He also knew the island well, giving them the advantage when he took her adventuring. So far, no one knew of their engagement. They kept it hidden even from Mattias, Sander's younger brother, a man both trustworthy and able to keep secrets. Now, however, her presence in Sander's life, if not their engagement, was about to come out.
He had a ball to attend in Dubai in three days and he insisted she go with him. It was time, he'd said, to break the news to the King and Queen so they didn't find out through photos of the event that Chey was back in his life. Rinsing suds from her body, she gathered the shampoo and attacked her hair next. Sander kissed her on the shoulder on his way out of the shower.
Finished before her, he snagged a towel from the holder, shook out his hair, and toweled dry. Chey watched him while she finished a routine that included a skin scrub, shaving her legs, and the use of a pumice stone on her heels.
By the time she was done, Sander had changed into a pair of black slacks, white button down, and a suit jacket that he paired with an ice blue tie. Decided to dress up for the occasion, huh? It meant she needed to find something equally fitting to wear. Not that she would have gone in jeans or something too casual. But now she needed a semi-formal dress or suit so she didn't look out of place for the announcement. There were two, one of which was surrounded by a bevy of organizers holding all her feminine accoutrements.
She kept it neat and tidy, so it didn't overflow the long counter top. Just as she reached for a comb to pull through the wet strands of her hair, a bout of nausea hit. She stilled, one hand bracing against the counter. Her nerves must be getting the better of her. Breathing in and breathing out, she steadied herself. I think my nerves are starting to kick in. He rose after fixing the hem on his pants and walked over to stand behind her.
Dwarfing her in height, he set a hand on her towel covered hip and studied her face in the mirror. It's not bad. While she sorted the tangles out, Sander regarded her with a dubious expression. He hovered at her back, protective and skeptical. Giving her hip a squeeze, Sander stepped to the side, leaning against the counter. Watching her. Chey turned the dyer on, mouthing I can't hear you when he complained. She didn't want him to leave, but the idea of puking in front of him was too mortifying to contemplate.
Relieved, Chey braced a hip against the counter and swallowed down another bout of nausea. Maybe she needed to nibble on toast. You're stronger than this, Chey. Don't let them get to you. Easier said than done, she thought, as she dried her hair before taking a curling iron to it. Making quick work of applying a thin layer of make up, she put everything away when she was done and went into the expansive closet.
She'd filled 'her' side quite nicely after the recent shopping trip. What she chose from the racks was a heavy, throat to mid-calf dress with long sleeves and a modestly scooped neckline. It was ivory, with baby blue piping on the cuffs and collar. Very suitable for winter. A baby blue overcoat as long as the dress went with it. She added taupe boots with a flat sole and stuffed gloves into one of the over-large coat pockets.
If Chey had learned anything in her time here, it was to dress for the weather. A slinky, satin creation with high heels would have landed her half frozen and probably skiing on the helicopter pad before the day was through.
She enjoyed the heavier clothing anyway, at least while the snow was knee deep, and didn't mind bundling up in several layers.
Exiting into the suite, fixing the collar of the coat, she saw Sander slathering a piece of toast with butter and a dab of jelly. He'd ordered up a quick breakfast between the time he'd left the bathroom and now. Chey took the little plate and picked up a slice right away. How did you know? It's like you read my mind. Toast, crackers, things like that? I couldn't have stomached a really big breakfast anyway.
Not today. She took little bites of toast and sipped hot coffee that he'd poured her. Sander thought of everything. Chey also heard what he didn't say. That she'd known by agreeing to stay that this was the way it would be. This was his life, replete with unpalatable situations that she needed to learn to work through. The van was no longer moving. She heard a hiss and ticking and an indefinable buzz. Chey felt like she was underwater, moving much too slowly.
The side door of the van opened with a screech of metal. Two men in suits reached in to extract Chey from the seats, hands gentle yet firm. She stumbled, woozy from the impact. A hand shot out to wrap her waist and provide something sturdy to lean on. She saw the van had crashed into a lamppost, the entire hood crumpled over the engine.
