by Avery Flynn
Misery squeezed her heart, squashing it until there was nothing left. The last thing she’d told him was good-bye, when even as she’d said it, she’d known it wouldn’t have been forever. Not between them. Their lives had come crashing together wish such force that they’d been melded together. No single word was going to sever that.
A third explosion boomed, and the chalet came crumbling down. Dom was down there, somewhere, in the smoking rumble. He wasn’t dead. She wouldn’t believe that. She couldn’t. A silent scream rang in her ears, the mournful keening of loss mixed with the raw fury.
Using every bit of strength that she had, she slid her gaze over to the man whom she’d someday kill slowly and with as much pain as possible. He didn’t seem bothered by the hatred he had to see blazing in her eyes.
“And that, Princess, is what we do to those who try to take on the Fjende.” Walther laughed and sat back in his seat, closing his eyes like a man without a care in the world.
If she could have moved a single limb, she would have torn him to shreds before shoving him out of the helicopter, even if that meant she plummeted to her death with him. She didn’t want to believe Walther. How could anyone have survived the attack? No one could have, not even Dom.
Chapter Thirteen
Dom strained to hear the voice above the static on the backup radio that was their only communication with what was left of the team outside.
“She’s not here,” Sergeant Christiansen said, the words garbled but the message clear.
The vise on his chest loosened a few turns. “How can you be sure?”
“Thermal scan was negative,” Christiansen said. “It confirms the report from Bravo Company, which had visual of a small unit escorting a prisoner to a helicopter.”
Reports of the royal jet taking off from a private airport in Harbor City had come in within an hour of the first explosion. Dom didn’t believe in coincidence. “We’ll operate on the assumption she’s on her way to Elskov, but I want that part of the chalet excavated first.”
“Copy that, sir,” the other man said. “Should I send a secondary team to your area?”
“Negative.” He disconnected the line and shoved back from the keyboard.
He’d broken through the mechanism holding the operations room door locked, but it wouldn’t do any good now. The metal door whined as the fire blazed on the other side of the chalet’s security room. Dom’s ears still rang from the explosions that had rocked the chalet to its foundations. The only thing that had saved them was the fact that his paranoia had convinced him to build the security room into the side of the mountain; otherwise, they would be buried under several tons of the stones used to build the chalet. The explosions had been too strong for any other outcome to be possible.
He’d be worried if he’d thought Elle was still here, but the Fjende hadn’t come here to kill her. They needed her too much, at least for now. Dom had to get to her before it was too late.
He glanced over at the man who’d been his trusted number two for the past six years. What he was about to ask went so far beyond the call of duty that he couldn’t allow the other man to embark on what could very well be a suicide mission without giving him an out.
“Major,” he said. “You don’t have to come with me, but if you do, it doubles our chances of getting Elle back safely. Are you in?”
The other man grinned. “Are you asking me to help you storm the castle?”
“Shit, Major, you’ve got a sense of humor. I never would have guessed.” Throwing open the door to the small armory built into the side of the security room, Dom grabbed a duffel bag and started stuffing it with guns, ammunition, and peripheral equipment.
Without a word, Major Bendtsen stepped up beside Dom and started doing the same.
Dom finished filling his bag and snagged a set of keys from the top of the rack. The action triggered what looked like a solid wall splitting in the middle and sliding open like elevator doors, revealing another door with a handprint scanner. He held his palm up to the screen. A green light traveled from top to bottom; the scanner beeped twice, and the door swung open. A blast of freezing-cold air swept into the room.
Lights clicked on one after the other, revealing a long tunnel carved into the mountain at a steep decline. When he’d commissioned the backup plan to his backup plan, this had been the escape route to get the king or Elle off the mountain and miles away from the chalet, into a sports utility vehicle and to the private airstrip where the jet bound for Elskov was waiting for them; they’d be there by morning. The Kronig would only be hours away, but the early prep team was already there waiting for his arrival. The king had been on his way from Madrid when the Fjende had hit the chalet.
What he hadn’t considered until it was too late was what would happen if the security protocols worked as planned, except he was trapped inside and Elle was left to fend for herself against the Fjende. He’d fucked up, but that wasn’t going to happen again. No matter what it took, he was going to make sure Elle was safe.
After that? He’d walk away from the woman he loved, knowing it was the best thing for her. She had a duty to her country. She’d made a promise to accept the crown, and she’d stick to it. Princesses didn’t marry common foreigners, no matter how rich or loyal. He’d bow, and like the reporter in Roman Holiday, he’d walk away. Then he’d get drunk enough to forget the way she tasted and the sassy challenge every time she opened her sweet mouth and the way she could knock him sideways with just a look.
…
Elle stretched her fingers. It wasn’t much, but it was more than she’d been able to do when Walther and his thug patrol had hauled her onto the private jet and buckled her into a leather seat embossed with the royal crest. Her attempts to catch the eye of the flight attendant for help during the fourteen-hour flight to Elskov had been futile. No doubt she’d been chosen with the same evil care as Walther’s armed minions.
