Viktor

I’m rapidly approaching the authorities, weaving amongst the trees with Peach still tossed over my shoulder and fighting me every step, firemen streaming the opposite direction.

“You don’t understand,” she’s hissing now. “I have to go find—”

“Miss Papaya,” I answer for her.

Her entire body goes rigid.

“I’ve ears, Miss Maloney. I’m well aware of your sister.”

“So you know—”

“That a fourteen-year-old and her troubled friends should never be left alone with hot air balloons? Yes, my lady, I do know.”

“You—”

I silence her by depositing her upon the pavement beside the sheriff himself.

She attempts to shove me in the shoulder, but I easily catch her hand.

I’m less-prepared for the hit to the chest that I take as her gaze connects with mine.

There’s anger, yes, but it’s the hurt, the fear, the worry that momentarily makes me step back.

The silent question. Why are you doing this to me?

The simple answer, of course, is that she absconded with a hot air balloon.

But I fear this isn’t actually a simple problem.

I rather detest complicated problems.

Though I’m certain she never assumed there was a helpless baby in the basket, I do believe she’s attempting to cover for her sister. That she had no intention of leaving the ground in the hot air balloon, and that she was, in fact, attempting to stop the balloon.

“Shall I call Miss Diamonte’s sister for you?” I ask.

She purses her lips together and turns her back on me.

Ah.

It’s to be the silent treatment.

“Let’s get this over with, Sheriff,” she says. “I got places to be.”

“Afraid you’re not going anywhere, Peach.”

When she doesn’t immediately reply with a sassy retort, I step closer.

“Ain’t your concern, Mr. Royal Bodyguard.” His lip tugs upward.

He’s made it no secret that he doesn’t appreciate having royals with political immunity living in his county. But as making Miss Gracie unhappy would destroy his chances of winning a re-election campaign—she’s rather more popular in the county than he is—he’s tolerated His Highness’s contingency. In return, we’ve caused as little fuss as possible.

Which hasn’t been difficult, as most of Miss Gracie’s friends prefer coming to see her in the big house His Highness bought for her.

Though big is a fairly relative term.

One could fit twenty or more inside the palace back in Stölland.

The sheriff jerks his head at one of his deputies. “Go on and escort Mr. Bodyguard here outside the crime scene.”

Peach still doesn’t look at me.

Her silence shouldn’t bother me, except Peach and silence go together like sheep and bathing suits.

“’Twould be my pleasure to provide my account of the events,” I tell the sheriff.

“Won’t be necessary.”

Perhaps not to him.

But I do believe Miss Gracie would be most disappointed if I left her friend at the mercy of this man.

“Miss Maloney—” I begin.

“Go away, Viktor.”

My job is not to get personally involved. Which has never been a problem before.

However, until now, I’ve been in few situations where the distinction between black and white has been quite this gray.

Perhaps my affection for Miss Gracie—and her positive influence on His Highness—is clouding my judgment.

Or perhaps I’ve become too attached to baiting Miss Maloney.

Whatever the case, allowing the sheriff’s deputy to lead me away from Peach feels wrong.

I’m about to turn back when a familiar face breaks through the clumps of law enforcement and comes striding toward me.

My senses go on high alert.

Though His Highness’s father insisted we add two more guards to our detail upon the birth of Prince Manning’s daughter last month, it’s still worrisome to see Kristofer, my primary partner, approaching by himself.

My steps quicken. “Trouble?” I ask when I’m within lip-reading range.

He shakes his head. “A message. For you. You’d best come quickly.”

“A message?”

“Official courier from the country of Amoria. His Highness sent me immediately.”

My steps halt.

Amoria.

Surely not. My brother assured me this wouldn’t happen, and of the lot of us, he would know best.

I glance back at Peach. She’s being handcuffed while firefighters spray the flaming orchard with thick streams of water. My gut sours.

Much as I dislike the woman, this isn’t right.

“Dare I ask what she’s gotten herself into now?” Kristofer inquires. He’s a few years my senior, just as tall and fit, though he seems to be suffering the ill-effects of the heat with far more grace than I. He’s also less prone to baiting Peach under any circumstances.

“I imagine she’d far rather we notify her closest friends that she may be in need of assistance,” I reply.

He nods once. “Go on to the house. I’ll assist Miss Maloney.”

As Miss Gracie would undoubtedly request.

We’ve become quite soft, the both of us.

I nod my thanks, though it’s not mine to offer, and accept the keys to the armored SUV.

Apparently my family’s past has come calling. For my grandfather’s sake, I’ll see what it has to say.