by Mari Carr
Three hours with Alicia had wiped away all trace of Lancelot.
Charlie had returned…with a vengeance.
The things he’d done to Alicia—who did indeed have touches of masochism in her—would horrify his lovers. He’d tortured her, slowly, methodically, employing every trick up his sleeve to ensure she would suffer greatly, and without the use of tools.
His knuckles hurt. At least he’d been able to stop at a petrol station bathroom and scrub away the flecks and spatters of blood before anyone saw them.
In the end, all he had to show for his efforts was that name.
Varangian.
In the end, he’d placed a broken bit of glass to her face, the sharp tip puncturing the skin just next to her left eye. He had threatened to blind her, to cut her eyes out of her head.
Of course, when he considered all the bruises and cuts he’d left on her body before that taunt, he had held out very little hope that threat would work.
Surprisingly, it had.
Alicia had closed her eyes and whispered the name.
Varangian.
Then, she’d said she had failed him by exposing them, that she had orders to kill Sylvia.
That moment of weakness was brief, one that Alicia shook herself free of. After that, she refused to speak. Her lips pursed shut no matter what he threatened to do to her.
He’d broken three more fingers, but she’d remained silent.
He had tortured enough people in the past to know when it was time to stop. The dead look in Alicia’s eyes assured him the session was done. Normally that was when he’d take a break, let her rest, then start up again once her body wouldn’t have the insulating protection of shock and adrenaline.
And while he despised Eric for plotting to include Sylvia in Alicia’s future interrogations, the security officer in him could appreciate that his lovely, sweet poet was most likely their best chance at extracting more information.
“I should explain something first,” Lancelot said, looking at Sylvia. “In the Masters’ Admiralty, each territory assigns some members special roles, financial advisors, knights,” he paused before adding, “security officers.”
Sylvia nodded. “Okay.” She was patiently waiting for him to get to the point.
“And, obviously,” Hugo said, hopping in on what he thought was a simple explanation, “Lancelot is a knight. Once they join, they drop their surname and, in England, they take Knight as their last name, as well as choosing one of the names of a Knight of the Round Table. England’s new admiral was previously a knight named Tristan. Now, however, he is Arthur.”
Sylvia smiled, and Lancelot could just imagine how much her poet’s heart loved his territory’s contemporary nod to the ancient legend.
“The security officers are different from the knights,” Lancelot said, knowing his confession would mean less to her until she understood exactly what it was he did for a living.
Again, Hugo explained. “While knights see that the law is obeyed and justice served, the security officers handle the…less savory aspects of peacekeeping. I think in America, the difference would be similar to that of the justice system and the CIA.”
“Security officers employ methods most people would frown upon,” Lancelot added.
“Like what?” she asked.
Lancelot swallowed heavily. “Torture. Murder. Blackmail. You have to understand…Knights deal with mostly white-collar crimes, ones that aren’t violent in nature. Meanwhile, security officers chase down the most vicious criminals—murderers, rapists…terrorists.”
Sylvia tilted her head, assessing him carefully. She was a bright woman, astute, clever. “Why are you telling me this, Lancelot?”
It was clear from her voice, from the way she said his name, she already suspected why.
As did Hugo. “Merde,” he whispered.
“My name isn’t Lancelot. It’s Charlie Allerton, and I’m a security officer for the territory of England.”
Hugo stood up, turning to him angrily. “You lied! Right from the beginning.”
“The fleet admiral thought it best if—”
“I don’t give a fuck what Eric thought! You’ve had plenty of opportunities to come clean since then. Why would you keep that from us?” Hugo asked.
Charlie stood up, anger mingling with desperation. “My job…well, it’s not exactly the kind of thing you brag about to nice people, is it, la?” His Scouse accent was coming out too strong. “I’ve done things, mate, things neither one of you could condone or even fooking understand. Even this afternoon—”
Sylvia rose, her eyes narrowed. “Alicia. What did you do to her?”
Charlie clamped his lips closed before he could utter the first word that came to his mind.
