Chapter 7

Nick

Nick was being an asshole. He couldn't help it, though. Malachi just rubbed him up the wrong way. How the hell was he supposed to babysit him for the weekend without killing him? He steadied his breathing as they continued towards the receiving room. As far as Nick knew, no one was supposed to be there at that time but that didn't mean someone wasn't going to surprise him. Only time would tell. If he was a betting man, Prince George might make an appearance.

Knocking before entering any room had become standard procedure since the princes had found their partners. After walking in on personal moments too many times, he had made it mandatory, even if he knew there was no one in the room. And it was what he did when they reached the receiving room. No one answered, so he entered and held the door for Malachi, his inbuilt manners not able to defy him, no matter who the recipient was.

"Oh, wow. This room is huge. You said this was the receiving room, so you mean for meeting heads of state and such?" Malachi asked, meandering around the area.

Nick leaned his ass against a sofa and rested his hands on the back. "Yeah, sometimes. Initially, that was all it was used for, but since the family expanded, it's used more for family get-togethers than anything else now."

"I'm assuming that's mainly for birthdays and anniversaries and such."

Nick had been told what information he could and couldn't share with the reporter, but he baulked at that one because he wanted to keep it quiet. "It's—"

"We use it regularly. Nothing beats spending time with family in any capacity possible."

Nick stood, stepping closer to Prince Frederick and trying to hide his surprise and displeasure, especially when he didn't appear to have his guards. "Your Highness," he said, bowing his head.

"Oh!" Malachi's face flushed, and he bowed low. "Your Highness. Thank you for allowing me to visit your home."

Freddie smiled. "You're welcome. I have read many of your articles, Mr Sanders. Your writing skills are incredible."

Malachi lowered his eyes. "I…um, thank you, Your Highness. I wish…" He didn't finish his sentence, but Nick would've loved to see what excuse he came up with for writing such crap.

"You truly do have a talent. Your prose is eloquent and not at all flowery, which I've found in many reporters. Is the role you're in the one you envisioned for yourself?"

Nick bit his lip at Freddie's choice of words.

Malachi's cheeks reddened further. "Not in so many words, no. Unfortunately, not everyone gets to have their first choice of employers."

It was the second time Malachi had implied he wasn't doing the job by choice, but if that was the case, why wasn't he leaving?

"Such a truthful statement. As I was saying, this space is used primarily for our family now. It's big enough to house us all, and we don't have to worry about anyone finding out we weren't the prim and proper royals we should be."

Why hadn't Brett given Prince Freddie his job because his words, while fairly benign and truthful, were on the spot with making a point about Malachi's content? No matter how powerful his prose was, his words were hurtful all the same.

"Definitely, Your Highness. Not everyone needs to know your secrets."

"Never has a truer word been spoken," Freddie said with a smile.

Nick silently tagged on, "by you," but it wouldn't do any use adding it out loud.

"Are you attending the dinner later, Your Highness?" Malachi asked.

Freddie shook his head. "I have a prior engagement, but I'm sure my father will be a wonderful companion."

Malachi smiled. "I'm looking forward to talking with him some more."

"Well, I must be getting back to Damon. He'll be wondering where the popcorn is."

"Thank you for your time, Your Highness," Malachi said.

Nick moved closer to the prince and lowered his voice. "Your Highness, please consider bringing your guards the next time you want to talk to him. I am only one person and can only do so much."

Freddie's mouth curved. "He won't harm us physically, Nick. He's got too much to lose."

Nick frowned. "What do you mean?"

Freddie shook his head, glancing over Nick's shoulder to Malachi. "He won't hurt us, Nick. Maybe check your preconceived notions at the door and see him as a person rather than a reporter first."

With that not-so-subtle reprimand, Freddie left, and Nick saw Locke as the door opened. Whether she'd arrived with Freddie or after him, he wasn't sure, but either way, his tension lowered slightly, knowing he had some backup should he have needed it.

Three hours later, they were both dressed in suits and headed to the restaurant the king was opening. There would be a select few—King Andrew and Prince Consort Kean, food critics and celebrities—in attendance, so security was slightly easier, especially with Landon, Colt, Viola and Emmy joining him, and the several guards the celebrities brought.

After the official opening ceremony, short and sweet that it was, he followed them to their table and then stepped away, pausing when the king said his name.

"Your Majesty?"

"Please join us for dinner tonight, Nick."

Nick gaped, but he shook his head slightly. "Thank you for the offer, Your Majesty, but I have to decline. I am needed as part of the security team tonight."

Andrew sighed but nodded. "I won't get a different answer from you, will I?"

Nick smiled. "No, Your Majesty."

"One of these days…"

Nick cleared his throat instead of laughing at the king's veiled attempt to discourage the use of his title and call him Andrew and headed to his perch near the bathrooms. It was one of the few places Malachi would go if he was to leave the table, and he wanted to be close in case he got any stupid ideas. Malachi had flushed cheeks and laughed several times throughout dinner. Andrew and Kean joined in with the humour. At one point, Nick witnessed Kean's hand covering his mouth just as he'd taken a sip of his drink, his shoulders bouncing with laughter. What had been so funny? The partners were careful with their affection, not too much, but not too little, and Malachi had keen eyes, which seemed to take everything in despite the flowing alcohol he seemed to drink.

