Heir in Exile (7 page)

I think my journal venting is over now. I wish I could say it brought me some peace.

Chey

Chey stared at the paper in her lap with a pensive frown. Her chicken scratch was barely legible as handwriting, the slant sharper than usual and angled funny due to lack of light and carelessness.

She didn't care. It wasn't like she was keeping it anyway. Setting the pen aside on the nightstand, she flipped the paper over—there was a local club advertisement on the back—and proceeded to wad it into a ball. Sliding out of bed, careful not to wake Sander, she approached the fire place and tossed the ball in over the grate. Although the fire had eased to smaller flames and crackling embers, the paper caught and burned within seconds. She wasn't sure whether she felt relieved or dismayed it was gone.

“What are you doing?” Sander asked. His voice was low and raspy with the affects of slumber.

“Just getting warm. I'm coming back to bed,” she said, turning away from the fireplace. Thanks to Mattias's quick thinking, both she and Sander had pajamas to wear for the evening. He'd grabbed not just their personal belongings from the other suite, but also some of their clothes.

The high slit, slinky red dress she'd been wearing dangled from a hanger over the door, replaced by yoga pants of gray and a faded pink shirt. Her tennis shoes sat on the floor at the edge of the bed in case there was a need for a hasty departure.

Climbing between the sheets, she shuffled down until she was prone, one hand sliding over Sander's back. He turned his head on the pillow to face her, golden hair tousled around his head.

“Can't sleep?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“Are you hurting?”

“A little. It's nothing serious though. I got lucky in the accident.” Chey stroked her fingers lightly over his muscles. Reassuring herself, perhaps, or reassuring him she was all right.

“You sure there's nothing else?” He propped his head up an inch and peered at her in the gloom.

“I'm sure.” She didn't need to tell him about the nausea and her incessant worries over the King. One would resolve the other anyway, and that couldn't happen until Sander had his meeting with Aksel.

Reaching out with one arm, Sander pulled her closer to his body. He turned onto his side, bringing her flush against him. “I know it's a lot to deal with. A lot to handle. Once we subdue the King, I think things will settle. It won't be like this every day.”

“I hope you're right.” That was as close as she felt comfortable confessing what was truly on her mind. Chey pressed her cheek against his chest, listening for his heartbeat. His skin was warm, scented lightly with musk, and comfortable.

“Life as a Queen will never be like your life in Seattle. Once you gain the title alongside me, then we'll have to worry about random assassination attempts, political tricks and traps and dealing with the weight being a ruler brings. It will settle to a point, but you'll never again walk the streets with immunity or without being recognized. Even I won't be able to go among the people without protection after I become King. It's just too risky. Doing so is to invite some foreign crazy across the border for a kidnapping and extortion event. It sucks, that part, I admit,” he said.

Chey thought about it. About forever being a target, never knowing from which side someone might strike. Some citizens might hate her for being American, or because of the color of her eyes. One could never tell what might set another off. She discovered that she wasn't put off by the thought of constantly watching her back. These last weeks, she'd done so anyway. It was becoming ingrained to pay closer attention to sounds and shuffles and smells and gut instinct. She was learning, slowly, to absorb the shocks and to be resilient in the face of fear. Striking back at the driver of the van earlier had come naturally in her unwillingness to be their helpless victim.

Maybe, she thought, it would do her good to attend self defense classes. The idea intrigued her.

“I think I'm learning with each thing that happens,” she whispered. “To deal with it better, to cope faster, to not dwell too long after a catastrophe. I
will
feel better to know that someone isn't actively after us, like the King. This is still a
right now
situation, whereas taking up the titles will be a more long term, watch over our shoulder deal than a constant, immediate threat.”

“I'm glad you feel that way. Eventually it will come as second nature to you. The longer you're Queen, the easier it will become.” He kissed the crown of her head. “You should try and get at least a little sleep. It'll be dawn soon and time to leave.”

“I'll try.” It was the best Chey could offer. She closed her eyes and tried to relax.

Sander skimmed his hands up and down her back, soothing circle shapes paired with brief massages near her shoulders.

It felt so good, Chey stopped thinking altogether and just enjoyed his touch.

Before long, she was asleep.

. . .

Disembarking in Latvala was a clandestine affair; Sander cut away for one of two helicopters sitting on different helipads, glancing back at Chey while she headed for the other with Mattias.

She smiled, a quick flash, before allowing Mattias to hand her into the back seat of the aircraft. She buckled in while he did the same, glancing out the window as the helicopter carrying Sander lifted off and swung away over the landscape. Although there was a heavy amount of snow on the ground, the skies were currently clear, the sun shining down on a cold Latvala day.

Seconds after the first, their helicopter took flight. Mattias had explained the details several times on the way home from Dubai and Chey went over it all in her mind as the craft sped them toward their destination. Below, patches of forest stretched for miles, breaking open onto farmland swathed in white. A river cut through the terrain, snaking away into the distance.

Chey knew, after looking at a map, where her general location would be. Sander had explained the importance of direction in case she should find herself on the run. Doubtful, he'd said, but not impossible. So she had memorized, to the best of her ability, certain landmarks to use should it become necessary.

Not many minutes later, the helicopter slowed and positioned itself to lower to the ground. There was no helipad here, no cement square with guiding lights or lines. The pilot set them down on a stretch of shale cleared of snow from the rotor blades.

“Now remember, you only have the phone I gave you,” Mattias said, raising his voice. “It rings my number and no other. If I don't answer, it's because I can't. If it's an emergency, leave a text. If you don't have time, keep the phone on you. I'll have it—and your whereabouts—traced. All right?”

