Unfaded Glory (3 page)

“These are what mark me as a bad man.” He pointed to a marking in Cyrillic she didn't understand. “The first man I killed for The Brotherhood.”

“And you want to sit on the throne?” She was incredulous as to why he would think she'd choose him to lead her people. To be her husband. He'd admitted to killing a man. Not just one, but the first of many.

“It could be good for both of us, Damara. When you lead men, you must make choices, hard choices, and sometimes people die. If you order your army to war or you set your people against me, you're sentencing them to death.”

“You can't offer me peace with one hand and threats with another.” Why didn't anyone understand that?

“It's how things are done.”

“No.” It would not be how things were done. She'd never agree to marry him. Never. No matter what he did to her.

“I don't want to hurt you, but I will.” His voice was a growl, low in his throat.

“As I said,” she said, her mouth dry as the desert, “do as you must.” Damara tried to focus her mind, find her center and remember her training. He was bigger than she was, but she had speed and strategy on her side.

She studied her surroundings surreptitiously looking for a possible exit and weapons.

He lunged for her, and she grabbed the lamp on the nightstand, but it had been secured to the table in case of rough waters. So she used the table and the desk as leverage to deliver a roundhouse kick to his head.

It stunned him long enough for her to do it again, but he still didn't fall. The man's head must have been fashioned from concrete.

The door to the room swung open, and a flower of blood bloomed on his chest where Byron shot him with a .38.

Grisha clutched at his chest and staggered forward, but Damara didn't stay to watch him fall. Byron grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the hall.

“This was not how this was supposed to go down.” His hand was warm and strong; his very presence made her feel as though everything was going to be okay. “But next time I tell you to stay put, stay put.”

“It was the only way.”

“I know that. But I had a plan.” He yanked her up the stairs toward the deck.

“What's the plan now?” she asked as she hurried up the stairs behind him.

“Run like hell.”

She didn't like that plan very much, but it seemed that it was all they were left with. An explosion rattled the ship and she screamed, but alarms drowned out the sound.

“Don't worry. It's forward aft. We'll be exiting toward the rear.”

“What did you do?”

“Answers later. Running
now,
” he commanded.

The sun was overhead by this point, and the crewmen who saw them were too busy responding to the emergency and keeping the ship afloat to bother with them.

When they got to the side, he started to climb over. “I'm going to jump and then you're going to jump, okay? I'll catch you.”

Damara froze.

“Don't bail on me now, Princess. You've faced down ruthless thugs like you were at a cotillion. A little leap is nothing.”

He landed on the deck of one of the Russian's boats. Then he emptied the .38 into the rear of the boat ahead of him, damaging the rudder. Hawkins held out his arms for her. “Hurry. They can still use the lifeboats, and they might catch us. You have to jump
now.
”

Damara's brain screamed at her to keep moving, but her feet were rooted to the spot.

Castallegna.
She had to do this for Castallegna. If she was caught... She couldn't finish the thought. They'd blame her for Grisha's death. They'd punish her for it, and she knew from what her bodyguards had told her that Abele's head torturer had nothing on the Russians.

She remembered again from when she was little—the wind would carry her safely. Like it had then, like it had on the bike...and it was Hawkins. He'd kept her safe before. If he said he'd catch her, he'd catch her.

She jumped. Time stopped, and for Damara, it was as if she'd flung herself out into nothingness rather than over the side of a boat down to waiting arms on the deck of the small yacht. Terror froze her limbs, but he caught her easily and deposited her on the deck. She didn't want to let go of him; her arms stayed around his neck even as Byron started the boat. Soon,
Circe's Storm
grew smaller in the distance behind them, as did the smoke billowing up from her. So far, no one was in pursuit, but the captain knew where they were headed and a radio or a satphone would be much faster than a boat.

“You know we'll still have to be on our guard. It'll be best if we choose another port. Maybe Barcelona. It's closer. If the fuel doesn't hold, the wind will.”

She leaned against his shoulder, knowing she should release him but unwilling to just yet. “Thank you for everything that you've done.”

“You're not safe yet.”

“Safer than I was.”

“You did good in there, Princess. You're going to be okay.” He pulled her closer for a minute. When he released her, she finally let him go.