When Malachi rose, Nick tensed until he was away from the tables and heading his way. He was pale and a little unsteady on his legs, but his gaze never wavered.

"Maybe ease up on the alcohol," Nick murmured as Malachi pushed the bathroom door open.

Malachi nodded but said nothing, and Nick sighed. He wasn't the man's father, so he couldn't make him do anything he didn't want to do—mostly. If he wanted to drink himself into a coma, Nick had no choice but to let him.

A sound of metal against wood met his ears, and he strained for anything other than what his mind supplied of someone kicking the bin into the cupboard, but then a soft thud reached him, and he slammed through to the bathroom to find Malachi on his knees with an EpiPen in his thigh. His face was dotted with sweat, his lips tinged blue, and his eyes wild. Nick dropped to his knees beside him, cupping Malachi's jaw.

"What do you need?" Malachi shook his head with a jerk. "Did it all get in?" Malachi nodded and sank into Nick's hands, Nick barely catching him as he took all his weight. "What are you allergic to?" he asked as he tugged Malachi into his body.

Malachi yanked the needle from his leg, and Nick took it from him. Most EpiPens were not allergy-specific, but a little label had been stuck on this one with "peanuts" on it.

"Peanuts? You're allergic to peanuts?" Malachi nodded. "Was it in your food?" Malachi didn't answer, but he gave a slight lift of his shoulders. Nick sighed. "We're not having much luck with you and royal invitations, are we?" He tried for a joke, but he wasn't feeling so humorous. "Let me call for backup."

Malachi shook his head, the colour already seeping back into his face. "Won't…ruin…it."

"You have to go to hospital, Malachi."

"I will… Not yet."

Nick shook his head and spoke into his radio. "We have an issue. Malachi has had an allergic reaction. He's okay, but he needs to go to the hospital. Can someone bag up his food? Because I'm assuming he didn't purposefully choose something that had peanuts in it, so it needs to be investigated. Do the same for the king's and Prince Consort Kean's, just in case. We don't want any surprises."

"Do you want an ambulance?" Colt radioed back.

"No. I don't want to bring attention to this." He met Malachi's grateful gaze. "I'll take him out the back in a little while and call for a driver to take us there. Divert people from using this room for now."

"Understood."

Nick refocused on Malachi. "We'll wait here for a few minutes and then get you up and to the hospital, okay?" Malachi nodded, blinking lazily, probably so tired from the incident. "Where's your other pen in case I need it?" Malachi patted his pocket. "Okay, tell me when you're feeling up to moving."

It took a few minutes, but Malachi finally said, "I should be okay to get up now."

Nick helped him to his unsteady feet, keeping his arms around him to take his weight. "Does this happen often?"

"No, but it has happened. I know what to do. Hospital, as much as I hate it, is essential to make sure nothing else happens. I could do with a bucket in case I'm sick, though."

Nick grabbed the small waste basket, tipped the contents into the nearest sink and passed it to Malachi. The reporter snorted inelegantly but held onto it. Having been trained in first aid, he knew what had to be done in that situation, but he had never had it happen on his watch before. Going to the hospital had also not been on his agenda. His stomach, however, was cramping at the thought of something happening to Malachi; just like it had done at the event when he'd seen that guy straddling him. Whatever that was about was something for him to decipher another day.

They exited the bathroom, which was luckily in a hallway off the main restaurant area, and headed towards the back door, supporting Malachi as much as he could. He pushed the door open, hoping it didn't set off some sort of alarm, and helped Malachi to the black town car that waited for them. Once they sat in the back, the bin on Malachi's lap, Nick relaxed a bit.

"Thanks, Brandon. To the hospital, please," he said to their driver.

"Fast and rocky, or slow and steady?" Brandon asked as he manoeuvred from out of the alley behind the restaurant.

Nick glanced at Malachi's pale face and his grip on the bin. "Slow and steady for now. I'll let you know if we need to speed up."

"Understood."

Malachi closed his eyes and rested his head back, giving Nick time to study the man closely. What a conundrum he was. In repose, he had a pale complexion, made paler by that incident, with freckles speckled across his slightly flared nose. His lips were parted with every deep inhale he made, the thin upper lip trembling gently, and his tongue glancing across the thicker lower lip. His skin looked as smooth as it probably was having been freshly shaven before going out that night. His light brown hair was cut close to his head, similar to his own.

When Malachi's hand fell, Nick caught the bin before it went rolling away from them. Propping it on the other side of him, he slid his fingers around Malachi's wrist to check his pulse. It was fast, but he wasn't sure what Malachi's usual rate was, so he had nothing to compare it to.

Nick shook Malachi gently, wanting him to wake to check on him. When he didn't respond, Nick did it a little harder.

"Malachi? Open your eyes for me." No reply. "Brandon, speed up a little, please."

