Happily Ever After (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 5)

by Blair Babylon

  All of them.

  Blackness filled the air.

  The cars still had their headlamps glaring into the darkness, touching each other and the curves of the tunnel.

  Traffic slowed.

  Horns blared, filling the darkened tunnel with klaxon screams.

  Flicka grabbed a handful of Raphael’s black shirt.

  Luca was right beside her. “They’ll come after us. You guys get the hell out. I’ll hold them off.”

  Jordan said, “I’ll hold them off, too.”

  Raphael tugged Jordan toward him. “No. You run. They’ll throw Luca in jail, but our lawyers will have him out tomorrow. They’ll try you for treason, or they won’t bother with anything official. Run, now.”

  Jordan looked startled, but he sprinted off in the other direction, into the dark.

  Doors clanged behind them.

  Luca glanced back. “Shit. Raphael, take her and run.

  Raphael held Flicka’s arm, and they hurried along the sidewalk of the tunnel.

  Soon, they came to a narrow area with no sidewalk, just a narrow edge of the pavement next to the dark, speeding traffic.

  Brown watermarks stained the concrete of the tunnel, here. Normally, neon tube lights would have lit up the tunnel, but only pale emergency lights shone down from above.

  Flicka ran, wishing that she’d picked a white dress instead of a black one for the Winter Ball. They were going to die like bugs on a car’s grill.

  Dying was still better than being Pierre’s baby-producing slave.

  But, Alina.

  Flicka sprinted, knowing that the tunnel’s exit must be close.

  They could make it.

  Raphael had his hand on her back, but she didn’t stumble as she tapped over the asphalt.

  Ahead, subtly, the darkness began to grow lighter.

  They emerged at ground level, but darkness covered the whole city and over into France. The air was fresher out there because the tunnel concentrated the cars’ exhaust, but it was colder, too. The chill nipped her shoulders and back.

  “Wow,” Flicka said as she ran along the median. Under her feet, her slick-soled shoes slid in muddy dirt. Palm trees coalesced out of the black night, and she dodged, trying not to slam into them.

  Raphael said, “Blaise outdid himself. I don’t know whether he wanted to take down all of Monaco, but he did.”

  The tunnel had dumped them onto the Avenue Rainer IV, a major road that ran along the marina where yachts moored. They darted across traffic, narrowly avoiding a car screaming out of the dark at them a few times, to the red-brick sidewalk on the other side of the street. From there, they ran down the sidewalks, dodging cement planters that rose out of the overwhelming darkness.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Train station. I can carry you,” Raphael said.

  Flicka ran harder. “I’m keeping up.”

  “But your shoes. You’re wearing heels.”

  “I can run faster than you can carry me.”

  “But your feet must hurt.”

  “Just make sure you keep up, Lieblingwächter.”

  They turned corners and followed the brick sidewalk that curved around the base of the rocky headland, Le Rocher, and then through the urban center of Monaco.

  “Your feet,” Raphael repeated.

  “My feet are fine.” The real pain was the sharp cramp in Flicka’s side. For more than a month, her only exercise had been sedate strolls around the play parks of Geneva. She’d gotten out of shape so quickly. Her few workouts with Mariah had done nothing to help.

  “The train station is almost a mile,” he said.

  “It isn’t even a mile,” she panted. “Come on. I want to get the hell out of Monaco.”

  They ran past the tiny shops, pharmacies, and cafes that were dark and closed for the night. Pedestrians still milled the streets, though. Most still wore a somber face from the funeral the day before, but they were ogling the dark city and beginning to look panicked.

  “Turn here!” Raphael called.

  Flicka whipped around a corner and continued running ahead of him on the narrow sidewalk. The bricked passage was far too small for the two of them to run side-by-side, so she took the lead, dodging construction scaffolding that overhung the sidewalk on the centuries-old buildings. If she were behind Raphael, he would keep looking back for her, so it was better that she took point. They’d run like this from danger too many times, and she knew what he expected her to do.

