I’m walking in a grove beyond the stables when I hear the crunch of tires behind me. I don’t even turn around at first—but I go warm: my head and stomach, all at once.

Thank God. I figured Liam would find me. It’s been almost an hour. If he didn’t show up soon, I was going to go back to his room and demand he talk to me. Explain himself.

As I’ve wandered, I’ve been trying to make sense of what he told me. That he’s not a royal. Not a prince.

Stressed out. Drinking. Not a prince.

What does it mean?

My best guess is he found out maybe he’s…a child his mother made with someone other than King Gregory? That fits some of his murmured ramblings: about someone named Drucilla, who he called “disgusting” and referenced once as “my fucking sister;” about needing to give someone money; about “when everyone finds out my name.”

I stop walking and close my eyes. Poor Liam. When I get into the car with him, I hope I say the right things.

I turn slowly, schooling my face so I don’t look angry or overly upset or like I pity him.

The face I see through the windshield is angry. So, so angry, fear flares in my chest. I’m scared of Liam. Except—as he rolls closer—I realize that’s not Liam.

* * *

I don’t know who it is, I don’t know why he’s here, but when I realize it’s not Liam behind the wheel of my rented Range Rover, something deep inside me screams RUN!

I run into the trees, away from the castle and the stables. I run toward the ocean—and I feel okay until I note the absence of the engine sound. Until I hear the pounding of footsteps on the grassy ground behind me.

I hear a snarled, “You fucking bitch” before his great weight slams into me, taking me down. I hit the forest floor so hard the breath is driven from my lungs.

The baby!

Before I have the breath and wherewithal to roll onto my back, I’m slung over a thick shoulder and carted in the direction of my rental car. I realize I should scream—so I start screaming.

Something hard hits me in the back of the head.

I hear a woman’s throaty laughter.

Somewhere distant, I’m aware I’m lying down and moving. I see trees move through a car window. Maybe hear the screech of tires.

“Did you get the cat?” a male voice asks.

“I sure did,” the female coos. “What a good boy you are…”

I’m confused. And tired. Who would want my cat and me?

I hear the name “Dru” and a light bulb flares inside my head. It’s quickly extinguished.

* * *

“I can see the attraction,” says a British-sounding female voice. “She’s definitely the prettiest of the three.”

“That text to Heath was a godsend,” says a lower voice.

I hear a woman’s sultry laugh. “Only Liam. So frantic. He always was the settle down and play house type.”

“With the two of them looking for her… I’m not sure what’s best to do,” the male says after a moment.

“I still vote in favor of simply calling him. Have him meet me here—he’s a few days late with the cash, which he’s likely well aware of—and don’t mention Lucille Rhodes at all. He gets here, you and Briggs tie him up. We give Lucille the injection, let her ‘jump’ off of the rock, Liam goes in after her in his drugged state and drowns. Leak the story through my contact at the Guardian that he was all but disinherited with questions of paternity, had been drinking, perhaps depressed…”

“And when it gets out that I’m really the king’s half brother?” the man asks.

“You’re the son of Gregory the first, as much entitled to the throne as our current moron king. Regardless of who your mother was. Liam’s death will only reflect more poorly on King Gregory. I’ve got a definite point of access to sources more than willing to verify our dear king struck poor Liam when he was young. So we’ve an abusive king, a dead, drowned son, and that atop an international celebrity scandal. Gregory looks horrid. You are pristine, leading a very popular shift in parliament, and you enact the vote as we’ve planned all along. No one will suspect you of anything untoward, father. One of the benefits of keeping your nose clean and not being an abrasive asshole.”

The man chuckles. “I guess it is pretty ironclad. You’re so much like me, Drucilla. Very much your father’s daughter.”

“So I’m told.”

“And you agree that no one knows, no one finds out, in this…scenario?”

“How would they?” Drucilla asks. “Liam is dead. No doubt he’ll be cremated quickly. You know Gregory won’t want his body tested for illegal drugs. Gregory won’t know Liam isn’t really your son. He won’t know; it’s neither here nor there. He assumes Liam is your bastard, always has, as we all know. Be that as it may, what reason would you have to kill him off? Your own son? If Liam was your son, he wouldn’t take the throne from you.”

“It’s true,” the deep voice says. “Gregory has always thought that Liam was mine. And he doesn’t know that I know his kids with that cunty current wife of his are illegitimate, from test tubes. So if he thinks Liam is my son, and doesn’t know I know that his living children can’t rise to the throne, you’re right—my nose is clean.”

