10. Valaria
Valaria
Idon’t hesitate.
The moment I see the breach alert flash across the screen, I go cold—calculating, clinical, focused. It's how I survive.
Pietro is already moving, gun holstered under his jacket, jaw tight.
We don’t speak.
There’s no time for debate, and even less for feelings.
Not when the world outside is catching fire.
We slip into the corridor, make our way toward the security room at the back of the kitchen. The camera feed shows two figures near the tree line. Armed. Masked. Moving with tactical precision.
Not amateurs.
Not press.
The taller figure fires.
A warning shot cracks the gravel—then another.
This is a show of force. The threat of assassination.
Pietro flashes a signal—silent count to three. I nod.
We sweep out through the kitchen entrance from opposite sides. The air is damp, laced with pine and tension. I can hear my own pulse.
From the shadows, two assailants ambush us. They square off for 1:1 battle. I’m disarmed. The breath knocked out of me. Pietro is locked in brutal combat with a man twice his size, but I can’t afford to watch.
My attacker lunges, knife glinting. I pivot, adrenaline rushes through my veins, and drive my knee into his ribs. He grunts but doesn’t fall. I block his next strike, barely, my arms shaking from the force. I’ve trained for this. A hundred drills, a thousand hours.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Pietro—blood on his cheek, eyes like ice, movements efficient and deadly. His opponent spins away from him, shields his face. Pietro’s relentless, silent, terrifying. I’ve seen him angry. I’ve seen him smug. But this? This is war.
My opponent grabs a fistful of my hair and jerks my head back. My scalp explodes with pain, but I twist, using his momentum, and slam him into the wall. I jam my knee into his groin—hard. This time he falls. The knife lodges in the dirt. I scramble for it, stand ready for a fight.
But he staggers toward the woods. Turning back to fire at us.
“Valaria!” Pietro’s voice—sharp, urgent. I don’t look. I just move. Because if he’s calling my name in that tone, we’re not out of danger. Not even close. And I need to survive. We both do.
Fear is whispering that we won’t make it. But fear is a liar.
Pietro tackles me from behind, one arm caging my shoulders, the other gripping his gun. We land hard in the wet grass as the bullet slices through the air where my head had been.
“Stay down,” he growls, already rising to return fire.
I don’t listen.
I push to my knees and fire two clean shots—one hits the target’s shoulder, the other grazes his thigh. He drops with a howl. The second man flees into the woods.
Pietro chases.
I stay behind; gun trained on the downed assailant. He’s bleeding fast. Mask still on. I press my boot to his hand and rip the gun from his grip.
“Who sent you?” I demand.
He just laughs. Blood bubbles on his lips.
“Too late,” he rasps. “You’re already dead.”
My stomach turns.
Pietro returns—empty-handed.
“He’s gone,” he says.
I handcuff the one we caught—kneel to unmask him.
My fingers freeze.
The face beneath is familiar. A junior diplomat from Oristana. Someone I’ve shaken hands with. Someone I trusted.
Pietro calls for back up to haul the assailant’s ass off to prison.
I whisper, “This goes deeper than we thought.”
Pietro crouches beside me. “This wasn’t just a warning.”
“No,” I say. “It was a test.”
“To see how far we’d go,” he finishes.
We stare at each other.
And in that silence, the thing I’ve been trying so hard to bury rises again—sharp, breathless, terrifying.
It’s not just the kingdom in danger.
It’s my heart.
Because the only man I trust with my life…
Might be the one who ruins it.