Page 59 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy (Spies and Royals #4)
Chapter Twenty-Nine
— Christmas Day—
T he Island of Aeaea. She’d have to hand it to Achilles. No one would guess that they would land straight into the nest of these serpents on purpose.
Bris stepped onto the creaking steps of the cottage, her hands sliding against the weathered stone exterior that had been polished smooth by decades of Aeaean winds. A wooden cross wrapped in basil sprigs hung above the door to celebrate Christmas, the herbs still green and fragrant.
The coordinates had led them to this secluded house in the middle of the woods, but the basil decorating this cutesy place was too fresh to be some abandoned vacation home. Charisse’s father must’ve been here recently, or they’d paid someone to keep the place clean and presentable.
Her mind felt like it was on overdrive after battling for her life once again. They’d spent all night huddled together in the back of the helicopter, sharing Achilles’s coat—well, supposedly sharing, she’d actually hogged the warmth like she did the blankets, the pillows, his arms.
And the poor man let her. She couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop seeking desperately for his protection after everything that had happened.
Now his broad shoulders shadowed the doorway as he tried the handle. The soft golden glow of morning light filtered through the cypress branches, gilding his roughened jaw as he broke into the home belonging to Charisse’s father.
He’d always been rebellious and headstrong, but now he was leading her right along into that same trouble. The surprising thing was that she was going right along with it. More than that… she was racing for that danger like a ship sailing straight for the rocky cliffs of Scylla.
They entered the idyllic cottage cradled among ancient olive trees and wild lavender that perfumed the morning air with its sweet fragrance. Strange that after all this time of her marriage, she finally had some alone time with her husband.
Like alone— like really alone —not a soul around for miles, no servants or spies or surveillance or trackers. This might be the strangest Christmas morning of her life, but this also felt so cozy, so peaceful!
As they moved through the kitchen, his dark eyes found hers across the small space, the center of that storm focused on the sequined fabric whispering against her skin.
“You know,” he said with a wicked grin, “between that dress and this empty cottage, I’m thinking we should have a proper honeymoon. ”
And how was it that she was racing for trouble again, flying over hand-woven rugs and falling headlong into his arms? His lips captured hers with desperate hunger, his hands tangling in her hair, anchoring them both to this moment where they’d somehow found their freedom.
And they’d found it on this island of all places.
Aggie Mnon was here, possibly the Myrdons too, but it was his father that Achilles hunted.
They should be running away, not towards the danger.
Her mind was clouded with fear, sadness, and confusion…
but there was one thing that was never in question—how she felt for Achilles.
His kiss sparked in her a fire, and she melted into him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against hers, the gentle pressure of his wedding band. For once, she truly felt married—the sacred vows had finally come to life.
“Whatever we find here on this island,” he said between kisses, “whatever forces try to tear us apart, my loyalty is to you. I trust you with my soul.”
The words sent a little start through her as she remembered the horrific cross her father had forced her to give to him—but Achilles had taken it off, thrown it away. They could start fresh, couldn’t they?
“You’re staying here where it’s safe.” he whispered against her temple before she could admit what she’d done. His voice was raw with emotion. “I love you!”
“I love you too,” she breathed, her fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw.
And she had to stop him from being so reckless!
All she could think about was how much she wanted to grow old with this man…
but if he didn’t survive this? The thought sent a shiver through her, and his arms tightened around her in response.
They must survive—they had too much to live for now.
She drew back. “What will you do if you find him ?” She didn’t have to ask who.
“I’ll stop him any way I can.”
“No!” She kept her voice stern as she threw her fist against his chest and looked him squarely in the eye. He’d tucked the combat blades next to the Glock in his belt like he’d gone back to his Myrdon days. “You’re not killing him!”
He could not have that blood on his hands.
“I’m sure it won’t come to that.” A noncommittal answer that he immediately swept aside as his fingers pressed into the emerald sequined fabric against her back.
Her heart soared to the sky the same instant he swept her off her feet and set her on the worn wooden table.
It creaked beneath her weight and then his, and she hardly noticed as his mouth found hers, and all she could think about was him.
