by Amelia Autin
She gulped and drew a sobbing breath. “Because you love me so much, and I...I don’t remember.”
Relief flooded him. “Oh, Tahra.” He couldn’t think of anything to say other than her name.
“I want to remember so badly. I’ve tried and tried, but I—”
“Your memory will return in its own good time.” The lie came easily to his lips because he knew it was what she needed to hear right now. Maybe she’d never recover those lost eighteen months, as he’d already begun to fear in the deepest recesses of his soul, but he would never tell her that. “Just relax and let yourself recover. Perhaps when your body is completely healed, your mind will be, too.”
“You really think so?”
“You almost died, Tahra. If that had happened, I would also have died. I would have gone on breathing, but...”
“I understand.” Her hand clutched his lapel. “Because I am your mariskya.”
The word was infinitely sweet on her lips. “Yes,” he affirmed. “I cannot live without you.” He sighed deeply. “Please do not misunderstand. There is fierce pride in me for what you did. Your bravery still astounds me. And yet...if I could have taken that risk for you, I would have. I never want to live through anything like that again. Hearing the news...praying in the hospital while you were in surgery...sleeping at your bedside, waiting for you to come out of the coma.”
He sighed again and was silent for a moment, trying to think of some way to lighten the mood. Eventually he teased gently, “You may apologize now for putting me through that torture,” lifting her face to his with one finger beneath her chin. He deliberately raised and lowered his eyebrows suggestively a couple of times, and Tahra laughed the way he’d intended, albeit a little shakily.
“I’ll think about it.” But almost immediately she brushed her lips against his. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
One kiss led to two. Then to kisses beyond count. Marek was hard and aching long before he forced himself to let Tahra go. “You are hell on my good intentions,” he told her firmly, setting her to one side and putting distance between them. “I did not come here for this.”
“Why did you come here?” Her tears had long since vanished, but her breathing was as labored as his was. And the alpha male in him couldn’t help but smile. Wolfishly. The gentleman he was on the surface was just that—camouflage. Scratch the surface and the wolf emerged. But he’d caged the beast for Tahra’s sake.
For now.
“Would you believe I came merely to invite you to a picnic dinner? Here in the palace grounds?”
* * *
Refugees were still pouring over Zakhar’s eastern border. Desperate, hollow-eyed men and women, often with ragged children in tow. Most were headed for Germany, but some—far too many, Sergeant Vasska and the other members of the Zakharian Liberation Front firmly believed—were intending to make Zakhar their new home. That could not be allowed to continue, despite the king’s active support for the humanitarian effort.
The group’s public credo—Zakhar for Zakharians—played well...to a small minority within the general populace. But most Zakharians stoutly held that the king knew best, so whatever he believed in, they believed in, too. Which meant most Zakharians supported taking in however many refugees their country could accommodate, financially and otherwise.
To counter that, the Zakharian Liberation Front was also trumpeting that these new immigrants would take jobs from decent, hardworking Zakharians—despite the fact that Zakhar had a chronic labor shortage these refugees would fill.
As he rode the train to the eastern border, where he’d been banished for now, Sergeant Vasska couldn’t help but brood over this dichotomy. Most men in his situation would merely be grateful they were still alive, not wonder about the motivation behind it. And yet, something didn’t sit right with him. Colonel Borka had spared his life. Why?
The sergeant knew he’d failed. Both times. In his heart of hearts he wasn’t sorry about the first failure. He hadn’t wanted to leave the knapsack full of explosives and fléchettes near a schoolyard. I cannot kill children! he’d almost protested when he’d been given the assignment...but he hadn’t. He’d saluted his superior, taken the knapsack—one of ten he himself had so carefully assembled—and had said, Yes, sir!
And he’d tried to carry it out. He really had. But except for the danger to himself from the woman who’d seen him at the schoolyard and might be able to identify him, he hadn’t been sorry his mission had failed. The other attacks—the Zakharian National Forces training facility, the refugee processing center, the train from the eastern border and the other six bombings scattered across Zakhar—had mostly targeted adults, and Sergeant Vasska was philosophical about it. War was war, after all. The Zakharian Liberation Front was waging war, and there would be casualties.
But not children.
It bothered him children had been targeted to begin with, even though the school chosen did contain many refugee children. It was almost as if the intent was maximum fright, though. Not to make a point about refugees. Which would mean the refugees were merely an excuse. A means to an end unknown to most of the members of the Zakharian Liberation Front. Was that possible? Could Colonel Borka have another agenda? And if so, what did that have to do with why his life had been spared?
Sergeant Vasska didn’t know, and that ate at him. He truly believed in the cause the Zakharian Liberation Front espoused, and he would gladly sacrifice his life, if necessary. He’d been honest with Colonel Borka—in his mind he deserved the death penalty, because he could no longer be trusted to successfully carry out a mission. Plus, he could be identified...making him a danger to the cause. So why was he still alive? What purpose was served?