The driver and passenger were slumped against airbags, unconscious. Guiding her forward to the SUV that had sustained minimal damage thanks to the grille guard, the suited men loaded her into the backseat with all due haste. One climbed into the front seat, another behind. Chey glanced across the seat, expecting to see Sander.
Instead, she found herself staring at Mattias. This Mattias wore concern in his dark eyes and a vague frown on his brow. Chey stared at him, head swimming from the impact of the van with the lamppost. Things, obviously, are not what they appear to be.
Her body was numb, her thoughts scattered. Was he in on this, too? It was too complicated, too perverse. One brother pitted against the other, a king with murder on his mind, an heir headed for exile. It had to be this way. I needed the men in the hotel room to report back to the king—and for the king to believe them. It had to be real, at least in the moment.
Any one of us, should the king have discovered my duplicity. She stared out the window, rubbing her ribs with a palm. There would be bruises, no doubt. Otherwise, a spot on her leg hurt, and one of her shoulders, but that was all.
No blood that she could see. The seats had spared her the worst of it. Brooding, she crossed her arms over her middle and watched the glittering city of Dubai fly by out the windows. It was the entire thing. The whole shebang. Was this really what it was like to be a part of royalty? Did these extremes happen all the time?
She recalled reading about this chase or that kidnapping or other horrors regarding the elite of the world. Stories that had seemed so far removed from her reality in Seattle, Washington. Chey understood things happened, and that there were people who would see harm come to leaders and the ruling class. This happened to be the king, however, acting against his firstborn son. Was it normal? Were the children of royalty really forced to bend to the will of their superiors and elders?
It was mind boggling. It tested her nerves, putting her patience on edge again. After parking near an elevator bank, the suited men disembarked and came around to help her to the ground.
Barefoot, the concrete cold on her skin, she padded to the elevator with Mattias hovering at her back. They rode up in silence. The chase and chaos had totally obliterated her sense of direction. The light chimed above floor number twenty. When the elevator opened onto what appeared to be a regular floor of a well-appointed hotel, Chey allowed Mattias to guide her to a set of double doors with a gold plaque on the wall listing the suite as number She noted there were few other doors on this floor as well; perhaps it was one of the private levels reserved for celebrities or VIP guests.
One of the guards opened the door with a pass card and stepped back to allow Mattias in first. The suite was not as elaborate as the penthouse of the Royal Regency, but it was nevertheless a five-star appointment.
Rich mahogany paired with tapestry-covered furniture and leather to create an almost Victorian feel. Sander paced through the room, agitation clear in the line of his shoulders. Once he saw Mattias and Chey, he cut across the space and gathered her into his arms. Chey slid her arms around his neck, relief making her knees weak. Thank God. Sander was in one piece, albeit banged up from the confrontation with the armed assailants. Are you all right? Just a few bruises.
Later there would be time for ice, maybe a hot bath to ease the ache starting to collect in her muscles from the crash. Come sit down. What she wanted was a change of clothes and something to drink. Spiked coffee, vodka, tequila. Sander perched on the arm of the sofa at her side and looked across at Mattias. The men had to believe I was on his side, not yours.
Exile is a good way to prevent you from ever being able to ascend in his wake. If you do it on your own merit, it allows him to save face in front of our people, you see. A foreigner with no standing, no family, no political advantage. And you seriously pissed him off with the threat of removing him from the throne. Chey cringed inside at how cavalier it sounded. She might not have all those things any longer, but she was still human for crying out loud, still compassionate and caring and good-hearted overall.
As if he knew, rightly so, that the details might be hard for her to hear. Not only that, he made a peculiar statement that has sat ill with me ever since. I started to think he has some other ace up his sleeve, and decided on the spot that I would intercept the carrier and insert myself into the plans.
The throne will be mine, technically, if you go into exile. He and mother have a wealth of them. You know that. What is your plan from here? Byron, use that phone and send a text to the others saying Chey has been secured for the night. In the morning at seven, send another text that she has been handed over to a man named Saul. Men obviously working for Mattias and Sander, or at least loyal to their cause. Byron inclined his head and fished out the phone to send his text.
