“Many times,” he replies. “Did you enjoy your visit, Miss Hull?”
“Those people selling produce aren’t even Harvesters,” she said.
He tilts his head to the side. “Really? They wear the Harvester work uniform.”
My brows draw together. Are they telling people that we get to wear such fine clothes, grow a wide array of beautiful produce, and get to visit the Oasis to sell our wares?
“Ask Zea.” Emmera flicks her head at me.
The chef raises both brows and pours soy sauce over the rice.
My mouth drops open. Of all the times to bring up such a contentious subject, why did Emmera choose now, in front of the cameras?
As Prince Kevon turns to me to ask, Vitelotte plunges the chef’s knife in his chest.
The prince’s body stiffens, his face freezes, his eyes lock onto mine, and blood bubbles from his lips.
Chapter 9
Emmera’s scream rings in my ears and pierces through my shock. My gaze snaps away from the prince’s and down to the knife sticking out of his chest. Blood seeps through his pale shirt and spreads down to his pants. There’s too much.
Just as Prince Kevon’s body goes slack and slumps to the side, I lurch out of my seat and catch him.
His dead weight falls on me like a boulder, and I have to dig my heels into the floor to stop myself from toppling over and dislodging the knife in his chest. My biceps strain as I ease him to the floor.
“Zea,” he croaks.
My knees drop to the floor’s spongy surface. Blood covers the knife’s bamboo hilt, pools beneath Prince Kevon, and soaks into the straw mats. He’s losing too much, too quickly, and the light in his eyes is fading. I want to pull out the knife, but it might be the only thing staunching the flow.
A patch of white catches my gaze. It’s his blood-splattered napkin. I remember how Prince Kevon saved me from a knife to the back by placing something on both sides of the blade.
Feet surround us. My attention bounces from the knife to Prince Kevon’s paling face. Sweat beads across his brow, and his breath comes in ragged pants. With hands that won’t stop trembling, I fold the napkin into quarters and apply it to the side of the wound, but it soaks with blood.
“Get me more napkins,” I shout over Emmera’s wails. When nobody moves in my peripheral vision, I scream, “Now, or he’ll bleed to death.”
The feet scatter, and I stare into Prince Kevon’s eyes. He blinks over and over as though trying to make sense of what just happened. One minute, we were enjoying a fun dinner. The next, he had a knife in his chest.
“What did you do?” a voice screeches from the other side of the room.
It’s probably someone attacking Vitelotte, but I don’t care. Right now, it’s just me, Prince Kevon, and the wound that won’t stop bleeding.
Loud footsteps fill the air, mingling with sobs and shouts and recriminations. White napkins tumble down from above. I gather them into thick wads and pack them on both sides of the wound.
“Zea,” he whispers.
“Kevon.” I lean forward to hear what might be his last words.
“Please don’t be angry,” he says.
“What are you talking about?”
“My mother said…” He swallows.
A surge of emotion thickens my throat, and my eyes fill with tears. Vitelotte just tried to assassinate Prince Kevon, and he’s apologizing for Queen Damascena’s machinations? I blink, and tears stream from my eyes, falling onto the soaked napkins.
“Don’t think about that.” My voice is hoarse with unvoiced screams. “Help is on the way.”
His eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a long breath.
Alarm slices through my heart. Was that his last? “Kevon,” I rasp. “Open your eyes.”
Noise explodes around me, the thunder of heavy feet, a scream that cuts off. It fades as I urge Prince Kevon to give me a sign of life. A rough hand grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. The movement jostles the napkins away from the knife, sending a fountain of blood cascading from his wound.
“Stop,” I yell.
The hand releases my arm. I drop to my knees and return to putting pressure on his chest wound. His ribs moves a fraction under my hands, but that’s the only sign that he’s still alive. I raise my head and find us surrounded by guards in purple armor. One of them holds an electroshocker sparking with blue power. Where’s Garrett? What were these men doing when Vitelotte reached for the knife?
“Where’s the ambulance?” I rasp.
“On its way,” says one of the men whose face is obscured by his helmet.
There’s no sign of Vitelotte, Emmera, or the chef. I don’t know why, but they’ve allowed the camerawomen to remain. I catch glimpses of them through the guards, who stand around watching like spectators at a lizard fight. One of these so-called royal protectors must have medical training, but nobody moves to help me stem the bleeding.
I drop my gaze to Prince Kevon, whose lips are parted. Blood spatters cover his cheeks and jaw, proving the amount of effort Vitelotte must have used to strike at his heart.
Blood seeps through the napkin and out from between my fingers. I don’t know if what I’m doing is enough to keep him alive until the medics arrive, but if I let go, he’ll bleed out.
A dark-skinned man appears at my side, clad in the hooded, white jumpsuit of a medic. He places a mask over Prince Kevon’s nose and gives me a nod of acknowledgment. Relief floods my veins, and my muscles go weak.
“My name is Frederick,” he says. “I’m an emergency heart technician from the Royal Hospital. Keep that pressure on the wound until I give you further instructions, alright?”
I give him a shaky nod.
While an older woman wearing a similar outfit cuts away Prince Kevon’s jacket and shirt, Frederick sticks needles into specific points on Prince Kevon’s face. Once the woman finishes, there’s nothing left of