“You’ve kept it clean for years. This is your reward, Daddy.”

I hear a chair creak. “I suppose it is. You’ll make a wonderful solicitor, Drucilla. You make your father very proud.”

“So shall I call him?”

“Yes. I agree, no texting.”

As their words stretch out and blur together, what I’ve learned swims through my mind.

Liam’s father hit him? That’s who gave him his scars? The king of Gael is a child abuser?

And he doesn’t believe Liam is his real son? He thinks Liam’s mother cheated?

Is this guy, Drucilla’s father, really royal, or no? That detail evades me, courtesy of whatever drug I’ve been—

Oh my God, THE BABY!

FUCK! They gave me drugs!

As soon as the thought hits my mind, I feel a painful pinch between my legs. Oh my God, I’m cramping! Am I going to lose the baby?

Details roar into my mind: something about me falling off some rocks and Liam drowning.

Sick dread swamps me. I can barely breathe.

I try to open my eyes and find there’s something strapped over them, keeping me blindfolded. I try to move my arms, but they’re bound tightly behind my back. I try to move my feet, but of course, they too are bound.

I’m sucking air in through my nose when I realize I need to calm down somehow. Visualize. I don’t need to show them I’m awake.

I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth and try to picture a tranquil island, my usual go-to visualization. All I can see is myself jumping off a cliff and Liam drowning, so I picture the mountains rising up behind my place in Estes.

You can do this, Lucy. Just be calm and think.

I try to remember everything I’ve learned in therapy since what Bryce did. How to do a mental check over my body and acknowledge all the pain, and accept it so I can think around it. My head hurts, my mouth hurts, my wrists hurt, my lower belly hurts, my legs hurt, my ankles hurt…

Okay.

I’m lying on a mattress or a bed, I think. A couch, maybe. It’s something soft. I can feel air blowing near one of my hands. Maybe an air vent? Am I on a mattress on the floor? A futon?

I realize with a start that I should be listening for more conversation. But…there isn’t any. Everything is quiet now, as if they’ve left.

God, my brain is scrambled. I wonder what they gave—

Oh no you don’t!

I can’t think about that, because it will lead me to think about the baby. Thinking about not thinking about the baby sends a bolt of horror through me. I acknowledge it and then set it aside.

I need to mentally list what I’ve learned.

Someone named Drucilla has me, and her father’s with her. She’s a lawyer—I think that’s what they mean when they said “solicitor”—and her father is…in parliament, I think they said?

He has a good reputation. Would not be a suspect in a double murder.

Drucilla has known Liam for a while. At least I thought so. I can’t remember why now…

Liam’s father, the king, suspects but doesn’t know for sure if Liam is actually a bastard child. (Which explains why Liam told me he’s not a prince).

Liam is not really a bastard child.

Maybe these two people have been blackmailing him? Threatening him with the results of a paternity test, threatening to reveal he’s not really a royal?

God. Poor Liam.

I feel something soft against my ankle, and my heart stumbles. Then I feel the roughness of a cat’s tongue.

Grey!

As Grey licks me, I think of all those internet stories about people and their pets. Freddy the pit bull who woke Mom from sleep when little newborn Laura stopped breathing. That lion who runs and jumps into the arms of his former keeper. The cat who died in a house fire beside his owner, snuggled up against her.

My stomach churns with nausea.

I notice the smell of…cinnamon? It’s a house smell, kind of a Glade Plug-Ins type of smell.

I’m in someone’s house.

Grey licks me, and I wish futile wishes like that he could talk or untie things or wield a knife in my defense. I wonder how long until my captors notice Grey is in this room with me. I wonder if they’ll notice I’m awake.

I put some effort into regulating my breathing. I think of lions hugging people and that Internet video of a sloth scratching a cat’s head.

Then I hear a door open, and their voices are loud enough to let me know they’re in my room.

“Oh, there he is. Come here, kitty. Come to mummy.”

Hard arms pick me up. I hear a chuckle as I’m thrown over a painfully hard shoulder.

“Playing possum, are we?”

I don’t speak or move.

“We’ve got a new idea for you.” I’m feeling hopeful, praying that they’re taking me somewhere more public than a room inside a house.

That is—until I hear the ocean. Feel the rough floor of what smells just like a boat.