Page 32 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy (Spies and Royals #4)

Chapter Fifteen

A chilles’s eyes snapped open like a man surfacing from drowning.

The last thing he remembered from last night was finding that stash of aged whiskey and drinking himself into oblivion…

but an image of Bris had been there too, a foggy vision of her luminous golden eyes dancing in front of him like fireflies.

Had he truly picked her up and carried her to bed, feeling the silk of her long hair against his hands?

Or was that just another torturous dream?

He groaned, his head pounding in that familiar rhythm of a brutal hangover as he turned against the familiar tan couch cushion pressed against his stubbled cheek.

At least he hadn’t fallen asleep beside her, but did he need to apologize for getting out of hand?

The memory was frustratingly hazy. He’d been doing a lot of that lately—losing control when the only thing he wanted was to touch her soft skin and tell her…

tell her what? That she was driving him slowly insane?

His brain felt wrapped in cotton from last night’s poor decisions. Shoving himself off the unforgiving couch, his bare feet hit the cold marble as he knocked on her bedroom door.

Silence.

“Bris?” He scratched at the heavy oak with his knuckles. “Let me in before I grab another bottle of that whiskey…”

Nothing.

The ancient door complained heavily as he pushed it open.

He half expected a pillow to be launched at his head.

Instead, he was greeted by an already-made bed that looked like it belonged in a luxury hotel.

The silk covers were tucked in with military precision, the feather pillows fluffed to perfection.

Great! The Early bird had been up for hours—plenty of time to stew about his drunken antics.

He’d have a volcano just waiting to erupt the moment he got within range.

He swiped up his cracked phone from the coffee table, squinting at the spider-webbed screen as he pressed speed dial. A familiar voice answered. “Peder,” he got right to the point, “have you seen my wife?”

Wife? The word felt strange on his tongue—foreign yet somehow right. He hated that he was deriving any pleasure from Bris’s forced captivity in this arrangement.

Peder’s response came slowly, laden with obvious reluctance. “We’re looking for her.”

His vague unease exploded into a fiery pit of dread in his stomach. “What do you mean you’re looking for her? You can’t find her?”

“She went riding with Polly hours ago. Neither has returned, and Polly isn’t answering her phone either.”

Achilles unleashed a string of curses that would make a sailor blush as he hopped around, shoving his legs into yesterday’s jeans. The denim was cold against his skin, still damp from last night’s rain.

“We’ll find her,” Peder said breathlessly through the phone. “She can’t have gone far. Polly wouldn’t let her do anything dangerous.”

They didn’t know Bris like he did—the woman was a force of nature who could talk her way into or out of anything.

He rummaged frantically for a shirt and found the navy rugby jersey she’d slept in last night.

Groaning, he dragged it on, immediately assaulted by her intoxicating scent—vanilla and something uniquely her that made his chest tight with longing.

She’d become a phantom that clung to his every move, haunting him even when she wasn’t there.

Where had she gone? He dialed her number with shaking fingers, listening to it ring once, twice, then cut off abruptly. At least that meant she was alive and deliberately ignoring him. He had to keep her that way.

He headed for the door, his mind racing through possibilities.

Had she been so upset about last night that she’d actually run away?

He was seriously failing at this husband thing.

Pushing her away didn’t work, neither did pulling her close like some primitive caveman.

He needed some epic marriage counseling!

He took the marble stairs two at a time, heading for the garage. Forget some archaic horse chase from medieval times—they had the advantage of modern transportation, assuming this palace had something more practical than gilded carriages.

He met Peder at the entrance, his friend’s usually cheerful face grim with worry.

Achilles didn’t need to ask about the crime rate around here—he’d witnessed it firsthand when he’d lived in Tirreoy.

Gangs controlled the streets with violence, the strong preyed on the weak, and no one walked free, especially not his headstrong princess.

Rushing into the cavernous garage, Achilles ran an experienced eye over the collection of expensive vehicles until he spotted a rugged four-wheeler ATV built for rough terrain.

“This one!” The keys dangled invitingly from the ignition.

