Malachi had thought he was dead, and he'd been barely able to breathe himself, but the news had reported him alive. Unlike some of his colleagues. He wished he'd been able to say something to them, but the only thing he could do was allow his alter-ego to send his sympathies to them.

One day, he might be able to face them without dreading the hatred that would no doubt be on their faces.

One day, he would be able to hold his head up high and say he didn't write that crap.

One day, he could make amends for what he'd done.

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