17. Elena #2
I straighten, lifting my chin, letting something colder and steadier settle into my voice. The voice that has calmed rooms full of enemies. “Don’t be,” I say. “We will find her. Wendell wants me. He knows he won’t get that if—” My throat tightens, but I don’t let it show. “—if he harms her.”
A hand settles against my upper back.
Warm. Solid.
Alexei.
Braydon’s gaze shifts to him, apology flickering across his features before Alexei steps forward and grips his shoulder, pulling him into a brief but fierce hug.
“Thank you for saving my life,” Alexei says quietly. When he pulls back, his hand stays firm on Braydon’s shoulder. “Elena’s right. We’ll find her. I promise.”
Braydon nods once. It isn’t much, but it’s something.
Clara clears her throat, already scanning the alley. “We really shouldn’t stay exposed.”
Lance is a step ahead of her, barking orders into his comm. Headlights sweep across the mouth of the valley as a vehicle rolls into view.
We start toward it together.
“No way,” Blake breathes, stopping short near the Ducati. His eyes light up as he circles it, his hands hovering reverently before settling on the handlebars. “No way.”
“Need a minute alone?” Clara tosses over her shoulder.
Blake doesn’t even look up. “She’s a beauty.”
“She?” I ask, arching a brow.
He finally glances at me, dead serious. “Only something that stunning could be a she.”
I roll my eyes, though the edge of hysteria inside me eases a fraction. Blake gives the bike one last longing look before straightening, clearly resigned to the fact that he won’t be able to ride it to the palace.
“She’ll be in good hands,” Clara grins, already swinging a leg over the seat. She glances at Alexei. “I’ll meet you back there.”
The engine roars to life, sharp and powerful, and then she’s gone, peeling out of the alley and disappearing.
We pile into the car moments later, as the doors slam shut around us.
As the vehicle pulls away, I lean into Alexei’s side, my fingers threading through his.
He squeezes back.
Alive.
For now… that’s enough.
The palace gates close behind us with a low, reverent groan, stone meeting stone, as if the building itself exhales now that we are inside its walls. Only then do I realize how tightly my shoulders are drawn, how every muscle has been braced for impact that never came.
Queen Lizzie is already hurrying toward us, skirts swishing, her face tight with concern. King Maxwell stands beside her, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes sharp and assessing in that way of his that makes me feel like he’s weighing every bruise I haven’t bothered to notice yet.
“My God,” Queen Lizzie breathes when she gets close enough to really see us.
Her gaze flicks from my damp hair to the torn hem of my clothes, to the dried blood crusted along Alexei’s sleeve. She doesn’t ask questions. She simply turns to the waiting attendants at the top of the palace steps and nods.
Warm towels are pressed into our hands. A blanket is draped around my shoulders, heavy and comforting, the heat seeping into my chilled skin.
Someone murmurs that the staff is at the ready.
Whatever we need, whenever we need it, it will be done.
The words blur together, but the meaning settles deep in my chest.
Alexei steps forward, straight-backed despite the exhaustion weighing him down. He reaches for King Max’s hand, clasping it firmly. The gesture is formal, respectful, and restrained enough to suggest everything Alexei is not saying.
“Thank you,” Alexei says, voice steady. “For receiving us.”
King Max inclines his head, returning the shake with equal gravity. “You are always welcome here.”
I turn to Queen Lizzie, and the apology rises up before I can stop it. She pulls me into a hug before I can fully form the words, her arms strong and familiar around me.
“I’m sorry,” my words muffled into her shoulder. “For all of this. For bringing danger to your doorstep. Lady Arabella.”
“Is fine,” she reassures as she pulls back enough to look me in the eye, her hands still gripping my arms as if I might vanish. “Elena.” She says, firmly. “Don’t you dare apologize for surviving.” Her mouth curves into a small, stubborn smile. “You can stay as long as you need. Both of you.”
King Max nods in agreement. “This palace has withstood worse than threats at its gates.”
Alexei thanks them again, but when he glances at me, I know exactly what he’s thinking. The look is quiet, unspoken, and heavy with consequence. I meet his gaze and give the smallest nod.
Tomorrow, then.