  Christmas balls and streamers wrapped bushes and small trees in planters. She was hot from running, sweating in her slim ball gown, almost shaking from the December chill. Cold air stung her damp skin.

  They turned another corner and ran harder because the train station loomed out of the darkness, so close that they might be able to make it. Inside the tunnel, blazing lights studded the ceiling like fiery stars, and a train roared out.

  The train station must have a backup generator or else was on a different grid.

  They pounded down the stairs to the wide, marble sidewalks below, bought tickets with cash Raphael had stuffed in his pocket, and sprinted one last time to where a train was waiting.

  They leaped inside the train doors that were sliding shut.

  Flicka crashed into Raphael’s arms, and he gathered her to his chest, rubbing her back and watching out the windows at the receding platform as the train accelerated out of the Monaco station. He swayed and grabbed a pole, then held her more closely to him.

  Flicka asked him, “Did anyone follow us?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  When she looked up, he was still watching out the window and scrutinizing the few other passengers on this train that left Monaco after ten at night. He looked every bit the vigilant mercenary who had guarded her all those years, gray-eyed and blond like a storm cloud and lightning, ready to strike. The solid walls of the tunnel through the mountains closed over the top of the train.

  She asked, “What direction are we going?”

  “Southwest,” Raphael said, “into France.”

  The train dove into the next tunnel, which meant they had crossed the border and left Monaco.

  A sigh of relief breezed through Flicka.

  Monaco had treaties with France, however, and it was possible that Pierre could order the French police to arrest them.

  They had to be careful.

  Raphael had taught Flicka some things about how to travel under the radar just in case she ever needed to escape, but the police might be actively searching for them.

  “Where will we go?” she asked.

  “Nice,” Raphael said. “I have a hotel room there, then we can figure out where to go after that.”

  “Can’t we just get on Wulfie’s plane and leave?”

  “Wulfram flew back to the States with Alina earlier today. She’s safe with Wulfram.”

  “We can’t leave if he’s already taken the plane.”

  “Some people do fly on commercial airplanes, you know. You did, once.”

  She was aghast. “Did you fly on a commercial plane to the States to get him?”

  Raphael shrugged, and a smile lifted one side of his mouth. “No. I took Geneva Trust’s jet.”

  She laughed, and he held her more tightly.

  He said, “We’ll be all right. We’re out of Monaco. We’re away from Pierre. He won’t be able to find us, and surely we’ll be able to lose him.”

  A cold shiver ran over Flicka. “I hope you’re right.”

  The train ride to Nice, France, was a short one, less than an hour of swaying around the dark mountains and shoreline of France.

  Flicka started shivering on the train, the aftereffects of the frantic sprint through the night and the cold, wintry air freeze-drying her sweat. Raphael gave her his black, Roman-collared shirt and sat in his tee shirt on the train, holding her. The cotton was soft under her cheek, and his shirt warmed her bare shoulders and back where her dress didn’t cover.

  They a
rrived just after eleven at night, but Raphael had the taxi driver drop them off a block away from the hotel.

  Flicka stood in the cold, still shivering, and her feet were sore in her high heels. Dark clouds obscured the stars in the night sky as she peered up between the tightly fit buildings.

  Raphael held up a finger for silence as they stood in the shadows of a closed cafe and department store, and he tapped his phone screen. He didn’t say anything, but Flicka could hear the man on the other end of the line speaking. “Someone has the hotel surrounded, and they’re talking about tracing your phone. Get rid of it, and don’t come here.”

  “We need the car.”

  “They’re watching us.”

  “Lose them. Meet me at rendezvous two in half an hour.”

  “There are a lot of them.”

  “You can lose them. I need the car.”

  Raphael dropped the phone to the ground and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. He kicked it into the gutter. “Dammit. Julien must have spilled everything.”

  God, no. Phones were liberty and safety to Flicka, now. She should have called everyone she knew before he’d smashed it, but if she had, the Monegasque Secret Service probably would have traced their location.