* * *
Tahra leaned back against the white wicker chair in the secluded gazebo in the Royal Garden, to which Marek had led her an hour ago, picnic basket in hand. Replete, she gazed at the man sitting across from her, thinking she’d never seen someone so self-assured, so completely confident in who he was and his purpose in life, as Marek. Except maybe her new boss, Alec. Alec’s not your new boss, she reminded herself with a touch of impatience. He has been for more than a year and a half. You just don’t remember, that’s all.
That made her ask, “Will you tell me about Alec...and Angelina?”
He wiped his hands on a napkin. “What about them?”
She wasn’t sure what she was really asking, only, “You said this morning we are...friends with them.”
“Yes.” He cut an apple in two and cored it, then handed her one half. He hadn’t even asked her if she wanted it peeled—which she didn’t. Another tiny sign he knew her well, she realized.
He bit into his half with relish, and Tahra stared at the apple in her hand but didn’t eat it just yet. “You remind me of Alec,” she confessed. “At least...what I remember about him, which isn’t all that much. All I remember is when he first took over as RSO, I was very impressed with him. But then, I never cared for the previous RSO. He really didn’t do his job—not the way I thought he should, anyway.”
Marek swallowed and smiled. “You were very perceptive. Alec’s predecessor at the embassy was convicted eight months ago in a bribery and human trafficking conspiracy case.”
Tahra gawked at him. “He was?”
He nodded. “Your sister covered the trial.”
She took a bite of her apple and chewed thoughtfully. After a moment she said with forced lightness, “There’s so much missing from my memory. Carly got engaged...and I don’t remember it. You and I got engaged...and I don’t remember it. And now you tell me my former boss at the embassy is a convicted felon...and I don’t remember any of it.”
He seemed to divine her need for reassurance, because he reached out a hand to lightly caress her cheek. “Do not struggle so hard, mariskya. I will tell you anything you need to know. But I do
not want to tell you everything, for then we will never know if you truly remember...or if you are only ‘remembering’ what I tell you.”
She finished her apple, then said shyly, “You’re very wise. Did I always think so?”
He laughed and stood, drawing her out of her chair. “Let us walk, shall we? It is a beautiful evening and the sun has not yet set. The Royal Garden is just beginning to bloom. You will enjoy it, I think.”
“Okay.”
After they’d been walking for a couple of minutes, Tahra remembered her earlier question. “You never answered. Did I always think you were wise?”
“Now, how am I to answer that? If I say ‘yes,’ you will think me conceited. If I say ‘no,’ you will think me a liar. Or worse.”
“I don’t think you’re conceited. Supremely self-confident.” She smiled as she remembered how she’d described him to the queen. “And über-alpha. But not conceited.”
He stopped in front of a rosebush that was just coming into flower and plucked one bloom, carefully stripping off the thorns before he held it out to her. “What is über-alpha?”
She ignored the rose and cleared her throat. “Well...you see...it’s a way of describing a man who is...well...” She wasn’t about to discuss the sexual connotations, so she focused on the other aspects. “Well, somewhat domineering. And controlling.”
The smile faded from his face, and he was rather white about the mouth. “Is that how you see me, Tahra? Domineering? Controlling?”
She couldn’t lie to him. “In some ways.”
“I see.” The words were spoken very quietly, with absolutely no emotion. But from the way he deliberately focused on the rose in his hand, she knew she’d wounded him with that assessment. “Because I would keep you safe? That is why?”
Her heart ached for him, and she rushed to say, “It’s not that. Truly. And it’s not the criticism you might think it is. It’s just...” How to explain? “Some people are just the take-charge kind. And there’s nothing wrong with that, especially when the chips are down. Carly’s that way.” She laughed suddenly, remembering what her sister had told her in the hospital. “She even proposed to her fiancé.”
Confusion played over Marek’s face. “This is what you wish? To be the one proposing?”
“No, I—”
“You wish me to be a...a lapdog? That is the English expression, yes? A little dog that runs when you call?”
She covered her face in her hands, despite the cast on her right wrist, exasperation and laughter fighting for dominance. She looked at him again when she finally had herself under control. “You’re totally missing the point.”
“Then what is the point? Explain it to me.” The set expression on his face told her it wasn’t much use explaining, because he couldn’t possibly understand, but she tried anyway.
“I’m not very assertive. I know that. Ever since I was a little girl, I was a... I guess you could say I was a follower. Not a leader. Carly always looked out for me, especially after our parents died, and I...I never learned to look out for myself.”
He didn’t say anything, so she went on. “I love my sister. I do. But it wasn’t easy being myself when she was around.”
“I do not understand.”
She sighed. “I’m not sure I understand it all myself. All I know is, it was always easier to let Carly tell me what I should do, rather than figure it out on my own. But that meant when I was finally out on my own, I wasn’t...” She faltered. “I wasn’t really prepared.” She shivered suddenly, remembering. “Some people will take advantage of you...if you let them.”
His brows drew together in a ferocious frown. “If you are talking about the man who—”
“You know?” Had she confided in Marek about that horrifying experience?
