CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

RICHARD

Richard watched from a tower window in a darkened room as the SUV took Justin from the palace and out of his life forever. He watched the black vehicle with its hidden armor, bulletproof windows, and self-inflating tires cruise through the guarded gates and out into the street. Justin would never return to the palace. Richard doubted he'd ever see him again.

He covered his eyes, slowly massaging the bridge of his nose. A blinding headache had hunted him since the meeting with his father. Now it cut through his mind like a buzz saw. The shredding pain was intense enough to make him feel nauseous.

Or perhaps that was only an after-effect of what he'd done to Justin. A little sympathetic suffering to make him feel even more horrible than he already did.

His wolf paced in his mind, head down, teeth bared. Back and forth. Back and forth. Eyes flashing. He clenched his wounded fist as tight as he could, feeling the pain bite deep. For a moment, he raised his fist, intending to smash the window to pieces.

But then he regained some sense and lowered his fist. He'd broken enough glass today. He was acting like a tantrum-throwing child. Or a dangerous man with no control over his human emotions or his wolf urges.

By the Goddess, what was he doing? Standing alone in some random palace tower, watching a car take Justin away forever? This self-indulgent masochism needed to stop. It was disgusting. Almost as disgusting as Richard's recently revealed selfishness and utter lack of heart.

After this gut-wrenching mess, he needed a friend, and he needed to get drunk. Luckily, he could have exactly what he wanted. Why not? Being crown prince had to count for something.

Richard shoved through the door back into the hall, making some poor, startled servant squeak. He barely paused to growl an apology before striding away from the terrified servant. He supposed his scowl did him no favors. Clenching his wounded fist, he headed for the palace barracks of the Royal Guard.

He found Heath Siegar carefully wiping down the blade of his ceremonial rapier, part of the Royal Guard"s formal dress uniform. Heath was in the barrack's arsenal, sitting at a workbench. The room smelled strongly of metal, gun oil, and other solvents. It did nothing to help his headache.

Richard forced a jovial smile that felt as real as a politician who never lied. "Didn't your mother tell you not to polish your sword in public?"

It was supposed to be a juvenile joke between guys. Instead, the words charged out of his mouth like a challenge to fight.

Heath wiped the polishing cloth along the blade, then held the sword up to the light, peering along the mirror-like surface. "I'd laugh and tell you where I was going to shove this, but you sound pissed. What's wrong?"

"You and me, we're getting drunk. Now."

Heath set the blade down carefully. He gave Richard a long look. Those intelligent brown eyes searched his own, and Heath's mouth tightened with concern.

"What the hell happened to your hand?"

"A wine glass shattered when I happened to be holding it."

Heath eyed him. "Uh-huh. Don't know your own strength, do you?"

"Something like that. Now, will you come get drunk with me, or do I need to make it a royal command?"

"Give me a moment to clean up and grab a few things, and we'll get out of here."

Richard grunted. "You agreed with fewer questions than I expected. Are you certain you don't want to know the whys and wherefores?"

"Tell me later when we have those drinks in hand." He quirked an eyebrow at Richard's bandaged hand. "Provided you can hold a glass without crushing it, Your Highness."

Not long after that, Heath sat at the wheel of one of the palace's luxury sedans—the armored ones that could survive a grenade blast—as they rolled up to the security gates. Two armed Royal Guards in human form stood sentry with two huge shifted wolves, one gray-brown and one almost all black.

"I'm with Prince Hargreave," Heath said. "We're going for a ride."

The guard lifted a digital touchpad computer and frowned at the screen. "This wasn't scheduled."

The second guard leaned down and glanced at Richard, who was sitting in the front passenger seat instead of in the back. Richard hated sitting in the back when it was just him alone and one of the palace drivers. The guard bowed lower. "Your Highness."

Richard forced another smile. The headache ratcheted down even tighter in his forehead, sending dagger-bolts of pain pulsing through his skull. "I know it's spur-of-the-moment, but we're simply taking a ride. Don't worry. We aren't leaving Altaden. No need to bring out a full security detail."

The sentries still hesitated. Their scents were a mix of anxiety, uncertainty, and unease. Technically, this was a breach of security protocol, but Richard had done it before on occasion. Mostly with Heath. However, he understood their apprehension. It was the sworn oath of the wolves in the Royal Guard to lay down their lives to protect the alpha king and all his blood wolf-kin. They took that oath seriously.

Richard put a hand on Heath's shoulder. "Captain Siegar will keep me safe, but I thank you for your concern."

Finally, they were allowed to proceed. The heavy, reinforced metal gates swung inward, and Heath drove through the massive archway. Richard let out a long breath. It was a relief to be away from the palace, even if only for a little while.

"You want to head to Quicksilver?" Heath asked. It was a bar they frequented on the main market avenue of Altaden.