They taxied across the deserted private airport. It wouldn’t do for the press to find out she’d been dragged home like a drugged-up sheep. Instead, they’d circled a small, local airport before descending to the asphalt runway. The wheels touched down, and she bounced in her seat, watching the countryside rush by as the jet slowed to a stop near the utilitarian terminal.
She wasn’t supposed to be here, not yet—that hadn’t been Dom’s plan. He would be so pissed if he’d known how screwed up his plan had become. The image of him with that cocky grin and the Viking swagger gave way to the remembered sound of explosions and the heat whipping up from the ground so intense she’d felt it lick against her skin even in the helicopter. Tears pricked her eyes as she blinked them away, grinding her teeth together in an effort to keep from letting the cry rip from her throat.
All of her emotions mixed up to form a sticky ball of hurt, regret, and betrayal that made even breathing difficult. How could she be so mad at Dom and so heartbroken at the same time? It didn’t make sense…but one thing did. She looked over at Walther across from her. The bastards would pay for killing him. She’d see to it if it were the last thing she ever did.
The fasten seat belt sign overhead dinged off.
“Welcome home, Your Highness.” Walther unsnapped his seat belt and leaned forward to undo hers. “I hope you had a pleasant flight.”
She flipped him off, surprising herself that she could. The drugs were wearing off fast now. Good, something in her favor.
He chuckled, but his left eye twitched enough to add some menace to the soft sound. “That rude nonverbal gesture is not fitting with your station, but that won’t matter after the Kronig.”
She worked to get her dry mouth to cooperate. “What happens then?”
Information was power, and she needed all she could get right now. The letter opener tucked into her boot scratched her calf, but she celebrated the pain after hours of numbness.
“That’s up to you.” Walther shrugged. “Your cousin Alton will be giving you the details, but the choice comes down to a wedding o
r a painful—agonizing, really—daily life. I’ll let you wonder which one he’s hoping you’ll choose.”
That wasn’t going to happen. She hadn’t been in the castle for a decade, but she’d grown up there. She knew every side passage, every unused tunnel, and a million shortcuts. All she needed was a few minutes to herself and she’d be outside the walls before Walther here had any idea. Of course, what she’d do after she had no clue. Elskov was an island, and she could only run so far, but she’d figure that out once she made it to the coast. An old memory tickled her brain. Alton’s family had a home outside Faroe City, a huge monstrosity of a place on the coast with several small boats and a yacht. If he wasn’t in residence, she could get there. It had been years, but every Elskovian child learned how to pilot a boat at a young age, even the country’s princess. She could be in Denmark thirteen hours after setting off. Once there, she’d announce the princess was alive and do whatever it took to push the Fjende out of Elskov. But first she needed intel. “Where is my dear cousin?”
Walther gave a bored sigh and checked his watch. “Waiting for you at the castle.”
It was obvious he could care less. The lightbulb went off. “You’re not just the royal guard, you’re leading the Fjende.”
He stood, a smirk curling his thin lips, and took a deep bow. “At your service, Your Highness.”
Icy certainty froze her to the spot; she couldn’t wait to wipe that shitty look off his face with the tip of a sharp knife. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”
“Funny.” Something dark and deadly snapped in his navy blue eyes. “That’s exactly what I told your father before I pulled the trigger.”
“You bastard.” She bolted from her seat, ready to take him out with a quick jab to the esophagus followed by a knee to the nuts, but her legs gave way as soon as she was upright. She fell into a heap on her chair, the contents of her stomach roiling.
“No, actually, I’m not,” he sneered. “My parents are still married and delightfully unaware that it’s our family who should be on the Elskov throne, but your lot dabbled in poison and voilà, the Dahl dynasty ended during a single dinner. One quick-witted Madsen took advantage of the power vacuum, and your ancestors stole the throne. I’ve just taken it back.”
“How is that even possible if all of the Dahls died?”
“Now you of all people should know that while it’s not easy, royalty can hide among the commoners. A new last name, a hiding of the evidence, and you’re all set. Of course, what my parents believe only to be an old family legend is in actuality truth. We are the lost Dahls, and the throne is ours; it is divine provenance,” he said, his voice ringing with conviction as a calmness settled over him.
Walther wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t greedy. He was a true believer. Bile rose in Elle’s throat. The urge to run as far away as fast as possible seized her by the throat. If she couldn’t find a way to escape, she’d forfeit her life. She jiggled her legs; they felt better. Maybe not 100 percent, but close. If she could piss him off just enough to get him to really go on a rant, she could make a break for it.
“Wow,” she said with just enough of the insolence she used to impress the snotty, spoiled, rich teenagers who came to Dylan’s showroom floor. “It must really gall you then to see my cousin Alton on it.”
The air sizzled around Walther. “He won’t be there for much longer. Whether you marry him or not, you will carry my heir, and a true-blood Dahl will inherit the throne, righting a wrong made hundreds of years ago.”
Her stomach lurched, and her mouth tasted of foulness. “It’s not going to happen,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m not alone anymore.”
“Did you miss the”—he raised one finger, then a second, and then a final finger—“three explosions when we took off? There’s nothing left of your Resistance.”