"Got it."

The car increased its speed, and Nick tapped Malachi's cheek. He was still breathing, which was one thing Nick was consoling himself with. Maybe he just crashed. Whatever had happened, they needed to see a doctor as soon as possible.

Nick's phone rang, but he didn't answer it, keeping his eyes on Malachi's breathing, and his fingers on his pulse. Malachi's eyelids were also fluttering as if he was dreaming. No way on this earth was something happening to the reporter on his watch. It would just be his luck that Malachi died and he ended up in the media as someone who killed him.

Nick shook his head and swallowed hard. He couldn't admit that he hated the idea of the man being ill. Well, he couldn't admit it aloud. Malachi had some sort of hold over him, and he hated it, especially with how awful he was to the Sutcliffes. It was as if Nick couldn't reconcile Malachi's reporter side with how else he saw him. The human side of him that seemed so different to the words he wrote.

Was that what Malachi meant when he'd implied he wasn't doing the job he wanted to do? Did he not want to be writing all that? If that was true, then why was he, and why didn't he stop?

They were all questions Nick couldn't answer, and neither could Malachi at that point.

"We're here," Brandon said, the car lurching to a stop hard enough that Nick had to stop Malachi from sliding off the seat.

"Malachi? Can you hear me?"

Malachi mumbled something Nick didn't understand but didn't open his eyes.

"Looks like I'm carrying you then," Nick muttered to himself.

He climbed out of the car, went around to Malachi's side and moved the bin, reaching in and slipping his hands beneath and around him as best as he could. He wasn't a light man, but he wasn't heavy either. His head lolled back as Nick lifted him out of the car, and Brandon helped by leading the way and getting a doctor as soon as they entered. Nick eased Malachi onto a gurney but couldn't find the energy to move away. When they started wheeling him down the corridor, he kept pace.

"Name?"

Nick blinked and then came to his senses. "Malachi Sanders. He had a reaction to peanuts and took his EpiPen around half an hour ago. He was coherent for all of it until around ten minutes ago, when he appeared to fall asleep. His pulse was fast, but I don't know if that's usual for him or not. He never stopped breathing at any point. He was mumbling when I got him out of the car but wouldn't open his eyes."

"Some people who use an EpiPen get really tired afterwards and fall into a deep sleep, almost coma-like, but it's not one," a doctor said. "He'll be fine and will wake up soon." The doctor focused on a nurse. "Fluids and get another adrenaline shot just in case he has a relapse."

"Will he?" Nick asked. "Have a relapse?" he added when the doctor frowned at him.

"It's hard to tell. Some patients do, some don't. It's best to have one on hand, just in case."

The doctor shone a light into Malachi's eyes, and he grumbled and turned his face, which settled Nick's concerns a little. If he was complaining, he couldn't be too bad. At least, he hoped.

Nick's phone kept ringing, but he ignored it. Until he had something more concrete to go on, he wasn't going to answer anyone's questions. He leaned against the wall, keeping out of the way of the doctors and nurses dealing with Malachi, but his gaze stayed on him. Every inhale the reporter took helped Nick to breathe easier.

They needed to figure out how he had been given peanuts. He knew he was allergic, so he wouldn't have chosen a meal that had it in. So, either the restaurant made a mistake and gave him the wrong option, or Malachi chose the wrong option, not realising it had peanuts in it, or something else sinister. Was this related to the event? Nick frowned. Why would it be? He tried to follow his train of thought, but there was a ruckus outside the room, and Andrew came barging in.

"Nick, update me as you haven't been answering your phone," Andrew said, and Nick immediately straightened from the wall.

"I apologise, Your Majesty. I was waiting for an update from the doctor before I answered to ensure I could give anyone an answer."

Andrew's stern expression eased, and he nodded. "Understandable. I was, however, concerned when Malachi left the dinner and never returned, and when Colt told me what happened, I wanted to make sure he was well cared for." Andrew's mouth curved. "At the hospital, not with you, Nick. I know you would take care of him."

Nick nodded, and his gaze found Malachi again. This time, his bright blue eyes gazed back at him, glazed though they were.

"You're big," Malachi whispered, ending in a loppy smile, and Nick's mouth twitched.

"There you are, Mr Sanders. I'm glad to finally meet you," the doctor said, gaining Malachi's attention. "Do you know where you are, Mr Sanders?"

Malachi's head swivelled around, his eyes widening slowly. "Hospital?"

The doctor nodded. "Yes, Mr Sanders. I'm Dr Livingstone. Can you remember what happened?"

Malachi stared at Nick again, and the loopiness in his eyes visibly eased. "Peanuts. I had a reaction."

"You did. You seem to be on the mend, and you're in good hands. You're hooked up to some fluids now, and we'll keep monitoring you for a few hours to make sure everything is on the up and up, but you should make a full recovery."

"Happened before," Malachi muttered, his eyelids blinking slower.

"You're an old hat at this, then." The doctor chuckled. "Get some rest, Mr Sanders. We'll keep you safe."

Nick would keep him safe. He had to.

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