Unfaded Glory (7 page)

After he'd dressed in the slacks and shirt he'd had the concierge purchase along with Damara's clothes, he saw she'd curled up on the chaise.

After all her talk of being powerful and strong, and after how fierce she'd been fleeing both Tunis and the pirates, she seemed so vulnerable now and very much in need of protection.

In need of him.

It wouldn't hurt to comfort her now, to hold her for a few more hours. He'd trespassed already by being with her. He owed it to Damara to keep her safe, even from himself.

He sat next to her and put his arm around her slim shoulders.

She melted into him as if they were two pieces of the same whole.

Byron couldn't let himself make that comparison—not now, not ever. He pushed it out of his head.

“Everything is going to be fine, Damara.”

“Do you swear?”

It seemed like such a little-girl thing for her to ask him. So full of trust and promise, brimming with hope. Byron knew it would be kinder to be honest, but he found he couldn't. He'd have promised her the moon would taste like peaches if that was what would make her happy.

“I swear.”

She sighed and leaned her head against his chest, wrinkling his shirt.

Byron didn't care about wrinkles. He just wanted her to feel safe.

“I wish you were going with me.”

“I have to stay here. I'll make sure you get on the plane safely. Then another operative will get you to Renner.”

“I don't know the other operative,” she said, her voice small.

“You don't know me, either.”

“I know enough.”

The part of him that was infected with guilt wanted to confess to her why she was wrong. It wanted to tell her every bad thing he'd ever done, and it wanted her to hate him for it.

“Don't trust anyone but yourself, Princess.”

CHAPTER FIVE

D
AMARA
MANAGED
TO
KEEP
herself poised and collected until she stood with Byron on the tarmac in front of the steps up to the plane that would take her so many miles away. She knew he had his reasons for maintaining his distance.

Damara was embarrassed to admit that she wanted him to try to find some way to stay in touch, to write letters, emails, something to acknowledge this thing that had happened between them. If she were being wholly honest, she'd say that she wanted him to decide to stay with her because he needed her, he wanted her.

She knew it was stupid and childish. She knew that neither of them had fallen in love just because they'd spent the night together. Although she wondered if it hadn't been the same for him as it had for her. He had no problem saying goodbye, walking away from her. Damara was already reliving the way he'd touched her, how good it felt to be in his arms.

Looking at him and knowing she'd never see him again did something strange to her insides. It was almost a physical pain. Except, even if he did feel the same way she did, what future could there be for them? She didn't have to marry royalty, but someday she would return to Castallegna, someday soon, and her place was there, working for democracy and freedom. Fulfilling her duties to her people. The same as Byron Hawkins. His duty was to his country. She tried to imagine him in Castallegna. No matter how she spun it, how outlandish her fantasies were, she just couldn't see him there. He belonged in this other world of blood, danger and intrigue. Not pretty manners, state affairs or even sneaking off to lie naked in the sun on their own private beach—as much as she wished it could be otherwise.

She flung her arms around him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Damara wanted to stay in the circle of his arms, but this was time for goodbye. She wouldn't shame him or herself by making a big deal out of it. He'd been silent in the car on the way to the airport for a reason.

“Thank you for everything, Mr. Hawkins.” She disengaged from the embrace and, without looking at him, started up the stairs.

“Take care of Her Highness, Gregson,” she heard him say.

“You can do it yourself. Renner wants you on this plane. You're taking her home to Glory, via D.C.,” the pilot said with a laugh.

She turned on the stairs to watch his reaction.

The absolute fury on his face stung. After hearing the pilot's words, she'd been ecstatic. Damara hadn't expected Byron to be pleased, but she'd thought maybe he might see it as an opportunity to spend more time with her.

She could see from his expression that was the furthest thing from his mind.

“What the actual fuck?” She flinched at the profanity, but not because of the word itself. It was the anger behind it.

“I don't know. Those are your orders. We're taking off in ten, five if I can swing it, so if you're coming, I suggest you board. There's some Russian diplomat trying to ground the flight.”

He grunted, and Damara didn't know if it was supposed to be a word, a phrase or a curse. “Let's get her in the air.”

Hawkins stomped up the stairs behind her.

She was ushered into a luxurious cabin. Damara was sure the cost of this flight would be taken out of the Castallegnian treasury. She supposed if she had to be a refugee, it was better to do it in comfort.

