The Wrath of the King (21 page)

“I'm all right,” he repeated, cracking open an eye to see her. “A good night's sleep is all I need.”

What Chey read in his gaze was,
You're all I need.
Flushed with pleasure at what he
didn't
say, Chey leaned her head against his shoulder and settled in for the ride.

Praying that the next hour and a half would pass quickly and that they wouldn't run into trouble along the way.

. . .

Paavo stared at the mess in the foyer, furious at the group of men standing like whipped dogs near the base of the stairs. Men in uniform who, as far as he was concerned, were an embarrassment to the word soldier. He didn't care if half of them had been plucked straight from the land, with no training and no real fighting skill. They should have done a better job. And those
with
training—well.

“Does
anyone
know where either Chey or Wynn have gone? Both women, both missing from the castle and the grounds. One of them was right beneath your collective noses,
amongst
you, and somehow, you still lost her.” Paavo paced in front of the ragtag group, disgusted beyond belief. Many of the best soldiers in the Latvala army hadn't been converted to his cause, leaving him with a scattered array of talent. Talent that was not nearly as organized as he wanted them to be.

None of the men seemed to know where Chey or Wynn had disappeared to, serving to spike his temper further. Both women under his roof; both now gone.

Unbelievable.

“I want search parties scouring every inch of this castle, basement to turret. And the grounds. Search the creek, the nearby caves—everywhere. They can't be far. One of them is almost nine months pregnant—if she can outrun you, then you're all fired.” He dismissed the men with a flippant wave of his hand, stalking away to his office on the ground floor.

With the fire doused, clean up crews were organizing to begin cleaning the mess. It was still too smoky in the upper floors, the scent of charred wood, paper and
material lingering in the air. The latest report wavered on the cause of the fire, from a spark thrown onto a carpet from the fireplace to arson. No one was one-hundred percent sure yet.

In his office, Paavo kicked the door closed, snatched up a whiskey decanter, and poured himself a drink. Taking it to the window, he looked out over the courtyard, turning the tumbler between his fingers. Yet to lift the potent liquor to his lips, he inwardly seethed at the attack amidst the fire catastrophe. He suspected it was a team sent by Sander, who had also disappeared. It couldn't be coincidence. Except the team that invaded his property hadn't left with anything as far as anyone could tell. Chey—the suspected target—had already been gone by then. So what was the point? What else were they after?

An uncomfortable answer whispered across his mind:
you.

Instead of taking a drink, he cocked his arm back, pivoted in place, and launched the tumbler across the room. Liquor splashed across his desk and the floor. The tumbler cracked against the mantle and shattered into a thousand pieces. Even that subtle bit of violence couldn't take the edge off his anger.

So close. He was so close to a successful coup. Yes, there was a lot of work to be done. There always was when someone new took over the throne by force. But he had the title within his grasp, had a good start on a new military that would, eventually, infiltrate all other regiments and spread the seed of his control. He had one of the best Generals in his pocket, a man willing to sacrifice it all on his behalf.

Despite everything, he felt his position start to slip. With every escape and disappearance, it set him back. Now he had to worry about men sneaking into his castle on whatever nefarious business sent them there to begin with.

They'd been seeking Chey, he was sure of it. But what about him? Ingvar's insistence that he leave the castle immediately upon discovery of the fire paid off in spades. If not for that extreme act of caution, where might he be? Dead? Behind bars? A prisoner in his own dungeon? He quailed at the thought.

Prison was not for him. He'd rather be dead than rot the rest of his life away in a cell. And he'd come too far now to turn back. To wait for Dare to resurface and ask for forgiveness. The only way was forward. Forward with a vengeance. From this moment on, he could show no mercy to anyone.

Chapter Nineteen

Twilight bathed the landscape in pink and gold, chasing the darkness away. It slanted across the spires jutting up from Sander's holding and splashed the colors of dawn over the window panes. A break in the rain allowed Sander to carry Chey from the Hummer to the front doors, where a butler and armed guards waited.

