Date: 2013-07-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Romance; Contemporary
Description: Rocked by an unexpected attack, Latvala and its citizens find themselves at the mercy of a man whose sole intent is to shake up the monarchy. Queen for less than a year, Chey must choose between protecting the man she loves and protecting her unborn child. It's a decision that threatens to tear the fabric of her family apart. Determined to overcome the odds, an embattled Chey proves she can still be wily, unpredictable and hard to control. Only time will tell if loyalty, trust and the strength of close friends can help overcome the chokehold of tyranny.
Publisher: Wildbloom Press

The Wrath of the King

Danielle Bourdon

Published by Wildbloom Press

Copyright © 2013

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

For the fans

Thank you for your support

Chapter One

He stared at the sky, watching a cloud scuttle by. They reminded him of puffy cotton balls, so white against a sea of blue. There was something serene and peaceful about it, luring him to lay there a while longer. And just what was he doing, anyway, languishing in a meadow of grass, flat on his back? He couldn't recall why he was there, didn't remember laying down in the first place.

Blinking beads of salty sweat from his eyes, Sander frowned. He had some place he needed to be, a destination other than here. Exerting himself, he tried to get up. Tried to move. It was a thought that didn't transfer to his arms and legs, which he realized he couldn't feel. He couldn't even get a finger to twitch.

What the hell was going on?

A moment after that, Sander understood his coherency had been compromised. He wasn't thinking straight, couldn't get a grasp on reality. The blurry edge of his vision cleared enough for him to make out lumps of black in periphery.

He wasn't in a meadow, he was on a road, with a hulking twist of metal to his left. Alarms clanged through his mind, sending urgent signals to get up, get up, GET UP.

The harder he struggled to get to his feet, the more blatant his state of paralysis became.

Paralyzed. He was numb from the neck down.

A loud boom shattered the bubble of silence he existed in. All at once, an onslaught of noise battered his ears and heat seared his senses. Part of an arm flew overhead, severed at the elbow. Shrapnel hit Sander's shoulder and hip, his entire left side, like buckshot. Pain accompanied the blow, pain he relished because it meant he could feel. He wasn't paralyzed, only stunned.

In the distance, he heard a man scream.

Fire cracked closer, somewhere to his right.

The scent of burning rubber mingled with the acrid smell of charred flesh.

Accident. The caravan of Hummers he'd been traveling in had some kind of accident. He couldn't remember the impact or the details. Didn't remember being thrown free of the vehicle.

With extreme effort, more effort than it should have taken, Sander turned his head to the side. Stretched along the road was a minefield of debris. Bodies. Remnants of the Hummers. Fire.

It looked like a war zone.

A man belly crawled over the asphalt, using his elbows to pull himself forward. His leg was gone.

Sander opened his mouth to speak, to shout, to say something. Nothing came out. He couldn't find his voice, wasn't able to lift his arm more than an inch off the ground.

Get up, get up, GET UP. His chest felt strange and heavy, as if an anvil sat there.

The crawling man slumped, went still. His body twitched once.

Sander gurgled a sound, then coughed up a mouthful of blood.

He wondered if he was dying, like the belly crawling man.

Dying under a bright sky and cotton puff clouds.

Darkness crowded the edge of his vision, diffusing the incoming light. He fought it, fought to stay awake. Fought to live.

The debris field blurred.

His last thought was of Chey and their unborn child. A boy. A child and a wife he might never see again. He held tight to her memory, her smiles, the love in her eyes.

Held tight until, against his will, she faded to black.

. . .

“Chey, stop being so stubborn and let me carry it!” Wynn tugged on the strap to an overflowing shopping bag, attempting to thieve it from Chey's grasp.

“I'm pregnant, not an invalid! I can carry it up the stairs.” Chey paused, one hand on the banister, the other gripping the loaded shopping bag. Half a flight of stairs to go. No problem.

“You look like you're about to have a heart attack, face all purple, huffing and puffing--”

Chey laughed at the exaggerations pouring from Wynn's mouth. She looked sideways, eyes narrowed in amusement. “You're so full of it, Wynnie.”

Wynn darted a look up and down the staircase. “Don't call me that where others might hear.”

“I think it's a cute nickname.”

“It's a ten year old's nickname, which was how old we were when you gave it to me.” Wynn, seeing no one within hearing range, relaxed. Carrying her own load of bags, she continued up the stairs with Chey.

“It was not. We were--” Chey didn't finish before Wynn cast her a mock withering look. Grinning, Chey changed the subject. “Anyway, it's good exercise. Keeps me in shape.”

“You can't see your feet,” Wynn pointed out. “That's too far along to be lugging stuff up all these flights of stairs.”

Chey glanced down. Her stomach protruded far enough that she only caught glimpses of her shoes on the next step up. Flats instead of heels, because she wasn't that confident in her balance. “That's just more incentive to keep going, right?”

Wynn exaggerated an exhale. “Don't make me wrestle you to the ground just to get the bag.”

Chey laughed. “You're a stick, Wynn. You couldn't lift my right leg, much less tackle me to the ground.”

“I've gained three whole pounds since I've lived in Latvala!” Wynn, smiling as wide as Chey, hit the landing and cupped a hand under Chey's elbow to 'help' her up the last step.

“Oooooh.” Chey did some exaggerating of her own, making her voice waver up and down. “That's so much weight.”

“If I'm not careful, I'll start waddling. Like you.” Wynn stepped out of swatting range.

“I don't waddle!” Chey paused at the top of the stairs, indignant. She refused to admit that she needed a little breather.

“I hate to tell you, Chey, but you do.” Wynn rocked back and forth on her clunky platform shoes.

Scoffing, Chey started forward again, heading down the hallway to the baby's room. “I'll show you waddling. If I wanted to, I could beat you in a race to the bedroom.”

Wynn guffawed. “That's a sight I'd like to see. Mama Bear, run-waddling down the hall.”

Chey laughed, too. Running was not an option this late in the pregnancy game. With less than three weeks to go, she was finally in the home stretch. She felt surprisingly spry most days, and kept up a rigid exercise regimen to remain strong going into delivery. Sander joined her in the early mornings for a long walk on the beach, a task she repeated in the late afternoon with Wynn.

Arriving at the baby's bedroom, Chey waited while Wynn let them in and lugged the bags over to a changing table set up against the wall. Plopping the bags on top of a thick pad in place to protect the wood, she turned to view the nursery with a typical buzz of excitement. Powder blue paint decorated the walls to a halfway point, where blue, white and yellow striped wallpaper took over. A strip of carved molding ran the circumference of the entire room. Unique pieces of furniture made by local craftsman dotted the space: a crib, changing table, double dressers, two rockers and wooden wall decorations depicting scenes from famous nursery rhymes. Although the baby wouldn't be staying in this room until he was a little older, Chey loved it and had spent countless hours with Sander, decorating to her heart's content.

“Every time I come in here, I fall in love a little more,” Wynn said, setting her bags down.

“I know, so do I. I'm glad we got it done early. Let's put all this in the right bins.” Chey unloaded the baby clothes from the bags and sorted them into clear bins lined up along the wall. There were already scads of clothes inside, folded neatly, waiting to be washed closer to the time of delivery. Since her time was near, the bins would make it easy for the staff to gather a bunch up at once when she went into labor.

“This kid already has enough clothes to see him through his entire first year.” Wynn smoothed a hand down the pencil skirt of black that she'd coupled with a short coat that matched. Accents of pink rimmed the collar and cuffs, as well as the buttons. Crouching near a bin, she refolded the slew of onesies she'd bought and set them atop the others.

“He does. It's hard to pass up the outfits when you see them in the store, though!” Chey closed the lid on one bin, then the next, to keep the dust out.

“Just wait until you have a girl.” Wynn bobbed her brows.

“We'll need five times the room.” Chey grunted, using the corner of a sturdy dresser to help get on her feet. Pressing both hands against the low of her back, she arched her spine, stretching the muscles. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror across the room and smiled to herself at the image she presented. The white maternity top fit snug through the bust and capped sleeves, gathering at her sternum to fall loose over the swell of her stomach. Baby blue shorts accented the tan length of her legs. She couldn't look more pregnant if she tried.

“I still think you should whisper his name to me. I promise I won't tell a soul.” Wynn gathered the empty shopping bags and folded them down flat.

“No way. You mean well, but I know you'd slip and say it in front of someone.” Wynn had been trying to weasel the baby's name out of Chey the entire summer.

“Excuse me, your Highness,” a voice said from the doorway.

Chey glanced away from the mirror. Three men stood just outside in the hall, each wearing somber expressions to match their somber suits. She recognized the lead speaker as Otto Thomsen, one of the lead advisers residing at Kallaster and often in Sander's presence during meetings. Blonde and blue eyed, Otto was every bit as rugged as Sander, a man built sturdy and thick through the chest. His age did not detract from the capable air of experience he brought with him wherever he went.

“Yes, Mister Thomsen?” Chey said.

Otto stepped into the room, holding her gaze.

That was Chey's first inkling that something more serious was wrong. The way Thomsen wouldn't look away from her face. She frowned.

“I'm sorry to say that there has been an accident,” he said in heavily accented English. He clasped his broad hands in front of him, never deviating from eye contact that seemed to forewarn her of impending, unpleasant news.

Alarm made the fine hair on the back of Chey's neck stand on end. “What kind of accident?”

Wynn arrived at Chey's side, hovering close.

Mister Thomsen paused, then said, “An attack on his Majesty's caravan. He is in critical condition and we need to take you to the hospital straightaway.”

Chapter Two

Fear made knots of Chey's stomach, and for the first time in months, she suffered nausea so strong she thought she might lose her lunch all over the helicopter floor. Thomsen's words on the limousine ride from the castle to the helipad haunted her. Three vehicles affected, six men dead, seven in the intensive care unit not including Sander. IEDs—improvised explosive devices—looked to be the culprit.

The attack hadn't been happenstance, that much was certain. Sander was the target, obviously, and lucky to still be alive.

Wynn, sitting next to her in the aircraft, squeezed her hand. It was too loud to talk in private, a fact Chey was secretly glad for. She didn't think she could talk just yet, and didn't want to arrive at the hospital a sobbing mess.

After landing atop the hospital roof, Chey accepted a hand out of the helicopter and, ducking the chop of the rotor blades, headed for the elevator doors with Thomsen and Wynn. Thomsen greeted the waiting guards and escorted Chey from the rooftop to the topmost floor reserved for royalty.

This wasn't Chey's first trip here. She remembered the long corridors and rooms set up like bedroom suites. Instead of a regular suite, however, Thomsen led Chey into a different room on the left, adjacent to the nurse's station. It was large, like the rest, except this one had a wealth of technical gear and a stark, clinical appearance.

Her first glimpse of Sander was a shocking one. Tubes and wires led away from the King of Latvala's body to machines with digital screens. Extensive bruising colored one side of his face; small puncture marks indicative of shrapnel extended down his shoulder and an arm. Gone was the golden, robust man Chey had come to know and love; in his place, a pale shadow with bandages covering yet more wounds on his chest and opposite arm. Chey could only guess what other damage there might be that the blanket covered up.

Approaching with caution, as if she thought he might stop breathing any second, Chey covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stifle the anguish that raced up the back of her throat. Staring down into his face, she took in the slack features, the pliant shape of his mouth. No ventilator parted his lips, a detail she noticed in passing. He must be breathing on his own, a good sign or so she thought. When she reached her fingers to trace the line of his hand, she half expected him to be cool to the touch. Much to her relief, he was warm, pulse steady and strong under his skin.

“Sander? Can you hear me?” Chey whispered. Nothing moved, nothing twitched. “I'm here, and I'm not leaving. All right? Not until you wake up. I promise.”

“Oh, Chey.” Wynn, arriving at her side, set a hand on Chey's shoulder.

“He'll be all right,” Chey said, pulling a chair closer to the side of the bed. The legs stuttered over the polished linoleum like morse code. Lowering to sit, still touching his hand, she choked back another sob and focused only on positive thoughts. He was strong, determined, with an iron will to live. He would pull through this.

“Visiting hours are until eight this evening--” Thomsen paused when Chey interrupted.

“I'm not leaving. Didn't you hear me? I'm not leaving his side. Do what you have to and get me cleared to stay. Have Hanna bring some clothes, please.” Chey didn't look away from Sander's face.

Silence greeted her request.

“Mister Thomsen?”

“Yes, your Highness. I'll see to it.” The sound of shoes on retreat announced Thomsen's exit.

“What can I do, Chey?” Wynn asked. Her voice barely rose above the click-beep of machinery.

“Pray. Just pray for him.” All the pep talks in the world wouldn't keep Chey from pleading for Sander's life. To keep him with her, to be there for their child. She couldn't imagine their baby growing up without a father—without Sander.

Wynn pulled another chair next to Chey's and draped an arm behind Chey's back. After a quick look toward the doorway, Wynn said, “Who do you think did this? Who would have tried to end his life?”

“I don't know. Everything's been going so well the last few months.” Chey smeared tears off her cheeks with her fingers.

“Some enemy of the country? Someone that passed under their security's radar?” Wynn, wearing a troubled frown, glanced from Sander to Chey.

“Maybe. At this point, I'm not sure we can rule anything out. One thing is obvious though. They knew he was coming. They laid those traps because they knew the caravan was going on that road.” Chey couldn't concentrate on enemies, not now. Not this soon after finding him stricken. What mattered was Sander opening his eyes to tell her everything would be all right. She needed to see the gleam in his gaze, hear the rumble of his voice.

A nurse came in to adjust his IV bag. She curtsied to Chey and smiled in both sympathy and encouragement. “His vital signs have been holding steady since he came in. That's something.”

Chey inclined her head in agreement. It was better than hearing his heart had stopped or that there might be severe internal damage. “Yes. Is he in a coma?”

“The Doctor is coming in shortly to update you, your Highness.”

“All right, thank you.”

Less than five minutes later, a stern faced Doctor in a white lab coat and black slacks entered with a chart in his hands. Silvery gray hair offset an angular face and eyes with creases at their corners. The name embroidered neatly on the coat said, Dr. Tahvo.

“Your Highness, I'm Doctor Tahvo.” He gave Chey a professional smile, not too personal and not too cordial.

“Doctor,” Chey said to acknowledge his greeting. “I'd like to know if he's in a coma.”

“Yes. He was unconscious when he came in and hasn't woken, yet. It's the blow to the head here,” the Doctor said, gesturing to the far side of Sander's skull. “But I can say that after examination of his MRIs, it appears he escaped a severe head injury.”

Chey had to lean half over Sander to get a look at the spot, taking care not to apply pressure to any other part of his body. His hair covered whatever injury he'd suffered, though several strands were mottled with dried blood.

“He'll wake up though, won't he?” Chey asked, easing back into her chair. She realized the Doctor probably couldn't give her an exact answer, but Chey needed something. Some kind of reassurance or even a tentative, optimistic thought.

“It's impossible to say for sure. I feel confident, however, that he has a very good chance to regain consciousness soon. The faster he comes around, the better. We'll know more in the morning.”

After checking his vitals, the nurse recorded the stats and departed the room.

“What of his other wounds?” Chey asked.

“Mostly superficial. He had a few lacerations that needed stitching, but considering the condition of the other men from his caravan, the King is in incredible shape. No broken bones, no ruptured organs. He was very lucky.”

“I'm pleased to hear it. Can you tell the nurses that I'll be taking care of his daily needs? Baths and the like?” Chey said. She didn't want anyone touching Sander unless they absolutely had to until she knew more about what happened. Even then, Chey wanted to be the one caring for him.

Doctor Tahvo cocked a brow. “Are you sure that's a good idea, your Highness? It will require you to roll his Majesty onto his side--”

“I can handle it, Doctor,” Chey assured him. She might be far along in her pregnancy, but she knew what she could and couldn't do.

“Very well. If you need anything at all from our staff, you have only to ask. I'll return in the morning unless there is a change overnight.” He inclined his head to Chey and Wynn and departed the room.

“I think that was pretty encouraging. It sounds like he thinks Sander has a good chance to fully recover,” Wynn said.

“I hope so.” She wouldn't feel any relief until he was walking and talking and doing all the things Sander used to do. Pressing a kiss to the back of Sander's hand, she whispered, “Please wake up. Please. We need you.”

Machines click-beeped. Sander's chest rose and fell with even, steady breaths. Time ticked off a clock on the wall, ushering in the darkness of night.

Chey waited. Watching. Hoping. Praying.

He had to wake up. Had to.

She didn't want to live without him.

. . .

“Councilman Andersen, you may deny your involvement about the money all you like, but I've got solid proof.” Paavo eyed the councilman with a shrewd gaze. Their conversation had come full circle once again, with Andersen insisting he hadn't been laundering money from the royal coffers.

“What do you mean, proof?” Andersen asked. Tall, built lean, the one-time soldier straightened his shoulders defensively. The fine Italian suit of black hung limp from his body, highlighting recent weight loss that hollowed his cheeks and made him more bird-like than not. A pair of pale green eyes stared at the Prince with obvious wariness.

“Remember that I tried to do this the nice way,” Paavo said. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a manilla envelope. Tossing it down within Andersen's reach, Paavo waited. Expectant. He knew solid proof would tip Andersen's hand.

Andersen glanced at the envelope. He licked lips as if struck by a sudden bout of nerves. Checking the contents—three grainy, black and white snapshots—Andersen hissed and shoved the photos back inside. He slapped the envelope down as if merely touching it burned his fingers. Swiveling away from the polished desk, the man paced Paavo's office.

Sitting back in his chair, Paavo propped his elbows on the arms and steepled his fingers. Andersen was the last councilman he needed to tip the balance of the majority in his favor. The rest had fallen in the same way as Andersen, succumbing to the pressure of blackmail after their filthy secrets had been exposed in private. One or two had accepted outright bribery, making his job easier.

“Now, you can keep on denying me, but if you choose to go that route, I'll make sure you're stripped of your position and jailed for the rest of your life. It's a high crime to steal from the monarchy, you know,” Paavo said.

“I know!” Andersen snapped. He cleared his throat after the outburst and ran a hand through his short, silver hair.

“You can't pretend to have morals after this,” Paavo added. “I don't see what the big deal is. All I'm asking you to do is throw your vote my way. When it's time, you back my proposition. I'll make sure you're compensated much better than what you were skimming off the coffers.”

“I know what you want, your Highness,” Andersen said. He stopped near a window, looking out at the dark landscape of Paavo's holding. Then, he turned just his head to bring Paavo back into view. “Compensation?”

“Yes, compensation. Give me your promise to stand behind me and I'll see that you not only don't go to jail, but you'll find five times your yearly pay deposited into your bank account.”

Andersen frowned. He stepped away from the window. “We all know your stipends have been cut. How are you affording this?”

Paavo rasped a laugh. “Leave the semantics to me, Andersen. Are you in, or are you out?”

“How many other men have you manipulated on the council?” Andersen asked.

“Don't worry, there are half going down the same road as you. Enough to get done what needs doing. You won't be alone when you vote.” Paavo regarded Andersen, knew the second the councilman's mind changed. Acceptance and resignation glittered in Andersen's gaze. Anger, too, at just how thoroughly he'd been used.

“All right.” Andersen threw his hands in the air. “All right. I want my entire family left completely out of this, no matter what happens.”

“As long as you stay your course.” Paavo pushed a different envelope across the desk, indicating Andersen should pick it up.

Inside, Andersen found an initial payment large enough to raise his eyebrows.

“Take that back with you to the family seat and wait. You'll know when to act.” Paavo reached into his jacket pocket and fished his phone out when it vibrated. Reading the text message, he stood from the chair and sent a text back. To Andersen, he said, “It may be sooner than we think.”

A knock at the door some minutes later preceded the entrance of General Ingvar. Paavo remained standing, as he was wont to do in this man's presence. A master of strategy, Ingvar was also a warrior's warrior, built thick but lean where it counted, which made him lethal and quick. Several inches taller than Paavo, Ingvar had a wicked scar on his chin, whiter than the rest of his skin. His eyes were so pale blue they were almost white, making him appear eerie and angry all the time.

Ingvar looked Andersen up and down once, briefly, then inclined his head. He put his attention on Paavo and stopped near the desk to bow his head. “Your Highness, I come bearing news.”

Sliding the phone into his pocket, followed by his hands, Paavo eyed Ingvar. “Yes?”

“There has been an attack on His Majesty's caravan. The King lives,” Ingvar paused, then said, “but is currently in a coma. It is unclear whether he will survive.”

Paavo heard Andersen suck in a surprised breath. “Aren't you glad you decided to side with me?” he said to the councilman without taking his eyes off Ingvar. To the General, Paavo replied, “I will, of course, come up to the family seat immediately to support Mattias.”

The General's cheek twitched. “We have been unable to locate Prince Mattias for the last four hours. The council has recommended you step in to take temporary reign.”

“When did the council decide this?” Andersen blurted. “Obviously, not every person was in attendance.”

Paavo swung his gaze to Andersen at the same time Ingvar did. “Emergency intervention, Andersen. The protocol is that the council in attendance at the time puts it to a vote and the majority prevails, even when all members are not present. If Mattias cannot be found in a timely manner, someone else must take over.”

“I know what the protocol is,” Andersen said. “I wasn't even contacted,” he added, pulling his phone from his front pocket. No messages awaited.

“Likely, they knew you were all the way out here. Busy. You wouldn't have made it back in time anyway. You'll be there, however, for the next big item up for vote.” Paavo switched a look back to Ingvar. “The troops?”

“All in place. It was a stroke of luck, however, about Prince Mattias,” Ingvar added.

“Yes, it was. Prepare for an early morning departure. We can't leave the country leaderless in a time of crisis.” Paavo exited the room, prepared to use the rest of his time tonight preparing to move his agenda forward. There wasn't a second to waste.

Chapter Three

“Chey, Chey wake up.”

A familiar, masculine voice pulled Chey from a restless dream. Lifting her head, she suffered a few moments of confusion, blinking sleep from her eyes. “Yes?”

“It's Gunnar, Chey. You awake?”

Gunnar's face came into view. Machines beeped and a clinical, stringent scent hit her nose. The hospital. She was at the hospital. Sitting up straighter, rubbing a spot on her stomach where part of the metal railing had been digging into her skin, she checked on Sander—no change—before looking up at Gunnar again.

“I'm awake. When did you get in?” Chey touched Sander's hand, feeling for warmth, for a pulse. Both were present, one more vivid than the other.

“Very early this morning. I've been in and out, but I didn't want to disturb you while you were sleeping until I had to.” Gunnar walked around the other side of the bed and stared down at Sander. He touched his brother's arm, then trained his gaze on Chey.

Brushing loose strands of hair out of her face, Chey leaned back in the chair to give her spine a rest. She'd fallen asleep with her head on Sander's bed, leaving her body torqued in an awkward position for hours on end.

“I'm glad you're here. Have the doctors said anything more? Any news?” she asked. Her bladder demanded attention, but Chey waited for Gunnar's answer.

“Nothing. He's the same, they said, as he was last night. I was hoping he would come to this morning.” Gunnar stared down at Sander again. “Sander, you need to wake up. Do you hear me? It's imperative.”

“Gunnar, can you watch him a moment? I need the ladies room.” Chey couldn't wait another second. She didn't want to leave Sander without someone in the family remaining right at his bedside.

“Sure, go ahead. I've got something else to tell you.” He didn't glance up.

“I'll be right back.” Chey went into the bathroom and closed the door. Quick about her business, she washed and dried her hands, wondering what else was on Gunnar's mind. On her return to Sander's bedside, she spied Krislin out in the hall talking to Wynn and mouthed a hello, which Krislin returned.

Feeling better, Chey stood instead of sat, preferring to stretch her legs and get the blood flowing. “What's going on?”

Gunnar pushed his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He wore a navy suit today, replete with a tie, cuff links and clean shaven face. Although his face was more slender and angular than Sander's, he looked most like his eldest brother than the rest of the boys.

“I had a talk about an hour ago with a few of the advisers. They came up from the family seat in the middle of the night. No one's been able to make contact with Mattias yet. That means they've decided to install Paavo as acting King until either Mattias returns or Sander wakes up.” Gunnar's grim expression suggested he wasn't happy with the decision.

Any remnants of sleep that had been lingering vanished at Gunnar's announcement. Chey snapped a look across the bed and met his eyes. Over the course of the summer, Paavo had come and gone from the family seat, laying low for the most part. He'd done nothing to instigate more action on Sander's part, and had even volunteered to take on a few more official duties than usual.

“Is that normal?” Chey asked.

“It's protocol if the next in line can't be found or contacted in a reasonable amount of time,” Gunnar replied.

“Well...where is Mattias? Nothing has happened to him, has it?”

“Probably not. Sometimes he shuts his phone off even when he knows he shouldn't.” Gunnar looked like he might say something else, then closed his lips before anything came out.

“Gunnar, isn't this going to cause a problem again? Like it did last time when Aksel suggested Paavo for the throne, then it didn't happen? Sander said the idea went to Paavo's head and that's why he made a move to divide the country and everything else.” Something about the whole thing made Chey uncomfortable. She couldn't believe that Paavo was responsible for the strike on Sander, but this is what Paavo had wanted all along. A shot at the throne. Gunnar was the youngest, unable to leapfrog Paavo to sit in his place.

“I hope not, Chey. Paavo hasn't seemed to be paying much attention to the throne and things these past months. He's been off tending to royal duties. Whenever we talk, he never brings any of it up, like he wants to be done with it,” Gunnar said.

“That's true. He talks a lot about other things these days and seems happier,” Krislin added.

Chey glanced back. Wynn and Krislin had come into the room some time during the conversation. “Then let's hope he doesn't decide he wants to fight for the throne during all this.”

“As much as I don't want to leave Sander, I think I should go back to the family seat,” Gunnar said.

“I think that's a wise idea. Will you call me and keep me updated? I'm not leaving Sander until he wakes up.” Chey would be hard pressed to even leave a nurse alone with him at the moment.

“I'll stay here and give you breaks when you need them,” Krislin said.

“You got it, Chey. It's only a matter of time until Mattias checks in. I'll monitor things until then.” Gunnar gave Sander's arm a squeeze, then said, “Hang in there, Dare. Wake up, you hear me?” Gunnar stepped away from the bed, kissed Krislin on the cheek, then departed the room.

Chey watched him go, then nodded once at Krislin for her offer. She trusted her more than she trusted anyone else to watch over Sander when Chey had no choice but to use the restroom or take a quick shower.

“I was about to go order breakfast. Do you want something, Chey?” Krislin asked.

“Just toast, thanks.” Chey didn't think she could stomach more than that. “And maybe some orange juice.”

“I'll be back in a little bit.” Krislin stepped out into the hall and engaged one of the nurses.

“What can I do, Chey? I'll sit here with Sander if you want to take a shower. Your clothes arrived overnight and are hanging in the closet.” Wynn picked up an empty duffel bag against the wall and moved it over toward a clinical looking dresser where she placed it into a bottom drawer. “There are a few casual maternity pants and shirts in here, too, already folded.”

“Actually, Wynn, I want you to do something else.” Chey waited until her best friend came close to whisper. “Get Mattias's number from Krislin and call his cell every half an hour. In the meantime, go back to the family seat and keep an eye on things for me, will you? I'd like to know what's going on in our absence.”

Wynn looked surprised. “Sure. You know I'll be discreet.”

“Excellent. Call me in the evenings, or if anything unusual crops up, okay? I suspect it might be a waste of time on your part, but I'll feel better with someone on watch.” Chey wouldn't ask anyone else to do this except Wynn, and only then because they'd been friends for so long.

“Just promise me you'll take breaks to walk and stretch and rest,” Wynn said. “I know you. You'll obsess until you push yourself into labor.”

“I'll do what I can, when I can.” That was the best promise Chey could make. After Wynn squeezed her hand, Chey watched the woman make her way into the hall and team up with Krislin.

Turning back to Sander, Chey pulled up her chair and sat down. Stroking the tips of her fingers along his arm, she willed him to wake up. Time, she thought, was not on their side.

. . .

Paavo watched the discomfort of three councilmen rise to almost palpable levels. Riding in the back of a limousine en route to the family seat, there was no where for the men to escape. Each had been compromised by blackmail and bribery, made to bend to Paavo's will through no choice of their own.

“So we're positive that when we take this to our meeting tomorrow, we'll meet no resistance, correct?” Paavo asked. He wanted the councilmen to say it out loud. Wanted them to admit the majority would vote his way.

“Yes,” one member said, not meeting Paavo's eyes. “Everyone that needs to be on board, is on board.”

“The others won't appreciate it and will raise protest,” another added.

“I'm not worried about the 'others'. With the majority, there's nothing they can do to overturn the decision. Which is why it's critical we get this right the first time.” Paavo believed his threats and manipulation would hold. Judging by the looks on the council member's faces, although they didn't like the circumstances, they wouldn't risk going to jail. Or risk the safety of their family.

“They will go your way,” the third man said. His fingers were a white-knuckled knot in his lap.

“Excellent. Is there anything else I should know before we arrive?” Paavo watched the family seat rise tall through the window of the limo. He felt a distinct sense of satisfaction and rightness about his actions. This was the path forward to regaining control of his country.

“Some of the other members are concerned about what will happen should the King come out of the coma. To attempt a coup is treason, and the King has never been soft on traitors.”

Paavo didn't bother to look back at the men sitting across from him. “You should be more worried about what your new King will do once I have wrested the throne away from Dare. Many changes are about to take place, and you can either be a part of it, lending your full support, or skulk under the shadow of a man whose time as ruler is done. One way or another, gentlemen, I am stepping up in my father's place. There is no room for second guesses or weakness. If you're that afraid, then let's be done with the ruse and get on with the business of following through with the conditions—or should I say repercussions—of not siding with the proper heir to the throne.”

Silence was Paavo's only answer.

. . .

By eight that evening, Wynn was no closer to learning anything new than when she'd arrived back at the Ahtissari family seat. The whispers being passed from mouth to ear remained at the edge of her perception, something sensed more than heard or seen. She knew people were talking, could tell by a few expressions of the guard's faces and staff that concern for the King was prevalent on everyone's mind. Trying to glean any deeper detail had proven futile thus far.

Aware that Paavo had arrived at the castle earlier in the day, Wynn made several passes along the lower hallways near the conference rooms, hoping to hear snippets of conversation from assistants of the councilmen. Nothing concrete presented itself.

Exhausting all available avenues, Wynn ascended to the second floor, disgusted at her lack of information. She didn't want to call Chey without something.

“Lost?” a masculine voice said behind her.

Wynn twisted a look over her shoulder. There stood Paavo, his dark suit rakishly askew, three buttons open on the white shirt beneath. He had his hands in his pockets, the coat caught on his wrists. She'd seen him from afar several times; this was the first up close and personal. Unsure what to think, she pivoted enough to face him.

“Actually, no. I have a room here. We haven't officially met yet. I'm Wynn Hudson.” She extended her hand while he gave her a quick once over. The shirt she wore had long sleeves and a collar that poked up past a faux argyle sweater sewn into the design. Tails of the shirt hung loose over a pair of jeans with heavy signs of wear on the thighs and in the creases near her hips. Three inch platform shoes jutted her modest height up enough that she didn't have to crane her neck, at least, to maintain eye contact.

He withdrew a hand and clasped hers, engulfing her slender fingers and palm in his own. Instead of shake, he swiftly brought her knuckles to his mouth where he brushed the faintest kiss. A moment later, he relinquished the hold. “Miss Hudson, Prince Paavo. But then, you knew that.”

Wynn regarded the Prince while his lips touched down on her skin. Any other time, she would have engaged in a wealth of shameless flirting. Tonight, she merely smiled a small smile and reeled her hand back once he was done. Heat lingered on her flesh from the warmth of his mouth.

“Yes, I did. Pleased to finally meet you properly,” she said.

“You as well.” His expression shifted into one of concern. “Any recent news from Chey about Dare? I'd really like to visit him in the hospital once these meetings are over.”

Caught off guard by his apparent sincerity, Wynn reminded herself that Paavo had caused quite a few problems before the wedding. “I haven't spoken with her in several hours. I expect things are holding steady or she would have called me.”

“Good. I've set a panel to the task of finding out just what happened out on that road. With any luck, they'll have some answers in the next day or two.”

Wynn realized she had a prime opportunity to possibly learn more right now than at any other time today. She cocked her chin to the side. “I hope you find something out, too. It seems you all need to be extra careful in the meantime, in case someone is targeting the whole family. Right?”

“Just so, Miss Hudson.” He paused, looking down the hall before finding her eyes again. “I was about to take a few moments for dinner. Care to join me?”

Wynn pushed her hands over her hips, flattening the tails of the shirt against the jeans. Seeing an opportunity to extend her good fortune, she inclined her head. “Yes, I will. Thanks. Where to?”

He closed the small distance between them and set a hand low on her back. “This way. We'll use the parlor on the upper floor. You're allowed to be there as long as you're with me.”

Wynn breathed in the subtle scent of his cologne while he escorted her to the next set of stairs. She thought ahead to what other questions she might ask once they were seated. Guards at the base snapped to attention as they passed by and headed up.

Entering the parlor, she took in the lavish décor with a glance and allowed Paavo to guide her to a table next to tall windows. Whispering her gratitude after he held her chair, she scooted it closer by a few inches and put her attention on him when he sat opposite. Wynn discovered that Paavo had a rather direct way of staring that made her think he already expected her questions. A silly notion.

“What would you like? They can make almost anything you desire.” Paavo pulled out a cell phone and held it at the ready.

“I think a chicken salad for me, please.” Something light, uncomplicated. Wynn didn't want to weigh herself down this late with a heavy meal.

Paavo put in a call, speaking quick and in his own language.

Wynn regarded the Prince while he was preoccupied ordering, trying to take the measure of the man. Wondering over the news that he had been appointed the sitting King while Sander fought for his life in another city. Wondering, too, if the temporary title would go to his head again as Chey feared it might. Wynn didn't know him well enough to know if his current actions and behavior were normal or driven by the importance of his newfound position. Of all the brothers, Paavo reminded Wynn of Mattias the most. The brothers were built similar, with Paavo standing a shade shorter than his sibling. Paavo's eyes, green instead of dark, were more secretive than Mattias's. Maybe that was fanciful thinking.

“All right. It'll be here in a few minutes.” Paavo set his phone on the table and got comfortable in his seat. After he stretched his legs beneath the table, he said, “Why are you staying here instead of Kallaster?”

Wynn tore her gaze off the exposed hollow of his throat. She chided herself in silence and promised herself she would stay on track. If she didn't, Paavo might trip her up with his questions.

“Honestly, I wanted to be closer to the information. Everyone else is here right now, so I thought it best to be where they were.” It wasn't far from the truth. Wynn wouldn't tell him Chey had sent her back to be her eyes and ears.

“What information are you seeking?” he asked.

“Well, for starters, I wanted to know the second Mattias came back. He'll be taking over, won't he, until Sander wakes up?” Wynn played innocent, as if she hadn't heard any rumors regarding Paavo. His eyes narrowed and the corner of his mouth twitched with something like humor. Wynn didn't know how else to interpret it.

“I guess news doesn't travel as fast as I thought it did,” Paavo said. “I have been appointed the sitting King.”

Wynn arched her eyebrows and widened her eyes. “What? Oh, I hadn't heard. My apologies, your Majesty. I just assumed since Mattias is next in line--”

“It's Paavo in private, hm?” Paavo said, interrupting her with his quiet request. “And he is—under normal circumstances. But these are hardly normal, and with Mattias unable to be located, the duty falls to me.”

Wynn inclined her head, acknowledging his name preference at least while they were behind closed doors. “It must be a lot of pressure, especially with the attack on Sander. Aren't you worried the same thing might happen to you or Mattias?”

“One can't rule a country in fear. All of us are aware of the possible danger. Nothing like this has ever happened on our own soil, however, and extra attention needs to be paid.”

“Has anyone hinted at responsibility? A random, unhappy group of citizens, or foreigners?” she asked, watching his expression closely. Wynn couldn't detect anything other than concern on his features. If he'd heard who might be behind the attack, he hid the knowledge well. Perhaps Paavo really had changed from the man who once wanted to divide the country.

“No one so far. I don't think anyone will, either. At least not publicly,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because this was an attempted assassination. The international community will frown on it and likely blackball the perpetrator. This is a different situation than a blatant terrorist attack, where they follow through with threats and make no bones about who's doing it. Whoever did this didn't want to be discovered, I think.”

“What makes you say that? And...well. What's the motivation? Why would someone want to do that without taking credit? It doesn't serve a purpose, does it?” Wynn asked.

“It does if the perpetrator promised retribution. Or wanted something Dare didn't give. Who knows what kind of deals he made that he broke or went back on. Everyone is aware that he refused to honor the contract between the Afshar King and our father. If he backed out on that one so easily, then he could have done the same to someone who had the ways and means to retaliate,” Paavo said.

“By the same token, I understand you also wouldn't let Natalia be married off per contract, so wouldn't that put you in the same boat?” Wynn experienced a tingle along her skin at the blunt question she put to Paavo. It was honest, though, and she knew Paavo had told Bashir the wedding wouldn't happen. In her mind, that put Paavo on equal footing with Sander.

Paavo rumbled a quiet laugh and held her gaze. His was sharp, incisive. “I would have found a way to rectify the situation, given the Crown Prince something else he wanted as much as a Princess bride. Dare just shut the man down, shut him out. That's no way to do business.”

Wynn opened her mouth to argue that Sander had attempted to work around the wedding part, but Bashir's people hadn't gone for it. What came out instead was, “Oh, I see. I wasn't aware.”

“Excuse me, your Highness?”

Wynn glanced at the door when the waitstaff appeared pushing a cart.

“Come in.” Paavo waited through the delivery of the food, waited until he'd had a long drink from his wine glass and the exit of the waiter before he picked up conversation with Wynn. “You're very interested in royal happenings.”

Wynn noted Paavo's plate contained some sort of grilled fish and vegetables. Picking up a fork, she sorted the chicken over her salad and met Paavo's gaze across the table at his direct comment. She smiled and didn't deny it. “Chey will tell you I'm a curious sort. I can't help it. Besides, I live here now. I think it's prudent to know what's going on in my own backyard, so to speak. Don't you?”

“Nothing wrong with a little healthy curiosity,” he replied, eyeing her grin before digging into his meal.

Wynn dropped her gaze when he looked at her mouth like that and concentrated on her salad. For several minutes, she kept herself busy with chewing and sipping water—she'd declined wine when he offered. Then, he surprised her with another question.

“You should come work for me, Miss Hudson. Imagine how well you could appease your curiosity then.”

Wynn sat her fork down, studying his expression for signs of jest or teasing. She found none. “Pardon?”

“I said, you should come work for me,” he repeated.

“...doing what?” Flabbergasted, Wynn wasn't sure what to say. Her mind buzzed through options and situations, looking for danger signs or opportunities. It was true she meant to get a job before all her savings ran out, but working for Paavo? That was definitely something she hadn't considered. Yet he was right; it would put her much closer to the action.