The ship hadn't been comfortable at all, and yet she'd felt the safest she had in her whole life under a tarp in a lifeboat curled into Byron Hawkins. Now, though, everything had changed between them. In getting closer, she was somehow further away from him.

Byron sat down with a heavy thud in the chair across from hers and strapped in.

“Looks like you got what you wanted.” His voice was a growl.

She kept her expression neutral and drew on all her training to keep her voice steady so it wouldn't betray how she felt.

“Am I safe yet? Are my people free? The answer to those questions is no. So I didn't get what I wanted.” She lifted her chin and fixed him with a regal stare.

“And you never will if Renner sticks you with me. You should do your level best, Princess, to convince him you don't want me on your detail.”

Princess
was back to being a dirty word that seemed to taste foul on his tongue rather than the endearment it had been last night. “I will.”

She leaned back in the seat and picked up the nearest book. Damara didn't know what it was about or who it was by because instead of reading it, she used it as a shield. Something for her to focus on instead of him, something to physically cut the space between them.

The words ran together on the page.

“Damara,” he said, his voice suddenly soft.

The engines revved and the plane moved forward on the tarmac toward the queue for takeoff.

She didn't want to look up at him, but his regard was palpable on her skin. She thought about ignoring him. She'd learned to do that with Abele, whenever he'd stare so hard she was sure she'd burst into flame from his hatred.

The part of herself she'd shared with him last night, the part that no one ever saw, it cringed away from him.

On the outside, though, Damara Petrakis was always a princess.

Damara flipped the switch on her feelings. She liked to tell herself they were off, but rather they'd been stuffed down so deep inside of her that no one could get to them without a scalpel.

She closed the book, folded her hands over it in her lap and fixed him with a direct stare.

“What is it, Mr. Hawkins?”

“It's not you.”

A wealth of retorts rose on her tongue, but none of them were what she really wanted to say. So instead, she exhaled slowly and inhaled, using the action to gird herself. Breath could be like armor when one had nothing else. It made her hold her back straight; it squared her shoulders and forced her to lift her chin. “Of course it isn't.”

It was Byron who looked away first, glancing out the window. Then he unbuckled his belt. “I'm going to check with Gregson.”

He headed toward the cockpit.

Damara swallowed hard.

She chided herself again for being upset.

“The diplomat's name is Vladimir Kulokav,” Hawkins said when he sat back down. “He's saying that you're wanted for questioning in relation to his brother's attempted murder.”

“Attempted murder? Grisha's not dead?” She closed her eyes. He wouldn't forgive this. He and Abele would both make her pay if they caught her.

“It
was
only a .38. That would probably only make me angry, too.” He offered her a half smile.

She'd had enough body language courses to know that this was his peace offering. Damara hated that she knew that. She wanted to be angry. If she was angry, she wouldn't have to be hurt. And Damara knew better. She'd known he didn't want any kind of commitment. He'd been wary of giving her what she wanted even for a night. He'd been tricked into helping her the first time and forced into helping her yet again. He had to be feeling betrayed.

Damara exhaled heavily and tried to think of a neutral response.

The plane reached optimum speed, and they were launched into the air.

“This is only my second time flying.”

“When was your first?” He seemed glad to talk about something else.

“When I was smuggled off Castallegna. But it was in the cargo hold—this is much nicer.”

“The cargo hold?” He growled again. “You could have been killed.”

“It was the only way to get off Castallegna. My brother's men ‘inventory' every ship leaving and entering port. So they get their cut.”

“Why didn't they search the hold?”

“It was my brother's plane. He had a shipment going to Tunis.” She bit her lip.

“No wonder he's so pissed.” He gave her a genuine smile this time.

“I've been planning this for a long time. It took almost a year to get everyone into place.” She looked out the window and down at the landscape below. “It's amazing, you know.”

“What is?”

“Flying. That we launch ourselves into the air and simply trust that this unseen force will hold us aloft.”

“Rather than the unseen force that holds us down?” He raised a brow.

“Yes. Exactly.” She studied the patches of land, cityscape and countryside as they soared higher. “I think that people who rule often feel like this. Except they forget that they're actually one of the ones down there, the tiny ants going on about their survival.”

“I don't know. I think men like Grisha know they're ants.”