Mattias picked up where he left off. I will be there as well, with any luck, by invitation of the king. It keeps me close to him, in case he decides to confide in me.
I have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact he can be so callous as to throw his own son out of his life. Out of the country, for that matter. Further than you. Most monarchs are. She wondered if the queen would continue to rule until her death, or until she became mentally incapable.
Perhaps there were laws in place preventing her from handing power down before then. He lowered his voice, watching her face as he spoke. He was a different man now than the one who had sat so stone-faced in the hotel room. Yet she detected gears turning underneath his calmer exterior, working out ideas and plans in the back of his mind. She believed him, too, when he said he would one day become king. No matter what I say or do, no matter what you see, there will always be a reason for it.
Sander knew this evening before he ever left the hotel room that I was fronting and covering. After the Viia thing, though, and the queen—one just never can tell.
Mattias arched his brows and reached into the breast pocket of his coat. From it, he withdrew a little velvet box. Her ring box. I thought you meant to propose on the trip. Sander inclined his head. I would have rampaged if that fell into the hands of those hooligans. He handed the box over to her with a smile. She hated taking it off for any reason. It went back onto her ring finger for now. This is a scrap of paper I salvaged from one advertisement or another.
Earlier, Sander and I were accosted in the elevator by a group of men with guns. Just as I had let my guard down a little, just when I thought any danger like that was past. I should know better by now.
It turns out Mattias infiltrated the group and he managed to waylay the more sinister plans they had for Sander and me. He wants to send Sander into exile, strip him of his titles and his right to the throne. After all, Sander threatened the king with the same. This has become a tedious mess, the whole of it.
My nerves are shot after a hair-raising car chase and resulting crash through the city. Some of these bruises are going to be here a while. Who can blame me? As well, the idea of being carted off to become a whore in a human trafficking ring does not exactly sit well. Aksel is a ruthless man. More ruthless than I realized. Death is nothing to him. Life means little unless he gets what he wants out of the deal. Tomorrow we leave for Latvala with a plan in place, though the more I think about it the more upset my stomach becomes.
Everything hinges on too many delicate details. I am okay with that. Staying close to Sander at this point is important to me. I think my journal venting is over now. I wish I could say it brought me some peace. Her chicken scratch was barely legible as handwriting, the slant sharper than usual and angled funny due to lack of light and carelessness.
Setting the pen aside on the nightstand, she flipped the paper over—there was a local club advertisement on the back—and proceeded to wad it into a ball. After sliding out of bed, careful not to wake Sander, she approached the fireplace and tossed the ball in over the grate. Although the fire had eased to smaller flames and crackling embers, the paper caught and burned within seconds.
His voice was low and raspy with slumber. Her tennis shoes sat on the floor at the edge of the bed in case there was a need for a hasty departure. He turned his head on the pillow to face her, golden hair tousled around his head.
I got lucky in the accident. Reassuring herself, perhaps, or reassuring him she was all right. Reaching out with one arm, Sander pulled her closer to his body. He turned onto his side, bringing her flush against him. A lot to handle. Once we subdue Aksel, I think things will settle. Chey pressed her cheek against his chest, listening for his heartbeat. His skin was warm, scented lightly with musk, and comfortable. Chey thought about it.
About forever being a target, never knowing from which side someone might strike. Some citizens might hate her for being American, or because of the color of her eyes. One could never tell what might set another off. It was becoming an ingrained trait to pay closer attention to sounds and shuffles and smells and gut instinct.
She was learning, slowly, to absorb the shocks and to be resilient in the face of fear. Striking back at the driver of the van earlier had come naturally in her unwillingness to be their helpless victim. Maybe, she thought, it would do her good to attend self-defense classes. The idea intrigued her. Like Aksel. This is still a right now situation, whereas taking up the titles will be a more long-term, watch-over-our-shoulder deal than a constant, immediate threat.
