Page 63 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy (Spies and Royals #4)
Chapter Thirty-One
W as this their last night together?
The sun was setting beneath a canopy of ancient olive trees, their gnarled branches heavy with fruit that workers plucked in silhouette against the orange and pink horizon.
This was the honeymoon that she would’ve wanted—well, without the threats and the armed guards watching their every move.
She didn’t know what to believe. Her anxiety circled her ribcage trying to break free.
What did these rebels want from them? Achilles’s father said they were his guests, but they sure weren’t letting them go.
Achilles’s hand never left hers; for his benefit, for hers, perhaps for them both.
She closed her eyes, listening to the soft Mediterranean Sea whisper against the shore beyond them, its waves catching the last light like scattered diamonds.
Salt air mingled with the earthy sweetness of ripe olives, and somewhere in the distance, a bouzouki’s haunting melody drifted through the grove—the sorrowful song of their people.
She wanted to cry as they settled onto carved stone benches that had weathered centuries of storms. The music floated through olive branches adorned with traditional wooden crosses wrapped in fresh basil sprigs that swung in the breeze.
This was their Christmas celebration, so different from what she knew.
Nothing could make her feel farther from home.
“We’ll get out of here soon,” Achilles murmured.
She didn’t ask how soon. His father was sure that they knew who was funding Atreus Mnon. If they had, they wouldn’t be here.
The warm glow painted everything in honey and amber, transforming the rebel camp into something magical.
Yet, nothing took away from that stressed line between Achilles’s brows.
She knew all the signs—the way his jaw worked silently, how his dark eyes grew distant while scanning their surroundings, the tension that corded through his shoulders.
His father was dead, then alive, then a monster, and now… not? Her heart ached for Achilles, especially as she thought of her own dishonesty.
She’d caught sight of that necklace in his pocket—would it track them? Was that a good thing? It might be the only thing to save them from this nightmare… or perhaps this was the dream she’d never dared hope for.
Crickets had taken over the night and chirped around them in air perfumed in intoxicating sweetness. Achilles turned to her, running his hands over her arms under a sky erupting in stars.
“Do you believe that your father is telling the truth?” she asked him.
“Even if he is, these wars have made him hardened and bloodthirsty. I don’t trust what he’ll try to do to you.”
Again, her thoughts went to the necklace. “There might be a way to get out of here,” she said.
Heavy footsteps approached, and the same burly man that Achilles had knocked senseless moved from the shadows. His thick brows cast his eyes in darkness as he stared at them with undisguised hostility. A purple bruise was spreading across his jaw where Achilles had hit him. Yeah, he wasn’t happy.
He let out a bark of harsh laughter. “Is this our royalty? O Skia’s boy?
” His voice dripped with contempt. “Everything he fought against, and he sired the problem right here. Is it true that the two of you were forced to marry? What does that make you? A fake couple… just as fake as your right to rule.”
Achilles tensed beside her. Bris lost no time, tugging on his arm to keep him from challenging this tree trunk, what little good it did. He was ready for war.
“She’s coming with us.”
Yeah, nothing Bris did to keep Achilles back was going to work in the face of that threat. He stood, his fists curling into that familiar fighter’s stance. “Forget it. Anywhere she goes, I go.”
The flickering glow of Christmas lights cast dancing shadows over the man’s lips splitting into a wicked smirk. “Ah, I see you want to go through another round of fists—it’s not going to be as easy when you were armed.”
“But you might not survive it.”
Again, the man crowed out in laughter, though this time, he did it from a bit farther away. “Do you hear that?” Turning, he waved at the working silhouettes, bringing them closer with his booming calls. “Are you ready for this? Come lend me your fists. The young wolf is in a temper tonight.”
“Then he won’t like what’s coming,” another voice slurred as they stumbled closer, holding a clay amphora. They were drunk, their eyes eager for the upcoming entertainment. They weren’t going to get it from them!
“Over my dead body,” Bris snapped, rising to her feet with fire in her heart. “You want entertainment? Go play with the Christmas boats bobbing in the harbor.”
“Oh, come now, princess.” The priest Eleni came forward, swaying slightly. “They are just being friendly.” He looked over at the others with bleary eyes. “I’ve never seen two sweethearts more in love. They asked me to marry them you know… I get to do the honors.”