"I want out of the city. Take me someplace ugly in Chelsea or even downtown Boston."

Heath shot him a look. "You're serious?"

"Very."

"The heir apparent intends to leave Altaden without a full bodyguard contingent? Forget drinking. You must be high."

"You're here to keep me safe, aren't you? That's what I told those gate guards. Don't prove me a liar."

"As unrestrainedly awesome as I am, there's only one of me."

"Two wolves," Richard said, holding up a hand with two fingers raised to drive home the point. "I might be a foppish princeling, but the last time I looked, I was a wolf shifter." He bared his teeth in something that might've been a smile…or a threat.

"You sure as hell aren't foppish," Heath muttered under his breath, turning toward the main city gates, the only way in or out of Altaden for vehicles. "But you smell like you're looking for trouble. That makes me uneasy."

Richard caught Heath's scent, filled with worry and stress, and realized he was asking much of his best friend. Heath was a captain in the Royal Guard, but his commander might bring down the hammer on him for lying to the gate guards and for egregious breaches of security protocol. That Heath was going along with this anyway, despite the risks to his career, touched Richard more than he could say.

He gritted his teeth and looked away, suddenly choked up with emotion, guilt, and raw, powerful gratitude. There were many platitudes about a friend being worth more than gold or jewels, and sometimes, some friends proved that completely true.

Still, Heath deserved some explanation.

"I'm not looking for trouble. I simply wish to go somewhere I'm not recognized. I don't want to drink around a bunch of my own pack wolves who will gossip to the press or run yipping to my father."

"That bad, is it?"

"Worse. I need to talk to you without spies listening in."

Heath swore softly under his breath but turned the car and headed westward, avoiding Altaden's shop and theater district.

They drove to the western edge of the city, taking Fenrir Avenue, a street running beside the twenty-foot-high wall forming the city limits. He'd never really thought about it before, but he decided he didn't like the defensive wall. It struck him as nothing more than an anachronistic throwback. It harkened to wolf pack ancestors from Europe and aristocrats with obsessive, glorified ideas of the high medieval period. He stared at the defensive wall built to set their kingdom city apart from the humans and their neighborhoods, like the Vatican set apart in Rome. The wall was a symbol of division. Pointless and archaic. Why was he only seeing that now? Was it because he felt so bitter and jaded?

Most likely. Still, his father would have a heart attack to hear some of the things his firstborn son was thinking. Things would change when Richard took the throne. Was it wrong to anticipate that? To look forward to father's passing?

Again, most likely. But after that cruel scene in his father's dining chamber, he felt a dark flame burning inside him, and it was cold. Justin deserved far better. Richard would never forget that.

The city gates were closed. It took a command from Richard wrapped in layers of threat to get the city guard to open them. The wolves on guard submitted, but they were not happy. Heath was not happy. Richard was less than pleased himself. But he got what he wanted: freedom. At least for a time.

They drove in silence through Chelsea, Massachusetts. Richard stared at the buildings, the cars, the humans. The people paid their vehicle no mind, and he liked that.

Heath took him to a bar on Everett Avenue called The Dog and Dolphin. It was an odd name for a dive bar in a squat, cinderblock building ringed with weathered clapboard. Neon signs for various brands of beer and booze blazed away inside the windows, and behind them, the forest green blinds were shut tight. No music played, although his acute shifter hearing picked up an announcer's color commentary over a television speaker. Professional boxing, from the sound of it.

Richard halted in front of a door plastered with warnings against minors on the premises and the dangers of drinking while pregnant. The air smelled of beer, car exhaust, and faintly of cardboard. "We haven't been to one of these places in what, six or seven years?"

"Not since we were little dumbass hellions."

"Dumbass? Speak for yourself. We never got caught leaving the city. Or coming back trashed."

"Maybe, but this time, we left a trail a mile wide," Heath grunted. "Your father's going to hear about it."

"Fuck him."

Heath's eyebrows shot way up. He rubbed a hand across his rugged face as he eyed Richard. The hairs of his short, dark goatee rasped against his fingers. "Not very princely of you, Your Worship."

"Why do you think I had to get out of that damn city? Now let's go find ourselves cheap liquor and cheap thrills. Maybe it will be ladies' night and you will get lucky."

Heath rolled his eyes. "Sara's the only girl for me."

"I know," Richard said quietly, for the first time feeling a pang of envy that did him no justice. His friend was in love with a wolf shifter who was part of the spymaster's trained coterie of intelligence agents working for the throne. "When are you going to wise up and marry her?"

"As soon as she stops shooting down my marriage proposals."

"She still doesn't want to slow down?"

"Nope. Maybe you can put in a good word for me when you become king."

"Count on it."