Queen Lizzie seems to sense the decision settling between us. She reaches for my hands, enveloping them in her own, her thumbs warm against my chilled skin. “Whatever you need to find Hannah,” she says decisively, “we’ll help. However, we can.”
The weight of her promise nearly buckles my knees.
“Thank you,” I squeeze her hands back before I let go.
We leave them moments later, the door to the palace’s front closing with a muted click behind us. The hallway beyond is long and cool, marble floors reflecting torchlight. Lance and Clara wait there, mid-conversation, both of them turning as we approach.
Alexei stops, lifting a hand toward Lance. “Give us a moment.”
Lance nods without question, already stepping back.
Alexei turns to Clara. “I need you to start looking into any clues surrounding Hannah’s… disappearance. Anything that might explain where Wendell would take her.”
Clara’s lips press together thoughtfully, her eyes already distant.
“I’ve already got feelers out,” she says. “A few contacts owe me favors.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. “Thank you,” I reply gratefully, meaning more than the words can hold.
Clara’s gaze flicks over both of us, settling on my damp hair plastered to my neck, Alexei’s stained shirt and pants, the unmistakable scent of sweat, dirt, and filth clinging to us like a second skin. A grin tugs at her mouth.
“As much as I adore you both,” she comments lightly, “we all smell awful.” She waves a hand in the general direction of the guest wing. “Everything else can wait until you’ve showered and remembered what it’s like to be clean.”
Unlike me, Clara somehow manages to look even more beautiful after diving into murky black water.
Alexei and I glance at each other. No words pass between us, but the agreement is instant and mutual. Later, for plans, for grief, for fear.
For now, water and quiet.
We turn toward the wing that leads to my rooms, footsteps falling into sync as we go, the palace swallowing us back into its sheltering depths.
The bathroom door clicks softly behind me as I step into the bedroom, the steam clinging to my skin like a second robe.
I’ve tied the terrycloth tight around my body, knuckles white at the knot, and I work the towel through my hair with brisk, almost punishing strokes.
Water droplets fling free, spotting the hardwood floor, my shoulders, the mirror across the room.
After nearly three showers and a whole bottle of shampoo I finally got the smell of sewer out of my hair.
I turn.
And my mouth goes dry.
Alexei stands near the window, framed by the pale glow of the lights from the garden bleeding through the glass.
Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, soft and worn, doing nothing to hide the strength beneath.
A black tank top clings to his torso, outlining the hard planes of his chest, the sculpted slope of his shoulders, the corded muscle in his arms. My gaze betrays me, lingering far longer than it should.
Sliding helplessly from his face and those devastating blue eyes, down the strong line of his neck, across his shoulders, lingering over his arms, and chest before drifting back up again.
He knows.
I know he knows.
My hands slow in my hair, the towel no longer attacking the damp strands with the same urgency. Heat unfurls low in my stomach, sharp and sudden, and the air between us tightens until it feels like it might snap if either of us breathes too hard.
His eyes flicker; dark, hungry, edged with something rawer. The last few days apart. The tunnel. The echo of the drain lid closing, separating us from each other. The thought skids through me, unwelcome and vicious.
He moves.
One purposeful stride, then another. Each step closes the distance until my pulse is hammering loud enough that I know he can hear it with that enhanced hearing of his.
The towel slips lower in my hands, bunched uselessly at my waist. I don’t step back.
I never have with him. And right now, I don’t want to.
The look on his face—grim, intent, unyielding—breaks through my concentration. It makes me pause, for a breath.
He’s angry. I can feel it rolling off him.
Angry that I ditched my security team again.
That I went lone-ranger, chasing danger with nothing but instinct and fear driving me.
Hannah’s face flashes through my mind, and my chest tightens painfully.
Alone. Trapped. Wendell’s hands on her. Hannah is tough, every bit as tough as I am, but she doesn’t have what they want.
I do.
And I am afraid of what they will do to her as punishment for my decisions.
Alexei stops inches from me, so close I can feel the heat of him, smell the clean soap, and something unmistakably him beneath it. His gaze bores into mine, unflinching. I’ve seen this look before, right before everything else falls away.
I reach for his face, needing the warmth beneath my fingertips, needing proof that he was real. That this wasn't another cruel vision. That I’d actually found him again.
“Listen,” I start, my voice already faltering. “I know?—”
His mouth crashes into mine.