on a threat to his brothers—and was snarling with hackles up in response.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said.
His eyes flashed. Then his gaze moved over her, softening, and he said, “I promise to try.”
Kris laughed as he took everyone at the table in another round of poker. Leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, he said to Mark, “Hey, sorry man, I should have asked if you wanted to win tonight.”
Mark shook his head, grinning. He hadn’t stopped smiling since they’d arrived. Good. And although Tommy’s fidgeting had led him to strip the label off every beer bottle on the table, he didn’t seem on the verge of a panic attack. The bar had been cleared out for them, and they’d welcomed an endless supply of food, drinks, and cards since strolling in the back entrance. Mark’s personal guards sat with them, the two men playing quietly but comfortably among the royal triplets, while Philip had kept Kris on his toes with his startlingly quick poker skills.
Adam was nowhere to be seen.
Mark had sent a pair of guards to his apartment earlier to check if he was okay, but no one had been home. As Tommy collected their cards to shuffle, Kris wondered how he was supposed to judge what constituted a stupid idea. Seemed like a matter of opinion, because right now, heading over to Zara and Adam’s apartment to figure out where the fucker had gone seemed like one of his brightest.
“Last round,” Tommy said, and began dealing.
Kris pushed against the roll of red temper that balled his hands and pushed him to the front of his chair. It was hell to sit here pretending nothing was wrong. But he made himself relax and flick a bottle lid at Mark with a can’t-believe-you’re-getting-married grin.
He could do this. For his brothers.
Twice now, Peter had absently run a hand over his scalp—the prearranged signal—and Kris had wandered around to the guards stationed at the exits and offered them pizza. He’d lingered as Peter and Hanna dove into the box, Hanna exclaiming her enthusiasm while Peter quietly relayed the situation under the cover of her voice.
At the bridal shower, Frankie had found out that Zara had texted Adam as soon as she’d left the palace that morning letting him know Frankie had his pin. He hadn’t responded to her. Zara hadn’t thought anything of it and believed he was currently sitting at this very poker table. No one knew where he’d gone. The authorities were still waiting on the search warrant. The plan was to stay on high alert and allow Mark and Ava their night of celebrations.
Tomorrow, the royal family would be informed.
Now, Kris made a final lap of the guards, wafting half-empty pizza boxes in front of them and inviting them to finish it off. At Hanna’s turn, she deliberated between slices.
“Anything?” Kris asked, a model of patience as she asked him to open each of the five boxes so she could make an informed decision.
“No update, Your Highness,” Peter murmured, hands behind his back. “But Frankie assures us that the moment we receive information, she’ll make a move. You and your family will be protected at all costs.”
Kris’s blood ran cold as Hanna settled on a puttanesca slice.
He and his brothers would be protected—at the risk of Frankie’s own safety.
She’d made him promise not to do anything stupid. With a wave of black nausea, he realized his mistake.
He hadn’t demanded the same of her.
Frankie blew a trail of cool air across her shoulder and down her arm to her wrist. The henna was drying into an intricate stain on her skin, the final activity before Mark’s party would arrive at this glam-chic cocktail lounge. Zara had nailed the decorations. An abundance of twinkle-light balloons bobbed at the ceiling, shimmering over white and silver silk bunting strung from corner to corner. Glass vases filled with tiny strings of lights were scattered around the cherry-toned carpet, while vines and candles adorned every surface. Cocktails flowed like ambrosia and world-class pastry chefs delivered an endless selection of magical, brightly colored desserts.
Ava had actually clasped her hands beneath her chin with a gasp when they’d arrived.
“It doesn’t hurt to have a king’s budget,” Zara had said, downplaying.
“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Zara Nguyen.” Ava’s declaration had been firm with regal finality, and Zara had flushed down to her collarbones.
Frankie didn’t recall much of the evening. She’d sat through games of romantic movie quotes, and love