Unspeakable.
He’d done unspeakable things to her former mentor, her beloved teacher.
“You said she’s still alive,” Sylvia said, seeking confirmation that hadn’t been a lie. He could hardly blame her for questioning every fucking word that came out of his mouth. It wasn’t like he had a great track record here.
“She is,” he said, not adding barely to the statement.
Sylvia’s gaze was steady, unrelenting. “But you hurt her?”
He nodded.
“Badly?”
Again, he nodded.
She considered that for a moment, then shocked him. “Good. I’m glad. She deserved it for dumping me overboard.”
Charlie blinked, wondering if he’d heard her correctly.
Hugo unwittingly confirmed he had when his attention turned to their woman. “Sylvia?!”
Rather than respond to Hugo’s shocked outcry, Sylvia continued to address him. “So…Charlie,” she said.
Jesus. Something had clearly broken inside him. It was his God-given name on her lips and he hated it.
“I’m not going to ask you if that’s it—the last of the secrets. Honestly, I don’t care anymore.”
Her words went through him like a dagger. He’d known he had reached the end, gone too far. Knew this last secret would push her away forever.
“I’m sorry, Sylvia,” he said. “Sorrier than you can know.”
“Sylvie,” she corrected.
He frowned. “What?”
“When you’re in trouble, you call me Sylvie.”
He didn’t expect to see the smile that accompanied her comment. He’d expected anger, not…humor.
“Dieu nous sauve tous,” Hugo muttered, dropping back down in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his head bent as if he were indeed praying for God to save them all.
“It’s okay, Hugo,” Sylvia said, placing her hand on his shoulder. “I think Charlie doesn’t realize yet how much of Lancelot he has in him. But we have a chance—and time—to show him. I’m going to travel to Europe with you. We’ll help your fleet admiral find this mastermind, and then, we’ll start over again. At the beginning. Eric said he read and enjoyed my poetry, so that means he’s a closet romantic. We’ll appeal to that part of him, ask him for time to get to know one another.”
“He means for us to marry,” Hugo said. “Not date. That’s not how the Masters’ Admiralty works. We told you. Marriages are arranged by the admirals. Love and choice do not play a part in it.”
Sylvia crossed her arms. “I’m not a member.”
Charlie stepped closer to her. “Yet.”
She laughed, lightly slapping his cheek. “There’s my arrogant, cocky man. Over your guilt already?”
He shook his head, helpless to hold back his smile. He’d come into this room prepared to lose everything. The past few days with Sylvia should have proven to him that he was facing a lifetime of constant pleasant surprises.
“Accept the fleet admiral’s invitation to join the Masters’ Admiralty,” Charlie insisted.
“Ask me nicely.”
Sylvia knew exactly what to say to provoke the alpha inside him. He reached out and pulled her into his arms, kissing her. It was a hard, demanding kiss, one that p
roved he was more than up to the challenge of bending her to his will.
Hugo was there when he and Sylvia moved apart, ready to step in and claim his own hot kiss.
Charlie reached for her a second time, but Sylvia took two big steps back. “No. Too much more of that and this will go too far. Something tells me your fleet admiral won’t leave us alone that long. And I know my brothers won’t.”
Charlie wanted to dispute that fact, but a loud knock at the door proved she was right.
“Sylvia,” Langston called out. “You okay?”
Sylvia walked to the door, throwing it open. “Oh. My. God. Seriously? Could you guys be any more annoying?”
Oscar snorted. “Is that a rhetorical question?” He looked at Walt. “Because we can totally be more annoying, right?”
Walt didn’t crack a smile, didn’t acknowledge his brother at all. “So…” he prompted.
“So… I’m going to Europe to help the fleet admiral find the bad guy. Then I’m going to stick around a little while. See where this thing with Hugo and Lance, er, Charlie, is headed.”
Oscar scowled. “Who the fuck is Charlie? Jesus H. Christ. I’m gonna need some sort of flowchart to keep up with who’s who.”