Inside, The Dog and Dolphin wasn't crowded. Three men and one woman sat on stools at the bar. Another couple sat at one of the tables. Two tough-looking, burly guys were playing pool at the other end of the pub. All the humans looked working-class tired and roughed up by life. But what did Richard expect in a dive bar on a Thursday night?

A few people turned to glance them over as they entered. Their stares lingered, but nobody said anything. Heath was six foot one and packed with muscle, wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and Richard could smell the gun oil from the pistol he carried in a concealed holster. Heath moved like a predator and stared like one too, sporting sharp, "don't mess with me" eyes.

Richard was no slouch himself. His broad shoulders might be hidden by a designer suit jacket, but he was an alpha wolf—big, strong, and radiating an aura of power that even humans could sense.

He ignored the stares and handed Heath a black American Express card. "Set up a tab. Start with shots and beers. I'll find us a table."

Heath took the card and swaggered to the bar, where a heavy-set man wiped out a glass beer mug with a towel. The guy looked like every cliché bartender that had ever existed.

This place was perfectly grim and grungy, and that made it perfect for tonight. Richard headed for the table farthest from everyone else. The light in here was low, probably to hide the grime. More neon signs and pictures of motorcycles, boxers, and sports teams hung on the wall. Lots of Boston pro sports team "memorabilia" had pride of placement.

Heath came over carrying a tray with four shot glasses, four beer bottles, and a bowl of pretzels. He set the tray down and sank into the seat next to Richard, keeping his back to the wall so he could look over the rest of the bar. It was a shame his best friend couldn't go out and relax when he was with Richard. At least Heath could watch Richard's back as he got drunk and tried to put tonight out of his mind.

Heath flipped a pretzel into his mouth and grabbed one of the beers. "All right. Here we are. Out with it. What the hell is going on?"

"A toast first," Richard insisted. He seized a beer bottle and held it out. "To old times."

"To old times." Heath clinked his bottle against Richard's and they both drank. "Now, are you going to talk, or do I need to drag over a psychiatrist's couch for you to lie on?"

Richard snorted. He set his beer down and threw back a shot. It was whisky. Not particularly good whisky, either. It burned all the way down, and that was fine with him.

"Is it blasphemy to hate the goddamn Goddess?" he demanded in a low and menacing voice, turning to stare Heath straight in the eye.

A wry smile curled one side of Heath's mouth. If he was surprised by the sacrilege, he didn't show it.

"I'd say the chances are high that it counts as blasphemy." The smile faded, and Heath eyed Richard with the blunt scrutiny only a best friend could pull off. "So, are you going to tell me how bad this shit is, or are you getting off on making me guess?"

Richard leaned back in his seat. The cheap synthetic leather made weird rubbery noises. He lifted his bandaged hand palm upward and stared at it. Dark maroon blood had dried in the wrappings. The cuts still throbbed with dull, insistent pain.

"My father," he replied.

Heath leaned forward, also glancing down at Richard's hand. "I thought you said you broke a wine glass. Did the king cut you?"

"Only with words." He realized he was doing a terrible job of explaining anything, judging from the concern and bewilderment on Heath's face. "I was forced to end things with Justin tonight. Only hours ago, in fact. No bandages for that wound."

Heath gaped at him. The raw shock on his friend's face might've made Richard laugh at some other time, in some other universe.

"Holy shit," Heath finally managed to say. "No wonder you want to get drunk." He slammed back a shot and followed with a swig of his beer. "He was your mate. I've never seen you happier."

Richard sat there and said nothing. His gaze drifted across the darkened bar to one of the neon beer signs in the windows, watching as it buzzed and flickered.

"All right," Heath growled. "You don't get to go all noble and silent on me, Your Worship. Talk."

So Richard told it all. Heath leaned back in his chair, occasionally drinking from his beer as he listened to Richard's tale. His gaze was razor sharp, and his scent seethed with dismay and shock.

"So that's why you went all blasphemous on me?" Heath said when Richard finished. "You believed you had the mate the Goddess intended, and then Justin was ripped away from you."

Richard nodded and took a long pull from his beer bottle. He felt…better. As if he'd cut into an infected wound and let out all the pus. The pain was still there, sharper maybe, but it was cleaner pain, if that made any sense.

Heath closed his eyes and mirrored Richard with a long drink from his beer. "I don't know what to say. That's fucking horrible."

"That sums it up nicely."

"How did Justin take it?"

"It cut the heart out of him." And Richard had been the one wielding the knife. He would never forget that look of panic, grief, and self-loathing in Justin's eyes. They were emotions stirred by the things Richard said, ending things between them forever. Sending him from the palace. Coldly telling him that everything they'd felt for each other had been a lie.

"You hate yourself for it," Heath stated. It wasn't a question.

