by Tawna Fenske
I still can’t believe she’s getting married. That she’s planning to spend the rest of her life with a man she doesn’t love. Call me naïve for not realizing that still happens developed nations. She’s seen the sort of happy relationships her siblings snatched for themselves. Is it so far out of reach to think she could have that, too?
“Hey.” My sister bumps me with her elbow. “You want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“Whatever’s bothering you. Izzy, I assume.”
I shake my head and take my time sipping from the champagne flute. “Nope.”
“I understand.” My sister pauses. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s admirable.”
“What’s admirable?”
“That you’re not rushing to save her. You’re not doing that thing you do where you charge in and try to fix things for the damsel in distress. You’re trusting her to make her own choices, even when you don’t agree with the choice.”
I swallow back the lump in my throat. There’s something I’ve been wondering, but I’m not sure how to ask.
Screw it. “Would you have left Eric?” I blurt. “If I hadn’t come home and threatened him, would you still be stuck in an abusive marriage with a cheating prick?”
Julia takes her time responding. “I’m not sure. I like to think I’d have grown the balls to leave. Having Jordan changed me. Understanding I had a reason to want better for myself. For her.”
I nod absently, still scanning for Izzy. My gaze settles on a different set of dark curls framing electric green eyes. Bree Bracelyn meets my gaze and waves, her brow furrowed. She says something to Austin, then slips away and heads straight for us.
“Hey.” She smiles at Julia. “Great necklace.”
“Thanks.” My sister fingers the strands of intertwined pearls at her throat. “They belong to my mother. That reminds me, I should check in.”
I quirk an eyebrow at my sister. “You worried Jordan built a Lego prison and penned Mom inside?”
Julia rolls her eyes. “Or maybe she played her grandma like a boss and earned cocoa and ice cream for dinner.” My sister flashes one of her mom-smiles at Bree. “Jordan’s got our mother wrapped around her little finger.”
Bree laughs. “I feel you there. Austin’s dad is even worse than his mom. I swear those two would beat each other to death with couch pillows for the chance to hold Brian for two minutes.”
Julia smiles and touches my arm. “I’ll see you at the table, okay?”
I watch her go, thinking how grateful I am that she’s part of my life. Having a sister, it’s one of those things I’ve taken for granted. I remember Izzy’s words about how much she’s loved getting to know all her siblings and their partners. Will they stay close after she leaves?
A lump forms sour and thick in my throat, and I force myself to swallow it back as I look at Bree. “Gorgeous wedding, huh?”
“It was perfect.” She bites her lip and steps a little closer. “Look, it’s probably not my place to say anything, but I know about Izzy. About the reason she cut things off.”
The lump surges higher in my throat, clawing its way up my esophagus. “I’d fight for her if I could,” I admit. “But how do you fight against years of family obligation and guilt?”
I’m asking for real. I know I framed it as a rhetorical question, but I really want to know if I have any leg to stand on.
Bree studies me for a moment, hesitating. “I’m not sure I should say anything, but—”
“Bree, please. If there’s anything at all that might fix things with Izzy, I’m all ears.”
Again, she pauses. Then she steps closer and lowers her voice. “Did Izzy mention how her baby brother died?”
“What? No, I don’t think so.” I scroll back through the conversation. She was sobbing so hard by that point in the story that I didn’t press her. “She must have been babysitting when something happened?”
“Yes, but it’s not like there was some sort of accident. As far as I understand, she just put him down for a nap.”
Realization floods me, chilly and sharp. “SIDS?”
“Exactly. I mean, I don’t think they use that term in Dovlano, but she said something about how she shouldn’t have laid him on his side or put a teddy bear in his crib. Obviously, she blames herself.”
Another wave of awareness washes over the others. “Her own family blames her, too.” I’m not sure she said this directly, but I can read between the lines in hindsight. “It’s common for families to seek a scapegoat when a baby dies, but it couldn’t be her fault.”
“That’s what I told her.”
“There’s not a ton of research on SIDS, but most experts believe it’s a result of the brain failing to properly control breathing and heart rate. Not something caused by human actions.”
“Maybe she knows that on a factual level,” Bree says. “She’s smart as hell. But guilt has a way of twisting people’s brains into balloon animals.”
Something in her eyes tells me she knows this firsthand. I don’t know Bree’s backstory, but I’m sure none of the Bracelyn siblings had the easiest childhood. It had to be tough growing up with a serial philanderer for a father and a silver spoon wedged far enough down their throats to tickle their upper esophageal sphincter.
She continues like I’m not standing here naming parts of the digestive tract as a way to stop myself from thinking about Izzy.
“I get the feeling her family’s been twisting that knife for years,” she says.
“I had the same impression.” Is it disloyal to talk this much about Iz when she’s not here? But maybe talking about it might help somehow. “It can’t be easy to break free when you’ve got people clawing at your ankles and arms, insisting that you owe them something. That you need to atone for your sins.”
“Exactly.” Bree studies me curiously. “You love her?”
The bluntness of the question should startle me, but it doesn’t. Neither does my answer. “Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I do.”
“I thought so.” She pauses like she wants to say something else.
