Waylen's POV
The car glided to a halt, but we remained seated in the heavy silence. When you are king, the simplest acts—opening your own door, driving yourself to the morgue to identify your father's body—become complicated affairs of state.
A warm hand settled on mine, a small anchor in the swirling dark. "Are you alright?"
I forced a smile for Emily. "I'm fine, baby."
She didn't buy it. She never does. Instead, she leaned her head against my shoulder, and I felt the instant, warm dampness of her tears through my suit jacket. The sight of her in any distress has always been my undoing, twisting something essential inside me.
"I miss him so much," she whispered, her voice thick. "The last time we spoke, he asked for apples. Not just any apples. The ones from the tree he and Miracle planted when she was twelve. I think he missed her. I miss her, too… my little girl. Do you think… do you think she'll come home now?"
