Page 40 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy (Spies and Royals #4)
Achilles’s ears burned at the reminder of his conversation with the mysterious O Skia. Of course, spies had been monitoring every word, but he hadn’t expected Phoenix to be so open about it. “Listening through keyholes again?”
The chancellor’s expression darkened, and with a sharp gesture, he dismissed Peder and Polly from earshot. The two retreated down the stone steps, huddling under the shelter of an overhanging roof. “That man is a master of deception,” Phoenix hissed. “Everything he told you about—about…”
“My father?”
“Yes! The Shadow isn’t to be trusted!” Phoenix’s voice rose above the storm. “If you believe a single word from that liar, then you’re an even bigger fool than you’ve proven yourself to be.”
“Funny… that’s exactly what he said about you.”
Phoenix went completely still. For a charged moment, it looked like the man might blow his top and throw a punch.
He was spared an undignified brawl when a man in palace livery appeared at Phoenix’s elbow, whispering urgently in his ear.
The chancellor’s face went rigid with alarm, and he stepped away to take what looked like an emergency call, his voice too low to hear over the storm as he moved down the stone steps with his phone.
A deep rumble shook the ground beneath their feet, and the next second, a section of the retaining wall buckled outward, ancient stones cascading into the churning water below.
The remaining workers scrambled to higher ground as water surged through the new breach.
Achilles’s eyes immediately shot to Bris. “Time to get out of here!”
“No, no!” she cried, pointing through the rain. “Look! The school!”
They’d buy her another one! With what money? Didn’t matter—their lives were worth more than any building, but Bris was already splashing down the stone steps toward the little red structure. His heart seized with terror. “Get back here!”
Glancing around, he saw their security team had melted away to safer positions with the other rescue workers, and Phoenix had vanished as quickly as he’d appeared with his backup crew. What happened to all that talk about keeping his charges safe?
Dropping his sandbag, Achilles vaulted over the barrier of canvas and sand to chase after Bris. Her delicate shoulders moved with the rhythm of half-running, half-wading through floodwater that was rising by the minute.
Through the driving rain, he saw what had truly caught her attention—a small figure huddled against the school’s bright wall, clutching something precious to his thin chest.
“Yiorgos!” Her voice barely reached his ears through the storm as she called out. The young boy’s face was streaked with mud and tears, still wearing that oversized tank top. “Where’s your mama?”
The child held up one of the precious new textbooks, his brave grin visible even through his fear. He’d stayed behind for the book that meant everything to him. Achilles groaned in sympathy and dread—he saw himself in that kid.
Bris grabbed at the boy’s muddy fingers.
Another section of wall gave way to the west with a sound like thunder, and before Achilles’s horrified gaze, the murky floodwater rushed against the colorful buildings, splitting into multiple streams that slithered through the streets like hungry serpents seeking prey.
The water was rising faster now, building unstoppable power as it went.
They had seconds before this new breach reached them and swept away the woman who meant everything to him.
They had to go—now! Achilles fought through the powerful current, running harder than he’d ever thought possible as the water swirled around his legs.
He scooped up Yiorgos, who clutched his prized book even tighter.
His other arm went around Bris. They had no place safe to run.
The wall where they’d been working groaned like the sandbags barely contained a massive monster, threatening to explode in a burst that would flatten every building in this village.
“This way!”
Nestor appeared through the storm, like Achilles had been praying for heavenly help instead of cussing like a sailor.
He released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, fighting through the current toward the priest. The man piloted a swamp boat, his white hair plastered to his skull, his clerical collar somehow still visible beneath his rain-soaked shirt. “Get in!”
Achilles lifted the child in first, then Bris, the warmth of her shaking body against his hands making him silently thank God for this rescue—though it had nothing to do with his sorry skin! For once, he should have listened to Phoenix and corralled the fire that was his wife!
“Polly?” Bris shouted over the storm.
Achilles climbed into the boat beside her, adding his voice to hers as they navigated the flooded streets.
“Peder!” His call was swallowed by the howling wind.
No sign of anyone except a few other rescue boats carrying volunteers through the chaos.
