‡‡
“Run it again.”
Samsyn flung the snarl at all dozen people in the Palais conference room, including Shiraz, Jayd, and half the High Council. That was twenty-four hands. Two hundred and forty fingers—every one of them capable of tapping the big green button on the digital playback.
Yet no one heeded his command.
Perhaps because your command is stupid? Because you can push any international news feed on the laptop in front of you and see every minute of that recording, complete with callous commentary? Fucking talking heads. “Analyzing” and “interpreting” and “probing” the images of his evisceration in the name of almighty ratings.
At least he could control the delivery method of the torture.
“Dammit.” He pounded a fist to the table. There had been more compliance when he hadn’t been king. “Somebody run it again!”
He was aware of movement to his right. A shadow, small and soft, just beyond the crack now fissuring the table. He vowed to split the fucking thing down the middle if someone did not punch the play button again.
“Samsyn—”
“Shut up, Jayd,” he snarled at the shadow.
“You are driving yourself mad!”
Madness. Fuck, if it were only that easy. If he could only succumb to that blistering darkness, holding the promise of final escape. Wooing him with sanctuary from the rage butchering his composure, the anguish ripping his guts, the helplessness turning him inside out, a carcass baking in the glare of his stupidity.
His stupidity…that had driven hers.
He had been a complete ass. Had been so strangled by his fears, begun the moment he slid the ring onto her finger, tightening every moment he was lucky enough to call her wife. The happiness had been too good to be real, but he had kept going back for more, approaching the feeling like a caveman with fire. It was strange and new but it was good, so good—right until the moment he was burned. Logic had fled. Compassion was impossible. He had only wanted someone to pay for his pain, and she was the target that made sense. The one person who could take his ugliness, and still love him.
Loved him…and needed to show him. Felt that she needed to prove it…by stepping into the lion’s den for him.
He had fucked up. Beyond measure. And now, fate was poised to exact the highest price for it.
But if he watched the footage one more time—endured the torment all over again—maybe the Creator would think twice about that debt.
“Run. It. Again.”
Someone—finally—moved to obey him. Everyone in the room groaned softly. He lifted his head to give weary thanks to the brave soul. Wasn’t stunned to meet Jagger’s determined gaze—though one of those eyes was still half-swollen beneath black and purple bruises. He did not begrudge Jag his feelings—what man could logically not fall in love with Brooke?—he only had a problem with the bastard acting on them. They were square now. More than square. Jag was the only one who’d watched this playback with him, every damn time.
And endured the agony of her face on the screen—eyes wide and terrified, skin streaked and clammy, teeth gritted, bottom lip spliced open. Her jaw looked puffy and red, as if it would start to swell soon.
Because they had hit her. Hard. Likely because she had refused to sit before their camera like a puppet. His chest swelled, so fucking proud of her. His gut wrenched, chopped apart in horror. If he learned they had touched her in ways beyond that, they would all enjoy a meal before he killed them. Their own cocks, stuffed down their throats.
On the playback, an off-camera voice spat a direction. “Please begin, Your Majesty.”
Brooke sucked in a quivering breath. Her eyes moved, obviously reading a cue card. “I—I am Queen Brooke Cimarron. I am here, as the guest of the Arcadian Pura movement, and their new leader—”
She sobbed. And broke his heart.
Dropped her head. And shattered his soul.
The camera wobbled, yanked upward—to focus on a face that still made everyone in the room gasp. Except Jagger, who growled. From his own lips, there was no sound—but from his nostrils, the violent huffs of wrath were strong and violent.
“Oh, look. Her Majesty is verklempt with the joy of seeing me again.” Rune Kavill’s sneer was stretched on a canvas of smooth. No comic book cackle as conclusion. The worm only smiled as if newly slithered from a hole in the gardens of hell. “Hello, world. You had all written me off, hadn’t you? Thought I’d politely disappeared into the baseboards, to stop bothering you with my menace?” He swirled a hand up, a magician with evil up his sleeve. “Surprise, surprise. I’m not in a cute little cave anymore. I have been invited as a guest myself, of the good Pura of Arcadia, to help…let us say…guide along their important cause. Though I’ve been here for a few months now, things have certainly gotten…interesting on the island lately.”
