Page 66 of Dalla's Royal Guards

Harlem slowly nodded. “Can you think of a reason I would have to?”

“No,” the boy said defiantly, his eyes holding secrets and anger and pain.

Harlem tilted his head. Sometimes he hated who he was, what he had become, but other times… other times he was glad.

“Come on, boy. Let’s go.”

The boy looked up at him with a frown. “Where? I—I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Harlem reached out a hand. “You do now. What should I call you?”

The boy stared at him, then his hand, before he looked at him again and lifted his chin.

“Raja Hadi.”

Harlem rarely felt surprise. This was one of those rare moments. He smiled down at the boy and motioned for him to take his hand.

“Well, Prince Raja of Simdan. One day your people are going to need you. Until then, I think it would be best for you to come with me.”

Raja reached up and grasped his hand. Harlem frowned when he noticed again how thin the boy was. He doubted Raja would have made it more than a few more days before he died of starvation.

“What are you going to do with me?” Raja asked.

He smiled and rested his hand on Raja’s thin shoulders. “I’m going to teach you how to take back your country. When it’s time, you will be ready.”

Present Day

Harlem blinked as a child’s giggle broke the memory. He lifted his glass of water and took a drink. The café was warm, alive. Safe.

Because of Raja.

He allowed himself one last sweep of the room before his gaze locked on a young woman walking toward him. She walked through the mezzanine entrance with the grace and confidence of a warrior. Her braid swung low against her back, her posture straight, but her eyes—her eyes carried the weight of memories.

Dalla Bogadottir.

He stood as she reached his table.

“Dalla,” he said, his voice a balm of old familiarity. “It’s good to see you again.”

She paused, studying him for several seconds before she swallowed, nodded her head in greeting, and lowered herself into the seat. A passing server paused and asked her what she would like to drink. Dalla smiled, never looking away from his face as she requested a glass of ice water. Harlem waited in silence until the glass was placed in front of her.

“I see you found the chest,” he murmured.

She gave a faint smile. “And the coins. The note. Thank you for both… and for meeting with me.”

“I placed them there recently. I was in Simdan a few months ago for—business. The timing of your return… was fortunate.”

“You told me before that you had met others?” she asked, voice small.

He paused again, studying her face as she bit her lip. “Yes. On rare occasions. None recently, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there.”

She nodded, though her gaze was wary. She didn’t fully believe him.

He didn’t blame her.

His eyes flicked to the café entrance. His lips twitched. He had been wondering how long it would take the Princes of Narva to make an appearance.

His gaze swept over the two men. They were tall—and very tense. They reminded him of coiled sand vipers waiting to strike.