  Flicka sucked in air as she huddled closer to him. “If we could find a phone, I could call Wulf. He would help us.”

  “He’s probably still on the plane. I don’t think he could get cellular reception over the Atlantic Ocean. He couldn’t turn the plane around mid-flight, anyway.”

  “I think I might have caused a problem with him. I might have slipped and said something about your name.”

  “Yeah, well, he was going to figure it out at some point, probably soon. He had my living trust with Alina’s guardianship in order to get her away from Pierre, along with her passport and birth certificate. All he had to do was open that manila envelope.”

  “He did. He saw the names.”

  “I thought as much. He knew everything.”

  “I’m sorry I slipped.”

  He pulled her farther into an alleyway. Darkness filled the small passage between the brick buildings. Cars rolled by on the street outside, but their headlights didn’t penetrate this little alcove away from the street.

  No one could see them back there.

  No one at all.

  Flicka grabbed Raphael’s shirt and pulled him closer.

  He wrapped his burly arms around her, and he rubbed her arm over his Roman-collared shirt that she still wore. “Are you cold? I can find a coat for you, somehow. We should have kept that cassock, but we could run faster without it. It was too noticeable. People would have remembered it when we were running, and the Secret Service might have followed us more easily.”

  She said, “I’m not cold.”

  Flicka ran her lips lightly up his throat, which was easy because he was wearing only a black tee shirt. It left the strong sinews of his neck and shoulder bare. Under her lips, his neck was still smooth, unstubbled, but the soft beard hairs on his jaw tickled her cheek. She nipped at his ear, just a little. The faintest whiff of his cologne—warm spices and musk—lingered on his skin.

  He chuckled, a rumble under her mouth, and he whispered, “Jesus, Flicka. You do have a thing for adrenaline, don’t you?”

  “Evidently.”

  His hand stroked up her hip to her breast, cupping the heaviness there. He crowded her back against the rough wall in the chilly alley. “I think I do, too.”

  Flicka let her head drop back against the bricks. The sharp edges caught the ringlets and bun back there, and Raphael held her chin with his other hand, tracing her lower lip with his thumb.

  The scents of gunpowder and steel lingered on his fingers. His thumb rubbing her lip felt like he was kissing her, and yet frustration rose up because he wasn’t kissing her. He was arousing her and denying her at the same time.

  Unfair.

  He’d always been such a damn tease.

  “I can’t believe I got you back,” he whispered, blinking lazily. “When I was in that warehouse and the guns were pointed at my head, I thought I’d never see you again. All I wanted was to touch you again, to kiss you again. You’re my whole world, Flicka. You’re everything to me.”

  Flicka leaned forward and brushed her lips over his. “I’m right here in your arms. Stop dreaming and take me.”

  He chuckled and dipped for a moment, grabbing her thin ankle. As he stood, he slid his hand up the back of her leg and lifted her calf, wrapping her leg around his hip and opening her to him. “God yes, now.”

  “So quickly?” he asked. “I like it rough and hard, but never quick.”

  “They might be onto us.” Her voice caught in her throat. “They might turn the corner and see us, screwing against the wall.”

  His hand was still on her breast, and his thumb traced lazy circles around her nipple through the thin silk of her dress. “Good,” he said. “Let them watch.”

  Flicka contracted internally and groaned, almost closing her eyes at the thought of it.

  Raphael smiled and licked his lips. “Is it not just adrenaline? Are you an exhibitionist, my Durchlauchtig?”

  “Cameras have been snapping at me my whole life. People have stared at me every time I’ve gone out. Why not this, too?”

  Raphael slipped his fingers around her ass cheek and inside the elastic of her panties, and his fingertip grazed her sensitive skin there. “I know just the place. There are rooms with tables, and people will watch us through the windows. I’ll take you hard with all those men watching us, and the men will wish they were me.”

  Flicka’s head swam with delirium. “Promise you will.”