He confirmed it, saying, “You told me...oh, more than a year ago...about the man who viciously attacked you. About your arrest after you defended yourself. About how your sister came to your rescue, and how you ended up here at the embassy in Zakhar.”
“I told you,” she whispered to herself. Knowing she’d confided in him, that she’d trusted him with the details, conveyed a wealth of information about him...about them...she hadn’t realized before. He’d told her they were engaged, and she’d believed him because she had no reason not to believe him. But now she believed they were engaged, because she knew herself well enough to know she could never have told him...if she hadn’t loved him.
It also explained...a little more...his fierce protectiveness toward her. Because he knew she’d almost failed to protect herself. So maybe what she saw as his controlling behavior was nothing more than a desire to keep her safe...in the only way he knew how, especially given his upbringing. As the queen had said, Zakharian men liked to see themselves as masters of their fate.
Thinking of the queen reminded Tahra of something else. “So when were you going to tell me...about Viscount Saint-Yves?”
Chapter 7
Marek went very still. “Someone has been talking.”
Tahra nodded. “I had lunch with Queen Juliana today. She told me.”
“What else did she tell you?”
She lifted his right hand, which was clasping her left one, and tilted it until she saw the slight genetic defect she’d missed before. “That you’re also the king’s second cousin.”
“She was just a fount of information, was she not?”
“Not completely. She wouldn’t tell me what mariskya meant. She said I should ask you.”
“That is something, anyway,” he said drily.
Tahra peeked at him. “She did say Marianescus love once, then never again. And that if I was your mariskya, I was a very fortunate woman.”
He laughed softly. “And she would know. The king—”
“Your second cousin.”
“My king,” he reiterated firmly. “Always. If you would know me, Tahra, you must know that. He is my king first and foremost. I would die to keep him safe. The same goes for the queen and the crown prince—because they are his. Can you understand that?”
She nodded solemnly. “I think so. Because duty is honor to you, isn’t it?” When he silently assented, she said, “Yes, I understand.” She glanced down and realized he still held the flower he’d picked for her. “May I have my rose?”
He seemed as surprised as she’d been that he still had it, but all he said was “Of course.” Then he brushed his lips against the petals in a romantic gesture that made Tahra sigh soundlessly, and offered her the rose, which she took in her right hand. She couldn’t lift anything heavy with that hand, but her surgeon had encouraged her to use her muscles in that arm whenever she could do so without putting a strain on her wrist.
They resumed walking, and after a few minutes Marek said out of the blue, “I failed him once. I will never fail him again.”
She stopped abruptly, and when he turned, a question on his face, she asked, “How did you fail him?” Because she couldn’t imagine it. Not a man like him.
His lips tightened. “It was several years ago. I had orders to arrest Prince Nikolai. Instead, he almost killed the king and his then-fiancée...the woman who is now queen.”
“But...”
“The king forgave me. He even took the blame on himself. Then he made me the head of the queen’s security detail. He trusted me to keep her safe for him. I have not forgotten.”
Puzzled, she said, “But that’s not your job now.”
Marek shook his head. “After the assassination attempt on the crown prince—”
“What?”
“I forgot you did not know. It happened right after I met you.”
“Someone tried to murder a baby?” She couldn’t fathom it.
“Why are you surprised? If people would kill dozens of children in a schoolyard
—which you prevented—why should one child be any different?”
“But...the prince is okay, right? I mean, the assassination attempt failed.” She tapped the flat of her left hand against her head in frustration over her stupidity. “Of course he’s okay. Otherwise—”
“Yes, otherwise I would not be the head of his security detail.”
“So how did you... What happened with... Please explain.”
“After the assassination attempt on the crown prince on his christening day—which was foiled by Angelina, with some assistance from Alec, by the way—the man who was the head of the crown prince’s security detail offered his resignation...which the king eventually accepted. The king asked me to step into that role, and he promoted Angelina in my place. That is all.”
Tahra took Marek’s arm and started walking again but sniffed at the rose in her right hand at the same time, breathing in the delicate scent and loving it. “No wonder the queen seemed to understand what the parents of the children in that preschool would have felt,” she said, almost to herself.
“Yes, she nearly lost her son. It was a clever plot and a close call. Angelina—like you did days ago—figured out what was happening and prevented it.” He squeezed her hand. “That is why I say I am not the same man I was before. You and Angelina have opened my eyes.”
Tahra glanced up and read the truth on his face. “You are nothing like Angelina,” he continued. “You are not tall and lean—no, this is not an insult,” he added quickly when he saw her reaction. “You are perfect as you are. Soft and rounded and...and delectable.”
“Nice save,” she told him, choosing not to be offended. She knew she wasn’t tall and lean. She wasn’t short, but she had definite curves, just like her older sister.
“Nice save?” The puzzlement on his face matched his tone.
“Sports reference. American sports reference? It just means you prevented the other team from scoring or making a play that would have hurt your team.”
“Ahhh.” From puzzled his face turned amused. “So perhaps I should not mention you could never take me down—as Angelina did once.”