“Principessa, come with us.” The words, yelled through the door and accompanied by a booming knock, made Sophia jump. She was perched on the end of the bed, fingers clenched in the fabric of the hotel duvet.

James was sitting at the small desk, pretending to examine coins, but he had been staring at the same coin since Tristan left nearly six hours ago.

He should have been back by now.

James rose, but Sophia waved him back and bounced to her feet.

“Don’t answer that,” James warned. “How did they know where you are? I’ll call Tristan.”

“I won’t answer it.” She just needed something to do.

She pressed her back against the wall near the bathroom and yelled back, “Who are you?”

“Martino Cavaliere, Principessa. Your father sent me to fetch you. You and your husband need to come with me.”

Martino Cavaliere was one of the knights of Rome, and that sounded like his voice, but she wasn’t a fool.

“I will not come with you, Martino.”

There was a brief pause, and then her phone rang. She picked it up. It was her father.

“Father?” she answered.

“We’ve been attacked,” Giovanni said without greeting. “Our knight will escort you to safety.”

“Attacked,” she repeated, but in English. James stared at her, eyes widening.

“Yes. Bring your husband. The big one. Our knight will take you to Tristan.”

Her father had used Tristan’s name. And there was a note of respect in his voice.

“What happened?” she asked in a whisper, as if keeping her voice low could protect her from the answer.

“Too many things happened.” Giovanni paused. “I’m sorry, Sophia.”

“No, no, no, no.” Sophia started to sink onto the floor. James caught her. She pressed herself against him.

“Go with Martino. Do what he says.”

The call ended.

“What is it?” James demanded.

“They were attacked. Tristan…something happened to Tristan.”

Sophia snatched up her jacket and purse, more on instinct than because she was actually thinking about what she’d need.

“Is Tristan all right?”

Sophia shook her head. “No. I don’t think he is.”

James grabbed her hand, squeezing it with his. She opened the door. Martino looked grim, and he held his sword in hand, the blade glinting in the muted hotel hallway lights.

“Martino?”

He shook his head. “Come with me, Principessa.”

Sophia laced her fingers with James’s and together they followed Martino out of the hotel.

They’d taken control of and locked down an entire floor of the small, private hospital just outside of London. James had been here before. The Masters’ Admiralty maintained controlling ownership of this hospital, which catered to non-HSC procedures, such as plastic surgery. The doctors and nurses had no idea who really owned the hospital, outside of a few doctors who were members themselves. There was a maternity floor, which supposedly specialized in high-risk deliveries, but in reality, was used predominantly by members and staffed by highly paid midwives who knew not to blink when there were two fathers, or a father and second mother, attending the birth.

Though the Masters’ Admiralty essentially owned it, the hospital itself wasn’t totally secure. However, the third floor was now more heavily guarded than Buckingham Palace. Black-clad security operatives were stationed every five feet. Knights, some still wearing ceremonial black robes, stood with their hands on their swords, or in some cases with their swords drawn.

James’s ID was checked seven times—and each time, the person checking took a photo of him and called to consult with an unseen third party before letting him pass. Sophia got the same treatment, but with a deference that James didn’t merit.

By the time they were led into a waiting room, James was ready to start tossing men into walls. If someone didn’t tell him what the hell was going on, he was going to start beating the answers out of people.

The waiting room was unlike those in the few HSC hospitals he’d been to. It was elegant and stocked with food and drink. James stared at the tea kettle. Maybe he should make tea. Tristan liked tea. Didn’t he? Tristan had made tea for them that morning at the hotel. He’d been fussy about the tea bags, and called the front desk, asking for loose-leaf tea and a strainer. James knew there was a way to make tea without a bag, but he hadn’t personally done it. Tristan liked loose-leaf tea. Maybe there was some here. It was a fancy hospital after all. Did Tristan take milk or sugar?

He didn’t even know how Tristan took his tea.

“You will tell us what is going on,” Sophia told the knight who’d escorted them. Martino was his name.

“I don’t know much, Principessa.” Martino’s English was heavily accented, but James was grateful they were speaking English at all.

“What do you know?”

“The conclave was attacked.”

“The conclave itself? But it was secure…” Sophia sucked in a breath. “My father. Where is my father?”

“The admiral is safe, Principessa.”

“Then let me speak with him.”

“I cannot, Principessa. I do not know where he is.”

Sophia’s breath shuddered, as if she was having trouble controlling it.

“No, no. I’m sorry…” Martino sighed and started speaking rapidly in Italian.

Sophia nodded and answered in the same language, then turned to him. James held out his arms, offering a hug, but she only grabbed his hands, squeezing his fingers until her own turned white.