He punctuated that by clenching a hand to Brooke’s hair. With a savoring growl, forced her head back up. Though her face twisted in pain, she jerked and spat. The shot landed across Kavill’s black T-shirt. “Don’t fucking touch me, you bowl-haired freak.”
Kavill shoved her away. The sharp snap of her head and the pained press of her lips confirmed another observation: the vermin had her tied up, pretty damn tightly. “Isn’t she charming? Can you imagine what a thrill it was to learn all the Valens didn’t disappear, either—and that the Cimarrons had kept them snug and safe for me all these years? What an interesting time we are all going to have now.”
Everyone in the room tensed. The hardest part of the playback was now here.
As Kavill paused, inserting a stare for “dramatic emphasis”, he was butted clear from the frame. Brooke reappeared, snarling and hissing, her face desperate and wild. She peered frantically into the camera lens…the look of someone who knew they were damned, seeking meaning before the ax fell over their neck.
“No! Don’t listen to him! Syn! Don’t you dare give in to this fucker. I don’t care what he demands! Syn, I swear to God, if you love me at all—”
And then she was gone. Dropped by the plunge of a needle in her neck.
He was half-grateful for it. If she had finished the sentence, he would be bound to promises he could not keep.
If you love me at all…
She was his all.
His raismette.
On the screen, Kavill reappeared. “Only sleeping,” he said smoothly. “But next time, we may not get the dosage so correct.” He shrugged. “Oopsie.”
“Fucker,” Jag muttered.
Kavill signed off with an assortment of bowing and postulation and bullshit, but that part was useless. The damage had been done now. The price had once again been paid. He had been drawn, quartered and gutted, and now fought through the process of trying to jam himself back together again. There was nothing else to do until Kavill and his worms contacted them again. The footage did not lend one damn clue about where they held her. Tryst and his team had already tracked her cell phone signal—to a trashcan at the Palais’ own main gate. Kavill hadn’t missed a single opportunity to ram his victory into all their faces.
All they could do now was pray.
And he did.
On his knees in the Palais chapel, he could almost smell her on the air, floral and soft. He gazed at the stained glass stars and saw the shining lights of her eyes. He watched his fingers in the streaming sun, pretending it was the silk of her hair—
Before bowing his head, and whispering words from the depths of his heart.
“Creator mine, keep her safe. Keep her whole. Keep her alive.
I need her.
Créacu yardim met…I need her.”
He jerked to his feet when someone burst into the chapel.
“Majesty!” The page looked like she could be Brooke’s little sister, with huge bright eyes and a choppy blonde haircut. But unlike Brooke, she moved like a frightened fairy, approaching him with mincing steps. “There are—errrr—there are men here to see you, King Samsyn.” She whispered “men” as if blurting a profanity. “They—they arrived on a private jet. They were searched by the airport guards, and were not armed.”
He blinked. Her words made no sense. “A…private jet?” Bearing unarmed men?
What the hell was Kavill up to?
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the fairy returned. “They said they needed to see you at once. Demanded to, actually. The main gate guards informed them you are not available because of the crisis, but—”
“They did what?” His voice throttled to a bellow. Fuck. Fuck. Kavill was a cocky fuck, sending emissaries straight to the Palais, but he did not care. It was action. Some kind of action he could take, instead of sitting around with his dick in his hand and his guts on the floor. “Are they still here?” he demanded, stomping toward the visitor rotunda. “If they have been sent away, Creator help you all. Do you have any idea who the hell we are dealing with—”
He skidded short on the rotunda’s marble floor. Gawked at the two men planted in front of him, flanked by a pair of Palais guards who grimaced like bulldogs. He had no idea what kind of soldasks to expect from Kavill’s camp, but these two were definitely not it.