All her protests about his health and her ability to walk went unheard by the King. He laid out orders for extra protection as he climbed the stone steps and swept inside, the gutted soles of his combat boots squeaking over a marble floor.

Standing four stories, the castle was smaller than the others but still large by anyone's standard. Chey eyed the vaulted ceilings, stone archways, and mullioned windows overlooking acres of green grass. A far wall prevented strays from wandering onto the property and the guardhouse at the front gate added another layer of security to an already secure location. Chey thought Royalty might refer to this as a 'country house'. One not near the cities and lacking the high ramparts, baileys and other extreme protection measures better suited to a castle under siege.

She could tell this structure had undergone renovation at some point, since the floors were marble instead of stone, like the others.

Sander carried her all the way to the fourth floor and into a master suite with a vast view of the grounds. Like every other Kingly suite, this one was lavish in its décor. Heavy wood furniture was offset by cream walls, crown molding and subdued colors of dark green, deep crimson and neutral browns. The ceiling sported a master painting of hounds and riders on a foxhunt.

He set her down on the edge of the enormous bed like she was made of fragile glass, then retreated to begin peeling out of his still damp uniform.

“I'll have one of the girls get you some new clothes. Natalia and Krislin are here somewhere, so you can visit with them after you rest and eat or whatever you want to do,” Sander said. He bared his chest along with all the wounds he'd suffered from the caravan attack. Some of the bandages had started to come off, exposing red, raw skin, stitches, and other extensive bruising.

Chey gazed at him while he undressed, appreciating the masculinity he so effortlessly exuded. The wounds only added to his rugged appeal. She thanked her lucky stars one more time that fate brought him back to her in one piece.

“Why does it sound like you'll be doing something else while I'm reuniting with the girls?” Chey asked. The way he talked made Chey think Sander had other plans. The only plans she wanted him to have involved a lot of recovery. She knew he had business, of course, but her concern was for his recent coma and what all the strain might be doing to his wounds.

He met her eyes across the room. “As soon as Leander and Wynn get here, we'll be making a plan to oust Paavo.”

Chey shifted on the mattress, laying a hand flat over the bedcover. “Making a plan, all right. Can't it wait one night?”

“No. We'll be leaving as soon as we put together something reasonable. You and the other girls will be more than safe here. These men I trust with my life.”

Chey frowned. “Sander, you can't be serious. Have you even slept since you woke up? When was the last time someone looked at your injuries? Because I could swear you've popped a few stitches, at least.”

He threw the uniform into a pile, attired only in a pair of black boxers that hugged his hips and thighs. “Chey, I can't wait. There is no time to sleep. Paavo might regroup while I'm taking tea in the courtyard.”

The mild sarcasm hit Chey the wrong way. “I don't care. You can't just leave five minutes after we get home. What if I go into labor?”

“Then someone will recall me. You're not in labor now, are you?” he asked, stalking into the bathroom.

Chey had half a mind to tell him about the aches and cramps hours ago, walking through the forest. But if she'd been in labor then, she wouldn't be sitting here this calm now. The pain would be ten times worse.

“No,” she said flatly. “But that doesn't matter.
I
want you here, Sander. We've been separated for what feels like weeks. Can't you send someone else?”

He emerged wearing a pair of black cargo pants and boots, pulling a black shirt over his head. Reaching up, he yanked the band out of his hair, leaving it loose a moment until he gathered it back into another neat tail. “I'm not sending someone else to do my dirty work. Gunnar, Leander and I along with a few other special forces members will put an end to any idea of a coup. It needs to be done now, while they're possibly dealing with that fire and whatever else, rather than wait until they regroup.”

She stood up off the edge of the bed, one hand braced against her back. “It's too soon, Sander. You look exhausted. I know you have to be in pa--”

“I'm going, Chey.” Sander gave her a hard look that brooked no argument.

Chey pressed her lips together in frustration and worry. “Sander--”

“I need to get with Gunnar so we have a plan by the time Leander gets here with Wynn.” Crossing the room, he leaned down to pluck a kiss from her mouth.