“My personal assistant. Something like what Hanna is to Chey. The pay is excellent.” He smiled again, a dimple creasing his cheek.

Wynn had another bite of salad, contemplating the offer. It felt a little like going behind Chey's back, which was an absurd notion. Chey had asked her to be her eyes and ears—what better place to do so than as Paavo's assistant?

She glanced at his dimples and reached for her water. After a long drink, she said, “I would be happy to become your assistant. When do I start?”

Chapter Four

On the 'royal' floor of the family seat, Paavo stared out a window at the end of a main hallway. Drink in hand, he contemplated dinner with Wynn, among other things, while studying the dark landscape over which he now ruled.

If he had to guess, the petite, dark haired woman who was Chey's best friend remained at Ahtissari castle to watch over things. There had been just enough wariness in her eyes and expression to let him know Wynn wasn't sure what to think of him. Keeping her close would allow him to keep track of Chey in a roundabout manner, something he desired to do as his plans went forward. Tomorrow marked his official rise to power once the meeting took place, and after, when he set his plans in motion, things promised to get tense around the castle.

“So, I hear you're taking over until Mattias shows or Sander wakes up,” Gunnar said.

Paavo swiveled a look away from the window. Gunnar stood at his flank, a pensive expression on his face.

“You know the protocol as well as I do, little brother. Tell me how Dare is. I'd like to go see him as soon as the meetings are over tomorrow.” Paavo took a drink, watching Gunnar process the truth of his words.

“He's holding his own. I think he'll wake up soon,” Gunnar replied. He stood next to Paavo and looked out the window.

“Is that just wishful thinking, or did the doctors indicate there was progress?” Paavo asked. He swallowed a hiss of discontent at the latter thought. He needed a few days in charge to get things done.

“The doctors say there is no change so far. But in my mind, if that blast didn't kill him, then he'll recover.”

“You always were the optimist of the bunch, Gunnar. I'm sure he'll recover and be back to himself in no time. He's too stubborn to die.”

“I didn't expect you to sound hopeful that Dare would wake up,” Gunnar said. He slanted a look over at Paavo's profile.

Paavo didn't immediately meet Gunnar's eyes, even though he felt his brother's gaze. He affected a concerned mask, brows furrowed. “Of course I'm hopeful he'll wake up. I might think things should work one way or another in this country, but I don't wish death on anyone.”

“He's a good man. A good King.” Gunnar switched his gaze out the window again.

Inwardly, Paavo seethed that his sibling was so taken in by Dare. That kind of blind loyalty was only deserving when a man earned it and as far as he was concerned, Dare hadn't earned it at all. He didn't understand why Gunnar would throw away the chance to rule his own territory, either, though perhaps there was still a chance to change Gunnar's mind.

“He's done his duty by the country, by the people. Now we just have to wait until he comes around,” Paavo said, refusing to heap too much praise on Dare. “How is Chey holding up? This can't be easy on her this close to delivery.”

“She's doing the best she can, under the circumstances,” Gunnar replied.

“That doesn't tell me much.”

“She's tenacious, stubborn, strong willed. And fearful for his well being. Krislin stayed behind to give her bathroom and shower breaks.”

“How thoughtful of Krislin.” Paavo thinned his lips and took a drink. The burn of alcohol helped distract from the annoyance he experienced. It seemed all his siblings and their partners would do just about anything for the King and his Queen.

“I thought so. Chey needs relief, no matter how strong she thinks she is, and she trusts Kris.”

Paavo felt the weight of Gunnar's stare again, and wondered what was going on in his brother's mind. He affected a sorrowful expression then and gave the remnants of his drink a swirl. “Why don't we go see him tomorrow? Together. Maybe he'll wake up while we're there.”

“All right. I'll see you after the meetings.” Gunnar paused, like he might say more, then pivoted away from the window.

Paavo turned his head to watch his brother go, then finished off his drink.

Tomorrow and the official meeting to install him as sitting King couldn't come soon enough.

. . .

“Chey? It's Wynn.”

“I was wondering when you'd call,” Chey said.

“It's been an interesting day and this was the first time I could call you without ears listening in. How's Sander?” Wynn paced her temporary bedroom, fiddling with a length of her hair. She wasn't sure why she was so nervous to tell Chey about her conversation with Paavo.

“No change. He's still out.” Exhaustion and worry threaded through Chey's reply.

“I'm sorry. I know you were hoping he'd wake up today. It's still early though. He might need another day to recover.”

“The sooner the better,” Chey said. “What was interesting about your day?”

“Well. I didn't find anything out all morning and afternoon. It's like people are keeping a tight lid on every bit of gossip and news. However, I bumped into Paavo later on and he invited me to dinner.” Wynn braced herself for a bad reaction from Chey. Paavo hadn't earned any respect from Chey after the stunt he'd pulled before the wedding. For a few moments, all she heard was silence down the line.

“Did you go?” Chey asked.

“After learning nothing all day, I decided who better to glean information from than Paavo himself? So I went. He offered me a job as his assistant and I took it. Before you explode—let me explain. Being that close to him will allow me to see more of his correspondence and know when or where he has meetings, maybe even with who. I saw it as an opportunity.” Wynn held her breath and hoped Chey would understand what she was trying to do. Once again, a stretch of silence preceded Chey's reply.

“Wow. I'm not sure what to say. I can't believe he offered you a job, of all people. I guess you're right, though. You should be able to stay on top of what the council is doing and what decisions they're making.” Chey paused, then added, “Oh, and be aware that they like to tap phones. Yours might not be right now, but I'm pretty sure someone will start listening to everything you say.”

“I'll find another way to communicate. But I wanted you to know why I'm doing this. There isn't a better place, as far as I can see, to be your eyes and ears.” Wynn exhaled in relief. Chey didn't sound angry or even annoyed. She suspected the woman's concern over Sander had a lot to do with her distraction.

“Just be careful, all right? Whoever is responsible is still at large and I don't think anyone can be sure they won't strike again. Have you heard anything from Mattias?”

“I'll be careful, you can count on it. No, I can't get through and he hasn't called back. No one else has heard from him either, that I can tell. He's off the grid,” Wynn said.

“Okay. Keep trying. The sooner he gets back, the better I'll feel. When do you start work?”

“Tomorrow morning. I'm going to get some sleep so I can be up early and get started. Somehow, I'll get ahold of you and check in. Hopefully without a trace.”

“All right, Wynn. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Night, Chey. You're both in my thoughts.” Wynn severed the call. She stared down at the cell phone, tapping the side with a finger. Thoughtful.

Finally, she set it down and went to the closet, prepared to choose an outfit for her first day at work. All the while, she revisited the dinner with Paavo. Remembering the dimple in his cheek, the striking color of his eyes. The self-assured way he lounged while they talked. She tried to analyze his actions, his interest, his motives in an effort to take her mind off the physical attributes that continued to distract her.

. . .

Chey rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. The phone call from Wynn threatened to make the headache she'd been dealing with all day worse.

He offered me a job as his assistant, and I took it. Chey saw all sorts of disasters happening from the situation, not the least of Wynn putting herself in a dangerous spot being so close to Paavo. If someone was trying to take out the royal family, that put Wynn right smack in the crosshairs. She was right about one thing, though; gathering information should be a lot easier when she was actually in the lion's den rather than sniffing around outside.

Folding her arms on the side of Sander's bed, Chey stared at his face, willing him to wake up. Earlier in the day, she'd put her foot down with a few of the nurses, refusing to allow anyone to sponge him clean except herself. Chey had taken the lead, meticulously washing him head to toe. It was quite a job lifting legs that were dead weight, but she wouldn't have it any other way. She'd even managed to wash his hair, working around the bandages to get any remaining dried blood out. Chey thought maybe the manipulation of his limbs would help pull him out of the coma.

Now it was night time, and still, no change. No movement, no flicker of his eyelids. Refusing to be disheartened, she told herself tomorrow was a new day with new opportunities.

“Chey?”

Sitting up, she twisted a look over her shoulder. Natalia stood in the doorway, looking as if she'd come straight from the private airport. Attired in a sundress with tropical colors, hair styled back away from her face and sunglasses in place, Natalia dropped a large carry-on bag next to the wall on her way toward the bed. She removed her glasses and stashed them in a front pocket. Her eyes shifted from Chey to Sander, expression switching immediately to a pained frown.

“Hey. He hasn't woken up yet,” Chey said, catching Natalia up on the details. She knew the woman had been halfway around the world on royal business and was only now arriving back in Latvala.

Stopping on the other side of the bed, Natalia hesitated, then reached a hand out to touch Sander's arm. “What do the doctors say? He will wake up, won't he?”

“They don't know. No one really knows what will happen from here.” It was hard for Chey to admit. Without warning, Natalia's chin quivered and she bent down to put her forehead against Sander's temple. A few quiet sobs shook her slender body.

Since the night Chey found Natalia having what amounted to a breakdown at the family seat, Natalia had been something of a different woman. Quieter, more introspective, less argumentative. Definitely less snarky. Now, faced with a brother laid low by an unexpected attack, she wore her heart on her sleeve, expressing sincere sorrow for his current state.

Chey wasn't sure what to do. She could commiserate with the pain, although she knew they experienced it on different levels. What Natalia felt for Sander was difficult for Chey to pin down, though it appeared as if a lot of the woman's nasty comments regarding Sander hadn't been directed at him so much as at life itself. Sander was an easy target. The way he'd defended Natalia, protected her from the marital contract drawn up by their father had to go a long way in making Natalia see that Sander's heart was in the right place.

The stricken King had no reaction to Natalia's presence or her tears. He didn't rouse, didn't twitch. It pained Chey to see him so still, appearing lifeless stretched out on the hospital bed. Finding comforting words for Natalia didn't come easy.

“He'll pull through, Natalia. He's strong and as stubborn as you and I. He just needs a little time,” Chey said.

“He better. Does anyone know who did this yet?” Natalia asked, smearing a few tears from under her eyes.

“Not yet. They're still investigating. So far, no one can get ahold of Mattias, so apparently the council recommended Paavo take over until he comes home or Sander wakes up.” Chey paid close attention to Natalia's reaction to the news. She appeared startled in the seconds following, leading Chey to believe that Natalia knew nothing about it until now.

“I guess that's what they have to do if they can't locate Mattias. I'm sure it won't be long until someone gets through.” Natalia gazed at Sander, remorse and more in her eyes.

“I hope so.” That was all Chey felt safe saying. She didn't think it wise to confess her hesitation about Paavo taking the throne or her concern that it might go to Paavo's head again. Although things between herself and Natalia had improved dramatically, they didn't hang out together and weren't best friends. A tentative truce existed, the gap growing a little smaller with each passing month.

Natalia leaned down to press a soft kiss against Sander's temple. Straightening, she said, “I'm heading to the family seat. Will you text me the second he wakes up or the doctors have any news?”

“Yes, as soon as something changes.” Chey stroked her fingers over Sander's arm.

“Thanks.” Natalia paused after putting a whisper in Sander's ear and met Chey's eyes. “Take care of yourself. You look exhausted.” Then she swept out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.

Chey exhaled. Natalia wasn't wrong. Exhaustion seeped into every part of Chey's being, making her eyelids grainy. Rubbing one with a knuckle, she refocused on Sander.

“Baby, you need to wake up. Everyone's been here to see you, they're pulling for you. Even Natalia. Can you hear me? Sander? Please wake up.” Tracing light patterns over his knuckles, she watched for signs of recognition, for awareness. Once again, she received no response.

A half hour later, with nothing but sound of machines for company, Chey fell asleep.

Chapter Five

The following morning, just about to walk around a corner on the main floor, Wynn paused to take stock of her person. The navy pencil skirt and matching jacket was much more demure and understated than she was used to wearing. She had several outfits of this nature, however, from working in her father's law firm, and was glad to have them in her wardrobe.

Running her hand over the small cloth covered buttons down the front of the jacket, she thought she appeared professional enough for her first day on the job. A pair of taupe heels didn't add more than two inches to her modest height, chosen for comfort over style thanks to all the walking she expected to do. Even her make up was toned down, consisting of tonal browns and a peach colored lipstick.

The sound of approaching footsteps in the adjacent hallway halted Wynn's hand on the bottom button. Just when she thought she would come face to face with the murmuring trio of men, they stopped out of sight around the corner. Her language lessons over the summer with Chey allowed her to understand the gist of their conversation.

“I'm telling you, the rest have no idea what's going on,” a masculine voice said.

“They should be warned in advance,” another added.

“Are you willing to risk it?” a hissing whisper asked.

“We don't know what all he's done, who he's compromised. Besides that, there's no time.”

Immersed in the hush of voices, Wynn never heard the quiet tread of footfalls until someone set a hand low on her back and propelled her five steps forward, taking her around the corner before she had time to think. Several things hit her senses at once: the scent of spicy cologne, a crisp rustle of an expensive suit, and the surprise of three councilmen who stood huddled together.

“Gentlemen, I'll see you in the conference room in five minutes,” Paavo said, steering Wynn around the group.

Plastering a fake smile on her mouth, Wynn made a frantic attempt to appear normal, as if she hadn't heard a thing anyone said. She inclined her head, reading confusion and bemusement in the eyes of the councilmen.

“Yes, your High--”

“Of course, your Majesty.” They spoke at the same time, stumbling over titles.

Wynn followed Paavo's lead. He never so much as slowed down until they reached a vacant, smaller meeting room. On a round table, she caught a glimpse of a laptop and several folders stacked neatly to the side. A printer and several other pieces of office equipment sat at the ready against the wall on a separate desk.

Paavo faced her, standing close. He met her eyes and said, “Your first order of business is to transcribe an announcement to be printed in the newspapers. You'll find my voice file on the desktop. Can you handle it?”

“Yes, of course I can handle it.” Wynn composed herself, recovering from the shock of being discovered listening to the councilmen talk. Paavo probably thought she'd done it on purpose when the opposite was true. Too late to defend herself now, she nodded to confirm she could do the task set before her. She refused to notice how immaculate his suit fit or how the diagonally striped tie was the same color green as his eyes. He smiled a devastatingly handsome smile.

“Excellent. If you have any questions, I'll be available after the meeting and the press conference scheduled shortly thereafter,” he said.

“Press conference? Shouldn't I be there with you?” she asked. Wynn wanted to take a step back, put another foot of space between herself and the Prince. He was distracting her with his scent, the gleam in his enigmatic gaze.

“If you're finished with this, please do. But this project you're working on is just as important, so don't rush. I'll update you on all the specifics if you miss the press conference.” Paavo smoothed a hand down his tie. “All right?”

“Yes, right. I'll get to work.” Wynn forced herself to break away and head to the chair in front of the laptop. What was wrong with her? She needed to stop noticing Paavo's attributes and focus on the important things. Like Chey and Sander and getting ahold of Mattias. Sitting down, she pulled the chair closer to the table. Paavo hadn't left the room yet, though she refused to look up.

At the door, he said, “By the way. The contents of the statement are confidential, for your eyes only, hm?”

Wynn locked eyes with Paavo and inclined her head. “Absolutely. I wouldn't expect any less.”

“That's my girl.” He spoke low, intimate, then departed with a quiet click of his shoes on the floor.

Wynn closed her eyes. She centered herself, struggling to ignore the echo of his voice and scent of cologne he left behind. This was ridiculous. She had a job to do and Chey was counting on her to do it right. Above all else, Wynn would not let her best friend down in a time of need.

Putting her fingers on the laptop keys, Wynn found the voice file and set to work.

. . .

Paavo walked in on a scene of blatant tension. The formal conference room where important matters of the nation took place seethed with unease and apprehension. Divided into sections, the seating for the councilmen sat to the right, with seats for advisers and other legislators to the left. Only the councilmen were currently present; the advisers and other important leaders would be brought up to speed after the meeting. Sporting a high ceiling and broad lighting fixtures to make up for the lack of windows, the conference room was a study in dark mahogany furnishings and light colored walls.

Silence descended as all eyes turned on him. Clasping his hands behind his back, Paavo paced down the middle of both seating areas, perusing the faces gathered. He knew the ones who remained clueless about the secretive coup about to happen. Those were the faces wearing confusion and frowns at the angst the rest of the councilmen portrayed. Oh, they all knew a vote would happen to officially make him the sitting King, but the rest had no idea what else was coming.

Andersen took the lead, stepping from his seat onto the open floor. Like the rest of the councilmen, he wore a sharp suit, the tie knotted snug at his throat. He cut to the chase, wasting no time getting to the subject at hand. “Gentlemen of the council, we're here to take a vote. Those in favor of ascending Prince Paavo to sitting King, say aye.”

A chorus of ayes echoed off the walls.

Choosing to remain standing, Paavo ceased pacing and faced the congregation. A thrill shot through him hearing the men agree so easily to put him in a temporary position of power. In all truth, that milestone was a small hurdle—the officials had little choice. Mattias could not be found and Sander was unfit to rule. The next issue is where men's mettle would be tested.

“Pass the decree around and sign it,” Andersen said, passing a legal document into the hands of the first councilman at the end of a row.

One by one, the men added their signature to the document with brisk strokes of a pen. None took the time to read any of the fine print, a thing Paavo had counted on. The document looked exactly like any other of its kind barring a few subtle changes at the very end. Assuming it was the same document they had already seen many times, the council members added their name with little trouble.

Paavo signed it last, keeping his smirk hidden from view.

“There is another matter at hand,” Andersen added once Paavo handed him the document. “An urgent matter.” A murmur rippled through the crowd of councilmen. “As sitting King, his Majesty's first order of business is a decree to divide the country into regions, as previously recommended by his Majesty some months back.”

Half the men in the seats surged to their feet. An uproar of protest commenced, turning into confusion when the blackmailed members remained seated and silent.

“This is absurd! What's the meaning of putting a decree that's already been shot down in front of us while his Majesty is incapacitated?” one man shouted.

“It cannot happen. Moreover, it will not happen.”

“What's this? There has never been support for this decree and you will find no support here now.”

Paavo regarded the councilmen, calm in the face of their red-faced fury. He met the eyes of several, not cowed by their rant. Before three minutes passed, the councilmen turned on each other.

“Why are you silent? Where is the outrage?”

“You can't tell me you think this is a good idea!”

“Something is absolutely wrong here!”

Andersen lifted his hands, speaking loud enough to quell the dissenters. “Sit down. Sit down! Now then. As with every other official decree, it will be put to a vote. You have all seen the dividing maps before, so you already know where the lines are drawn. Fresh copies will be distributed after the meeting. We are only looking for a majority, here.”

The words sparked a new round of shouting. It took Andersen fully ten minutes to calm the men enough to proceed. Paavo said nothing, allowing Andersen to press forward to the vote.

“Those in favor of separate regions in Latvala, say aye,” Andersen said.

“Aye!” Exactly one more member than half voted in favor of the decree.

Paavo understood by the tone and expressions on the men's faces that they did this under duress. Those who were not subjects of blackmail or bribery jumped to their feet, pointing accusing fingers at the other members. One or two speared suspicious glances his way.

Fifteen minutes into the raging argument, Paavo called for order. Andersen's voice had become lost in the mix and no one paid him any attention. The councilmen, all on their feet now, faces red with indignation, gave the sitting King their direct attention.

“We all know that the majority rules. By my count, more than half of you voted yes to the decree, which is what we needed to pass it into law.” Paavo waited through another shouting match before bringing order to the room once more. “Some of you may not agree but the vote stands. Latvala will be sectioned into regions, effective immediately. I have already appointed leaders and council for each region, military and other semantics that Andersen will explain after I depart. You are each cautioned not to say anything to anyone until I am ready to make a formal announcement a couple days from now. Trust that you have done what's in the best interest of the country.”

“What if those of us who do not agree refuse to sign the decree?” one man demanded.

Paavo stared him down. “Considering the majority voted for the decree, I'll take anyone refusing to sign as an act of treason. I need not point out what happens to traitors.”

Blustering, the councilman sat down and conferred with another man in whispers. Outrage and thinly veiled accusations flew through the room in the aftermath of Paavo's declaration, some louder than others. The councilmen appeared on the verge of mutiny, yet after the furor calmed to a rumble rather than a roar, Paavo saw that no man among them was willing to challenge his intent. Few were happy, one way or another, and Paavo cared little.

Andersen mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief that he stuffed back into his pocket. “That went a little rougher than I expected,” he said.

Paavo half turned to block his words from the council. “I want the second decree signed before they leave this room. Should any refuse, have them arrested. There are guards outside who will see it done.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

Paavo exited the chamber, hearing the men's voices raise before he even had the door closed. Andersen and those loyal to him had their work cut out explaining their actions to the rest.

High on the adrenaline rush of forcing his hand, he set a course en route for Wynn. He wanted the press release in his hands for dispersal day after tomorrow. On the way, he pulled out his phone. Speed dialing a number, he put the cell to his ear and waited for an answer.

“Yes?” a brusque voice said.

“Are the troops in place?” Paavo asked.

“They are, your Majesty,” Ingvar said.

“Excellent. Make them aware that the plans go into effect tonight.”

“As you wish.”

Disconnecting the call, Paavo pocketed the phone.

This was how a King took control of his country.

. . .

Gnawing at the inside of her cheek, Wynn stared at the press release she held in her hand. A stack of printed copies sat to the side of the laptop, whose screen had gone dark in the absence of her tapping fingers.

She supposed she shouldn't be surprised at the information the press release contained—but she was. And she wondered what Chey would think when she heard. Although the press release was in the native language of Latvala, Wynn utilized a translation program built into the computer to help her translate those words she still didn't know. Switching to English, she made a few extra copies, telling herself she would claim not to know whether both languages would be needed if Paavo caught her with them.

Not even twenty-four hours in power, and already Paavo was pushing through his former agenda of splitting the country into sections. The statement in her hand was aggressive and brooked no argument about the changes to come.

She couldn't decide if this was a test of her loyalty straight away, or whether he was trying to trap her. The second she confessed to Chey, Wynn knew Chey would take action of some kind. Word would cycle back, as it always did in turbulent times, and Paavo would know she'd broken his trust. What then? What would he do if she ran straight to the Queen with information he'd pointedly stated was confidential?

When the door to the room swung open without warning, Wynn twitched in surprise and nearly crumpled the paper out of guilt. Saving herself in time, she forced herself to be calm when Paavo entered.

She hadn't expected him for another three or four hours, at the earliest.

“Did you get the release finished?” he asked.

“I did. Here are a stack of copies, ready to be distributed.” Playing it off as if she held nothing of importance, Wynn tapped the big stack in the Latvala language and set the paper she held aside atop separate ones in English. Sitting on the other side of the laptop, Paavo wouldn't see them as easily, unless she gave him reason to look.

“Thank you. Did you have trouble?” Paavo's gaze skipped from the larger pile to the few sitting separate.

Wynn saw him look and reached out to tap the English printed version with as much nonchalance as she could muster. Why hadn't she gotten rid of the evidence when she had the chance? She said, “Just a few copies that didn't print right at first, but I got it fixed. I guess after taking the summer off work, I'm a little rusty with printers.”

Paavo picked up the large stack and looked over the front page. “Good, good. It'll come back to you quickly.” He met her eyes. “These are acceptable. What would you say to the idea of your own office? Down here on the main floor, a space totally devoted to you?”

It took every ounce of Wynn's willpower not to fidget. He stood so close to the desk and her chair that she worried he might glimpse the other papers and realize the language wasn't the same. He stood too close, in fact, and she wished she wasn't so attuned to his presence or interested by the gleam in his sharp eyes.

“I think that sounds perfect. Can I choose my own furniture though? I'm picky about how I like my space arranged.” She smiled a cheeky smile she hoped wasn't too contrived. Swiveling her chair toward him, thinking to block sight of the papers with her shoulders, her knee accidentally brushed his. A jolt of primal awareness knocked the cheeky smile right off her face.

“You can put--” Paavo paused at the contact. His gaze became even more direct than it had been, then dropped to her legs for a brief moment.

“I knew you wouldn't have any problem with me wanting to choose my own things,” Wynn said, abruptly pushing to a stand. Paavo's gaze followed her up. She ignored the rubbery feeling in her knees along with the curious glint in his eyes and gestured to the door. “Will you show me which room it is?”

She hated to leave the papers exposed on the table, but distracting Paavo and getting him out of the room was paramount.

For ten seconds or so, Paavo said nothing. “I'll have one of the staff show you. There's a press conference I need to make announcing my ascension as sitting King and it won't wait. Be ready at six this evening for dinner. I'd like to go over a few more things with you.”

“Of course. I'll be waiting.” Wynn suffered through what seemed an eternity of electric tension, chiding herself a hundred times over for noticing things she shouldn't be noticing. She didn't know how she felt about having dinner with Paavo yet again, and found no good reason to deny him that wouldn't raise suspicion.

Paavo glanced toward the laptop, causing Wynn's breath to catch in her throat. Did he suspect she'd made duplicate copies? He met her eyes once more before departing with his stack of papers in hand.

After the door closed, Wynn leaned against the desk, bracing her weight with a palm. She gave herself exactly half a minute to recover, then picked up the English version copies and folded them small enough to fit inside her jacket pocket.

Fishing out her phone, she called Mattias.

No answer. She didn't leave a message.

Studying the bright icons on the screen, Wynn debated her next move. Call Chey and prove her loyalty remained where it should, or hold her tongue so she didn't end up in jail. Thumbing through the Contacts, she pressed Chey's name. The phone rang. Exhaling a breath, Wynn waited for Chey to answer.

“Hello?” Chey said.

“I can't talk long, but I have news.”

Chapter Six

In the middle of pacing through Sander's room for exercise, Chey frowned as she discerned a thread of anxiety in Wynn's voice. “Why can't you talk? What's going on?”

“Chey—he's making the announcement today. It'll probably be on television in a few minutes.”

“About becoming the sitting King?” Chey asked, bemused why the news would set Wynn on edge. It was true that no one liked the idea, but it wasn't a surprise at this point.

“Yes.” A long hesitation followed.

“Wynn, what aren't you saying?” Chey braced a hand against her back when she paused at the end of Sander's bed. A quick glimpse proved he was still and silent, unaware of the world around him. It bothered her every time she looked at him.

“Well, I—you know what, let me call you back in about ten minutes. I need to change rooms.” Wynn severed contact.

Flustered, Chey pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at the screen. Sure enough, Wynn ended the call. “What is going on with that girl?”

In the meantime, Chey turned on the television in Sander's room, searching for a channel denoting a public announcement coming soon. It only took her a few minutes to find one.

Breaking News-Unexpected announcement by his Highness, Prince Paavo, in four minutes, the ticker tape read. Because it was in two languages, Chey had no trouble following along. Using the remote, she turned it up loud enough to hear, but not loud enough to overflow into the hallway.

Moving back to her chair at the side of Sander's bed, she leaned against the cushion and stretched out her legs, running a hand over her bulging belly. The baby was active and kicking like crazy.

Paavo appeared on screen, striding up to a podium set up in the media room at the family seat. Chey recognized it from statements Sander had given. Paavo appeared confident on camera, self-assured. The sharp suit he wore accented the color of his eyes, which the camera man focused in on as the event got under way.

“I won't be taking any questions after my announcement,” Paavo said. “Due to unexpected circumstances, I have been installed as the sitting King in his Majesty's place.”

Gasps and whispers preceded several reporters surging to their feet with questions.

What happened to the King?

Was his Majesty detained in a foreign country?

Did the King commit suicide, like his father before him?

Paavo used his hand to urge them back into their seats. “As I said, I will be taking no questions. This is a temporary arrangement only. His Majesty is just fine, but unable to be here directly to run the country. As well, Prince Mattias is away on official royal business. This is a formality only, and I am making it known to the public because I believe in keeping the citizens of Latvala informed.”

Several more journalists tried to interrupt.

How long will you be performing the King's duties in his absence?

When does King Sander return?

If you like to keep the public so informed, why can't we know where his Majesty is?

Chey watched Paavo's expression wane a little at the last question. She snorted to herself. Paavo reported what Paavo wanted to report, nothing more, nothing less. This was in his best interest rather than the public's, she'd bet a year of her life on it.

“For security reasons,” Paavo continued, “his Majesty's whereabouts won't be disclosed until he returns and has a conference with you himself. Then, he'll answer your questions.” Paavo paused to smile. A disarming sort of smile meant to put the reporters and citizens at ease. “Until then, I'll be stepping up in his place. Thank you for your time today.”

As another group of reporters shouted questions, Paavo exited the media room via a side door.

Chey regarded the television with more than a few pensive thoughts running through her mind.

Just then, her phone rang. “Hello?”

“It's me,” Wynn said, out of breath.

“What did you do, jog through the castle? Did you see Paavo's statement?”

“No. I was too busy avoiding guards and everyone else. Anyway, what did he say?”

“What we expected him to say. Why?” Chey frowned and clicked a button on the remote. The television went dark.

“Chey, you have to make me a promise. Right now. You have to promise me you won't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you. Okay?”

Chey frowned and sat forward. She'd known Wynn far too long to miss the concern and worry in her friend's voice. Her position as Queen put Chey in a precarious position when it came to promises, though, and Chey hesitated. Wynn might need a promise Chey simply couldn't follow through on now that her priorities were with Sander and Latvala.

“Wynn, that's really hard for me to do not knowing what you're about to tell me.” Chey was upfront with Wynn, choosing to let her know it might be a promise she couldn't keep.

“If you tell anyone, it'll get back to a certain someone, and I'll probably end up in jail. Or worse. Promise me, Chey.” Wynn didn't back down.

Chey didn't like where this was going. The hair was up on the back of her neck, a sure indication what she was about to hear would set off extreme alarm bells at the very least.

“If I can keep the secret, I will. That's my promise, Wynn. I'll do my absolute best not to break your confidence.” Chey couldn't give Wynn more than that.

“Paavo gave me a voice file to transcribe today, while he was at a meeting with the council members. Chey, it was a news release for the papers stating that Latvala was now divided into separate sections, sanctioned by the council with a passing vote from the majority. The phrasing made it sound like, by the time the public reads it, the country will already legally be split into territories.”

Chey sat forward as far as her stomach would allow. “What? He did what?”

“Yes. He told me I wasn't allowed to tell anyone. I can't help but think it's a test—one that I'm failing right this minute—to see if I go straight to you with sensitive information.”

Experiencing fury that caused her jaw to clench and her spine to go rigid, Chey fought down the urge to call Paavo right then and tell him off. She looked toward the bed, at Sander stretched out with his tubes and wires, and wondered. Who wouldn't wonder if Paavo had something to do with the accident? This seemed too convenient, too planned. Paavo hadn't wasted a second, literally, to put the deed into motion. That alone raised suspicion.

“Chey?”

“What else? What else did it say?” Chey paced the room again, this time in agitation.

“Only that more information would be forthcoming in the days following the release. I suspect he'll call another news conference after it hits the papers.”

“He's getting it out there awfully fast. I agree, I think he's setting the stage for something bigger. Do you think Gunnar knows?” Chey thought not. She was close enough with Gunnar and Krislin to believe they would have come to her immediately with the information.

“I doubt it. He was too adamant that this stay with me only, though with the wording in the statement, it seems he needed to talk to the council about it. So they should know already. Maybe that was part of his meeting today. Still, he knew before then that his plans would go through,” Wynn said.

“I agree. Because he gave you that to transcribe before his meeting, right?”

“Yes. Something stinks about the whole thing. I also tried to call Mattias several times and still can't get through.”

“Keep trying. I need to think about all this,” Chey said, pulling fingers through her hair.

“Just remember. No one is supposed to know yet.”

“I know, Wynn. I know. Someone has to stop this from going through, though.” Chey had no idea how to make that happen at the moment. She needed time to plot and plan and strategize.

“It's a lot, especially with Sander like he is. I know it's hard, Chey. Paavo might have been moving pieces around his chessboard before this, so the whole idea could be much farther along than we realize. Be careful, okay? We don't know what all Paavo has done.” Wynn started to say something, then paused.

“What?” Chey knew when there was more to the story. Wynn hadn't told her everything yet.

“It's just...he told me to show up for dinner tonight. Said he had more things to go over. Maybe I'll find out more about what's going on.”

“You be careful. What's all this with the dinners and everything?” Chey didn't like that part, either. Paavo didn't need to have dinner with Wynn to tell her things. Her question was met with another distinct hesitation. “Wynn?”

“I—don't know. But I'll call you when I can. Bye.” The line went dead.

Chey pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at the screen. She frowned, unable to put a name on the fresh bout of unease slithering through her system. As if Sander's condition wasn't stressful enough, now there was this to contend with.

Moving to the Contacts section, she found Mattias's number and dialed it.

His phone rang, and rang...and rang.

No answer.

. . .

“Hey, psst. Gunnar.”

Hailed by a voice lurking in a shadowy niche in a long hallway, Gunnar stopped and took one step back. A body shifted into the light, proving to be none other than councilman Belmar. Gunnar, originally on his way through the castle to meet with this man via a note delivered just before dinner, took stock of the details: Belmar's shifty eyes, his black pants and white shirt usually reserved for staff, the hunkered way he held his body.

“Belma--”

“Sshh. For God's sake, man. I mean, your Highness. My apologies,” Belmar said. He gestured down the hallway, making a point to look both ways once he was free of the niche. Belmar set a quick pace for the doorway of a nearby, rarely used office.

“I've known you my whole life and I've never seen you like this. Are those waitstaff clothes?” Gunnar followed Belmar's lead. He turned into the office and pushed the door almost closed at Belmar's insistence. Leaving it cracked so a thin sliver of light from the hallway spilled over the floor, Gunnar snapped on a lamp by feel and memory, only to turn it right back off when Belmar went into a mild fit.

“Off, your Highness, turn the light off!” Belmar hissed.

“Are you drunk?” Gunnar inquired, certain the man was either hopped up on drugs or had finished off a bottle of Scotch. Gunnar got another look at the councilman with the available illumination. Belmar, a short man with a heavy paunch and bald head, sweated profusely across his forehead and under his arm pits. The damp circles on the white shirt stood out like a sore thumb.

“No, no. I'm sorry for the clandestine manner in which we needed to meet, but it's imperative our conversation remain private.” Belmar, shorter than Gunnar by a half foot, glanced warily at the cracked door and back to Gunnar again. “No one can overhear.”

“Overhear what?” Gunnar propped his hands on his hips and waited Belmar out. The man's eyes, a light hazel in color, widened with the telling.

“Prince Paavo, the new sitting King, has filed a decree to split Latvala into regions. As he wanted to do once before. Not only that, he somehow convinced the majority of the council to vote for it earlier today and the decree was signed into law before lunch.”

Taken aback at the news, Gunnar wasn't sure what to say. More correctly, he didn't know what to ask first. “A decree has already been signed into law?”

“Yes, your Highness. There was a great upset at the meeting. Council members argued long after the document had been signed, but those of us who voted against it got no answers from the ones who voted yea.”

“So are you saying you believe Paavo tampered with some of the councilmen, coercing them into passing the decree?” Gunnar wanted to believe his brother wouldn't do such a thing. Memories of Paavo's enthusiasm months before at his own holding surfaced, the way Paavo's eyes lit at the idea of sectioning the country into separate territories. The desire was there, but would Paavo go this far?

“Something happened. I know for a fact that four members who voted yea were vehemently against dividing Latvala up. Yet today they sat there, stone faced, and did the exactly the opposite I expected them to. It wasn't right or normal, your Highness.” Belmar twisted his hands, stretching the skin taut across his knuckles.

“Did anyone say when this is to take place?” Gunnar asked.

“I don't know. We weren't given a lot of information. He only told us specifically not to say anything. I had to tell you, your Highness. I fear the Prince's actions after today.”

“No, you did the right thing. I need to confer with Mattias. Let me see if I can raise him before anything else happens. Come to me the second you have more information. Do so in whatever way you deem safe,” Gunnar said.

“I will. Please, your Highness, do not let on it was me who told you.” Belmar looked anxious and nervous while he pleaded for secrecy.

“Have no fear, I will say nothi--”

“Sshh. Did you hear that?” Belmar clasped his hands on Gunnar's arms and cocked his head toward the crack in the door. Sweat glistened on his brow, face a mask of concentration.

“Hear what?” Gunnar pulled his arms free of the hold and boldly opened the door. He stepped out into the hallway, glancing left and right along the corridor. No one was in sight.

“A scuffle. I heard a scuffle,” Belmar said. He did not follow Gunnar into the light.

“There is no one here. Just in case, I'll take my leave. Wait ten minutes before you do the same.” Gunnar stalked away from the office, heading for the main hallways that would take him to the stairs.

On the way to the upper, private floors, he found his phone and sent Mattias a text message.

It read: We have a situation. Your presence is needed immediately. Come at once.

Unless Mattias showed up or Sander woke from the coma, there wasn't much Gunnar could do to stop Paavo's plans for Latvala.

Chapter Seven

Twisting his chin left and right, Paavo tightened the knot of his tie against his throat. Smoothing his hand down the front, he examined the immaculate suit of black and crisp, pale green shirt beneath. It did interesting things to his eyes, the color of the button down, or so he liked to think.

Freshly showered and groomed, he departed his bedroom suite and made his way to the second floor, veering down another hall until he came to the parlor he'd chosen for dinner with Wynn. As instructed, the waitstaff had set up a new table near two tall windows and draped it with clean, cream linens and pristine china with a delicate pattern. He examined the layout with a critical eye. Satisfied his demands had been met, he turned to the vase of flowers flanking the table, set aside rather than in the middle where they might make an awkward obstacle during the meal. White lilies poked up from lush green fronds and an array of other colorful flora filled in the remaining space.

Noise from the doorway brought Paavo's attention around. Expecting to see Wynn, a young, thin man stood there instead. Large brown eyes peered out of an angular face, his nondescript clothing making him blend in with the background.

As was intended.

The young man bowed his head in respect. “Your Majesty.”

“Davin, come in. Have you news?” Paavo watched the boy come closer.

“I do, yes.”

“Tell me, then.” Paavo tapped his own ear to indicate he wanted the young man to whisper there.

Davin did as instructed, laying the words out in concise sentences that went straight to the point rather than danced around it.

Paavo straightened. “Very good. You'll find your payment where I said you would. Keep me updated if you find anything else.”

The young man bowed his head once more and exited with all due haste.

Staring across the room at nothing in particular, Paavo resisted the urge to backhand the vase of flowers. Busted ceramic and lilies all over the floor wouldn't help the image he wanted to portray for his dinner companion. Taking out his phone, he shot off three text messages.

“I hope I'm not late. My nightstand clock was a few minutes off.”

Paavo schooled his features and glanced at the door. There stood Wynn, looking a little nervous. He eyed her conservative outfit of black—pants and sleeveless button down vest—trimmed with white piping. She was a tiny thing, with frail shoulders and an expressive face framed by a bob of sleek, dark hair. It took effort for him not to show his annoyance in the open.

“No, right on time. Come, sit down. Dinner should be here shortly.” Paavo gestured to one of the chairs at the table as another text message came in. He tilted the phone up to read.

