Page 33 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)

Twenty-Two

The night air shifted as the helicopter banked gently toward the island. Below, bathed in the golden hush of lights glowing against stone and sea, Narva shimmered like a jewel set into the sapphire waters of the Mediterranean. Dalla leaned forward slightly, her gaze sweeping the darkened horizon.

Even at this hour, the kingdom was stunning.

From above, the centuries-old buildings looked like something out of a dream—domed rooftops and narrow cobblestone streets, ancient spires that reached into the night sky, and lamplight flickering across tiled courtyards and weathered stone archways.

The city spiraled outward from the cliff-side palace like a living, breathing mosaic.

Her breath caught as they passed low over the sea cliffs.

A greenbelt of meadows, gardens, and olive trees graced the interior, softening the stone edges of the old fortress.

The palace itself—built into the cliff like a crown—rose with timeless grace above the village below.

It was old and new, familiar and foreign, and something deep within her stirred.

“It’s not much bigger than Central Park,” Nasser said beside her, sensing her awe. “But what it lacks in size, it makes up for in history, wealth, and secrets.”

Dalla smiled faintly, her fingers tightening around the bow resting across her knees.

“I know. I’ve been here before… a long time ago.

It is strange to see Narva through the eyes of the seagulls.

” She didn’t look at them, eyes fixed on the city below.

“I walked those streets with Gerold and Pascal. I had more than one heated barter with the spice traders, and I bought some beautiful fabrics embroidered with gold thread here. It seems almost as if it were a dream, and yet I can picture it as if it were yesterday. I wonder if the scent of saffron and the shouts from the sailing merchants still fill the air.”

The memories brushed over her like silk—soft, faded, bittersweet. Musad’s hand slipped over her knee, his touch steady and grounding.

“They do. We’re very proud of Narva,” he said quietly, caressing her with his thumb. “I hope you’ll love it as much as we do.”

Dalla turned to look at him. Her smile trembled, but she nodded. “I already do.”

The helicopter swept around the palace before settling onto the helipad with a soft thrum. The floodlights flared around them, casting long shadows across the ancient stones. Nasser opened the side door and jumped down with practiced ease, then turned back with a grin.

“Hand me your gear,” he called over the wind of the blades.

Dalla passed him her bow and quiver. He placed them to the side before reaching up again.

His hands wound around her waist, strong and possessive.

She barely had time to react before he lifted her down and held her against him—tight, solid, full of fire and fierce emotion.

His lips crashed onto hers, a kiss that stole her breath and anchored her heart.

It held promise. And love. And the desperate need never to be apart again.

When they broke apart, their foreheads pressed together for a moment before he stepped back and offered his hand. She took it.

Musad was already climbing out, his boots landing beside her. Together, they retrieved their bags. Dalla slung her quiver over one shoulder and reclaimed her bow, the familiar weight reassuring. The three of them turned as one, walking toward the palace under the floodlights’ glow.

A line of men in dark uniforms waited for them.

Donovan stood at attention, but his eyes softened when they landed on Dalla. Flanking him was a tall, older man with silver at his temples and fire in his eyes—Hari Al-Rashid, the King of Narva.

Dalla slowed, her heart tripping in her chest. Her eyes locked on his face, on the regal lines and weathered grace, and her breath caught.

Gerold, she thought. This is what he would have looked like in his later years.

Hari didn’t speak right away. His eyes swept over Nasser and Musad, shoulders visibly relaxing only once he saw for himself that they were whole. Then his gaze settled on her—and something shifted in his expression. Recognition. Relief. Emotion too great to contain.

He stepped forward, his hands outstretched in silent greeting.

Dalla moved without thinking, her bow sliding into Musad’s hand as she stepped into Hari’s arms. The king pulled her in close, strong arms trembling slightly as he held her to his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice thick. “Thank you for protecting my sons… and for bringing my granddaughter home.”

Tears burned in Dalla’s eyes, slipping free as she returned his embrace. His embrace reminded her so much of her father’s that for a moment, she was overwhelmed. She buried her face against his neck and held him tightly in return.

When he pulled back, Hari cupped her face in both hands and smiled down at her with a fierce, fatherly love that shattered her from the inside out. He brushed a thumb against her cheek and turned to Nasser.

“I’m proud of you, my son,” he said, clasping Nasser’s forearm. Then he turned to Musad and did the same. “Both of you.”

He took a step back and waved them toward the palace doors. “Now come. I want to hear everything. And curse the gods for not being there myself. Cianna and I have been busy all day baking cookies and brownies to celebrate your return.”

