Chapter 17
Nolan
Today’s adventures in private security include impossible working conditions. Fortunately, I’m an expert at impossible. And this job is swiftly becoming less private security and more security of my pack, which means I need to be an expert at impossible.
The studio is on the top floor of an “architectural marvel,” which is code for open beams and exposed ductwork, with a truly staggering number of reflective surfaces.
I sweep through the main entrance ahead of Piper, my hands loose and unassuming, and make a high-resolution mental scan of every person, backpack, and threat vector.
We’re thirty minutes out from live, and everyone around us is vibrating at a frequency that could boil water.
Piper walks a little ahead of me, her hair a pink cloud over a tailored white suit that probably cost more than my Jeep.
She only slept for a few hours last night, but she beams for every crew member like they’re about to become her best friend.
It’s almost alarming how quickly she can switch on. At least I know it’s never fake for me.
Our whole pack is here. Kellen is in another greenroom with Elliot. He’ll be on stage with Piper in a bit. Until then, we’re ushered down a hall past a makeup station. I nod to the intern wearing an earpiece, who gestures us into the greenroom next to Kellen’s.
Elliot ducks his head out as we move in and nods at me. I send Piper inside after clearing the room and then briefly meet Elliot at the door.
“Are we still good on the post-performance plan?” he asks
I nod. “Van’s in the ground floor garage.
Alternate is two floors down with a decoy.
If they run the schedule tight, we’re in and out before anyone can make a TikTok.
” I do not mention the three threats I filtered off social media last night, nor the spate of increasingly unhinged fan mail that’s been making its way to Piper’s PO box. No need to make her more nervous.
“Perfect. See you then.” Elliot gives me a fist bump an then we’re both back inside our clients’ respective greenrooms.
Piper gives me a tight-lipped smile when I return. Her eyebrow raises a half inch. I shake my head. Nothing for her to worry about.
There’s a knock a few minutes later, and the producer leans in. “Two minutes, Ms. Sumner.”
Piper straightens and rolls out her shoulders. “Let’s do this thing. Somehow this is more nerve-wracking than a stadium show.”
On the way to the stage, I keep half a pace behind Piper and scan the faces of every tech and host. There’s always the chance of a rabid fan, or a “gotcha” journalist. I memorize every face, every shift in posture.
No threats for now. Kellen and Elliot are led out at the same time so we approach set together.
The set is a recreation of a cozy living room full of muted golds and pale blue. The host, a woman in a pantsuit, grins at Kellen and Piper with the calculated warmth of a professional liar.
“And we’re live in five—four—three—”
Piper’s public smile returns, the one she wears on the covers of magazines. The host launches into her script: “We are so thrilled to welcome Prince Kellen Hale and the radiant Piper Sumner!”
The interview starts with softballs. Kellen fields every question with calm assurance, each answer so perfectly inoffensive it’s like listening to a computer-generated diplomat.
Piper, by contrast, turns every question into a performance, hands flying and voice switching from breathy sincerity to sly mischief and back.
They banter. They tease. They talk about their “first date” and play nice with the queen’s request that we don’t make this about the pack she wishes didn’t exist.
The hosts claps her hands. “Piper, I hear you have a new single inspired by your prince?”
Piper casually leans into Kellen’s side. “I do! It’s called ‘Not the Only One.’” She winks.
Laughter and applause zip through the audience. In the control room, I spot the producer crossing herself.
The host releases an excited squeal. “We’re all dying to hear it. The stage is yours!”
Piper is whisked away to the performance space where her band is already queued up. I stand just out of camera view with Kellen and Elliot, close enough to intervene if a stray light falls or an audience member charges the stage.
Piper lifts the mic. For a heartbeat, she’s just a small woman in a giant room. And then she sings.
I’ve heard her at her worst—drunk at three a.m., crooning into a hotel showerhead.
I’ve heard her at her best—sold-out stadium, forty thousand phones in the air.
But here, now, something is different. It’s less polished.
Raw, almost. Every word of the song is a confession, and the longer she sings, the more it becomes clear that yes, she’s singing for Kellen, but also for me and Elliot too.
Elliot, beside me, is visibly fighting a smile. He catches my eye and shrugs as if to say, “What did you expect?”
