Page 8 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy (Spies and Royals #4)

His sister didn’t know half the things that happened around here. She’d been too young to remember the screams during the Crimson Reckonings, the bullets, losing loved ones… and it was better that way. Someone had to remain innocent.

She’ll know soon enough when she gets a bodyguard assigned to her.

He took a deep breath and, looking back in the mirror, he was surprised to see the same man standing there from before, considering the emotions roiling through him—maybe his color was a little high against his tan face, but the man the world saw was an arrogant aristocrat.

His job was to perpetuate that image—whether it was right or wrong, he’d be a force to reckon with. He straightened his shoulders and stepped outside into the hallway.

Two security men watched him as he passed by—it only confirmed his suspicions. His mother had gotten through them so easily. More spies? It would be worse when he actually reached the country of Tirreoy.

Everything he’d feared for Venice was now happening to him—forget having trusted advisors, confidantes or friends over there. The listening ears behind the listening ears would be after his blood.

And what of Bris? Could she truly be his wife in every sense of the word? Could he trust her with his deepest feelings and suspicions? Could he lean into her as his partner or was “cleaving unto her” just a meaningless vow they were about to make?

Tonight in her father’s study, he couldn’t rip his gaze away.

A spoiled, heart-wrenchingly beautiful princess!

She had a mouth on her that either had him laughing, fighting for his life, or both.

Every moment with her he treasured; his days only lit up with the power of her smile, but would that be enough for them in the end?

None of these fears mattered anyway.

He entered the chapel that was still scented by the cascades of white roses and peonies from Venice’s wedding.

The usual fanfare was missing, and the seats decorated in white satin bows and clusters of olive leaves were empty.

Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that his wedding would be anything like this.

For all his jokes about eloping, he desperately wanted his friends here at his celebration.

A priest stood at the end of the chapel, reading a Bible. Nestor Pappas was a Tyndarian aristocrat and an old family friend of the royals; he’d escaped with them during the Crimson Reckonings. The robed man had also recently overseen Venice’s wedding earlier that day.

Nestor glanced up at Achilles and attempted a smile. Huh. He had sad eyes; the kindly expression did nothing to hide them. Here was another poor soul who’d been touched by the war. “Achilles Peleides? Are you here of your own free will?” Nestor asked.

An odd question, but he nodded anyway.

The priest inclined his head in return, though he did not seem convinced. “Forgive my doubts. The hurried nature of this wedding gives rise to questions.”

“There wasn’t much time to prepare,” Achilles answered. “We’re leaving for Tirreoy tonight.”

“So I heard.” The man seemed like he’d say more but then shook his head with another sad smile. “You will be in my parish down there. I hope to see you come to church frequently.”

Before he could answer, they were interrupted with the back door opening.

Achilles swung around and caught his breath at the sight of Bris.

Her black hair was caught up in a loose knot at the back of her head with curls escaping around her face.

Her eyes—those stunning hazel Tyndarian eyes—looked larger than he’d ever seen them.

She carried Livvy’s bouquet of white roses intertwined with jasmine and cascading ivy that she’d caught from earlier.

And she’d found fashionable ivory heels that matched perfectly with an ethereal gown that belonged to a fairy.

Somehow with such short notice, she’d gotten a white dress that moved with each graceful movement of her legs, silky, elegant, and with a slit that made his mouth go dry.

This would be his wife.

He gulped, trying to keep his cool, but he knew he was failing horribly. He was fumbling through his pockets, touching a ring… reminding himself that he had nothing for her… and finally, he ran his fingers through his hair, undoing all the good he’d tried to do with it earlier.

Her father came up behind her like a shadow. His hands clamped over her delicate arms like a manacle. Nothing served as a better reminder that this was against Bris’s will. She was as much a prisoner as he was.

His throat tightened. She’d hate him. Achilles had better remember that tonight.

This was no eager bride waiting for their alone time together.

No, his father had decided to play puppet master, instead, tying them up in their own strings and choking out all possible happiness that they might’ve had together if he’d just left them alone. His bitterness consumed him.