Dalla blinked. “Cookies?”

Hari grinned. “And brownies. Wait until you taste them.”

Musad groaned and rubbed his stomach. “Prepare yourself,” he warned Dalla. “This is a lifelong addiction waiting to happen.”

Nasser leaned in with a grin. “Once you’ve had his cookies, you’ll never want another.”

Hari beamed with pride. “If I ever step down from the throne, I might take my talents to the streets. His Majesty’s Royal Cookie Cart. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Laughter bubbled out of Dalla, a sound she hadn’t made in days. “You might have a business empire on your hands.”

Their voices echoed in the stone hallway as they stepped into the palace through a side entrance.

But instead of the formal grand hall, they entered through the kitchen.

Warm light spilled across gleaming countertops.

The smell of cinnamon, melted chocolate, and roasted almonds greeted her, making her stomach rumble.

The palace kitchen pulsed with warmth—their laughter and the promise of a midnight treat beckoning. It pulled her back into another time. Memories of when she had snuck down to the kitchen to steal some of Cook’s fresh bread, cheese, and fruit while she guarded the two men she loved.

Not love. Just infatuation. What I feel for Nasser and Musad is much deeper, she thought, smiling at Nasser teasing his father. I could never leave them.

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 has ever … 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.

“Then, you and Nasser must do everything in your power to keep her safe.”

Musad met his gaze and saw the truth there—the pride, the fear, the deep well of relief at his son’s safe return. It softened something inside him.

“We will,” he said hoarsely.

Hari stood, pausing beside him. He rested his hand on Musad’s shoulder, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick.

“I love you, Musad. I’m damn proud of you and Nasser.”

The words struck deeper than he would have expected. In that moment, Musad heard all the nights their father had stayed awake waiting for news. The pressure of ruling. The pain of watching his children go off on a mission that could end in tragedy. The pride… and the fear.

“I love you too,” Musad said quietly.

Hari nodded and stepped away, retreating toward his rooms.

Musad stood alone in the kitchen for a long moment, staring at the two glasses. He rinsed the glasses, set them carefully on a towel, and drew a deep breath.

The silence stretched again—but this time, it felt like peace. It felt like the breath between heartbeats. Like a door opening instead of one closing.

He turned and climbed the stairs, each footstep slower than the last. At the top, he paused outside Nasser’s suite.

There was no sound. No voices. His chest tightened with nerves he hadn’t expected.

It confused him. He wasn’t a boy anymore—not that he’d ever brought a woman home, not even for a single night.

Dalla wasn’t a woman to share just one night with.

She was… everything.

He raised his hand to knock before he stopped and lowered it. With a softly muttered curse, he turned towards his suite.

The soft glow of a lamp greeted him in the living room. Another lit the hallway. He walked toward the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt. He had just loosened the cuffs when he saw a movement.

Nasser stood in the doorway, his own shirt unbuttoned, a slow, knowing smile curling his lips.

“About damn time,” Nasser said.

Musad blinked. “What?—?”

He heard the shower turning on, and he turned as Dalla’s soft voice called from inside the bathroom.

“Nasser, do you know when Musad will be back?”

Dalla stepped out, wrapped in a towel, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She paused when she saw him—just for a heartbeat—then her entire expression softened.

“Musad,” she whispered.

She lifted her hand toward him.

The breath rushed out of him as if he had been punched in the chest.

Nasser said with a grin. “Took you long enough. What’d you do—tell him the whole saga?”

Musad lips twitched, and he nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, next time make it the CliffsNotes version.”

Musad chuckled as his doubts, fears, and questions slipped away. A low growl of need slipped from him when Dalla dropped the towel. A wicked smile curved her lips.

“I hope I’m not going to have to wash myself,” she teased.

“I call dibs on her back,” Nasser muttered, stripping out of his clothes.

Dalla shot Nasser a flirty smile before she held out her hand to Musad again. He stepped forward, pressing his palm to hers as their bodies moved close together. Their pressed hands moved to a vertical position, and his gaze softened when they interlocked fingers.

He bit his lip against a grin when she freed her hand to roam more interesting places, trailing her hands over his bare chest and pushing his shirt off his shoulders.

“Have me any way you want me, Dalla. I’m yours,” he murmured heatedly.

She hummed a throaty agreement and captured his lips.

“Seriously?” Nasser pouted. “Are we not doing dibs anymore? Is that not a thing?”