Chapter 28

Callum

The closer we get to Flora’s coronation and our subsequent wedding day, the less I tolerate leaving her out of my sight for one minute.

The princess is the bright spot in my world. She always has been since the moment she skipped into my woods that day when we were small.

She’s been prancing in and out in secret for all these years and we’re so close to making our relationship known to everyone that I can taste it.

I watch her leave through the crack in the wardrobe door as she takes Uther’s arm. She looks more regal than I’ve ever seen her. The golden silk and chiffon dress Sable created for her is a work of art. It’s not anything the Dowager Queen would wear, or any queen of this realm. The outer gossamer fabric drapes from her shoulder, wraps around her hips, and surrounds her in a shimmering, golden cloud. The inner layer hugs every delicate curve down to the floor. The look has one foot in contemporary fashion and the other in ancient Gravenland tribal history. Sable might be a pain in everyone’s ass, but I agree with Flora: she’s a goddamn genius.

She should be on my arm, and I should be the one protecting her at all times. Uther is a good man, but I feel an irrational sense of overprotection whenever I see him hovering over her or touching her.

Soon enough, once we’re married, we won’t need Uther hovering around every second. He can fuss over the queen or take a less visible role, whatever he wants.

I sneak out of the room and silently follow them down the hallway, lagging behind by twenty paces.

He’d better not try anything.

Of course, he wouldn’t; what’s wrong with me? I need a distraction.

No, I need to find my seat in the chapel and get on with it like a normal human.

“Sir, may I direct you to your seat?”

The half-whispering, half-hissing voice addressing me comes from my left, and I turn, facing the snapping turtle that is Doug, the chief of palace media relations.

The American. Gods, help me.

“No thank you.” I narrow my eyes at him.

His eyes rake over me smugly, assessing my suit. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first. You’re usually covered in mud.”

I tug at my lapels and raise my chin proudly. “Puts a whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘cleans up well,’ doesn’t it?”

Doug purses his lips. “Yes, well. Staff seating is in the balcony.”

I nod and push past him. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Where are you going?”

“To my seat. On the main floor.”

Doug has always seen fit to belittle me. For some reason, the staff that works outdoors, or in the kitchens, driving the fleet, or cleaning rooms, has always been less important in his eyes. The “unskilled,” he calls us. He’s not the only one. On more than one occasion, I’ve been treated differently by some of the more posh staff at the palace.

I could lay him out with one punch, but I’m not prone to fighting a man whose only aim is to insult me. Water off a duck’s back, this man is.

What I don’t stand for is him standing in my way.

Doug laughs. “What did I tell you, friend? Main floor is for state guests and department chiefs. The balcony is for the unskilled.”

The familiar booming voice of Prince Sigurd carries out of a side chamber. “There won’t be anyone using any balconies today!”

Doug and I turn toward the chamber to our right, and out steps Prince Sigurd in his formal suit, embellished with his military medals and sash, his typically wild beard trimmed. “Not after what happened last time. My sister’s a bit squeamish about heights.”

Doug’s face blanches and he lowers his head. “Your Highness, I apologize.”

Sigurd, who’s more good-natured these days with the settling effects of the delightful Stasi, lightly punches Doug’s shoulder. “No harm done, kid. Besides, he’s close with the family, Doug. You’re still somewhat new since my late father hired you during Etienne’s recovery to control the narrative. But you’ll catch up soon enough.”

Doug excuses himself and heads through the chapel library.

“Where’s Stasi?”

Sigurd winces. “The baby is going through something called cluster feeding. All she does these days is sleep and nurse and pump. So she’s watching the live stream from our rooms.”

I wince. “That sounds terrible.”

Sigurd lifts one shoulder. “I do my best to help her out whenever I can.”

I have no idea why he’s blushing about that but I let it go as he leads us through a winding hallway that cuts into the east wing of the chapel, where an usher takes us to our seats in the front row.

Before I sit, I catch Doug’s eye at the back of the room. I salute him. He glares.

Americans. Can’t take the slightest bit of torment.