“They were all in the room when they were attacked. Someone shot at the admirals, right through the ceiling of the building. At least four people were shot. The security officers have taken the remaining admirals to a safe place.”

James’s heart sank. “The remaining admirals?”

“Two admirals and two knights were shot.”

James yanked his hands out of Sophia’s, not because he didn’t want to hold her, but because fear and anger were boiling inside him. He wanted to slam his fists through the wall, to vent this hot feeling inside him. He didn’t trust himself to touch Sophia right now.

Sophia raised her hand, as if to touch him, but paused just short of completing the action. “Tristan was shot. He’s in surgery right now.”

“How bad?”

“Martino doesn’t know.”

“We’ll find a doctor. We’ll ask him.” James started for the door of the waiting room, then paused. “The other people who were shot? How are they?”

“Martino thinks they’re all dead. He said they weren’t breathing when they were taken away.”

“Two admirals.” James turned to face her. “And your father is okay? I mean he isn’t hurt?”

“No.” Tears pricked Sophia’s eyes and she let out a sob. He could hear the relief in it.

James enveloped her in his arms. She felt small and slight, her body quaking.

Sophia wiped her eyes against his shirt and leaned back to look up at him. Her lashes were spikes, wet from the tears. She was beautiful as always.

Mine.

Ours.

Tristan, you have to be okay.

“James, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“One of the admirals who…who died. It was your admiral. The admiral of England.”

James’s stomach sank. Winston Hammond, with his little round glasses and nearly bald head, was gone. The man who had ruled England with sharp intelligence and razor wit was dead.

Sophia reached up and stroked his hair with one hand, her gaze on his face.

James swallowed and shook his head. “The fleet admiral and the admiral of England dead?”

“And one more. The Castile admiral.”

“May God preserve us,” James said fervently. “Three admirals dead.” It was…impossible. The admirals were untouchable. For the fleet admiral to be killed was horrific, for three admirals to die within as many days was catastrophic.

“You know the history. Has this ever happened before?”

“Not that I know of.” James sat, bracing his elbows on his knees. He put his head in his hands. Sophia rubbed his back. “What are we going to do?”

“We the Masters’ Admiralty?” Sophia took a breath, and when she spoke there was a note of authority in her voice—it was a clear tone, like a bell. Principessa wasn’t just a nickname. “We will go on. We will defeat our enemies. The…remaining…admirals will gather and choose a new fleet admiral and new territory admirals.”

Normally when an admiral retired or died, the leadership of that territory—the vice admiral, security minister, knights, security officers, and finance ministers, would meet in an informal conclave and compose a list of candidates. The vice admiral would then submit these names to the fleet admiral, who was the one who appointed the territory admiral. In practice, the fleet admiral usually selected someone from the list. If there was not an obvious choice, the fleet admiral could call a conclave of admirals and solicit their opinions and advice before making a final selection for the new admiral.

“With no fleet admiral, who appoints the new admirals?” James asked.

“The conclave? Perhaps Greta?” Sophia laid her cheek on his back. “That will be the real test. Will England and Castile accept their new admirals, will the power transition easily?” She sighed again. “If one of the current admirals becomes fleet admiral, that will mean three territories will have new leaders. And a territory with new leadership is weak.”

“They had better move fast.”

“I’m sure my father will.”

James couldn’t see her, but he reached back and laid a hand on her knee. “Is your father going to be the fleet admiral?” It was a question he hadn’t dared to ask.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “He would be a logical choice. He is strong. Rome is strong.” She turned her head, and he felt the press of her lips on his back even through his shirt and jacket. “We are married. He cannot undo that.”

James raised his eyebrows. “Was he going to?”

“I was worried,” Sophia admitted.

James twisted to the side and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her half onto his lap. “You’re ours. Mine and Tristan’s. No one is going to take you away from us. Or us from you.”

Sophia stroked his eyebrow, his cheekbone. “We know so little about one another.”

“True,” James conceded. “But we can learn. We have time.”

The words were out, and he couldn’t call them back, but from the way Sophia’s lashes swept down, he knew that she was thinking the same thing he was—they might not have time. Tristan might not have time.

The door to the waiting room opened. A tired-looking black woman in green scrubs, her hair hidden under a surgical cap, stood in the doorway. “Are you Mr. Knight’s spouses?”

The fact that she’d said “spouses” meant she was either a member, or one of the hospital staff who knew that many of the hospital’s patients lived alternative polyamorous lifestyles.

Sophia rose from James’s lap, then grabbed for his hand as he too rose, his leg protesting. He held on to Sophia, wrapping one arm around her waist while still holding her hand.

The surgeon ran her hand over her face, then swept her cap off her head. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun. “We did the best we could.”

Sophia gasped and turned her face into James’s chest. James blinked and felt a tear slide down his cheek.