As Wynn made her way over, Paavo sent off one last text.

That should take care of at least one problem.

. . .

The heavy chime of a grandfather clock struck the midnight hour. Wynn matched her steps to the metronome, pacing the long hallway on the second floor with her arms crossed over her chest. She didn't care that she was dressed in pajamas or that her feet were bare. The lounge pants in hunter green with a long sleeved top were modest at any rate, more than adequate to wander the castle.

She couldn't get her mind off dinner. Off Paavo. His demeanor during the meal had been intense to say the least, with lingering eye contact and an accidental brush of his shoe against her calf that had put her on edge. The harder she tried to forget the resonance of his voice, his accent, the more it haunted her mind. And it shouldn't. Time and again she chided herself for the distraction, for allowing him to get under her skin. None of this could come to any good. Most of their conversation revolved around his plans for her and her job. Note taking, transcription, filing, preparing agendas for travel. None of it was unexpected.

Except she never meant to keep the job for longer than a few days.

At the end of the hallway, where it met the juncture of another, Wynn paused. She didn't want to go down to the lowest level and couldn't go up to the royal floor. A guard standing against the wall right at the corner caught her eye. She gave him a tight, cordial smile. Standing at least six feet, he filled out his uniform as well as any guard could. Wynn remembered seeing him several times earlier in the day at other posts around the castle, but hadn't been close enough to discern the gray of his eyes or the casual handsomeness of his features. He wore his light brown hair straight, the length hitting the edge of his whiskered jaw.

She filed away the details in a flash, one of those stolen moments that didn't detract from the mental deluge over Paavo. Not even the quirk of a return smile from the guard pulled Wynn from her reverie. Pacing back the way she'd come, she argued with herself that Paavo's draw was nothing more than natural charisma and an occasional sparkle of dry wit. He was unknown, untested, and she told herself that the man and the situation were challenges, a puzzle to be worked out and put away once she was done. Wynn, a lover of mysteries, only wanted to see this one through to the end.

Then why was she out here, pacing the hallway? Why couldn't she sleep? He shouldn't be so prominent in her thoughts that it kept her awake at night.

Making another circuit of the hall, she pivoted at the end, traded another shallow smile with the same guard, and began again.

Walking, pacing, wondering.

On her fourth pass, Wynn realized the guard changed positions. He wasn't leaning against the outer hallway, out of sight until she performed her pivot. He now stood near the opposite wall with a full view of the entire corridor. It meant she made eye contact with him for the last fifteen feet before she turned on a heel to start the other direction.

He probably thought she was crazy.

“Isn't that convenient,” she muttered to herself over his new 'view'. Her backside, to be exact.

“It's very convenient,” the guard replied.

Shocked that he heard, Wynn halted and turned around. Fighting off a blush, honing in on another detail, she said, “Wait. You don't have an accent. Do you?”

“How observant. No, I do not have an accent.” He maintained eye contact, slouching against the wall instead of standing erect.

“American,” Wynn said.

He flashed an unabashed smile, exposing a straight row of white teeth.

Wynn wondered what an American was doing standing guard, in guard's clothing no less, in a Latvala castle. Mysteries and puzzles abounded this evening.

He doffed a nonexistent hat when she continued to stare. “Leander, at your service.”

“Wynn.”

“I know.”

She scoffed. Rather than pelt him with question after question, Wynn returned to pacing. Knowing he was probably watching her disrupted the process. Gone was the ability to walk and think. Now she felt conspicuous and under observation.

Halfway down the hall, the muffled crack of a gunshot changed the entire dynamic of the night. She automatically ducked, tucking her chin, arms over her head. Before she knew what happened, Leander scooped her up like she weighed nothing and bulled into the nearest room. A bedroom, one of the many suites lining the corridor. He took her straight to a closet and set her down in the darkness.

“Don't leave this closet until I come and get you, understand?” He didn't wait for an answer. Turning around, he closed her inside. The sound of his footfalls receded.

Wynn couldn't even see her hand in front of her face but questioned the wisdom of finding a light switch. That might only draw an unwanted visitor into the room and straight to her hiding place. What the hell was going on out there? Had a shooter made it past the layers of security to target one of the royals? Pressing her palms against her flushed cheeks, she regulated her breathing and tried to concentrate. Her thoughts were scattered.

She hated not knowing what lurked beyond the closet door. Anyone could be stalking the hallways. Somewhere, someone shouted. Another voice, male, responded. No shots followed. Wynn thought she heard running feet.

After ten minutes of listening to what sounded like half the house tramping up and down the hallway, Wynn cracked the closet door open. Moonlight falling through a window in the bedroom left shadows in the corners but as far as she could see, no one had taken refuge in the suite. Crossing to the next door, she opened it a hair. A body ran past. Opening it a little more, she saw two guards enter a bedroom all the way at the end, not far from her own borrowed suite. Men spoke in terse voices and another two guards raced along the corridor, weapons drawn.

If they were entering the room, then surely they had the perpetrator trapped. Too curious to stay put, she darted into the hallway just as Leander exited the far end bedroom.

He pointed a finger at her, as if that might halt her where she stood.

And it did. Caught red-handed, she stopped and pleaded for information. “What's going on? Who got shot? Did you capture the shooter?”

Leander jogged the rest of the way, gun held down at his side. Scooping an arm around her waist, he bodily lifted her straight off the ground and walked her the opposite direction. “You don't listen. As soon as we know more, you'll know more.”

“But my room is down there--”

“Too bad. You'll have to find another in a different wing tonight.” He carried her past more guards to the staircase. When another guard came up from the lower floor, Leander spoke quickly—in the Latvala tongue.

Wynn translated the important parts, surprised at what she heard. Apparent suicide. One of the councilmen. Cover the back stairs and don't go anywhere unless you're in pairs.

“Suicide? Someone committed suicide?” Breathless, Wynn hung on with her arms around Leander's neck.

“Apparent suicide.” He stalked past running waitstaff and other guards coming and going through the halls. Turning into one of the empty conference rooms, he set her on her feet and made strict eye contact. “Listen this time. You can't go back upstairs tonight. Wait for Urmas or someone like that to tell you where you need to sleep.”

“But--”

“No buts.” Leander pointed a finger at her again and exited the room.

Exasperated, Wynn slumped into a chair, lamenting the lack of her cell phone. She couldn't even call Chey.

All she could do was sit there while she waited, wondering if the suicide was really a suicide and if not, who might have been the one to pull the trigger.

. . .

“I said, I want to see the body.” Gunnar, in a stare down with Ingvar, refused to relent. “If you're so sure it's suicide, then there's no danger letting me on the scene.”

Ingvar, resplendent in his military uniform, was an immovable wall between the Prince and the hallway. “I'm sorry, your Highness--”

“Don't placate me, Ingvar. Just let me by. The castle's on lockdown, no one is going in or out and we both know it.” Gunnar ground his molars together. The news that Belmar had committed suicide tonight of all nights set off alarm bells. Earlier, when Belmar confessed the contents of the meeting, he'd been overly paranoid about being found out. Now he was dead. The math didn't add up in Gunnar's mind and he wanted answers. A few had already presented themselves, ones Gunnar didn't want to acknowledge. Paavo wouldn't stoop to murder. Would he?

“I can't. The scene is still being investigated--”

Impatient, Gunnar shoved Ingvar's shoulder. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have been able to move the soldier. Tonight, the General back-stepped, raising his hands, and allowed Gunnar past.

Striding out of his suite, Gunnar headed for the stairs and the next floor down. Guards were everywhere; two flanked him once he departed the royal level and followed him through the corridors toward the room where Belmar apparently ended his life. Disregarding more guards stationed outside, Gunnar stepped across the threshold. A coppery, metallic scent hit his nose first, before the scene distracted him from the smell. Adjacent to a sitting area was the kingsized, four poster bed. Across it, sprawled with his arms akimbo, lay Belmar. Once pristine covers in light blue were now drenched with dark red blood, the spray dotting material all the way up to the pillows. It appeared the councilman had perched on the very edge of the mattress and put the gun in his mouth. The gore looked especially harsh surrounded by such rich luxury.

Far from a forensics expert, Gunnar observed a handful of men in suits and gloves, taking pictures, taking samples. They handled everything with utmost care, tiptoeing through the room while bagging a tiny piece of this and sliding a bit of that into a clear glass vial.

“Which one of you is in charge?” Gunnar asked. Everyone stopped and looked his way. One man stood straighter, then picked his way over to the door.

“I am, your Highness. Larss Hansen.” He did not offer to shake hands.

“What are the findings?” Gunnar did not offer to shake hands, either. He studied Larss' blue eyes, searching for evasiveness or shifty nerves. Larss met his gaze head on.

“Suicide, your Highness. Has no one told you--”

“With absolute, one-hundred percent certainty? You're positive there could have been no foul play?”

Larss stiffened. “We have found no evidence to remotely suggest that, your Highness.”

“It doesn't matter what you think you've found. I know this wasn't suicide, so start examining the evidence more closely. Report directly to me when you find clues as to who might have done this.” Gunnar left a surprised Larss standing there. Leaving the room, angrier than he'd been in some time, Gunnar stalked the hallways until he hit the royal floor. He went to Paavo's bedroom door and banged three times with a fist.

“Paavo!”

The door swung open. Paavo, in casual nightwear of solid black, frowned at Gunnar. He appeared studiously groomed, hair combed away from his face, jaw clean shaven.

Gunnar's fist came around, aiming for his brother's chin.

“Gunnar! What are you doing?” Natalia shouted from her room across the hall.

Paavo's head snapped aside at the contact. He staggered back one step and snarled. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“You ordered that hit. We both know it. I want to know what you're up to, because it can't be anything good. Murder in your own house, Paavo? Is that what you'll stoop to?” Breathing hard, hands in fists at his side, Gunnar ignored the guards crowding close at his back in favor of staring his brother down.

“Gunnar!” Natalia ran across the hall, peach silk robe flapping against her ankles.

“Watch yourself, Gunnar,” Paavo said, with clear warning in his tone. “You're blindly throwing accusations around, and may I remind you that I am your King now.”

“Don't throw your title at me when a man lies dead one floor down, caused by your own order. You might not have pulled the trigger, but you killed him as surely as if you had. This is not the way Ahtissari men take care of business.” Infuriated beyond good reason, Gunnar tugged his arm out of Natalia's hands.

“What are you saying? Gunnar, Belmar committed suicide. It wasn't murder,” Natalia said.

“You speak ignorantly, sister, because you don't know what I know. Belmar came to me earlier today, frantic and nervous, to tell--”

“Gunnar,” Paavo said, taking a step forward. “Do not speak of those things.”

“Why?” Gunnar shouted. “So no one else will hear the truth for what it is? So they'll look at you and know your hands are bloodied?”

Without warning, Paavo snatched Gunnar by the front of his clothes and yanked him into the room. The door closed on Natalia's surprised face with a hard bang. Paavo threw the lock, then bulled Gunnar deeper into the elaborately decorated chamber.

Gunnar knocked Paavo's hand from his person. “You killed him.”

“Not true. Belmar took his own life for reasons I can only guess at. Now then, you need to calm down.” Paavo stopped within inches of Gunnar, face to face.

“He wanted very badly to live earlier this afternoon, and now he draws breath no longer. You were the one who told them not to say anything to anyone, and now Belmar is dead. I am not so big a fool, Paavo, to overlook the obvious.” Not quite as tall as his brother, Gunnar was nevertheless unbothered by it. He did not allow Paavo's aggressive stature to diminish his righteous indignation nor his belief that Paavo ordered the strike. The longer he thought about it, the more positive he became of the truth.

“You have two choices,” Paavo said, voice gone low and persuasive. “You can stand with me and take control of your empire, the land I will give you to rule, or you can find yourself in the other camp, the one where I make your life as difficult as possible until you see reason. There can be no other way going forward, brother.”

“That is as good as an admission of guilt.” Gunnar clipped the words out, furious all over again. Belmar, a decent man with a family, hadn't deserved to die.

“I think you fail to understand the seriousness of the situation, Gunnar. You're young, with the least experience of us all. Trust me when I say—you want to be on my side right now.” Paavo slid his hands into the pockets of his silk pajama pants.

Gunnar spun away, not trusting himself or his actions. He paced the room, oblivious to the splash of masculine colors, all in browns, reds and cream. Gleaming gilt accents flashed by in periphery as he faced Paavo from a different vantage.

“Tell me, Paavo. Were you behind Dare's 'accident', too? Have you planned this the whole time? During the months of summer, pretending to be over your ideas for dividing the country? Hm?” A muscle flexed in Gunnar's jaw. He didn't know what he might do if the answer was yes. It was too nefarious, too treasonous.

“I'll caution you once more, Gunnar, to have a care with the accusations you're flinging around. My tolerance, even for beloved siblings, has limits.” Paavo's expression shifted from cajoling to stony.

“Or what?” Gunnar had a fleeting thought that he should heed Paavo's warnings. His anger was getting the better of his judgment. Dare would be playing the game right along, he reminded himself, hiding any fury he felt in favor of not allowing his adversary—and that's what Paavo was at this moment—to be privy to his emotions.

Paavo looked at the ground, then at different points in the bedroom. When his gaze landed on Gunnar again, something cold and hard lurked in his eyes. “Things we hold precious cease to be.”

Rocked by the implication, Gunnar opened his mouth to blast Paavo for the mere thought of bringing harm to Krislin. But he closed it again, swallowing down the anger. This was more serious than he realized. He needed time to think, to plan. To get Mattias back in Latvala. He needed to wake Dare from the coma. Taking an extra moment to get control, he crossed the room. Standing before Paavo, Gunnar pretended to think about the threat and the 'offer'. He made a big show of it, too, careful to make it appear an agonizing decision.

“You give me no choice,” he finally said. “But don't think for a second that I approve, or that I like it. I'll do my duty, I'll take over my territory. You keep your hands off what's mine, and everything will be fine.” Gunnar didn't grovel or plead. He knew Paavo wouldn't believe a total change of heart in that short amount of time. Chances were, Paavo still might not believe him, and knew the game for what it was.

Right now, Gunnar just wanted to get out of the room and away.

Paavo regarded him, contemplative and assessing. “Very well. I'm glad you've come to your senses. For a few minutes there, I started to wonder if you'd learned nothing your whole life about situations like these. I'll be in touch tomorrow. As it stands, I'm not ready to break the news of the division until the day after, so do not mention it to anyone.”

And so, the evening had come full circle. Those were the words Belmar likely heard at his last meeting with Paavo.

Gunnar inclined his head and stepped on for the door, letting himself into the hallway. Pacing past lingering guards, Natalia swerved his direction.

“Not now, Natalia. I have things to see to,” Gunnar said. He locked gazes with her. “Go back in your room and stay there till morning.”

Natalia stumbled over a reply, then gathered the robe and disappeared into her chamber.

Gunnar, relieved that Natalia hadn't argued and made a scene for once, ignored the guards and paced away toward his own room. He withdrew his cell phone and shot Krislin a text.

Watch your back. Tell Chey the same. Things are not what they seem.

Chapter Eight

“There's no change at all? Nothing? When should we start to really worry?” Chey stared across Sander's body at the doctor. In his middle fifties, the capable physician with his white lab coat and clipboard was the epitome of professional. He made a note, then glanced up.

“No change, I'm sorry. Sometimes it takes several days,” he said.

“It's already been several days. Does this mean he might not wake up?” Chey stroked her fingers over Sander's arm, stomach tightening in anticipation of the answer. She'd asked this a hundred times already, but couldn't help asking again.

“I wouldn't say that. Not yet. If we see a decline, then we'll reassess, all right?” The doctor smiled and inclined his head before exiting the room.

Chey rubbed the back of her neck, wincing at the stiffness in her muscles. Days upon days of sleeping in a chair were doing her body no good. She'd sent Krislin home before dawn with a request to send Wynn in her stead. Krislin needed a break even though the woman had insisted she was fine.

A glance at the wall clock proved the dinner hour was not far off. Wynn still hadn't arrived. She must be too busy with business for Paavo to leave yet.

Unable to shake her brooding mood, Chey realized part of the reason was the lingering gloom. Everywhere she looked, shadows lurked. Leaving Sander's bedside, she went to the windows and adjusted the blinds, squinting at the sunlight when it streamed through the slats. For several minutes, she stood there and soaked it in.

“Chey?”

Turning around, she started to smile at Gunnar until she saw the grim look in his eyes. He stepped into the room and closed the door.

“Gunnar, what's wrong?” Chey asked. Rumpled and askew, his suit appeared slept in.

“Is there any news on Dare?” Gunnar went straight to Sander's bedside and leaned over to stare down into his face.

“No, unfortunately. The doctor was just here and said there's no change. What's wrong?” She stood opposite Gunnar, one hand on the protective railing attached to the bed.

He glanced up. “Chey, there was a shooting last night at the castle. A man who came to see me earlier in the day supposedly committed suicide. That's not the truth, though. The truth is that Paavo had it set up to look like a suicide. He has put in a decree to have the country divided into territories, like he tried to do months ago before your wedding.”

Shocked to hear a shooting had taken place in the castle, Chey listened with avid interest and not a little fear. Gunnar's tone and expression only added to the dire feeling in the air. His confession of Paavo's intentions threw her; she struggled to keep knowledge of the division off her features until she knew whether it would endanger Wynn to confide in Gunnar. When she hesitated a few seconds too long, he pinned her with a more direct look.

“I'm not supposed to say anything. Wynn's worried about her safety. But Paavo had her type up a news release stating that the country was being divided, using language that suggested he already knew it would happen before whatever meeting he had with the council.” Chey searched Gunnar's eyes, watching realization sink in. She would have to trust his ability to keep quiet about Wynn's confession.

Pulling his phone from a pocket, Gunnar thumbed through screens and pressed a button. He put the phone to his ear, one hand gripping the rail of the bed until his knuckles went white. “No answer. What the hell is he doing?”

“I don't know. But someone has to get ahold of Mattias soon.” Chey knew without asking that it was Mattias Gunnar tried to call.

Gunnar came around the end of the bed to stand next to Chey. He tilted his head toward her and lowered his voice. “I'm going back to the castle and see what I can find out. Paavo threatened me as well, or I should say Krislin, so it's going to be very tough to do this without him finding out. Since I missed Krislin on my way here, will you discreetly tell her to be careful? She needs to watch her back.”

“He did what? But he's your brother--”

“I know,” Gunnar said, interrupting. “But something bigger is going on here. I think he's attempting a coup. He wants me to take control of a territory, so I will. I think it's best if I get myself integrated and grab hold of what I can, while I can. Set up my own security, find troops loyal to Dare.”

“It's so dangerous, Gunnar. If he finds out...” Chey let the sentiment trail.

“I know. But I can't sit here and do nothing. Mattias and Dare would be able to handle this so much better than I can, though I'll do everything in my power to get a foothold on a territory in case Paavo's plans get that far. I need to find out who Paavo has in his corner, and where he's getting the funding for all this.”

“Funding?” Chey frowned.

“He has to be getting money from somewhere. Men don't change their minds this fast unless they're being bribed or blackmailed, and Paavo's stipends have been slashed. The council unanimously voted this down mere months ago, and now the majority has had a change of heart? I don't think so. Besides—if Paavo can threaten me with Krislin, he can certainly do it to the council.”

An image came to mind, one of a long hallway where Chey came upon two men having a serious conversation. Paavo and Bashir, whispering and gesturing, hadn't been happy to see her. The Crown Prince had every motivation to go against Sander, too, after negating the marriage contract between he and Natalia.

“I bet it's Bashir,” Chey said with a glance at the door to make sure no one had come in.

“Damn. Damn. I bet you're right. What perfect payback. He's the best choice to look into right now. We can see if there are others.” Gunnar pocketed his phone.

“I'll tell Krislin, though I expect you'll see her before I do.” Chey rubbed the side of her stomach when the baby rolled and kicked. She didn't want to think about how serious her situation might become if Sander didn't wake up or if Mattias couldn't be found to take control.

Gunnar glanced at her rubbing hand, then her eyes.

Chey knew he was aware just how precarious everything was. “Will you tell Wynn to come back to the hospital when you see her, please? She's working for Paavo, of all things, but I could use someone here to relieve me for showers and all that.”

“I wondered what was up with that. I'll tell her,” he said.

“She's trying to stay close to the action, if you get my meaning.”

“I do. It's smart, but it's also dangerous right now. I'm sure she knows that.” Gunnar touched Chey's arm. “I'll see you soon. Call me the second Dare wakes up.”

“I will. Be careful.” Chey watched Gunnar depart the room, then looked down at Sander. Gunnar's voice rang through her mind. Paavo threatened me. I think he's attempting a coup.

The attack on Sander's caravan hadn't been wrought by a foreign hand, but by someone much closer to home.

. . .

Wynn eyed her new office with a heavy heart. It was beautifully decorated with polished mahogany furniture, gilt trimmed paintings and a view of the gardens. Any other time, she would have been excited about working in such a decadent space.

Right now, she felt like a traitor of the highest order.

Chey was at the hospital, sitting non-stop at Sander's bedside, stricken with grief and worry, and here she was, taking on the role of Great Pretender. Suddenly, it didn't seem like such a good idea to be this close to the fire. The 'suicide' last night left a bitter taste in her mouth. Made her wary to sleep under this particular roof. And what good was she doing here, anyway? When it counted most, she had no access to a phone to call Chey and tell her what was going on.

Some of it was guilt. Guilt at the attraction to Paavo, an attraction she'd tried to put from her mind. That was an unexpected drawback to the whole thing.

“Don't you look thoughtful,” Paavo said from the doorway.

Wynn turned around, one hand over her heart. Startled, it took a second to get her breath back. She was jumpier than she realized. “You shouldn't sneak up on people like that.”

“Trust me, if I wanted to sneak up on you, you'd never hear me coming.” Leaning against the door frame, he crossed his arms over his chest. Dressed in a navy suit, white shirt and red tie, he exuded professionalism and confidence.

“Well, isn't that reassuring,” she said, willing her heart back to a normal rhythm. She glanced at his smooth jaw, then to his eyes. “Actually, I'm glad you're here. I was about to come search you out. I need to go back to the hospital for a day or two.”

“Really.” Paavo didn't structure it as a question.

“...yes. Chey called, she needs me.” In truth, Gunnar had stopped by an hour before and passed on the message. Wynn decided Paavo didn't need to know that. Not after what Gunnar had told her. Those were the thoughts she held onto while she locked gazes with the sitting King. It was because of their direct eye contact that Wynn saw something shift in his expression.

“Do you work for Chey, or do you work for me?” he asked.

Wynn opened her mouth, and closed it again. Caught off guard—not a usual occurrence—she mentally flailed for a second. Finally, she untangled words from the jumbled mess of her thoughts. “You, of course. But I figured it would be all right to go back and forth to see Chey. She needs relief.”

“You figured wrong. Be prepared to meet me downstairs in conference room one to go over notes for tomorrow's announcement. Ten minutes,” he said, and disappeared into the hall.

Exasperated, Wynn put her hands on her hips and stared at the now empty doorframe. If she wasn't mistaken, that was the first real test of her loyalty.

Him, or Chey.

There was no question where her loyalty lay. What she needed to decide, however, was just how far she was going to perpetrate the deception. Which was more important, relieving Chey or staying close to Paavo in an attempt to glean something useful? Not only that, but what might he do if she switched sides? What if he suspected she'd betrayed him and made something ugly happen to her, too?

This was all getting a little deeper and more complicated than she liked.

Heading for the door, she put on her Great Pretender face and prepared to spend the day with the King.

. . .

“So, what's your decision, little brother?” Paavo asked, staring at Gunnar across the oval table in the conference room. For now, they were alone.

“I'm taking Barkava instead of Solvandi because it's closer to one of my holdings. The travel time will be cut down substantially.” Gunnar rubbed the tips of two fingers together, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“You appear to have had a change of heart. I don't detect as much animosity.” Paavo searched Gunnar's face for indications of his true emotions. Gunnar, of all the Ahtissari brothers, had never been good at hiding his feelings. He wore his heart on his sleeve most of the time, and hadn't been known for taking a tough stance on too many issues. Being the youngest, Gunnar hadn't been as exposed to court dealings as Dare and Mattias and to a lesser extent, himself. He wasn't sure whether to be surprised or amused that he couldn't currently get a bead on Gunnar's mood.

“Oh, don't think I forgive you. Threatening me? No, Paavo, I haven't gotten over it. Like I said before, you haven't given me a choice.”

“You always were too honest for your own good. At least I know where we stand, hm?” Paavo leaned back in his chair, pleased at Gunnar's answer. If he hadn't shown any frustration or anger, Paavo would have questioned his motives. As things stood, he would still have to keep an eye on him. “As for your holdings, you will be staying at Solvandi. I am giving you Einarr castle, located within its borders. That is where you will rule your territory from.”

“Einarr castle? But it hasn't been used in decades.” Gunnar frowned.

“The castle itself is large and well fortified and has been prepared for your arrival in advance. You won't be needing to commute.” Paavo regarded Gunnar's pensive expression. His brother did not look overjoyed at the prospect of moving.

“So that's where we're all supposed to live permanently? In our territories?” Gunnar stood up from his seat.

“Of course. Do you expect to rule from afar?” Paavo also got to his feet, adjusting the lapels of his suit.

“I expected you to act like our brother, not a usurper. I guess I was hoping for a little too much.” Gunnar exited the room without another word.

Paavo narrowed his eyes. Gunnar would come around.

One way or another.

Chapter Nine

Chey watched the dissolution of Latvala happen on a television screen many miles from the family seat. It pained her as much as it infuriated her; Paavo, cool and calm and self-assured, broke it all down in terms no one could misunderstand. The brothers and Natalia were now responsible for their regions, the ones in charge from job security to population growth to the general well being of the citizens. Paavo never mentioned that Mattias could not be located, nor explained Natalia's absence from the press conference. Only Gunnar attended, grim faced and hard-eyed, looking less than pleased.

Although she knew Gunnar was doing his best, Chey fretted about what it meant for herself and Sander. Paavo, under fire from reporters, stuck to the story that Sander was involved in urgent royal business elsewhere and that he was acting in the King's stead. This was, according to Paavo, the best thing for the country. In fact, he pointed out, new investors were arriving that very day to tour the back country with promises for thousands of new jobs.

Chey felt sick. Not only was Paavo appeasing the masses with promises of higher pay and more work, he had already taken steps to secure the new borders with military and 'other personnel' dedicated to keeping the peace. What personnel, she wondered, was he talking about? Men brought in besides the military, hired for that specific task? She hated not knowing what was going on. Hated feeling so distanced from the people, the council, even though Gunnar thought many had been bribed or blackmailed.

In her frustration and niggling fear, she grew angry at Mattias. Where the hell was he? What sort of problem kept him from his phone for days on end when a crisis was at hand? This was his job, what he was supposed to do if something ever happened to Sander.

Realistically, she knew it was a knee jerk reaction to all the uncertainty. It was easy to transfer her frustration to someone else when she felt this helpless. Fear that Sander would never wake up lingered despite her fierce determination that he would open his eyes and be his old self.

Four hours later, a hand on her shoulder jerked Chey from a dead sleep. Sitting upright, one hand still on Sander's bed where she'd lain her head, she swiveled a look behind her. Five councilmen stood in a semi-circle around her chair, three looking at her, and two looking at Sander's prone body.

Chair legs scraping the floor when she pushed to a stand, Chey let her natural wariness burn away any confusion leftover from slumber. “Yes?”

“Miss Sinclair, we would like a few minutes alone with Sander and the doctor to assess the situation for ourselves. Will you please step outside?” the councilman said with a gesture to the open door.

Chey wanted to ask where her title went, as well as Sander's. Now she was 'Miss Sinclair?' Regardless of her title as Queen, she and Sander were still married. Her legal surname was Ahtissari. She decided they'd done so on purpose, to unsettle her, put her off her game. More than that, something just felt...wrong. She didn't know if it was the looks on their faces or the way all five men crowded too close. Instantly defensive—and protective—she straightened her spine and met each man's eyes. Her first order of business was to get those she knew were loyal to Sander in the room.

“Guards!” Chey called loud enough for those lingering out in the hall to hear, but not loud enough to bring the entire floor and all the nurses running. Four guards entered the room within seconds; another four came jogging in not long after.

Then, Chey said, “No. I won't step outside. Ask the doctor your questions in the hall and make your decisions out there. You don't need to be in here alone with him to do that.”

The councilmen, clearly unhappy, glanced back at the guards, then at Chey.

“That was unnecessary, Miss Sinclair--”

“Missus Ahtissari, or is your short term memory damaged?” Chey asked, arching a brow. She put herself between the men and the bed while the guards hovered at the edge, just behind the councilmen. Without waiting for an answer, Chey said, “Take your leave from the room or my guards will escort you out.”

“Missus Ahtissari,” the spokesman said, “I don't know what you think will happen, but I assure you--”

“Andersen. That's your name, is it not?” Chey asked, interrupting. She knew each of their names, as a matter of fact. “I'll give you and your little group here ten seconds to leave or the guards will drag you out.”

Three of the councilmen stiffened with insult or outrage, Chey couldn't tell which. The guards shifted forward, three unholstering their weapons without drawing the attention of the council members.

Andersen, eyes gone hooded, said, “I see paranoia has you in its grip. We'll simply get an order from the sitting King and be back here shortly.”

As one, the councilmen, staring at Chey, filed out of the room.

“Your Highness, what was that about?” one of the guards asked.

Chey glanced from the door to the guards. “Prince Gunnar and I believe a coup is underway. Do I have your allegiance to protect Sander no matter what—or who—shows up here in the next hour?”

The guards showed open surprise but did not hesitate to answer.

“Of course,” one guard replied.

“I don't care what decree or order or command the councilmen return with. No one but myself, Mattias, Krislin, Gunnar or Wynn is allowed past that door.”

“Princess Natalia?” another asked.

Chey hesitated. Did she trust Natalia enough to leave her alone with Sander? Just because the woman showed up and shed a few tears didn't mean she was devoted to his safety if Paavo threatened her as he'd threatened Gunnar. Whatever differences remained between herself and Natalia were enough to put doubt in Chey's mind.

“Not alone. If I'm in here, yes. Also, I need a list of guards you know we can trust. Only those you're positive are loyal to the King. Don't alert anyone else yet, not until I figure out whether or not 'traitors' to the sitting King will be arrested.” Chey gauged the seriousness of the guard's eyes, assured by what she saw that they would do as she asked.

“Your Highness.” The guards bowed their heads and departed. Four stood directly in front of the closed door, while the rest marched out of sight.

Exhaling a deep breath, Chey sat down in the chair. She didn't realize her knees were shaking until she was off her feet. Digging her phone from the pocket of her cardigan, she found Mattias's number and dialed.

It rang, and rang before going to voicemail.

While Chey left another urgent message, she secretly wondered if Paavo had gotten to Mattias, too, and whether the Prince still lived.

. . .

Wynn stared at the neat arrangement of items on Paavo's office desk, then glanced at the door. No one lurked in the hallway just beyond. She couldn't hear the click of boots indicating a guard was close by, nor voices approaching or receding. In the two days since Paavo's announcement regarding the division of Latvala, a change had come over the castle. More guards arrived daily, replacing others who were sent off some place else. The switch-over happened subtly, until the majority of the security was under Paavo's control.

In her effort not to make waves or draw too much attention to herself, Wynn had performed all the duties Paavo asked of her. She kept her head down and avoided him whenever she could. Part of it was her inner disturbance about the attraction she felt, and the other part were the questions. Paavo routinely inquired about Chey and Sander, citing too much work as the reason he hadn't gone to see his injured brother. Wynn feigned ignorance of any real detail, insisting that Chey said everything remained the same. Sander was no better, no worse.

All the attempts recently to eavesdrop on Paavo's plans failed miserably. There was always a guard on duty or other waitstaff coming and going near the conference rooms.

Today, however, she found herself alone in Paavo's office, where she just might find interesting information. A calendar sat open next to a laptop and several file folders were stacked neatly to the side. She tested one of the four drawers built into the heavy, elaborate desk, only to find it locked. The others all resisted opening when she tried them next.

With a second glance at the door, aware of the danger she was putting herself in, Wynn peered into one of the file folders. The mundane paperwork didn't hold any startling clues or insight. So she tried another, ending with the same result. She wasn't stupid enough to open the laptop, aware he might have some sort of security system on it that alerted him to tampering.

Setting her own stack of papers down she examined the calendar, looking for clues. Every few seconds, she glanced up to make sure no one came in while she wasn't looking.

A flashing red light caught her attention on the phone perched next to the calendar. Above, a digital readout said he had ten messages. Before she thought too much about the consequences, she snatched up the receiver, put it to her ear, and hit the button. The first three messages were mundane and uninformative. On the fourth, she hit gold. Bashir's distinctive accent rolled down the line.

“I am sending the additional personnel you requested through the north most port. Be sure it's open. As far as the extra funds, expect a deposit in the morning.”

Wynn scribbled a quick note, folded it, and stuffed it into the pocket of her suit jacket.

“Do you always listen to other people's messages?” Leander said from the doorway.

Wynn fumbled the handset. It hit the desk with a bang. Scooping it up, she clapped it into the base and scowled at the guard. Her heart trip-hammered so hard she thought it might pop. “Do you always sneak up on people?”

“Only when I think they're up to no good. What are you doing, anyway?” he asked.

Gathering her files with shaking hands, Wynn stepped around the edge of Paavo's desk. Leander, decked out in a steel gray uniform, looked like he meant to block her exit with his body. Making contact with his eyes, which were two shades lighter than his uniform, Wynn said, “It's none of your business. I work for the Prince, or have you forgotten? I've got every right to be in here.”

He straightened from his negligent lean and dropped his arms to his sides, effectively barring the exit. “Maybe you do. That doesn't explain why you're so prickly. Unless you're feeling guilty, which means you're doing things you shouldn't be.”

Wynn stopped three feet from him. She knew her cheeks were flushed, a state he didn't help when he pointed out her guilt. Blast the man, he was right. Not that she would ever admit it. “Move, please.”

“What, no tender greeting? No I'm happy to see you again, Leander?” he asked, barely containing a laugh.

Here he was, toying with her, and all she worried about was whether he meant to tell Paavo she'd been snooping. “Maybe next time,” she snapped.

Leander tilted his body just enough, just barely enough, for her to squeeze by.

Exasperated, she stalked past, refusing to inch around him. Instead, she bumped his shoulder with her own, nearly rocking her back on her feet. He felt like a solid wall, too strong for his own good. He also smelled like heaven. Something sexy and musky with a hint of amber. Steadied by his hand on her elbow, she glared up into his face and exited into the hallway. Feeling the weight of his stare, Wynn resisted the urge to look back and see if his mocking grin had faded into something more serious. Maybe he was already on the phone, or sending a text.

Holding her breath, she took the first turn she came to, expecting any moment to be waylaid by guards or Paavo's personal security.

To her surprise, she made it all the way to her borrowed bedroom without interruption.

Leander the Guard might not be such a bad sort after all.

Chapter Ten

“I don't know what we're going to do, Krislin,” Chey said. She closed the door to Sander's room so no one would overhear. Pacing away, she headed back to the bed where Krislin waited. Gunnar's wife had arrived ten minutes before with the news of Gunnar's departure. “With Gunnar gone to Solvandi, and Mattias unable to be found, Paavo has free rein to do what he wants. It worries me. I know why Gunnar went, and I think it was a smart move. I guess I wish Mattias would show up.”

“Gunnar can return any time if we need him to. I think he wants to see what's going on, what the countryside looks like. He wants to know how deep Paavo's plans go.” Krislin patted a chair next to Sander's bed. “You should sit down and relax. I'll rub your shoulders if you'd like. You look so tense, Chey.”

Chey paused to smile at Krislin. If there had been anyone willing to help, someone always on Chey's side of things, it was Krislin. The woman was indispensable in a time of crisis. “That's all right. I know you're just as tired as I am, taking shifts sleeping and standing guard.”

“But I'm not almost ready to have a baby,” Krislin pointed out. “Here, come put your feet up.”

Chey reversed direction, eased down into a chair, and allowed Krislin to push an ottoman under her feet. She had to admit—it felt good to recline and take the weight off her legs for a minute. Nerves caused her to pace relentlessly, not a bad thing in moderate amounts, but mildly exhausting with so little rest. She laid her palms over her stomach when the baby moved and rolled. “Thanks, Kris.”

“You're welcome.” Krislin tugged on the snug fitted, peach top she wore over a simple pair of jeans and crossed the room to pour herself a glass of water. “Gunnar and I are trying, you know.”

“Trying what?” Distracted, Chey glanced at Sander to check his breathing, then looked askance at Krislin.

“To have a baby.” Krislin smiled above the rim of the glass.

“That's excellent, Krislin. Wouldn't it be great if our kids were close in age and could grow up together?” Chey didn't need to voice her concern over what their children's future would be like if Paavo successfully overthrew Sander for the throne. Krislin, she knew, was vividly aware of the risks, dangers and challenges.

“Yes. Though I suspect we'll have to put those plans on hold at least for a little while, now.” Krislin finished her water and set the glass aside.

“Mattias will return soon, or Sander will wake up, and get things back to normal. With any luck, this won't last,” Chey said. In the midst of her fervent prayer that she was right, her phone rang. Plucking it off the nightstand, Chey answered without looking at the I.D. “Hello?”

“Chey, it's Wynn. Are you alone?”

“Krislin's here. What's wrong?” Chey scooted up in the chair, frowning.

“I'm not sure anything is wrong yet, but I have some information. I listened to one of Paavo's phone messages and heard Bashir promise more 'personnel' and funds. He said the personnel would be arriving at the north port, whatever that means.”

“I knew it. Bashir has the means and the motivation to help Paavo. There's no telling what Paavo promised in return.” Chey didn't contemplate the repercussions right now. It was enough to know what entity backed Paavo's brazen move for the crown.

“Someone caught me listening though, so if you don't hear from me tomorrow or the next day, it's because I probably got in trouble.”

“Wait, what?” Alarm shot through Chey.

“A guard caught me. He didn't take me to Paavo straightaway, so maybe he won't say anything. More than likely, though, it's just a matter of time before I'm summoned.”

“Wynn! I said to be my eyes and ears, I didn't say get yourself arrested!” Exasperated and worried, Chey got up out of the chair. So much for relaxing. “Come to the hospital. Right now. Leave immediately, don't even pack clothes. Just go.”

“Won't that look really suspicious? Paavo might say something. Besides that, you know what happened the last time I tried to go to the hospital.”

“Yes, I know. He challenged you over who you're more loyal to, him or me.” Chey ground her teeth together until her jaw ached. Paavo was on her last nerve.

“It's better if I just lay low, I think. Maybe the guard won't say anything.”

“You don't sound convinced of that,” Chey pointed out.

“I'm not. But I'm really worried that if I try to leave, the guards will stop me. You have to make plans to use the helicopter, which will alert pretty much everyone of my intentions.”