Eventually it will come as second nature to you. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Sander skimmed his hands up and down her back, pairing soothing circles with brief massages near her shoulders. It felt so good Chey stopped thinking altogether and just enjoyed his touch. Before long, she was asleep. Sander cut away for one of two helicopters sitting on different helipads, glancing back at Chey while she headed for the other with Mattias.
She smiled, a quick flash, before allowing Mattias to hand her into the backseat of the aircraft. She buckled in while he did the same, glancing out the window as the helicopter carrying Sander lifted off and swung away over the landscape. Although there was a heavy amount of snow on the ground, the skies were currently clear, the sun shining down on a cold Latvala day. Seconds after the first, their helicopter took flight.
Mattias had explained the details several times on the way home from Dubai and Chey went over it all in her mind as the craft sped them toward their destination.
Below, patches of forest stretched for miles, breaking open onto farmland swathed in white. A river cut through the terrain, snaking away into the distance. Chey knew, after looking at a map, where her general location would be. Sander had explained the importance of direction in case she should find herself on the run. So she had memorized, to the best of her ability, certain landmarks to use should it become necessary. Not many minutes later, the helicopter slowed and positioned itself to lower to the ground.
There was no helipad here, no cement square with guiding lights or lines. The pilot set them down on a stretch of shale cleared of snow from the rotor blades.
All right? Citing the need to travel light, Mattias had suggested she pack the bare essentials. You know the way from here? Chey waved to Mattias, ducking instinctively while she ran out from under the whirl of the blades. At the edge of the trees, which lashed back and forth from the choppy wind, she lifted a hand to Mattias and disappeared into the forest. Before she was ten feet under the canopy, the helicopter lifted off. Breathing the scent of pine, fresh snow, and other woodsy scents, Chey centered herself and stayed on her path.
The homestead she sought should be no more than fifty yards ahead in a clearing marked by an old-fashioned windmill. Mattias had given her a key with the information that the vacant home sat on royally protected land and would not be disrupted by random passersby.
Never mind it sat by itself off the beaten path. It had several bedrooms, working plumbing, and the shelves had been stocked by Mattias himself. She was to wait there while Sander had his meeting, safe from prying eyes and attention, until Mattias sent her a text. Breaking into the clearing, Chey spotted the home as well as the windmill. A path for cars leading to and away sat on the other side, snaking toward a road or intersecting path not visible with the naked eye.
It was at least a half mile from any main thoroughfare. A newer dwelling with a peaked roof and broad porch, the home itself was of a cabin-like design. It reminded her of what she might find on a trip into the mountains or a luxury ski resort. Chey approached, digging out the key, attentive to the woods around her. Nothing moved, nothing seemed out of place. At the door, she used the key and entered with no trouble.
Inside, the house proved as cozy as the exterior suggested. She locked the door behind her, set the bag on the floor, and pulled out a handgun that Mattias provided her with. His brief instruction had been thorough enough to see her through this venture.
Checking the safety, she prowled the house, inspecting each bedroom, bathroom, and closet. The back door was bolted from the inside and none of the windows were broken. All good signs. Ones Sander and Mattias had insisted she check first thing. After examining the pantry in the kitchen, Chey pulled the blinds on all the windows and turned on the heat.
Breathing easier, she set the gun on the kitchen table and got a bottle of water from the fridge. After drinking half the contents, she set the bottle on the table next to the gun and fished the phone from her pocket. It was a simple device with a matte black shell. No new messages waited.
Now that she was safe in the house, she turned the volume up just loud enough to hear. She wondered how Sander was doing, and whether the meeting was going as planned. He said nothing to any of the guards, even the ones who greeted him with subtle nods. After buttoning up his suit coat, he checked the knot on his ice-blue tie and headed up the stairs to the third floor.
His shoes made quiet clicks over the polished marble on approach to the private parlor where the king would be waiting. Striding through the open door, Sander came to a sudden halt.
Instead of the king sitting in his throne-like chair, waiting, Sander found a suited security member standing next to the empty seat. He subdued an initial flash of annoyance at the delay, surely planned by Aksel to get under his skin.