She’s still deciding when James comes up beside her. “Can I talk to you a minute? There’s a potential…situation.”
“Oh?” Bree glances to where the rest of the siblings are clustered in a concerned-looking knot. Even Jon has joined the group, looking oddly tense for a guy who just married the woman of his dreams.
“I’ll be right there.” Bree touches my arm. “Don’t give up on her, okay?”
I’m not sure what she means, but I desperately want to know. “You think I should fight for her? Plan some grand gesture or sweep her off her feet or something?”
Bree’s eyes hold mine for a moment. Then she shakes her head slowly. “I think what Izzy needs is to stand on her own feet.” She pauses. “But maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be ready to prop her up if she wobbles.”
She squeezes my arm, then turns to follow her brother across the room.
Well that was…interesting.
I go back to scanning the room, frowning when I still fail to spot Izzy. Shouldn’t she be here by now?
Screw it. I’m going to look for her.
I’ve just taken a step toward the door when my phone buzzes. Heart racing, I slide it from my pocket expecting to see her name.
It’s not Izzy’s name on the screen. It’s a name I programmed in and forgot about weeks ago.
Dan.
Dante.
What the—
As I scan the words, my blood goes cold.
Might need your skills, Deadeye.
Gripping the phone in a fist, I turn and run for the door.
Chapter 15
Isabella
“Who are you?” I force myself to stare down the stranger pointing a gun at me in Dante’s cabin. I’m using my best haughty duchess voice, but it comes out shaky. “Put down your weapon and identify yourself.”
The man in the black skullcap snorts, which reminds me of Kevin. My pig is nowhere
to be seen, and my chest squeezes painfully at the thought of what that might mean.
Skullcap steps forward, never taking his eyes off me. “Isn’t this a pleasant surprise.” He adjusts his grip on the firearm as his gaze sweeps over my body. “I wanted a word with our boy, Dante, but this is even better.”
“Who are you?” I throw more force behind the demand this time, though we both know it’s fruitless. He could shoot me right between the eyes if he wanted. “Why are you here?”
“I’m asking the questions here, princess.”
My hands ball into fists, and I blurt a retort before thinking. “I am not a goddamn princess. Don’t call me that.”
Don’t ask me why I’m splitting hairs, but I’m tired of having royal titles hurled at me like insults.
Skullcap keeps his gun trained on my head. “Maybe not a princess yet, but isn’t that the plan?” The smile he gives me is small and mean. “After you marry Stefano and the King kicks the bucket, you’re next in line, yes?”
I stare at him as the blood drains from my face. “I—that’s not—”
How does he know this?
“Oh, I know everything about you.” His smarmy smile suggests he sees right through me as he takes a step closer. “Daughter of the Duchess and Duke of Dovlano, though there’s some question about your paternal lines. We’d hoped that would be enough to prevent your ascension to the throne, but your mother’s enviable bloodline works in your favor.”
“Who are you?” The dryness of my mouth makes the words fall like dusty pebbles.
He’s not answering, but I know this for sure: Skullcap isn’t here for some run-of-the-mill burglary. Fear ripples up my arms, icy and sharp.
Where’s Dante? Or Kevin?
“Have a seat right over there.” He jerks the gun toward the sofa. “I need a sec to figure out what to do with you.”
“What are you—”
“Just do it!”
The bark of his voice tells me it’s time to shut up and do as he says while I assess my options. I carry myself to the far end of the sofa with as much composure as I can muster, lifting my dress to keep it from twisting around my ankles. As I seat myself on the edge of the leather cushion, something to the left catches my eye.
A black metal box tucked along the arm of the sofa, wedged between the leather and the wall. From across the room I thought it was an end table. From here I see it more clearly.
Dante’s gun safe. The silver keypad glints steely and cold, inches from my fingertips.
I force my eyes to stay glued to Skullcap, not daring to let him catch my attention drifting. “Where is Dante?”
His eyes flash with surprise. “I assumed you knew.”
Crap. I hope I haven’t ruined anything. I recall Dante’s words about needing to go somewhere, or maybe walk Kevin. I pray that’s what’s happening. Hope blooms in my chest. Maybe he’ll rescue me.
The blossom dies quicker than it grew. If Dante returns, he’ll walk right into a trap. Skullcap might think twice about shooting a member of the royal family, but he wouldn’t hesitate to take out its hired gun.
Or the hired gun’s foster pig.
I swallow hard, fighting not to show fear.
Skullcap reads my thoughts again. “Don’t think I won’t put a bullet between your eyes. You think everyone’s delighted to have a member of Dovlano’s royal court ascending to the throne in our country?” He barks out a mean little laugh, and that’s when I put it together. His accent, it’s not Dovlanese. It’s Saxenheim.
“Some of us don’t want you,” he continues, oblivious to the puzzle pieces snapping together in my brain. “Some of us think Prince Stefano should seek other allies.”
I lick my lips and I hold up my hands, sensing an opportunity. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Tell you what—I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Nice try.” He scowls and jerks the gun at me. “Continue.”
I clear my throat and force myself to sit up straighter on the couch. “Yes, well, I believe you have a point about there being better matches for Stefano. If you like, I could pen a letter to the king requesting they consider alternative brides for his son. It would be my pleasure.”