Heavy footsteps crunched on the gravel path outside, followed by an irritated voice calling out in rapid Tirrojan: “Ti kanete edo? Afto einai ieros topos!”
Achilles moved protectively in front of Bris, but his reply came in the same fluid Tirrojan: “Sygnomi, Pater. Den irthaMe na epivealoume. Psaxnoume to spiti mas, alla exasame ton dromo.”
Her eyes ran to him in surprise. He’d done that better than when under their tutors’ stern gazes… and to be quite honest, she had no idea what he’d said.
The door wrenched open, and a gruff old man with a wild gray beard and bronzed skin barreled through with a walking stick carved from olive wood.
He wore faded black clothes with a white collar and rough sandals, looking every inch the hermit priest. He pointed his staff threateningly at Achilles.
“You speak the old tongue… but do you truly belong? What do you do here?”
“We could ask the same of you,” Achilles said.
“This is my home!”
Bris’s eyes moved to the coordinates written across Achilles’s arm.
Had he written them down correctly during the insanity of their escape?
She noticed some smudges. Perhaps that was enough to get the numbers wrong…
or this home had been abandoned in the war and then confiscated by the cloth.
Surely, Charisse’s father valued his safety enough not to return here often, if at all.
Bris straightened, her hand going to Achilles before he did something they both regretted. “Pardon our intrusion,” she said quickly. “We were searching for the priest here.”
The man’s eyes narrowed on them, and then immediately, his scowl cracked into a grin. “Ah! You are seeking to be married!”
“Um…” That seemed a good enough reason as any. “Y-yes…” Bris stuttered. “Would you do the honors?”
Achilles glanced back at her, his brow going up with reluctant amusement.
The priest seemed to catch the look, and his interpretation of it sent him laughing even harder. “Does your suitor know about this plan of yours, my precious sister?”
Achilles seemed to collect his wits, along with a good lying face, and he cut in smoothly. “If I didn’t, it wouldn’t be the first time I was a blind idiot. I’ve wanted Prissy as my wife since the first time she stomped her foot at me and turned my name into Killiefish.”
The priest’s brown eyes grew warm, and he extended his hand. “I am Eleni—Father Eleni. I assume you are not speaking of me marrying you today ?”
“No, no…” they both said at once.
“Of course not.” Bris was improvising as she looked around the room, trying to gain some inspiration on how to proceed next.
Hiding out here was clearly out of the question.
“We would like to plan an elegant affair, but…” she studied the priest’s suddenly wary face and wondered if they could use this opportunity to get more information on Achilles’s father before facing him, “but we want a simple wedding too… well, we want to go back to our roots, actually. I mean, this place is so historical, and so we were… hoping for a tour.”
Eleni looked from her to Achilles with a shrewd gaze before clapping Achilles’s arm in a friendly way. “You’ve come to the right place, my friends. Come—there’s much to see.”
He swung around, his weathered sandals slapping against the worn rug as they followed him from his cottage like naughty schoolchildren caught stealing olives from the orchard.
Achilles turned to her with a secretive wink. Great! They really were children again!
But this was exactly what they needed. Whatever secrets lay hidden in this faraway place would soon be open to them. Achilles reached behind him, tickling her knuckles until he had her fingers in his warm grip.
The priest led them through the small cemetery behind the chapel, where worn headstones stood among wild rosemary and thyme. Just like the folk song! Eleni’s cane tapped against the stone path as he moved with surprising agility.
“These graves,” he said, gesturing to a section where the headstones lay in neat, orderly rows, “are from the battle of the ninety-three uprising. When General Peleus first came here during Operation C.I.R.C.E., the royal military was ordered to crush the rebellion here, and they didn’t care about civilian casualties. ”
Achilles’s features tightened with that familiar pain that turned Bris’s stomach. She squeezed his hand.
They passed the small stone chapel with its Byzantine arches and faded frescoes, where wild vines had claimed the ancient walls.
Bris found herself imagining Achilles’s parents exchanging vows in that sacred space—two young people in love, unaware of the betrayals that would tear their world apart.
The olive grove beyond stretched as far as the eye could see, where Aeaean workers moved among the silvery trees.
Were they actually working on Christmas Day?