Chapter Fifteen
For a full day and a half, Chey kept to herself. The only visitors she had were Ingel and Elise when they brought breakfast and dinner. Lunch was a meal Chey went to the kitchen for herself. She knew Mattias had something to do with Urmas and Allar laying low after the explosive session in the solarium, and for that she was grateful. She didn't know what she would say to any of them.
Returning the second day from the kitchens, where she'd filched a simple sandwich and a piece of fruit, Chey opened her door and was just about to step across the threshold when a folded note on the floor grabbed her attention.
Bending down, she picked it up and opened it.
Meet me at the old castle at five.
This was the first she'd heard from Sander, too, since that fateful day. She wasn't sure how she felt about seeing him again. A part of her was still quite angry. Another part wanted to have it out, to hash the details away from the castle and prying eyes and ears.
Smoothing her thumb across the slanting script, she folded the paper and pushed it into the pocket of her jeans.
The clock on the fireplace mantel told her she had three hours to wait. In the meantime, she took a shower and chose a fresh pair of jeans to pull on. Because the weather was so frigid, she donned an ivory sweater with a thick collar and sleeves to her wrist. Taking a long coat from the closet, she laid it over the bed. She dried her hair until every ounce of dampness was gone then added a few curls, a light layer of make up, and a dab of perfume on her throat.
Checking the window, she noted the sky was still the color of iron, overcast though the snow had finally stopped falling. She wondered if the road to the old castle would be impassable. Collecting a flashlight and a few tissues for her nose, she stuffed those into the pocket of her coat. Her phone went along with them.
At four-thirty, she headed down to the truck parked just outside the bailey walls. It took her five minutes to scrape snow and ice off the hood and another five to defrost the windows.
Climbing inside, she turned up the heat and drove toward the road. Pleased to find it already plowed, she rumbled along at a sedate pace, music set low, thoughts on the meeting ahead. Now was the time to decide what she was going to say. What she was going to do.
What was she going to do?
Sander had played her. Maybe not for a fool, but he'd played her nevertheless. The lies stacked up against his favor and omitting that he was next in line to the throne was as bad as lying about it.
On the subject of thrones—the King and Queen would never allow them to date if they knew. Which might also have been a reason why Sander kept their tryst hidden. The best she could hope for long term with Sander was to be his sometime mistress. As his duties stacked up and he took over ruling the country, he would have less and less time. Not that she would willingly be some married man's mistress anyway.
The more she thought about the position she was in, the angrier she became.
All of this could have been avoided. Sander wasn't the only one to blame. She should have—done something. Asked more questions. Checked his background. Chey barked a little laugh at the thought.
“Hello, you've just tackled me onto the ground, and you're kind of hot, and we might some day have sex, so will you submit to a background check so I can make sure you're not really the heir to the throne? That would be terrible if I fell for you--” Chey stomped the brakes when that last sarcastic sentence came out. The truck fishtailed and came to a stop sideways in the road. She sat forward, hands gripping the wheel. She hadn't fallen for Sander—had she? Was it possible in a week? Had it only been a week?
Sitting back, stunned at the thought she might be falling for him, Chey took a moment to just breathe. That would be a disaster, especially considering all the cons she'd listed in her mind. Too many cons, not enough pros.
No, whatever glimmer this was had to be stifled. Before she really did fall in love and wound up with a shattered heart. The heir apparent was not a man she had the luxury of loving.
Putting the truck in gear, she eased back onto the road and started for the old castle. At least now she knew what kind of conversation she was going to have when she got there.
. . .
The headlights cut through the growing gloom, illuminating the facade of the old castle. Chey chided herself for feeling like she was letting go of something special, of wondering what might have been. Some day, Sander would rule all this. The history of the events in the ruins before her was part of Sander's ancestry, had shaped the generations leading to his birth. It was awe inspiring, intimidating and fascinating all at the same time.
Cutting the lights and the engine, she zipped her coat up higher toward her throat, pulled the keys from the ignition and climbed out. Although the snow had stopped, she could feel tiny needles of sleet pelting her cheeks. A light spray that could very well grow thicker and heavier before midnight. Sander's Jeep wasn't here yet, but she decided to wait inside out of the immediate cold. The door might be locked, but the arching shape of windows with no panes allowed her access anyway. Sliding over the stone sill, she straightened and glanced around the great hall. Digging the flashlight out of her pocket, she snapped it on and shined it over the ceiling and the walls.
She still couldn't believe she'd slept with the heir to the throne. The man who would inherit the highest seat of power in the land. She'd canoed with him, laughed with him, played games with him. Sander had allowed her to glimpse pieces of himself he probably wasn't able to show many people. She hated the sorrowful pang that lanced through her for the talk to come.
Meandering into the tall foyer, she was about to lean against the archway and wait when the flashlight beam passed over a piece of paper on the floor. Walking to it, certain it hadn't been there on her last visit, she bent to pick it up.
South tower.
Sander must have been dropped off, thinking he would catch a ride back to the cabin with her. And wasn't that arrogant of him, to just assume she would forgive and forget and hop right back into bed with him?
