A paper take-out cup appeared in her line of vision. If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have yelped in surprise. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her limbs, and her only reaction was a little shudder of surprise.

The to-go cup was not the kind the hospital cafe gave out. She was intimately acquainted with those cups—blue with stylized coffee beans and too-thin plastic lids. This cup was a natural brown with a black lid, and it smelled heavenly.

“Cappuccino.” James wiggled the cup a little. “I went to an actual coffee shop around the corner.”

Sophia wrapped her fingers around the cup and inhaled. It smelled like real coffee, not that horrible drip or instant stuff people in England seemed to enjoy.

“Grazie.” The first sip tasted like heaven. The second sip made her tear up with homesickness.

“Prego.” The reply was a bit hesitant, but his pronunciation was good.

James sat beside her on the couch in the waiting area. When they’d first come to the hospital, she’d thought how elegant the waiting room was. Now she would happily burn every piece of furniture in here and cut the tasteful, neutral photos of the English countryside into angry little pieces.

James put his arm around her and Sophia leaned into his side. They fit together comfortably, as if they’d been together for years instead of…

How long had it been?

“What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

Sophia hummed as if that answered her question, then sighed. “I don’t remember what day we got here.”

“Tuesday. The conclave was on Tuesday.”

“It feels like we’ve been here for years.”

“I know.” James rubbed her arm. “I don’t know when the last time was that either of us slept a full night in a bed.”

Sophia had to stop and think about it. They’d taken turns going back to the hotel to shower and nap, but had spent most of the past two days in the hospital. “Not since Rome.”

James shifted to look down at her. Sophia kept her eyes on her coffee. She was so tired that sometimes looking at James’s kind face was enough to make her cry.

“We’ve known each other barely a week,” he murmured.

“But we’re married.” Sophia swallowed. “You, Tristan, and I.”

James squeezed her shoulder. “He’ll be okay.”

Sophia’s throat tightened with the need to cry, but her eyes remained dry. Maybe she had run out of tears.

“He hasn’t spoken since yesterday. Since he realized… Not one word,” she whispered in misery.

“Losing his hand, especially his right hand, is going to be hard.” James reached down to rub his bad leg as he spoke. “Plus, he watched our admiral and his fellow knight getting shot. All that plus losing the hand are enough to make anyone need some time to process.”

“I hope he’ll talk to him, to the…” Sophia waved her hand, too tired to think of the word in English.

“Psychiatrist. I hope so too.”

As one, they looked at the clock on the wall. They’d been booted out of Tristan’s room, where they’d spent most of their time, so he could have his first therapy session.

James’s massive chest expanded as he took a deep breath, which he then let out with a sigh. “I wonder what’s happening with the manhunt.”

Sophia considered grabbing her phone. Antonio was in England, and he would know what was going on. She’d told him, via text, that she was married to one of the knights who’d been shot, and that she’d been there when the fleet admiral was killed. After some astonished replies and cursing—and like a good sister, she’d reminded him that he had ignored what she’d said about the message on the coins—he’d stopped trying to “protect” her from information about what was going on.

But that didn’t mean he was volunteering anything. If she wanted to know, she’d have to bug him.

She didn’t have the energy for that right now.

The door opened. As one, Sophia and James came to their feet, their fingers weaving together so that they held hands.

The psychiatrist walked in. “Mr. Rathmann, Ms. Starabba.” He nodded in greeting.

“How is he?”

The psychiatrist was Indian, and younger than Sophia had expected—mid-thirties at most. His eyebrows rose at her question, showing above his thin wire-framed glasses. “Ms. Starabba, my sessions with your—”

“Husband,” James interjected. His voice was deeper than normal, and tinged with anger.

The doctor—who had surely told Sophia his name, but she couldn’t remember what it was—shifted his weight back onto his heels, and for a second it looked like he might physically retreat from James’s anger.

