Sander had spent the better part of his life trusting his instincts. If his gut said duck, he ducked. If it said stop, he stopped dead in his tracks. And if it said turn around, he turned. Like now, when the fine hairs went up on the back of his neck and some insistent, inner voice said someone was behind him.

Twisting, he brought Valder into view. The farmer stood a few feet behind him, close enough to strike if that had been his intent.

“Yes?” Sander asked, aware that everyone else either had their back to them, or were in the kitchen, not paying attention. He took another step away from the window where he’d been watching the blizzard grow into a monstrous beast that obliterated everything beyond the porch of the farmhouse. If he’d thought the weather had been bad on his way to the outhouse, it was nothing compared to the whiteout it was now.

“Your man Leander asked earlier about snowmobiles,” Valder said. “I wonder if you mean to try and leave here before the storm is over.”

A bead of perspiration trickled down Sander’s temple. Resisting the urge to reach up and swipe it away, he said, “I wanted to know what all of our options were. So, yes, I asked Leander to inquire.” Sander attempted to dance around the actual question. He wouldn’t hesitate to lie—at least in this situation—if he had to.

The way Valder studied him made Sander believe the farmer suspected the truth.

“I think it would be a terrible mistake to drive out in this, Your Majesty,” Valder finally said after several more moments of silence.

And I think it would be a terrible mistake to stay, Sander thought. But he said, “We’re going nowhere right now. It’ll be nice to know we have the backup if we need it.”

Considering Valder told Leander that the snowmobiles had been out of gas for a while—unless he’d lied—Sander thought their chances of finding gas on the property were good. Valder wouldn’t have bothered to ask about leaving if he’d known they couldn’t. Sander suspected the only reason Valder and his family hadn’t taken the snowmobiles out themselves was either they hadn’t thought to siphon gas from other vehicles, or the continuous whiteouts made it too dangerous.

“I see,” Valder said. “Are you feeling well, Your Majesty?”

“I feel fine.” Sander knew his smile wasn’t convincing. Turning back to the window, discouraging more conversation, he crossed his arms over his chest and silently cursed the storm. He cursed the fever and chills, and the way Valder continued to stand and stare at his back for at least a minute before moving away.

A half an hour later, the smell of soup began to permeate the farmhouse. By that time, Sander felt on the verge of collapse. His head was spinning and his pulse raced. Even his knees were weak. Sitting down heavily in a chair at the table, he put on a show for the rest of the farmer’s family, feigning that he wasn’t all but delirious with fever. He ate the soup spoonful by spoonful, then bit off chunks of a protein bar and chewed methodically.

Even his teeth hurt.

“Your Majesty? Are you well?” Tiemus inquired, breaking the silence at the table.

Sander didn’t glance up when he said, “I’m fine.”

His voice sounded gruff even to his own ears.

Utensils clinked against stoneware. Bodies shifted in chairs.

“If you don’t mind my saying, Your Majesty, you don’t look well,” Tiemus insisted.

Sander thought he detected a hint of gloating in Tiemus’s voice. Maybe it was the fever. Or his growing paranoia.

“I said I’m fine,” Sander repeated, forcing his tone into neutral territory. After pushing the last bite of the protein bar past his lips, he concentrated on chewing, then washing the food down with a final swallow of water.

He stood up from the table, pushed his chair back with his knees, and left the kitchen. The walls of the farmhouse swam across his vision, as if this was really Dorothy’s house, caught in the vortex of the infamous tornado. He blinked away a sudden bout of dizziness, and felt hands grab at his arms as the ground rushed up to meet him.

Chey paced the master quarters impatiently. She’d stopped to relight several candles and find a heavy shawl to draw around her shoulders. It was cold up here in these drafty rooms with the fire out, and she couldn’t very well march downstairs to get more firewood after organizing everyone else into the parlors. Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, creating friction, she waited for Raune to return. She thought two, perhaps three hours had gone by since Raune departed with his orders. It shouldn’t have taken him that long to round up the old guard, as it were, and send Carita up with the children.

Had she misjudged? Could Raune have been persuaded to the other side, Helina’s side, working against her rather than with her?

