46. Nina
46
NINA
We speed-walk through the streets, sticking to alleys where we can. My heart has been in my throat for the last five minutes. Wesley has his arm around me, his head bowed.
“Can you tell me where we’re going now?” I ask as he guides us through a cramped outdoor market.
“We have to get underground, but there are more people following us.”
A pang of fright echoes through me. I want this to end . “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” He glances over his shoulder while we turn a corner. “Just stay calm.”
I hold him tighter. “Easier said than done.”
This is a market I’d peruse for souvenirs for Raven or unique dresses for myself. Never in a thousand years would I think I’d escape a group of murderous criminals while under the arm of the hitman-turned-bodyguard I fell in love with. I’m ready to wake up in my bed at any moment.
When we reach an intersection, Wesley suddenly shoves me as a man lurches into the space between us. The crowd opens up as he defends himself from the attacker. I frantically search for someone, something, anything that might help.
People look at me both frightened and confused, but I grab a mango from a fruit stand and chuck it at the man attacking Wesley. It hits him in the ribs, distracting him for a fraction of a second that Wesley uses to get the upper hand.
But before I can run toward him, someone grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me back hard enough to tumble a few feet away. My knee scrapes on the concrete as I land. Behind the man who threw me, I spot another one headed for Wesley.
“Wesley, look out!” I scream.
I crawl back as the assailant in front of me walks closer, but an elderly woman with a headscarf slaps him and starts reprimanding him in Maldanian. He stares at her, baffled. An old man steps up to him with a baseball bat in hand, also scolding him in very quick Maldanian. The only word I can understand is woman .
A few more people step up with the same attitude. I watch in astonishment as a young woman helps me to my feet and gestures for me to go.
Wesley.
I sprint around the crowd of disapproving elders toward Wesley, who staggers to his feet. “Are you okay?” I ask, steadying him and glancing at the two writhing men on the ground.
“Come on.”
I jog behind him out of the market, my panic worsening with each limping step he takes. “Do you need a break?”
He only shakes his head as we turn down a populated alleyway. He approaches a homeless man among a cart of foraged items. “We need to see Adonis.”
The homeless man, with a hood over his head despite the heat, brushes us off. “Ne sémero pino tu milas di.”
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Wesley catches his arm before he leaves, revealing the mark below his collarbone for a few seconds. The man rethinks his decision, and when he leads us through the alley, I realize that the mark was Wesley’s burn scar—a brand. Fear threatens to coil around my limbs and lock them in place. How horrific of a business was he in where they branded him?
I hesitate to follow the man down into a cellar, so I clutch Wesley’s hand as darkness closes around us. The damp, musty stench of garbage sticks to my skin.
But after unlocking a door, we step into a hallway that’s the complete opposite of where we came from. Sconces flank the dimly lit corridor. Its walls are clean and the rug beneath my feet looks expensive. The musty smell lingers, but it’s manageable. We approach a warehouse-like room with a large rectangular table in the center. Few people scatter around as if hanging out.
The homeless man—who might not be homeless after all—approaches another and bows his head to speak. This one is middle-aged with jeans and a plain T-shirt on. Tattoos spiral up his arms. He looks at Wesley and me, taking in our appearance.
“As I live and breathe.”
Wesley squeezes my hand before whispering, “Wait here.” He approaches the man. “Adonis.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Shelter. Just for the night.”
“Shelter from who?”
“Arlo Serrano,” Wesley says, and offers nothing more until Adonis doesn’t reply. “He wants information he believes I can provide. We only need a phone to make a call and a place to stay for the night. I’m not asking for any weapons.”
“You want me to get involved in the affairs of a Serrano.” He chuckles. “You’re a rat.”
“No, I’m just a man who hates being lied to.”
A rat? Arlo didn’t mention anything like this. It dawns on me there’s still a lot I don’t know about Wesley, and it’s unsettling. Adonis crosses his arms, raking a gaze over me. My feet ache, I probably have blood on me, and I’m scared to look at my hair.
“Who is she?”
“My client. I’m her bodyguard.”
“Who is important enough to be your client?”
Wesley meets my gaze, hesitating. If he thinks the truth can help us, then so be it. The world finding out who gave birth to me seems like such a small concern after standing near death so violently in the last couple of hours. I give him a definitive nod.
“The firstborn daughter of the late Queen Ophelia.”
Adonis barely reacts. “The queen had no children.”
“No. She had two daughters who grew up in the United States.”
I would’ve assumed that he’d need proof, or at least would put up some type of argument because of my race. Perhaps Wesley is important enough in this business where his word is enough.
“It looks like we have royalty in our midst,” Adonis says with a slight smile. “Everyone knows the rules here. No harm will come to you.” He steps closer to me, and I resist cowering from the mesmerized glint in his black eyes. “I hope you will remember the mercy I’ve granted you here, Your Highness.”
My voice is small. “I will. Thank you.”
Relief starts to prickle through me as we wade toward our room for the night, but a woman cuts off our path. I feel disgusting, covered in dirt, blood, and dust, and my patience is thinning.
“It really is you,” the woman says, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, black hair draped over a shoulder.
Wesley sighs. “Daria.”
“I thought I would never see you again.”
My skin prickles. Ex-girlfriend?
“If it was up to me, you wouldn’t,” he says.
Maybe not.
“I’ll pretend that doesn’t hurt.” Daria pouts. “You’re in town on business?”
“No.”
She hesitates as if expecting elaboration. This time, he doesn’t offer it. She clears her throat, eyes sharpening. “You got out. You should’ve run halfway across the world.”
“Maldana is my home.”
She scoffs. “Then it’s no wonder you’re back.”
“I’m not back,” he grits. “What are you even doing here? You hate Kosita.”
“Maybe I was hoping you’d return.” From her lustful stare at him, my suspicions are confirmed. They had a relationship. Daria slowly assesses me, and I try not to squirm or hide behind Wesley.
“Who’s this? You haven’t introduced me to your friend.”
Every now and again, I might question myself or envy another woman’s style or figure, but this woman downright frightens me. There isn’t a single hair out of place and I’m sure she could kill me without chipping her nail polish.
“She’s very beautiful,” Daria purrs, reaching out as if to touch one of my loose curls. “Hi?—”
Wesley snatches her wrist, its painful grip making her wince and rip away. She sends him a glare. “Fine. Message received.”
He leads us away from her without another word. But when I peek over my shoulder, I spot her studying me from head to toe, her expression tight.