Peder barely had time to jump into his own vehicle before Achilles was gunning the engine and speeding across the manicured lawn, leaving deep tire tracks in the pristine grass.

He tried calling again, the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he navigated around ornamental fountains. Her voicemail picked up—that melodic voice chiming how she was unavailable. Frustrated, he tried again. Nothing.

Panic clawed at his chest like a caged animal. Across the way, he could tell Peder was making similar frantic calls to Polly with the same failure rate. He could understand the silent treatment from the rebellious Bris, but from dutiful Polly? That felt ominous.

He had to think like Bris—impulsive, curious, desperate for freedom.

He avoided the gardens, the aviary—anything that got her allergies up.

He headed straight for the perimeter wall, searching for any weakness in its fortifications.

Bris craved liberty almost as much as he did; she just pretended otherwise.

That’s when he spotted it—the Gothic spire of an ancient church towering through the olive trees in the distance.

“There!” He remembered how Bris’s face had lit up with genuine interest when Nestor mentioned his nearby parish.

He gunned the ATV toward the stone bridge, noting the iron gate that bisected it.

Peder shook his head skeptically. “She couldn’t get past that barrier on horseback,” he shouted over to him.

“How do we open it?”

His friend threw his hand up at his stubbornness. “There’s no way Polly would give her the access code.”

And there was no way a palace employee wouldn’t answer her phone unless something was seriously wrong. Either way, his gut told him Bris had definitely come this direction—no locked gate would stop her. “Open it, Peder. Now!”

His friend’s mouth tightened, but after a moment he punched in the code.

The gate lurched open with a mechanical groan.

Achilles was grateful that Peder had saved him the trouble of arguing, but then again, they’d known each other during his more rebellious days when he’d come to Tirreoy looking for trouble and a couch to crash on.

Achilles never gave up until he got his way—Peder knew that better than anyone.

He raced toward the church, every protective instinct screaming at him to reach Bris before she wandered away from Nestor’s safety and into real danger.

He parked outside the magnificent Gothic cathedral, taking in the soaring buttresses and jewel-toned stained-glass windows that caught the gray morning light.

The architecture had been lovingly preserved from better times, though he could see where decades of war had left their scars—chipped stones, blackened walls, doors reinforced with iron bars.

The instant Achilles cut the engine, he heard her screams piercing the air.

Peder’s expression shifted from skepticism to horror.

Achilles could barely believe what they’d stumbled into, but there was no time to contemplate their luck—good or catastrophically bad.

He lunged off the ATV and sprinted toward the trees where her cries were loudest, his heart crashing against his ribs.

The sight of two burly men dragging away his wife sent a shock of pure rage through his system like lightning.

Polly had fallen against an olive tree, clutching a bleeding cheek while letting out terrified shrieks.

“Let me go!” Bris was literally half the size of her attackers, but she was still fighting like a wildcat. She raked her nails across the scarred face of one man, leaving bloody furrows. He howled in fury and drove his fist into her stomach with brutal force.

Achilles roared like a wounded animal—the sound that erupted from his chest he barely recognized. Seeing her hurt felt worse than taking the blow himself. Some feral passion cracked through his heart and unleashed a rage that demanded blood!

He’d die before he let them take her.

The first attacker turned at the sound of his approach.

The next instant, the man was unconscious on the forest floor, courtesy of Achilles’s right hook.

But Achilles didn’t care about him—he wanted the one who’d hit Bris.

His arm wrapped around the brute’s thick neck, ripping him away from her with strength that he had no idea he possessed.

The man flew backward like a discarded toy.

All the military training from his time with the Myrdons kicked in, transforming him into something savage and merciless. His fists became weapons, pummeling the screaming man without mercy. Every instinct told him these weren’t random criminals—someone had sent them specifically for Bris.

“Who do you work for?” he shouted between devastating blows.

His mind immediately went to the Earl of Alexopoulos, that predatory snake who’d already put his hands on his wife.

Had he sent these thugs to finish what he’d started?

Blood splattered across his knuckles as his fists found their target again and again. “Who sent you?”