The king has asked for a morning meeting. He took ill an hour before your arrival. Ill his ass. He aboutfaced, stalked out of the parlor, and marched down the hallway toward the private royal rooms. The other reached for a weapon. Sander cocked his shoulder back out of reach and brought a foot up to shatter the knee of one guard while snaring the wrist of the other.
Wails of pain filled the hallway. Shoving the guard from the door, and ignoring the shouts of agony, Sander grabbed the handle and entered. The private domain of the king was a glut of luxury. Gold trimmed every piece of furniture, veined the floors, and accented paintings on the walls. The chamber was the size of a small house, with other rooms and halls branching off the main area.
Aksel swiveled around from his spot near the roaring fireplace, frowning. He yanked the pipe out of his mouth. He halted near the edge of a divan as the guards, groaning in the hallway, called for backup. How dare you, Sander? But that is your preference of late, is it not? To defy me? He had little patience for games. In his own domain, the king wore black slacks and a white shirt with the first three buttons undone. He appeared to be in between meetings, paring the suit down to its thinnest layers until he was required to present himself once more.
As other guards and military arrived, Aksel held up a staying hand. The security members, wary and alert, receded into the hallway. Sander never glanced back. He continued to regard the king with a confrontational air. As my man said. I am under the weather and will go through everything with you in the morning.
It will see you into exile instead. I know some of the secrets you keep. What a pity if those nasty things ever came to light. His lips pinched into a furious frown. He glanced with ill-disguised discretion toward the open doorway, then back. Or do you have no care for your reputation? Head snapping to the side, Sander accepted the blow and cut a knowing look at the king. A young age to come across my father on the back end of a tryst with a butcher knife in one hand and a dead maid in the other.
But I know where you buried her. Full of apparent mirth, he turned away from Sander. One finger lifted to tick-tock in an I got you fashion. Because I moved her. Scattered her. His hands shook. A splash of hard liquor landed on the counter before it hit the glass. I remember too many details to discount. Should I go on? Not off the throne, and not into exile.
She was one of the nicer women in the employ of the royals at that time. And another. Afterward, he chuckled. It turned into a laugh. The kind of laugh that tilted his head back and made his stomach quiver with the force of his mirth.
Not for the first time, he wondered just how unhinged his father really was. Even his wife. She must be resting in twelve different spots, at least. Sander stared hard at the king. Perhaps the idea of ripping the king off his throne before his time had more merit than Sander realized.
Because I am the only witness? She was your mother. The implications, if true, had the potential to be devastating. Siona was your mother. She wanted you to know who she was, promised to keep it a secret if she could just have a mother-and-son relationship with you. Of course, that would never work. He used the side of his wrist on his mouth, smearing stray droplets away. She went along, faking the pregnancy and birth. Only a very select few knew of the ruse.
Everyone else in the castle believed it to be true. When Siona went into labor with you, Helina went into fake labor and shut herself away for the better part of a day until the baby could be smuggled in through the hidden passageways to her room. As if, somehow, he believed he had done Sander a great honor by not proclaiming him a bastard. The first born. Another of those unnatural laughs born of a man forced to keep secrets that weighed down his soul.
She and a second nurse knew, and both readily agreed to keep their mouths shut. He thrust a hand through his hair and paced the room. On the other hand, Aksel was an accomplished liar, both by habit and necessity. Or will you not believe her either? Thirty-three years he had been groomed for this role. To become king. Having his whole existence and the reason for it brought into question after all this time made him sick.
Would he believe Helina? Aksel faced down the stare, finding a calmer facade to present at this stage of the conversation. To yank the throne out from under me for the good of Latvala?
So now what, Sander? To continue on makes you look like a hypocrite for dumping Valentina because in taking the throne yourself, you are doing exactly what you accused her of. Putting a bastard in to rule. Sander paced, hands flexing in and out of fists. He argued with himself, pitting what his heart told him to do against the reality that Aksel might be telling the truth. How convenient the timing was, though.