Piper kills the bridge, her voice going raw and a little bit jagged, like she’s ripping the words out of her chest. The room is dead silent except for her. By the time she hits the final chorus, even Kellen is blinking too fast.
The studio explodes into noise—hands clapping so hard they must sting, whistles piercing the air.
A camera flash catches Piper’s profile, then another, creating a strobe effect that burns her silhouette into my vision.
In the wings, her publicist presses manicured fingertips against trembling lips, mascara already bleeding at the corners of her eyes.
Piper curtsies and then, as the credits on the interview show roll, there’s a hasty shuffle. In under a minute, I have Piper’s hand in mine, guiding her back to the greenroom.
She falls onto the couch while laughing. “So, what do you guys think?”
“That should be your lead single,” Elliot says.
Kellen nods in agreement. “I hope Raelynn agrees with that.”
“Probably not, but thank you. I agree though, for the record.”
We sit together until Elliot and I get the all-clear to move Kellen and Piper to the cars. Then it’s back to the manor estate where, behind walls the queen can’t look into, we can go back to being the pack that’s developed, and not this act that Raelynn and Royal PR want.
It’s impossible for me to let down my guard in public like that, especially after the crowd rush at Reverie Rest. Kellen and Piper don’t seem to have that problem. Even Elliot seems far more relaxed the second we’re behind the safe walls of Kellen’s manor estate.
I take a long, slow inventory of the house.
The gates are locked. The staff is gone for the night, their buy-off easy when you tip triple and say, “it’s a matter of royal discretion.
” I count five possible entry points, all secured, and a sixth if you count the cellar, which generally goes unused.
Satisfied, I snag a beer and join the celebration.
Kellen twirls Piper under his arm, her pink hair catching the light as she spins back against his chest with a breathless laugh. The bass thrums through the floorboards while ice cubes clink dangerously close to the rims of their glasses, amber liquid sloshing with each swaying step they take.
Kellen dips Piper, one arm perfectly bracing her, and she squeals in delight. He’s in rare form tonight, all traces of royal reserve melted away by the post-show adrenaline. He sets her upright and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“We were promised a celebration, weren’t we?” He turns to me, an unspoken challenge in his eyes.
I roll my eyes and gesture at the stocked bar. “Help yourself, prince.”
Piper grabs the bottle of champagne from the counter and pops it. A froth of bubbles sprays across the marble. She fills four glasses, then hands them out. When she passes mine over, she leans in, conspiratorial. “You did well today.”
“It’s my job.”
She cocks her head. “That’s not what I meant. You took care of me. Of all of us.”
I can’t decide if it’s the alcohol or her voice, but it hits me somewhere deep. I raise my glass.
Kellen, of course, doesn’t need to be prompted. “To us.” He clinks his glass with Piper’s, then mine, then Elliot’s. “And to the best damn pack anyone could ask for.”
Piper’s eyes get shiny, but she swallows it down with a gulp of champagne.
Music filters through the sound system—something low with a beat thuds slowly in my chest. Piper slides out of Kellen’s grasp and shimmies over to me, planting herself at my side.
She tucks her hand around my waist, almost possessive. “Dance with me?”
I don’t really dance, but for Piper, I’d do anything. “Of course.”
I let her drag me into the middle of Kellen’s private kitchen where we’ve decided to hold this little celebration. She sways against me. I’ve noticed it all day, but something about her scent is brighter now, far much rich and dangerous. I inhale sharply and focus on not stepping too far, too fast.
“You can relax,” she murmurs. “You’re off duty.”
If only. “I’m never off duty. You’re too damn important.”
She nuzzles my neck. “That goes both ways, you know.”
She’s not looking at me anymore. Her attention’s on Elliot, who’s still sitting, patient, but whose gaze is now fixed on Piper like she’s the answer to every unsolvable equation.
“Elliot,” Piper says, holding out her hand.
He comes immediately, but not like a servant—more like he’s been waiting for this cue all night. She pulls him into our little orbit, and we sway in time, trading touches and sidelong glances.
Kellen watches for a beat, then downs the rest of his champagne and closes the distance. He slides up behind Piper and wraps his arms around her from the back, chin hooked over her shoulder. “God, you’re beautiful.”
The music gets slower, sexier. It makes my blood go thick and warm.
Piper looks up at me, her mouth a lazy half-smile. “Let’s go upstairs.”