“So don't fly. Drive.”

“Are you saying I should steal a car?”

“It's...borrowing. And I'm the one asking you to come, so. They can't say anything.” Chey met Krislin's concerned glance and lifted a shoulder helplessly.

“They can say you're not the Queen anymore and charge me with theft.”

“I still think you should leave. That's my recommendation, but if you're too afraid to go, then at least have a backup plan if they try to put you in jail.” Chey couldn't believe she was having this conversation.

“Evading the police should go over well,” Wynn said with a sarcastic lilt.

Chey smiled despite herself. “It's not like you haven't done worse before.”

“Chey! You're not supposed to say things like that.”

“Borrowing a car shouldn't be a hardship, though they might not let you through the gates.” Chey had to remind herself that Paavo had probably stepped up security. Where Wynn would have been able to squeeze through by saying she was on a visit to the Queen, the same excuse now might raise red flags.

“I think you're right. Besides that, it really feels like things are shifting here.”

“Shifting how?”

“It's hard to explain. I'm pretty sure Paavo has replaced most of the other guards with his own. Those loyal to his cause. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, I think so. Be careful, okay? Don't take any more unnecessary risks.” Chey walked back toward the bed and checked on Sander. No flicker of eyelids, no change in breathing.

“I won't. I'll call you tomorrow. If I don't...”

“I know, I know. Something might have happened.”

“Yes. Say hi to Krislin for me.”

Chey ended the call and pushed the phone into her cardigan pocket. “Wynn got caught listening to Paavo's messages. She's worried the guard will tell the others and she'll be detained.”

“Oh no,” Krislin said, cringing.

“And I can't do anything about it. I refuse to leave Sander for any reason, for any length of time, and as she pointed out, I'm not sure any of the guards at the castle will listen to anything I have to say.” Frustrated, Chey traced her fingertips up and down Sander's forearm. His skin was warm, the muscles relaxed.

“Do you want me to go?” Krislin asked.

Chey considered it. “No. I don't want to put you in danger if Wynn really has gotten herself into trouble. Let's just hope the guard doesn't say anything.”

“If you change your mind, let me know. I've made some inroads with a few of the guards and might be able to help.”

“Thanks, Krislin.” Chey sank into the chair at Sander's bedside.

The situation felt balanced on a precarious edge. It would only take a minor push to send the whole thing crashing down.

. . .

Wynn held the phone in her hands, staring down at the dark screen. A gentle breeze shifted through the small courtyard, bringing the scent of flowers and greenery to her nose. It also brought another scent, a masculine cologne she would recognize anywhere. Sucking in a breath, she turned around.

Paavo stood just outside the doorway, hands in the pockets of his dark slacks. Lacking a suit coat, the crisp white shirt looked even whiter with the sun shining down upon him. The wind ruffled his usually groomed hair until a lock fell across his forehead.

There weren't many times in her life that Wynn felt faint, but this was one of them. It had nothing to do with how arresting Paavo looked with the castle as a backdrop and everything to do with whether or not he'd overheard her conversation with Chey. Better yet, how much he'd heard. She experienced a flush of heat followed by an ice cold chill at the thought he'd listened to it all. To make matters worse, he didn't say a word; Paavo cocked his head a fraction and arched a brow, putting her on the spot to say something.

For the life of her, everything that came to mind sounded trite or sarcastic or downright impudent. She wouldn't admit to fear, even if it rioted around her body, making her fingers tremble.

Still, he said nothing.

“Chey,” Wynn said with a gesture of the phone.

“So it seems,” Paavo replied.

Wynn couldn't tell anything by his tone or his expression. Damn the man. “I wanted to see how she's feeling.”

“And how is she feeling?”

“Oh, you know. Tired, a little cranky. Desperately worried. But good.”

Paavo regarded her without a reply that time.

Wynn wondered if he was waiting for her to admit that he might have overheard. To bring up the rest of the conversation. She wouldn't, not until he threatened her or made it clear he knew.

“Did you need something?” she asked in a brisk, business-like tone.

“Actually, yes. I need you--” Paavo paused when his own phone chirped. He fished it out and put it to his ear. “Yes?”

Wynn stuffed her cell away, hoping against hope for a crisis that wouldn't wait. She didn't want to be stuck in an office with him, transcribing or typing or anything else right now.

After a brief back and forth, speaking too quietly to hear, Paavo ended the call and said, “It'll have to wait. I'll find you later tonight.”

“All right.” Wynn would have bartered her soul to the devil just to get Paavo gone. She needed time to think about what to do, and whether Chey might be right. Perhaps she should depart the family seat for the hospital by any means necessary.

Paavo pivoted on a heel and disappeared inside the castle.

Exhaling a relieved breath, Wynn waited a full five minutes before following, taking all the short cuts she'd learned to her room.

That had been too close for comfort.

. . .

Walking the long corridor between sections of the castle, Paavo took the least crowded way for another call he made en route to his suite. He wasted no time giving orders once someone picked up on the other end.

“I've heard from one of the nurses at the hospital. Yes, she said there is very mild improvement. We can't wait any longer. You know what to do.” Hearing confirmation, Paavo severed the call and sent a text to someone else.

Move into phase three immediately.

Chapter Eleven

A loud bang startled Chey into awareness. At some point after Wynn's phone call, she'd dozed in the chair, feet up on the ottoman. Now she sat forward with a grunt, glancing across the bed at Sander. There seemed to be no change. His breathing, even and deep, was the same as it had been that morning. A quick check of the machines assured her all was well. Next she sought Krislin, who wasn't anywhere to be found. The open bathroom door indicated Krislin wasn't in there, either.

Getting up out of the chair, Chey hadn't gone more than three steps when Krislin burst into the room, closing the door with force.

“Krislin, what's wrong?” The hair stood up on the back of Chey's neck seeing Krislin throw the bolt and drag one of the dressers in front of the door.

“They're coming. Is there any other way out of here?” Krislin asked.

To see the normally passive, calm woman in such a state alarmed Chey more than anything else.

“I don't think so. I'm sure there's not, since that would potentially put royalty at risk if the news got out. Who is coming?” Chey glanced around the walls anyway, searching for anything that remotely resembled a hidden access panel. Instinct warned her that whatever was happening, it wouldn't bode well for her or her child.

“Guards. They're fighting at the end of the hallw--” Krislin's explanation got cut off by the retort of a gun.

Chey swerved to stand between Sander and the door, as protective over him as she was their baby. Krislin gave the heavy dresser another push, attempting to wedge the edge under the knob. Too tall for that, she settled for leaving it as a makeshift doorstop.

While Chey watched Krislin attempt to provide a roadblock, she also started searching her mind for bargaining chips. Things that men on a mission might be swayed by. Bribery first, and threats second. She had little to use in the way of bargains except her position and her promises.

Another gunshot rang out, followed by sounds of fierce fighting. Shouts peppered the hallway, muffled by sturdy walls and thick windows.

This was it. They were coming for Sander. All her and Gunnar's fears were being realized right before her eyes. They should have taken more precautions, should have packed the halls with guards loyal to the King. The real King. Chey refused to lament what she couldn't change. And she wouldn't give up without a fight.

“Are there any other things we can use as weapons in here?” Chey asked. The chair, if someone could heft it, might knock a man unconscious. It wasn't useful unless they could take the guards by surprise. “What about chemicals from the bathroom? Any sort of cleaning supplies? Something flammable we can aim at their face?”

Krislin made a quick survey of the entire room followed by the bathroom.

Out in the hallway, the fighting grew more violent.

“Nothing. No chemicals left in here. They take everything in and out on a cart,” Krislin said when she emerged. “No medical equipment, either, except bandages and the machines Sander is hooked up to.”

“Okay. When they come in, you acquiesce to whatever they want. Don't fight, don't put yourself in harm's way. All right? We have nothing good to defend ourselves with, so we'll try something else.” Chey gave up on the idea of fighting the men off. They wouldn't stand a chance against guns, especially without weapons of their own.

“I'm not going to just stand by and watch them hurt you or Sander,” Krislin said, voice filled with angst.

Chey glanced at Sander. He looked so peaceful, face slack, body relaxed. Worry turned to anger that he might die without even having the chance to fight back. It wasn't fair.

“Krislin, it's better this way. There isn't anything you can do, and if they just take me or Sander, we'll need you to alert Gunnar. He'll know who to call or what to do.”

Krislin whimpered as the knob turned. A shoulder hit the door, coupled with shouts in the mother tongue to open it.

Or else.

Fighting off panic of her own, Chey prayed for a calm mind.

With several more shoves, the guards got the door open enough to admit four armed men. Men in military uniforms with stern expressions and a no nonsense attitude.

Krislin stood tall, blocking them from Chey and indirectly, Sander. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

Chey, for the moment, allowed Krislin to speak.

“Stand aside, Princess Krislin,” one of the guards said.

“I will not. This is a pregnant woman you're terrorizing, the Queen of Latvala at that, and no quarter will be given any man who lays a finger on her.” Krislin lifted her chin when the guards stepped forward. With surprisingly gentle yet firm hands, one guard physically moved Krislin to the other side of the room.

It left Chey face to face with the remaining three guards. She made eye contact with each one. “My husband will awaken, and when he does, he will have the names of every one of you acting against the crown. Have a care what you do in the next thirty seconds.”

From the doorway, another man stepped in. Brusque, with cropped white-blond hair, this soldier stood apart from his brethren by more than the impressive ranking badge attached to his uniform. He exuded a commanding air above and beyond the others, with a slicing white scar over his chin that added something more feral to his appearance.

“You will come with us peacefully, your Highness, or be escorted. The decision is yours, and rests wholly on your shoulders,” the scarred man said.

“How convenient that you attempt to exempt yourself and your men from blame. I'd like to know what you plan to do with the King.” Chey schooled her features, smoothed her voice over a tremor that wanted to invade her words.

The scarred man, a General Chey thought, halted before her.

“Worry yourself not over his welfare. He'll be fine.”

“Forgive my reticence in trusting the word of men with openly ill intent,” Chey retorted. She didn't want to leave Sander behind, didn't want to let any one of these men get their hands on him. The desire to physically fight them off was strong. At the same time, she was aware that she might hurt the baby, possibly push herself into labor. A bad position to be in either way.

“There is no ill intent here, I assure you. We are securing you and his Majesty until the logistics of the regions have worked themselves out. Now then,” the scarred man said, gesturing to the door.

Chey was not appeased. Standing her ground, she studied his expression, searching for lies or deception. Detecting nothing she could identify, Chey decided she wasn't moving. Just as when the council members came in, wanting time alone with Sander, Chey had the same sense that she needed to protect Sander any way she could. The General quirked his mouth when he realized she had no intention of obeying. He took one step closer and lowered his voice.

“Do not make this any worse for either of you, or for the Princess, eh? I am offering you safe passage, as well as a guarantee that the King will not be harmed. All you need to do is come with me.”

Chey wavered. His tone invited her to believe that she, nor Sander, would be harmed if she went quietly. It went against Chey's grain, rubbed her the wrong way to give in. Did she have a choice? Physically, she couldn't fight anyone off. Not really. They were armed, she was not, they were in excellent shape, she was mere weeks from giving birth. Any ideas of using bargaining chips or threats faded. This man, these men, wouldn't be cowed or coerced or bribed.

“I want your word no harm will come to Sander,” she said.

The General hesitated, then bowed his head. “You have my word no one will touch the King.” He used a hand to gesture toward the open door.

Chey glanced at Krislin. The woman looked nervous and as wary as Chey felt. The General reached out to cup his hand at Chey's elbow, coaxing her into motion.

Like a mule looking up hill, Chey didn't budge. Not at first. She resisted, panic over riding common sense. A niggling fear that she wouldn't ever see Sander alive again kept her feet rooted to the floor.

The General applied a bit more pressure to his hold. Chey twisted her arm, giving it a sharp yank to remove his hand.

He pressed his lips tight, then slung an arm low around her back, preparing to propel her forward.

That was all it took for the war to start. Chey struggled against him, pushing at his shoulder, swiveling her hips out of his arm.

“No! I'm not leaving him. Let go!” she shouted, catching a glimpse of Sander during the scuffle. Lying so still, breathing in, breathing out. Unaware of everything and everyone. Defenseless.

The General moved her bodily toward the door, using sheer strength and agility against her futile attempts to get free.

Chey didn't stop twisting and writhing in his grip until she was at the door, about to pass into the hallway. She shot a desperate look at Krislin, who was blocked in by a guard. This was it, there was nothing else they could do. Shaking off the General's hold, Chey stood alone and untouched in the corridor, where bodies littered the floor from the fighting. Two guards held the doctors and several nurses at bay.

It was the hardest thing she'd ever done, walking away from Sander's room. Leaving him without protection, not knowing what fate lay in wait. The tears that stung the back of her eyes were tears of fury and outrage. Why hadn't they prepared sooner for something like this? All those days of sitting at Sander's side could have been better spent planning for emergencies of this nature. In the world of Royalty, the idea of being 'too paranoid' didn't exist. Paranoia kept a person on their toes, kept them alive. She should have known to expect trouble from any angle, even from Sander's own family.

Especially his family, given the recent history with Aksel and Helina.

Feeling like a prisoner on the last walk to the executioner's chair, Chey followed several guards who stepped in front of her to lead the way. The General came behind. Into the elevator, up to the rooftop.

Chey's last glimpse of the hospital was from a helicopter seat as the aircraft lifted off and swung away, destination unknown.

. . .

The sound of arguing voices drifted in and out of his hearing. Jumbled words, fast sentences, too confusing to keep up with. In those first seconds of his return to awareness, Sander couldn't figure out why it was taking him so long to wake up, or why people were arguing in the first place. His bedroom was typically a quiet place, undisturbed by this kind of ruckus and upheaval.

You're not in your bedroom. The thought slithered to the fore and receded. He tried to lift his head. Open his eyes. Although he couldn't make out explicit details through the blurry view he had of the world, Sander knew one thing: he really wasn't in his bedroom. The melting colors on the walls were too monochrome and plain. Yet he was prone, on a bed, which served to confuse him further.

Blinking against the blurriness, he tried to sit up. Dizziness swelled up from the black abyss he'd so recently left behind, threatening to pull him back under. Fighting it off, wondering at the sense of urgent alarm beginning to buzz through his head, he groaned and succeeded in getting the top half of his body upright.

“Dare! Thank God you're awake,” a female voice said.

Someone touched his arm.

“Quit shouting,” he mumbled. If he didn't know better, he thought he might have had the worst hangover of his life. A hangover that included unusual pain in his mid-section, along his left side, and down one arm. He ran a hand over his chest, tugging at the strange robe-like thing covering his torso. A few wires and sticky discs came with it.

“Sander, it's Krislin. Here, let me take these things off you and remove the IV.”

Krislin? What the hell was she doing here?

“I'll get it. Watch the door,” a woman said.

Sander pegged the second voice at last. Natalia.

“What's going on?” he asked, bracing his weight with one hand while Natalia ripped more of the sticky discs from his skin and slid a needle out of his vein. A machine beep-beep-beeped somewhere behind him.

“You've been in a coma for almost a week and you need to wake up right now,” Natalia said. “I'll get your clothes. How does your head feel?”

“Woozy. A what?” Coma? Sander only knew he'd been asleep. Vaguely, he recalled hearing Chey cry, a man's voice he didn't recognize. A few times, he'd felt almost on the verge of waking from a long dream. Unable to fully rise from the mist, he'd succumbed to the lure of slumber.

He rubbed at his eyelids, which made the blurriness worse before it got better. Finally, he was able to take in the hospital room, the bed he sat on, and Natalia yanking clothes out of the closet against the wall. Krislin hovered near a window, peering out through a crack. Once more, a shiver of alarm coursed through his system. He made a more concentrated effort to get his bearings.

“Coma. You were in an accident. Do you remember the accident?” Natalia asked as she brought jeans and a tee-shirt to the bed along with socks and boots. “Put these on. We don't have a lot of time.”

Mention of the accident brought images to the surface of his memory. Charred flesh. Black metal. The crack of fire. Pain.

“Yes. What happened?” He shucked the gown and fumbled into jeans with Natalia's help. Feeling too dizzy to stand up, he tugged them up over his boxers and left them unbuttoned for now. On went the tee-shirt while Natalia crouched in front of him and put on his socks. He wondered why Chey wasn't doing it.

“Someone attacked the caravan. Almost everyone died. You've been unconscious ever since.” Natalia jammed the boots on and laced them up the front with deft motions.

“Where's Chey?”

Natalia stood up, holding his eyes. “Several guards took her. I'm not sure where. Krislin said--”

“Took Chey?” That seared through some of his haze in a hurry. He stood up, tilting to the right. Natalia was there, letting him lean on her until he got his balance back.

“Yes. I got here with reinforcements just a few minutes too late. We have to get you out of here before more of his men show up.”

Sander snarled. Clarity returned at a faster clip. “What the hell is going on, here?”

“Krislin, is it safe to poke your head out and ask the doctor for some smelling salts?” Natalia turned a look up at Sander. “It's Paavo. He's been planning a coup for months. And he's been busy the last week, signing decrees to divide Latvala into regions.”

“I'll get them,” Krislin said. She slipped out the door into the hallway, where Natalia's guards stood watch.

“That bastard. I should have known he wouldn't leave it alone.”

Krislin returned shortly, walking a few small packets over to Natalia. Ripping one open, Natalia gave Sander no warning before waving the stick under his nose.

“I hope this doesn't do more harm than good,” Natalia said.

Sander reared his head back as the potent sting hit his nose. Sucking in a breath, he pushed at Natalia's hand. She waved it around a few more times anyway.

“Get that out of here,” he groused.

“Is it working?”

He had to admit it was. Although he still felt woozy, at least he could see and hear without it sounding like he was underwater. “It's good enough. Let's go.”

“I have just enough guards to get you out of here, I think. I hope. There's no telling how many more are on the way, or that might be waiting downstairs,” she said.

“Do you have a phone?” he asked, heading to the door. His legs kept wanting to give out.

“Yes,” Natalia said.

Krislin opened the door and stepped into the hall.

“We're not going down the usual way,” Sander said. He veered into the hallway, one arm around Natalia's shoulders for extra stability.

“Your Majesty, you shouldn't be up and walking. Let me check--”

Sander cut the doctor off. “No time. Pop the latch for the other door.”

The doctor retreated into his office.

Sander grouped the guards ahead and behind, directing them along with Krislin and Natalia down another intersecting corridor. Right away he opened a different door on their left with a Supplies sign on the front. A distant buzzing noise indicated the doctor had activated some sort of release function.

“Move that rack out of the way,” Sander ordered two of the guards, who did so immediately. The rack swung away from the wall, revealing another door and a keypad. He had to concentrate to recall the code. Once entered, the latch clicked. Pushing instead of pulling, Sander stepped onto a broad landing with stairs leading down.

“Help him,” Natalia said to the guards when she saw the stairs.

“I got it,” Sander argued, starting down. He suffered bouts of vertigo, forcing him to hang onto the railing or pitch head first down the whole flight. Replacing Natalia, two guards got on either side and hurried the process along. Sander didn't fight it. His mind was on Chey and their child—and on Paavo. He seethed with anger both at his brother and at himself. Although he'd tracked Paavo's movements through the summer, apparently he hadn't done enough.

Halfway down, he said, “Natalia, have your driver meet us a half block down at the eastern edge of the hospital after he loses any possible trail first. Have him park in front of the fire hydrant.”

Hearing Natalia get on the call, Sander guided the group down the flights until they came to a landing with two doors. He went right, entered another code into the keypad, and walked them through a series of tunnels that led to a flight of stairs leading to street level.

“Go through first and make sure no one is on the other side of the door,” Sander told one of the guards. The man disappeared after Sander entered yet another code, allowing a slice of waning sunlight to pierce the dim tunnel.

“All clear,” the guard called.

Sander led the group onto the street, squinting at the harsh glare that made his eyes water. A limousine waited at the curb. Without hesitation, he crossed the pavement and got in, followed by Natalia, Krislin and the guards.

“Where to, Dare?” Natalia asked.

He cited an address in the city. It was an unknown stronghold for emergencies just like this, a place only he and a choice few knew of. “Where's Mattias? Why didn't he stop Paavo before things got this far?”

“No one can find Mattias, and he's not answering his phone,” Natalia said.

Resting his head against the seat, Sander let talk of Mattias go. He knew what it meant when his brother went off the grid following Mattias's last known location. They would be lucky to hear from Mattias for another three to four days.

What poor timing for them all.

Chapter Twelve

The helicopter ride proved to be helpful in ways Chey hadn't expected; passing over the landscape of Latvala late afternoon of the previous day, she'd witnessed firsthand the scope of Paavo's meddling. Troops on the ground defined themselves with long lines of military vehicles and roadblocks, easily seen from the air. She had counted no less than five large encampments in open areas, away from big and small cities. She knew without being told that they were beholden to Paavo's cause, the men and women devoted to making his vision of a divided Latvala become a reality. Sick at heart, Chey had filed away the information for later use.

It was no surprise when Paavo's holding came into view, nor her transfer to the castle. She'd gone quietly, without a fight, taking personal notes along the way. There were more guards in place than were there on her prior visit, both inside and out, as if Paavo expected backlash.

Led up to a room on the third floor, she'd paced the entire night, unable to rest. The room itself was as lavish and well decorated as any at the family seat, with gilded furniture, large oil paintings and a king sized bed covered in a pretty duvet of creams and pinks. A room fit for a Queen.

The pale glow of early morning had given way to the brighter yellow-orange of mid-afternoon and still Chey paced. Her back hurt, her stomach felt tight, and her eyelids burned with the need for sleep. Bracing her hands at the base of her spine for extra support, she paused next to a window, again, and stared out at the terrain. From this vantage, she could see part of the surrounding wall and miles of countryside. Rows upon rows of tents lined uncountable acres on Paavo's property, stretching into the distance. She'd seen them from air, knew they were military encampments. It had been one more sign of Paavo's planning and organization. Here in the back country, with the nearest town miles and miles away, the Prince had the time, space and funds to expand the empire he meant to steal. She imagined this was the first place those loyal to Paavo came, and the place they left after training, spreading out through the regions to do his bidding.

She scanned the sky, hoping to see an incoming helicopter.

Nothing. No one was coming.

Not yet.

She wondered what happened to Sander. Wondered if he was still alive. Yes, of course he's still alive, she argued with herself. Going down a melancholy road would not help her now. She needed to stay strong and optimistic. Paavo wouldn't dare kill Sander in his sleep.

If she had a television, she might have some idea what else the new sitting King was up to. Of course there was none, not even a radio to play music by.

After another thirty minutes, legs aching from standing for so many hours, she relented and sat down in a plush chair. A twinge through her belly jerked her upright just as she started to relax. Panic surfaced at the thought of going into labor here, of all places.

Within a half an hour, the pain abated, leaving her drained and exhausted emotionally as well as physically. Propping her feet on an ottoman, she forced herself to rest.

In the down time, she plotted ways to escape.

. . .

The two story structure situated in downtown Kalev sat within its own protective, walled barrier. Made to blend in with its surroundings, the pale facade sported no house-like elements nor did it appear to be a business anyone would want to frequent. In short, people passed it by for its nondescript qualities, uninterested in what lay beyond the iron gate.

Sander instructed the driver to pull into the attached garage and sent two guards ahead to scout the building through a connecting door. It meant giving up the password, but passwords could be changed. He followed behind with Natalia and Krislin at either side, both insisting on bracing him with their arms and bodies. Sander didn't argue, preferring to let everyone think he was merely acquiescing to their mother hen tendencies rather than admit he was unsteady on his feet. Pin-dots of black and white colored his vision, sometimes accompanied by darkness that he knew would swallow him whole if he let it.

Inside, the building was divided into living areas downstairs and bedrooms upstairs. Sander, getting the all clear from the guards, guided the girls straight into a sitting room adjacent to the staircase. Square, with no windows for security reasons, the sitting room offered comfortable leather furniture, ample lighting and two large desks at the back with laptops and phones available for use.

Breaking away from the women, Sander went to one of the plush leather chairs behind a desk and sat down. He wanted to be more upright than any of the couches would allow.

“How come I never knew this existed?” Natalia asked, looking around.

“It's an emergency escape for the King, that's why. Very few people know about it.” Sander said. He eyed his sister a moment, debating how much he could trust her. Their arguments and her overall general nature put questions in his mind he didn't like. True, she'd aided him when he needed it most, but he also knew Natalia usually acted for herself alone with little regard for anyone else. She'd been different during the summer, after his stance against the Crown Prince. In fact, it appeared as if there had been a shift in his sister, one he wasn't sure was authentic. For now, he had little choice but to keep her close.

Natalia met his eyes, then inclined her head. “Then I guess it's a good thing someone thought to plan ahead.”

“We'll have to ditch it soon, though. I'm not sure who I can trust and at least one of the Generals knows this location.” Sander, amazed that Natalia didn't start snarking or making snide comments, reached for one of the phones. The dial tone buzzed in his ear, assuring him no one anticipated their arrival. Otherwise, the lines would have been cut, severing one means of communication. He called three people in quick succession, people loyal to him all his life. Within minutes, a plan was set in motion to recall Gunnar, round up more guards known to be trustworthy, and get feedback on circumstances in the castle itself. When a certain name came down the line, a guard in good standing who was an inside man for Mattias, Sander smiled a grim smile. Perfect. He put the guard—a man who excelled in stealth and extracting secrets—to use spying on Paavo and the councilmen.

Sander wanted as much information as possible before he and his cadre went after Chey.

. . .

Wynn fixed the plan in her mind one last time. All she had to do was get downstairs, exit through the front doors and ask one of the drivers to take her to town. If she acted authoritative enough, she didn't think anyone would question her, not considering her new status as Paavo's assistant. Security would simply think she had an errand to run.

As long as Paavo didn't see her, she thought she would be fine. She only hoped she wasn't too late.

Stopping before the mirror, she examined the designer jeans with a bit of rhinestone sparkle on the back pockets and the high necked, crocheted shirt that left her arms completely bare. It wasn't her usual style, but she was more concerned with blending in than standing out. The shoes, gladiator in style with leather straps wrapping her ankles, lacked a heel to get in the way in case she needed to hurry.

When she met the reflection of her eyes, she immediately looked away. Wynn couldn't face herself, couldn't confront the minor ache that lingered at the thought of leaving Paavo behind. She knew she had no choice, knew she couldn't trust him and knew she shouldn't have this odd attraction to a man wreaking so much havoc on his own country. On his own family. Paavo was dangerous, especially now when he was attempting a coup on his brother in a bid to become King.

None of that changed the fact that she felt sparks whenever he was around.

Frustrated, she crossed the room and let herself into the hallway. The only other item she brought with her was a small purse with a strap that she laid over her shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, she marched down the empty corridor, preparing herself for any number of scenarios that might arise. With luck, she wouldn't run into anyone important before making it to the front courtyard.

Today, luck wasn't on her side. Three steps from the bottom stair, someone cupped her elbow from behind and guided her to the right. Hustled forward, Wynn took several hasty steps to get her balance before she had time to dart a look sideways.

Leander was the culprit, features stony, mouth set in a hard line.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. Wynn didn't know if it was wise to draw attention or whether to go along. What if he was acting on Paavo's orders? She had precious few minutes to decide if Leander was about to detain her.

“Taking you somewhere else so we can talk,” Leander said, voice gruff.

Wynn halted in her tracks and twisted her elbow out of his hand. “No, I'm sorry. I'm not going anywhere with you. I have business.”

Suddenly sure this was leading nowhere good, Wynn pivoted, ready to backtrack and put some distance between herself and the guard.

Leander blocked her way, staring down with serious gray eyes. “Don't make a scene--”

“Then step aside,” she said, raising her voice. One member of the staff glanced over as they walked by.

“Wynn, you need to come with me.” He reached a hand out as if to herd her the other direction.

“Whatever you have to say, I'm sure you can tell me right here.” Wynn refused to go with him. She didn't like the gleam in Leander's eyes, the darkness she intuited he was capable of. After catching her in a compromising position before, his motives were suspect. How convenient it was Leander, of all men, to waylay her before she got out the door.

Leander's gaze ticked to the side, somewhere beyond her person.

Stiffening when Wynn realized someone had approached, she glanced over her shoulder just as Paavo spoke.

“Everything all right?” he asked, exchanging a look with Wynn. The Prince-turned-King smoothed a hand down the front of his tie, a predatory air in the set of his shoulders.

Forced to re-evaluate the situation, Wynn fought for a neutral expression. If Paavo sent Leander to do his dirty work, why was he here now, inquiring after her? For show? Did Paavo care about those things at a time like this?

“I was simply giving Miss Hudson directions to the conference room where you held your meeting. She didn't know where to find you,” Leander said, speaking with a flawless Latvala accent.

Startled as much by Leander's answer as the switch from an American accent to this one, Wynn wondered if Leander was more than he seemed. She had the perfect opportunity to out Leander as a fake and a fraud—yet she hesitated.

When she saw Paavo's eyes narrow as if in suspicion, Wynn said, “I thought it was in another room. My mistake.”

Silence descended. A silence broken only by the scuff of shoes from waitstaff or other members of security in transit from one part of the castle to another. Wynn schooled her features, falling back on business-like behavior while she battled through confusion. She'd been so sure Leander was up to no good. Now it appeared as if he might have been acting on her behalf, as strange as it seemed.

“The meeting is over. Miss Hudson will be accompanying me to another holding,” Paavo said, returning his gaze to Wynn.

A prickle of heat spread over her skin at the direct eye contact. She should be doing everything in her power to get out of the excursion, not second guessing her intuition. In that moment, she hated herself a little for her weakness where Paavo was concerned. Dangerous or not, she reacted the same to him on a base level she couldn't control. What she could control, however, were her actions. Lifting her chin, she looked away toward the staircase. “Should I get a bag together then?”

“No, there isn't time. I'll have someone fetch your things en route.” Paavo traded another look with Leander, then stepped toward the doors that a guard opened upon his approach.

Wynn darted a glance up to Leander, only to see him staring hard at Paavo's back. With no choice but to follow lest she make Paavo more suspicious than he was, she set a pace for the door.

This was not going at all how she'd hoped.

Locking gazes with Leander a final time at the threshold, left with too many questions and not enough answers, Wynn followed Paavo to the waiting limousine. Every fiber of her being demanded she not get in the car. With a handful of guards bringing up the rear and more surrounding the vehicle, there was no other alternative than to slide into the back seat.

She could do this. Playing eyes and ears had never been so important, she thought, especially since it appeared Paavo meant to leave the main castle. Someone had to report back to Chey, needed to keep Paavo in their sights. Wynn told herself she was the best person for the job, no matter how precarious the situation had become.

Chapter Thirteen

In the darkest hour of the following morning, when mist still hung low over the treetops and even the birds were quiet, Sander's office door opened and Gunnar entered. Sitting back in his chair, maps spread out before him, Sander took one look at Gunnar's face and got to his feet.

He couldn't remember a time when his brother looked so distraught.

“Gunnar, thanks for coming so soon,” Sander said. He met Gunnar halfway, clasping one hand while the other returned a clap on the back.

“Thank God,” Gunnar said under his breath, leaning back to examine Sander at close range.

“I'm in one piece,” Sander assured him, giving Gunnar's shoulder one more clap before he returned to his seat. Sprawling into the comfort of leather, Sander slouched, ignoring the shooting pain in his head and elsewhere. “Did they fill you in on the way here?”

“Yes. I can't believe he took Chey. What the hell was he thinking?” Gunnar said with a scowl. “He threatened me with Krislin, too. I'm relieved she's here.”

“Desperate men do desperate things,” Sander replied. Years of training and experience were the only things responsible for Sander's ability to push aside his fury at Paavo's betrayal so he could concentrate on salvaging the situation. Chey was priority number one. Once he had her back, then he could deal with the rest. Time was of the essence. “Tell me what you saw out in the countryside.”

“It's worse than you think,” Gunnar said, taking a chair on the opposite side of the desk. He sat on the edge, clearly agitated. “He's been planning for months. There are troops stationed at strategic points, hemming in the 'regions' as well as guarding certain roads. And this was just what I saw on my way to Solvandi. He's had Einarr castle partly restored and expects me to rule from there. The military in place might pretend to be under my command? But I have no doubt they're really loyal to Paavo.”

Sander listened, leaning forward to shuffle through maps. One, with red outlines around the territories, he moved to the top. “How many men?”

“I can't tell for sure. I wasn't there long. Enough men to protect the castle from a small invasion, though. A few hundred troops, I'd say. Who knows how many more are out on the grounds,” Gunnar replied.

“The roads leading in and out?”

“All covered. At least the main ones that I could see from the air. He knows the back roads, too, so I'm sure he's got some kind of protection there as well.” Gunnar raked a hand through his tousled hair.

“I'll get one of the Generals on it. I've had them gathering manpower while we waited to hear what you knew. What we need to know next is where he took Chey. Any ideas?” Sander pushed down another wave of anger. He couldn't give in to worry or aggression—not yet. The time would come soon enough for action.

“I don't know. He never said anything about Chey to me. The main family seat is too obvious, too easily penetrated because he won't know for sure what guards he can trust and those he can't. Men once loyal to you who have sworn an oath to him can still reverse their decision and he knows it.”

“What about one of his holdings? Or even the one in the back country?” Sander asked. He felt two ways about it: Paavo could fortify the castle on the hill better than any of his other holdings, giving him an advantage over an attack, yet it was probably the first place anyone would look for Chey, making the castle an immediate, prime target. Paavo knew this. The question was whether Paavo meant to hide her elsewhere and let troops spend time and energy in one place, while the Queen was in another.

Gunnar spoke after a few moments of introspective thought. “His main holding is easiest to protect, but it's also the most obvious.”

“That's exactly what I was thinking. Where else, then?”

“He has that place by the river. But it's not as structurally secure.” Gunnar paused, then said, “Come to think of it, the main holding on the hill makes the most sense if he's thinking of security. It's where I would take someone if I was interested in defending the castle.”

“Then that's where we'll strike first.” Sander propped his elbow on the arm of his chair, balling his fingers into a fist.

“What do you mean, strike first?” Gunnar frowned.

“You don't expect me to just sit here while he's got Chey, do you?” Sander arched a brow. The more he talked about the abduction—because that's exactly what it had been—his control threatened to slip a little further. If he dwelled too long on Chey's safety, he might make hasty decisions that could cost people their life. Rubbing fingers against his brow, Sander closed his eyes. His head was starting to ache. The flicker-flashes of light had returned as well, coming and going intermittently. He didn't have time to deal with his injuries.

“No. I thought you'd send in a team.”

“We are the team.” Sander used his other hand to gesture first at Gunnar, then himself.

“Just the two of us? How will we get inside? He's probably got the entire hill surrounded.” Gunnar pushed to a stand and paced the room.

“The two of us and one more. It's time you started learning the intricacies of battle, Gunnar. Your training will only take you so far. Experience will fill in the rest,” Sander said. In their youth, Gunnar had always been the pup of the group, bringing up the rear. His training didn't include the same intensity Sander and Mattias attained. It was high time to change that.

“You didn't answer my question. How will we get past security?”

“We become them.”

Gunnar shot a look across the room. “What?”

“I'll explain in more detail later, when the third member shows up and we go over the maps. I don't have all the information I need yet. What I do know is that we need to strike while Paavo is distracted at the main family holding.” Sander hadn't finished speaking when one of the phones rang. Plucking it up, he brought it to his ear and said, “Yes?”

“He's taken Wynn with him to his main holding,” a voice said.

Sander cursed under his breath. “Chey?”

“She's there.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

Sander exhaled with relief. “Meet us downtown as soon as possible.”

“You up for an extraction, Sander?”

“I'll have to be. I don't trust anyone else to get her out of there.”

“I got your back. Be there soon.”

Listening to the line go dead, Sander pulled the phone away from his ear then hung the handset up.

“Who was that?” Gunnar asked.

“Our final team member. We need to start defining plans and be ready to depart later tonight.” Shuffling through the maps, Sander set the three most pertinent ones on top and rolled the rest.

“That's not enough time, is it? Are you sure you can handle this, Dare?” Gunnar came to the desk and propped his hands on the surface over the maps.

“I have no choice. We have no choice, little brother. He's got my wife, my heir, and our country is in jeopardy of coming apart at the seams. Get some coffee and pull up a chair. It's going to be a long day.”

. . .

Sleep was a necessary evil. As much as she hated to close her eyes, Chey knew she couldn't function properly without it. Three hours of oblivion wasn't enough to totally refuel her batteries, but it was enough to give her a burst of clarity that made it easier to think. Forced to take sips of water from the faucet thanks to a lack of food or drink, she stayed hydrated that way while going through scenarios in her head.

At noon, with no warning, the bedroom door swung open.

From the small table near a tall window, Chey glanced across the room to see Paavo enter. Standing, she faced him, noting that he had nothing except a key in his hands. That was only a minor relief. She wondered if he left the door open behind him as temptation or just to be cruel.

“No, I haven't come to kill you, Chey. You can stop looking at me like that,” he said. The key went into his pants pocket along with his hands.

“Then why did you bring me all the way out here?” she asked, deciding to be blunt.

“You're my guest, nothing more.”

“Guests are allowed to leave whenever they please. Are you telling me I can walk out the door any time?”

“In your condition, I wouldn't recommend it.”

“You didn't answer my question.” Chey wasn't in the mood to play mind games. She cautioned herself in the next breath; if Paavo was responsible for the attack on Sander's convoy, then he was capable of anything.

“You're a guest of convenience. I brought you here to protect you, so no, I would not let you simply walk out the door.” He stopped near the end of the bed and leaned his shoulder against the thick, carved post.

“To protect me?” Chey couldn't keep the sarcasm from her question.

“I know it's hard to believe, but yes. In case you didn't notice on your way here, there are things afoot out in the countryside. Not just there, but everywhere. This is where I can keep you safe.”

“Yes, I noticed. I didn't expect the people, even military members, to be a threat to me. Isn't their job to protect me, also?”

“Some still will. Others may not. For now, you will remain under my protection.”

“In your benevolence and clear determination to see to my well being, perhaps you could find it in your heart to have food and water delivered at some point.” So much for keeping the sarcasm to a minimum. Irritation and annoyance grated across her senses, making her words sharp. They both knew she was his prisoner, nothing more, nothing less. No amount of fancy double-speak would convince Chey otherwise.

“An oversight, surely. Tell me, what will you do now that Dare is no longer King?” Paavo regarded her with shrewd eyes.

“As long as he breathes, he's still King.” Chey lifted her chin in defense. She swallowed past a knot in her throat, worried Paavo was here to tell her Sander was dead. Unwilling to show weakness, she remained steadfast and stubborn. “Which means I'm his Queen. Nothing has changed barring your desperate attempt to overthrow him.”

“If I tell you he's lost the throne anyway?”