The big man guffawed. “Ah, their first marriage wasn’t enough for them? I bet that coward made his vows staring down the barrel of her father’s gun. He didn’t mean a word.”
“I’ll take that wager,” Eleni declared, his words slurring as he defended them with drunken passion. “They’ll prove their love and more! Let them have their island wedding at Aphrodite’s ruins!”
The revolutionaries erupted in cheers and laughter, passing around more amphoras of wine.
Were they really that bored? She didn’t care—she wasn’t about to let them make a mockery of her marriage.
Fury blazed through her like wildfire. “You can forget it! We’re not your circus animals to perform for your amusement!
” She glanced over at a fuming Achilles. “They can’t make us do this.”
“Yes, they can,” he grumbled. Well, yes, technically. And perhaps this was better than the violence they’d first promised; it might even buy them more time. But for what? She didn’t like this at all.
“And she won’t get married in that torn rag of silk!” A woman with wild dark hair and bright eyes moved through the crowd with a flirtatious swing to her hip, wine amphora in hand. “We’ll find something fitting for an island princess.”
What? Coconuts and olive leaves? She listened to the excited chatter of the women, as they’d somehow, somewhere procured canvas cloths. They’d actually put her in the same rough fabric they used to gather olives? A flare of her usual defiance exploded through her. Absolutely not!
But as laughter bubbled up around them, and she saw the genuine joy in these tired faces, her anger came to a halting stop and melted into confusion.
Could it be that they actually thought of this as romantic?
Behind him, wild-eyed Eleni grinned brightly. “Consider this my gift to you—to exchange your vows, this time to be witnessed by your people who adore you.”
His sudden kindness silenced her. Why was he so accepting of someone with Chises Mnon’s blood—his daughter, in fact?
Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself, her eyes going to the bear of a man who’d started all this.
He’d settled into a chair with the others, already lost in drink and rowdy Tirrojan Christmas ditties.
There were worse fates than being forced into another wedding ceremony with Achilles.
She felt his thumb tracing gentle circles over her knuckles. “Are you okay with this?” he whispered.
Once again, she felt lost in the passionate depths of his dark eyes. She could fall in love with him all over again. “Y-yes…”
And just like that, the men swept away her groom to prepare him…
or haze him with island traditions and strong wine, while the women eagerly led Bris toward a canvas tent.
Their hands were rough from labor but tender as they showed her a chair and wove wild lavender and tiny white flowers into her hair.
“A Christmas wedding under the stars,” one of the women breathed, her eyes shining with delight. “Just the thing to make your wedding right before man and God.”
“It… is… was…” Bris stuttered.
Instead of using the canvas rags like they’d threatened, they draped her in a simple dress of flowing white cotton that took her breath away, elegant in its simplicity, the fabric soft as whispered promises.
Would it take Achilles’s breath away?
The heat of his eyes on her had never left her, and it had somehow nestled around her heart in a cozy song of happiness.
The women chattered around her in broken English, their voices warm with excitement. “You are beautiful, like Aphrodite herself!” one exclaimed, adjusting a spray of oleander blossoms behind her ear.
As they worked, the girls began slipping away to fetch “the perfect touch,” until Bris was left completely alone in the tent with its simple décor of woven rugs and oil lamps. This was the refuge Achilles’s father had sought, away from the Myrdons, her father.
What had been that been like, to be so alone here? O Skia had claimed that her father had kept his family as hostage, so he couldn’t get to them… and wasn’t that true?
“… you can be sure that I’d never let his father find his spawn again without facing me for his sins.”
Perhaps the old general wasn’t lying. Peleus hated Chises Mnon about as much as her father hated him.
What was stopping him from getting his revenge now?
The women had separated her from Achilles, and now she waited, defenseless, in this tent.
Her hands shook as she searched the makeshift vanity table for anything that could serve as a weapon, finally picking up a sharp hairpin with trembling fingers.
Voices drifted from outside, making her freeze. “The prisoner keeps asking for the priest—thinks he’ll deliver a message to Clysta for him.” Rough, amused laughter followed.