Chapter 10
10
Kirill
" Y ou told her I was here?" I bark at Brax the moment he slides into the SUV. Since Fiona walked outside, my pulse has been banging between my ears so hard I feel nauseous.
Brax scowls. "It wasn't intentional."
I point my finger in his face. "Not intentional? She was crying!"
"Shouldn't she?" Brax spouts, his expression turning to one of disgust as the driver veers onto the road.
My chest tightens.
He, too, feels sorry she has to marry me.
I can't focus on my shortcomings right now. Snap out of it, I order myself.
I seethe, "What did you say to her?"
He snarls, "To go inside so no one dies!"
"Why did you threaten her?"
He scoffs, bellowing, "All of us would have died had she seen you today. It wasn't a threat. It was the truth! Stop acting like I did something wrong!"
"You told her I was here!"
"I said it was an accident!"
"I should show you an accident!" I threaten.
He crosses his arms and stretches his legs. "Go ahead."
"Don't push me," I warn.
He leers at me, ranting, "This is your fault. You shouldn't have been here, and you know it."
I turn toward the window, staring at the passing buildings, attempting to calm down.
Brax lowers his tone. "You can't expect her to be happy she's marrying a stranger."
I turn toward him, hold out my hand, and order, "Give me the letter."
He reaches into his pocket and slides it out.
I snatch it from his grasp, crack the divider window, and command, "Pull over."
Ivan obeys.
"Get out," I order Brax.
Brax's eyes turn to slits. "Here?"
"Yeah. You have things to do. Go do them," I direct.
"Gee, not even a 'Thanks for getting me the letter,'" he sarcastically retorts, opening the door.
"Make Fiona cry ever again, and there won't be any warnings. And I promise you it won't be an accident," I warn.
His face hardens with hatred. He slides out and slams the door .
"Airport," I instruct Ivan and then close the divider. I sit back, staring at her handwriting on the front, with twitches erupting in my stomach. I flip the envelope over and look at the red F, smiling.
Carefully, I open the flap, pull out a piece of paper, and a nervous chuckle escapes me.
She tore the top off.
I unfold the letterhead and read.
Dear Stranger The Underworld Calls King,
Your letter only raises more questions, but in the essence of time, I will try to answer your question.
While I love the excitement around the new and upcoming, something about older things reeling with history sometimes mesmerizes me. I guess I'm a girl who loves traditions. I assumed I only got it from my mom, but as I learn more about my dad, maybe he loved it as much as she does.
I also love things that match but in a more eclectic way. Maybe you don't realize it, but everything you sent me (except those bright-white dresses) coordinates with my ring. You expertly combined new, old, and blue. Good job, by the way. Wink. Wink.
Since I don't know what you're referring to, I leave it to you to decide if the borrowed is older or newer. You did great on everything else, so I assume you will regarding this as well. Plus, I'm kind of a sucker for surprises.
Sincerely,
Fion a
P.S. If I go through with this and marry you, I retain the right to ask you my questions and get truthful answers.
P.P.S. I'm relieved you eliminated those flaws from my worries. What is so bad about you if none of those are it?
P.P.P.S. I appreciate the story about my father. I hate to admit it, but the memories of him have faded in my mind, and the more you reveal, the more I wonder if I even knew him. Did I?
P.P.P.P.S. Where are you flying to? I'll confess it's making me feel a bit more important than I am that you're taking all these long trips to select things for me. Wouldn't it be easier to video chat with people instead of putting yourself through another long journey?
You are way more important than you know, little bird.
There's no way I'd ever video chat about this, but it was nice of her to give me the option.
I reread the letter.
She's going to freak when she finds out it's me she has to marry.
I close my eyes, leaning against the headrest, letting the guilt swallow me until I can barely breathe.
She deserves to be happy.
She'll never forgive Sean or me for agreeing to this .
A claw digs deep against my gut, scraping the wounds I've carried for what feels like forever.
The door opens, and Ivan says, "Sir?"
Cold air rushes at me. I didn't realize we had stopped. I open my eyes, fold the letter, and shove it in the envelope. Then I get out, climb the staircase, and enter the plane.
Arina beams at me, curtsying and greeting, "Welcome back, Your Majesty. Can I get you a vodka? Or something else?"
"Vodka, please," I reply and brush past her. I plop down in the first seat, and a new panic hits me.