Walt stepped over to Sylvia, studying her face like he was diagnosing a patient. “You love them?”
She nodded.
Walt smiled, though it was a sad one. “We’re losing you.”
“Never,” Sylvia said, quickly swiping away a tear.
Charlie stepped next to her, placing his arm around her waist. “We love her, Walt.”
“We’ll never hurt her,” Hugo added, claiming Sylvia’s other side.
Langston rolled his eyes, gesturing to her hand. “Yeah. You’re doing a stellar job with that so far.”
Sylvia narrowed her eyes. “Langston,” she started.
He raised his hand, cutting her off. “I get it, Sis. I really do. I might not like the idea of you going overseas, but,” Langston blew out a long breath, and Charlie could tell Sylvia’s brother really didn’t want to admit what came next, “I was there. I saw Alicia throw you into the ocean, saw Lancelot go in after you, saw the way Hugo held you on the shore. If we’re going to lose you, I guess…I guess it could be worse than to these two guys.”
Oscar turned on his brothers. “Are you two fucking kidding me? We’re condoning this?”
Sylvia moved until she was standing in front of Oscar. “Please,” she whispered. “Please be happy for me. I couldn’t stand leaving knowing you were mad or unhappy with me.”
While Charlie knew Oscar was named for Oscar Wilde, he’d had a hard time not looking at the man and thinking he was more suited to another Oscar namesake. Of the Muppet variety. All Oscar the Grouch was missing was the trashcan.
“Dammit, Sylvia.” Oscar sighed—then Charlie’s eyes widened as he saw something that could almost pass for a smile cross the man’s face. “I’m not mad. If you’re happy, I’m happy. But if those sons of bitches do one thing to hurt you, I will hack into ASAT, put an X on their backs, and—”
“No,” Langston cut in. “If anyone gets to blow their asses to Kingdom Come, it’s me.”
Sylvia laughed as if her brothers hadn’t just threatened their total annihilation. “ASAT weapons are designed to destroy other space satellites. Not to kill humans.”
“Never underestimate my abilities, Little Sister,” Oscar said.
“I can make a bomb big enough to kill a man fit in a greeting card. You can get C4 real flat if you want,” Langston said with a smile.
Sylvia rolled her eyes, then turned to him and Hugo. “Clean sweep. We got their blessings!”
Hugo gave Charlie a look that all but screamed “what the fuck” but, ever the gentleman, he managed to replace it with a quick smile, shaking each of her brothers’ hands. “We will, perhaps, get one of those bomb robots for opening our mail.”
Charlie begrudgingly followed suit, trying not to think too hard about Sylvia’s plans. She still believed they could convince Eric to allow them to date. He knew better, which left him to wonder—and worry.
Would Sylvia throw caution to the wind? Join the Masters’ Admiralty and tie her life to theirs? Or would she simply help them question Alicia, then return to the loving arms of her insane brothers?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sylvia stood on her front porch, taking a long look around her beloved street, recalling all the good times she’d had here—as a child, reenacting scenes from Star Wars in the summers, or sitting cross-legged in the grass as she sketched. As an adult, sipping lemonade in the early evenings with Grandma, talking about everything and nothing at the same time.
She glanced down at her brand-new pale purple cast, courtesy of Langston and Walt. After they left the hospital, her brothers printed it out, then they came here so Walt could put it on. She wiggled her arm, amazed at the sturdiness of the cast despite the fact that instead of one solid piece, it was more of a honeycomb, which meant she’d be able to shower with it. Her index finger and thumb were free, but her last three fingers were held in a slightly curled position. Amazingly, there was no pain in her hand.
Thank God for Walt and Percocet.
The triplets had only left a few minutes ago, and Sylvia was still trying to ward off the desire to cry. As brilliant and stupid, as protective and annoying as they were, she would miss them all terribly.
She’d never really considered leaving this place, though somewhere in the back of her mind, she must have known she would. Sylvia would have expected to feel sad, would have thought she’d view moving out as the end of something.
