by Madeline Ash
“Piece of shit,” she muttered, and then stilled. “But you told your family?”
Shame slid around the back of his neck like clammy fingers and shoved his head down.
“Kris.” Frankie sounded appalled. “Erik could have contacted Philip. He could have ensured those men were found and charged with treason.”
He’d known that, but had been too sickened to admit it was his fault. “I described them down to the damn hairs in their ears. Our authorities should have caught them.”
Frankie’s breath turned shallow and she stared at him without blinking. “Oh my God.”
“Let me guess.” Had she just had the same realization that had haunted him for months?
His voice was hushed as he said, “You’re thinking two critical attacks on the royal family feels less accidental than one.”
Disbelief was dark in her eyes. “They can’t be related.”
He leaned closer. “Why not?”
She rolled her lips, breathing a little too fast through her nose. “People who bungled an attack in small-town America could hardly go on to successfully commit royal murder inside the Kiralian palace.”
“Bungled?” Shame dug its nails into him. Deep, deserved pain in the pit of his being. “I still don’t know how Jonah fucking made it.”
But she shook her head. “It’s a stretch.”
“That balcony collapse wasn’t an accident.” Kris was sure of it. “Plans for renovations of the west wing first started three years ago. There were delays, sure, but if someone had a grand plan involving a construction accident, they acted to remove the spare heir ahead of time.”
“I—I have to call Philip.” Her phone was out, unlocked, her thumb whipping across the screen.
“Don’t tell Tommy.” Humiliation rushed out of Kris with the words. His brother could never know it was his fault. The resentment he felt over Kris taking the throne would be nothing compared to Kris nearly getting him killed, nearly getting Jonah killed. “He’d never—I’d never—”
Her features were severe in the glow of the screen as her attention snapped back to him. “Don’t blame yourself.”
How could he not? “I should have told those men it was me. They thought Dad only had one son. Common belief here in Kiraly, apparently. I could’ve claimed to be it. Protected everyone else. But I panicked and sent them straight to Tommy and Jonah.”
Phone falling, she shifted to her knees in front of him. “No.” She bunched his shirtsleeve in her fist and gave it a hard tug. “They would’ve killed you. You sent them to an empty property so no one would get hurt. It was smart. You didn’t know the boys would be on their way home.”
“What if they’d died?” His eyes stung; everything stung. “Jonah came so close. And Tommy . . .”
“It still wouldn’t have been your fault.” Through the fabric, the warmth of her fingers pressed against his forearm. Then her brow creased. “But you’re right. Jones was in a bad state when we got there.” Careful words for unconscious, sliced up and bleeding out through a stomach wound. “I called Philip. He’s the one who organized that air ambulance to fly to the best trauma doctors in Montana. Jones wouldn’t have made it otherwise.”
“Exactly.” That was part of why it made sense. “The attackers left the scene believing he was dead. A secret, spare heir out of the running.”
“But.” Her eyes were glazed. “Erik was next in line. For this theory to float, they should have gone after him as well.”
“Too obvious.” Kris had traveled this road. “One attack could be passed off as random. But two separate murders of the royal line? Not so much. Security would never have let anyone near the royal family in Kiraly again.” He raised a shoulder in sad acceptance. “And Dad’s been unwell for a while. They could have presumed he’d abdicate, and if he didn’t, staged an accident that could be blamed on his condition.”
Frankie was shaking her head slowly.
“Look,” he said. “I was confused and ashamed and didn’t know how to fix things then. But I’m going to find them now. The attackers. Whoever brought that balcony down. And they’re going to rue the fucking day they messed with my family.”
“No, you’re not—” Frankie halted as her eyes narrowed. “Oh, no. You haven’t been.”
Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, he looked away.
“Bloody hell,” she murmured, but she’d gone pale all over again. “You’re more stupid than I thought.”
That was probably true.
