He’d be worried if he’d thought Elle was still here, but the Fjende hadn’t come here to kill her. They needed her too much, at least for now. Dom had to get to her before it was too late.
He glanced over at the man who’d been his trusted number two for the past six years. What he was about to ask went so far beyond the call of duty that he couldn’t allow the other man to embark on what could very well be a suicide mission without giving him an out.
“Major,” he said. “You don’t have to come with me, but if you do, it doubles our chances of getting Elle back safely. Are you in?”
The other man grinned. “Are you asking me to help you storm the castle?”
“Shit, Major, you’ve got a sense of humor. I never would have guessed.” Throwing open the door to the small armory built into the side of the security room, Dom grabbed a duffel bag and started stuffing it with guns, ammunition, and peripheral equipment.
Without a word, Major Bendtsen stepped up beside Dom and started doing the same.
Dom finished filling his bag and snagged a set of keys from the top of the rack. The action triggered what looked like a solid wall splitting in the middle and sliding open like elevator doors, revealing another door with a handprint scanner. He held his palm up to the screen. A green light traveled from top to bottom; the scanner beeped twice, and the door swung open. A blast of freezing-cold air swept into the room.
Lights clicked on one after the other, revealing a long tunnel carved into the mountain at a steep decline. When he’d commissioned the backup plan to his backup plan, this had been the escape route to get the king or Elle off the mountain and miles away from the chalet, into a sports utility vehicle and to the private airstrip where the jet bound for Elskov was waiting for them; they’d be there by morning. The Kronig would only be hours away, but the early prep team was already there waiting for his arrival. The king had been on his way from Madrid when the Fjende had hit the chalet.
What he hadn’t considered until it was too late was what would happen if the security protocols worked as planned, except he was trapped inside and Elle was left to fend for herself against the Fjende. He’d fucked up, but that wasn’t going to happen again. No matter what it took, he was going to make sure Elle was safe.
After that? He’d walk away from the woman he loved, knowing it was the best thing for her. She had a duty to her country. She’d made a promise to accept the crown, and she’d stick to it. Princesses didn’t marry common foreigners, no matter how rich or loyal. He’d bow, and like the reporter in Roman Holiday, he’d walk away. Then he’d get drunk enough to forget the way she tasted and the sassy challenge every time she opened her sweet mouth and the way she could knock him sideways with just a look.
…
Elle stretched her fingers. It wasn’t much, but it was more than she’d been able to do when Walther and his thug patrol had hauled her onto the private jet and buckled her into a leather seat embossed with the royal crest. Her attempts to catch the eye of the flight attendant for help during the fourteen-hour flight to Elskov had been futile. No doubt she’d been chosen with the same evil care as Walther’s armed minions.
They taxied across the deserted private airport. It wouldn’t do for the press to find out she’d been dragged home like a drugged-up sheep. Instead, they’d circled a small, local airport before descending to the asphalt runway. The wheels touched down, and she bounced in her seat, watching the countryside rush by as the jet slowed to a stop near the utilitarian terminal.
She wasn’t supposed to be here, not yet—that hadn’t been Dom’s plan. He would be so pissed if he’d known how screwed up his plan had become. The image of him with that cocky grin and the Viking swagger gave way to the remembered sound of explosions and the heat whipping up from the ground so intense she’d felt it lick against her skin even in the helicopter. Tears pricked her eyes as she blinked them away, grinding her teeth together in an effort to keep from letting the cry rip from her throat.
All of her emotions mixed up to form a sticky ball of hurt, regret, and betrayal that made even breathing difficult. How could she be so mad at Dom and so heartbroken at the same time? It didn’t make sense…but one thing did. She looked over at Walther across from her. The bastards would pay for killing him. She’d see to it if it were the last thing she ever did.
The fasten seat belt sign overhead dinged off.
“Welcome home, Your Highness.” Walther unsnapped his seat belt and leaned forward to undo hers. “I hope you had a pleasant flight.”
She flipped him off, surprising herself that she could. The drugs were wearing off fast now. Good, something in her favor.
He chuckled, but his left eye twitched enough to add some menace to the soft sound. “That rude nonverbal gesture is not fitting with your station, but that won’t matter after the Kronig.”
She worked to get her dry mouth to cooperate. “What happens then?”
Information was power, and she needed all she could get right now. The letter opener tucked into her boot scratched her calf, but she celebrated the pain after hours of numbness.
“That’s up to you.” Walther shrugged. “Your cousin Alton will be giving you the details, but the choice comes down to a wedding o
r a painful—agonizing, really—daily life. I’ll let you wonder which one he’s hoping you’ll choose.”
That wasn’t going to happen. She hadn’t been in the castle for a decade, but she’d grown up there. She knew every side passage, every unused tunnel, and a million shortcuts. All she needed was a few minutes to herself and she’d be outside the walls before Walther here had any idea. Of course, what she’d do after she had no clue. Elskov was an island, and she could only run so far, but she’d figure that out once she made it to the coast. An old memory tickled her brain. Alton’s family had a home outside Faroe City, a huge monstrosity of a place on the coast with several small boats and a yacht. If he wasn’t in residence, she could get there. It had been years, but every Elskovian child learned how to pilot a boat at a young age, even the country’s princess. She could be in Denmark thirteen hours after setting off. Once there, she’d announce the princess was alive and do whatever it took to push the Fjende out of Elskov. But first she needed intel. “Where is my dear cousin?”
Walther gave a bored sigh and checked his watch. “Waiting for you at the castle.”
It was obvious he could care less. The lightbulb went off. “You’re not just the royal guard, you’re leading the Fjende.”
He stood, a smirk curling his thin lips, and took a deep bow. “At your service, Your Highness.”
Icy certainty froze her to the spot; she couldn’t wait to wipe that shitty look off his face with the tip of a sharp knife. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”
“Funny.” Something dark and deadly snapped in his navy blue eyes. “That’s exactly what I told your father before I pulled the trigger.”
“You bastard.” She bolted from her seat, ready to take him out with a quick jab to the esophagus followed by a knee to the nuts, but her legs gave way as soon as she was upright. She fell into a heap on her chair, the contents of her stomach roiling.