In truth, it was just the beginning.
A limousine pulled into the driveway, alerting Hugo and Lancelot—no, Charlie; that would take some getting used to—that they had company. Both men stepped out onto the porch, each carrying two suitcases. She hadn’t been sure how much to bring, but considering they were flying to Europe on a private plane, they’d told her not to hold back. She could tell by their faces they hadn’t realized the extent of her love of not just clothes and shoes, but also of sketch pads, drawing pencils and journals.
Hugo set down one of the bags, the loud banging sound proving he’d picked up the heaviest one. “What’s in there? Bricks?”
She smiled, but before she could respond, both men’s attention was drawn to the limo.
Eric climbed out of the back. It occurred to her, given the man’s immense height and build, a limo was probably the most comfortable vehicle for him.
“You aren’t the only one with giants swinging in the family tree,” she murmured to Charlie, who grinned.
“Fleet Admiral,” Hugo said, as Eric approached the porch. “When you said you’d send a car around, we didn’t realize—”
“Surprise, no limo sex for you. Well, unless you’re into me watching.” Eric looked at the suitcases. “Pink suitcases. The girl’s coming. Good.”
Sylvia nodded. “I told you at the hospital, I would travel with you to offer whatever assistance I could with Alicia.”
Eric’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“And?” she asked.
“What else?”
Sylvia wasn’t sure how to reply.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He looked at Hugo and Charlie. “Is that everything?”
Both men looked at her. She smiled at their hopeful-slash-worried expressions. “That’s it. For this trip,” she added.
Hugo blew out a long breath and muttered, “All of this will never fit in my flat.”
“Put her stuff in the car. Then put yourselves in the car. Ms. Hayden and I are going to talk,” Eric said.
Hugo and Charlie loaded the trunk, but then Charlie started back toward the porch, as if he were going to stand guard over her.
Eric turned to him. Sylvia couldn’t see his face, but whatever expression was there made Charlie stop, his jaw muscle flexing. He turned and stalked back to the limo. Hugo put a hand on his shoulder, and then they climbed in.
Eric turned back to her, his face unreadable. “Are you joining the Masters’ Admiralty or not?”
She recalled Juliette’s reminder that if she joined, she would be leaving home, but that didn’t scare her. In fact, the only thing giving her the tiniest moment of pause was trying to figure out how she was going to tell her mama—about her sudden move overseas, and about Hugo and Charlie.
Mama would tan her hide when she found out she’d moved four thousand miles away to be with two men she’d “dated” less than a week.
Eric noticed her sudden panic. “What’s holding you back?” He jerked a head toward the limo. “Those two? I can find you younger men. Or swap one of them out for a sexy lady.”
“No, but thank you for the offer. They’re the only reason I’m coming with you.”
Eric grumped. “Then you’re joining. You want them, you’re a member. Which means you answer to me.”
There was something Sylvia was curious about, something she needed answered before she agreed. Before she could give her life to the Masters’ Admiralty. “Hugo said that marriages are arranged, that people don’t get to choose their partners. Trinities are created for the good of society, as a way to better the world.”
“That’s right.”
“Love doesn’t come into play.”
Eric crossed his arms. He was very good at giving off impatient vibes, making others think he had better places to be and he was merely indulging them. No doubt that kept conversations short and made sure the speaker got right to the point. But he wasn’t as aloof as he seemed. Sylvia could feel his attention on her, could tell he was scrutinizing her, sizing her up.
“It doesn’t come into play.”
Sylvia didn’t believe him. Nothing in his voice, words, or stance betrayed him, but she knew he didn’t mean what he said. “But you know that were we free to choose, Hugo, Charlie, and I would have chosen each other.”
Eric didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he walked over to her porch swing and sat down. “Humph,” he said, swinging slowly. The wood creaked, and Sylvia was a little worried the chains and bolts would give way under his weight. “If we’re going to talk, a bench swing is a good place to do it.”