The very thought turned Chey’s blood cold. If Raune had switched allegiances, so had the others. The guard loyal to her followed Raune’s lead, looking to him for guidance.

That would leave her with no allies in the castle.

What are you going to do? How long are you going to wait? The longer control spins out of your hands, the harder it will be to restore. Questions swirled through Chey’s mind, none with easy answers. Every second that ticked by on her internal clock made her more nervous, more uncertain. Another hour passed, one in which she chased optimism one minute—Raune was in control, rounding up the usurpers—and pessimism the next—the guard had flipped on Raune, taking him prisoner and leaving the former queen in charge.

Round and round her thoughts went.

When yet another hour passed with no sign and no word from Raune, Chey could no longer deny the truth.

Something was wrong.

In less than ten minutes, she traded the shawl for the shoulder holster, loaded up the extra weapon, and added four magazines of ammunition. With the small flashlight tucked into a spare slot in the harness and the gun in her hand, she exited the suite. Navigating the upper hallway by memory, using the darkness to her advantage, Chey crept toward the landing to the stairs. She remained close to the wall, careful of side tables and teetering vases.

She could almost believe that she had been thrust back in time to the medieval period, what with the stone walls on all sides and the distinct scent of an aging castle permeating the air. It smelled old, but not unpleasant.

The cold metal of the gun in her palm kept her grounded in the here and now, a stark reminder of her current state of danger. She cautioned herself not to be trigger happy whenever she came upon someone, while at the same time promising herself to act if she had no other choice. It was a fine balance in her mind, requiring total concentration.

Perhaps that was why she never heard the footsteps behind her. Focused solely on who she might encounter ahead of her, she neglected to check the rear.

A strong pair of arms wrapped her from behind, trapping her elbows to her ribs. Gasping in shock, the gun fell out of her fingers when she tried to thrust her hands forward as if to brace a fall, and the momentum carried both bodies headlong down the stairs. It was a matter of a wrong foot placed at the edge of a step and her center of balance thrown off with her bulging belly.

Before she knew what had happened, Chey tumbled down, shouting in pain and surprise, her body taking the impact of both herself and the man who’d pinned her. When her Head cracked sharply on stone, Chey’s world narrowed down to grunts and flashes of the castle looming in and out of her vision as she fell.

After rolling to a halt against the second level landing, she blinked away confusion, startled to find herself still conscious. Masculine hands tugged at the shoulder holster buckles and the weapon within while a face swam into view: Urmas.

Chey fought him off, ignoring a lancing pain that shot through her stomach. Fearing Urmas meant to turn the gun on her, she caught his wrists and attempted to wrench the weapon away. Everything felt off and strange, however, as if her movements were slower than they needed to be, as if all her strength had been sapped in the fall.

Urmas got the upper hand quickly, subduing her by using a knee against the back of her arm, forcing her upper body over onto its side. That was all it took to prevent Chey from lashing out again. The weight on her belly and the awkward position served to keep her still.

“Now then, do as I say, and no more harm will come to you. We could have avoided that nasty tumble if you’d not pitched forward,” Urmas said, sounding out of breath.

“The hell with you,” Chey retorted, wincing as another sharp pain sliced through her abdomen.

Oh God. What had she done? What had he done? Was her baby all right? What would Urmas do with her now? A riot of new questions plagued her as booted feet charged up the stairs from below. Chey didn’t get her hopes up; Raune would have come for her by now if he was roaming free in the castle. These were guards loyal to Urmas and probably Helina by default.

Hands urged her to her feet, bringing waves of new pain. Chey groaned as she struggled to get upright, one hand landing on her belly. The baby kicked several times, much to her relief. It didn’t mean she was out of the woods, or that she hadn’t suffered other internal damage. Her head ached as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.

Guided down the stairs, she listened to Urmas direct the guards to take her to one of the smaller informal parlors.

As they passed through the foyer, Chey met Helina’s shrewd gaze. The former queen stood resolute, flanked by guards, chin tilted at a haughty angle.

“I need the doctor,” Chey said, tasting blood at the corner of her mouth.

Helina said nothing.

Guided to the parlor, Chey found herself summarily settled onto a couch and left there to wait.

For what, she couldn’t be sure.