“I really don't think this is funny,” she muttered to herself. Stuffing the note away, she climbed the stairs to the second level and from there hit the other stairs that would take her to the South tower. A gust of chill wind blew through one of the windows on her way up, making her shiver.
Good grief it was cold.
Arriving at the door to Andra's old room, she pushed it open and stepped in.
“I don't know why you're making this all dramatic and poignant by bringing me up here.” The spear of light landed on a masculine silhouette standing at the window. Looking out, like he was contemplating things.
For whatever reason, the posture struck Chey as solemn, maudlin. It tugged at her heartstrings. The beam cut across a few strands of golden hair before she snapped the light off. Tucking the flashlight in her pocket, she approached and stood directly behind him.
“Sander, look...” Trailing, she set her hands on his waist over the thick coat he wore. She shouldn't be touching him, shouldn't allow her heart to ache over the treachery he had wrought. This could have been avoided, she repeated to herself. Just then, as Sander turned his chin toward his shoulder to peer at her with one eye, Chey realized what her subconscious had been trying to tell her ever since she entered the tower.
Something was off. It was the shape of him under the coat, his height, even the breadth of his shoulders. Now that she was almost pressed up against his back, Chey discovered that he was too short, too stocky, and the eye that peered at her over his shoulder wasn't blue, but black. Or so dark brown the shadow made it look black.
Either way, she let go all of a sudden and stumbled backward. He turned, proving as his features were briefly illuminated in the faint overcast glow from the window, that he wasn't Sander at all.
“We did try to warn you,” the man said, his accent heavy and rolling.
Oh, this couldn't be happening.
Pivoting on a heel, Chey bolted for the open door. Just as she surged out onto the landing, a large hand clamped down on her shoulder and spun her around. She swung a fist as she went, a scream tearing up her throat.
The fist connected with a strong jaw but had little effect.
Trapping one arm against her side, the brute bulled her back into the tower room. Chey kicked at his knee, hard, causing the man to grunt in pain. He did not release her, though his grip slackened a little. Putting both feet down, she dug the tread of her winter shoes into the floor, making it twice as hard for him to move her forward. Another scream bounced off the stone walls, deafening in the confined space.
“Shut up,” he growled near her ear, picking her up to move her three feet fast toward the window.
Chey tipped her head forward and slung it back as hard as she could, legs kicking out in front of her to catch against the window sill or the wall—anything to stop her from being thrown out.
That was his intent. To dump her out and make it seem as if she'd jumped or fallen.
The bastard.
A crack of bone was her reward. The brute released her all at once and staggered to the right.
Chey stumbled forward, catching a hand on the wall. Spinning, she didn't run for the door but for him, using the momentum of his stagger to send him sprawling into the wall with a shove. With any luck, he would hit his head and go unconscious.
No luck. He crashed against it, blood dripping from his nose, but didn't go down.
Then she ran. Ran like the devil himself was breathing down her neck. To the door, onto the landing. Down one step, two. Panting, heart racing, unable to see as well as she needed to.
A grunt and rustle behind her told Chey the man was already in pursuit.
Oh God.
One hand shot out to the wall to help steady her descent, to maybe help catch her if she suddenly stumbled and fell. Or was pushed.
What she didn't expect was to run into a body coming up the stairs as fast as she was going down them. The collision bounced her back a half step and she screamed again, throwing an elbow forward to try and connect with a chin or a nose.
An arm wrapped her shoulders and rolled her past to the stairs below. Putting himself between her and the brute just before impact. Chey caught the distinct scent of Sander's cologne, knew by feel and by the shape of his body it was him.
She glanced back in time to see Sander engage the brute; the men battled on the stairs, fists flying. Chey saw the whole thing in strobe-like glimpses rather than as a whole. There wasn't enough light spilling in a skinny window to cover the entire staircase.
Backing down another three steps, one hand braced on the wall, Chey watched in horror as one man threw the other onto the stairs and battered at his face with a fist. Just then, she couldn't tell who was who. Both had blonde hair, both wore thick coats.
A boom blew through the stairwell, so loud that Chey temporarily went deaf.
One man slumped onto the stairs.
“Sander!” Regardless of the danger to herself, she rushed back up the stairs, ready to gouge the eyes out of the brute. The thought of Sander dying sent a spike of fear straight through her.
“I'm all right, I'm all right,” Sander said, pushing himself off the step. The gleam of a gun shone in his hand.
Chey, overwhelmed with relief that Sander hadn't been shot, hugged him tight.
He caught her and held her with one arm, the other lowering the gun to his side.
“What happened? Who was that? Is he dead?” Chey asked, twisting a look down.
“I don't know who it is yet, too hard to see in here. But he's dead unless he's talented enough to survive a gunshot to the head.” Sander sounded disgusted.
“I thought he was you up in the tower. He pretended to be you to lure me here,” she whispered, turning her head away from the fallen man.
“I knew something was up when I saw you heading out to the truck. Come on, the cavalry should be here shortly.” Sander guided her around the dead man and down the rest of the stairs.