Page 41 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)

Musad stepped into view. Blood streaked down one side of his temple, but his stance was steady. Beside him, emerging from the haze like a mirage, was Nasser.

Relief swept through Mario. He had been worried about the brothers. They had taken far too many chances during the month-long battle to regain control of Kashir. He rushed forward.

“Hellman? Crosse?” he asked, his voice terse.

Nasser’s jaw tightened. “Haven’t seen either.”

“Crosse is dead,” Musad said flatly. “He tried to retreat through the north wing. I found what was left of him.”

“Hellman’s still out there?”

Before Mario could respond, the loud crack of gunfire and the whistle of a bullet split the air from above them.

He twisted, his heart pounding, when he realized they were exposed as Musad and Nasser shielded him.

Palace: Narva

Hari sat alone in the vault beneath the palace, the sounds of war echoing faintly against the chamber’s ancient walls.

The rat-tat-tat of gunfire, shouted commands in multiple dialects, and the sharp bark of explosions filtered from the radio on the nearby table.

His hands rested on his knees, clenched into fists that trembled with age, fear, and helplessness.

On the other side of the border, Kashir—by the grace of his son-in-law and two sons—was fighting for its freedom.

Hari’s heart ached with each passing report, each shout over the comms, each call for backup. Nasser’s voice was calm, clipped, even as he issued orders to his squad. Too calm. Too steady. The calm that came only when a man no longer feared death.

And Musad… Musad had grown quieter with each passing day since Dalla’s death. His fire had turned inward, burning like a dying star—brilliant but unstable. The last transmission Hari had heard from him was a single word—”Copy”—after Mario had called for him to take the western part of the complex.

It had been too long since he had heard another word from his oldest son.

Tears burned in his eyes as he rose slowly from the couch and turned toward the mural along the far wall, the mural that had once held a blank set of tiles where Dalla Bogadottir had stood.

When she returned to wherever she went between deaths, so had her likeness returned to the mural. But it was not the same as before.

Before, Dalla had been captured in a moment of defiance—bow drawn, her face alight with fury and determination, charging into battle.

Now… now she stood with her long braid draped over one shoulder, her gaze distant and sorrowful as she looked out over the sea. She was no longer the warrior charging forward; she was a wounded soul watching from afar, her eyes fixed on the horizon—on Narva.

Hari moved toward her image, each step heavier than the last. The tile beneath Dalla’s feet shimmered slightly in the candlelight.

A static burst from the radio made him flinch.

“Nasser’s team is taking heavy fire—north quadrant of the mine!” a voice shouted. “We’ve got wounded! Repeat, we’ve got wounded!”

“Musad! Musad, come in!” Mario’s voice came next, thick with urgency. “Do you copy? I repeat—Musad!”

Hari’s breath hitched. He reached out with a trembling hand and placed it gently on Dalla’s image.

“Please,” he whispered.

The tile was cool under his palm. “Please, Dalla… they need you.”

His throat tightened. “My sons… they are brave, but they are broken. Since you left, I have watched them come apart. Piece by piece. They are taking chances no man should. They walk into battle as if it would end their grief, not their lives. They need you to come back. Not just for them. For Narva. For all of us.”

His eyes lifted to meet hers.

“Your love… it’s rare. Powerful. The kind that rewrites time and bends fate. It’s not done. You’re not done.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching the tile.

“Please,” he whispered again, tears streaking down his cheeks. “Come back. Come back before I lose them both.“

For a long moment, there was only the soft hiss of static.

Then—

Warmth.

A gentle heat bloomed beneath his palm.

Hari drew in a shuddering breath. Slowly, he lifted his head.

The mural had changed again—and what he saw filled his heart.

Tears blurred his vision, and a trembling smile curved his lips.

“Thank you, my dear. Thank you,” he breathed.

Vasbin Complex: Kashir

The complex air was thick with gunpowder and dust. Smoke curled in every direction, blurring shapes and shadows.

Musad’s pulse thundered in his ears as he swept the ruined corridor, rifle raised.

