took a step closer, laying his palms flat on the table. His fingers rapped against the grain as he asked, “How is he?”
“Worried sick. I told you.”
Tommy didn’t move, but his presence seemed to snarl in warning. “You know what I’m asking,” he said, deathly quiet.
“He’s safe,” she said. “Just working.”
Tommy stared her down. A silent command for more without the indignity of begging.
She stared back, pulse spiking just a little.
“How often do you talk to him?” he ground out.
“He calls me every Friday morning while he makes breakfast,” she said, and at the flash in his eyes, added, “Don’t look at me like it’s another of my secrets. It’s not just me. Mark and Kris have called him. He’s our friend, too.”
He turned his face away. “He calls you every . . .” He trailed off, whipping back around to stare at her. “Today’s Friday.”
Late afternoon in Kiraly meant in Mountain Daylight Time—
Frankie’s phone started to ring. Tommy recoiled as if it had breathed fire.
“Always so punctual.” She gestured to it. “You want to answer?”
He ran a hand up his throat and backed toward the door.
“I’ll take that as a no,” she said, reaching for the phone. Then she hesitated. “Loudspeaker?”
The look he gave her would have withered a weaker spine.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She answered the call and put it on loudspeaker. “Morning, Jones.”
“Hey, Frankie!”
Tommy’s cheeks flooded red—and an instant later, the map-room door slammed shut behind him.
Swiping up her phone, she switched off the speaker and brought it to her ear. Okay, so she’d ambushed Tommy, but he needed the support of his oldest friend and it seemed a guilt trip might be the only way to make him act. His brothers were too wary to push him. It was always careful with Tommy or make sure he doesn’t stress. Well, she wasn’t blinded by protectiveness. She cared about Tommy—more than she or Tommy would be comfortable with her letting on—and she could see his steel in those shadows.
She wouldn’t be careful, and she’d make him stress.
Then he might remember he could protect himself.
Kris stood at the window of the small green sitting room, one hand gripping the curtain tie-back, the other in his front pocket. He’d spent the afternoon posing as Mark, maintaining positive relations with industry. He’d eaten butter-soft biscuits with a billionaire entrepreneur and discussed the future of assistive technology; he’d drunk tea with a robotics engineer and discussed the future of AI and job automation; and he’d shared a sneaky scotch with a biotechnician and discussed cellular agriculture and the future of sustainable food.
He’d squinted through most of it. The scrunched-up look of a man trying to spot something familiar in a wave of blinding light.
Now, he gazed down at Frankie in the rear courtyard and his future had never looked clearer.
Staff were bustling, stacking packs and bagged tents in a neat row, while Frankie addressed a small group of assembled guards. She appeared sharp-shouldered and in control in her purple jeans and green tank, and her team’s attention on her didn’t waver.
She was the woman who’d lied while protecting him—who’d denied him, then cried over him. He’d never—like, an actual Frankie tear . . . right on his thumb. One look at the devastation on her face and he’d known there was no going back to friendship, not from here.
His breathing grew strange as he watched her, like there was a latch in his throat that kept slipping in and out of position, nudged by something inside him that was figuring out how to get loose.
She’d suppressed her desire because he was her prince. We’re incompatibility’s greatest achievement, she’d told him. You’re literally going to be king.
Not without her, he wasn’t.
The laces on her black boots were half-undone. A typical, insignificant detail, but every time she moved, he winced a little, fearing she’d trip. It was stupid. She’d lived a carelessly laced life without him and managed to keep herself upright, but that didn’t stop him wanting to march down there, kneel at her feet, and tie her into safety.
Philip appeared beside him at the window.
For several minutes, they stood in silence as the camping preparations continued below. It was excessive—needless items that just kept coming—and when Frankie rolled her eyes and turned away what appeared to be a portable hot-water heater for showers, Kris laughed and said, “Attagirl,” under his breath.
Then his advisor spoke. “You be careful there, Your Highness.”
Philip’s tone was serious, stern, yet unlike any he’d used