With as long as the musical prelude is, I could have given the princess a much more thorough going over in the dressing room. My hands sweat when I think of how she looked at me when I entered right after Sable’s people dressed me.

Flora looks perfectly pulled together every damn day. But this morning she looks like something from another world, gracing us with her presence. When her eyes raked over me in the seconds before she dropped to her knees and started tugging at my zipper, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

What in the world did I do to deserve such a sweet angel wrapping her soft lips around me, her tight throat milking me so hard that my ears started to ring?

Sigurd nudges me. “What time is it?”

“Not long enough.”

“What?”

My eyes snap to his, and he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

I check my watch. “Ten after ten.”

“She’s late,” he grunts. “What the hell is she up to?”

I chuckle. “She’s always late.” I play it off because it’s true, but I’m also worried.

“I just saw her with Uther; they were headed to the chapel.”

Sigurd grunts quietly. “Maybe she and Uther are having a go. I’ll have to kill him for touching my sister.”

“What?” I grit out.

Sigurd shifts in his seat and leans in close, his whisper so quiet nobody nearby can hear. But I hear enough, and it makes my blood run cold. “You know she spends all day texting someone. She disappears for hours. Uther says he doesn’t know what she gets up to. Torben and I have our suspicions. Uther has been seeming distracted lately.”

“Fuck that guy,” I hiss, knowing full well her usual lateness has nothing to do with Uther.

But today? Uther’s the last person I saw with her and I’m sitting right here. If anyone makes the princess late for something, it’s me.

I stand. “I’ll go check the corridor where I saw them last.”

Etienne stands. “It should be me. I’m the least likely to murder the man.”

Kala leans forward. “Listen, boys, no one is murdering Uther today. She’ll get here when she gets here.”

At this, Torben rises from his seat, Hailey on his other side looking concerned. “Did you say Uther? What is he up to?”

Kala rolls her eyes. “Listen, the four of you’d better take it down a notch before you go accusing the chief of security of something that’s not happening. He’s a good man, a decorated military hero, the best protector of the crown. Nothing is amiss.”

Etienne turns to his wife. “Laying it on a bit thick for the kilted heartthrob, aren’t we, dear?”

“Relax, darling. You know I hate it when you get jealous.”

I’m finished listening to these people argue with each other. I already have trauma from the moment Princess Flora almost died at Torben’s birthday celebration as a result of her brothers’ arguing, jostling and carrying on. I won’t sit here and let anything else happen to her while no one is looking.

I head out the side door, down the winding staircase to the corridor where the princess left me outside her dressing room.

As a professional tracker of wild animals, I move silently, listening. But I hear nothing, not a single footstep.

I traverse the corridors back to her dressing room, but there’s no evidence that she traced her steps back this way. No scent of her.

And I can always scent my Flora, wherever she might have been most recently.

I head down the opposite basement corridor, pass the door to the sub-basement and march up to the grand entrance. It’s not that big of a chapel, so there aren’t that many places the princess could be.

“Where did Uther take you? What did he do with you?”

A few lost guests are milling in the grand lobby, and an usher herds them into a side room to view the ceremony on a streaming service. If I don’t find the princess now, there won’t be anything to watch.

I cross to the opposite corridor and work my way through the adjoining rooms and offices that run parallel to the west wing of the grand chapel. I enter the vestment room of the high priestess, who waits anxiously in the chapel along with all the honored guests.

No one has been in here.

I break into a run, retracing my steps through the west corridor, trying to decide which way to go. A shabby-looking wooden door grabs my attention to the left of a maintenance closet. Probably a storage room, and when I try the knob, it opens.

To my surprise, it opens not into a room of shelves but to a rustic plank staircase leading down into blackness.

A chill runs up my spine when, in the darkness, I hear a faint groaning sound.

My hand scrambles around for a switch, and when I find it and flip it, the space is bathed in a sickly orange light.

There, on the landing, lies Uther Nancarrow, chief of palace security, in all his medals and finery, apparently bleeding from the head.