The first stranger looked like one of the dolls Brooke had told him about from her childhood: neatly combed hair, chiseled face, too-perfect posture. He wore tailored business pants and an equally fitted white shirt. The second man was just as perplexing. Though he wore a plain green T-shirt and camouflage pants stuffed into combat boots, he appeared more appropriate for a rainforest loincloth and a poison-tipped spear. Regardless, they both notched their jaws higher despite his menacing glower, earning them a new degree of his respect.
“King Samsyn.” The suited one spoke first. “My name is—”
“I do not want to know your name,” he gritted. “Just tell me what Kavill wants then take your leave.” He nodded toward the doorway, where fairy girl had been joined by Mishella, Jagger, Grahm, and Shiraz. “Once they are gone, somebody ensure the halls are disinfected.”
“We’re not with Kavill.” The darker man cocked his head. “We’re here to help you catch that fucker.”
As he eyed them with fresh bewilderment, the suited one stepped forward. “Maybe we can try again. My name is Daniel Colton—”
“Of Colton Worldwide!” Shockingly, the fairy spoke with confidence. A lot of it. “I knew he looked familiar. You just purchased Bortel and SpecOptical, officially expanding Colton Steel beyond just steel.” She flashed a sheepish look. “I…like following the global business pages.”
Colton gave her a quick smile. “Impressively so.” His composure hardened. “But I’ve flown here because you need help—and I want to give it. That purchase she just mentioned has given me access to some very special software.”
Jagger eyed him, openly skeptical. “What kind of software?”
“Programs that will help us tear apart Kavill’s video footage, frame by frame, and isolate all the tactile elements of it.”
“Tactile…elements?”
“Everything from lighting sources to wall paint to background noise,” Colton confirmed. “In order to piece them all together, to determine exactly where that bastard is holding your bride.” When disbelieving silence reigned, the man fanned both hands. “The program will work, Your Majesty. Before I ran Colton Worldwide, I was CIA—and damn good at it. I was in on the ground floor of testing for this stuff.” He cocked his head, showing that he wasn’t the pretty boy Syn had originally assumed. A burn scar mottled a swath of his face from forehead to jawline. “And I know a thing or two about being in deeper than you originally intended.”
He found himself as wary as Jag. “Why?” he charged. “Why have you come all this way…to help me?”
Colton’s head jerked the other direction. Clearly, the query puzzled him—at first. After a second, his logic clearly clicked. “Because we’re on the same side, Your Majesty. Because terrorists don’t get to win.”
“Boo-yah.” Though it was just a mutter, the man next to him dotted it with a pumped fist.
Speaking of him…
“And who the hell are you?” Grahm demanded.
The man paced forward, extending a huge hand along with his photo identification. “Captain John Franzen. United States Army, First Special Forces Group.” His grip was steeyl, his confidence a jolt of adrenalin. As he shook hands with everyone else, they clearly felt it too. “A pleasure.”
“After I do what I’m best at, he’s here to do what he’s best at.”
Samsyn arched both brows. “As long as I am right in front of him.”
Franzen nodded, but not without flashing an eager grin. “It will be an honor to serve with you, Majesty.”
Colton repeated the nod. “All right. Now that we’ve dispensed with cocktail hour, I need a place to plug in and log on, ASAP.”
Mishella moved forward. Though she was the embodiment of courtly grace, she also was the glaring reminder of Brooke’s absence. But the woman was bright. She knew that too. Wisely, she had stayed mostly out of the way, choosing to act in moments when she could be of most service to the crisis—like now. “We have a conference room down the hall. Let me know what you need, gentlemen, and it is yours.”
Her hospitality was echoed by the fairy—though that was where the buy-in from the group screeched to a halt. Before Colton and Franzen could take another step, Jag and Grahm stopped them, stances as stony as their stares.