He laughs like I’ve said something terribly amusing. “Charming. You know as well as I do that your family would rather see you dead than see someone else as Stefano’s bride.”
My gut churns as I process what he’s said. He’s right, he’s absolutely right. This thug with a gun pointed at my head has a better grasp of my family than I do. I lick my lips again, conscious of the saltine cracker that used to be my tongue. “So you’re here to kill me.”
He shrugs like he hadn’t really considered it. “Technically, my contract is for Dante. I’m only supposed to kidnap you, put a little scare into the family. Maybe get some ransom while I’m at it.”
He’s talking as though this is a business transaction. Like at any moment I’ll invite him to sit down over a glass of sherry and some cheese. “I have money,” I tell him. “Plenty. If it’s ransom you want—”
“Nah, this is better.” He jerks the gun at me and I flinch. “Getting you out of the picture entirely, that’s a smarter move. No risk that some dumbass Dovlanese princess finds her pretty little ass on the throne.”
Licking his lips, he takes a step closer. “And you do have a great ass. Been noticing it for years. Seems a shame not to get a closer look.”
My skin starts to crawl as I scoot back against the arm of the couch. My hand brushes cold metal, reminding me there’s a cache of firearms just out of reach.
Could I be that brave? Or clever enough to figure out the combination?
It’s a moot point, since Skullcap’s not taking his eyes off me. “Thank you,” I say primly. “I’m not interested.”
“Maybe I am.” He leans closer, offering me the stench of his breath. “Real interested.”
It takes everything I have not to recoil. “Please, let’s talk this through.” I wedge my body deeper into the sofa. “Rape, murder—that’s what you’re considering here?”
Perhaps naming it will spur some sense of shame. Surely there’s a code of honor, even among criminals?
But Skullcap only sneers. “Hey, if you’d like to beg for your life, I’ll consider your position.”
“My—position?”
He licks his lips and points toward his feet. “Down on your knees. That’s where I’d love to see you.”
I’m going to throw up.
I’m going to pass out.
I push those fears aside and force another set of thoughts through the trembling lobes of my brain.
I’m not going to die.
Not without a fight.
Not without telling Bradley I love him.
I’m not sure where that last thought comes from, but the instant it floats to the surface, I cling to it like a life ring.
That day in my living room, it killed me to hear him say it. I love you. The plainest, most important words in the English language, and I couldn’t bring myself to say it back.
But it’s the rest of what he said that hits me square in the gut. With a gun pointed at my chest, with my life flashing before my eyes, it’s Bradley’s voice I hear.
“Plans change. The future you think you’re destined for—it can become something different in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, that’s tragic. But sometimes, it’s the best thing that could happen.”
As Skullcap stares me down, I take a deep breath. This is it. My chance to change the future. To alter the course of everything. I’d prefer to do it without the threat of rape and death, but here we are.
I swallow back my fear, fighting not to show Skullcap how petrified I am. “If you lay a hand on me,” I say with as much menace as I can muster, “my parents will have you hunted down like the animal you are.”
“Maybe.” He laughs again, and dances back like it’s all a big game. “I’m willing to be a martyr for my country if it means keeping it in t
he hands of pure Saxenheimers.”
Good God, the man is insane. I suppose I already knew it, but hearing him speak drives home the point.
Slowly, I let my hand drop to the arm of the sofa. I keep it there, waiting to see if his eyes follow the movement. Instead, he keeps his gaze fixed on mine, dropping briefly to my legs as I cross and uncross them.
A lightbulb flickers in my brain.
Letting my fingers skim the top of the gun safe, I shift my legs again and watch his gaze linger over my ankles. “Who sent you?” I don’t care at this point, but I want to keep him distracted.
Want him to miss the fact that my fingers just brushed the top of the keypad, the numbers smooth beneath the ovals of my nails. It’s an electronic combination lock, the kind that requires a combination of numbers.
Or letters.
The raised figures beneath my fingertips tell me each digit corresponds with a handful of alphabetic characters, just like a phone keypad. I file this information away as my eyes stay glued to Skullcap’s.
He sneers at my question. “None of your damn business who sent me.” He leans one shoulder against the wall, enjoying the game, or maybe the sight of my dress hem riding up my calf.
I pray this new angle takes my hand that much farther from his view. Fingering the keypad, I commit each button to memory. As I do, Lily’s voice lilts through my brain.
“You’ve got a great rack, girl. The kind of rack that makes men stupid.”
I’ve never had a use for stupid men. Not until now.
“It’s unbearably hot in here.” I unfasten the belt on my coat and let it fall off my shoulders, watching as his eyes drop to my breasts. “Do you think maybe you could open a window?”
“Don’t be an idiot.” He says the words directly to my chest. “You didn’t used to be this hot.”
The compliment sends my skin crawling again, but I accept it with grace. “Thank you.” I flutter the dress’s neckline, pinching the silk between two fingers as my other hand skims the keypad. “Maybe I could at least get a glass of water? Before you rape and murder me, that is.”
He frowns at my characterization of his plans. “I’m supposed to wait for backup.”