“Then I would want to know why you're ruling from the furthest reaches of Latvala and not the family seat. If you're King, what are you doing here? I think you're on the run, or that someone—probably my husband—has you backed into a corner.”

Paavo laughed, a low sound that didn't travel far. “Now who's dodging the question?”

“Why are you asking me, when you're the one with the answer? Since I'm under lock and key, I can do nothing until you let me. Or was your point to indirectly make that obvious? If Sander truly isn't the King any longer, then what happens to me is your doing.” Chey laid all the blame where it should be. She doubted Paavo had the capacity to feel guilt if he'd already attempted to take Sander out, but she didn't let the opportunity pass to let him know who she held responsible for these actions.

“Would you be happy going back to Seattle?” he asked.

The question startled Chey. That was the last thing she expected to hear. “What?”

“Seattle. I'm wondering if you could go back to your old life, or a semblance of it.”

Frowning, Chey tried to follow his line of thinking. The implications were dire and heart wrenching. If she went to Seattle, that meant Sander was dead. Before she could say anything, Paavo continued in a contemplative tone.

“If I allowed that, then you'll have your baby and raise him in your own country. But you won't let him forget who his father was, what his father was, and perhaps you will even be mad enough to instill the desire for your son to try and take back what he believes is rightfully his.” Paavo paused, then said, “That cannot be allowed to happen.”

It did not take Chey long to understand why Paavo was asking his rhetorical questions. He didn't really want or need answers. Paavo was underscoring for her exactly what he meant to do with her when the time was right. He spelled it out sentence by agonizing sentence.

“A bastard can never be allowed to take the throne again,” Paavo said. “Seattle, therefore, is not an option. Giving your child to another family is out, too. If they discovered his true heritage and were once loyal to the former King, it could play out the same way.”

In other words, letting you and your child live at all is a threat to my reign and my existence. Those were the words Paavo didn't say. Chey heard them loud and clear nevertheless. She refused to acknowledge her understanding in front of him, although through the eye contact they made, she saw recognition in his. The corners of his lips turned up, as if sealing their silent communication.

“I'll send someone up shortly with lunch.” Paavo pushed away from the bedpost and headed for the door. Letting himself into the hall, he locked her in with a quiet clack of the deadbolt.

Now she wondered if the food and water would be poisoned. Paavo made sure to leave her clueless about how he meant to be rid of her. Turning back to the window, she rubbed a hand along her stomach and decided that Paavo must still need her alive for the time being. Perhaps Sander wasn't dead, and she remained a bargaining piece Paavo wasn't through with yet. Otherwise, she didn't see the need to wait. The longer she lived, the closer she came to giving birth to a new heir. He could have killed her any time.

That meant there was hope. It meant she needed to speed up her plans for escape.

Tonight, when the moon was high, one way or another, she would leave this castle.

. . .

She was lost. Again. Arms full of file folders, Wynn paused at the end of a hallway on the bottom floor. To the left and right, an intersecting hallway led off in directions Wynn could only guess at. She thought she was in the east quadrant, but couldn't be sure. Her new office was here somewhere, hiding amongst endless doorways.

Breaking right, she marched past three doors, all leading to rooms that were not her office.

“Why do these castles have to be so huge?” she complained under her breath. It wasn't that Paavo's holding wasn't impressive—it was. She'd been as enthralled with it as any other despite her internal distress at the recent turn of events. Castle hopping posed its own hazards though, such as being unable to find what she needed when she needed it. Right then, she needed to find her new office so she could dump the files off and get to what was really important: figuring out Paavo's strategies and plans. Her attempt to check in with Chey resulted in a whole lot of nothing; Chey's voicemail invited her to leave a message she didn't dare leave. Someone other than Chey might find the phone and Wynn didn't want to risk anyone calling Paavo to tell him about her duplicity. She knew Paavo was probably already suspicious, but that would be handing him solid evidence and it was a risk she didn't want to take.

Coming up on another set of doors, Wynn was about to enter when low voices made themselves known. Pausing, she glanced along the hallway, relieved to see no one else in sight. The decision over whether to announce herself stalled when talk of the Queen came up. Wynn wondered if Helina was living under Paavo's roof. As far as she knew, Helina was still in mourning, tucked away somewhere in the countryside. Once more, Wynn found herself deciphering the Latvala tongue.

“The Queen is taking it better than we thought,” a man said.

“And you're sure she can't get out? We don't need her running off to the military camps,” another man asked.

“Not unless she's Houdini. She's in the Red Room with no less than four guards at her door and two more at each end of the hall.”

“Good, good. Miss Chey Ahtissari isn't known for her patience under pressure, so we'll have to remain vigilant. Has she asked about Sander?”

Wynn sucked in a surprised breath. They weren't talking about Helina. They were talking about Chey.

“Not yet. She's said little and won't answer questions.”

“Discourage exchanges of information from our people, but get whatever you can out of her. See if she's aware at all that Sander was showing improvement in the last hours before she was taken.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Wynn backpedaled, frantic to find somewhere to hide. A narrow closet provided the place. Scooting inside, she closed the door with a gentle click, catching several falling folders against her hip. Moments later, the same men rounded into the hall, discussing military movements and plans. Wynn didn't catch much before their voices faded out of range.

Chey was here. In Paavo's castle. Of course they'd confiscated Chey's phone and any other means of communication. No wonder she hadn't been able to get through, and no wonder Chey hadn't returned her calls or messages. Following Paavo to this distant holding proved more of a boon than Wynn expected.

Waiting until she was sure the men were gone, Wynn straightened the files in her arms and exited the closet. She was half convinced someone would stop her before she went ten feet, a victim of bad timing and increased security. To her relief, she made it as far as the staircase before bumping into a guard. Murmuring her apologies, she sidestepped and trotted up to the bedroom allotted to her while she performed her duties as Paavo's assistant.

Dumping the files on the bed, Wynn paced the considerable space between the dresser and the window, fingers tapping against her lower lip. She needed a plan to find out where, exactly, the Red Room was, and how to free Chey without making it obvious she was doing so. Everyone knew they were best friends, and she thought any attempt to simply walk into the room would be construed as disloyalty to Paavo.

They would be right.

With the extra security surrounding the castle and the property, Wynn saw no easy way out.

It didn't stop her from plotting and planning as the hours wore on.

Chapter Fourteen

“Sander, you should really get some rest,” Gunnar said.

Leaning over a long table covered with maps, Sander made another note and glanced across the office to see Gunnar's concern firsthand. “I'll get some rest when my wife and my son are safe. Do you feel confident with the plans we have so far?”

Gunnar stepped away from the opposite table where he'd been marking positions of troops and went to Sander's side. “They seem very risky, but I don't see another way in or out. I have no idea how you'll get your hands on the uniforms, either, without raising suspicion.”

“I sent Natalia back to the family seat hours ago. If anyone can finagle several uniforms from the men, it's her.”

Gunnar frowned. “You trust Natalia to help you?”

Sander straightened, tossing down the pencil he'd been marking the maps with. “This is her test. If she tips our position off, then no, I can't trust her. I figured she deserved a chance, though, and I do think under the circumstances that she's our best option of getting the uniforms we need.”

“If a truckload of men show up here, all this will be for nothing,” Gunnar said, sweeping his hand toward the maps.

“I've got lookouts stationed. We'll be gone before they touch the front door.” Sander clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder and turned back to the maps. He disregarded a bout of vertigo and continued to ignore the pain from other wounds. There was no time to pander to cuts and bruises, not when lives depended on him. Blinking black and white pin-dots from his vision, Sander picked up the pencil and was about to take up where he left off when a knock came at the door.

Gunnar stiffened, glancing between the door and Sander.

“Come in,” Sander called.

The door opened and Natalia swept in, resplendent in elegant clothing suited for official Royal business. Thick wool slacks of dark brown, a thin sweater three shades lighter and two loops of different colored scarves around her throat. Heels and complimentary jewelry finished off the formal effect. A guard followed carrying a large duffel bag.

“Piece of cake,” Natalia said, gesturing to the guard to set the bag on the desk. She unzipped the duffel and pulled out the jacket to one of the uniforms, snapping it taut between her hands.

Sander knew that if his sister had outed him, his lookouts would have already spotted those sent to either kill him or capture him again. It appeared Natalia's change of heart where he was concerned was genuine. Instead of looking at the garment, he watched his sister's eyes. Sander couldn't detect any deceit or betrayal in the blunt glances she gave him.

“Excellent. You got three, yes?” he asked, bracing a hand on the table next to his hip. The pencil lodged itself between two of his fingers.

“Yes. Three full uniforms. I also found out where they're keeping her,” Natalia said. She laid the jacket over the open duffel. “The Red Room. At least that's where she was when I left the family seat. Unless he moves her, you should find her there.”

“That was an unexpected piece of good luck. How did you manage that?” Sander asked.

“Dare, you do realize who you're talking to, don't you?” Instead of snark, Natalia's query held a hint of affectionate tease.

“Now that you mention it...”

“Exactly,” Natalia said, picking up where Sander left off. “You look like hell, though. Don't tell me you're going to leave tonight.”

“That's what I said.” Gunnar added his agreement to Natalia's that Sander looked like hell.

“Of course we're going tonight. No time like the present to take back what's ours,” a voice said from the doorway.

Sander smiled, grim but pleased, when he saw who stood there. “What's mine, you mean. Leander, this is my brother Gunnar and my sister, Natalia.”

Leander, attired in his usual guard uniform, tipped his head toward each. “Your Highnesses.”

Gunnar frowned and Natalia gave Leander a suspicious look.

“Who is this?” Gunnar asked. “An American?”

“Leander is one of Mattias's best friends. Someone I've always been able to trust with my life,” Sander replied. He and Leander were the only two in the entire safe house—probably the only two in all of Latvala—who knew why Mattias was currently unaccounted for. That Leander was here at all spoke volumes to just how dire Mattias's own situation must be.

“I don't understand. We've never met, or I would have remembered the distinction of my brother's best friends,” Gunnar said, clearly hesitant to give his own trust to the stranger.

“We were never meant to meet, not really,” Leander said, his Latvala accent gone from his words. “I'm here because, inadvertently, Mattias sent me.”

“That makes no sense,” Natalia said.

“It does if you know what we know,” Leander retorted with a gesture between himself and Sander.

“He's right. But what we know isn't knowledge I'm prepared to depart now, or ever. So take my word for it that Leander is here for our benefit. We're standing here wasting time with semantics when we need to be preparing to leave.” Sander turned back to the map, aligning the pencil to paper.

“You look like you need about ten hours of hard sleep before we even think of leaving,” Leander said.

Sander speared a withering look over his shoulder when Leander unknowingly parroted Gunnar and Natalia. “Sleep is for the weak. Let's get on it. I want to depart before midnight.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” Leander tapped his heels and bowed his head, feigning allegiance.

Sander snorted and got down to business.

The hours till midnight ticked steadily away.

. . .

All roads leading to escape proved difficult to reach. Chey didn't know Paavo's holding well enough to plan a clean exit, not without alerting the guards, staff or members of the military spread out over the countryside. She didn't know who she could trust or who might be swayed to her side. It was dangerous to approach security already entrenched in Paavo's home and on his property, since it suggested to Chey that they were some of the most loyal.

They had to be.

Faking contractions might encourage Paavo to end her life early, rather than allow her to give birth to a live heir. That was a risk she couldn't take. Faking contractions in hopes he would send her to a hospital was out. She'd checked the french doors only to find them locked leading to the balcony. A pointless venture anyway, considering how high up she was and how far a fall it would be if she attempted to climb down the castle via precarious foot and handholds. Before pregnancy, that might have been a viable option. Now, with her extended stomach, she wouldn't have good balance or a secure reach.

There had to be some other way.

Pausing before a tall, broad window, bathed in moonlight, Chey considered what options were left.

Not many.

She couldn't just walk out the door into the hallway, and any excuses to go downstairs would seem like just that—excuses. Convinced pleading with Paavo would do no good either, Chey stared out at the milky landscape and sought a better solution.

Bribery, out.

Threats, out.

Hoping the guards left their posts, wishful thinking.

What she needed was obscured passage, a way to slide past the guards in the hall and down a back stairway leading to an exit that wasn't well known.

With sudden insight, Chey departed the window and stood in the center of the room to get her bearings. The enormous bed sat against the right wall, the bathroom and closet to the left. Straight ahead, a wall of windows. Behind, the door to the hallway.

Making her way to the bed, she began the tedious process of searching for a hidden panel. This castle was as old as the family seat, she was sure of it—perhaps even older—and the odds of hidden passageways for Royalty to escape were good.

Finding the entrance was another matter. Built to look like part of the room, a person could search for hours and days and never come across the latch, switch, depression or other identifying opening. Her experience with the passageways in Mattias's castle and the family seat, however, gave Chey an advantage. She knew generally what to look for.

It was how she understood that just because there wasn't a crack in the wall, didn't mean there wasn't a doorway present. Forty minutes after the search began, she hit pay dirt. After checking an oil painting three times, finding nothing, she went back to it and set her fingers to follow the shallow groove behind the outer edge. Feeling a demarcation line in the gold leaf, she grasped and pulled.

A section of wall creaked and whispered as it opened, the seam disguised behind a flap of striped wallpaper. The scent of musty, stale air hit her nose from the darkness of the hidden passageway. She needed a flashlight, or a candle. Something to see by. Otherwise, she might take a tumble down a flight of stairs.

Finding a tapered candle sitting on a half table against the wall, she searched the entire room and could not produce matches or a lighter. Frustrated, she was about to put the candle back when she spied the fireplace. Surely, someone had a device to ignite the kindling. She turned up a long lighter with enough fluid to spout a flame. With the candle lit, she backtracked to the window and opened it five inches, hoping to throw anyone off who might check on her. Chey was counting on the late hour to dissuade the guards or Paavo from doing just such a thing. If she was truly lucky, no one would show up until morning, giving her the entire night to make an escape.

Stepping into the gloomy passage, she eased the panel closed and let her eyes adjust to the dimness. Slow and steady. That was the way to get from here to the ground floor without a mishap.

. . .

Wynn hated the fleeting sense of guilt that ate away at her good intentions. She hated the contradicting emotions she felt about a man who didn't deserve them, and she certainly hated her hesitation to take this devastating step she needed to take. In the hours between discovering Chey resided within the walls of the castle and now, only one answer presented itself as a viable way to distract the mass amount of security patrolling the hallways: fire.

She didn't pursue the idea that this event might purge her guilt, a metaphorical burning that would turn her attraction to ash. It was just a fire, only a fire, a means to an end. Chey needed her, needed a distraction as surely as Wynn did, so they could flee the holding together.

In a perfect world, the escape would work just like that. This not being a perfect world, Wynn tried to plan for the unexpected. She had disabled the fire alarm in the room to give the flames a chance to catch hold, to delay discovery long enough for Wynn to get to the Red Room.

Standing in an upstairs parlor, the fireplace roaring in anticipation of Paavo's return, Wynn took a good look at the irreplaceable pictures on the walls, the antique furniture and expensive collectables in curios or on desktops. Several paintings were of ancestors, she thought, regal men and women with intense, staring eyes.

To set fire to such a room was unthinkable, yet Wynn had no other alternative. The guards numbered too many, were too suspicious of her right out of the gate, and to dawdle longer meant possibly putting Chey's life in danger. Earlier in the day, Wynn had played an innocent game with one of the waitstaff's children, pulling the information from the little boy without seeming to. She knew the child would forget all about the game, or if not the game, then the contents of it.

With knowledge of the Red Room's place in the castle committed to memory, Wynn snatched up a roll of papers she'd brought with her in the guise of files and stuck the end into the fire.

There was no going back now.

Taking the lit end to the draperies, she started a flame there. Then to a tapestry, which caught and burned immediately, and finally to an enormous Persian rug that traveled beneath four pieces of heavy, gilt furniture. Coughing against smoke, she threw the ragged ends of the papers down before they burned her fingers and dashed to the door. Up here, in this particular hallway, fewer security roamed. She knew because she'd scouted out the best location to start a fire while pretending to go back and forth on errands for her 'boss'.

Schooling herself not to run and draw attention, Wynn descended a floor, taking a back route around to the main hall. Ducking into a shady niche covered with scads of faux ivy, she waited until the first shouts came.

It didn't take long.

Pounding feet sounded along the corridor beyond the niche, guards running toward the commotion while calling their brethren up from below. She waited for a break in the flow, darting out from cover with a made up story sitting idle on her tongue, waiting for release should she be stopped and questioned. Although she could smell smoke, Wynn couldn't yet see it traveling high along the ceilings of the hallway.

Please, please let it be enough to keep them busy for a while longer.

Instead of running down the stairs, Wynn caught the banister for the staircase leading up. She took the steps by twos, stretching her stride out of necessity. Desperation made her a touch reckless.

Hitting the landing, she broke into a run as a general alarm went off three floors below. Wynn cut into a dark room when she heard men approach from Chey's direction, waiting until they plunged down the stairs she'd just come up. Calls for 'all hands' assured that every guard available within hearing range attended the emergency; a fire was more critical than standing guard at a locked door with a heavily pregnant woman behind it. Wynn had counted on security deciding Chey wouldn't get far even if she did manage to get the door open.

Coming up on the correct room, Wynn wilted with relief to see a deadbolt accessible from the outside. She didn't need a key to throw the bolt over and open the door.

“Chey! It's me. Hurry, I've created a...Chey?” Wynn paused when she didn't see Chey anywhere inside. Rushing to the bathroom, she called for Chey in urgent whispers.

Nothing.

Chey wasn't in the closet, in the attached office or out on the balcony. For a few moments, Wynn suffered through a bout of panic that someone had already killed Chey and the baby. Where else would Chey be, if not here? Maybe she'd been moved. She searched several other rooms along the corridor, all empty.

Back out in the hallway, Wynn knew she needed to make a quick decision. Someone would trace the fire back to her, she was sure of it. Somehow, some way, with enough time, Wynn was confident she would be found out. Which meant she needed to leave the castle by any means necessary. Without Chey, a fact that made tears sting the back of Wynn's eyes. There was no help for it. She couldn't linger any longer. There wasn't time to do a thorough search of every bedroom, sitting room and parlor.

Yanking a cloth off from a nearby table, she draped it over her head as if she'd come from the smoking wing and ran back to the stairs. Down, down down, the scent of smoke stronger, the shouts from men fighting the blaze more urgent than before.

She started passing guards vaulting the stairs on the last level, affecting an expression of fear and angst, portraying a woman only wishing to escape the threat of the flames.

Not only did no one stop her, she, along with certain members of the staff who were in the way rather than a help to combat the fire, were escorted straight outside into the courtyard. Wynn wasn't the only one with a blanket or other article of cloth covering her head, which served to disguise her among the masses. Huddling with a group of women, she climbed into the bed of a truck and rode it out of the courtyard into the open, noting that several contingents of military in nearby tent housing were on their way to the castle.

Her plan worked much better than she thought it might, except Chey was nowhere in sight.

Distressed at the unknown fate of her best friend, Wynn used the cover of darkness and general confusion to break away from the camps, disappearing down the treed slope to a meandering creek. She ran along the edge, away from the castle, desperate to put as much distance between herself and Paavo as possible.

Along the way she prayed. Prayed that Chey and the baby were still alive.

Chapter Fifteen

Chey lifted the candle higher to better illuminate the next seven feet or so along the hidden passageway. She expected a set of steps any time, or a sharp corner before the steps—something other than what seemed like miles of endless corridor. She'd been at this for more than an hour, trying to make her way down to the ground floor so she could find a way out.

Thus far, she'd succeeded in losing all sense of direction and somehow doubling back on herself when she'd taken a wrong turn at a fork some distance behind. Reminding herself to remain calm and controlled, Chey experienced a rush of anticipation when she saw the landing and staircase ahead.

Finally. Another level leading down.

Holding a palm flat to the wall for balance, she eased onto the landing and took the steps one at a time. This was the most treacherous part, feeling her way with her feet. She couldn't see straight down, not any longer with her belly in the way, and bending forward threw her into vertigo. Tapping her heel against the back of each step, she descended, cautious and careful and determined.

Once at the bottom, she lifted the candle again to get her bearings. Fantastic. Another fork in the corridor. Reasoning over which direction was the best, she veered to the right, brushing away cobwebs and stray bits of dirt that randomly sifted down from the ceiling. She thought she was on the main level now after three flights of stairs. All she needed to find next was a doorway or tunnel splitting off from the castle. The passageway she walked down became mustier, more damp than before.

Almost before she knew what happened, she lost her balance and stumbled forward, too confident in the fact she was on level ground to think there might be more steps ahead. For ten frightening seconds, she scrabbled for purchase on the stone walls, twisting her hips and back to prevent an outright tumble. The candle pitched forward into the darkness, briefly illuminating the tunnel before the light doused altogether.

“Damn,” Chey said, getting her feet beneath her. That had nearly been disastrous. Breathing hard and fast, she coughed three times and straightened. She couldn't see a thing.

Not her own hand in front of her face. Using her feet in the same manner as before, she went down the final three steps to flat ground.

Now, thanks to the lack of light, the going would be much slower.

Determined to get out, she felt along the cold stone walls with her hands. Seeking, searching, hoping. There had to be a door somewhere.

She walked for approximately two hours, one foot in front of the other, testing the ground and the tunnel for breaks, stairs or other debris that might trip her up. When her toe hit something hard in the dark, she paused to feel it out with her foot.

Stairs. Leading up, this time.

“Oh no, not back up to the higher floors again,” she whispered to herself. That wasn't the way she wanted to go. Going back, however, wasn't an option. She ascended three shallow steps, hands coming into contact with what appeared to be a heavy wooden door. Finding a beam laying across to bar entry from the other side, she removed it and set it against the wall.

Opening the door required more effort than Chey wanted to give. She had to bump the thing with her shoulder and hip, teeth clenched tight, pain shooting through the lower half of her body. The door gave with a loud squawk, swinging outward while a gust of cool air and the scent of trees greeted her.

Chey's wince turned into an expression of utter relief. Exiting the tunnel, she closed the door behind her, leaving the mouth of low hill that helped disguise the entrance from easy view. Trees crowded close, though at least out here, Chey had the stars and the moon to provide at least a little light.

Filling her lungs, she picked her way over thick roots, around large rocks and across a small stream. She stopped several times to catch her breath and rub the side of her stomach when a cramp struck.

What she needed to find next was an ally. Someone to trust with her life. Not an easy task at all, considering where she was located. Once she had her breath, she started forward again, moving closer to the tree line.

At a certain point, she could see past the thick trunks to vast pastures and meadows. Moonlight slanted across tents lined up row after row, a few larger ones denoting a higher ranked official, she thought.

Paavo hadn't wasted time in organizing those loyal to his cause. A thought she'd had before, flying over in the helicopter. It was more visceral here on the ground, several hundred yards from the encampments. If she had to judge, she was perhaps a quarter mile from the outer bailey wall of the castle.

She'd gone farther than she thought in that underground tunnel.

When a group of men went running off into the night in the direction of the holding, Chey's attention shifted higher, to the upper floors, wondering what caused the mild uproar.

Seeing flames shooting out a window, she covered her lips with her fingers. Fire had broken out. No wonder more and more men were converging on the gate.

Retreating deeper into the tree cover, determined to use the distraction to her advantage, Chey continued to pick her way through the foliage, sticking to shadow where ever possible. There could be scouts along the edge, prepared for someone to come slinking out of the trees from other parts of Latvala. She doubted they'd expect an escapee of the castle itself.

Along the way she thought about Sander. Wondered if he was all right. Her worry over her husband had the ability to cripple her if she didn't stay focused. He was strong, capable and as determined as she to be here when their child was born.

He would be okay. He had to be okay. The alternative was unthinkable.

All she wanted was to get back to his side, where ever that may be. She wanted to feel his arms around her, wanted the security of his presence. Once, she choked up thinking about seeing their baby for the first time, touching a downy cheek. It had been all Chey could think about over the summer, seeing Sander's expression gazing down at their son.

Getting her emotions under control, she put those thoughts aside in favor of survival. She wasn't out of the woods yet, figuratively or literally. There were miles to go, danger in every direction, and people more loyal to a traitorous brother than the King.

. . .

From helicopter to waiting Hummer, Sander and his team moved through the night as quickly and as efficiently as they could. Bodies strapped with weapons, they used the cover of darkness to drive ever closer to Paavo's holding. Twice they had come upon soldiers, all of whom looked the other way when they noted the ranking bars displayed on each of their hats. Because Sander and Gunnar were the most notable, they had taken pains before departing the hideout to grease their faces and tie back their hair. It changed their appearance just enough to allow them to go unrecognized under the right circumstances.

Surprised at the level of organization Paavo had achieved in a short amount of time, Sander chose to shift his focus from troop settlements to the recovery of his wife. Fury boiled just under the surface every time he considered Chey in trouble or distress. Brother or no brother, Sander would show Paavo no mercy if one hair had been harmed on Chey's head. Even then, the desire for retribution was strong. Paavo, orchestrator of the attack on the caravan, could not be allowed to go unpunished for his crime.

“We're coming up on the road that will take us to the main gate,” Leander announced in the Latvala tongue. His accent was perfect, flawless.

“Are you sure this is the best way to get inside?” Gunnar asked for the third time.

“We number too few to fight off all the soldiers you saw out in the tent city, little brother. Our best option is to bluff our way past the guards, to the front doors, and inside the castle. Then, and only then, do we stand a chance. You remember the drill?” Sander asked.

“I remember,” Gunnar said.

Leander drove the Hummer at a decent but not reckless speed, as they'd discussed back at the hideout in the city. Sander wanted to give the impression to anyone watching that they were bold about their business and had a right to be there.

“There seems to be something going on,” Leander said some minutes later as they approached the gate.

“What do you mean?” Sander said.

“There are soldiers running in through the gate in groups—is that smoke?” Leander stared up through the windshield as he slowed the vehicle.

“Smoke?” Sander looked out the back side window. Between the tint on the glass, the darkness of night and the height of the bailey wall, Sander couldn't see anything.

“I thought I caught a glimpse of smoke,” Leander said.

“Just get us through the front gate.” Sander readied his gun, angling it across his lap. Gunnar, who sat in the back with him, did the same. They averted their faces just enough when Leander brought the Hummer to a halt and exchanged curt greetings with the gate guard.

It seemed Leander was right. Something was going on. The guard gestured them through with all the respect he might show a carload of Generals, except there was an urgency to his motions and a wildness to his eyes that shouldn't have been there on any given night.

Leander wasted no time. He surged through the open gate, avoiding a running guard by a spare inch, no more. Men ran everywhere, some shouting, others on phones. Surprised at the activity, Sander readied to disembark the moment the Hummer stopped.

This could be the best or worst situation, depending on the level of distraction. Jaw tight with tension and concern for Chey, Sander gave Leander a nod after meeting the man's eyes in the rear view mirror.

Now or never.

Jamming open the door when the Hummer stopped, Sander pulled a mask over his face, along with Gunnar and Leander, and exited the vehicle. He rushed the stairs leading to the front doors, pausing to pull a pin and slide a device onto the floor. Hissing smoke spewed out, surprising several guards. Another went sailing into the great room; a third flew up the stair case where smoke seethed across the ceiling and filled the upper hallway.

“What the hell--” Sander didn't stop to think. He ran forward, immune to the effects of the grenades, and vaulted up the staircase like a man possessed. He knew exactly where the Red Room was, knew precisely how to take the shortest route to Chey. He tossed another disc down and threw one ahead onto the second floor. It got lost in the other smoke pouring more thickly down from that level.

Someone shouted Stop! Sander didn't stop, didn't look back. Leander and Gunnar had their orders, knew what to do. Barging around a corner, he went low to a knee, tripping a guard, and using the butt of his rifle to crack the man in the back of the head. Not a killing blow, but the guard wouldn't rise for a good half hour or more. Someone else loomed from the smoky gloom, eyes round, mouth an 'oh' of shock when the butt of the gun took him in the forehead.

Adrenalized, Sander shook off a brief spate of dizziness and took the next set of stairs in short order. He cut through the upper hallways, moving by instinct and memory. The smoke, thicker here than on any other level, made it hard to see. He took down three more men, ignoring the feel of a wound ripping open along his ribs.

Arriving at the Red Room, the open door gave Sander little pause. He burst in, ripping the mask from his face.

“Chey! Chey!” A cursory check turned up nothing. She wasn't here. Cursing vividly, he yanked the mask back down over his face and hustled into the hallway. Rounding into another room, he searched for his wife. There was so much smoke, he feared finding her unconscious on the floor. She wasn't there. Nor in the next room, or the following.

Coming out into the hallway at a run, he bumped off a body and lifted his weapon, ready to either shoot or fight when Gunnar's mask loomed out of the smoke.

“It's me, it's me. Did you find her? There's a fire downstairs, spreading fast from what I can tell. Leander's taking care of business behind us,” Gunnar said.

“Search the whole floor. I haven't found her yet,” Sander shouted. The mask muffled his words.

Gunnar nodded and jogged the hall to start at the very end and work his way forward.

Sander left his brother to it, departing that floor for the second. He passed prone bodies, Leander's work no doubt, and sank himself into the much smokier hallway. Panic threatened to seize his chest at the thought of Chey locked in one of the rooms.

Gunfire broke out; he swerved into a room, bringing his weapon up to eye level. That was the way he searched, crouched and moving fast, leaving no space unearthed. With no way to get closer to the opposite hall that was on fire, Sander descended to the first floor.

Leander was there, swinging his weapon left and right. Smoke not of the fire nature was just then clearing.

“Anything?” Leander asked.

“No. She's either been taken away somewhere else or is down in the dungeon.”

“We've only got minutes left. No time to search the entire basement,” Leander said. “I already covered the big rooms on the main floor.”

“I'm not leaving without her.”

“She's probably not here. Better to stay alive and fight another day than to succumb to the horde about to come through the doors. I only have enough gas to get us out of here,” Leander said, referring to the grenades they'd thrown to knock out security.

Sander cursed a blue streak. She could be anywhere. There were hundreds upon hundreds of rooms to check on all floors, not to mention the expansive dungeon.

“I bet they moved her. No one has seen Paavo, either, so it's likely he took her with him,” Leander said.

Gunnar bolted down the stairs, shaking his head. No Chey.

“Let's go,” Leander said. Without waiting for Sander's affirmation, he pulled out several grenades and lobbed them through the open door.

“She's not here, let's go!” Gunnar shouted.

With little choice but to comply, Sander rushed the doorway with the other two, covering their back as they streamed into the courtyard. Leander and Gunnar opened fire, shooting to maim instead of kill. The guards nearest were all sprawled, victims of the gas.

Piling into the Hummer, Gunnar leaned out the front window while Sander leaned out the other, clearing a path back through the front gates on their way off the property. It was a messy job, aided by the chaos of the fire and disorganization on the hastily arranged 'military'. No one knew where they were supposed to be in this kind of crisis, which helped Sander and the other two get in and out unscathed.

Once free of the castle, Sander and Gunnar sank into the seats. Sander put the safety on his weapon and thrust it onto the seat beside him, tugging the mask off with impatient hands.

“She's out there somewhere,” Leander said, driving onto a dirt road leading away from the encampments and troops.

“She better be, and she'd better be safe,” Sander snarled.

“Let's get somewhere off their radar and we'll decide what our next step is. Or,” Leander said with a glance in the rear view. “You can drop me off here, and I'll go back and immerse myself into the ranks. If she's there, I'll find her.”

“That should be me going back,” Sander said, unhappy with his choices. Unhappy that they'd been forced to leave empty handed.

“They don't know me like they know you. My face isn't a dead giveaway. Yours is.” Leander brought the Hummer to a stop beneath the boughs of a tall tree and twisted around in the seat. He met Sander's eyes.

Sander considered it. Leander was right, and it was part of the beauty of being unknown. A person could slip in and out of places so much easier when they blended in with the rest of humanity. It was one of Leander's specialties.

“You can get back out again, you're sure?” Sander asked.

“Absolutely. I'll look for Wynn, too, although I didn't see her anywhere in there, either.”

“All right. In and out in twenty-four hours. Call when you're ready to know our location and we'll meet up,” Sander said, making a snap decision. He wanted to make sure that Chey wasn't being held somewhere else in the castle. The only way to do that was to let Leander slip back in and clear every room on every floor.

“Will do.” Leander put the Hummer in park, stripped some of his weaponry off, replaced it with other, less noticeable gear, and exited the vehicle.

Sander watched him jog toward the castle, confident in Leander's abilities. The opening and closing of another door alerted him to Gunnar's switch from passenger to driver.

“Where are we headed?” Gunnar asked.

Sander glimpsed his brother's solemn, stern expression via the rear view mirror. One mission down, a wealth of experience gained. Despite the fact they came up empty handed with their target.

“Head East. Stay close to the river and if we're stopped, follow Leander's lead in dealing with the troops.”

“If they press the issue?”

“Then prepare for things to get ugly.”

. . .

Chey walked until yet another cramp forced her to stop. Bracing a palm against a boulder, she pushed at a particular spot on her stomach, willing the ache to go away. She told herself it was from the miles she'd put between herself and the castle, the rough terrain, and the stress of knowing there were unfriendly troops in the vicinity.

Glancing through the trees, she could just make out the vague outline of Paavo's holding in the distance. The twinkle of lights lining the drive and those from high windows made it easy to spot in the darkness. Pleased with how far she'd gotten in her condition, Chey took a moment to rest and take stock of her situation.

She needed water above all else. Her mouth felt like a wad of cotton and it had recently become painful to swallow. Thus far, she hadn't trusted the water in the tiny creek weaving through the forest, but at some point, she would need to set aside her concern to slake her thirst. Shelter was also an issue; her clothing wasn't nearly thick or protective enough to ward off the chill pervading the evening, and if her nose was working properly, rain was in the immediate forecast. Danger lurked out in the open areas, where scouts might be patrolling the pastures and meadows. Remaining hidden was critical to a successful escape.

That meant she needed to begin searching for an isolated farm or home, where the people would hopefully be loyal to Sander and not to Paavo. She didn't think she was far enough away from Paavo's holding yet to come across individual dwellers, which meant another hour or two traversing the woods at her painfully slow pace. Or, perhaps if she cut sideways across the countryside, she could decrease her travel by half. Maybe that would get her off Paavo's property faster.

Pushing off the boulder, picking her way carefully over exposed root systems and rocks, Chey angled away from the pasture to her left. Finding what she thought was a deer trail, she followed it overland for an hour or more, pausing often to give her body a rest.

When a clearing broke open to her right, she made her way to a thick trunk and peered around, choosing to remain hidden and undercover while she assessed things. At the far end of the clearing, the outline of a farmhouse rose against the backdrop of more forest. Part of the land had been tilled for a garden, the rows of green plants sprouting as high as her knee. A dilapidated barn sat farther to her right, near the edge of the clearing, with the vague sounds of horses coming from inside.

It looked peaceful enough, but that gave her no insight to the loyalty of the tenants. Regardless, she couldn't walk much longer. Not only was her body demanding surcease, the second the sun came up, she would be much easier to spot from both land and air.

Remaining in the trees, Chey circled toward the front of the farmhouse, exiting the foliage only when she found a road leading in and out of the property. Taking it, she approached the homestead, spying a light flash in an upstairs window when dogs inside started barking.

A stair creaked as she ascended to the porch, noting a few rocking chairs of good quality taking up space further down. When the door opened some minutes later, Chey didn't attempt to hide or disguise herself. A weathered man stood there with a shotgun angled across his chest, the hounds at his heels growling and barking through the screen. Appearing hastily dressed in overalls and boots with the tongues hanging open, the farmer snapped on the porch light.

“It's dangerous coming to a house—your Highness?” The farmer, upon realizing who he was looking at, blustered in surprise.

“Yes, it's me. I'm seeking refuge and shelter and means of communication. May I find that here?” Chey asked, using English instead of the native tongue. She didn't want any confusion and knew the farmer would be able to converse with her this way. Most citizens learned the second language as children. These next few seconds should tell her whether this man happened to be loyal to Paavo or Sander, or at the very least, if he supported the break up of the country.

“What—yes, of course. By all means. Please, please come inside.” He ordered his hounds to silence, sending the dogs scurrying toward some other spot away from the door when he opened it for her.

Chey exhaled with relief. The man's allegiance appeared to be with Sander. She stepped inside out of the cold, pleased to find the interior of the farmhouse well cared for, clean and filled with polished antiques. Before she got too comfortable, however, Chey knew she needed to make sure that the farmer was willing to shield her and protect her. She met his eyes across the quaint living room as he closed the door.

“I must ask your word that you will tell no one I am sheltering here. Also, it is imperative that I know with which man your loyalty lies.” Chey assessed the farmer's expression while he leaned his weapon in the corner by the door. He stood perhaps five-ten, with broad shoulders, thick arms and a robust stature. The farmer drew himself up, salt and pepper whiskers bristling on his chin.

“You have my word, your Highness. It's only me and my wife here. We're loyal to the King, your Highness, as it has always been.”

“Not the sitting King, Paavo?” Chey wanted to be clear. She detected something like disapproval when she mentioned Paavo's name.

“He is no King, announcement or no announcement,” the farmer said. “We give our allegiance to King Sander, no other.”

Chey didn't allow her relief to show through. Bitter experience taught her that only time and action would prove the truth of his words. “Good. Now, may I have access to your phone?”

“Of course, of course. This way.” The farmer motioned toward an archway that led to a broad kitchen. He entered first and went straight to a phone perched on the tile counter.

“Thank you. Can I ask you to keep watch out the front? If you see movement, alert me.” Chey didn't think she had it in her to flee again. Her legs ached, her back hurt, and she suffered twinges every so often through her belly. The last thing she wanted to do was throw herself into labor out here. Notice that they were about to have company would help, however.

“Yes, your Highness. My wife will be down shortly, if you'd like something to eat or drink,” the farmer said.

“Water, please.” Chey picked up the handset, wondering who to call. If Sander was still unconscious, dialing his phone wouldn't do any good. Besides that, even if he was awake, he might not have it on him. Who then? Krislin could possibly be captured as she was. A call to her might lead Paavo's people right to the farmhouse. As the farmer sat down a tall glass of water next to her elbow, Chey mouthed thank you and started dialing.

There was one person who Chey thought might have gone unscathed in this whole mess. Someone not monitored by security with the current situation unraveling in the family seat.

“Hello?” Hanna said.

“Have a care not to react to my voice, where ever you are,” Chey cautioned her personal assistant. “It's critical that you don't let on who you're talking to.”

“...Yes, Miss Olsen, you've got the order correct. Five pillow cases in baby blue,” Hanna said. The sound of muffled voices in the background faded as Hanna moved away.

Thankful that Hanna thought quick on her feet, Chey continued. “I need you to contact Gunnar. Call him yourself. Tell him I've escaped Paavo's holding and am holed up at a farmhouse a handful of miles away. And I need news of Sander. I need to know if he's all right.--Hello?”