“Syn,” Jagger gritted, “are you serious about this?”
Grahm’s version of the argument came with his normal prelude: a calm look around, a measured inhalation. “We have always handled our own emergencies.”
“We have.” He reined the words to calmness but didn’t spare the blaze in his eyes. “And that folly has landed us here—with my wife in the hands of a madman, likely not to fuck up his second chance at killing her.”
He finished by moving toward his friends with an old man’s shuffle. Gripped them both by the shoulders, leaning into them with the same exhausted weight. Bowed his head, letting his hair fall over his face, as words of conviction tumbled off his lips that he never thought possible.
“Trust has to start somewhere. And I am choosing to start now.”
*
The little neighborhood was so quiet, even the swishes of the waves on the southern shore could be heard, nearly two miles away. On any map, the area still qualified as Sancti, though a hopscotch game just to the north would end in the next district over. Passméil was a land of sprawling meadows and peaceful streams, widely recognized as a zone of peace. Homes were modest, people were humble, bicycles were used more than cars, and community vegetable gardens fed all.
When Colton’s “miracle software” had pointed to Passméil as Kavill’s hiding place, Syn made the man recheck the data. Even now, leading his handpicked team down narrow back alleys and tree-covered jogging paths, the information was difficult to believe.
He was running on trust.
It was not comfortable at all.
As a matter of fact, with every minute that passed, it felt more like hell.
He raised his hand, curled into a fist, to signal a stop. After everyone slid soundlessly behind him, he pivoted to Franzen. And glared.
“This does not feel right. At all.”
“I agree.” Tryst, taking up the third position, concurred in a whisper. “Why the hell would Kavill do this here?”
“My amcle and tanze live four blocks over,” Jag added from the fourth spot. “Every neighbor knows each other, and has for years. Why would—”
“—he not go for a ditch or a cave or a swamp?” Franzen thunked back against a tree. He had clearly fielded this question before. “It’s called hiding in plain sight,” the American continued. “Nazi war criminals blended right in after World War Two. They became teachers and professors and inventors; one even received NASA’s highest honor. Remember the place they found Bin Laden in? Nice sprawl, peaceful neighborhood?”
Tryst grunted. “Fuck.” Jag uttered the same thing a second later.
Samsyn rendered his own feedback by turning and trudging on.
Every new step carried his painful heartbeat. Every corner they turned was accompanied by another silent prayer.
They saw nothing. They heard nothing.
Despair slithered in. Threatened to suck in his whole damn spirit.
He could not give up.
Because deep in that same spirit, he knew Brooke had not.
He held up his fist again. As everyone stopped, he hunched over the GPS tracker in his palm. Another half block, and they would be out of the area pinpointed by Colton’s program. It was useless to berate Franzen again. The man had flown halfway across the globe to attempt this. It was not his fault they were nowhere closer to Kavill than before.
“Fucking needle,” he growled. “Fucking haystack.”
Only he could not live without this needle.
He was so bogged down in that misery, he reacted a second behind the others—as they swung rifles around, reacting to the something that burst from the bushes behind them.
“Don’t shoot! God, please!”
He did not miss the cue this time. Joined the other three in a massive whoosh of relief.
But beat them all swallowing a throat full of dread.
It was Dillon Valen. Out of breath. Bloodied face. Hand, clearly broken, clawed against his stomach.
With no Brooke behind him.
“Samsyn!” The man nearly sobbed it. “Jag! Thank fuck.”
Syn made his numb legs work. “Dillon.” He grabbed the man’s shoulder. Felt like shit for it when Dillon’s eyes popped painfully wide. The bonsuns had dislocated his shoulder too. “What happened? Where—where is she?”
“He’s still—got her.” The information was ragged, gasped between bursts of agony. “She’s duct taped—to a chair.”
“Is she hurt?” He hated asking it. Had to ask it. Had they fucked her up as badly as her brother? What had happened to her since that first video?
