by Madeline Ash
“Another contract? I just signed—” He broke off with a frown when he saw Frankie waiting, hands on her waist and breathing hard. “Hey, you okay?”
“I’ll bring him back,” she told his guards, and then, without looking at him, she said, “Follow me.”
She set off the way she’d come and Kris matched her pace in silence. After a quick call out over comms, she cut toward the portrait hall as the nearest unoccupied space, a grand room of blushing pale pink wallpaper and gold-framed portraits.
The sound of the door closing echoed among his immortalized ancestors.
“What’s going on?” His voice was low behind her as his hands rested on her shoulders. “You’re upset.”
“You.” She spun to face him, gratitude thick in her throat. “Acknowledged Philip.”
Comprehension slid across his face in a one-sided smile as his hands resettled on her shoulders. “Turns out he’s family.”
Her muscles were stiff under his palms. “You didn’t think to mention this last night? The night before?”
“I figured you’d already been told.”
Technically, she had. The memo had been sent to her on Tuesday. “But you’ve always spoken to him like—like you don’t even . . .”
“Like him?” he asked wryly.
She nodded, biting her bottom lip, scarcely understanding what Kris had done.
“He warned me not to hurt you.” A shadow flickered in his eyes and he stepped into her, his touch drifting down her arms and sliding around her hands. “Not to keep you a secret, like Noel did to him. Obviously that’s never been an option for me, but I respect his intentions.” The pads of his fingers brushed over her knuckles—rough skin and reassurance. “Not only is he the closest thing I have to a living uncle, but I got the impression you two are pretty special to each other. So that makes him family in an entirely different way.”
Frankie ducked her face. Philip had softened toward her over the years she’d reported from Sage Haven. He’d learned to understand her; to say the right thing, as best he could, when guilt left her struggling to maintain her cover. In turn, she’d discovered his stuffy chest pumped with a loyal heart that cared more keenly for the royal family than his duty alone required.
“Am I wrong?” His question was quiet.
Eyes stinging, she shook her head.
“Hey,” he said, and she looked up at his strange tone. “You know how your father taught you his line of work? Teaching you to embody the con as if you were born for it? Yet here you are, trained for this role by a different man, wearing the same regalia that he once wore.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Can you see where I’m going with this comparison?”
Commanding security was Philip’s own kind of legacy—and he’d trained her and passed the position on to her like a daughter. Sniffling, she said, “Stop it.”
Kris’s smile was gentle—a barefooted approach through the mess her father had left inside her.
How could he be so intuitive? He came from a strictly traditional family: mother and father, and brothers forged in blood and birth. His royal ancestral line was neat, perfectly traceable where it wanted to be, all unbroken unions and children within marriage.
Philip wouldn’t appear on either of their family trees—unconnected by marriage or descent—yet Kris had written him in without hesitation.
On an unintelligible murmur that only her heart understood, she kissed him.
His mouth opened on a sigh, tasting of sweetened coffee, and his hand slid to cradle her head as his tongue blended with hers. Slow and soft, his kiss was like a cushion that remembered the shape of her, giving and guiding as she sank into him. She pulled him closer, sensing him start to swell and stretch as their bodies locked together, but he didn’t rise to take control. He didn’t act like he wanted to; he leashed his desire so far down, he was nothing but a warm, receptive lover on the surface. This kiss was hers.
He was hers.
She gripped his arm at the wobble in her chest—the sensation of losing her balance on a path she’d walked her entire life.
He held steady as stone beneath her palm.
“Frankie,” he murmured when she drew back. Lashes low, breath heavy. “Don’t stop.”
She almost caved to his plea. “We both have work to do.”
He released her with a groan.
She fought the urge to chase his touch. Work. She had work to—
“Oh no,” she said, gaze skimming the portraits on the wall over Kris’s shoulder. There was a reason the memo had been sent to her in the first place. A bubble of pained amusement rose up her sternum. Was it funny? It wasn’t funny. “Philip’s going to hate this.”