She didn't give me a definitive decision on older or newer.
I scrub my face, groaning.
"Everything okay?" Arina asks, holding a crystal tumbler in front of me.
"Fine."
"Do you need anything else?"
"No, thank you."
It isn't long before we're in the air. I spend the entire eight-hour flight deep in my thoughts. They range from my anger toward Brax for upsetting Fiona, my hope she's now okay, and anxiety over what I'll choose.
The pilot finally announces we're landing, and as soon as the seat belt light turns off, I rise, antsy to figure my dilemma out, knowing I have a tight timeline before the coronation.
The jetway is like every other one—dark and lit by the flames of wall sconces. Unlike the one in Monaco, this one only has one direction.
I get to the end of the hall, step through the door, and jog down two flights of stairs. There's another door that I open, stepping into a tiny room.
A short man in a tall, black, bearskin hat and red coat bows, greeting, "Your Majesty."
"Oliver. Nice to see you again," I reply.
He rises. "It is my honor, sir. His Majesty has been escorted to the vault." He pushes the button for an elevator.
I exhale a silent sigh of relief. Sometimes, the King of England gets tied up with more pressing matters, and I have to wait. Then again, he's had to wait for me, too, so I know the drill. "Good. I'm on a tight deadline."
The elevator opens, and we step inside. Oliver presses his hand to the screen, and we descend until we're forty feet underground. The doors open again, and we get on a golf cart. We travel several miles through winding, gloomy tunnels, then stop near a heavy, black and gold ornate door.
We get off the golf cart.
Oliver knocks on the door three times, and a whirring sound fills the air, followed by a loud pop. The door opens.
A man in a suit with deep wrinkles on his face and thin-wired glasses bows and says, "Your Majesty. I am the king's new royal advisor, Henry." He straightens, then steps back, widening his arm.
"Nice to meet you, Henry." I offer my hand.
He shakes it.
I brush past him, glancing around for the king. I turn back toward the man.
"Unfortunately, His Majesty had an important matter that just crept up. He has instructed me to give you time to decide what you would like to borrow," Henry states .
"Thank you."
He disappears behind the door, shutting it, and there's a sharp click of the lock followed by five shrill beeps.
My anxiety creeps up. I gaze around the room in awe of the crowns and tiaras glinting in the soft light.
How do I pick?
I step closer, examining each tiara and studying the nameplates underneath.
Fiona would love to see this.
I should bring her here sometime.
Stay focused. Time is running out.
With more determination, I pass over several I think she'd wrinkle her nose at, and get through half before I pause, reading the nameplate.
Grand Duchess Vladimir of Russia, 1874.
Interlocking diamond circles and large drop pearls adorn the gold headpiece. Next to it sits fifteen pendant emeralds.
My eyes dart from the pearls to the green gems.
She's Irish.
The pearls go better with her dress and ring, though.
Fuck. Another choice.
Maybe I can add only one emerald?
Jesus. I suck at this.
I knock on the thick door.
The lock opens, and Henry steps inside. "Your Majesty, may I assist you? "
I step in front of the tiara and pick it up. "I would like to borrow this one. Can I take the emeralds and pearls so my bride can choose?"
"Of course. And that's an interesting choice you selected," he adds.
"Oh?" I arch my eyebrows.
He nods. "Yes. It was created for the Grand Duchess Vladimir of Russia in 1874, and smuggled into Britain with 200 jewels from the duchess' secret safe. When the duchess died, her daughter, Grand Duchess Elena Vladimirovna, sold the tiara to Queen Mary in 1921. She's the one who had the emeralds made to swap with the pearls."
"I see."
He adds, "In 1953, Queen Elizabeth II inherited it in her coronation year and wore it often. It was said to be one of her favorite pieces. She also interchanged the look, sometimes wearing the pearls and sometimes choosing the emeralds. A few times, she wore it without any drop stones."
I stare at the tiara, then declare, "I think Fiona will love this."
He grins. "I will package it up and have it delivered to your plane. I understand you're in a bit of a hurry?"
"Yes."
"Then Oliver will escort you upstairs, and your package will arrive shortly," Henry assures.
"Thank you." I put the tiara down, shake his hand, and exit the vault.
Oliver motions for me to get on the golf cart.
I obey.
He slides next to me and drives us back through the tunnels. We get to the elevator, which quickly opens for us to board, and rises before the doors open again.