“Not yet,” Dillon rushed out. “But soon—I think. Kavill called you—at the Palais. When they wouldn’t bring you—to the phone—he went ballistic. I used—the distraction—to escape. Had to pop—my fucking shoulder—to do it.” He sagged against a nearby wall. “Put the pieces together. Figured—you might be—on your way.”
He leaned in, grabbing Dillon’s head tenderly this time. Pressed the side of his own against it. “I owe you a debt you cannot imagine, my brother.”
Dillon pulled back. “I’ll owe you a bigger one if you get her out of there alive.”
Franzen moved in, features sliced into hard battle lines. “How far away is the house? Can you show us?”
“Of course. Come. It’s not far.”
Thank the Creator, it was the truth. Within five minutes, Dillon led them to a house that could have been featured on a Passtéil postcard: front porch with a swing, backyard with a birdbath. They snuck across that idyllic scene with steps soft as wind and faces covered in masks, turning the tables on the pricks inside the house, avenging ninjas on the hunt.
Samsyn grimaced. If only he could elevate his mind to such lofty terms…simply charge in with the courage of that noble banner. Higher causes had been the safe focus of Samsyn the warrior. The fortification of Samsyn the fighter. The underlying code of Samsyn the commander.
They were nothing to Samsyn the man.
For the first time in his life, he charged into a battle for purely selfish gain—toward something solely for him. He hurled through windows, barreled through doors, and charged through rooms with only one sacred cup in his sights, one holy treasure to gain. It drove his dagger into two enemies who dared stand in his way. Snapped the necks of two more, in hands that looked like his but were under the control of someone else. Something else. He was a dragon, ready to incinerate…prepared to destroy. He took no pleasure in the acts. Felt no remorse. He would pay the price with his soul later, if that was what the Creator wanted. His soul was a very small price to pay for—
The treasure.
His treasure.
“Astremé.”
He stopped, frozen in place like an idiot, certain he’d been wishing for this for so many hours, it was simply another dream.
But then her body trembled in its duct tape prison. The tears welled in her red-rimmed eyes. A moan spilled from her cracked lips, fighting to form his name past her filthy gag.
He tore off his mask. Rushed to her side. Battled to get out words of his own. “Brooke. My love. Raismette. It is over. All over.” Fell to his knees in front of her, clawing away the dirty fabric at her mouth. She whimpered, which made him stop. “Shit. I am hurting her. I am hurting you—”
“Shut up, you big ox.” She rasped it as Franzen appeared, putting his steadier hands to work on cutting the duct tape free. “It all hurts, okay?” Thankfully, her left arm was freed first. She dove that hand straight into his hair, dragging him to her for a loving, passionate kiss. “Guess that means you’ll have to kiss it all better.”
Franzen chuckled. “I like the way this missy thinks.”
Brooke turned a curious stare on the man, clearly debating whether to slap him or thank him. Obviously, she was having trouble wrapping her senses around this reality too. Before Franzen even pulled all the tape free, she jerked as if waking from a nightmare. “K-Kavill,” she stammered, burrowing tighter into Samsyn. “Wh-where’s Kavill? He was just here…laughing at me…”
Franzen snorted. “Your husband put a knife in his gut. Tryst is finishing off the job—and having a frightening amount of fun about it too.”
“He has earned it.” Syn let the explanation lie there.
Brooke pushed up a little. “Can I help too?”
“Oh, now I really like her,” Franzen drawled.
Samsyn clutched her head to his chest, letting her listen to the violent joy of his heartbeat. “You may not help.” He tucked a kiss against her temple, “But only because of your injuries, little warrior. Once you are healed, you may have your pick of future missions—and my complete trust in accomplishing them.”
She turned her head so their eyes met again. Though her gaze was still painted in exhaustion, a hint of its beautiful, mischievous gleam had already returned. Thank the Creator.
“That, my husband, was the right answer.”
He ducked his head, taking her lips with gentle but thorough love. “My incredible wife, that is just the start.”