Again, his praise shouldn't have been so warm, like basking in the sun, but it was. She'd never been good for anything but getting her brother what he wanted. Pride swelled at the notion that a man like him thought she could handle herself.

But she remembered the look of surprise on Grisha's face. The sound of the gun as the bullet exploded out of the barrel and into the man. She knew it had to be done, but that didn't make it any less horrific.

Damara shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked, wrapping his arm around her again.

How quickly this physicality came to be normal between them, this touching. She leaned into his warmth and let him shelter her there for just a moment. Perhaps it was the stress of the situation, but she liked how easily he touched her, how he allowed her to touch him. This sort of intimacy was unheard of for her.

But as much as she enjoyed it, guilt swarmed her. “A man died. Because of me.”

“Are you sorry he's dead?” He didn't look at her, but out at the water as he guided the craft.

“Of course. He was a living being. I don't want anyone to die because of me, but he was going to hurt me. And if he had the chance, he'd hurt Castallegna. He told me he was
Bratva.
”

Byron nodded. “Russian mob. They have a heavy presence in the Mediterranean. With the state of geopolitics, it makes sense.”

“I can't believe my brother would align himself with these kinds of people.” No, she supposed that wasn't true. She could believe it, but she didn't want to. Abele had loved her once, when she was very young. Before he'd gone power mad when their father had died.

Before the Council of Lords had tried to have him declared illegitimate.

She tightened her arms around Hawkins's waist and just buried her face in his chest. It was safe there. The outside world didn't exist, only his warmth and strength.

Why couldn't a man like him want her?

He was fierce and strong as all good leaders must be, but he was noble, too, self-sacrificing.

“Castallegna is small. This seems like much trouble to go to simply to have a base and consulate on Castallegnian soil.” She sighed.

“It would be good to have a government that was receptive to our operatives. Safe houses, if you will. Priceless, really. The Russians are trafficking in people, arms, munitions, and a lot of it is filtering through Greece, Cyprus and Italy.”

“Won't that make Barcelona too dangerous because of the proximity to the Mediterranean?”

“No, I have contacts in Barcelona. We may have to lie low for a few days, but we'll get you on U.S. soil soon.”

“I don't mean to look a gift horse, Hawkins, but wasn't Miklos a contact?”

“He was an associate.” Hawkins laughed. “Contacts. U.S. government. They'll get us stateside safely. I promise you.”

“Then what will happen to me?”

“I'll turn you over to Renner, the guy you spoke with. Then he'll take it from there.”

“What will you do?” She didn't want to be handed over to anyone else. But she had to remember that to him, she was just a job. A package that had to be delivered. Something he hadn't wanted to take to start with.

“I'll have to go back to Italy. I'm still on assignment there.”

“I hope I didn't blow your cover.”

“No, it'll be fine. Miklos doesn't run with the same people. We've never had any transactions anywhere that was well lit, and I have a different name. Different social circles. They think I'm in finance. It's not a bad gig, really.”

“So if I asked you how the yen was doing in comparison to the dollar, you'd be able to tell me?”

“Yes. Do you want to hear it?”

“Not really.” She laughed. “I've acquired many skills, but finance and global trends all turn to gibberish when I try to make sense of them. I understand spending money, and I understand budgets and taxes. But crude investments versus pork bellies because of the rise in gold? Nothing.” She'd always felt as if she should know more about international finance, but her brain just didn't work that way.

“Whenever anything else was going wrong in my life, numbers always made sense. They're irrefutable. Math is a universal language. Even though people say money is cold, hard and unfeeling, it's not. It's a tool. The stock market is attuned to feelings. When people don't feel safe, the numbers drop. When they do, they rise.” He shrugged.

She liked that view of things. It made sense to her.

“I wish you could come with me after we're stateside. I don't know Renner. I know you.” It was the closest she could come to asking him without actually saying she wanted him.

“You don't. Not really. I'm not a good guy, Princess. It's nice that you see me that way now. But it's like I said, I'm not really good at this protection gig. Killing is more my speed.”

“Then why do I feel so safe?” She was still tucked against his body, shielded by his heat and his strength.