That Aksel could yank his bloodline right out from underneath him when it suited him most. Finally, he prowled to a stop near the fireplace. We have covered our—and your—tracks well! His hand shook less than last time. His voice lowered, grew soft and sure. A vein stood out in his forehead. Come back tomorrow. If her confession is not enough, which it should be, then I think there is one other way. He hissed on the exhale. Now you want me to come back tomorrow. The remains of a bowl of soup sat on the counter along with an empty bottle of water, proof she had at least attempted to eat something for dinner.
After washing the bowl, the small pot and the spoon, she set the dishes to drain, dried her hands, and fished out another bottle of water from the fridge. She wondered where Mattias and Sander were. She knew both men planned to return at some point this evening, and that they would take every precaution to throw any followers off their tail. Chey trusted them not to lead anyone back to the cabin. Just as she approached a bookcase, she heard the doorknob rattle.
Crossing back to the kitchen, she picked up the gun and clicked off the safety. She faced the door. As she watched it swing open, Chey mentally prepared herself for a shoot-tomaim scenario should it become necessary.
Mattias came first, followed by Sander. She put the safety on and set the gun on the table. Right away she knew something was wrong. Mattias closed the door behind his brother and followed Sander into the living area. One of my meetings ran over as well. Mattias perched on the arm of a sofa while Sander paced, hands on his hips, glaring at the floor. Chey stood near Mattias, arms crossed over her chest.
She regarded Sander with growing concern. A vein pulsed in his forehead, and every so often he exhaled a sharp breath as if he was struggling to calm himself. He scratched the short edge of his nails along a subtle layer of whiskers starting to fill in along his jaw.
Helina, if he is to be believed, is not my mother. When I was thirteen years of age, I caught father in what I thought was a tryst with a maid. The back end of a tryst, I should say, because when I actually discovered them he had just murdered her.
How can you be sure it was him and not someone else? She covered her lips with her fingertips, stunned into silence. He raked a hand back through his hair again, clearly unsettled. She wanted permission to admit to me who she really was.
Aksel disagreed. I threatened to find her grave, except he says he scattered her around. Scattered her around. Her body parts? It had to be. Or perhaps he dug her bones up and moved them all about later on. Mattias looked disgusted. Yet I would wager ten years of my life that he will not publicly announce this.
Except they publicly accepted you as their own all this time, and to renege on that now will cast their trust into a shadow they might not be able to shed later. Chey glanced between brothers as they hashed it out, tension making her shoulders tight. It would save her thoughts of becoming queen—a title she did not feel suited for anyway—and allow them to have something of a more normal life together. Yet Sander being forced to exile himself against his will rubbed her the wrong way, and seeing him so agitated bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
He was a good man who cared about Latvala and its people. Invested mind, body, and soul, no one would rule with as much passion as Sander. Sander, she thought, would not find an easy answer here. I would need some other kind of proof. That Helina, along with a confession, might have something that will convince me. No matter how I cajoled, he would not be swayed into showing or telling me today.
He appeared restless instead. She scoured her mind for ideas over what it might be. Mattias remained silent, gaze cast to the floor in thought. If this is all true, I would have imagined her to simply shun the maid and the baby, turning them both away from castle life to live elsewhere. Why did she choose to raise me as her own? She really is your mother, and all they want is an easy fix for your exile. He tried to refuse to see me when I arrived, claiming illness.
It bothers me. The crystal decanter clinked against a tumbler as amber liquor sloshed inside. He stepped toward the door. He lifted his glass to Mattias in silent salute. Already she felt a headache coming on. Chey followed behind and snapped the bolt into place.
Turning her spine to the wood, she leaned against it and regarded Sander across the room. He finished off a first glass, watching her eyes, then poured a second. Do I become the hypocrite he suggests if I fight for the throne, or do I bow out and let Mattias take over? Every twist became more gut-wrenching than the last. She crossed the room after Sander downed his third drink, took him by the hand, and led him through the home to one of the bedrooms.
She paused to douse the only burning light and to bring the gun along with them. Sander put up no resistance or argument. He paced at her flank, silent, and allowed her to begin stripping his suit and shirt from his shoulders.