“Perhaps.” She looked back at him. “Is it horrible that I'm sorry he's
not
dead?” When Byron didn't speak, she rushed to add, “He's a bad man. He did bad things. Hurt people.”

“No, that's not horrible.”

“His brother,” she began, unsure how to articulate what she wanted to say.

“Is probably a bad man, too.”

“No. I mean, yes, but...Grisha had a brother. A mother. People who loved him. Cherished him.”

“You could say that about all the people I've killed, Princess.”

She had to fight to keep from flinching at his words.

“Or did you forget that's what I do?” When she didn't answer, he continued, “Just because someone is loved doesn't mean they have a place in the world. What about all of the people he's hurt? The women he's bought and sold? The children?”

She nodded slowly.

“That's how I justify
my
place in the world.”

In one sentence, he'd laid himself bare. All his hurts, if not the reasons for them, were suddenly on display just like the artifacts at Carthage.

He didn't think he belonged in the world. He didn't think he deserved to breathe.

Her heart ached for him.

She knew anything she said to him he'd take as pity or the babbling of a naive girl who hadn't seen anything of reality.

* * *

H
OME
TO
G
LORY
?
Had Renner lost his fucking mind?

Number one, there was nothing in Glory. It was a pissant roadside stop on the way to hell. It was nothing but gossipy old biddies and antiquing military wives. Or local townies looking to marry a military man to get themselves out of there. Why on earth would he stash a princess there?

If he managed to keep her face out of the news, it was possible it could work. But nothing could stay hidden in Glory for long. Everyone knew everyone's business. Within five seconds of he and Damara crossing the county line, everyone in town would know he was back, that he had a princess in tow and that his combat boots were a size thirteen.

And then she'd have a whole town to change her mind, to wipe that look of perfect trust and faith right off her beautiful face. A whole town to tell her what a loser he used to be, and still was. For all his talk about wanting her to know he was a bad man, he'd liked that adoration on her face.

When he'd thought they were parting on the tarmac, a part of him had been thankful that he hadn't sullied it or broken her belief in him. It was okay because it was a pretty fantasy—hers and his. He could let himself believe in the quietest, darkest part of the night that he wasn't all bad. Glory would change that for them both.

She said she'd liked his bad-boy history, but how much would she like it when it was in her face?

How much would she like it when he finally failed her? Because he would. He didn't want to, of course not. If he had his way, he'd wrap a bubble around the princess. He wanted to keep the light in her eyes, the hope, the innocence. He didn't want to see it flicker to dust and ash, and he definitely didn't want to be the cause.

Just being this close to her now with nowhere to run set his teeth on edge, made him itch to be anywhere else. Her very presence was a sword of Damocles hanging over his head and he either wanted to escape or needed it to drop. Something definitive in the next moments to slice through this awful expectation of pain. Sometimes the expectation was more torture than the sensation itself. This twelve hours was going to be the longest of his life.

What the hell was Renner thinking?

He'd be sure to ask him when he got to D.C. Byron thought about quitting again. It was insane to keep putting Damara's life in his hands. Only an idiot would trust him with her, and Byron didn't want to work for an idiot.

Byron looked out the window at the clouds, the horizon line where the pale blue sky became darker as the atmosphere thinned. Memory after memory of Glory washed over him.

Stomping down those cobbled brick streets in boots not unlike the ones he wore now, buying cigarettes off the old man who ran the bait shop and being a constant, ever-present disappointment to his father. His grandmother dying of a stroke after he'd been arrested—his dad had made sure he knew that it was Byron's fault when he'd signed the papers to send him to Mauer Hill Military Academy.

Death followed his failures as if they held some particular enticing perfume.

He couldn't go back. More important, there was no need for him to go back. Picking open his scars wouldn't help the princess and it wouldn't help him.

The best that Byron Hawkins could hope for was one more night in her arms and dying a good death in defense of his country—maybe sooner rather than later.

Byron chewed over his thoughts for most of the flight. It was all he could do to keep from staring at her—or worse. Dragging her into his lap and burying himself inside her where she took all the pain away, where there was only jasmine and pleasure. Only peace and her sweetness.

All things wasted on a man like him.

He never should have touched her. She was like a drug, and he needed another hit.

He took a deep breath and centered himself. He turned off his emotions because that's what had to be done. It was the only way he'd complete the mission. At least until he could figure out what Renner's plans were and how to change them.