  “Oh, I will.” He touched her more deeply, running his thumb in little circles around her clit.

  Tension built in her as she breathed his scent, his body already warming hers in the crisp December air.

  It wasn’t just the promise of another dirty screw later. It was the promise of a future, a time when they would be so safe that they would play at danger again. She’d almost lost him. Some part of her—the grieving child who had lost her mother and a brother she’d never known to death and believed that death would come for everyone she loved—grappled with his return to life and her arms. It was a miracle. He wasn’t dead, and neither was she, and they might have a life together.

  A dirty, sex-filled life.

  His thumb never left her clit, but one of his other fingers dipped inside her, rubbing her opening.

  Another finger stretched back to delicately stroke her asshole.

  Flicka gasped, and her fingers dug into his shoulders.

  Raphael whispered, his warm breath brushing her ear, “I’ll tie you up with your ass in the air, and I’ll shove myself into you as I play with your asshole and your clit until you scream in front of all of them.”

  His fingers were doing just that, and Flicka couldn’t stop a soft moan. She tipped her hips forward, getting close.

  Raphael fumbled with his pants with one hand, keeping his other hand on her breast. His fingers grasped and moved down, and he pinched her nipple as he pushed himself inside of her, stretching her as he crammed himself in.

  Flicka arched, her body so full of him, on the verge of crying out.

  She couldn’t cry out.

  She bit her lip as Raphael held her hips with one arm under her ass, grinding up into her.

  He reached down and grabbed her other leg, flipping it around his waist and shoving her against the brick wall. Flicka grabbed him harder to her, holding onto his shoulders while he drilled into her.

  “Yes,” she whispered, her eyes squeezed closed as he rocked his hips into her, letting her weight rub her clit down the roughness of him.

  He bit her neck, a sharp crack of pain through the desperate friction between them, and Flicka gasped as she dug her fingers into his back, bending her neck to rest her forehead on his shoulder as the waves took her. The alley and the train and the running and the fear disappeared, and she
gasped at the light spiraling up her spine to her head.

  As her body rippled around his hardness, he pushed up inside her, instinct taking over. His breath warmed her shoulder as he grunted and strained, his arms crushing her as he shook.

  As he panted, his body slowly uncoiling, he whispered in her ear, “I’ll keep you safe. No matter what I have to do, I’ll never let them take you again.”

  “I want to be with you,” Flicka said, gasping as the world and the cold came back. “Even if we have to go somewhere, even if we’re in hiding far away, I don’t want to be away from you. I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead. I was trying to trust that you were alive. I was trying to believe in you, but I was so afraid.”

  Hot tears trickled out of her clenched eyes.

  Raphael pulled back, leaving her empty and collapsed, though he held her up as he zipped his pants and then wrapped his arms around her again. “I won’t leave you again. I won’t let them take you, my Durchlauchtig. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

  Flicka couldn’t stop the stupid, weak tears brimming in her eyes, and she buried her face in Raphael’s shoulder and wept.

  He pressed her spine against the wall and stroked her hair back into that stupid bun, his cheek against her forehead as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. I’ll never leave you again. I won’t let it ever happen again. I promise. I promise.”

  Flicka dropped her arms around his chest and hung on. “I was scared.”

  “I know. It’ll never happen again.”

  “It wasn’t fair.”

  “You’re right. It wasn’t. I’ll keep you safe.”

  “I just want to be with you. I don’t care where we are. I just want a little place with you, and I, and Alina, and this little thing in here.”

  He kept one arm around her shoulders, but his other hand wandered down to her hip. “We haven’t had time to discuss that. There’s so much I want to say, but the most important one is that I love you and our child so much. We’ll be together. I promise.”

  Flicka clutched him, feeling his warmth and strong muscles under his tee shirt for a while until she could breathe. He kept murmuring quiet things, soothing things, until he said, “It’s time to get the car from Vonlanthen now. Then we can go far away.”