Chey let her gentle touches and the whisper of her fingertips do the talking. Too paranoid to strip him totally naked, she only removed the clothes on his torso, leaving the pants intact. If they needed to move fast, she wanted them both to be at least half dressed. After leading him to the bed in the dim room, she guided him to lie on his stomach.
He did so with a grunt, sinking his considerable bulk into the mattress. Chey set the gun on the nightstand and straddled his hips. She could see the knots of tension across his shoulders, along with angry red lines running parallel under his skin. He stretched his arms above his head, giving her unimpeded access to his entire back. Chey set her palms right on either side of his spine and began massaging languid circles over the muscles, attempting to ease some of his discomfort.
She could tell he was tight and taut, unable to really relax even after three drinks. Allowing the silence to stretch, she worked each section until she felt a little give in the sinew. Up near his nape, she leaned down to press several kisses at his hairline. Rewarded with a shiver from him for her effort, she repeated the gesture then sat up once more and continued kneading.
Not even with the possibility of an unwanted visitor so distant. But they could rest and gather strength for tomorrow. She sucked in a surprised gasp when, without warning, he twisted just enough to reach back and snag her off his body. He brought her down to the bed with him.
She landed on her back at his side, hair whipping out across the pillows. Despite the easy banter, Sander was not comforted or distracted by it. Chey skimmed her fingers over the arm he laid across her ribs. For some women, it would make all the difference. One vivid blue eye came into view. He stared at her, lids low.
Are you feeling okay, though? Even the idea, the slightest chance, really puts a burden on whatever choice I make from here. Yet the desire to fight for the title of heir is strong. That it was mine by right. She could hear the conflict in his voice, and see it in his expression.
The king was getting his way again, using nefarious means, and it galled her that Aksel might get through all this unscathed. You go ahead, take first shift for sleep. She closed her eyes and tried to blank her mind. Tomorrow was soon enough to begin the process again. By dawn, they had showered, eaten a quick breakfast of bagels and cream cheese, and were ready to say their goodbyes.
He kissed her once more. Chey stared up into his eyes, fingers smoothing the lapels of the steel gray suit coat. Make sure you pack a few things in your duffel after I leave, along with a few bottles of water, all right? That particular task had already gone on her To Do List for this morning. Chey, in the same jeans as yesterday with a new, plain hoodie of beige, snagged her duffel off the floor and set it on the kitchen table.
Any other time, Chey might have smiled over his mother hen tendencies where she was concerned. She knew he had a lot of things on his mind, yet there he was, making sure she had what she needed in case of an emergency.
Leaving nothing to chance. His features were unusually stoic and grim. Make sure you have a coat with you at all times. I have my choice. I need a couple of hours to wind my way from here back to the castle and come in at a deceiving angle.
Good luck with your meeting today. The best outcome would be that Sander and Mattias caught the king in a lie. His fingers made quick work of the buttons. He watched her the whole time, expression sober and serious. Finally, he stepped closer. Instead of touching her, he maintained eye contact for several long minutes.
Chey refused to break the tether of their gaze. She fought down goose bumps and a stray shudder. Without putting a finger on her, Sander had the ability to affect her on the deepest levels. He pivoted away and stalked to the door. After a quick glance back, he unlatched the bolts and stepped out into the day. Chey followed, closing the door in his wake.
She engaged the bolt and the regular lock. At the window, she watched him walk across the snowy clearing toward the path that cut through the forest. He must have parked somewhere between the house and the nearest road.
She watched until the foliage swallowed him whole. Stepping away from the window, she moved back through the room to the table, checked the gun, then began packing a few trail bars and water bottles into the duffel bag. There were also small single-serving packets of beef and turkey jerky, as well as a few packs of carob, chocolate, peanut butter and almond mixes.
They would see her safely to some other safe haven while the brothers sorted out what plans came next. In the middle of nibbling on a pack of carob mix, her stomach somersaulted and protested the food. Nausea hit hard, sending her into the bathroom for fear she would puke all over the floor. Surprised at the sudden bout, she hung her head over the rim and scraped her hair back into a ponytail to keep it away from her face.