Kris frowned at her, his eyes kiss-dark and distracted. “What? Why?”
“You’ve essentially named him part of the family. Presented him with a royal suite. His own manservant. An ongoing invitation to dinner at your table.”
“Our table,” he corrected her in a low voice, shifting closer.
“Word will spread within the palace.”
“That’s okay, though.” He ran the backs of his fingers down her neck, and shivering, she curled her fingers around his wrist, holding him still. “It’s his decision whether or not to explain his relationship with Noel. The point is that the palace staff will know we consider him family and will treat him like it.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
Finally, he met her gaze in question.
“His status has shifted. He’s not an heir, but he’s valuable. Possible leverage. I have no choice.” She saw comprehension dawn with a glint in his eyes. “He used to monitor the security team’s every move—now they’ll have to monitor his.”
Naturally, Frankie’s softness about the way Kris had treated Philip didn’t flow over into any other matter. Like, say, where he could find Tommy. For days, she’d refused to tell him, and as she escorted him from the portrait hall back to the summer drawing room, she held firm.
“Can you at least give me a hint?” he said, tasting grit in his mouth.
Kris had tried calling him—a lot—and Tommy had finally answered and asked him for space. Tommy’s distance felt like the bottom falling out of Kris’s world.
“That’s his prerogative.” Frankie cast him an exasperated glance. “Stop trying to exploit my position. This is between you two.”
Frustration surged beneath his civility for the remainder of his meeting. Tommy hadn’t come to breakfast the past few mornings, and Kris had worked until late. Instead of hunting his brother down after-hours, prowling the palace for the kind of sheltered spaces Tommy preferred, he’d been obliged to play nice and dine with visiting dignitaries. Important in its own way, but he’d be led like a horse in a harness from one critical matter to the next if he didn’t plant his feet.
Tonight, his only duty was to his brother.
“A ride before the drinks reception, Your Highness?” Peter asked as Kris thrust himself from the drawing room. His guards bracketed the door, features composed in the face of his unconcealed temper.
“No.” The rider in him winced, longing to be on horseback at a gallop. Wind loud in his ears, eyes watering, lungs working like bellows. “No ride. No drinks reception. Just Tommy. Tell me where he is and don’t suggest I find him myself.”
Peter cleared his throat lightly. “He’s in the stables, Your Highness.”
“He’s—” Kris blinked, and softened fractionally. “You’re sure?”
“Totally sure,” Hanna said with a nod.
“Then let’s go.”
At the royal stables, Kris burst through the entrance in a glowering temper, and within moments, every groom and stable hand swiftly and silently exited through the rear doors. He’d never seen a mass exodus look so knowing.
Tommy was definitely here.
In the time it took Kris to swallow his impatience, Tommy had noted the quiet and poked his head out of a stall halfway up the stable. His hair was ruffled with work; the top f
ew buttons of his plaid shirt were undone. His features shuttered when he saw Kris.
“Oh,” he said, and pulled back inside the stall.
Yeah. Oh. Hands balling, Kris strode up the aisle, scarcely noticing the horses in their loose boxes. The stable was huge and perfectly presented with a white high ceiling and pristine stalls. Large enough for the horses to stand or lie down, each stall was fitted with partitions that allowed them to see their companions but not engage through the white vertical bars of the stall guard. The sound of a latch snicked the silence and Kris lunged forward just in time to stop the sliding stall door from opening.
“Kris,” Tommy said, his crisp tone adding get out of my way.
“Tomas,” he said, his own tone adding not fucking likely.
The door was just below shoulder-height, the stall guard bars on top halting at their chins. They stood precisely at eye level, and Kris stared back at a face he’d never recognized as a reflection of his own. It didn’t matter that they were identical. Tommy used his features so differently that Kris hardly understood how people could mistake them. Tommy wore his sharp: his eyes razor-cut from all the books he’d read, his jaw and cheekbones honed by self-control, and his mouth perpetually hard, as if the hand of his own mind clamped over it.