She gave him nothing. No return kiss, no hug. He arched a brow, planting his hands defiantly on his hips.

“I'm telling you I don't want you to go, and you're just going to walk out the door anyway,” she said with an impatient gesture.

“I feel fine. This is what we train for, Chey. Mattias and I have spent months and months conditioning our bodies for situations like these. Yes, I have injuries, and yes my head hurts like hell. But being King means taking action, especially when my loved ones lives are in danger. When my country is in jeopardy. He
took
you, Chey, and I'm pissed. If anything had happened to you or our child...” Sander let the threat trail.

While Chey loved hearing Sander rally and rise to the occasion, she was still smarting from the escape, the farmer's wife and not knowing whether Sander was alive or dead. It made her temper short and her patience nonexistent.

“I realize you have responsibilities, but what about your responsibility to me? I'm
asking
you to wait. Just wait one day. I can't believe one day will make that much difference in the grand scheme of things.” Chey knew she hadn't won any gold stars with her retort. Whenever a muscle flexed in Sander's jaw like that, she knew she'd hit a nerve.

“What do you think this is all about? Did you miss the part where I said I'm pissed that he took you? This is also my responsibility to you, to make sure it can't happen again. The only way to do that is to bring the situation under control. You know how things go, Chey. You've been around it long enough now,” he said, stalking toward the door.

“Well, I'm pissed that you're leaving!” she said, raising her voice while he walked the other way. “I want you here, not rushing off to put yourself in danger the second we get out of it!”

Sander paused half in and out of the doorway. The look in his eyes glimmered with unconditional love, but it also glittered with determination. “I'll be downstairs,” he said in an even voice. “And I'll let you know before we go.”

Chey seethed when the door closed before she could get another word in edgewise. Sinking onto the edge of the bed again, she rubbed her hands over her stomach, too tired to go after him and send their argument to the next level.

She didn't want to go to war with her husband when he was planning a war of his own.

. . .

“Chey! Chey, are you in there?”

Sitting up with a grunt and a groan, Chey braced an arm against the bed she'd fallen asleep on and stared through slitted eyes at the door. That wasn't Sander's voice.

“Come in,” she called, struggling to her feet.

Wynn entered with a flourish, looking worse for wear in a military uniform that was wetter than Sander's had ever been. “Chey! I thought something awful happened to you. I was so relieved when Leander discovered you were with Sander, of all people.”

Chey embraced her best friend and laid a kiss on Wynn's cheek. “I don't even want to ask why you're in that uniform, or who Leander is, but I'm so glad to see you.”

Wynn held Chey out at arms distance, the dark bob of her hair askew around her head. The hat was gone. “He's a close friend of Sander and Mattias, and he's the one who got me out of Paavo's awful camp. How are you feeling? Paavo didn't hurt you, did he?”

Chey led Wynn to a section of sofas and plush chairs. She didn't want to be on her feet right now. “I'm fine, I'm fine. I had to escape the castle and then walk like a hundred miles until I found shelter. What about you? Wait, what's this about Paavo's camp?”

Wynn sat opposite Chey, choosing to lean forward as if anticipating all the juicy details. “I wound up at Paavo's holding, where you were. I didn't even know you were there for a while. But when I did, I set a fire to distract the guards so I could try and get you out of there. It backfired, I guess, because you were already gone.”

Chey listened with no small amount of amazement. “I had no idea you were there, either. Of course. Paavo didn't give me any information. Why were you in a camp? You set a fire?”

“I ran out of the castle with some other women, trying to escape before anyone knew I was gone. I figured it was only a matter of time before they realized who set it, and then I'd really be in trouble. But someone found me wandering by the creek and cracked me on the head.” Wynn reached up to gingerly touch a spot at the back of her skull. “I woke up in a tent in the encampment. Paavo visited me, but he still didn't know at that point what I'd done, only suspected. Yes, I set the fire.”

“Wynn, I never knew the whole time. I found a hidden passageway out of the room and wound up some distance from the castle, outside the walls. So I followed the creek, too, but I never saw you or anyone else.”