slapped his hand aside and hauled the door open. Then she stopped, hesitated, and pushed it closed again so the latch rested against the frame. “Oh. Except. It turns out that condom was a good idea.”
He grinned. “You think?”
“Yes.” Her green gaze was heavy as she looked back at him. “I know we’ll be spending nights together, but just thinking out loud here, there are a lot of secret rooms and secluded nooks in this oversized display of wealth you call home.” She patted the front pocket of his trousers, swiping her hand rather firmly across his crotch as she pulled away. “You might want to replace it.”
He almost growled as she strode into the corridor.
Utterly perfect.
10
They ran from one end of the palace to the other, bolting up too many flights of stairs, and still reached the base of the tower five minutes late. Breathing hard with a hand on his side, Kris flatly refused to run up this final staircase. So Frankie strode into the tower study ahead of him, her core temperature high, her heartbeat a post-orgasm mess, and forced herself to concentrate on Philip and the twelve guards in attendance as their attention shifted to her.
These were the personal guards of the Jaroka brothers—four assigned per family member—two for the day shift, two for the night. She had selected each of them personally and entrusted them with the safety of the royal family. Some were sitting on the study couches and chairs, others were leaning against the curved walls or standing by the windows. All in uniform, clear-eyed despite the late hour and connected by grim tension.
“Ma’am,” several greeted her.
She gave a nod, hoping to God they couldn’t see the past half-hour on her face. “Thanks for coming.”
Mark’s night guards looked understandably harried, having raced across town from Kuria Estate. And Philip, bless his straitlaced cotton socks, sat in one of the chairs opposite the monarch’s desk with spectacularly wild bed hair and the telltale piping of a pajama top askew beneath his shirt.
Her cadre all snapped to attention when Kris entered the room behind her. They were the only royal employees who knew he would soon be their king, and every one of them bowed low.
Taking advantage of the moment of privacy, Kris grazed a hand over her back and slanted a soft-eyed glance at her mouth as he passed her.
“Tell me.”
His demand had been hard as granite; his fingers had been equally unyielding at her core.
“Tell me how you want it.”
She flushed, having not even known to want it like that.
As the guards straightened, Kris said, “Don’t mind me,” and crossed the room to drop into a languid sprawl behind his desk.
“We’ll make this snappy.” Frankie closed the door with her heel, adjusting her grip on the folders. “But before we start, who made the best joke on Philip’s hair?”
A pause as everyone looked pointedly at Hanna.
“It’s just,” the guard said, “it looks like it was subjected to an incredibly isolated extreme weather event.”
Frankie snorted, Kris said, “Ha,” and Philip grumbled as he patted his head.
Then Frankie caught Hanna eyeing off her hair and swiftly moved things along.
“Right,” she said. “The authorities have confidentially reopened the case regarding the late royal family’s deaths. This is following Prince Kristof’s testimony about the violent attack on Prince Tomas and his friend Jonah Wood in Montana three years ago, which we covered at yesterday morning’s briefing.” She tapped the folders against her palm. “The detectives’ search—and ours—has shown that four of Prince Tomas’s attackers have contacts in Kiraly who worked on the renovations of the west wing. This could be coincidence. Or it could be an indication that whoever orchestrated Tomas’s attack is also behind the balcony collapse. These people might all be from the same network.”
Unease blew through the room, shifting feet and stiffening shoulders.
In a casual movement, Frankie stepped back to lean against the door. She opened the top folder and flipped through its contents. She saw none of it. Dread was too busy squeezing her throat closed, robbing her of focus.
Holy hell. This was real.
Somehow, she’d managed to disconnect from it. To treat the threat like an abstract problem to be solved, but if the incidents were truly connected—
Someone wanted Kris and his brothers dead.
And weren’t afraid to act on it.
A feverish rush made her skin too hot and too cold at once.
Kris was watching her. She flicked over another page, refusing to look up. He’d see the panic in her eyes—would ask about