Mario and Nasser had taken different sections of the complex.

The last of Hellman’s supporters had holed up in the upper levels of the mining facility, but resistance was crumbling fast.

He could feel it.

An end.

He exited the complex after his team found the remains of Hannibal Crosse. The man had been crushed under a ton of concrete from a collapsing wall. Musad exited the building, turning toward Mario when he heard his brother-in-law welcome him in an almost desperate tone.

He knew his brother-in-law was worried about him and Nasser. They had both taken far too many risks over the past few days, but he just didn’t care. The only things keeping him moving forward was Mario, his sister, Lissa, and Cianna. He wanted them to have their home back. After that?—

After that, he didn’t know what would happen. He had tried to keep his hope alive. The hope that Dalla would return. But with each passing day, that hope grew dimmer and dimmer until there was barely a spark left.

He looked over his right shoulder as Nasser emerged out of the smoke and debris. His brother looked as bad as he did. He returned his attention to Mario when his brother-in-law spoke in a harsh, terse tone.

“Hellman? Crosse?” Mario asked.

Nasser shook his head. “Haven’t seen either.”

“Crosse is dead. He tried to retreat through the north wing. I found what was left of him,” he replied.

“Hellman’s still out there?” Nasser asked.

The sharp report of a rifle and the whistle of a bullet less than a foot over their heads had him and Nasser scrambling to cover Mario.

A second sound, this one different—ancient—swooshed through the air before it hit something with a solid, horrific thud. He looked up, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief as General Hellman, bloodied, wild-eyed, a rifle trembling in his grasp, stumbled onto an upper-level platform.

Hellman stood frozen, his fingers scrabbling at the long shaft embedded in him.

Then—

He fell.

Musad’s breath caught in his throat. He spun around. His heart pounded. His eyes scanned the wreckage and shadows.

He froze.

A lone figure emerged from behind a collapsed wall, a scarf wrapped around her head and a longbow in her hand, her silhouette framed by smoke and the orange glow of scattered fires.

His mind rebelled against what he was seeing even as his body started forward.

“Dalla.”

His voice sounded strange. Thick. Hoarse. Brittle.

His lips parted in a ragged breath when she stepped forward, her hand rising to pull away the scarf. Her long golden braid spilled out like sunlight breaking through a storm.

She was real.

She was here.

Her eyes found his. Burning. Alive. And full of the love he had thought lost forever.

Something inside him shattered when she whispered his name.

“Oh, Musad. I love you so.”

“You’d better be real. You’d better fucking be real,” Nasser hoarsely cursed as he broke into a long, determined stride.

His eyes were glued on the miracle emerging from the shadows. He didn’t quite believe what he was seeing even when Musad stumbled forward too, hands out, heart in pieces, and they were both close enough to hear her whisper, “Oh, Musad. I love you so.”

Then Dalla turned to Nasser, and they needed no words, they simply collided in a blur of arms and sobs. He swept her off her feet, spinning her around, his shoulders shaking with emotion.

“Never again. You are never leaving us again,” he ordered, his voice shaking with emotion.

Nasser lowered her to her feet so Musad could pick her up, held flush against his body, and he shifted so she was cradled safely between them, his hands still touching her shoulders.

She released a sobbing laugh as Musad set her on her feet and slid his hands into her hair, across her cheeks, down to her shoulders. Nasser’s hands had moved her waist, and he kissed her neck.

“I love you, Dalla. I love you. We’ve missed you. I love you, jameela . I love you so much,” he murmured.

“You came back,” Musad whispered, his voice breaking. “Gods, you came back to us.”

“Even death can’t keep me from you,” she said with shocked awe and relief, her own tears falling freely.

Around them, everything else fell away.

Donovan let out a bark of laughter.

Colin choked out something like a prayer.

Henri and Enrique cursed softly in disbelief.

“The Warrior of the Sands has returned,” Colin breathed.

“Returned to save our asses again,” Enrique added, rubbing a hand over his heart.

Nasser and Musad barely heard them.

He held her close.

And for the first time in months, he breathed.