“Mark isn’t here to handle this for us.” Kris’s voice was as unrelenting as the concrete underfoot. “We have to do it ourselves, and that means you need to listen to me.”
“Go on.” Tommy’s attention slid darkly to where Kris barred his retreat. “Since you’ve sweet-talked me into cooperating.”
Kris’s fingers tightened around the bars. “I’m sorry.”
Tommy held his stare without reaction. A sleek, sorrel quarter horse watched on curiously behind him.
“I am.” Regret was like a broken rib inside him—it throbbed with every movement. “I’m so sorry.”
Tommy swallowed, glancing to one side. “For what?”
“Assuming you weren’t capable,” he said, pain bright in his chest. “Making you feel useless. Not noticing sooner that it’d pushed you away.” He inched closer, the toes of his boots coming up against the door rail. “I’m sorry this life is the last thing you wanted, and that I haven’t been around to help you to adjust.”
Bitterness curled around Tommy’s top lip.
“I get that I messed up when I took this role from Mark,” Kris continued, and imagined Mark standing beside them, nodding encouragingly at his attempt at peace. “I should never have said it like that. Like you didn’t count. Like you didn’t deserve to be a part of that decision. But I did and I can’t change it. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I—I don’t think I ever could mean to hurt you.”
After a moment, Tommy’s jaw softened as if he’d unclenched his teeth.
“If it helps,” Kris said, “my stupid heroics have left me training to replace Mark as the damned king, and it’s endless and thankless and I’m terrified.”
His brother’s brow dipped. “You have Frankie to support you.”
“I know.” Kris had believed that with Frankie by his side, he’d be capable of shouldering a king’s burden—but he’d meant in addition to his brothers. Not as a replacement. “But you and Mark are my baseline support. I was made with you guys. I don’t know this life without you. I’m not supposed to.” A tree couldn’t stand without its roots. “And you’re not supposed to get by without us, either, Tom.”
At that, his brother turned his back. The horse shifted forward, lowering its head, and Tommy ran a hand gently down its nose.
“It’s not you,” Tommy said quietly.
Kris wanted to slide the door open and stand beside his brother until Tommy looked at him, like he’d always done as a boy, because then, shoving into Tommy’s personal space had been the only way to make him talk. But Tommy was safely isolated. Kris wouldn’t enter the stall of a horse that didn’t know him.
“What do you mean?” Kris didn’t understand. “Why avoid me if it isn’t about me?”
Tommy didn’t answer, his posture strained.
Kris held down his frustration. “I need you around,” he said. “That’s what I’m trying to say. Don’t hide from me. Please? This king thing is too big for me to manage without you. I can’t do it. Not like this.”
Tommy froze. The horse snorted and he carefully resumed patting.
Kris wished his stare could grab the back of his brother’s shirt and haul him closer. “Tell me how I can make this better.”
“You can’t.” Tommy’s strong shoulders were rigid. “It’s not you.”
A different kind of regret panged in Kris’s chest and he lowered his voice. “I thought you were doing okay.”
Tommy lowered his head. “I wanted you to be wrong. About skipping me. I wanted to prove that I could cope.” He scoffed in disgust. “I tried going into the city a few weeks ago. I asked my guards to find a quiet bar with pool tables. Halfway there, I had a panic attack. We were in a grocery-store parking lot for thirty-five minutes before I could breathe properly.”
Kris muttered a curse.
“I took it out on you.” Tommy angled his head to one side. Not looking at Kris, but no longer blocking him out. “I’ve been feeling like shit and envying how easily you move through life. You can be around people. Talk to them. Make them like you. You forgave Frankie.” He paused, and Kris saw his throat move on a hard swallow. “And here I am, freaking out at the thought of being in a half-empty bar holding a fucking pool cue.”
“Well, you’ve always sucked at pool, so the thought should scare you.”
Tommy huffed out a breath, shooting Kris a wry glance over his shoulder. Then he sobered. “Sorry.”
“Yeah.” Kris lowered his forehead to the bars as relief unwound him. “Can we hang out?”