Belatedly, Chey realized she was talking to dead air. Pulling the phone away from her ear, she realized the lights behind the numbers were out. After hanging up and attempting to get a dial tone, Chey put the handset back in the holder. A glance at the archway put a woman into view, a woman as weathered and wrinkled as the farmer. A silvery bun had come askew, probably when the woman went to bed, leaving straggling pieces of hair falling to her shoulders. The white nightgown, modestly high on the throat and long in the sleeve, served to obscure all but the woman's head and hands. In her fingers, she held the unplugged line to the phone.

This, this was why Chey could not put her full trust in anyone. Unsure how much Hanna heard before the premature end of the call, Chey faced the farmer's wife.

“I guess I misunderstood when your husband said you were both loyal to the King,” Chey said.

“Fredrik is of the old ways, slow to see the good change sometimes brings,” the woman said in heavy, accented English. “If you please, take a seat.”

Chey crossed the kitchen, glass in hand, and sat down in one of six chairs surrounding a sturdy, square table. She noticed the ache in her legs and feet much more when she took pressure off them.

Now what, Chey thought. She sized the farmer's wife up, debating how far the woman would go to prevent Chey from leaving. Probably pretty far. While she assessed, she drank, desperate to quench her thirst. The water was clear, cold and delicious.

“Olga!” The farmer barged into the kitchen, gun in hand. He scowled when he took in the details of the unplugged phone and Chey sitting at the table. A sudden burst of Latvala spewed forth, a rant that the farmer's wife returned.

Clearly, the couple were at odds with the division and change in leadership. Chey decided this could be a boon—or a disaster. Picking out choice sentences during the argument, she ascertained that the woman had bought into Paavo's propaganda hook, line and sinker. She fully seemed to believe that dividing the country up was the best option, one that would benefit her and her husband.

Fredrik, red faced and not shy about making wild gestures when he spoke, adamantly repeated that to be loyal to a usurper was tantamount to treason. Long minutes later, chest rising and falling with the effort the argument took from him, the farmer glanced at Chey.

“My apologies, your Highness. You are safe here and will remain our guest as long as you need. Olga, plug that line in at once,” he said, to no avail.

Olga dropped the end of the line and set her heel on the delicate plastic, threatening to damage it beyond use.

Fredrik grunted and fretted, then used his body to herd his wife out of the kitchen. At the archway, he shot Chey an apologetic glance.

Rising from the seat, wincing at the lancing pain shooting through her back, Chey wasted no time picking up the telephone line and searching for the outlet. She found it behind the microwave and slipped the end into the socket. Back at the phone, she lifted the handset and prayed for a dial tone.

Nothing. Dead air.

Another cramp low in her stomach caused Chey to temporarily abandon fixing the telephone. Amidst the sounds of Fredrik and Olga arguing in the other room, Chey suffered through the pain, breathing slow and even in hopes it would ease. Fretting that she'd over done it and pushed herself into labor, she sank back into the seat, holding onto the table with one hand.

“Not here, not now,” she whispered to herself.

She could not have this baby in the middle of nowhere with a hostile woman in the next room and no doctor in sight.

Chapter Sixteen

Paavo stalked through the encampment outside the walls of his castle, a contingent of guards at his feet. Furious at the turn of events, he snapped aside the canvas doorway and entered the largest tent among the masses, bringing the men inside to sharp attention.

“Your Highness.”

“Prince Paavo...”

“Your Majesty.”

The myriad greetings served to grate on Paavo's nerves even further. It drove the point home that his troops were not as well organized under duress as he'd thought or hoped.

“Where is Ingvar and why is he not front and center in this mess?” Paavo demanded.

“He was called away, your Highness--”

“Your Majesty,” Paavo corrected with a dark look. If his top ranking men were confused about his title, he had no hope that the citizens would come to the right conclusion on their own.

“Pardon, your Majesty.” The official bowed his head. “The General was called to another location.”

“Which location is that?”

“The tent where your assistant is being held.”

“Yes, that was next on my agenda. Where is she being held, anyway?” Paavo had a few questions for Miss Hudson.

“I'll take you.” The official stepped past and caught the flap to the tent, holding it for Paavo to follow.

Which he did.

Four rows away, the official stopped before a tent and gestured to it. She's in there, said his expression.

Paavo opened the flap and stepped in. Ingvar and three other men stood around a cot with a prone body stretched across the surface.

“Is she dead?” Paavo asked.

“No, she's just coming around,” Ingvar replied. “Had a nasty knock on the head from a careless scout.”

Paavo snapped his fingers and strode over to the cot. “Leave us.”

The men glanced between themselves, then departed the tent.

Paavo stared down at Wynn, taking note of her disarrayed clothing, smudges of either soot or dirt on her cheek, and the lax set of her features. While he watched, she groaned and tried to lift a hand to her head.

“Miss Hudson, it's time to wake up. I have a few pressing questions for you.”

. . .

The gloomy interior of the tent swam into view, interrupted by a head that leaned directly into her line of sight. Wynn couldn't make out any features at first, too distracted by the sharp pain at the back of her head.

Paavo's voice, the warm timbre with its familiar accent, told her who it was before her vision cleared enough to make out the color of his eyes, the shape of his mouth or the askew lock of dark hair on his forehead.

“What?” she whispered, thinking he had asked her a question. She couldn't figure out what she was doing in bed in the middle of the day. Or was it the middle of the day? A distinct lack of light indicated she might be confused about many things.

“I said, can you sit up? We have some important questions to go over.” Paavo reached down to help her sit up.

Woozy, Wynn swung her legs to the ground, reaching back far enough to touch the tender spot on her head. “What happened?”

“That's what I'm hoping you'll tell me.” Paavo crouched in front of her. So close that their knees almost touched. “Someone found you wandering near the creek, heading away from the castle.”

Fire, escape, Chey, running away. The events of the evening came back in flashes. Wynn licked her lips and frowned. She said, “I was trying to get away from the fire.”

“All the way to the creek?” he asked.

“I was following some other women. We had our heads covered against the flames.” Wynn remembered that part specifically, altering the truth to suit her needs. She met Paavo's gaze head on, refusing to fidget in discomfort at the incisive way he stared at her. Like he knew things.

“The other women sought the troops out. I wonder why you didn't.”

“I don't remember. I just know they ran toward the trees, and I followed. Is the castle all right? What happened in there?” Wynn hoped she affected convincing concern and distress.

“A fire, Miss Hudson. But you knew that. In fact, I'm wondering just how much you know about the events of this evening.”

“I'm not sure what you're suggesting, but all I know is that I smelled smoke, heard someone call out fire, and ran with the rest.” Wynn licked her lips. They felt terribly chapped and dry. She couldn't tell whether Paavo believed her or not. His expression remained even, assessing.

“I'm suggesting that perhaps you had something to do with the plans for Chey's escape. After all, you are her best friend.”

Chey's escape? Had Chey made it out of the castle? Wynn struggled through a few seconds of shock. It explained why Chey hadn't been in the room when she'd gotten there, but it didn't explain how Chey got out.

Paavo arched a brow at her hesitation.

“Chey's escape? I'm not sure what you mean.”

His lips pressed tight, as if he thought she was testing his patience. “She was here, but I think you knew that, too. Which leads me to believe that you were involved with the men who attacked the castle during the fire, and Chey's ultimate disappearance.”

Wynn didn't need to feign shock hearing someone had attacked the castle. “What? Who would attack the—they didn't take Chey, did they?”

With a sound of disgust, Paavo shoved to his feet. Like a King at court, he paced through the tent, spine rigid, features tight with displeasure and suspicion. “You're either very good at this game, Wynn, or you truly don't know what happened to Chey.”

Wynn got to her feet, relieved that the dizziness had passed. Not knowing whether Chey was all right or not proved to be the douse of clarity she needed to regain her focus. “I don't. But I want her to be safe, and I don't care if that annoys you.”

“Many things annoy me, Miss Hudson. I'm still not convinced you didn't know about the attack, at least, or that the fire was the surprise you claim it to be. For now, I have more important things to do than wait until you decide to tell me the truth.” He paused at the flap of the tent and looked back. “Know, however, that if I discover you had anything to do with the fire or her escape, I won't hesitate to put a bullet straight through your heart.”

. . .

Two more minutes pain free, and I'll try to connect the phone line again. Chey made bargains with herself while she waited to see if the ache would return. Sitting and breathing seemed to be helping; the tight, squeezing pain eased. The argument between the farmer and his wife, however, had not eased. Although out of sight around the corner, Chey heard every word. Olga was enamored with the idea of a 'New Latvala', while Fredrik was wholly, vehemently against it. Chey thought this was probably a common theme throughout the land. Couples and families split with indecision and righteous assurance that they were right. It was what made Paavo's actions so devastating and damaging. He was messing with the fabric that held the citizens together, creating voids between loved ones that might never heal.

When the arguing stopped, Chey held her breath. Someone had come to some sort of decision. The faint sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs preceded the farmer rounding the corner into the kitchen. From the pocket of his wrinkled overalls, he pulled a set of keys.

“The truck is around the side of the house,” he whispered, voice full of urgency. “There is another phone upstairs and I fear she is going to give away your presence here. Take the truck and go.”

Chey didn't hesitate to accept the keys. She stood up and touched Fredrik's arm in gratitude. “We won't forget this,” she promised, letting the farmer know that she had every confidence the rightful King would be back on the throne in short order. Chey couldn't tell the man that the last she'd seen her husband, he'd been in a coma in the hospital with hostile forces right outside the room.

Fredrik nodded and escorted her to the back door. “Take the road West, then North. The last I drove it, there were no troops in those directions.”

“Thank you. Hold your wife off from the phone call as long as possible.” Chey escaped into the evening, picking her way down the porch steps and around to the side of the house. The truck was an older, beat up model but as long as it ran, Chey didn't care what it looked like.

Sliding behind the wheel, fighting to reach with her belly in the way, she jammed the keys into the ignition and turned the engine over. It sputtered, coughed, and caught. Chey wasted no time leaving the farm behind, taking the only road out between the break in the forest.

West, then North. In the dark, Chey had a difficult time getting her bearings. Once she did, she headed West along the snaking road, desperate to put as much distance between herself and the farm as possible.

Chapter Seventeen

The ruins of an ancient church provided cover from the downpour. Sander, slouched in the front seat next to Gunnar, watched the rain beyond the partially collapsed wall that used to be a part of the structure. Bricks and stone scattered the ground and beams long ago cracked in half from weather and age thrust their jagged edges toward the dark sky.

He hated feeling this useless. Leander was doing the job he should be doing. Chey needed him and here he sat, watching it rain. The pain, exhaustion and brief periods of disorientation didn't matter. What mattered was getting Chey back unscathed. She was tough as nails, he knew better than anyone, but even the strongest person was no match for the rigors of late term pregnancy. Sprinting staircases, lifting heavy objects and fighting enemy combatants were all either impossible or dangerous at this stage. They were all things she might have to do to escape.

Not for the first time, he started to reach for the ignition, intending to return to Paavo's holding. Common sense stilled his hand. Nothing good could come of a second attack. The guards would be expecting it this time, as well as the hundreds of troops squatting outside the castle. Their element of surprise was long gone. If Paavo didn't know who had infiltrated his castle, it wouldn't be a secret much longer.

“You seem to have a lot of faith in this Leander fellow,” Gunnar said. “That being the case, I'm sure he'll find Chey if she's in there.”

“It should be me going after her,” Sander said. “What if she's hurt or in trouble?”

“Leander will bring her back to you. I'm sure he's skilled at fixing any injuries on the fly until better medical attention can be obtained.” Gunnar paused. “Although I wish you would confide his connection to Mattias while we're alone.”

“I can't.”

“Why not? I'm your brother, and I've always been on your side.”

Sander swiveled a look across the car. Gunnar had never been good at hiding his deeper emotions, especially from him. Sander detected indignation and hurt under the brave facade Gunnar put on.

“Because there are some things we won't ever be able to tell you, and although you won't believe it, it's for your own good. The less you know about certain aspects of his—and my—life, the better.”

“That's crap, Dare, and we both know it.”

“I'm sure it seems that way from the outside, but if you knew what we knew, then you'd understand that these secrets are necessary for all our survival. Trust me, Gunnar. I would tell you if I could.” Sander reached across the seats and clasped his brother on the shoulder. After a brief squeeze, he let go.

Gunnar grunted and looked out the window. “I might not be as skilled as you both yet, but there's time.”

“There is, yes. And I have every faith you will become a fine warrior. Perhaps later in life, depending on what happens, we'll bring you into the circle.” Sander hated keeping Gunnar in the dark. If the danger wasn't so acute, he would have told Gunnar long ago. This was his way of protecting Gunnar until he knew he was ready.

The muffled sound of a phone ringing cut through the conversation. Frowning, Gunnar fished his cell from a pocket and put it to his ear. “Yes?”

“That should have been turned off when we went into the castle,” Sander said, reminding Gunnar that he had to think about more than the obvious things when in stealth mode.

Gunnar's frown deepened. “Wait, hold on. You're breaking up. What?”

Sander stared across the Hummer at his brother's expression, wondering who was calling. The rain battered the ground, coming down harder than before.

“When did she call? Did she give you an exact location?” Gunnar asked.

“Who is 'she'?” Sander asked, sitting up straighter in the seat.

“Alright. What did she say again? Tell me every word.” Gunnar plugged his other ear to hear better.

“Who the hell are you talking to?” Sander asked, impatient to know who the 'she' was.

Gunnar waved Sander off with his hand, then plugged his ear again. “If she calls back, tell her to stay put.”

“I'm going to take the phone away from you in two seconds,” Sander warned.

Gunnar ended the call and glanced at Sander. “That was Hanna. Chey called fifteen minutes ago. Said she'd escaped Paavo's holding and was at a farmhouse a 'handful of miles away'.”

“What direction? Did Chey give any indication where?” Sander started the engine. He drove out of the gutted building and into the weather, heading for the road. “Get the GPS up and running, too. Find every farmhouse in every direction in that radius.”

“She didn't give coordinates. Just the general location. I'm on it,” Gunnar said, pulling a device out of the glove compartment. “What are we going to do about Leander? He's in there, risking his life, and Chey's not even in the castle.”

“Send him a text to abort, if he hasn't already. Get him out of there.”

Sander hit the road but halted at a juncture, waiting for Gunnar to fire up the GPS. He was anxious and impatient to find Chey before Paavo's men did.

. . .

Wynn paced the interior of the tent, listening to the booted feet of military men passing close enough to prevent her from trying to escape. She could hear them talking in low voices about political maneuverings, either unaware she was in here or very aware, perhaps waiting for her to make a move. Rain had begun to fall at some point, occasionally blocking out all sound but the distant rattle of thunder.

Every once in a while she touched the back of her head where she'd been struck, feeling around the small knot protruding from her skull. If the men hadn't thought twice about knocking her out once, they wouldn't hesitate to do so again if she made a more blatant attempt to flee.

Worrying her lip with her teeth, she pivoted to start a new circuit of the small, confining space. She wanted out of there, out of the entire camp. Paavo might find out any moment that she did have something to do with the fire...and what then? Would he really put a bullet through her heart?

Seething at the stupidity of her attraction to him, she realized all this time later that Paavo had been playing her from the start. He'd used her, hoping, probably, for information regarding Chey. Information he might not have been privy to with the hospital staff. It distressed her, how badly she'd judged the situation and her own ability to control her emotions.

The sound of material ripping yanked her attention to the back of the tent. A silver blade rent the taut outer lining and a hand reached in to peel it open far enough to admit a body. Several droplets of water pattered against the tent floor, falling from a uniformed soldier with gloves on his hands and a flat topped hat on his head.

Acting on instinct, sure that one of the men thought to sneak in here and assault her, she snatched up a heavy, battery powered lamp and cocked her arm back to hurl it across the room.

“Don't,” a rough voice, thick with an American accent, said. Leander pinned her with a warning look, half in and half out of the slit he'd made.

Wynn gasped in surprise. He blended in so well she hadn't recognized him. What was he doing here? “Leander?”

“Don't talk. And put the light down.” He eased inside, closing the knife before sliding it into one of many pockets on his pants. From inside his buttoned up coat, he withdrew a folded uniform. “Put this on.”

She set the light down and rushed across the tent. Ignoring the uniform for the moment, she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, relieved beyond reason to see him here. Dampness seeped from his clothes to her own. “I'm sorry I doubted you.”

“Apologize later and put this on before someone discovers us.” Regardless of his gruff order, he pulled her against him with one arm.

Wynn squeezed and released him. Snatching the uniform from his hands, she began pulling it on over her regular clothes, forced to roll the pants leg as well as the sleeves.

Leander paced a small circle while she dressed, listening intently to the passage of men out front. He held a gun in one hand, the muzzle pointed down along the outside of his thigh.

“How are we going to get--”

“Shhh,” he whispered, cutting her off. He put a gloved finger to his lips to silence her. Finding a spare pair of boots lined up along the floor, he brought those to her during one of his circuits.

Wynn finished buttoning the jacket and asked him with her eyes if she was presentable. The way he raked a look over her sent shivers down her spine. Picking up the boots, which were two sizes too large, she stuffed her feet into them after removing her own shoes.

“Just add this,” he whispered, walking a hat across to plop on her head. It was flat on the top, like his, with the same markings.

Wynn adjusted the thing to sit tighter on her head after tucking her hair up underneath. Following him to the jagged tear in the canvas, she eased out into the rainy evening at his direction once he'd given her the OK.

He bent close, putting his mouth next to her ear. “Walk like you've got a right to be here. Avoid eye contact if you can but be as brusque as you're able and don't talk. Don't even whisper, I don't care if it's raining or thundering or what. Follow my lead.”

“All right.” Nervous, Wynn met Leander's gaze under the brim of the hat he wore, then fell into step when he stalked along the back row of the tents. She did her best to walk like he walked, imagining a manly stride and stern set to her jaw. Mud made sucking noises around the soles of the boots until they passed from dirt to grass.

Starting in surprise when another man appeared ahead of them, patrolling the avenue between tents, Wynn concentrated on acting like she was just one of the men. Nothing to see here.

Leander greeted the guard with a curt Hello in the Latvala tongue, not pausing even a moment to converse with the man. He led Wynn on, angling between tents, taking them ever closer to a row of military vehicles lined up at the end.

They bumped into two more guards along the way, none of whom seemed to pay Wynn any attention beyond a short nod of greeting. She always returned it just the same, glad that the rain probably helped obscure some of her more delicate features.

At the row of cars, Leander walked around to the driver's side of one, leaving Wynn to understand she needed to climb into the passenger's seat. She did so, licking away a bead of sweat from her upper lip. Her nerves were raw. Any second, she thought sirens would go off and spotlights would shine a halo down on their heads.

Leander started the rugged vehicle with keys that had been left in the ignition. He didn't turn the lights on until they were angling toward the main road. Overhead, thunder roared through the dark sky.

“All right. Up here, they'll do a more through check. Let me do the talking. I 'outrank' most of them, so it shouldn't be a problem,” Leander said.

“All right.” Wynn held onto the armrest until they hit the paved part of the road. The mandatory check-point ahead consisted of a wooden horse blocking the road along with a temporary hut for the guards to take shelter in during inclement weather.

One guard stepped out as they approached, a gun leveled across his body. Like the rest of the guards, his features were difficult to make out through the rain.

Leander brought the vehicle to a stop and immediately engaged the guard in whip-fast conversation.

Wynn picked out enough to know that Leander was giving both their 'credentials' and the reason for departing the camp. Something about bringing in new recruits from a few surrounding townships. The guard bowed his head in respect of the higher rank and moved the wooden horse out of the way.

Leander waited, then drove through onto the main road, picking up speed. Heavy tread on the tires kicked up wetness on the pavement.

Wynn exhaled and reached up to remove the hat. Leander set a hand out, halting the action.

“Not yet. There could be another check-point ahead.”

“Oh. All right. How did you know where to find me? I can't believe you're here,” Wynn said. She recalled Paavo's mention of an attack on the castle, and wondered if Leander had something to do with it.

“It was a matter of asking the right people. We came to get Chey out, but she was already gone when we got there. I didn't find her anywhere in the castle, at least the places I could search. What do you know about the fire?” Leander asked with a glance across the truck.

“Chey wasn't in her room when I went to get her, either. I don't know where she is. I'm worried she...she...I'm worried he hurt her.” Wynn propped an elbow on the door, fingers rubbing her forehead. “Paavo hinted that Chey escaped, but I don't know. I don't trust him. He might have been leading me on, trying to get information. I think he suspects I had something to do with the fire.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I set it. I was desperate to distract the guards, because I saw no other way to get to Chey's room. They were guarding it too heavily.”

“You did what you had to. So you don't have any idea where Chey is, then?” he asked.

“None. All of that for nothing. And Paavo said he would shoot me through the heart if he found out I had anything to do with the fire or Chey's disappearance. He used that word, not escape. If he finds me--”

“He won't,” Leander said, using a tone that brooked no doubt or argument. “I won't let him find you. And don't say it was all for nothing until we know exactly what happened, hm?”

“I've done such stupid things,” Wynn said, lamenting her recent decisions.

“Like what?” Leander took them onto another road after checking ahead and behind for any sign of troops or check points.

“Coming down here to begin with. I should have made a better excuse at the family seat. I should have--”

“Don't beat yourself up about it. Things worked out this way for a reason,” he said.

“Yeah. And what if I inadvertently put Chey in harm's way?” She looked across the vehicle, eaten alive by guilt. It wasn't just Chey, it was the entire Paavo fiasco. How she could have allowed herself to feel even a glimmer of anything for him was beyond her. And yet, yet, she still experienced a warm flush when she thought about their dinner, a few of their conversations.

Leander met her gaze for a heartbeat, no more. “Then you did, but it wasn't because you meant to. We can all only do what we can do. What other people do, such as Paavo and his Generals and all the troops, are things we can't control.”

Wynn opened her mouth to admit what she'd done. Or what she'd felt. She wanted to confess to someone, as if that might ease the burden dragging her down. In the end she hummed a note of agreement and looked out the window, wondering how close dawn was to arriving. The weather made it impossible for her to judge the lateness of the hour.

“What?” Leander asked.

“Nothing. It's nothing,” Wynn said.

“It was, or you wouldn't have started to tell me.”

“I changed my mind. It's...personal.”

“Then get it off your chest. What, do you think I'll judge you for it?” he asked.

“Yes. Even I'm appalled at myself. I don't know what the hell I was thinking.”

“Did you fall for him?” Leander asked, as if he could read her mind.

Wynn blanched. “No, no I--” Had she? Had she gone as far as falling in love? To be true to herself, she considered every meeting, every emotion since she'd first met Paavo. “You know, I can honestly say it didn't get that far. But still. Even being attracted to someone who has done all this...”

“You can't really control who you're attracted to. It's a natural reaction, an animal instinct as old as time. What you can control is your choice to pursue it when you have all the facts you do. Or, to give the attraction time to grow or fizzle out. Just because you see someone and feel something doesn't mean you've broken some secret code of conduct. It is what it is. Do you still want to be with him?” Leander sought her eyes, then looked back at the road.

Wynn didn't hide her turmoil. She met his gaze and didn't look away when he diverted his attention to driving. “Not at all. I'm not sure I wanted to be 'with him' before. It was just...what you said. An attraction. And it stings to know he used me the whole time.”

“Because you're friends with Chey.”

“Yes. Maybe even to have me close in case he needed instant leverage.”

“That, too. You'd be a good bargaining tool in his battle to overthrow Dare.”

“I usually only hear siblings call Sander Dare. Are you related or something?” Wynn allowed her curiosity to divert her away from talk of Paavo.

“No. We're connected another way.”

“Which way is that?”

“I can't talk too much about it. Suffice to say that I'm one of Mattias's best friends and have known Dare a very long time.”

“It's just strange that I haven't ever seen you around before now, or even heard of you.” Wynn had scoured her memory and come up blank where Leander was concerned.

“Because you weren't meant to. I come and go when I'm needed here.” He pressed the gas, picking up more speed. The vehicle sped through the night, taking them further and further from Paavo's castle.

“So it's a bit of a mystery, then,” Wynn said. She wasn't up to solving the puzzle that was Leander. Not tonight.

He shot a smile her way, but didn't confirm or deny it.

For Wynn, that was all the proof she needed.

Maybe someday, if Chey and Sander were all right and they got control of the country back, Wynn would devote a little time to unearthing the complexities of Leander.

Chapter Eighteen

Surly after two farmhouses turned up no Chey, Sander parked the Hummer alongside the road a quarter mile from the third location on their list. He let the engine idle while he considered the GPS one more time. The last two farms housed people loyal to Sander instead of Paavo, tenants who were shocked to see their King at their door in the middle of the night. He'd been lucky, but his luck might not hold out much longer.

“It's the best shot from what's left in this area,” Gunnar said, shifting his gun across his lap. The rain fell harder, tinging off the roof like bullets.

“I agree. I don't see anything else in the general vicinity that looks remotely viable that we haven't already checked. You ready?” Sander asked, flipping the GPS off. He glanced out the windshield, unable to see much through the trees. He knew the house was there, but this one lacked visibility from the road itself.

“Let's go,” Gunnar said.

Sander put the Hummer in gear and bore down on the residence, taking the driveway at a high rate of speed. By the time he stomped the gas, sending the back end sliding through a puddle of mud, the front door had opened and a man stepped onto the porch. Even from that vantage, Sander could see a gun in the farmer's hands.

“Watch the weapon,” Sander said, disembarking with the engine still running. He flashed his empty hands and called out with the intent of stopping the tenant from blowing one of their heads off. “Sir! We're here on official business. I'm King Sander Ah--” He got no further. The farmer set his gun down and made frantic gestures.

“Your Majesty! Come in, come in out of the rain!”

Sander, flanked by an armed Gunnar, approached and took the steps to the porch at a jog. He reached out to clasp the farmer's hand in a shake, taking a personable stance now that he suspected the man was loyal to him rather than Paavo. Before he could speak, the farmer burst out with a torrent of information.

“I had to send her away. My wife has been listening to the news, to--”

“Send who away?” Sander said, cutting the farmer off. He stared at the man's face, anxious to know if Chey had been here.

“Your wife, your Majesty. She was here not a half hour ago. I'm sorry we didn't keep her sheltered,” he said with an irate glance toward the door of the homestead.

Sander took a step closer, regaining the man's attention. “Tell me where she went and how she left your house.”

The farmer twisted his hands nervously together. “I gave her the keys to my truck, your Majesty. Told her to head West, then North, because I hadn't seen troops along that route for days.”

“And she left a half hour ago?”

“Give or take, your Majesty.”

“Thank you. If anyone shows up and asks, you didn't see us this evening,” Sander said. He backtracked to the stairs, loping down to the ground.

“Yes, your Majesty!” the farmer called out.

Sander swung into the Hummer, waiting for Gunnar to do the same. The second his brother's door was closed, Sander put the vehicle in gear and tore down the drive.

“A half hour. West, then North. Get on the GPS and see how far you think she's gone in this weather and how many turn offs there are between us,” Sander said to Gunnar.

“I'm on it.” He had the device in his hands, his weapon angled across his lap.

The screen cast a soft glow inside the cabin as roads began to show up, snaking toward and away from their location. Sander glanced across once, then concentrated on the roads as Gunnar began mapping out possibilities.

Sander hoped for the best. He drove like a man possessed, taking corners too tight and straightaways too fast. All he could think about was reaching her. He hadn't taken the time to inquire after her health, or if she'd suffered any kind of injury. He figured the farmer would have told him if Chey had been bloodied or wounded.

“Sander, don't get us killed. We're close. We'll catch up with her soon,” Gunnar said when the Hummer roared around a corner.

“There's no time to waste, Gunnar. She could run across a road block anywhere. Just because the farmer hasn't seen one in a few days doesn't mean they didn't erect a check-point between now and then.” A muscle flexed in Sander's jaw. His vision swam in and out of focus, made worse by the flash of windshield wipers and relentless rain.

He didn't care. He would drive until he passed out if he had to. They were too close now, so close he could almost smell the sweet scent of her skin. It tickled his senses, a remnant of memory he latched onto with fierce determination.

Three turns later, the wash of red tail lights a half mile ahead spurred him to greater speed.

. . .

Just how far North was she supposed to go? At some point, she figured she might run into a roadblock or a mass of troops. Chey turned the wipers up another notch as the rain came down harder, working the problem of direction and distance out loud.

“So I've gone probably fifteen or twenty miles. Where does that put me?” She guessed the range she'd come so far in the rain. It wasn't very far. In her mind, she tried to map out the terrain opposed to Paavo's castle and what troops she'd seen from the air. It was confusing, especially since she needed most of her concentration for driving. Thunder boomed through the night, startling her to a slower speed.

“I guess I'll wait until the next big intersection and head toward the shore from there. I'm sure there will be a lot more troops that way, though, because they'll be guarding roads to the bigger cities.” Which left Chey the option of finding a smaller town and someone with a phone.

In the rearview mirror, headlights flashed bright. She glanced up, momentarily blinded. Squinting against the glare, she gripped the steering wheel and took the upcoming bend at a mediocre twenty miles an hour. The sound of a horn made Chey twitch in surprise, but she couldn't glance in the mirror until she was on the straightaway after the bend. The last thing she needed to do was end up in a ditch.

It wasn't until she'd finished taking the corner that alarm sent a buzz through her system. What if that was Paavo in the vehicle behind her? Had he figured out where she'd gone and gotten directions from the farmer's wife? That thought urged her to speed up and glance in the rear view more often.

The vehicle was closing in fast. Too fast.

Panicking, Chey floored it. The old truck surged with a grind of the engine, the sound of someone laying on a horn making Chey's scalp tingle. It was so urgent, persistent. Warning her they were coming, or hoping she would stop out of curiosity.

Hell with that.

They'd have to run her off the road first.

Much to her surprise, the vehicle pulled up alongside the old truck, pacing her while honking the horn repeatedly. They wanted her to stop, sure enough. With all the rain on the windows, she couldn't see much, and didn't bother to look. She gave the truck more gas, leaning forward in the seat like that might help her see better.

The vehicle paced her, easily keeping up. Then it surged forward and nudged closer.

Gasping, Chey veered the truck to avoid impact on the front fender. They really were trying to run her off the road! It hadn't been a hard motion, but it still freaked her out. She understood the intent was to force her to slow down. It worked, too. There was nowhere to go but the soft shoulder, and, fearing a spin-out, she chose to back off the gas as the looming, black truck nudged toward her again. Chey stomped the brakes that time, steering through a rough fish-tail. The truck screeched to a halt. She jammed the gear into reverse, intending to back up and either go around or ram the damn thing if she had to.

Shocked to see a military man running at the truck, she reached over to punch the locks down, missing twice for the panic setting in. He was going to beat her to the door.

Then it was open and she took a swing toward the adversary. He caught her wrist with too much ease.

“Chey!”

Her strength waned and her eyes opened wider. It couldn't be.

“Sander?” But it was. Sander stood there in full military regalia, drenched to the bone, holding her wrist in a gentle but firm grip. He pulled her to him at the same time she all but flew out of the truck into his arms. Right away she was struck by his familiar scent, the heat of his skin. Chey wanted to melt and cry at the same time.

“Are you all right? I'm sorry about the truck, but I had to slow you down,” he rumbled near her ear. He leaned back to claim her mouth in a bold kiss, giving her no time to answer.

Once she caught her breath, she said, “I thought you were them. I thought they found the farmhouse and the wife told them where to go. I'm fine, Sander, I'm fine.”

Sander swung her up into his arms, carrying her like she weighed nothing to the Hummer. “It was us. We got a call from Hanna, of all people, and she set us on the right path. You did good.”

Chey held on tight, careless of the rain. She knew Sander must be fighting through pain and his wounds, but was so glad to see him. “I managed to get one call out. Are you all right? When did you wake up? I was so scared they got to you in the hospital.”

Sander walked her to the back passenger door and set her on the seat. Gunnar had thoughtfully opened the door and was already in the driver's seat, prepared to take over.

“I woke up to find my sister and Krislin defending me in the hospital room. We got out of there as fast as we could. Went to a safe house in the city where I started to make plans to get you out of Paavo's holding.”

Chey refused to let go of Sander, holding onto him as they embarked and Gunnar got the Hummer in gear. Behind, the truck sat an angle in the road, the headlights shining twin beams into the rain.

“They took me right out of your room. Paavo really made a concerted effort to overthrow you, Sander, and I thought for sure he meant to do you in.” She pressed smaller kisses along his jaw, feeling his hand on her belly while he assured himself she was intact and wound free.

“Yeah, I found that out during briefing. All this time, he's been planning a coup. I should have seen it coming after the Bashir fiasco. He gave in too easy, and that was my first clue.”

“He's your brother. You couldn't have known he would pursue it like this. None of us did. I'm so glad you got out before they hurt you,” she whispered. Chey tucked her face into the crook of Sander's throat, relieve in a hundred different ways to be reunited with him.

“Natalia and Krislin really stepped up. I owe them,” Sander said. “I guess they would have finished what they started with the attack on the caravan.”

Chey shuddered to hear it. To think Paavo would go as far as murder to take over the country. But wasn't that the way of greedy, power hungry people? Willing to stop at nothing to get what they wanted? Paavo had decided Latvala was his after the former King deigned to sit Paavo on the throne instead of other, legitimate heirs. That power went to Paavo's head, made him desperate and dangerous.

“You helped Natalia out of a bad situation and she knows it. I hope she'll keep on this road, a less nasty, more mature one that will enrich her life instead of alienating her from everyone she secretly holds dear. Krislin was invaluable to me, too. She stayed behind to let me snitch a little rest while I watched over you.” Chey would be forever indebted to Krislin for it.

“Either way, we have you back, and that's what matters. How is the baby? Are you in pain anywhere?” he asked, glancing ahead through the windshield then down to Chey.

“Fine, I think. I had to walk several miles or so to get to that farmhouse, which wasn't pleasant considering it was through the forest, in the dark, and I kept tripping over things. But I made it and I'm not in labor, so I can't complain.” The cramps and aches had stopped, much to Chey's relief.

Sander muttered a slew of curses under his breath. “I'm going to kill him for putting you through this.”

She slanted a look up his cheek to his eyes. Sander sounded serious. She'd heard him make threats like this before, usually in passing and never literal. He'd told her in the past he wasn't that kind of man. She believed him. This, like the other times, was a figure of speech. If anyone asked her, however, she wouldn't be able to correctly identify what punishment Paavo should suffer for his actions. He'd tried to kill Sander, had killed some of the men in the caravan and who knew how many others. Those, along with treason, were serious crimes.

“Right now, I just want to get somewhere safe and find Wynn. I have no idea where she is, but I'm afraid she may be in danger as well.”

“We'll figure it out the second we reach my holding.”

“Which one is that? Have I been there before, and how do you know it's safe?” Chey asked, wary to go somewhere new and different unless she was sure they could trust the people who might be guarding it.

“A less well known holding about an hour and a half from here. The helicopter can't fly in these conditions so we'll have to drive. I know it's safe because I personally selected the people who are there waiting,” he replied. Sander kissed the top of her head, squeezing her shoulders with the arm looped around them.

“You're sure you can trust them?”

“Yes. Absolutely sure.”

“Sander, Leander just texted me. He's got Wynn and they're on their way to your holding. I told them that's the location where we're all meeting up,” Gunnar reported from the front seat.

“Oh, I'm so glad to hear she's safe,” Chey said, wilting against Sander.

“Excellent. We'll take stock once we get everyone in the same house. Krislin and Natalia should already be there when we arrive.”

“Do you think we'll run into any troops along the way?” Chey asked when the thought occurred. She chastised herself for becoming too complacent too quickly.

“I don't know, Chey. Maybe. We'll deal with it if we do though,” Sander said. He tilted his head back against the seat, one arm still around Chey's shoulders.

“All right. Do you need anything for pain? New bandages? You look so tired, Sander,” she said, concern for his welfare surfacing once more.

“I'm fine. Resting my head in case we have to combat our way through a check-point.”

“Are you dizzy?”

“A little bit. Nothing detrimental.”

“You wouldn't tell me if it was really bad, would you?” she asked, suspicious he was in more pain than he let on. After all this time, Chey had learned the hard way that Sander was capable of withstanding quite a bit of damage to his person.

“No.” He smiled a broad smile without opening his eyes.

“That right there tells me all I need to know,” Chey said, running the back of her fingers over his cheek, heedless of the grease.

“I'm all right,” he repeated, cracking open an eye to see her. “A good night's sleep is all I need.”

What Chey read in his gaze was, You're all I need. Flushed with pleasure at what he didn't say, Chey leaned her head against his shoulder and settled in for the ride.

Praying that the next hour and a half would pass quickly and that they wouldn't run into trouble along the way.

. . .

Paavo stared at the mess in the foyer, furious at the group of men standing like whipped dogs near the base of the stairs. Men in uniform who, as far as he was concerned, were an embarrassment to the word soldier. He didn't care if half of them had been plucked straight from the land, with no training and no real fighting skill. They should have done a better job. And those with training—well.

“Does anyone know where either Chey or Wynn have gone? Both women, both missing from the castle and the grounds. One of them was right beneath your collective noses, amongst you, and somehow, you still lost her.” Paavo paced in front of the ragtag group, disgusted beyond belief. Many of the best soldiers in the Latvala army hadn't been converted to his cause, leaving him with a scattered array of talent. Talent that was not nearly as organized as he wanted them to be.

None of the men seemed to know where Chey or Wynn had disappeared to, serving to spike his temper further. Both women under his roof; both now gone.

Unbelievable.

“I want search parties scouring every inch of this castle, basement to turret. And the grounds. Search the creek, the nearby caves—everywhere. They can't be far. One of them is almost nine months pregnant—if she can outrun you, then you're all fired.” He dismissed the men with a flippant wave of his hand, stalking away to his office on the ground floor.

With the fire doused, clean up crews were organizing to begin cleaning the mess. It was still too smoky in the upper floors, the scent of charred wood, paper and material lingering in the air. The latest report wavered on the cause of the fire, from a spark thrown onto a carpet from the fireplace to arson. No one was one-hundred percent sure yet.

In his office, Paavo kicked the door closed, snatched up a whiskey decanter, and poured himself a drink. Taking it to the window, he looked out over the courtyard, turning the tumbler between his fingers. Yet to lift the potent liquor to his lips, he inwardly seethed at the attack amidst the fire catastrophe. He suspected it was a team sent by Sander, who had also disappeared. It couldn't be coincidence. Except the team that invaded his property hadn't left with anything as far as anyone could tell. Chey—the suspected target—had already been gone by then. So what was the point? What else were they after?

An uncomfortable answer whispered across his mind: you.

Instead of taking a drink, he cocked his arm back, pivoted in place, and launched the tumbler across the room. Liquor splashed across his desk and the floor. The tumbler cracked against the mantle and shattered into a thousand pieces. Even that subtle bit of violence couldn't take the edge off his anger.