“I got it. I know what to do,” she replied, picking up the straps of the lone duffel bag Mattias allowed her to keep. Citing the need to travel light, Mattias had suggested she pack the bare essentials.

“Good. You know the way from here?” he asked, using a finger to point away toward the woods.

“I know right where to go.” She touched his arm, then climbed down after the guard in the front passenger seat opened her door. Chey waved to Mattias, ducking instinctively while she ran out from under the whirl of the blades. At the edge of the trees, which lashed back and forth from the choppy wind, she lifted a hand to Mattias and disappeared into the forest. Before she was ten feet under the canopy, the helicopter lifted off.

Breathing the scent of pine, fresh snow and other woodsy scents, Chey centered herself and stayed on her path. There was no trail among the sparsely spaced tree trunks, but she didn't need one. The homestead she sought should be no more than fifty yards ahead in a clearing marked by an old fashioned windmill.

Mattias had given her a key with the information that the vacant home sat on Royally protected land and would not be disrupted by random passersby. Never mind it sat by itself off the beaten path. It had several bedrooms, working plumbing and the shelves had been stocked by Mattias himself. She was to wait there while Sander had his meeting, safe from prying eyes and attention, until Mattias sent her a text.

Breaking into the clearing, Chey spotted the home as well as the windmill. A path for cars leading to and away sat on the other side, snaking toward a road or intersecting path not visible with the naked eye. It was at least a half mile from any main thoroughfare. A newer dwelling, with a peaked roof and broad porch, the home itself was of a cabin-like design. It reminded her of what she might find on a trip into the mountains or a luxury ski resort.

Chey approached, digging out the key, attentive to the woods around her. She wouldn't grow lax simply because she
thought
she was safe. Nothing moved, nothing seemed out of place.

At the door, she used the key and entered with no trouble. Inside, the house proved as cozy as the exterior suggested. It was not as affluently appointed as Sander's cabin, though the furniture was well made and looked relatively new. She locked the door behind her, set the bag on the floor, and pulled out a handgun that Mattias provided her with. His short instructional had been thorough enough to see her through this venture.

Checking the safety, she prowled the house, inspecting each bedroom, bathroom and closet. The back door was bolted from the inside and none of the windows were broken. All good signs. Ones Sander and Mattias insisted she check first thing. After examining the pantry in the kitchen, Chey pulled the blinds on all the windows and turned on the heat. She forewent any lights, seeing that it was daytime and she didn't immediately need them. Breathing easier, she set the gun on the kitchen table and got a bottle of water from the fridge.

Her stomach wouldn't handle food right now. Drinking half the contents of the bottle, she set it on the table next to the gun and fished her phone from her pocket. It was a simple black device that had no new messages waiting. Now that she was in the house, she turned the volume up just loud enough to hear.

She wondered how Sander was doing, and whether the meeting was going as planned.

Chapter Six

Sander entered Ahtissari castle stone faced and resolute. He said nothing to any of the guards, even the ones who greeted him with subtle nods. After buttoning up his suit coat, he checked the knot on his ice blue tie and headed up the stairs to the third floor. His shoes made quiet clicks over the polished marble on approach to the private parlor where the King would be waiting.

Striding through the open door, Sander came to a halt.

Instead of the King sitting in his throne-like chair, waiting, Sander found a suited security member standing next to the seat.

“The King?” Sander asked, cutting to the chase. He subdued an initial flash of annoyance at the delay, surely planned by Aksel to get under his skin.

“Apologies, Prince Dare. The King has asked for a morning meeting. He took ill an hour before your arrival.”

Sander's lips thinned. Ill his ass. He about faced, stalked out of the parlor, and marched down the hallway toward the private Royal rooms. Two guards stood on either side of the King's chamber doors. Both men stepped away from the wall and blocked Sander's path.

“The King is currently--”

“Step aside, or I'll
move
you aside,” Sander said, giving each guard a threatening glance.

One guard set a hand out, jarring Sander's shoulder. The other reached for a weapon.

Sander cocked his shoulder back out of reach and brought a foot up to shatter the knee of one guard, while snaring the wrist of the other. Wails of pain filled the hallway. He brought a hand down hard enough to crack bone across the second guard's arm; the gun flew to the floor and skittered away. Shoving the guard from the door, ignoring the shouts of agony, Sander grabbed the handle and entered.

The private domain of the King was a glut of luxury. Gold trimmed every piece of furniture, veined the floors and accented paintings on the walls. The chamber was the size of a small house, with other rooms and halls branching off the main area.

Aksel swiveled around from his spot near the roaring fireplace, frowning. He yanked the pipe out of his mouth.

“You look recovered enough to receive me,
father,”
Sander said with a mocking bow. He halted near the edge of a divan as the guards, groaning in the hallway, called for back up. “Worthless are the guards who can't protect you from one simple man.”

“I don't figure they expected my own son to strike them. How dare you, Sander. But that is your preference of late, is it not? To defy me?” Aksel said. He tapped out the contents of the pipe and set it on the fireplace mantel.

“Save your speech and let's get down to business. We both know that's why I'm here.” Sander crossed his arms over his chest. He had little patience for games. It took a wealth of willpower not to rain hell down upon Aksel's head for what he'd done in Dubai.

In his own domain, the King wore black slacks and a white shirt with the first three buttons undone. He appeared to be in between meetings, paring the suit down to its thinnest layers until he was required to present himself once more.