“Yes, your husband.” He pulled off his spectacles and examined them, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaning the lenses. “He’s suffered several serious shocks. First there is the loss of his limb, which is a catastrophic event in both the clinical and emotional sense. He was witness to, and a victim of, extreme violence, and…” The doctor put his glasses back on. “And he was recently and unexpectedly married.”

Sophia stiffened and unlaced her fingers from James’. She wanted to cross her arms, but she still held the coffee, so she settled for cupping that in both hands and taking a sip.

“You’re a member,” James growled. “That’s how it is.”

“Usually there is advance notice given. People are notified that it’s time for them to be married, even if they don’t know to whom.”

“We didn’t know either,” James insisted.

The doctor held up his hands. “I am well aware of that, Mr. Rathmann. And frankly, I’m worried about both of you as well.”

“Why?” Sophia asked.

“Because your relationship is fragile, precisely because it is so new. From what Mr. Knight told me, you haven’t spent any time together without external pressures guiding you.”

“And what does that mean?” James asked.

“It means that your relationship doesn’t have a baseline. It’s like a…” The doctor looked at James. “You came on the field after regular play, in injury time, and you’re playing with 14 men. Fourteen men you don’t know and have never played with before.”

James grunted as if that meant something to him. Sophia shrugged. She wasn’t sure if she was too tired to translate, or if they were using rugby terms she didn’t understand. James had played professional rugby—she knew that much. And she knew he’d played for the All Blacks and that it was a famous team.

Mentally, she added “learn more about rugby” to her growing to-do list.

The door to the waiting room opened and two cavalieri pushed into the room, swords drawn. The doctor, closest to the door, whirled and took a step back. The knight on the right lunged, pressing the tip of his rapier against the doctor’s tie.

“Who are you?” the Italian knight asked.

“I’m Dr. Sahil Kapoor.”

“Doctor?” The cavaliere drew his sword back, but didn’t sheath it. The second knight ducked into the hall, saying something in Italian that Sophia couldn’t quite make out.

She was so shocked by the sudden appearance of the knights that she didn’t react right away. Neither of them was Martino, who’d escorted them to the hospital on that fateful day.

The second knight pulled back into the room and said. “You may go, Doctor.”

Dr. Kapoor raised his brows. “I’m speaking with my patient’s family. I do not need your permission to be here, and I will not leave because you threaten me.”

Sophia shook herself out of the surprised stupor seeing the cavalieri had thrown her into.

“Saverio, Vico,” she snapped. “What are you doing here? How dare you treat the doctor this way?”

At the sound of her voice, both knights snapped to attention. They shared an uncomfortable look before Vico replied, speaking Italian as she had.

“My deepest apologies, Principessa. The ammiraglio is here.”

Sophia wanted to scream. How dare her father barge in. She needed to take care of her husband. That meant talking to Dr. Kapoor.

“I will not see him now.” She tossed her hands in the air in frustration. “He should return to Rome.”

Dr. Kapoor was frowning at her. “Tristan called you the princess. I thought it was a pet name, but you’re…” He cleared his throat. “You’re the principessa of Rome.”

“No,” Sophia told him. “I am Sophia Starabba, member of the Carabinieri and wife to Tristan Knight and James Rathmann.”

“Bloody fucking right you are,” James said with enthusiasm.

Sophia twisted to smile and wink at James.

The door opened and Antonio walked in. Her brother looked tired—his hair was messier than usual, his already deep-set eyes appearing sunken into his face. He wore black slacks and a dress shirt, which probably meant he’d been trying to blend in somewhere in London. Normally he wore black T-shirts with the logo of the security firm that was a front for Rome’s security operations.

“Antonio?” she asked.

He grinned and opened his arms. “Polpetta.”

Sophia slid into her brother’s embrace, hugging him fiercely. Her eyes prickled with tears as another wave of homesickness hit her. It had been a long time since her brother had used that nickname for her and hearing it brought back too many memories.