"He deserved so much better. But I thought a quick cut, deep and fast, might be less painful."

"Nothing was going to make that less painful." Heath smoothed a hand over his goatee, his eyes far away. Then he reached out and put his hand over Richard's hand, his grip strong, the comfort in the touch very much appreciated. "What will you do now?"

With his free hand, Richard threw back another shot. He gestured for Heath to down one too, but Heath shook his head.

"Need to stay sober. Your ass is my responsibility."

"Very conscientious. But I'm done with being responsible for tonight."

"You want to grieve, go right ahead."

Richard smiled sourly. "We're big bad wolf shifters. We're not supposed to show pain."

"For a smart guy, you really are an idiot, Your Worship. Go too long keeping it all bottled up inside and that kind of thing will eat away at you like acid until you're hollowed out. Or you fall apart at the seams."

Richard didn't answer. Instead, he opened another beer. He was barely even buzzed. "Here's my question. If the Goddess has another mate in mind for me, why did I love Justin so much?"

"You said the previous majinette dreamer was lying about her vision." Heath picked at the corner of the label on an empty beer bottle. "How do you know this new one isn't lying too? Or that the king didn't manipulate everything to get what he wants? You've said it yourself. He never approved of Justin."

"I don't know." He slammed his wounded fist down on the table, rattling the shot glasses and beer bottles and causing everyone in the bar to look their way. He realized he was acting exactly like his father and hated himself for it. In a softer voice, he continued. "But what choice do I have? I'm the prince, the heir to the Hargreave Pack. I have a duty to my ancestors and to the pack, not to mention the Goddess. If this is Her will, who am I to defy it?"

"What will Justin do now?" Heath asked, and Richard couldn't help but notice that his best friend had avoided answering the question. "Does he even have a place to stay?"

"My father has arranged something. Some consolation prize. Justin is persona non grata at the palace."

"Was he formally expelled from the pack?"

Richard shook his head. His words stung with venom. "My father believes Justin will be easier to control if the pack has a choke chain on his neck. Exile, not expulsion."

"Your father…" Heath stopped and looked away, jaw clenched.

"I know. He's a holy bleeding asshole."

Heath snorted. "Feeling particularly profane tonight, my prince? All those royal tutors, and you're cussing like a dock worker."

"I'm no longer in the mood to play nice."

"Yeah. Losing someone you love will do that to you."

Richard closed his eyes. The sympathy in his friend's voice made him choke up. His emotions were out of control, and the alcohol certainly wasn't helping. Or was it? Probably not. But he didn't care. Perhaps it would sterilize the wounds inside him. Or at least numb him for a while.

The acrid scents of alarm and tension suddenly reached his nose. He opened his eyes to see Heath looking past him, his stare hard and his body very still. The scents came from Heath, but Richard could smell other scents over the beer and whisky and the somewhat-stale pretzels. The smell of humans was growing stronger.

He turned to look. The two burly guys who'd been shooting pool were closing in on their table. They looked like bikers or like they wanted to be bikers, with all the standard stuff that went along with the image. Tattoos. Leather. Unruly facial hair. And the eyes of men used to causing fear.

Casually, he turned back to Heath. "Don't shoot them unless you have to."

Heath didn't take his eyes off the men. "You're no fun."

The two humans reached them. The taller, heavier one leaned forward and planted meaty hands on their table. "Saw you two faggots holding hands. This ain't no gay bar. Get the fuck out."

Heath didn't say a word. He sat very still, but Richard knew he was ready to move in an instant. The Hargreave Royal Guard was an elite unit. They did not fool around.

Richard stared at the men and didn't smile. "I'm gay. He's not. Now that I've corrected you, why don't you scamper off and learn some civility? The adults are talking."

"‘The adults are talking,'" the guy on the right mocked in a simpering falsetto. "You freaks are so gonna regret stepping in here."

Richard took the last shot, threw it back, and set the glass down carefully. He turned to Heath and now he smiled. "What the hell. Maybe you'll get that fun after all."

"Richard. Don't." The look of deepening alarm in Heath's eyes was almost amusing. Not quite, but almost.

"Don't worry. The Goddess will protect us. Someone told me that Her ways are inexplicable and multifarious, and we must have faith."

The human who was looming over their table reached out and tipped over one of the beers. Amber liquid foamed out and spilled onto Richard's pants. "What the fuck are you talking about goddesses, you prissy faggots?"

"I don't appreciate the words you use," Richard said. The wolf in his eyes would've given wiser men pause. These weren't wiser men. "And you spilled my beer, friend. So tell me while you still can: how do you feel about wolves?"

Things got very exciting very fast. But at least it took Richard's mind off the heart-rending memory of Justin walking away, head down, looking utterly lost and alone.

At least for a little while.