She pictured Dom, his wide smile and broad shoulders as they sparred in the training room. The warmth of him as they’d snuggled watching Roman Holiday. The feel of his hands on her bare flesh. The look in his eyes when he’d come with her name on his lips.
Had it been love? Yes.
Dom had deserved more out of life than to die in her name. Grief twisted her heart until all that was left was fury and regret.
Walther reached into the pocket of his wool coat. He withdrew a needle and uncapped it. “So do I need to shoot you up again, or can I count on you to be a good little princess who will walk across the tarmac to the waiting car and not make a fuss?”
Clear liquid formed a drop that clung to the end of the needle. It had taken her fourteen hours to get back after he’d shot her up last time. There was no way she was going back under. She’d buy her time. He couldn’t have his eyes on her with the needle at the ready all of the time.
“Elskov is an island,” she said. “Where in the world would I go if I did manage to get away?”
“That is the smartest thing I’ve heard you say since you woke up.” He yanked a thick metal cuff from his other coat pocket and clapped it around her wrist, securing it in place with a thin chain. “Now this will ensure you stay with us. Part GPS tracker and part ticking time bomb, it will let us know where you are at all times, and if you try to take it off, this little bit here”—he pointed to what looked like a small diamond—“opens up and releases the same numbing agent you just enjoyed, but in a much more powerful dose. You’ll be on the ground before your head even processes what happened. Honestly, I’m not sure if I’d prefer the sure thing of knowing where you are or the fun of seeing you fight the toxin.” He held out his arm. “Now, shall we?”
It went against every instinct she had, but Elle slid her hand into the crook of his arm and they walked down the jet’s staircase. He wanted to take her to the castle? Good. No one knew it better than her. Once she figured out how to remove the damned cuff, she’d slip through Walther’s grasp like water.
Her foot had barely touched the tarmac when a blast of wind hit her, carrying the scent of salt water, old memories, and home. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized Dom had carried the scent as well. He hadn’t, not really. It would have been impossible to bottle Elskov’s scent, but somehow he’d smelled like home to her. Even though Dom hadn’t made it here with her, he’d brought her home all the same, and she’d do whatever it took to make sure Walther paid dearly for killing the man she loved.
Elle looked through the car’s windshield and caught her breath. The castle loomed ahead of them as the car passed through the ancient iron gates. The dark, almost ebony-colored stone castle stood in stark contrast to the cheery blue sky, each of the four turrets reaching upward as if the flagpole atop each could pierce the heavens. Her chest tightened at the sight, and the rush of unexpected tears made the tip of her nose tingle.
She’d grown up playing inside the castle’s walls, sneaking into the throne room, pestering the cooks in the kitchen for extra blueberry scones, and hiding among the topiaries in her father’s favorite garden. God, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it. She’d fought against it, but she couldn’t deny that Elskov was woven into her DNA.
She was done running.
She was done hiding.
She was home.
Walther’s hard grip on her upper arm jolted her out of the bittersweet epiphany.
“Speak a single word once we’re inside, and I’ll make sure to leave the bruises where they won’t show but will hurt the most,” he said in a harsh whisper moments before the car pulled to a stop at the private, royal family entrance to the castle.
“Why, Walther.” Her smile was as fake as the sweetness in her voice. “You make it sound as if your hold on power isn’t as tight as you’d like the world to believe.”
He released her arm and grabbed her hair, winding it around his fist and yanking hard. “You better watch your mouth unless you want to end up like your father sooner rather than later.”
Retreat was the smart move, but even the idea grated against her skin. Her muscles tensed, wound up with b
arely repressed fury ready to be unleashed on the man who’d killed Dom and had very nearly done the same to her father. Tearing away layers of his skin with her nails would feel so good. She twisted in her seat enough to improve her angle as much as possible with the death grip Walther had on her hair.
Then the memory of Dom in the training room flashed in her head. Timing is everything. Don’t make a move just because you want to. Wait for your opening and then hold nothing back.
“Understood.” She was so keyed up from the adrenaline rushing through her system, the single word was all she could trust herself with.
He tugged her hair, forcing her head at a painful angle. “Just like that, the little viper puts away her fangs?”
Before she could come up with a plausible lie, the door on Walther’s side opened. He shot her another evil glare before letting her hair fall from his tight grip. He got out of the limousine without another word, obviously expecting her to follow. He stopped next to a pair of hulking men who looked like they shopped for suits at the same store as the Harbor City Giant football team’s defensive line. As soon as she stepped outside of the car, the duo flanked her. Neither even glanced her way.
“This is your security team,” Walther said. “Everywhere you go, they go. Right now you are late for your makeover. A team is waiting for you in your quarters to get rid of that awful hair color, those colored contacts, and your hideous clothing so you once again look like the Her Royal Highness Princess Eloise.” He glanced down at the deadly cuff on her wrist. “Don’t think I’m fooled by your little act back there in the car. Go ahead and run. I dare you.” He gave a curt nod to the guards on either side of her, turned, and strode away.
Elle watched him go, knowing it wouldn’t be the last time she’d see him. With any luck, the next time would be when he was begging for his life.