I step out of it .
Oliver bows and states, "It's been an honor to see you again, Your Majesty."
"You as well. Thank you," I reply, then enter the stairwell. I climb two flights, stroll down the jetway, and board my plane.
Arina curtsies and chirps, "Your Majesty. Back so soon?"
"Yes." I glance at my watch, feeling antsy. There shouldn't be any time restraints, but I'll feel better when I arrive in Pompeii. So I add, "As soon as the package is delivered, bring it to me. And please let the pilot know I want to take off as soon as it arrives."
"Yes, sir," she replies and disappears.
I swallow a mouthful of vodka, cringing from the burn, and lift the shade. The runway is quiet, and the sun has already set. There are no other planes, but it's a hidden airfield reserved for the king's special guests, so it's nothing unusual.
I finish my drink, pull out my phone, and read my messages, replying to a few.
Arina interjects, "Sir, the package." She holds a black box with the king's seal in the corner and a gold ribbon tied around it.
My pulse increases. I take the box from her and nod. "Thank you."
"Sure." She glances at the box with curiosity.
"You're excused," I state, unwilling to share anything with her, especially before Fiona sees it.
She smiles and slips into her designated space.
The tension in my stomach grows. I carefully undo the bow, lift the lid, and pull out a glass box. The tiara rests on a white pillow, with the emeralds displayed around it. I carefully remove it, then gently run my finger over the gold, imagining Fiona in it, along with her dress .
Then, my mind torments me. All I can think about is her in the tiara, wearing the lingerie, with my fingers around her neck, and the same heat I saw in the snowstorm burning in her green eyes.
Images of her wearing the pearls, the emeralds, a combination of the two, and nothing at all appear like a movie trailer on repeat. Every image makes me harder until my cock strains against my zipper and my blood boils, rushing through my veins.
The pilot announces we're taking off.
I put the tiara back in the glass case and into the black box.
Shit. How am I going to get that ribbon to look how it did?
I groan, annoyed with my current circumstances.
We're in the air within minutes, and the plane levels off. I hit the call button.
Arina appears. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Any chance you know how to recreate the bow that was on this?" I probe, pointing at the box.
"Sure. May I?" she asks.
I pick up the box and affirm, "Please. Sit."
She obeys, and I hand her the box and ribbon. She secures it around all the edges, then says, "I need your finger."
"My finger?"
Her lips twitch. "Yep. I promise you'll get it back."
I chuckle, then hold my pointer out.
She presses it over the ribbon, and within a few moments, it looks like how it did when it arrived.
"Thank you," I sincerely offer .
She beams. "No problem. May I ask a question?"
"Sure."
Her eyes light up. "Is there a tiara in this box?" Excitement flares across her expression.
I grin. "Yes."
"How many queens have worn it?"
"Three that I'm aware of, maybe more."
"Wow." She glances at the box again.
I should let her see it.
No. Fiona hasn't seen it yet.
"I promise I'll let you hold it when it's time to return it."
She gapes at me for a moment. "You will?"
"Yes."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome."
She rises. "Can I get you anything else?"
"No, thank you."
She leaves.
I need to secure this.
I rise, open the safe on the wall, and put the box inside. Since I often carry invaluable items, I added a safe years ago. Should anything happen to our flight, it can be recovered. So, even in the event of my unfortunate death, I can uphold my oath to return the tiara.
I lock the safe, sit in my seat, and stare out the window for several hours until the pilot lowers the aircraft .
My nerves reappear, mixing with something I don't feel very often. I try to decipher it and realize it's hope.
"Stop fooling yourself," I scold in a muted tone.
I try to smother the feeling, but it won't go away. My discomfort grows as my emotions conflict. Pompeii, with all of its ruins, the site of the coronation, seems to glare up at me.
I tear my eyes off the ground, glance at my phone, and my chest tightens further.
Less than two days until Fiona stands next to me or my head gets chopped off.
While I prefer not to die yet, it's not what scares me.
Ulrich's voice pops into my head. "She can tap out and stay your queen. Or, she can choose not to tap out..."
My mouth goes dry, my heart races, and I tighten my fists.
What scares me is that she might go through with this marriage. If she does, I'm going to have another choice to make.
Be a selfish man and keep her, allowing her to live but letting her suffocate from the misery of being mine.