Behind Bris and her father, a familiar redhead showed up with her camera phone.

He stiffened. Deedee? He wasn’t able to invite a single friend, and yet, Venice’s ex-girlfriend was the one person allowed to come?

It made sense in a strange way. She’d get the word spread of their nuptials out into the world in an instant.

He tried to ignore her breathless grin as she rushed into the room, her gold bridesmaid’s dress floating behind her quick steps. Her smugness showed him that she had no idea that this marriage was against both of their wills, only that she’d been right about them all along.

Deedee gave him a small, brisk wave. He managed a tense nod in response while she scrambled around Bris and her father and slid into the front seat. The podcaster in her was too strong to take an unobtrusive spot in the back. Her camera phone was on him the whole time.

This meant Venice would find out about this soon… and Gena. His heart went out to his sister. All thoughts of everything else flooded from his mind when Bris stepped in front of him with her bouquet and an anxious expression.

She was scared! He stopped himself from gathering her close to his chest. Her father stood rigidly behind her, his heavyset eyes watching him like he’d try to sprout wings and fly away. Achilles would have to wait for when they were finally alone to act like a normal person around her.

“My dear,” Nestor began. “Before we begin, I would like to know if you have any questions for me… any… uh concerns?”

Her father’s quick intake of breath was a hiss behind them.

Her hands tightened on the bouquet. “Concerns?” she muttered with pale lips. “Are we allowed to have those?” Achilles’s noticed the strain on her knuckles. Glancing back at her father, she squared her shoulders and shook her head. “I’m great,” she answered, and not very convincingly.

“Briseis,” he whispered to her. This couldn’t wait any longer. “Look at me.”

Her eyes focused on him, and he watched her shoulders relax, just like when they’d been kids and he’d taught her to mount an unruly horse without fear.

He reached for her then, untangling her fingers from the bouquet and handing the flowers over to the priest so that he could take her hands that trembled in his. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes.” That didn’t sound convincing.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles.

“Whatever happens after this ceremony, whatever threats or demands are made, we face it together. You’re not alone in this anymore.

” He squeezed her hands gently, ignoring the way Chises Mnon’s eyes narrowed on them from behind her. “Now tell me, are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said louder, and this time her chin lifted with something that looked like her old defiance breaking through the fear. The trembling in her hands stilled. They’d get through this together.

She didn’t turn away from him for the rest of the ceremony.

The rest of the world blurred around him, and he concentrated on her in return, feeling his own heart pumping harder against his chest, not because he was stressed out of his mind, but only that watching her always had that effect on him.

The priest was asking him a question. Glancing over at him, he watched Nestor’s expectant expression. “I do,” Achilles said quickly.

Was that the right answer?

Apparently so because they continued on. Bris’s expressive lips moved over her own answer. “I do.” It came out another whisper. Her eyes watered.

He felt like a beast, except her hands tightened on his, and amazingly, he felt her thumb rub against his in solace. Was she actually trying to comfort him instead?

“Do you have your rings?” Nestor asked.

No.

Glancing over at Chises Mnon, the man scowled in denial.

Achilles had a ring, a very problematic and incriminating ring. He slipped it out, seeing how huge it was. He brought it to her much smaller hand and hesitated. She chuckled softly and stole it. “That’ll be yours,” she breathed and slipped it over his ring finger instead.

She began to tug at the pearl ring she wore, the same one that had dug into his flesh during the ceremony. Before she could wrench it off, he took over. “I’ve got it.” Achilles slipped the elegant pearl from her index and switched it to her ring finger.

That would have to do for now.

“You may kiss the bride, Your Royal Highness.”

Royal Highness? He hesitated as the full force of what they were doing hit him like a sledgehammer. He’d just been elevated to the title for marrying Bris—nothing made him feel more like a scum than that did.

And that was hardly the thing consuming his mind at the moment, because for all the times that he’d imagined those soft, expressive lips on his, he’d never kissed Bris.

Her pulse fluttered in the small of her delicate neck as he found her waist. His fingers slipped over the silk of her dress.

The feel of his wedding ring against her back felt strange, hypnotic.