Peder had better have put his admiration for Polly to good use—sweeping her off her feet to safety!
And what about the other families in this town?
Hopefully, they’d given them enough time to evacuate.
They searched for survivors until they had no more time, no more breath.
The storm beat against their small boat as they carved through narrow, debris-filled channels that had once been Ilion’s streets, heading toward the Gothic church perched on higher ground.
The ancient stones and flying buttresses offered the promise of sanctuary, as they had for countless refugees over the centuries.
Behind them, the village was disappearing beneath churning brown water, those bright painted houses vanishing like toys in a flooded sandbox.
Bris let out a heartbroken cry at the destruction, and he wrapped his arms around her, feeling her small frame trembling against his chest. Her wet hair clung to his neck as they reached the edge of the wooded grove surrounding the sanctuary.
Nestor tied their boat to a sturdy oak whose lower branches now dipped into the rising water. Bris hadn’t let go of that boy for a second, and she dragged him off the boat with her. Achilles steadied her, making sure the priest had all the help he needed. “How did you know to come after us?”
“God works in mysterious ways,” Nestor said with a weary smile. “Though I suspect He had help from my practical side—I’ve weathered enough storms to know when to get the boat ready.”
Yeah, that would do it. They sloshed through ankle-deep water among the ancient trees, their soaked clothes weighing them down like lead.
Achilles wrapped his arm around Bris, trying to shield her from the worst of the driving rain, though they couldn’t get any wetter than they already were.
Not that the storm wasn’t trying to change that.
The soggy grass squished beneath their feet.
Nestor’s prized roses hung their heads like mourners, delicate petals scattered, and stems bent under the storm’s relentless assault.
Scanning the rising floods in the distance, Achilles felt his chest tighten at the ominous sight of debris-filled water creeping steadily up the hillside—even this sanctuary wouldn’t stay dry for long.
The church sat at the top of the hill, but the flood would eventually reach them here too.
Nowhere was truly safe, though the distant palace spires glowed like a golden beacon—sanctuary reserved for only a privileged few.
Just like in ages past, it represented a fist to rule, rather than protection.
Weren’t they meant to serve their people instead? Or was Phoenix right? Getting into the trenches with their people had nearly gotten Bris killed.
He blamed himself as they ducked inside the ancient sanctuary.
The massive stone walls muted the storm to a distant rumble.
Colored light from the stained-glass windows painted everything in jeweled tones—ruby, sapphire, and emerald hues dancing across Bris’s mud-streaked face, caressing her soft cheek.
“We need to get you warm before hypothermia sets in,” Nestor said, his voice echoing in the vaulted space. He rushed for blankets from the vestry, where his modest living quarters adjoined the sanctuary.
Achilles settled onto a wooden pew with his arm around Bris, her wet hair tangling around his forearm like black silk.
Her body shook violently against him—he wasn’t sure if it was from terror or cold.
Probably both. “Honey, I’ve got you,” he murmured, running his hand down her back, desperate to offer comfort but not knowing how.
Yiorgos nestled between them like a small, soggy sparrow, still clutching his precious textbook to his narrow chest. That thing had nearly gotten them all killed. Achilles could barely stand to look at it.
A rain-spattered page flipped open, revealing the history of Tirreoy, stretching back to the ancient Bronze Age kingdoms when scattered Tirrojan cities were first united under one crown, establishing the Tyndarian dynasty that would rule for over three millennia.
Flip. Yiorgos had found the Great Siege Wars, when Tirreoy withstood a legendary ten-year siege, ultimately emerging victorious when the invaders were driven back across the Aegean.
Flip. Now smudged illustrations showed the Ottoman expansion period, the bright colors melting away into Tirreoy’s mountain fortresses when superior naval fleet successfully repelled three separate invasion attempts, maintaining independence while neighboring Greek territories fell under foreign rule.
A small moan of grief escaped Bris’s lips—they were tinged with blue from the cold, another symptom to join her poor trembling body.
Achilles rubbed her back more vigorously, feeling utterly helpless, even as Nestor returned with thick woolen blankets.
The priest wrapped the first around Bris, his kind face creased with concern despite his obvious exhaustion.