“Because you haven't learned any better.” His tone wasn't quite condescension, but it was close.

“I've learned what you've taught me.” She looked up at his hard profile. “And what you've taught me is that I'm safe with you. That you'll protect me. Even at the cost of your own life.”

“I work for the good guys, but don't let that fool you into thinking
I'm
a good guy.” He turned away from the controls and stared down at her, his gaze focusing on her mouth.

For one second, she hoped he'd be what he thought was a bad guy and kiss her. He probably thought she was some sheltered girl with no experience. She supposed that was true, but it didn't mean that she didn't know what she wanted or wasn't capable of making her own choices. She trembled and wanted to ask him if he was going to kiss her, but she knew that would shatter the moment. She wanted him to slam his mouth into hers and kiss her with no thought of where they were, who she was or what it meant.

His eyes were even more intense, his pupils dilated and his breathing was rough and hard, as if he exerted some superhuman effort just standing there. Maybe he wanted to kiss her, too. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she tilted her head up slowly.

“This can't happen,” he said, his voice as low and guttural as Grisha's had been when he'd demanded to know why she didn't want him.

It occurred to her then that she wanted Byron Hawkins with the same intensity with which she'd despised Grisha.

CHAPTER THREE

S
OME
PEOPLE
WOULD
think that because Damara was a princess, she didn't understand the word
no.
She understood it plenty. She heard it so often that
yes
was more of a surprise. So rather than be upset, she asked, “Why not? Am I not pretty?”

“You know you're beautiful.”

“Am I?” She lifted her chin, wondering if that's actually what he thought of her or if he was just being polite.

“Now you're fishing for compliments and you're not going to get them. You know how you look.”

“I don't. Not really. My suitors all tell me I'm beautiful, but all they want is the power that comes with being married to me. I have maids. I have servants. They all tell me I'm beautiful, but they all must. What is it you don't like?”

She dared to ask the question, but she was actually afraid of the answer. She didn't want to be told that she wasn't enough—that she had nothing to offer him since he didn't want a crown.

“Your innocence.”

“I see.” Damara didn't. Not really. “Because you're a bad man?” She turned the conversation back to familiar territory.

“A very bad man.”

“A bad man wouldn't care. Had I offered myself to Grisha, he wouldn't have waited.” She shivered, both with fear and anticipation.

“You deserve better than a man like Grisha.”

“I know that. That's why I picked you. But you're not cooperating.”

Damara Petrakis wasn't sure who was more surprised by what came out of her mouth. The expression on his face looked like she'd kicked him somewhere unforgivable. She wasn't sure what strange maggot had burrowed into her brain, but she suddenly realized that this was the answer to half of her problems. Not only would it eliminate many of Abele's contenders for her hand; on a more selfish note, it was something she wanted to experience. She wanted to know what it was like to be wanted for herself, not her position. She had a feeling that Hawkins didn't care if she was a princess or a beggar.

His eyes widened. “You have lost your mind.”

She scowled. “That's
not
what a lady expects to hear from her chosen beau.”

“This ain't a cotillion, Princess.” He sneered.

This wasn't the reaction she'd expected. “No, it certainly isn't.” She pursed her lips and decided to appeal to his logic. “But my brother is going to have a hard time marrying me off if I'm not a virgin, isn't he?”

“That's still a thing?” He wrinkled his nose.

Still a thing.
Damara closed her eyes for a second as the emotion threatened to overwhelm her. The whole of her self-worth had been wrapped up in the slight veil of flesh. It had been drilled into her head that it belonged to her country and she owed it to her people to keep herself chaste until she was married. But now, getting rid of it seemed like only way to give them and herself some measure of protection until Abele was captured and tried for treason.

Of course, this soldier wouldn't understand. She knew that. It was part of why she'd chosen him. So she couldn't be angry at him or hurt that he didn't understand. His culture was different.

She took a deep breath. “It's very much still a thing in Castallegna and in many parts of the world. I was under armed guard for most of my life. If I'm worthless to him, maybe he'll stop killing people to get to me.”

“Sweetheart, I don't know if anyone told you, but he could lie.”