“This is why you’ve slipped security?” she demanded in a harsh whisper. “To try to find the people you believe committed regicide. Are you insane? Have you forgotten that you’re also royalty?”
His jaw set. “I can’t trust anyone else.”
“You can trust me.” She was still holding his sleeve and he slid his gaze down. The tent seemed to close in around the small intimacy, a touch without touching, and instead of letting go, she tugged again. “I’m already on this. Leave it alone.”
That pulled him up. “You’re already on it?”
“I’ve been looking into it since I got here. The police officially closed the investigation as an accident, but Philip and I can’t swallow it either. I’ve been researching the laborers who worked on the renovations. The suppliers. The staff who had access to the west wing. We know that the balcony pillars weren’t sealed properly—that the wood supports were water-damaged and buckled under the weight of their banquet. Yes, the damage could be due to poor sequencing of different trades during installation. King Vinci’s timeline for renovations was incredibly tight and his budget didn’t exactly inspire excellence. Good, fast and cheap—when it comes to a job, you get two out of three. His Majesty unwittingly chose fast and cheap, and suffered horrifically for the lack of quality. The official findings make sense.” She paused, features haunted. “But it doesn’t feel right. The circumstances were practically begging to be used as a cover for something more sinister.”
Kris’s heart was pounding. “What have you found?”
“Not much.” Her tone turned cutting. “It’s kind of difficult to wade through hundreds of possible suspects when I’ve had to learn a high-pressure job on the fly that involves keeping track of a certain prince who keeps disappearing.”
His hope for closure fixed on her. “I won’t disappear again if you promise to update me.”
“Fine,” she snapped. After a beat, she said, “What have you found?”
“Not much, either. I’ll show you my notes. I was on my way to visit the site manager when you found me the other night.”
She cursed under her breath, shaking her head.
As she picked up her phone again, he asked, “Can we trust Philip?”
“Philip had nothing to do with the death of your family.” Her hushed tone was final.
He frowned. “How can you really know?”
“I know. Now, don’t talk. I need to call him.”
She disappeared under her bedding, and even Kris couldn’t quite make out the muffled phone conversation. When she emerged, she said, “Dawn meeting in the tower. He wants to hear this theory from you—then we’ll loop in the authorities to look into a possible connection with the attack on Jones and Tommy.” She sighed and her shoulders slumped as she rubbed her face. “If it’s true, it changes everything.”
“In my defense, I did try to meet with the head of personal security about this when I first got here.”
She looked like he’d slapped her. “I assumed you wanted to convince me to remove your guards.”
“That too,” he said. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“It does. I’m not cut out for this. I shouldn’t even be here.”
He lay down onto his side, facing her, and offered a smile. “That makes two of us.”
She hesitated, attention darting to the seam of the two bedrolls, still pulled side by side. A line etched between her brows before she slowly lay down, mirroring his pose, though her muscles were locked with tens
ion.
Her gaze was haunted. “I’m scared for you.”
“Nah, don’t be scared.”
But she was. Fear pulled around her mouth, glinted in her eyes. They hadn’t lain this close before and his chest clamped. Her night-shadowed eyes moved over him, a slow yet erratic path, as if caught in the current of his body. Longing eddied beneath his skin, and if she dove in, she’d find the space he reserved for her ran deeper than he’d ever let on.
“You asked why I haven’t said sorry.” The words hid under her breath, soft and shy, and he focused on her lips to catch them properly. “It’s because I’m not. I found you. Across the world, when I had nothing left inside me, I found you. And I know it’s the middle of the night talking and I’m going to be sick about telling you this in the morning, but I know I lied—and I hid from you, and I hurt you, but you mean everything to me, and I can’t imagine how this could have played out differently. So, I’m not sorry. I’ll never be sorry I found you.”
A sharp, searing heat split his heart.
