GEMMA CROUCHED IN THE ARMCHAIR in the corner of the room, letting her body go numb. Eye contact with anyone else would only spawn another fistfight. Since she wasn’t allowed to hit the prince, or king, or whatever the hell the liar was, withdrawing from all contact was the safest option.

Only an hour ago, she’d lived the most erotic moment of her life, actually believed in the connection with Miguel and the promise of something greater. Now everything around her was destroyed. Reyna, her horses, her fragile trust in others, and most of all—control over her life.

Rico had covered Reyna’s body with her favorite quilt, hand-embroidered with peaches and ivy. Stefano dashed around the house and outside, collecting all the weapons he hadn’t used in the attack. Some part of her brain acknowledged he’d found some interesting hiding places: a rifle above the valence, a pistol in the mantle vase, even another attached to the bottom of a dining room chair with Velcro.

Every one of them unable to save Reyna.

The fire outside had dwindled to a few pockets of flames and the main house hadn’t been damaged. Once it had died down, somehow she’d found the strength to go back inside and find two horses still breathing, but burned beyond saving. With a choking grimace, Gemma ended their pain with a bullet to their heads. Every trigger squeeze ripped out a piece of her soul. But she couldn’t let them continue to suffer.

She didn’t bother to wipe her eyes when she walked back into the house. The tears dried on her ash-covered cheeks. The dying embers cast an apocalyptic amber glow through the window and onto André’s face as he packed their remaining supplies. A few spots of dried blood smudged his cheeks and forehead, but otherwise he was unharmed.

Reyna saved him. Reyna saves everyone.

André glanced at Gemma several times, but hadn’t said anything. No doubt worried she’d try to throttle him again. She just might, too, despite the damn rule. André wasn’t her king.

She’d been used, again. Wasn’t worth the truth, again. She’d vowed never to trust anyone else, aside from Reyna, and she went against her better judgment and let Miguel in. And that wasn’t even his real name. The things he’d said seemed so real, so sincere. It reflected in his eyes. The raw ecstasy they shared sealed it for her.

But they were all lies.

“Gemma.” Stefano reached into a duffle bag and pulled out a small kit. “Come to the table and let me fix your arm.”

“I don’t give a shit about my arm.” More blood seeped through, and the burn worsened. Thanks for bringing it up, shithead.

Stefano pulled out a chair and glared at her.

Gemma scowled, but slid off the armchair and stomped over to the dining room. André took the opposite chair and leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. She refused to meet his gaze. A gaze that pleaded for any kind of forgiveness or at least recognition that she understood.

Hypnotized by pain, she wouldn’t even look at the man healing her wound. Until he shoved up his sleeves.

“What is it with men and wrist tattoos?”

Stefano stopped. “Que?

“The prick who sliced me had ink on his inner arm, too. A bird of some kind.”

Stefano leaned back, careful to keep a blank face as he pulled up his sleeve. “Like this?”

Etched in black ink was a hawk’s head, encircled by scrolls. Faded, as if done decades before. An exact match as the Devil’s.

Holy shit. Gemma could only stare into Stefano’s now-paled face.

Dios mio,” he breathed.

“What does that mean?” Rico asked.

“What did he look like?” Stefano turned urgent, almost fearful.

Another round of fear crashed into her gut. The hard-ass soldier is afraid. Can I crawl under a rock somewhere?

“Other than tall and tan, what did he look like?” Stefano urged.

“He was massive—like a Clydesdale. Another tattoo up his neck…vines covered with thorns. And his eyes were black.”

“You’re certain? Not just too dark to see the color?”

“I’m sure. Black eyes. Didn’t think that was possible.”

Stefano dropped the bandage and stared at her, like she’d ripped out his heart and watched it continue to beat in her fingers. Funny, I’ve been feeling that way all night.

“Who was it, Stefano?” André asked, hovering over them.

“Vasco,” he murmured.

“Will someone explain this?” Gemma snapped. “You two have the same tattoo. Why?”

“He’s a Royal Guard.”

André swore in Spanish.

“An inside job?” Gemma deduced. “So you know him.”

“He’s dead,” Stefano shook his head. “Or so we thought.”

“Wait,” André scraped the back of his neck. “So the Royal Guard is now working for Bendetto?”

“At least one,” Stefano pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Well, that makes everything a hell of a lot harder.” André gripped the back of a chair, the wood creaking in his grasp. “How are we supposed to reclaim the sovereignty with the elite Guardsmen helping the enemy? And what about Alanna? Her entire life was controlled by her security detail.”

“Who’s Alanna?” Gemma interrupted. A painful grip twisted in her gut.

“His sister,” Stefano answered absently and finished binding her cut, his motions more muscle memory than thought.

The vise released her stomach. He has a sister. More proof that I don’t know him at all.

Stefano grabbed her ankle, stripped off the boot and re-taped her sprain. Lightning spears ricocheted through her leg. The numbness was wearing off.

Something had clicked in Stefano’s head. The determination turned him cold. “Vasco went missing during the last mission in Manila against the cartel many years ago. We assumed he died, but must have been saved and recruited by the cartel. That could explain why he’s with Bendetto. For all we know, it’s just him.”

“But it could be more.” André stared out the window with a hardened jaw line.

“We’ll deal with it,” Stefano replied quietly and finished taping her ankle. He gave her a weary smile, meant to reassure her, but Gemma didn’t fall for it. It was hard to smile with her heart ripped out.

“We have to leave now, don’t we?”

Stefano sighed with defeat. “More will come. We have to leave now.”

“What about Reyna?” Rico paled. “We can’t just leave her like this?”

Gemma glanced at the woman’s body in the other room. Her friend, mother, and savior. A tear worked its way to the corner of her eye.

Que la Virgen me perdona, but we don’t have time.” Stefano’s voice cracked.

“We’re not leaving her like this,” Gemma growled.

“We don’t have a choice,” Stefano answered. “Those men won’t wait long to come back and finish this, with reinforcements. Pack as little as you can.”

“Where can they go?” André asked, his gaze settling on Gemma. “Where will they be safe?”

“Safe?” Gemma snapped. The floor creaked as she stood and faced André. His lips turned down, but his eyes tried to caress hers. To soothe, soften or lessen the oncoming blow. Or is that pity? She wanted to scratch them out. “It’s too late for safe.”

The razed barn still smoldered through the window. The stars were blocked out by the smoke pluming into the sky. Along with my horses’ ashes.

“We can drop you both off at Rock Pierce’s ranch, if you’d like. Remain there until you—”

“Hell no,” she barked at Stefano. “You came into our home and made us believe you had everything under control. You gave me nothing but lies.” Her eyes flashed to André. “Now Reyna’s dead, as is this ranch. You really think I’m going to let you take away my vengeance?”

Stefano blinked.

“You two aren’t the only ones with a promise to keep,” she seethed. There was hardly any weakness in her ankle when she walked to the stairs. The man should have been a doctor. Every pair of eyes followed her.

“Where are you going?” André asked.

“You can’t do this on your own,” she tossed over her shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time. “Besides, I’m a better shot than all of you.”