Page 82 of Dalla's Royal Guards

Back then, she had wandered alone. She doubted that Gerold or Pascal even knew where the kitchen was located.

This time… the mood was different.

This time, it felt like coming home.

Like maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to run anymore.

Like maybe she had finally found her forever.

Musad leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, watching as Nasser gently guided Dalla down the hallway toward the stairs. His brother had his arm wrapped protectively around her waist, and she leaned on him, exhausted. A faint smile curved his lips as he remembered her trying to hide her yawns and the way her eyelids had drooped after their feast of warm milk, cookies, and brownies.

He wanted to follow. His body ached to be near her, to reassure himself that she was safe now. But even before Nasser’s head turned slightly—as if he already sensed the hesitation in him—Musad felt it.

Their father wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

With a quiet breath, Musad forced himself to look away from the woman he loved and turned toward the kitchen. Hari sat at the breakfast bar, two small glasses of whiskey already waiting. The bottle sat uncapped beside them, amber liquid catching the overhead lights.

Hari lifted one glass in offering. “Sit… please,” he requested.

Musad crossed the room in three long strides, took the glass, and clinked it gently against his father’s. The sound was soft, but it rang like something ancient and sacred.

They drank the smooth liquor, enjoying the warmth as it settled in their stomachs.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick with things unsaid. Memories. Fears. Love. Hari relaxed on the barstool, turning to face him fully.

“What happened?” his father asked, voice calm but weighted.

Musad didn’t speak for a moment. His eyes drifted toward the empty doorway where Dalla had vanished moments ago, and his gut twisted at the loss of her presence.

He told himself she was only upstairs.

He told himself the threats were over—for now.

And still, his soul refused to believe she was there, safe, until she was back within reach.

“Nasser went in after Cianna…,” he began.

He spoke in a low, methodical voice. Every detail. Every threat. The miracle. Their discovery. His fear.

His father didn’t interrupt. He just listened, eyes steady and knowing, nodding in all the right places. Musad didn’t soften the truth—he spoke of the close calls, the ambushes, what happened earlier tonight… and about a mysterious man named Harlem.

When he spoke of Dalla, his tone was reverent. Protective. He could feel it in his bones.

“She’s not like anyone I’ve ever known,” he said, his voice catching. “She’s strong, but she’s lived through too much. And yet… she fights. Even when she doesn’t want to. Even when she’s terrified.” He drew a deep breath. “I think… allowing us to protect her tonight was difficult for her. She’s never had that. No one hasever… No one has ever protected her. At least, not for a long, long time.”

His fingers tightened around the glass. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know if he was sharing his emotions and thoughts only because he was overtired. He felt raw, vulnerable, confused. He looked at his father, unaware his eyes carried a silent plea for understanding.

“She’s ours, Dad. Mine and Nasser’s. We’ve claimed her, and we swore to protect her.”

Hari nodded slowly, then was quiet for a beat before he spoke. “Is it really her?” he asked softly. “Dalla Bogadottir—the Warrior of the Sands?”

Musad didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he lifted the glass, drained it in a single swallow, and set it down with a soft thud. A shudder passed through him, the burn settling in his chest.

“Yes,” he said finally. “It’s her.”

Hari leans forward, his hand resting on Musad’s forearm. His touch was firm, grounding. Father to son. King to protector.