Then she swallowed, eyes wide, and her arm moved. A bolt of reaction burst up his arm as the tips of two of her fingers grazed across his hand where it rested between them. Soft, scarcely there, but he felt it with the insistent tug of a stitch woven into his skin—and he flipped his palm, opening it carefully, heart in his throat as she threaded her fingers through his.
He clasped her tightly.
The next morning, he woke alone.
7
The walk to Zara’s apartment from the women’s shelter was peak Kira City torture. Frankie grumbled up streets so unforgiving, the sidewalks were literally made of stone steps. It was almost enough to overshadow her ache for Kris after going all of yesterday without seeing him. Her thighs burned and the late-afternoon sun beat relentlessly at her back as she kept pace with her friend.
“That was a good session.” Zara tugged the brim of her sun hat lower over the back of her neck. “That blocking move should help.”
“They’ve just got to get close enough to splatter his balls inside his skull.”
Zara pulled a face. “Visual.”
Frankie often had Sunday afternoons off work, so set aside a couple of hours to teach Zara’s shelter residents self-defense. She’d outline common types of attacks men used on women on the street and in the home, and then teach basic moves for them to defend themselves. These women had complicated, fragile histories with abuse, and she did her best to respect that pain while arming them with strength. Hard to say which hurt more to see—the fierce concentration of women who knew this might literally save their lives or the women who wept even as they stacked their arms, tucked their foreheads down, and blocked their practice partners’ attack. “Don’t hold back, ladies,” she’d tell them, walking the room. “All beasts have an underbelly, and for a man, that’s his balls. Strike it like you mean it. That’s his procreative future right there—his brain will protect it at all costs. Make impact and he’ll pitch forward, hips hinging to pull it out of range. He might even forget to throw that punch or keep his grip on your neck, so don’t be half-assed about it—keep at it until he’s on the ground. Then you get the hell out of there.”
Afterward, she and Zara would often go out for an early dinner, but today, they’d decided to head back to Zara’s apartment for cold drinks.
“Thanks again for coming in,” Zara said. “You’ve had a big week.”
“It’s fine.” Frankie glanced up, irritated to find they weren’t even halfway up the street. “I want to help. I’d have killed for a shelter when I was growing up.”
Zara kept her head down as she climbed. Her question was quiet. “Killed who, exactly?”
Her next breath was jagged and she wished she could blame it on the climb. Abuse wasn’t always physical. “My dad.”
The only comfort her friend offered was a light brush of her knuckles against Frankie’s forearm, but it still tied a knot in her throat.
By the time they staggered into the apartment, they were sweating, groaning, and fixated on the ice cream Zara had remembered in her freezer.
Rounding the kitchen, Frankie pulled up short at the sight of an immaculately dressed blond man by the fridge, tightening his tie. His blue eyes snapped to her, assessing, and she suddenly wished she’d paid more attention when Zara had mentioned her boyfriend. He was Mark’s manservant, but she’d never had cause to interact with him at the palace. She’d looked over his staff file months ago—long-term palace employee from a reputable family within Kiraly—but could she remember his name? Of course not.
“I’ve mentioned Frankie?” Zara asked by way of introduction, hip-bumping him out of the way so she could open the freezer.
“Ah, yes, of the royal guard,” he said, voice low and cultured. “You’re head of personal security.”
Frankie wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Yep.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” Tie in place, he extended his hand and offered a warm, sincere smile. “I’m Adam.”
“Adam.” She shook, finding his grip firmer than expected. “What kind of things?”
His smile grew. “In short, to be careful around you.”
Not a bad reputation for her position. “You work for Mark, right?”
“Yes, my duties have followed His Majesty to Kuria Estate.” His attention drifted to where Zara was pulling two spoons from the drawer. “Zara, I’ve got dinner with some old college friends tonight. Do you mind if I’m not home until late?”
“Why would I mind?” She passed Frankie a spoon and plied the lid off the family pack of chocolate-mint ice cream. “Have fun.”
He hesitated, pleasant expression looking a little strained. “You know you’re welcome to come?”