Sophia pulled back and wiped her eyes with one hand. “I’m not a meatball,” she said in English.

Antonio switched languages. “You are.”

Sophia laughed, more because it was expected. “Why are you here?”

“Father is here.”

As if that explained everything. And it did. “I cannot be his princess right now.” Sophia flung her head back to look at the ceiling and sighed. “Brother, please, take him away.”

Antonio cupped her arms with his hands. “He is not here to see you.”

Sophia’s head snapped down. Antonio didn’t speak, but the corners of his eyes were pinched with worry, and his dark brows were drawn together over his nose.

She whirled to look at James, who was eyeing the knights as if deciding who he’d take out first.

“We have to go to Tristan!”

James’s attention snapped to her, and when she took off running, blowing past her brother and Vico, James was right behind her. She heard the whoosh of expelled air as either Antonio or Vico failed to get out of James’s way.

Together they sprinted down the short hall. The security officers stationed on the walls all came to attention at the sight of people running. They started shouting in a variety of languages. Sophia made a hard left at the end of the hall, glad for her rubber-soled shoes, and nearly collided with the Roman security officer who stood squarely in front of Tristan’s door.

“Let me pass!” she snapped in Italian.

“I’m sorry, Princess, but I cannot allow you—”

James tackled him, his shoulder driving into the other man’s midsection. The doorway abruptly cleared as James and the security officer sailed off.

The security officer hit the floor and slid ten feet on the smooth, polished hospital tile. James caught himself, stumbling a little, one hand on the wall.

Sophia grabbed his arm and tugged him to the door. He was grimacing, and she knew his knee had to be hurting, but their husband needed them.

She thrust open the door, then whipped aside the curtain that shielded the bed from the open doorway.

Another security officer stood in the corner. He pulled a Taser gun from a holster and raised it. James thrust Sophia behind him.

“Don’t touch them!” Tristan snarled. At the same time, Giovanni said, “No, Milo.”

Milo, Antonio’s second-in-command, holstered the stun gun. Sophia slipped around James’s side, keeping one hand on him. She could feel the anger pulsing through him.

“Tristan.” She ignored her father. “Are you well?”

“Am I well?” Tristan glanced at his right arm and then away.

That hadn’t been the right thing to say. Sophia stared helplessly at her husband, wishing she’d had more time to talk to Dr. Kapoor.

“Father.” She whirled on him. “What are you doing here?”

Her father was frowning at her jeans, T-shirt, and jacket. “Sophia—”

“Why, Father?” she demanded harshly.

The admiral of Rome’s eyebrows rose. She’d hadn’t spoken to him like that since she’d been a teenager.

“I am not here to speak with you, Sophia. I have come to give the announcements from the conclave.”

“You had it? Where?” Tristan asked. His voice sounded more normal than it had since before he was hurt.

“In a place you will know about, but which I cannot say in front of them.”

To Sophia’s shock, her father gestured at her when he said “them.”

What was going on?

James squeezed her hand, and Sophia looked up, reading the confusion in his gaze. She shook her head once, telling him that she didn’t understand.

“Tristan Knight,” Giovanni said, his tone formal. “You are, by order of the conclave, relieved of your knighthood.”

“No,” Sophia breathed. She started to take a step forward, wanting to at least lay a hand on Tristan’s foot under the covers. Her father shot her a look and she froze.

He was, after all, not only her father, but her Ammiraglio.

“I understand,” Tristan said quietly. “I am no longer fit to be a knight.”

Sophia opened her mouth to argue. Losing his right hand did not mean he couldn’t be a knight. He could hold his sword with his other hand. He could use a gun instead. To say that the loss of one arm meant he was not worthy to be a knight was barbaric. Being a knight was about more than holding a sword.

“Arthur Billings,” Giovanni intoned.

Almost as one, Tristan, Sophia, and James looked at Giovanni in shock. He knew Tristan’s real name?

“You are, by order of the conclave of admirals, appointed admiral of England.”