She swallowed. “He could, but the kind of men he wants an alliance with would demand an examination before we were married.”

“How about I just kill him for you?” Hawkins said as if he were asking her permission to do something as mundane as trimming the hedges below her window. Hope surged in her chest for all of a single millisecond. Life would be so much easier. So many people would be saved. One life for many—one of the founding principles on which she was raised. His death would mean she'd be free to dissolve the monarchy, to bring true democracy to Castallegna, just as her father had always dreamed.

But she couldn't do it on the back of an assassination.

“I can't ask you to do that.” She swallowed the hope that had turned to bile in her throat.

“You're not asking. I offered. See, like I said, killing is what I'm good at.”

She wet her lips, as if that would help ease her next words into the world. Damara may not have been experienced in the ways of the flesh, but she did know people. Politics and manipulation had been part of her extensive education, as well. “So are you saying that you're not good at making love?”

“
Fucking,
little girl. It's called fucking,” he snarled.

Damara found it so telling that he could speak of killing—of death—without blinking an eye, but when the discussion turned toward softer things, it made him angry and defensive. At first she'd thought intimacy was the problem, but it didn't get much more intimate than taking a life.

A million retorts came to mind. She wanted to tell him she was no little girl, she was a grown woman, but she didn't need his validation to know that. It didn't matter if he wanted to use those words to push her away, to keep her from whatever it was he didn't want her to see.

“You still didn't answer the question.” Damara was proud of how steady her voice was, how she met his regard with unflinching resolve.

“I'm warning you, Princess. Steer clear of this and me.” His eyes raked over her with an intensity that made her feel exposed, naked.

He didn't have to answer the question. She sensed that if he touched her, she'd never be the same.

But she supposed that would be true of experiencing this with anyone. Maybe it was because he seemed reluctant that she wanted it to be him so very badly. Men always wanted something from her, and this one didn't want anything. How perverse of her.

She responded before she had time to think it through. “Steer clear of you or what? You'll do what I've asked? What exactly do you think is going to happen to me? Do you have some hideous disease? Are you malformed?”

“I am formed very well, and clean, thank you,” he growled. “How do you propose we do this, Highness? Hmm? Here in the boat? With no condom?”

She blushed.

“Oh, for— You demand I service you, but you blush when I mention
condoms?
If you can't say the word, you shouldn't be using them. And if you're not using them, you definitely shouldn't be having sex.”

“I can say the word.” Damara brushed some imaginary bit of something from her pants so she could get away from his scrutiny. “I just...I hadn't thought about the geography of where. Obviously, this boat isn't very practical for such things.” She couldn't fight the heat that suffused her cheeks.

She was very aware of his proximity. Of his scent, of his strength.

Of her reaction to him.

And how what she'd said couldn't be unsaid. He didn't want her. Her tutors and trainers all made sure to tell her that any man who got her alone would try to “ruin” her. As if all men were ravaging beasts who couldn't control their baser urges. Even without a crown she did nothing to inspire his “baser urges.” If her tutors had been wrong about that, what else were they wrong about?

She shook her head as if the action would rattle those thoughts out of her brain. Damara always said she wanted to be just a girl. Now he treated her like one and it rocked her worldview. Damara wanted to be strong; she wanted to be fierce and brave. Only she was alone and on unsteady ground. She felt incredibly weak and small.

At the core of that, what cut her the most was that she felt useless. She was a princess who'd escaped from her tower but didn't know how to do anything to care for herself.

She couldn't even seduce a man.

“Are you
crying?
” he asked her in a low voice, but with the same inflection as if he'd asked her if she had the plague.

“No.” She wasn't. She wouldn't. But she wanted to.

“You think I don't want you,” he stated in a monotone.

“You don't.” If he did, why wouldn't he take what she offered?

He turned off the motor and dragged her against him. She went willingly, pliant in his arms. That was when she realized that he did want her. His erection was pressed against her intimately, which both thrilled and terrified her.

“I— Oh. I thought that was your gun.”

He'd wanted her the whole time. Her whole body tingled.

Byron glanced heavenward as if she were the very definition of a cross to bear.

“As a princess, aren't there things that you want but can't have? Aren't there things that you know better than to reach for because you might lose the hand doing the reaching?”