She wondered if she had caught the flu. Although it was a close call, she managed to stave off the sickness. Relieved when the spasm passed, she exited the bathroom and put the rest of the mix away. Perhaps hot tea would settle her stomach.
She made a cup, glancing at the crack in the window curtains as dawn gave over to a new day. The storm must be moving in, ready to dump another several inches of snow on Latvala.
After packing her duffel and zipping it closed, Chey took her tea to the living room, sat on a sofa, and sipped the hot brew. Hoping for the best. SANDER WENT twenty miles out of his way after leaving the house, snaking through backwoods terrain, narrow paths that barely cut through the foliage, and overland where there were no roads at all.
The SUV handled the rough passage well, bouncing over snow-slick rock, frozen mini-streams and hard-packed dirt lanes that had not been plowed. Once he hit a main artery, he picked up speed, glancing at the overcast sky. The snow would start any time. Still bothered about the obvious stalling tactic of the king, he drove toward the family seat with too many things on his mind. First and foremost, the question of his birth. He would never admit to anyone just how sick it made him to think he might be stripped of his title.
What would he do if Aksel proved he was the son of a maid? The idea of pressing forward, hiding his true heritage, and lying to the people of Latvala was not a route he wanted to take. Aksel had hit the nail right on the head suggesting Sander would be a hypocrite to proceed and take the throne after dismissing Valentina for thinking to seat a bastard there.
His hands tightened on the wheel. Did he owe it to the people to fight for the throne, or to back down and pass it off to the rightful heir? Mattias would be a good ruler. They thought a lot alike, and would lead the country almost identically no matter which man ascended the seat of power. Paavo would not. Paavo, despite his good intentions, had already shown a propensity to be cowed by foreign pressure. He had neither the experience nor the backbone of Mattias or Sander.
He could not be allowed to take the throne regardless of the outcome. At the main gate, Sander passed through the checkpoint and drove more slowly up the drive toward the broad steps at the entrance. Leaving the SUV behind for the attendants, he stalked through the doors and into the castle proper. His boots thudded over the floor on his way up three flights of stairs toward the private parlor where the meeting was supposed to take place yesterday. Sander pressed his lips together as he strode past guards who inclined their heads in respect and welcome.
Helina sat in her throne-like seat with a medium-sized white envelope on her lap and a mug of steaming liquid in one hand. Dressed regally in elegant slacks of dove gray and a loose-fitting shirt with an empire waist the color of peacock feathers, the queen regarded Sander with slightly glassy eyes and a pensive expression.
She did not look especially happy to see him. Aksel paced behind his throne, hands clasped at his back. A red cape edged in dalmatian fur partly covered a crisp navy business suit. Royal jewels gleamed on his fingers. The cape, he knew, was one more angle of psychological warfare. Mattias, also in a suit, gave Sander a condescending smirk when he saw him. Aksel glanced from Sander to Mattias and back again. Sander made sure to frown at his brother, as if disappointed to see him siding with the king.
Appearances were everything, and Sander understood the importance of playing his part equally as well as Mattias. They needed to sell their discord with one another to pull this off. He gestured to a chair opposite his throne.
Would you mind informing Sander of his true heritage? Not to be hurried, Helena sipped from her cup before setting it down on a small table at her side. She folded her hands over the envelope on her lap. But since you seem to need more proof, I think I can provide it.
Brace yourself, Sander. Helina tsked and opened the envelope. She withdrew a photograph, glanced down at it, then up at Sander. Finally, she offered it over with a knowing look on her face. This was a big step. Whatever he did or did not see in the photograph might change his life as he knew it. Finally, he took the photo from Helina and turned it around to view the image. What he saw there stole his breath. A petite blond woman stared off into the distance with the castle as a backdrop.
She was on the front steps, near the entrance, dressed in pants and a pale shirt that differed from the uniforms of today. There was no escaping the similar shape of the cheeks and angle of the eyes. Sander looked so much like her that some sort of relation was simply undeniable. This woman, Siona, was a feminine version of him, built sturdy but fragile, with a sweet expression and sharpness to her gaze that suggested not much got past her.
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