So close. He was so close to a successful coup. Yes, there was a lot of work to be done. There always was when someone new took over the throne by force. But he had the title within his grasp, had a good start on a new military that would, eventually, infiltrate all other regiments and spread the seed of his control. He had one of the best Generals in his pocket, a man willing to sacrifice it all on his behalf.

Despite everything, he felt his position start to slip. With every escape and disappearance, it set him back. Now he had to worry about men sneaking into his castle on whatever nefarious business sent them there to begin with.

They'd been seeking Chey, he was sure of it. But what about him? Ingvar's insistence that he leave the castle immediately upon discovery of the fire paid off in spades. If not for that extreme act of caution, where might he be? Dead? Behind bars? A prisoner in his own dungeon? He quailed at the thought.

Prison was not for him. He'd rather be dead than rot the rest of his life away in a cell. And he'd come too far now to turn back. To wait for Dare to resurface and ask for forgiveness. The only way was forward. Forward with a vengeance. From this moment on, he could show no mercy to anyone.

Chapter Nineteen

Twilight bathed the landscape in pink and gold, chasing the darkness away. It slanted across the spires jutting up from Sander's holding and splashed the colors of dawn over the window panes. A break in the rain allowed Sander to carry Chey from the Hummer to the front doors, where a butler and armed guards waited.

All her protests about his health and her ability to walk went unheard by the King. He laid out orders for extra protection as he climbed the stone steps and swept inside, the gutted soles of his combat boots squeaking over a marble floor.

Standing four stories, the castle was smaller than the others but still large by anyone's standard. Chey eyed the vaulted ceilings, stone archways, and mullioned windows overlooking acres of green grass. A far wall prevented strays from wandering onto the property and the guardhouse at the front gate added another layer of security to an already secure location. Chey thought Royalty might refer to this as a 'country house'. One not near the cities and lacking the high ramparts, baileys and other extreme protection measures better suited to a castle under siege.

She could tell this structure had undergone renovation at some point, since the floors were marble instead of stone, like the others.

Sander carried her all the way to the fourth floor and into a master suite with a vast view of the grounds. Like every other Kingly suite, this one was lavish in its décor. Heavy wood furniture was offset by cream walls, crown molding and subdued colors of dark green, deep crimson and neutral browns. The ceiling sported a master painting of hounds and riders on a foxhunt.

He set her down on the edge of the enormous bed like she was made of fragile glass, then retreated to begin peeling out of his still damp uniform.

“I'll have one of the girls get you some new clothes. Natalia and Krislin are here somewhere, so you can visit with them after you rest and eat or whatever you want to do,” Sander said. He bared his chest along with all the wounds he'd suffered from the caravan attack. Some of the bandages had started to come off, exposing red, raw skin, stitches, and other extensive bruising.

Chey gazed at him while he undressed, appreciating the masculinity he so effortlessly exuded. The wounds only added to his rugged appeal. She thanked her lucky stars one more time that fate brought him back to her in one piece.

“Why does it sound like you'll be doing something else while I'm reuniting with the girls?” Chey asked. The way he talked made Chey think Sander had other plans. The only plans she wanted him to have involved a lot of recovery. She knew he had business, of course, but her concern was for his recent coma and what all the strain might be doing to his wounds.

He met her eyes across the room. “As soon as Leander and Wynn get here, we'll be making a plan to oust Paavo.”

Chey shifted on the mattress, laying a hand flat over the bedcover. “Making a plan, all right. Can't it wait one night?”

“No. We'll be leaving as soon as we put together something reasonable. You and the other girls will be more than safe here. These men I trust with my life.”

Chey frowned. “Sander, you can't be serious. Have you even slept since you woke up? When was the last time someone looked at your injuries? Because I could swear you've popped a few stitches, at least.”

He threw the uniform into a pile, attired only in a pair of black boxers that hugged his hips and thighs. “Chey, I can't wait. There is no time to sleep. Paavo might regroup while I'm taking tea in the courtyard.”

The mild sarcasm hit Chey the wrong way. “I don't care. You can't just leave five minutes after we get home. What if I go into labor?”

“Then someone will recall me. You're not in labor now, are you?” he asked, stalking into the bathroom.

Chey had half a mind to tell him about the aches and cramps hours ago, walking through the forest. But if she'd been in labor then, she wouldn't be sitting here this calm now. The pain would be ten times worse.

“No,” she said flatly. “But that doesn't matter. I want you here, Sander. We've been separated for what feels like weeks. Can't you send someone else?”

He emerged wearing a pair of black cargo pants and boots, pulling a black shirt over his head. Reaching up, he yanked the band out of his hair, leaving it loose a moment until he gathered it back into another neat tail. “I'm not sending someone else to do my dirty work. Gunnar, Leander and I along with a few other special forces members will put an end to any idea of a coup. It needs to be done now, while they're possibly dealing with that fire and whatever else, rather than wait until they regroup.”

She stood up off the edge of the bed, one hand braced against her back. “It's too soon, Sander. You look exhausted. I know you have to be in pa--”

“I'm going, Chey.” Sander gave her a hard look that brooked no argument.

Chey pressed her lips together in frustration and worry. “Sander--”

“I need to get with Gunnar so we have a plan by the time Leander gets here with Wynn.” Crossing the room, he leaned down to pluck a kiss from her mouth.

She gave him nothing. No return kiss, no hug. He arched a brow, planting his hands defiantly on his hips.

“I'm telling you I don't want you to go, and you're just going to walk out the door anyway,” she said with an impatient gesture.

“I feel fine. This is what we train for, Chey. Mattias and I have spent months and months conditioning our bodies for situations like these. Yes, I have injuries, and yes my head hurts like hell. But being King means taking action, especially when my loved ones lives are in danger. When my country is in jeopardy. He took you, Chey, and I'm pissed. If anything had happened to you or our child...” Sander let the threat trail.

While Chey loved hearing Sander rally and rise to the occasion, she was still smarting from the escape, the farmer's wife and not knowing whether Sander was alive or dead. It made her temper short and her patience nonexistent.

“I realize you have responsibilities, but what about your responsibility to me? I'm asking you to wait. Just wait one day. I can't believe one day will make that much difference in the grand scheme of things.” Chey knew she hadn't won any gold stars with her retort. Whenever a muscle flexed in Sander's jaw like that, she knew she'd hit a nerve.

“What do you think this is all about? Did you miss the part where I said I'm pissed that he took you? This is also my responsibility to you, to make sure it can't happen again. The only way to do that is to bring the situation under control. You know how things go, Chey. You've been around it long enough now,” he said, stalking toward the door.

“Well, I'm pissed that you're leaving!” she said, raising her voice while he walked the other way. “I want you here, not rushing off to put yourself in danger the second we get out of it!”

Sander paused half in and out of the doorway. The look in his eyes glimmered with unconditional love, but it also glittered with determination. “I'll be downstairs,” he said in an even voice. “And I'll let you know before we go.”

Chey seethed when the door closed before she could get another word in edgewise. Sinking onto the edge of the bed again, she rubbed her hands over her stomach, too tired to go after him and send their argument to the next level.

She didn't want to go to war with her husband when he was planning a war of his own.

. . .

“Chey! Chey, are you in there?”

Sitting up with a grunt and a groan, Chey braced an arm against the bed she'd fallen asleep on and stared through slitted eyes at the door. That wasn't Sander's voice.

“Come in,” she called, struggling to her feet.

Wynn entered with a flourish, looking worse for wear in a military uniform that was wetter than Sander's had ever been. “Chey! I thought something awful happened to you. I was so relieved when Leander discovered you were with Sander, of all people.”

Chey embraced her best friend and laid a kiss on Wynn's cheek. “I don't even want to ask why you're in that uniform, or who Leander is, but I'm so glad to see you.”

Wynn held Chey out at arms distance, the dark bob of her hair askew around her head. The hat was gone. “He's a close friend of Sander and Mattias, and he's the one who got me out of Paavo's awful camp. How are you feeling? Paavo didn't hurt you, did he?”

Chey led Wynn to a section of sofas and plush chairs. She didn't want to be on her feet right now. “I'm fine, I'm fine. I had to escape the castle and then walk like a hundred miles until I found shelter. What about you? Wait, what's this about Paavo's camp?”

Wynn sat opposite Chey, choosing to lean forward as if anticipating all the juicy details. “I wound up at Paavo's holding, where you were. I didn't even know you were there for a while. But when I did, I set a fire to distract the guards so I could try and get you out of there. It backfired, I guess, because you were already gone.”

Chey listened with no small amount of amazement. “I had no idea you were there, either. Of course. Paavo didn't give me any information. Why were you in a camp? You set a fire?”

“I ran out of the castle with some other women, trying to escape before anyone knew I was gone. I figured it was only a matter of time before they realized who set it, and then I'd really be in trouble. But someone found me wandering by the creek and cracked me on the head.” Wynn reached up to gingerly touch a spot at the back of her skull. “I woke up in a tent in the encampment. Paavo visited me, but he still didn't know at that point what I'd done, only suspected. Yes, I set the fire.”

“Wynn, I never knew the whole time. I found a hidden passageway out of the room and wound up some distance from the castle, outside the walls. So I followed the creek, too, but I never saw you or anyone else.”

“All I know is that I'm so relieved you're not hurt. For a while, I worried Paavo had someone...you know. Try to take you out, like he tried to take Sander out.” Wynn sat back, finally, and drew a leg up to curl it beneath her on the seat.

“I was still too valuable as a chess piece at that point. If I hadn't remembered that a lot of these old castles have hidden passageways, I'd still be there.”

“They came for you, though. And I'm pretty sure they would have gotten you out. It was a brazen move, driving straight up to the gate in their uniforms.” Wynn smiled a smile that suggested she was reliving the telling from someone else.

“I'm upset that Sander is going back so soon. We got into an argument about it,” Chey confessed. It wiped the smile off Wynn's face.

“What? When are they—they're going back?,” Wynn asked, eyes round as saucers.

“Yes. Probably as soon as they have a new plan. Tonight, I think. Sooner than I want them to. Sander needs rest, he needs to heal. But he's all about getting down there and bringing this to an end. It's not like I don't want it to end, too, but at what cost? If he gets dizzy or weak from busted stitches, he'll just be putting himself in danger again.” Cranky about Sander's decision, Chey smoothed her hands over her stomach, watching Wynn process the information.

“I don't really like it either. Not after being down there in the trenches, so to speak. And I understand why you want him to wait,” Wynn replied with a frown.

“He isn't going to. I hate that we'll be at odds when he leaves.” Chey couldn't bring herself around to supporting his decision.

“All we can hope for, then, is that they can get in, grab Paavo, and get out before sustaining any more injuries. It'll be all right, Chey.”

She snorted, rolling her gaze to the ceiling. Chey wished she could believe it.

Chapter Twenty

At the long dinner table, Chey sat to Sander's right, pushing food around her plate. The entire group was present, from Gunnar to Wynn to Natalia and the stranger, Leander. Chey wasn't sure what to think of the way the guard sat himself next to Wynn like he had a right to, or the way he and Sander discussed options in the open. It put her off her food to hear about this plan and that plan, what could go right and what might go wrong. She wasn't appeased that there would be three strike teams or that the Generals loyal to Sander were on board with the second attack.

“You should eat,” Sander said to Chey when the discussion switched momentarily to Leander and Gunnar.

“I'm not that hungry,” Chey said without looking up.

“Doesn't matter. You need the nourishment.”

“What I need is for you--” Chey caught the snarky remark before she could finish it. This wasn't the time or place for confrontation. Sander's few seconds of silence assured her that he was still rankled about their earlier argument, too.

“I have a great team. I'm confident, I feel strong and alert. Everything will be fine, okay?” he said.

Chey set her fork down and picked up her glass of water. She wished it was wine, or better yet, a strong mixed drink. “Forgive me if I won't believe that till I see it.”

“You could be a little more supportive,” Sander said, an edge entering his voice.

“I could be, but I'm not. You know all the reasons why.” She sipped at the water and set the glass back down. Picking up the linen napkin off her stomach (since she had no lap to speak of), she dabbed at the corners of her mouth. Busy work. Something to keep her hands and mouth occupied.

He leaned closer, driving his point home while everyone else's attention remained with Gunnar and Leander. “It won't help me later, knowing you're upset. It'll distract me, possibly at a bad time. Just go with it, Chey. This is what I need to be doing right now and I'd rather have you on my side.”

“I am on your side. What part about that did you miss?” she hissed, frowning at him. The sharp suit he'd dressed in for dinner made him seem as impervious as he would have her believe. Dark in color, it offset his blonde hair, which he'd tied back at the nape. He'd even shaved his jaw, the lingering scent of some great smelling aftershave tickling her senses.

Damn the man. Didn't he know it was because she thought she'd almost lost him that she didn't want him to go now?

He set his jaw. “It sure as hell doesn't feel like it.”

“I'm going to worry the whole time you're gone.” Chey enunciated a few particular words to emphasize her feelings. The. Whole. Time. You're. Gone. It wasn't until she stopped speaking that the weight of silence made itself known. Everyone had ceased their conversations and were either eating quietly, staring at a far wall, or staring down at their plate.

“Can I see you in the other room?” Sander said. He set down his fork with a clatter and shoved his chair back. The noise grated on Chey's ears.

Rising, she departed the long table without glancing at the others. Did she need to explain what was going on? She thought not. These were immediate family members—except for that Leander person—and she knew they understood her angst. Hot on Sander's heels, she followed him through a sitting room into another hallway. His shoulders were set in a rigid line, stride clipped and brisk.

Chey had trouble keeping up after he took a turn down another hallway and ducked into an informal sitting room. Refusing to waddle, she paced herself. She'd get there in her own time. Until then, he could just wait. If she went slow, she wouldn't be embarrassingly out of breath when she got there.

Rounding into the sitting room, finding it well appointed but less gilded than others, she halted near the back of a divan and crossed her arms over her chest. Sander had managed to have some clothes sent up that fit decently, if a little snug across her stomach. The plum colored, long sleeved shirt stretched over her expanded frame, topping a pair of leggings that tapered to a soft pair of knee high boots.

Sander stood with his back to her in front of a cold fireplace. Hands in the pockets of his slacks, he finally turned to make eye contact. “This is part of it all, Chey. I know you know that already. I'm not the type of man to sit back while someone attempts to overthrow my reign. It's not my style to send others out to do my bidding, at least not under these circumstances, and although I expect you to worry, I also expect you to back me. This won't work if we're constantly at each other's throats. We need to present a united front not just to the public, but to our family. They depend on knowing I can handle this, no matter how strong they seem.”

“I know all that. And I do back you—I just don't want you to go right now. You don't see my side of it, that I spent a week at your bedside, not knowing if you were going to wake up or not. I mentioned that before, but do you really know what it was like? It was terrifying. I fought for you all the way up until the end, and I remained positive when Paavo hid me away in a room miles and miles from here. I refused to think that they'd killed you in your sleep. But you're here now, alive and breathing, and I don't understand why you can't give me just twenty-four more hours.” Chey, short of breath after that, schooled her breathing so it didn't appear as if she'd just run a marathon.

Sander stared, one knee half cocked in his casual stance. “I hear you. I know you were scared, and I'm glad to know you stood by me when I needed you to. This is just an extension of that. Waiting gives Paavo time to regroup, to make more plans, to try and outguess what we'll do. I told you that upstairs, and I wasn't lying. There's turmoil at the castle and we need to capitalize on it. What it means, Chey, is that it could be safer for us to go in now than later. I won't let him have time to orchestrate another assassination strike, to find out where we're staying, or to let him grab someone else in the family to use as a shield. Leander says his troops aren't well organized, not by a soldier's standards, so let's not give them time to replace the bad with the good. Do you understand?”

Chey hated the way he held himself from her, keeping a broad distance while they worked through the problem. She felt miles away from him instead of twenty or so feet. All the things he said made sense, but she couldn't let go of the niggling fear that it was too soon. That he was taking too much of a risk. And what was this sting of tears at the back of her eyes?

Hormones. That had to be it. What she understood was that Sander and his group were going whether she liked it or not. She could protest until she was blue in the face and it wouldn't change a thing. Holding up her hands, flashing her palms in a sign of surrender, she acquiesced. It made her stomach churn to give up and give in, but she would feel ten times worse if he walked out under the cover of darkness while this rift still existed between them.

“All right,” she said.

Sander hesitated, then strode across the room at a sedate pace. Pulling his hands from his pockets, he reached for her and held onto her shoulders with a gentle touch. He stared into her eyes, the blue of his serious and sober.

“I need you to be my Queen right now, not just my wife. I'll be back, I promise, and then we'll spend the next few months straightening out our country and welcoming our son into the world. Stress and worry free. I'm in good enough shape to see this through, Chey. Trust me.”

The honesty and forthright manner in which he spoke touched deep places in Chey. He succeeded in rallying her when she didn't think she had any rally left. He made her proud, made her stronger.

“I do trust you. Please be careful. I--” She paused. Licked her lip. Then tried again. “I don't want to live the rest of my life without you. I love you more than anything and although I'm worried, I'll stand behind you in this.”

He smiled, a glint of affection sliding across the panes of his eyes. “I love you more than you know. It's what will bring me back before morning, what drives me to make sure no one ever takes you from me again. I will return.”

Chey settled her hands on his hips and offered her mouth for a kiss. “You better.”

. . .

An hour after midnight, Chey stood in the foyer with Wynn, Natalia and Krislin. She watched the men make last minute adjustments to their gear and re-check flashlights, walkie-talkies, weapons and other battle paraphernalia. Dressed in all black, they looked different than they had earlier masquerading to be part of the military. Each wore gloves, boots laced up the front, and vests that allowed them free movement but still protected their torsos.

Chey couldn't find fault with Sander's actions, movements, or clarity. He seemed alert, strong and determined. All that without a lick of rest or sleep.

“You won't hear from us until after we've acquired our target,” Sander said to Chey. “It might take longer than we think, depending on what we find when we get there. Don't call until we contact you first or morning comes.”

“All right.” Promising herself she wouldn't repeat words of caution, she waited while they tucked away the last of their supplies and Sander came to kiss her goodbye. She didn't make a big deal out of it, even if her heart felt like it might pound right out of her chest. Holding onto the vest where it cut up by his shoulders, she pulled him down for one more kiss, standing on her tiptoes to reach. Then she let him go.

He smiled a grim smile, cupped her cheek with his gloved fingers, then led the way out the front door. Chey exhaled a long breath, sending up a few silent prayers for his—and everyone else's—safe return. What surprised her was the tug Leander gave to Wynn's hair and the wink he shot over his shoulder.

Chey glanced sideways at her best friend, doubly surprised to see Wynn mouth Come back safe! Rosy cheeked, Wynn wiggled her fingers, waving Leander out the door behind the others.

“What was that all about?” Chey asked as the engine turned over in the Hummer. Moments later, the sound of debris crunching under the tires heralded the men's departure.

Wynn rocked back and forth on her feet, hands clasped together. Before she could speak, Natalia beat her to it.

“Flirting, that's what. I can see why, too. He's pretty hot.”

Chey and Wynn looked Natalia's way. For a change, the Princess was dressed in casual, camel colored slacks and a simple white button down shirt. Natalia arched her brows at the girls as if to say, What?

“Did you really just admit a man was hot?” Chey asked.

“I did,” Natalia replied.

“Well, hands off that one,” Wynn said with a cheeky smile. “It might go nowhere, but it'll go nowhere without any help from you.”

Natalia laughed. “For your information, I'm dating a Belgian Prince.”

As the butler closed the door on the departing Hummer, Chey was more than happy to give Natalia her full attention. “How long has that been going on?”

“For about two months?” Natalia's smile was more than a little sly.

“How come you never said anything?” Chey asked.

“Because I've been happy to see where it leads first, before my brothers start badgering me about marriage. I'm sure they'd love to pawn me off at the earliest possible moment.”

“Natalia! That's not true. I mean—it might have been six months ago, but not now.” Chey gave Natalia honesty for honesty. Things had changed lately—for the better. And if her actions in recent days were any indication, Natalia's loyalty was to Sander, not Paavo.

“I know.” Natalia didn't shy away from the truth. “Don't say anything though. I'll tell them when and if things progress.”

“You have my word,” Chey said. She glanced at the door, then over to Wynn. “And what about you? When did this whole Leander thing crop up? I thought you were busy being my eyes and ears.”

Wynn looked uncomfortable for long moments. She shuffled her feet and lifted a shoulder. “He's probably just doing his job, but...well. He's been really great to me through all this.”

Chey thought there was something Wynn wasn't saying. “Is that all there is to it?”

Wynn directed her gaze toward a dark window. Nostalgia and confusion flickered across her features before it cleared. “Yeah, that's all there is to it.”

Chey knew when to press, and when to let go. For now, she let go. “Why don't we all go make something hot to drink and settle in a sitting room?”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Krislin, who had been silent until now, replied. As a group, the women made their way deeper into the castle.

Chey only glanced back at the door once. Her thoughts were, and would remain, elsewhere.

Chapter Twenty-One

Prepared for what was to come, Sander was nevertheless rocked to the core to see multiple skirmishes across the flat landscape of Latvala. His country, battle-torn all because Paavo decided to push an agenda designed to split people formerly content to reside along one another in relative peace. He knew some of the troops were Bashir plants, men not of Latvala blood. It made the situation even more precarious; if too many men lost their lives, Bashir could very well make it an international incident.

“Stop right up here,” Sander said to Gunnar, who was behind the wheel. Leander, in the seat behind, sat with his weapon across his lap, staring out the window.

Gunnar brought the Hummer to a stop near a broad trunked tree situated thirty feet from the main road leading out of Paavo's country holding. Roughly three quarters of a mile separated the group and the castle. Two more Hummers filled with military special forces parked at their rear, headlights off.

“What if he already left?” Gunnar asked for the second time.

“He's in there,” Sander said. “But he won't be for long. We're going to chase him out like the rat that he is, and have our confrontation away from the fighting. I can't believe those are our men out there, battling over land that is already theirs.”

It made Sander sick to his stomach. There was no good reason for the skirmishes. Every now and then, the night lit up with small flares of firelight. Pops and bangs indicated weapons were in use, and although Sander had insisted his men go for non-lethal wounds, there was only so much a man could do in the dark. The two contingents of military that had attacked two hours before were more diversion than anything, giving Sander and the rest a shot at Paavo when he fled the castle for a safer haven. It would happen, he was sure of it, because he knew his brother wouldn't feel secure after the initial infiltration. Paavo wouldn't know who he could trust, and that doubt should send him out from behind his high walls.

Sander counted on the strategy to work. Breaching the castle itself when it was battened down for attack was all but impossible. If they couldn't lure Paavo out, they would have to turn to other tactics.

“I wouldn't put it past Paavo to send a decoy out, either, so we need to be wary of that. He might send someone right ahead of the real convoy and we'll be vulnerable once we're out on open ground,” Sander said, directing his caution toward Gunnar. Leander already knew what to do and what to expect.

“How are we going to be able to tell the difference?” Gunnar asked.

“Paavo won't exit the castle without an entourage. A single car, no matter if it's Paavo's royal limousine or what, will probably be a decoy. Wait for a line of three or four vehicles. If they don't follow a lead car within ten minutes, then I'll send one of the teams behind us to stop the initial vehicle. We need to wait and hit Paavo ourselves.”

“Couldn't he use reverse strategy and go in the limousine instead?” Gunnar asked.

“He could, but this is where you have to use what you know about Paavo. He's a good fighter, no doubt. And smart. He doesn't like to fight alone, though, and against multiple adversaries, he'll want tight security if he leaves the castle. That means more than one car.” Sander watched the shifting mass of bodies out on the flatland, watched as several tents burned and more muzzles lit up from gunfire.

Paavo had a lot to answer for.

“I don't know that much about him—about any of you—in combat situations,” Gunnar replied. He sounded pensive.

“What do you think you're doing right now?” Sander asked, glancing away from the field. “You're learning. This is how you do it. I've always been a believer that hard experience beats the classroom every time. You'll remember every mistake you make tonight, and you'll also remember all the lessons you learn. It's a shame it has to happen this way, among our own people, but the result is the same.”

Gunnar grunted agreement.

“We all started somewhere, Gunnar,” Leander added, watching out the window. His eyes were clear and sharp and assessing.

“I should have been learning more about this and doing less traveling,” Gunnar said. “That's where I put most of my focus. Ambassador duties.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Imagine how well rounded you'll be in a few years, when you've learned a lot more about this part of running a country.” Sander shifted the gun on his lap, regarding the long road leading up the hill to the castle. He expected to have to wait another hour or two until his own troops made headway before Paavo felt the need to vacate.

Exactly an hour and forty minutes later, headlights appeared on the road. Sander sat straighter in his seat, looking for following vehicles. So far, he saw none.

“Leander?” Sander inquired of the man in the back to see if he spotted shapes in the dark that he might have missed.

“One car so far, traveling fast,” Leander said.

“Yep. Decoy, I bet,” Sander replied. He picked up the walkie-talkie and hailed one of the men in a Hummer behind them. “Let this car pass. Follow in ten minutes and stick to the pre-arranged protocol.”

“Yes sir.” A reply filled the Hummer and the walkie-talkie went silent.

The car that sped by wasn't Paavo's limousine. It was a sleek black Mercedes, a car Sander knew to be one of his brother's favorites.

“Are you sure, Sander--”

“Decoy, Gunnar. I'm sure of it,” Sander said. “In ten or fifteen minutes, three or four vehicles are going to come tearing down the road, with Paavo probably riding in the middle car.”

Eighteen minutes later, a trio of headlights blipped into view on the road.

“Yeah, coming real fast,” Leander said from the back seat.

“This is it,” Sander said. He got on the walkie. “Take out the first car. Disable it completely,” he ordered.

“Yes sir.” The Hummer directly behind Sander reversed, then pulled ahead around the tree just as the lead car was about to speed past. A crunch of metal, screeching brakes, and another loud bang rattled the night.

“Go, go, go!” Sander was on the ground even as the second car rear-ended the first, running to the middle vehicle with his gun in front at the ready.

Gunnar was the last to leave the car, bringing up the rear behind Leander.

A wealth of fury hit Sander just as he yanked open the back door of the high-end vehicle. All this heartache, near death and chaos was Paavo's fault. Reaching in as men started shouting and a gunshot went off, Sander physically pulled out a guard and threw him to the ground. Leander covered the front while Gunnar sighted in the third car, shouting warnings to the driver and passengers to freeze. The guards from the Hummer that had battered the lead vehicle swarmed between cars, pulling startled men out and forcing them belly down on the pavement.

A muzzle appeared, pointed at Sander's face. Paavo climbed out the far side of the damaged car, realigning his aim at his brother. His eyes were narrow, hooded like a snake.

Sander didn't lower his gun. Facing off with Paavo, he counted on his team to take care of the stragglers and prevent them from shooting.

“I'm not the type to live behind bars,” Paavo stated right off the bat. “So tell your men to back off and put their guns down.”

“Not going to happen,” Sander said. “What you need to do is slowly lower your weapon and put your hands where we can see them.”

“Are you deaf, Dare? One of us is going home in a body bag today, and it won't be me. If your men don't turn their guns away from me, I'm going to shoot you deader than dead. Don't think I won't.” Paavo's gun never wavered. His eyes glimmered and his jaw was tight.

“Paavo, what are you doing?” Gunnar said, lowering his weapon. Frowning, he took a step closer to the wrecked trunk of the car. “Don't do this.”

“Gunnar,” Sander said, barking the name. “Back off.”

“Little brother. Little, little brother,” Paavo said, staring at Dare while he talked to Gunnar. “You have a lot to learn. Dare should have never brought you along. How will you deal with his anguish after this, hm, my King?” Paavo asked. “It'll damage him forever to watch one of his brothers die right before his eyes.”

“No one is dying here today. Shut up and put the gun down, Paavo.” Sander jerked his head to the other guards, indicating he wanted them to point their weapons elsewhere than Paavo. After a brief hesitation that let Sander know they all thought it a poor decision, periphery picked up the motion of guns aiming at the men on the ground.

“You may order everyone else, but you do not order me. It's a real shame the IED didn't finish what it started. I would be well on the way to ruling a country that legally belongs to me.” Paavo's gun shook. “Now we'll have to do this the dirty way.”

“What, you plan to kill everyone here? That's what it would take, you know. You'll get one bullet off but not two before they take you down. So think twice. And I'll say it again: this country belongs to the man who rules it best. I'm sorry, but it isn't you. Aksel filling your head with ideas of a crown and a throne was the worst thing he ever did. Worse, even, than what he did to Natalia. It has corrupted your mind, made you stupidly arrogant. I will say this though—you almost succeeded. Almost.”

“We're not through here yet, Dare. Don't be so hasty. I've got reinforcements coming when I don't call to check in, and then you'll be outmanned and outgunned.” Paavo licked his lips. The gun trembled in his hand.

“You should have never touched her,” Sander said, unable to temper the venom dripping from every word. He wanted Paavo to know his vengeance was for more than the citizens and the country. Laying hands on Chey had dire consequences. “That was your final, fatal mistake.”

Paavo's obnoxious laugh got cut short by a single gunshot.

. . .

Dawn gave way to a late summer day, casting the pastures and fields into sharp relief. Dust hung in the air, a telltale remnant of the skirmishes that had taken place in the night. Dust wasn't the only reminder. Several bodies littered the ground, arms and legs akimbo, victims of a bloody feud that had only come to an end a few hours ago. Sander stood next to Gunnar, feeling older than his years. He stared out at the carnage, disturbed by the sight, by the circling of crows overhead. Needless deaths, Sander thought, men who'd died for a half-baked cause that should never have come to fruition at all. A sense of guilt hung over his head, guilt for the dead, for the division of a country he loved.

Fixing it would take time, patience and strength. Months upon months worth of explanations, healing and assurance that this would never happen again. And it wouldn't. He would make sure of that.

One glance at Gunnar's expression told Sander just how difficult this experience had been for him as well. He squeezed his brother's shoulder and let his arm fall away.

“Come on. Let's get back to the house,” Sander said.

“How do you go on from here?” Gunnar asked. “How do you reconcile with what's happened?”

Sander hesitated mid-turn. “You just do. This is where you build character, where you find out what you're really made of. Men don't let tragedy control them. You suffer in private, out of the public eye, and find what works to ease your internal pain. It's never easy, Gunnar, but men in our position have to do what's best for the country first, and what's best for themselves, second.”

“We're lucky we didn't have to meet him on the battlefield, aren't we? What would you have done then?” Gunnar glanced aside, met Sander's eyes.

“We're lucky,” Sander agreed. “I would have done what I had to. At all costs, I'm against taking a life unless it's absolutely necessary. Be that a stranger or my brother. I suspect I would have made the same choice I made on the side of the road, though. It was the best way to end the confrontation without more death.”

Gunnar traced the edge of his teeth with his tongue, then inclined his head. “I don't think I could have done it.”

“You don't give yourself enough credit. You would if I hadn't been here. It might seem impossible, and you probably don't think you'll ever be able to make that kind of decision, but trust me when I say that you will. Some day, you'll face another impossible situation and you'll use all your collective experience to make the choice you need to. That's what I did. I'm older, I've been through more than you have. These steps you're taking now help shape who you become later, a man I already know to be trustworthy, honest and compassionate. That's a better start than a lot of us get.”

“He threatened me, threatened Krislin. And there I stood, unable to do anything but fret about his death. As if none of the other mattered—and it should have. It should have.” Gunnar looked at the ground.

“It mattered. He's your brother, however, and it was your first time being confronted with that kind of volatility from your immediate family. It's not something I wish on anyone, but I'm glad that you cared enough despite what he'd done to be upset about his fate. Like I said—compassionate.” Sander studied Gunnar's profile, his eyes. He knew his brother would spend months attempting to reconcile himself with Paavo's actions.

With his actions, too.

“What will you do now?” Gunnar asked after a time.

“The only thing I can do.”

. . .

“Why do you look as guilty as a woman caught cheating on her husband?” Chey regarded Wynn across the sitting room, mid-afternoon light falling in through the window. The entire evening had been spent pacing, wondering, worrying and pacing some more. Chey couldn't rest, couldn't still her mind. People came and went from the sitting room—Natalia, Krislin, Wynn—at all hours, proving they had trouble sleeping, too. Everyone waited with baited breath for news, a phone call, something. The later it got, the more Chey feared something went terribly wrong. So she pinned Wynn to the wall with her question, choosing to indulge in curiosity rather than make another circuit around the couches.

If she was right, something monumental was going on with Wynn, and Chey wasn't sure it had to do with the Leander fellow. Wynn glanced away from the view beyond the panes, cheeks picking up a curious blush.

“It's nothing,” Wynn said.

“I know better. What's wrong with you? You haven't been yourself at all last night and today.”

Wynn took a breath in and let it out slowly. “It's not something I'm comfortable talking about.”

Chey knew then that this was serious business. “Come on, Wynn. It's me. No one else is here right now. What's going on?”

Wynn twisted her fingers in her lap. It took her several minutes to begin her confession. “I...I started to feel something for Paavo. When I played his secretary. It's been eating at me for days.”

Chey couldn't have been more shocked. She stared, at first unsure what to say. Paavo? Wynn had felt something for Paavo? A flush of betrayal hit Chey unexpectedly, then doused itself when she realized Wynn wouldn't ever go against her. “Wynn—why didn't you say anything? Did you...I mean, did it go anywhere?”

“No, no.” Wynn waved a hand, then rubbed her forehead. “There was just an attraction, you know? And the whole time I didn't like it. Didn't want to watch him when he was in the room. I knew what he was doing, what he'd done, and I still couldn't rein it in.”

“Did he touch you--”

“Not once. Not like that. Never like that. He just kept me intrigued with looks and surprise visits. And I have to say, the visits weren't always welcome. He caught me talking to you once and I had to cover for it. He always seemed to be where I didn't want him to be when I tried to dig up information for you, like in his office and things.”

“How do you feel now? Are you sorry things have come to this? Do you regret helping me and Sander?” Chey frowned at the thought.

Wynn snapped a look at Chey. “Never. It wasn't like that. What I feel right now is guilt for not being able to control the attraction. Just guilt. And maybe...maybe wishing he'd been another man, with good intentions and decent honor.”

“Some people let the idea of power go to their head. It's all they think about, all they want. He became that—and maybe he was that before Aksel planted the idea of being King in his head. I don't know. What I do know, is that he won't stop until someone is dead. Sander, me, you—anyone who stands in his way.”

“I know. It's part of the guilt, part of feeling like crap over my choices. Although, if I would have trusted Leander at the family seat and stayed behind, I wouldn't have been there at Paavo's holding to set the fire.” Wynn cocked a small smile Chey's way.

“Exactly. You were where you needed to be, Wynn. Things happen for a reason. That fire likely distracted the guards and kept everyone busy so that I could get off the grounds. Serendipity, karma, call it what you like. You were supposed to be there.” Chey, desperate to make Wynn feel better, struggled up off the sofa and went to sit next to her friend. She didn't manage it without a few grunts and a pant of breath.

Wynn straightened and looped an arm around Chey's shoulders. “Thanks, Chey. It's better to talk it out than bottle it up. And besides, it's a lesson learned. Right? I won't ever make that mistake again.”

Chey patted Wynn's knee affectionately. “Right. You didn't fall in love with him, thank goodness, so at least it should be easy to put behind you.”

Wynn laughed a wry laugh. “I'd have to question my sanity if I'd fallen in love with him after knowing what he did.”

“And there's Leander,” Chey said, bringing up the guard who put a light back in Wynn's eyes the evening before.

Wynn smiled. “Yes, there's Leander. He probably thinks I'm a nutjob, and I've been rude to him on occasion, but he always turns up when I need him to.”

Reminded that they'd not heard a word from the men all night, Chey's smile faltered and fell. It had to be well after two now. Where the hell were they?

In a quiet voice, Wynn said, “I'm worried, too. They should have called by now.”

“If they're okay, I'm going to beat each of them to a pulp.” Chey didn't like the waiting game. She didn't like the odds that the men hadn't found time to call in or have someone else call in their stead. What did it mean?

Chey didn't like the things that came to mind.

“Hey lovebirds,” Natalia said from the doorway to the sitting room. “They're back.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chey reached the front door as Sander and Gunnar exited the dusty Hummer. As far as Chey could tell, Sander was in one piece. He wasn't limping, didn't have new bandages and didn't seem to be bleeding. A small sound of relief preceded her rush for the stairs. He glanced up as he rounded the nose of the vehicle, mouth set in a grim line that turned into a tight smile when he saw her. Gathering her up in his arms, he held her tight and pressed kisses into her hair.

“What took you so long? It's the middle of the afternoon and we haven't heard a word!” Chey said, chastising him and Gunnar both. Someone should have called. She kissed his jaw, mindless of the faint layer of stubble on his skin. Leaning her head back, arms around his neck, she sought his eyes. Chey could usually tell many things by what she saw there.

Today she saw weariness, pain, and other, less definable emotions.

“I should have had someone get in touch, you're right,” he said. “We've been a little busy.”

Chey took that to mean his night had been hard, and the day even harder.

“Where's Leander?” Wynn stood on the landing, looking around the driveway, fear evident on her features.

“He stayed behind to take care of a few things. He's fine,” Sander said to Wynn.

“Yes, he's fine,” Gunnar said from where he greeted Krislin in the same way Sander greeted Chey. “He'll be here a little later.”

Wynn wilted with obvious relief. “Thank God. I'm glad you're all okay.”

Natalia stepped down to Sander and Chey and pecked a kiss to Sander's cheek, then to Gunnar's. “I knew you'd make it back in one piece. Congratulations.”

Sander rumbled a sound like Thanks for Natalia's good wishes.

Chey sought Sander's eyes after Natalia retreated. “What happened?”

“In summary, we caught Paavo fleeing the castle after our men started skirmishes with his troops. Unfortunately, Paavo left me no choice but to maim him so he didn't do something stupid. He's fine, mad as hell, but alive,” Sander said.

“Maim him?” Chey asked.

“I had to shoot him.”

That answer brought everyone's attention to Sander.

“Paavo had his weapon aimed at Dare,” Gunnar explained. “He could have shot him any time. When it became apparent Paavo wasn't going to go down without a fight, Dare did what he had to so no one else would get hurt. Paavo's just nursing a wounded shoulder, nothing more.”

“Do you really think he might have shot you?” Chey asked, disturbed by the mental images Gunnar's reply brought.

“Maybe. I didn't want to take the chance. Besides that, Gunnar was there and he could have as easily gone after him. It was better to take him out first rather than wait and see just how far he would push it.” Sander scraped Chey's hair back from her forehead with his palm. “He'll have a trial and spend what's left of his life behind bars. It's not a perfect solution, but at least he's breathing.”

“You're lucky he didn't shoot you right off,” Chey said. She ran her hands up the outsides of his arms.

“We ambushed him. It was risky guessing that he would leave the castle, but a risk worth taking because it gave us the upper hand,” Sander said.

“Dare knew exactly what Paavo planned to do,” Gunnar added. “He knew his adversary well.”