His shoulders were so wide and hard. She found her hands wandering of their own volition down his broad back, his biceps. He was like one of the statues at the museum.

She understood what he meant, but Damara was much too distracted by his physicality.

“Oh,” she said again breathlessly.

His fingers tightened and released around her hips before tightening again, finally drawing her even closer against him.

Damara burned in a way that she didn't know was possible. Every nerve ending was awake and wanting—this was desire.

She rose up on her tiptoes slowly—this was madness. He said he couldn't—they couldn't—but she needed his lips. She had to know what it was like to kiss him. She might never have another chance.

Hawkins didn't turn away from her, and he could have. He was bigger than she was, stronger. He was the one who'd hauled her against him, who kept touching her. One hand slid up her spine to cradle her neck and angle her for his pleasure.

His mouth crashed into hers with all the intensity she'd expected. It was a furious heat, but there was a need there, too. He gave as much as he took. His mouth was so hard but soft at the same time. Her blood turned to molten lava, and Damara was sure she'd burn up from the inside out. Just when she thought she'd incinerate to ash, he broke the kiss. But he didn't release her.

“Please,” she whispered.

He touched his forehead to hers; their breath mingled in the aftermath of the kiss. He said with a ragged exhale, “If you still want this when we reach the safe house in Barcelona, God help you.”

* * *

T
HAT
MOMENT
WAS
everything that kissing a beautiful woman should be, Byron realized.

In a word, it was
awful.
The expectation, the hope—and the difficult truth that he could never fulfill any of those higher needs.

Her kiss made him want, made him remember what it was like to need something he couldn't have. She tasted of all things sweet and pure, and it roused something animal in him—something primal that wanted to claim her and mark her as his own. Hawkins wanted to touch all that lovely honey skin that he knew would taste just as good as her kiss.

But she was a princess, a regular damsel in distress.

And he was no knight, no prince and certainly no champion. He was Byron Hawkins, fuckup extraordinaire.

There'd been a time when he would've tried to seduce her just to see if he could get away with it. Part of him was tempted, sorely tempted, to see just how far the lovely princess would take this. He couldn't believe the way she pressed herself against him, so innocent but so wanton at the same time.

He tore himself away from her and concentrated on the task at hand. Where to stay once they got to Barcelona and the fastest way to get her on United States soil. Just as he'd promised.

But instead of focusing on those issues, his thoughts kept wandering back to how good she felt pressed up against him and the jasmine scent of her hair.

The things he wanted to do to her.

Her innocence should've been a mood killer—he broke fragile things and dirtied the pristine. Instead, it only stoked the flames hotter. He wondered what she'd look like writhing beneath him, what sounds she'd make from those luscious lips while he tasted her—pleasured her.

Hawkins steeled his mind to chill the heat of his arousal and shut down his imagination.

“You keep telling me that you're a bad man, but you're a better man than you think.”

Perhaps she was the one who was dangerous. The sooner he could get away from her and that fragile hope he saw in her eyes, the better. “And sometimes, people who believe they're good have tunnel vision and can't see the destruction they leave in their wake,” he answered.

“A bad person wouldn't care.”

“Are we really having a philosophical discussion in the middle of the Mediterranean?” He tried to change the subject before he proved to her just what kind of man he was.

“Why not? What else is there to do?” She arched a brow and put a hand on her hip.

Hawkins wondered if she meant to dare him to take what she'd offered. If she meant to tease him. The expectant look on her face told him that she actually wanted an answer. She wasn't just taunting him—and he was a twisted bastard to think that she was.

“I'm not here to entertain you, Princess,” he said more sharply than he meant.

She was contrite. “I'm sorry to pry. I won't do it again, but don't shut me out. I've never had anyone who talks to me like you do. Like I'm a real person rather than a dress-up doll.” Damara put her hand on his forearm. “Please?”

It took everything in him to walk the line between jerking away from her as if he'd been burned or crushing her against him and drowning in her sweetness.

It was the
please
that was his undoing. He supposed that he'd be able to say it was Damara herself that was his undoing. He knew if she didn't get away from him, all his noble intentions would be shot to shit.