“Maybe next time.” She bopped him on the shoulder with her spoon. “Frankie will be here.”
Frankie kept her expression easy despite her friend’s lie. She’d already told Zara that Kris wanted to go out tonight after cooping himself up in the palace all week, and that meant bodyguard duty.
“Next time, then.” Adam’s hand touched the small of Zara’s back as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Love you.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” She angled a too-bright smile at him. “See you later.”
His answering smile came a beat too slow. “I look forward to it.”
“Yay,” she said, before leading Frankie into the small living room and switching on an oscillating fan. She flopped onto the couch, cheeks pink, and Frankie sat beside her, waiting until the front door closed behind Adam to raise an interrogative brow.
Zara cringed, held out the tub, and said, “Ahhh, I know. My life is super awkward right now.”
Frankie scooped into the ice cream. “He loves you.”
“Inexplicable, right?”
“No.” She stuck the entire scoop in her mouth and spoke around the spoon. “But I’m getting that it’s unrequited.”
“He only told me a few weeks ago.” Her friend looked stricken. “I mean, he’s a great guy. Kind. Gentle. Refined. I want to love him, but I just . . .”
“Don’t.”
Zara shifted, tucking one leg under her bum. “Well,” she said, and darted a troubled glance at Frankie. It was the look of someone with a secret trying to decide whether or not to spill.
Frankie focused on scooping more ice cream, tilting her face to catch the fan’s breeze.
“It’s stupid,” Zara said.
“My whole life is stupid right now.” Frankie raised a shoulder. “I won’t judge.”
“I—don’t tell Ava.”
Frankie placed a hand over her heart.
“It’s just. Okay. Adam keeps saying he loves me, like, every day. And I could’ve sworn I was close to realizing that I love him, too. Then Ava came back and I’ve started planning her bridal shower and helping her organize the wedding, and it’s thrown me off, because it means . . . I mean, the wedding means . . . it’s just that I’ll—”
Frankie stared.
Was this how she sounded when Kris asked her a vulnerable question?
“It means I’ll see Cyrus again,” Zara said in a rush, her knees bunching up against her chest as she sank into the couch cushions.
“Prince Cyrus?” Ava’s older brother and the heir to Kelehar’s throne?
Zara nodded with a noise of distress. “It’s so stupid.”
“Not really.” Frankie tipped her face down for the fan to cool the top of her head. “He’s magnificent.”
A world-renowned heart-stopper. He was elegant, lean and gorgeous. He practically glowed with goodwill. His dark eyes shone with genuine warmth, and the waves of his raven-black hair always ran a little long, hinting that his refinement didn’t hold in every situation. Too nice for Frankie to look twice, but the appeal was obvious.
“So magnificent,” her friend breathed. “And not someone I have the birthright to even dream about, but it’s getting worse. How can it be getting worse? I haven’t seen him since Ava escaped. I have a boyfriend who loves me, but just the thought of Cyrus coming over for the wedding makes my stomach fall apart and I can’t imagine ever feeling that way about Adam.”
Frankie made a noise of disgust. “That stomach fall-aparty feeling is the worst.”
Zara looked stricken. “Should I break up with Adam?”
“Uh.” Frankie winced. “I’m not a relationship advice kind of friend. But like you said last week, royalty isn’t made for us and we’re not made for them. Why break up with a good guy who loves you? The wedding isn’t far away. Once Cyrus leaves, you probably won’t ever see him again. Then you can move on—and might realize you want to do that with Adam.”
Zara eyed her with a suspicious frown. “That was good relationship advice.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“What about your prince situation?”
Oh, the situation that had seen her spend Friday night alone in a tent with Kris, her fingers entwined with his, and woken up to find his other hand splayed protectively over her thigh? That had seen her lie there for way longer than she should have, trying to memorize the way sleep softened his features, because it was the only chance she’d ever have? That situation?