nothing,” she murmurs idly, drawing her finger down the length of my arm. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s peaceful, affectionate. Familiar heat tugs at the base of my spine. “Whatever you think he knows, I don’t think that he does.”
Resting my head against the chair, I drag my gaze down to her beautiful face. “Hypothetically,” I start, voice steady, “what would you do with him? Let him go?”
She scrunches her nose then turns back to the computer. Reaches out to graze a single finger down the side of the monitor. “Hypothetically,” she answers, tapping the screen, “I would be open with him. Transparent. He lost his wife last year during one of the Easter riots. Now he’s locked in that cell while his two girls are alone in the world. He’s a father, Saxon, a caretaker. To get back to his daughters, you might be surprised at what he would be willing to agree to, given the opportunity.”
It’s not the way I would go about it.
Brutal intimidation. Mental tactics designed to see a person spiral then break. It’s what I do—what I did. Now, I . . . Well, I guess now I speak in hypotheticals about an organization I no longer serve.
“I love you,” I whisper into the strands of her hair. “And you’re probably right about Barker.”
She snuggles deeper into my embrace, hiding a yawn behind the back of one hand. “I love you more,” she replies, a tired but content smile gracing her face, “and I’m usually right about most things.”
A small grin tugs at my mouth. “Anything else you want to see before I drag you back to bed?”
Her blue eyes peer up at me, and already I see the wheels turning. My Isla is a sweetheart, the fiercest sort of protector, but she’s cunning. As ruthless as I am savage. And I know exactly what she wants before the words even leave her mouth: “The queen.”
She doesn’t bother to deny it. “Show me her.”
Isla props one forearm on the desk while still maintaining her spot, sprawled across my lap. I hook one arm around her waist, dragging her ass back so that her spine is flush with my chest. She tosses a knowing glance over her shoulder at me, and I don’t bother to apologize. I want her. I always want her. But I get with the program, hand to the computer mouse, and sift through a series of locations throughout the country that we—Holyrood—closely monitor for the queen. Windsor Castle in Berkshire. Dunrobin in the Highlands. Countless others that I’ve seen only in camera footage but which I have never visited in person. Finally, I settle on Buckingham Palace.
“I used to visit every year,” Isla tells me, as I flick through the public rooms on the first floor. At this time of night, there’s no one afoot. “I didn’t always hate the monarchy, you know.”
“No one ever does. The misgivings come later, after you’ve been burned a time or two.”
Sliding her the mouse, I give her free reign to peruse the palace. Once upon a time, these rooms were open to British citizens and people from all over the world. They sit empty now, with white fabric draped over priceless antique furniture and the ghosts of past kings and queens roaming the halls. The only set of rooms actively in use are Queen Margaret’s apartments and those used by her staff.
I feel Isla shift on my thigh, her spine going ramrod straight. “Saxon? What time is it?”
Languidly, my gaze moves to the digital clock on the desk. “Just before three. Why?”
The image on the screen jumps backward, rewinding from room to room. Isla shoves her finger toward the monitor, tapping the glass in the upper right-hand corner. “Watch the clock. It doesn’t . . . If these are security cameras, wouldn’t they be live? But the time, it’s not—”
“Changing,” I finish for her.
And they aren’t changing, not at all. All are frozen at 2:21:15 AM. Frame to frame. Room to room. Despite the fact that she’s been virtually touring Buckingham Palace for the past twenty minutes. A quiet chill of foreboding skirts down my spine as I debate the merits of calling Damien. I’m no Holyrood spy, not anymore. My obligations to the queen ended the moment I chose Isla over Margaret. But still, better safe than sorry.
“Isla, would you—”
“Tell me what you need.”
“My mobile. It’s on the nightstand in the bedroom.”
“Say no more.” She scoots from my lap with a brief kiss to my cheek, and then I hear nothing but the quick tread of her feet padding down the hall.
Be calm. Be cool.
Moving through every room of the palace, I continue to note the unchanged time. 2:21:15. A few years back, we paid a fortune reinstalling new security at Buckingham. King John’s paranoia that Princess Evangeline’s killer was back had spread throughout Holyrood, forcing the lot of us to put in more hours. I barely slept, barely ate. We never discovered who killed her—an unsolved murder case spanning almost thirty years—but the new security system went a long way in settling the king’s ruffled feathers.
And someone’s tampered with it now.
“Saxon.” Footsteps gain momentum down the hall, and then louder, more urgent, “Saxon!”
Isla.
Heart hammering in my chest, I enter the hallway in three strides. She stands there with my mobile in her hand, her blue eyes big in her face.
I crowd her immediately, reaching for her arms to pull her close. “What is it? Sweetheart, tell me what it is.”
“Clarke, whoever he—”
Snatching the phone from her hands, I turn it over and see a single, unread message flashing across the home screen: HELLPP FIR
“What the hell does that mean?” I check the timestamp of the text, and my stomach, it bottoms out completely. 2:35 AM. Sent ten minutes after the security cameras became frozen in time. Something happened. Something bad, something big, and, without pause, I turn on my heel, heading straight for the living room and the telly.
“Is he one of your agents?” Isla asks, following closely. Unmitigated worry scrapes through her voice. “That text, it sent a chill down my spine, Saxon. He’s in trouble, wherever he is.”
“He’s at Buckingham Palace.” I find the clicker, stuffed between the sofa cushions, and turn on the television. “We have him stationed with the queen.”
To keep her safe. To keep her alive.
Dread becomes a fist locked around my lungs.
Isla’s hand lands on my back, moving in soothing circles. “Whatever happened, I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. It has to be. Clarke will be fine, and the queen—she’ll be fine too.”
Except that the second the news station appears on the screen, I know that it’s anything but.
Buckingham Palace is on fire.
Flames flicker toward the sky, angry and volatile. Glass windows implode from the heat stored within, shattering into thousands of broken shards, as the camera crew pans from one wing of the historic palace to the other. And then the entire upper floor detonates with a catastrophic boom! loud enough to be heard from London to Edinburgh.
Screams erupt on screen, from the crowds gathered around the front gates of Buckingham. A frenzy stirs, the camera toppling over until the view ends with a sideways shot of the palace on fire, hundreds of feet trampling past in a flurry to flee.
“Oh, my God,” Isla whispers. “Oh, my God.”
I ring Damien without thought, and he picks up immediately. I hear him panting as though he’s running.
“Tell me Clarke got her out,” I bark into the phone, the first thing I say. “Tell me you’ve heard from—”
“She’s stuck inside, Saxon. The entire palace is on fucking fire and she’s stuck inside.”
My ass hits the edge of the sofa as I stumble backward, my eyes rooted to the morose image of stampeding feet on the television and the abject screams filling the quiet space of my safehouse, and the knowledge that whoever did this had it planned.
I see nothing but flames, feel nothing but horror, and hear my hoarse voice rasp only one thing:
“Long live the queen.”
To be continued…