“Either way, I'm glad it worked out the way it did,” Natalia said. “I was afraid...well, you know what I was afraid of.”

“Yes,” Sander said with a glance at his sister. “Like I said, it's not a perfect solution. We have months and months of work ahead to fix what's broken, to regain the trust of the people. It'll take a full four weeks, I think, to make sure all of Bashir's 'borrowed personnel' are removed from our borders.”

Gunnar snorted a derisive sound. “And what are you going to do about Bashir? He conspired in a plot to overthrow you.”

“He'll pony up a good amount of money, that's what, to help right the wrongs. And if he doesn't, I'll make sure to inform the international community what kind of man he really is,” Sander said.

“He won't dare tarnish his 'good name',” Natalia said with a rude scoff. “You'll get what you want from him in the end.”

“We'll see. Sometimes he doesn't like to be parted with his money unless it's his idea,” Sander said. “Either way, it's over. I'll arrange a public address later this evening and tomorrow, I need to tour the country to see exactly what we need to do.”

“That's fine. But right now, you're going to come in and let someone look at your stitches and other injuries. I won't take no for an answer.” Chey slid her hands down to Sander's and back-stepped up the stairs.

“What's in it for me?” Sander asked, arching a brow. Regardless, he followed her to the landing and from there, to the open door.

“Hours of blissful silence instead of me ranting in your ear.”

A ripple of laughter swept through those remaining on the porch.

Sander cut Chey a sly grin. “I had other things in mind.”

“Sander, I can't see my feet, my ankles look like cantaloupes, and I'm pretty sure some of this bloat is gas. Still feeling frisky?”

Sander guffawed and bent to sweep her up into his arms. “You're a real buzzkill, Chey Ahtissari. Let's go find the Doc.”

. . .

After getting the okay from an onsite physician, Chey accompanied Sander upstairs while he prepared a formal announcement. She rubbed his shoulders, played with his hair, and generally made a nuisance of herself because she couldn't keep her hands off him. Relief felt like a drug in her system. For the first time since their ordeal began, she was hopeful that the worst was over with family problems and that they could get back to a more normal life.

Sander didn't seem to mind her hovering or her touches. Occasionally he reached up to skim the rough pads of his fingers across her knuckles or paused to lean back for a kiss. Otherwise, he was intent on his work.

Later, after sending dispatches to the Crown Prince, Sander went before the cameras to give his speech. It was filled with heartbreaking honestly about Paavo's misdeeds and the fallout after the capture. But Sander was also stern and strong, letting it be known that he would not tolerate acts of treason or attempts to overthrow him. No matter who it was, even family. He did not discuss his coma, his wounds, or Paavo's attack on the caravan. The public got a modified version of the facts, enough, Chey thought, to quell any suspicion or more questions. She stood at his side, with Gunnar and Natalia on the other, lending her support to the process.

When it was over, Sander led her back into the castle and closed the doors to the world. He led her to their temporary suite upstairs and, after changing into nothing but a pair of black boxers, passed out on the bed.

More than anything, his actions told Chey just how exhausted Sander really was, and how hard the ordeal had been. The man he presented to the rest of humanity appeared to be bulletproof—Chey knew better. As she watched him sleep with one arm thrown over his forehead, the sheets haphazardly wrapped around his sprawled legs, she took in the essence of Sander the Man instead of Sander the King. Sander, with his flaws and insecurities, his weaknesses and vulnerabilities. He had them, just like everyone else. It made her love him more than ever, a feat she didn't think possible.

She joined him shortly before midnight, after she settled her mind. He curled her instinctively against his body, holding her close enough that she heard his heartbeat under her cheek. The heat of his skin warmed hers, the masculine scent of aftershave and cologne mingling with the soft floral of her own.

It took an hour for sleep to find her. The first crack of a thunderstorm ushered her into dreams.

. . .

Wynn regarded the rain from a covered terrace on the second floor. It was too dark to see anything except when streaks of lightning blitzed the sky. Wrapped in a cardigan of gray, a borrowed garment from one of the female members of the staff, Wynn propped her chin on her knees and looped her arms around her updrawn knees. She couldn't sleep, couldn't get her mind off her confession. These were the hours she came to terms with the truth, with her real internal feelings.

That she was so bothered about her lapse in judgment over Paavo was no real surprise when she thought about it. She'd always been in control of her emotions, never one to blithely engage men unless she knew exactly what she wanted. This proved, however, that sometimes a person wasn't as in control as they believed. Either that, or attraction was more powerful than she realized. Never before had she been drawn like that to any man, and perhaps, she reasoned with herself, part of the allure was the taboo aspect. Sometimes people wanted what they knew they couldn't have.

She was glad it was over, glad that Chey knew. It eased the weight she'd been carrying around on her shoulders. With a deep breath of rain-tainted air, she let it all go. Just like that. No more would she pause to think about what if. Paavo was out of her life, no longer a threat, and no longer a temptation.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Wynn twisted around in the chair. Leander stood in the doorway, shoulder leaning against the frame. Instead of fatigues or a uniform, he wore distressed denim and a midnight blue button down. The boots looked rather worn, perhaps a favorite pair. Wynn understood in that moment that she'd been wrong about something: this man attracted her on a whole other level than any other. It wasn't just physical, although there was a wealth of that as well. It was how he handled himself, his confidence in the face of adversity. There didn't seem to be anything he couldn't do. Anything he couldn't fix.

Leander also had secrets. Things about his life he couldn't, or wouldn't, tell her.

“I was just thinking what a dunce I can be sometimes,” she admitted. Why not be honest? Leander should know what he was getting into, she decided.

“You mean about liking Paavo and hating yourself for it?” He cocked a brow in question.

Floored by his perceptiveness, she changed the angle of her posture to see him easier. Should she be honest about that, too?

“You don't need to scramble for an answer,” he said next. “It's written all over your face. Just for the record, it doesn't matter either way. A thousand women have probably thought the same thing about him.”

“How did you know?” she asked.

“I'm good at picking up small details about people. It wasn't all that hard to figure out.” He didn't move from his lean.

“I don't know what to say.” Wynn spoke the truth. She really wasn't sure what to add to that. Leander had hit the nail on the head. For a moment, she wondered if Chey told Sander, and Sander told Leander. Right after that, she dismissed the notion. Sander didn't seem the type to run about, passing off gossip.

“You don't need to say anything. Although if you need to talk about it, I could use an hour to wind down from the day.”

Wynn gestured to a chair adjacent to her own. “Of course. I talked about it to Chey earlier, and just decided that I didn't want to think about all that anymore. It's behind me. I accept it for what it is, and now it's done.”

“Pragmatic, like I knew you would be.” Leander strolled over to the chair and threw himself down into the cushions. “Don't beat yourself up about it. You've probably done enough of that already and honestly, he's not worth the effort.”

“It's like you can read my mind or something,” Wynn said, watching him cross to the chair and sit down. The man was poetry in motion, no matter how cheesy the sentiment seemed.

“I'm observant. That's all it takes.”

“How do you know I'm not pretending?”

“Because someone doesn't wear such raw emotion on their face when they're pretending. You're easier to read than you think.” He set his elbow on the arm of the chair and propped his hand near his mouth, regarding her with a dead on stare.

Wynn narrowed her eyes. Might as well go for the throat. “So you know that I've already put a claim in on you then, right?”

“Mhm.” He was as casual as could be with his hummed reply.

Wynn's mouth fell open a little. “Seriously?”

He laughed. “Seriously.”

“And how did you know that? Don't tell me I wore my expression on my face, because when I was with you last, we were under siege, trying to escape. There wasn't anything there then but fear and nervousness.”

“You flirted with me the first night you met me,” he countered. “And although you knew I was watching you walk the hall, you didn't bother to stop. You just let me keep looking.”

Wynn blustered and stammered, waving a hand dismissively. “That's a crock.”

“It's the truth.”

“And?”

“You've blushed like three times in my presence.”

Wynn laughed, slapping a hand against her knee. “That's because you caught me going through files or whatever! And because I was a prisoner! Embarrassment does not equate to a real blush.”

“You're blushing right now,” he pointed out.

“I am not.” Wynn refused to put a hand against her cheek. She was blushing though, she could feel it.

“And you hugged me.”

“I was relieved to see you! Any woman would have done the same.”

Leander arched a brow like he didn't believe her. “Really.”

“Well, how many women have you rescued?”

“That's classified information.”

“What?”

“I said, that's classified--”

“I heard you!” Wynn laughed because she couldn't not laugh. “I bet they all hugged you with relief, though.”

He shook his head, negating her guess.

“It still doesn't mean anything. That couldn't have tipped you off.”

“You might as well wear a neon sign across your forehead that says, I'm into Leander. Hands off.”

Wynn's cheeks burned with fresh surge of heat. “You're so cocky. That is not true.”

“Blushing,” he pointed out again, ticking it off his fingers. “And if you didn't like my company, you wouldn't be sitting here bantering back and forth with me.”

“Maybe I need the distraction.”

“And maybe you like me.” He flashed her a deviant grin.

“You're full of yourself.” Wynn chuckled. He made it easy to forget about everything except him.

“It's part of my charm.”

“I prefer tall, dark and modest.”

“But you can't strut for tall, dark and modest, and clearly, you enjoyed strutting for me.”

Wynn clapped a hand over half her face, laughing. She should have never kept pacing the hall that night. “I was indignant, which is not the same thing. If you'd been a gentleman, you would have looked the other way.”

“Then you would have been insulted because I didn't look. I know how a woman's mind works.”

“I would not! I might have thought you were chivalrous, a trait sadly lacking in today's male population.” Wynn was enjoying herself far too much.

“You wouldn't have thought anything, since you wouldn't have been looking. And since you were looking, that tells me you wanted me to watch. I'm just giving you what you want. Who's chivalrous now?”

“That's not chivalrous, that's advantageous.”

“One thing I will never claim to be is chaste. Since you're not either, then I know you appreciated me taking advantage of a golden opportunity. You liked it, I liked it, where's the harm?”

“How do you know I'm not chaste? I might be a virgin,” Wynn retorted.

“The only reason I'm not dissolving into laughter right now is because I'm chivalrous. See how that works?” His body shook with mirth.

“I see that you turn everything around to suit you. That's what. You talk in so many circles, a person can't even remember where the conversation started.” Wynn smiled despite herself.

“It started with me asking you on a date and you saying yes. I can't believe you don't recall that poignant moment.”

“You're impossible. Yes. Yes, I'll go on a date with you. Happy?” This time, Wynn didn't bother trying to hide the flirty way she watched him.

He sprawled deeper into the chair and looked mighty pleased with himself. “Absolutely.”

. . .

They took the tour in a helicopter, instead of a car. Sander wanted to cover more ground than they could achieve on the road. Chey peered out the window at the landscape of Latvala, pointing out trouble spots to Sander. Much to her surprise, he'd coordinated his military well and they were already breaking down encampments, making arrests, and diffusing the hard lines Paavo had attempted to make between 'regions'. It was technical, complicated and time consuming. Chey knew there was a long way to go, but she was heartened seeing the beginnings of progress.

What would take even more time, and more effort, was the damage done to the psyche of the people. Initial reports and polls indicated a majority still backed Sander. A strong contingent remained, however, who intended to cling to the promises Paavo made. The disgruntled gathered in the larger cities, some traveling hours to reach their goal. They picketed with signs, chanted their demands, and generally let Sander know how upset they were with the upheaval.

Because of the man Sander was, he ordered the pilot to set them down in one of the smaller towns. Against the advice of the security team, Sander exited the helicopter and, with only three guards in tow, went to talk directly to the people.

Remaining in the aircraft for her own safety, Chey could only imagine what might be happening a few blocks away. It chafed that she needed to stay put, even if she knew it was the wisest choice. With so few guards, there was little protection if the crowd turned into a mob. She wasn't exactly in the fittest shape to be running any length of distance.

Forty-minutes later, Sander returned. Climbing into the chopper, he put his headset and safety harness on, then glanced aside. “It went about as well as can be expected. They don't trust the leadership, which is something I'll have to work to overcome.”

“No one got violent, did they?” Chey asked.

“No. There were shouts and anger, but no violence. I can't expect people to flip-flop and switch allegiance, especially when they don't have all the facts. It'll come in time.” He made a motion to the pilot once the guards were inside and secure.

Shortly, the helicopter lifted off, swinging away toward another destination. They spent three more hours touring before Chey begged either to stop in a small town, or return to his holding. Her bladder couldn't take anymore.

Without complaint, Sander ordered the pilot to head for Pallan Island.

Shocked, Chey reached over to squeeze Sander's hand. She missed the castle overlooking the sea, missed their suite and her things.

Finally, she was going home.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A long week later, Chey marched through the gardens with Wynn and Krislin at her side. The day was sunny and bright, the temperature a tolerable seventy-eight degrees. Birds trilled in the trees, the wind rustled leaves, and the burble of a fountain added a calm ambiance to the rather brisk pace Chey set.

Brow beaded with sweat, arms swinging, Chey came to the beginning of the path and set off for another turn.

“Chey, really? I'm tired and I'm not even pregnant,” Wynn said, brushing a wrist across her brow to remove a vague sheen collecting above her eyebrows.

“Oh come on. You walked five miles on the beach a few days ago, before Leander left,” Chey scoffed. “You just want to go upstairs and see if he left you an email. Quit pining.”

Wynn and Krislin both laughed.

“This must be thirty-five times around the garden, at least. My feet hurt and I'm sweating buckets. It has nothing to do with Leander or any emails.”

“It's useless, Wynn,” Krislin said, easily keeping up with Chey. “We know better.”

Feigning a fuss, Wynn fell into step and joined the girls for yet another trip around the pathway.

“And if you want to talk about whose feet hurt--”

“Okay, okay! You win, Chey,” Wynn said, laughing. “My feet don't really hurt--”

“We know,” Chey and Krislin said at the same time.

“But it's been three days. I have a lot to tell him,” Wynn said, defending her desire to dash upstairs and check her mail.

“What, that you've daydreamed the hours away? No one can get your attention half the time,” Chey teased. With her due date a mere week away, Chey was doing all she could to help the process along. Even if it didn't help, it kept her mind off wondering when the baby might come. A round of betting had begun in the castle and across the land, along with wagers over names, the weight and other things, like hair and eye color. Chey thought it might be helping to bridge a few awkward gaps between otherwise divided families. Small steps, she reassured herself, were the best to healing the nation.

“That's just not true. I played Scrabble with you for an hour last night, Wynn protested.

“And how many times did we have to go, 'Wynn, Wynn, it's your turn!',” Krislin said, sending Wynn an amused glance.

“Eight. Eight times,” Chey said, pulling a number off the top of her head. In reality, they had needed to get Wynn's head out of the cloud a time or two.

“I don't want to hear it,” Wynn scoffed. “Chey, you do a lot of your own daydreaming, and if I didn't know better, Krislin and Gunnar are actually on honeymoon number two.”

Chey chuckled and glanced at Krislin, who tucked her chin and blushed.

“I think it's fantastic that they're so happy,” Chey said. When Krislin bit her lower lip, Chey stopped walking and put her hands on her hips. She narrowed her eyes.

Krislin and Wynn both stopped walking as well. Krislin looked evasive suddenly, staring off at the trees and birds. The fountain. Her shoes.

“Uh huh. Something's up. Spill it, Krislin,” Chey said. She knew the woman well enough by now to know that there was something Krislin wasn't saying.

“Is there time for me to go check my email?” Wynn asked in a small voice, obviously teasing.

The girls all laughed.

“Actually, we were going to wait until dinner tonight, but...” Krislin hedged, then said, “I'm pregnant!”

Chey bounced—as well as she could bounce at nine months pregnant—and snatched Krislin into a hug. Wynn circled them both, making it a trio of squeals and giggles.

“You said you'd been trying in the hospital, but I didn't think you actually might be!” Chey said.

“I didn't know, either. I wondered if I might be, then decided I wasn't, then forgot about everything when all this happened. But yes, we're due next spring.” Krislin, all smiles, released the girls with an excited sigh.

“Our babies will be close in age, I love that,” Chey said. “I hope you have a boy, too, and then we can have a gaggle of girls.”

“And I get to be Auntie Wynn to them all,” Wynn said, rubbing her hands together in anticipation.

“Or, you could join the fun.” Chey gave Wynn a pointed look.

“I could. But if you don't let me check my mail, then I can't write Leander back, and then he can't write me back, and then there will be no more long walks and no more dates, and then--”

Laughing, Chey held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Go check your--” A sudden cramp in her stomach cut her words off mid-sentence. She pressed a hand over the spot, wincing.

“What is it?”

“Was that from walking, or was that labor pain?”

“Do we need to get you inside?” Wynn and Krislin talked over themselves, jostling for position on either side of Chey.

“No, no, it's fine. Those Braxton-Hicks or whatever. I've had them all morning.” Chey waved their concern away. “Really, it's not 'time'.”

Wynn wilted, shoulders sagging. “Well, that was a let down. I'm almost not even excited to go check my email.”

“Almost.” Chey knew Wynn well.

Wynn cracked a smile. “Exactly. See you inside later?”

“Yes, I'll meet up with you in a little bit. I'm going around a couple more times. You two go on and get cleaned up and all that.” Chey let the girls off the hook for the last few laps.

After brief hugs, Krislin and Wynn departed.

Chey watched them all the way through the garden until they were out of sight. Only then did she allow another wince to cross her brow. Pressing against her belly with a palm, she schooled her breathing and began walking the path again.

She'd been in labor most of the morning, hiding the early symptoms with exercise. The first few hours, the cramps had come and gone intermittently, barely registering on Chey's pain scale. All her research told her that she might spend hours this way, building up to the big event. She chose to spend it outdoors and out of the limelight. Once everyone discovered her secret, she knew she wouldn't get a second to rest. Better to spend her time in the lovely garden, surrounded by sounds of birds and the sea.

Ten minutes later, another, stronger cramp struck.

Sitting on a bench with a stunning view of the fountain, Chey glanced at her watch. She expected another contraction in about the same amount of time: ten minutes. Seven minutes later, she groaned through another one.

“Just breathe, Chey. It'll probably space back out. Labor takes a while, so you've got the whole afternoon.” She talked to herself to calm her nerves. Labor and delivery didn't scare her so much as awe her. Not only was she having her first child, he would, one day, become ruler of Latvala. A Prince first, and eventually a King. His name would be included in history books and his decisions would one day guide a nation. Her son. Sometimes, Chey couldn't wrap her mind around it.

Struck with another cramp, she glanced at her watch.

Six minutes.

The heir to the throne was on his way.

. . .

Life could be unpredictable sometimes. Like Chey getting tackled off a horse by a future King, watching the man you loved walk down the aisle with another woman, and having contractions move from six minutes apart to three in the blink of an eye.

And these were no mamby-pamby contractions, either. They bent Chey in half when they came, causing her to stop walking toward the doors leading inside, focus and breathe.

Impossible. Wasn't it? She thought she had hours left to go. Instinct insisted she get to the hospital right now.

The worst of it was...she had to walk through the castle to find Sander. Someone—a guard, Wynn, Krislin—was bound to see her. And they would know right away she was in labor. Bells would sound, people would start shouting, and all hell would break loose. Her dreams of finding Sander and surprising him with the news alone were gone.

Then you shouldn't have waited so long in the garden! she argued with herself. But really, who knew labor could advance that fast? Live and learn.

Reaching into the pocket of her neon green walking shirt, Chey pulled out her cell phone. Why not make the ambulatory people come to her? Sander didn't look as if he'd swallowed a watermelon whole and last she knew, he wasn't in labor.

She found his name at the top of her contact list and pressed Call. With any luck, a contraction wouldn't come right when she was calmly telling him to meet her in the garden.

“Hey, babe. I was just about to come look for--”

Chey loved hearing his voice, she absolutely did. But she didn't have time for lengthy conversations right now. “Can you meet me in the...garden?”

On no. She held her breath, wincing as another swell came on.

“...Chey?”

Breathe, breathe, breathe. “Yep.”

“What are you doing?”

“Can you just meet me?” Chey couldn't control the impatience in her voice.

“Of course. You didn't fall, did you?”

“I didn't fall.” Breathe in, breathe out. Chey relaxed as the spasm passed. She straightened, experiencing a strange sense of euphoria and adrenaline at the same time. She was halfway between the fountain and the doors, undecided whether to go back to the bench or just lean against the arbor to her right.

“I'll be there in a minute,” he said, sounding wary.

“All right!” Chey urged a more cheery tone into her reply than she felt. Severing the call, she dipped the phone into her pocket and stood next to the arbor, gripping it with one hand. Good thing it was sturdy and well made.

This wasn't so bad.

She concentrated on the soothing sound of trilling birds and the burble of the fountain. Engrossed as she was, she didn't realize Sander was on the path until he spoke.

“You did fall,” he said, striding up to the arbor.

Chey realized belatedly how it must look: she was leaning heavily against the side of the tall archway, drenched in sweat, with one foot cocked atop the other. Combined with the perpetual frown of concentration on her brow, he'd come to the wrong conclusion. Later, once she didn't feel like Thor was squeezing her guts out, she might find it funny.

Straightening up, prepared to deliver the wonderful news that their baby would be born some time today, Chey got momentarily sidetracked by her husband. By how he looked. Sunlight glinted off shoulder length blonde hair and made his summer tan more golden. Whiskers peppered his jaw and chin, adding a rugged appeal Chey had always loved. A loose shirt of white, open at the throat, hung from shoulders that seemed broader than ever. Distressed jeans fit his thighs to perfection, the palomino boots reminding her of the day they first met.

“I love you, Sander,” she said, struck by a fit of whimsy. Already she could feel her belly starting to tighten with another contraction.

He narrowed his eyes and crouched in front of her, running strong hands over the fitted exercise pants until he came to her ankle. He lifted it with tender care. “I love you, too, but it's unfair to butter me up with love talk when you've taken a tumble. I told you to be careful--”

“You know how you like to carry me everywhere?” Chey said through clenched teeth, pulling her foot from his hands with care. “Now would be a good time. And avoid all the main hallways, if you can.”

He glanced up, frowning. “Why am I avoiding--”

Chey watched his expression shift from creeping suspicion to full blown realization. His eyes popped wide open and he lurched to his feet.

“Yes, it's that time.” Chey smiled, then winced, bending at the waist to breathe through another contraction. She forgot to glance at her watch to see how far apart they were, but she'd bet it was closer than three minutes now.

Sander picked her right up off the ground, cradling her against his chest. “I should have known. But when I glanced out the window twenty minutes ago, you three were walking your tails off like it was just another day. How far apart are the contractions? Did your water break? We've got time, you know. The book said it could take a while with your first.”

“You were keeping an eye on me?” Chey could barely get the words out. She found the sentiment sweet and it distracted her from all his other questions.

He snorted. “I've been keeping an eye on you.”

“Then it's a good thing I hid the fact that I've been in the beginning stages of labor since this morning.”

Sander muttered a curse in his mother tongue.

Chey laughed through another groan. She had something else to tell him, too. “I don't think we're going to make it to the hospital in Kalev.”

“What?” He glanced at her face, startled. His eyes were hectic, the whites showing more than usual. Inside the castle, he walked faster, heading generally toward the foyer. He veered left at the corner, then took a right.

“You need to take me right upstairs. The back stairs, too, so everyone doesn't--”

“You can't have the baby here! We need doctors and nurses and everything else. Besides, didn't you hear what I said? The book indicated it could be an all day event. You didn't say how close your contractions were, either.” Sander turned down a hall. Then another.

“Sander?”

“What?”

“You're going in circles.” No amount of pain or agony could stop the burst of laughter that hit Chey right then. Sander kept taking turns that would loop him back around where he'd started.

He muttered under his breath.

“Really. Upstairs, please. We're not going to make it.” Chey curled against Sander, breathing deep breaths to keep the groaning from echoing through the halls.

Sander changed direction. Two guards at the base of the staircase snapped to attention.

“One of you go downstairs and get Nelma from the kitchens. She's one of the elderly ladies. Send her to my suite immediately and tell her the baby's coming,” Sander said on the way by.

The guard on the left departed almost before the last syllable left Sander's mouth.

Upstairs, Sander barked out his brother's name. “Gunnar!”

The Prince appeared at the temporary bedroom he and Krislin had claimed for their visit. “What is it—is she having the baby?”

Sander shot Gunnar a direct look. “Yes. Put our plan in place, will you? Make sure no one, and I mean no one but immediate family and Nelma from the kitchens comes up here.”

“I'm on it, brother. Hey, congratulations!”

“Thank you, Gunnar.” Chey roused herself from another spasm, relieved that all Sander's siblings had decided to shack up at Kallaster castle for the time being. Right now, Chey wanted all the friendly, familiar faces around her she could get.

Sander barged his way into their suite and took her to a chair, rather than the bed. He set her down, easing her into the cushions. “I know Nelma will want to prepare the bed and whatever else she's got to do. Can you hold out here for a minute?”

“This feels pretty good. I'm all right,” Chey assured him. She toed off her walking shoes and leaned back in the chair.

Sander fished his phone out while he headed to the linen closets. “Get me the doctor. Tell him we're sending the helicopter right now. Yes, she's having the baby.”

Chey battled through three more contractions while Sander stormed around the bedroom like a dervish, feverishly preparing for the arrival of their son.

Chapter Twenty-Four

It was just her and the contractions and a tidal wave of pain that crested and waned, ceaseless and relentless. Sander, at her side, coaxed her through each one, a fount of strength and calm reassurances. Labor had progressed faster than anyone expected, forcing the woman serving as a midwife to rush through preparations even as Chey started groaning that she needed to push.

Natalia, Wynn and Krislin all helped, gathering instruments, ferrying towels, and dampening a cloth for Chey's brow as needed. They switched off taking video, pictures and serving as go-betweens with information for people waiting anxiously downstairs.

Sander shifted to sit behind Chey, providing a firmer surface for her to lean back against. An anchor to weather the storm.

Four pushes later, Nelma put a weathered hand up in a stop motion.

“Stop pushing for a moment, Chey,” she said.

“Is everything all right?” Surfacing from her extreme state of concentration, Chey opened her eyes to bring Nelma into view.

“Yes, everything is going beautifully. Now then, one more push should do it.” Nelma encouraged Natalia to arrange the sterilized scissors close by along with a few smaller cloths for cleaning the baby.

Chey gripped Sander's hands, squeezed, and bore down. With a sudden squall, Elias Darrion Ahtissari entered the world.

. . .

“He's perfect!”

“I think he's got Dare's nose.”

“Chey, he looks just like you.”

Exhausted but happy, Chey cradled her son against her chest and laughed at the bursts of excitement from the girls. The doctor had arrived seven minutes too late but, after an examination of both her and the baby, declared everyone safe and healthy. Elias had been weighed, measured, photographed, cleaned, diapered and swaddled into a blue blanket with just his wrinkled, red face peeking above the folds.

“He's got Sander's scowl, that's for sure,” Chey joked, much to the delight of the girls.

Sander, leaning over her with his arm propped on a pillow, snorted. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off his son. “And I can tell he'll have his mother's impudent disposition by that squall he let out the second he was born.”

“I'm not impudent,” Chey protested, grinning.

“You can be.”

“Do you want to go there? Because I can make an entire list of things--”

Sander laughed. “No, I just want to hold the baby.”

Chey couldn't turn down the request. She waited until he'd shifted to stand next to the bed, then carefully handed Elias over. Her heart swelled to see the natural way Sander tucked the baby into the crook of his arm and smiled a proud smile. Sander crooned in his mother tongue, pacing lazily back and forth next to the bed.

“He'll be strutting around here like a peacock for months,” Natalia teased, watching Sander.

“You're damn right,” Sander retorted.

Chey chuckled, relaxing into the pile of pillows Wynn and Krislin propped behind her after the bed was cleaned and remade. She thought this beat having a baby in a hospital by a mile. Luckily, she'd had no complications to worry about.

“Will any of the rest of us get to hold him anytime soon? You're hogging him,” Natalia said with a wink at Chey.

“Not yet, he's trying to tell me something.” Sander comically put his ear down close to the baby's head. “He said he's afraid Aunt Natalia will trot him off to the boutiques and subject him to eight hours of shopping. He'd rather stay with me.”

Chey shook with mirth. Natalia didn't bother trying to hold hers in.

“There's nothing wrong with my shopping habits. And really, who spent four hours fretting over which crib to buy?” Natalia arched her brows at Sander.

The girls cracked up laughing. It had been a running joke the entire summer how Sander kept changing his mind, choosing this crib then that one, growing grumpy over his inability to make a solid decision.

“And then when he bought two hundred outfits all in size zero-to-three months, as if the baby would stay that small for half the year,” Chey added.

“Don't listen to the hens, Elias. Here, I'll give you your first real lesson in life. See, women, women are tricky. They say one thing but they really mean another. They're over there teasing me, but what they really want, is for me to cave to the pressure so I'll hand you off, and then I'll be lucky if I see you again before you graduate college. That's their game. And it only gets worse from here.”

The girls groaned, moaned and cackled in protest.

Sander scoffed at the lot of them, picking up a slight rock of his arms while he paced and continued his 'chat' with Elias. “Now, your Grandpa Sinclair, who is up there watching over you with your Grandma Sinclair, would tell you the same thing. I'm sure of it. I have feeling he was a very wise man.”

Chey's protesting laughter ended abruptly when Sander mentioned her mother and father. She'd fought not to display her remorse that her parents weren't here to celebrate, that Elias would never know the joy of his grandparents. But Sander had a way—just like at their wedding—of including them in all things. Compassionate about her loss, he managed to find a way to make them a part of their life.

She knew that he would find a way to make them a part of Elias's life as well.

Chey glanced at Wynn, Natalia and Krislin. The girls, suddenly silent, met her gaze. A tear fell. Then two. Just like that, the women dissolved into a mess of sniffles and damp cheeks. A box of tissues made the rounds.

Sander caught Chey's gaze for a moment and smiled a tender, knowing smile. He winked, returning his attention to Elias, picking up with his story telling like he'd never paused. His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Now, when a woman starts crying, it's time to hightail it outta there. Unless you're in love with her. She'll use tears for everything and before you know it, you're suckered into flowers, dinner and a diamond ring. Don't fall for it, son. Stand firm. But if she's the right one, you'll know it. You'll know when to flee like the devil's on your heels and when to scoop her up and take her home.”

Sander's 'conversation' with Elias was the most touching thing Chey had ever seen. She counted herself as one of the luckiest girls in the world to have found a man who risked it all for his beliefs, yet wasn't afraid to be caring, kind and compassionate. A man secure in himself and his destiny.

Her husband, her King, the love of her life.

. . .

Epilogue

Spring on Pallan Island came early that year. The snow receded into shadowy niches, clinging stubbornly until higher temperatures drove it into extinction. Under the soles of her feet, the sand was nevertheless warm enough to draw a sigh of pleasure from Chey's lips. She strolled along with a shell between her fingers, the layers of her dark hair flying all around her head. A smile swept over her mouth when she spied Sander with Elias near the water, heart melting at the picture they made.

Holding his son's hands, Sander balanced Elias's weight so that the baby's toes dipped into the very edge of a retreating wave. Elias gurgled and squealed with delight, which in turn drew a bark of warm laughter from Sander. Attired in board shorts of blue and a white rash guard shirt that snugged up to his muscles, Sander carefully lifted Elias an inch while another wave rolled in, then dipped his toes again. Predictably, the baby went into a frenzy of excitement, feet kicking, more gurgling laughter splitting the air.

It was the sweetest sound.

From a spread of blankets not far from the father and son, where chairs and bright umbrellas were pitched to provide shade from the sun, the crowd of friends and family cheered. Wynn and Leander, a certified couple for long months now, reclined near one another on beach towels. Natalia, home for the weekend since her boyfriend was away on business, lounged on a chaise in her fashionable one piece and sarong of turquoise blue. Krislin, ready to pop any day, smiled broadly under the brim of a wide, white hat. Gunnar rubbed his hand over her burgeoning belly, pausing now and then when he felt a kick or a roll.

The time since Paavo's attempted coup had been both healing and heartbreaking. Work to fix the damage was never ending, sometimes keeping Sander in far reaches of the country for days at a time. Tireless in his desire to make it right, Sander worked himself to the bone, mending proverbial fences while bringing new jobs from foreign investors. Just before the holiday, the country saw a surge in their economy and the polls reflected the citizen's growing trust in the stability Sander struggled to maintain.

It wasn't easy. But progress was happening, and Chey could envision a time in the not too distant future when things righted themselves to almost what they were before. Almost. Maybe Latvala would never fully heal from the trauma, though the improvements were promising.

One of the things Chey thought helped more than anything was the unity the Ahtissari siblings presented to their people. They were solid in their support of each other and stood firm on all decisions.

Mattias's return the day after Elias's birth rallied Sander, made him an even better King. The brothers were rocks, an impenetrable barrier against the tsunami of reporter's questions and accusations. No amount of coaxing would coerce either man into a confession of where Mattias had been during the crisis and, finally, the public lost interest. 'Official Royal Business' was the only answer either man would give. Even Chey couldn't get Sander to confide in her. Like everyone else, she accepted there were some things in life she just didn't need to know.

Not only was Mattias a constant presence in their life lately, he too had met a special someone. What mattered more than anything was that he seemed immeasurably happy and content, quick to laugh and quicker to tease.

Coming up on her husband, Chey ran a hand down Sander's back, laughing when Elias squirmed to be put down near the water. Insistent, he wriggled and protested his father's firm grip with a squall.

“Told you,” Sander said to Chey. “Impudent.”

“He gets that from you, not me,” she quipped.

Sander snorted but shot her a deviant grin. “He can squall all he likes. I'm not setting him down because the second I do, a big wave will wash his little butt out to sea. I don't think so.”

Chey laughed. Sander defined the term over-protective. He called ten times a day when he had to be gone, wouldn't leave Elias alone with anyone he didn't personally approve of, and hovered like a shadow when the baby tried to pull himself up on the edge of the coffee table, hands there to catch when he fell. Sander would be a wreck, Chey decided, when Elias was cruising furniture learning to walk.

“You're so cute,” Chey said to Sander, kissing his shoulder. She gazed adoringly at Elias, then raspberried his cheek, earning a flurry of giggles from her son.

“Here, it's my turn. Hand him over. For crying out loud, he's not going to know the rest of us at all, ever.” Natalia swooped in to snatch Elias right out of Sander's arms.

Sander, laughing, allowed Natalia to steal Elias. “Five minutes,” Sander joked.

“We'll see about that,” Natalia scoffed, then turned into another person entirely once she gave Elias all her attention. She cooed, crooned, tickled and did all the things Aunts did with their beloved nephews.

Chey, happy to see Natalia at ease and smiling, glanced up at Sander. “It's a good thing Krislin's about to have her own. Then they'll all be jockeying to hoard him.”

“Maybe I'll actually get some time with my son,” Sander retorted, grinning.

“You mean maybe I'll get some time with my son!” Chey laughed, pinching Sander in the ribs. “You're a baby hog.”

He laid a possessive hand over the slight swell of her stomach, rubbing a slow circle. “And I will be with our daughter, too.”

“It's another boy,” Chey said, lifting her chin with confidence.

“It's a girl.”

“How do you know?”

“I was right last time, wasn't I?” he retorted, cocky and unrepentant.

Chey exhaled, exasperated. He would never let her live it down. “The only reason you were right last time was because you cheated,” she said, letting the implication that she'd done the same sink in.

Sander's face changed, eyes growing wide when he realized what she was saying. “You cheated?” he bellowed, drawing the gaze of everyone on the beach.

Chey smiled, all sly and secretive.

With a roar, Sander swept her up into his arms, startling a squeak and a laugh out of her.

“Watch Elias for a little bit. I'm about to teach my cheating wife a lesson,” Sander called to the group. He headed for the beach house not far from the splay of blankets rather than trek all the way back to the castle.

Laughing hysterically, Chey wrapped her arms around Sander's neck, content to let him storm and stomp around before admitting that she had no earthly idea what gender their new baby was. It was too fun to tease him.

“Wait, wait! Sander, Chey.” Leander peeled himself off the beach towel and got to his feet.

Sander stopped long enough to glance questioningly at Leander.

“Chey will want to watch this.” He cut Sander a wild grin, then bent to pick Wynn up off the ground as if he meant to dart to the water and toss her in.

Chey swung her attention to the couple, laughing. “She deserves a good dunk!”

“Chey!” Wynn, laughing along with everyone else, squirmed to get down.

Leander, clad only in swim trunks, twirled Wynn around twice and set her on her feet long before he got near the water. The crowd broke into applause at his gentlemanly maneuver. Wynn straightened her white shorts and plaid tank top out, then dipped the onlookers a ridiculous curtsy, serving to add another spark of humor to the crowd.

While she was busy posing and teasing, Leander lowered to one knee.

Chey sucked in a surprised breath, wondering what he was up to. He didn't look prepared to pick Wynn up again and dip her in the ocean.

“Uh oh,” Sander muttered.

“I'm not going to pretty this up with a bunch of flowery words,” Leander said, producing a black velvet box between his fingers.

Wynn cut a look back over her shoulder, the playful antics brought to a sudden end. “What...what? Leander...”

“I'm not a Prince or a King,” he slipped Sander a sly, teasing glance, then looked up at Wynn. “But I can promise I'll make a good husband if you'll have me.”

Sander snorted a laugh, too low to interrupt the proceedings.

Chey made a few excited noises before covering her mouth with her fingers. Leander had been right, she wouldn't have missed this for the world.

Wearing a disbelieving, shocked expression, Wynn broke into a dance of glee and happiness, then bent to throw her arms around Leander's shoulders. Laughing, he caught her and swung her around in a slower circle.

“I guess that means yes,” he said.

“It means yes! Chey, I'm engaged! Can I borrow your castle for a ceremony?” Wynn asked, laughing with delight.

“I thought we could run off to Vegas and do the drive through thing,” Leander countered.

“Blasphemy! I want a huge wedding, with gauzy netting and tons of flowers and chairs overflowing with guests!” Wynn smiled down into Leander's face, pushing damp locks of hair back from his brow.

Leander grunted like he might begin a lengthy debate.

“My first gift to you, Leander, is this: learn the words 'Yes, Dear.' It makes everything a whole lot easier. Then, when she's mollified, do what you want anyway,” Sander said with a devil's grin.

“Sander! That never works for you, stop giving him false advice.” Chey smiled wide enough to press dimples into her cheeks.

On cue, Sander turned to continue his way to the beach house. In a voice ripe with amusement, he said, “Yes Dear.”

. . .

About the Author

Born and raised in Corona California, Danielle now resides in Texas with her husband and two sons. She has been writing for as long as she can remember, penning works in a number of genres. To date, she has published seventeen novels and nine short stories. Her interests vary wildly: reading, traveling, photography, graphic art and baking, among others.

There is a black cat named Sheba involved who thinks Danielle's laptop is her personal grooming station.

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www.daniellebourdon.com

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Table of Contents

- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Epilogue