“Don’t you have a drinks reception in half an hour?”
“Who, me?” He straightened, pulling a face. “Nah.”
“Oh, God.” But there was a shadow of pleasure in the corner of his brother’s mouth.
Kris jerked his head at the magnificent stallion behind Tommy. “Tell me what’s been going on in here.”
“I spoke to one of our saddlers earlier about him and the other quarter horses.” Tommy gestured to the neighboring stalls where the newly arrived horses had been homed. “They’re about to start the leatherwork for new saddles and bridles.”
“They’ll be faultless.”
“Without a doubt.” With a parting pat, Tommy crossed to the door and this time, Kris let him out. “Did you know that many monarchies have mews instead of stables?” Tommy slid the door closed behind him and latched it shut. “But Kira City is too steep for carriages. Until cars, our family only ever kept horses. Even for ceremonial occasions.”
Kris started to smile. “You’re telling me we come from a long line of horse riders?”
Tommy’s head tilt confirmed it.
“That’s the best,” he said, shaking his head with a grin.
Then Tommy asked him to explain more about being terrified, so Kris spoke about policies and dignitaries and the looming pressure to produce heirs. All the while, they redid chores that had already been done, because it felt good to move, to breathe in the familiar stable smell of hay and wood shavings, leather and manure, and the warm fragrance of clean horses.
Working and moving, they chatted until the sun went down.
It was almost like being home.
“And I said I don’t need my own security!”
Philip stood in the middle of his new sitting room, flushed in equal parts indignation and embarrassment. It was a plush suite, tasteful in olive green and cream tones, and he still held the embroidered throw pillow he’d been admiring when Frankie had first walked in.
“And I said you do,” Frankie said, crossing her arms.
“It’s wildly unnecessary,” he said, and set the cushion back on the armchair. “And frankly, it will look like a foolish waste of palace resources for a pair of guards to shadow a
mere royal advisor down every hall. I’m not a Jaroka. My life is hardly at risk.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Frankie’s attention swept the room critically. “Just let me know when you have plans to leave the palace and I’ll arrange the proper security escort.”
“I’m not important enough to—”
“Wrong.” Her voice hardened and he caught her eye with a start. “My job is to protect this family. And now that includes you. No, stop—stop arguing.”
“Fine.” Philip held her stare before sighing. “I wish that tone would work on Kristof. He’s lucky Markus was able to step in for the drinks reception tonight.”
“Never doubt they’ve got each other’s backs.” She gave a final glance around his new suite. “Get someone to clean those windows or you’ll miss the way the lake sparkles at sunrise.”
He grumbled, but his brows rose interestedly as he turned to his sweeping second-story windows.
Adding Philip to her list of primaries threatened to jailbreak Frankie’s panic, but she locked it down as best she could. She could handle this. Her team had secured the royals since day one. The situation had not worsened—she was just getting closer to the black heart at its core.
And she was going to take down whoever she found lurking there.
By Friday morning, she was wrung out. Her mind wouldn’t stop chewing on the investigation—cud she refused to spit or swallow, not even to sleep. Kris had done his best to distract her the night before, but the intimacy had put an ache in her heart.
Obviously being with Kris would come with a catch. These first nights in each other’s arms should be wondrous and tender—and she was finding it harder and harder to forget that some group of psychos wanted him dead.
“I’ll be okay,” he’d murmured afterward as they lay facing each other. “I will.”
“I know,” she’d replied, clinging to his hand.
Because it was up to her to ensure it.
Too torn up, she’d left Kris sleeping and spent the night working at her desk. Of all the ways to dispose of a royal family, why a weakened balcony? The main advantage was clear. Many hands contributed to its construction, making it difficult to pinpoint sabotage, and as an unlikely murder strategy, the deaths seemed far more tragic than suspicious. They’d been smart on that score. But she couldn’t work out how a group of laborers could know that the entire family would dine there together. The plan was absurdly improbable without someone to encourage the family onto the balcony.