Page 42 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)
Outside Paris, France:
Six months later
The ballroom glittered with the golden warmth of a European winter celebration. Twinkling lights wove between evergreen garlands. Delicate snowflake ornaments dangled from the vaulted ceiling.
Candles cast a soft glow over polished silver and sparkling glasses of champagne. Outside, the snow fell in lazy drifts, dusting the windowsills of the historic mansion.
Inside, laughter rippled through the elegantly dressed crowd, a low hum of music and mingling voices rising like smoke toward the rafters.
Among them, Dalla moved with grace, a vision in midnight-blue silk, her braid wrapped around one shoulder, silver earrings catching the light as she tilted her head and smiled politely.
But she felt little like smiling at the moment.
She pressed a hand gently to her stomach, swallowing against the unwelcome wave of nausea that had plagued her all evening.
She couldn’t blame the food—it was exquisite, as was everything at the party hosted by Sergei Vasiliev, Dimitri Mihailov, and their wife at their chateau outside of Paris.
But lately, this uneasy flutter in her belly came and went without warning.
She hadn’t said anything to Musad or Nasser.
Not yet.
Slipping away from the gathering, Dalla wound her way down a quieter hall, heels whispering against the floor. She passed a series of gilt-framed paintings, searching for a discreet restroom. Her breath came in small, uneven pants as she traversed the corridor, and she welcomed the silence.
The moment she found a bathroom, she sank onto the edge of the sink, resting her forehead in one hand. Her other hand found her stomach again.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered to herself. “Or... maybe not wrong.”
She was still sitting there when the door cracked open. An older woman peeked in, her silver curls pinned neatly under a jeweled comb.
“My dear,” the woman asked gently, “are you alright?”
Dalla looked up, startled. “I—I don’t know. I’ve been feeling… off. Sick. But not in the usual way. It comes and goes.”
The woman stepped in with a kind smile. “Ah. Happened to me, too. My morning sickness didn’t believe in clocks, it liked to strike in the middle of operas and ballroom dances.”
Dalla blinked. “Morning... sickness?”
The woman’s smile was kind. “A simple over-the-counter test might give you your answer. It would have helped me once upon a time, way back when. I’ll pop down the hall to the loo and check back in with you in a few minutes, dear. Let me know if you need anything.”
Her breath caught, and she nodded as the elderly woman quietly slipped away. She stared into the mirror across from her, stunned. That... would explain everything.
The door opened again, and Nasser appeared, worry etched into every line of his face until his eyes met hers.
“Dalla,” he exhaled, crossing the room. “You vanished. Are you alright?”
She gave him a wavering smile. “I think I am. I think I will be.”
He took her hands, concern darkening his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
She hesitated, her lips parting but no words coming at first. She slowly brought one of his hands to her stomach. Her heart pounded.
“I don’t know for sure,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I think... I might be pregnant.”
His breath caught. His gaze dropped to her stomach, then rose to her eyes—full of wonder, disbelief, and the flicker of hope.
“Truly?” he asked, his voice breaking.
“I need to take a test. But... yes. I think so.”
Before he could respond, the door opened once more, and Musad stepped in, scanning the room.
“I was talking with Dimitri Mihailov and Sergi Vasiliev. They want to introduce you to their wife, Rune.” He paused mid-sentence, his gaze locking on Dalla’s teary expression. “Are you alright?”
Dalla released a soft, breathless laugh. “I think I might be. Finally.”
She looked between them, her voice catching. “Is there any chance we can stop on the way home to pick up a pregnancy test?”
Musad blinked. His lips parted, eyes darting to her stomach, then to her eyes. He took a half-step forward, emotion rippling through him. “Are you saying...?”
“I’m saying... we might be having a baby.”
The disbelief turned into radiant joy. He surged forward, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off the ground with a shout of joy that broke like sunlight through a storm.
Nasser joined them, positioning himself so she was caught between them.
Behind them, the older woman peeked back in before she fanned herself as she studied Nasser and Musad holding Dalla in a protective cocoon. Her grin widened as she chuckled, ‘Congratulations,’ before slipping back to the party.
Dalla felt as if she were floating as she stepped out into the ballroom once more, wrapped in Musad and Nasser’s arms. She was about to ask if they could leave early when her gaze locked on the very pregnant, exquisite woman staring at her from across the room.
Rune—Runa, reborn and radiant—stood tall and very pregnant, her smile shining through tears.
“Runa!”
Dalla wasn’t even aware that she had cried out her sister’s name. She moved across the floor, her arms opening wide as Runa met her halfway. They fell into each other’s arms in a tight embrace, tears slipping down their cheeks as their men stood nearby, watching with quiet reverence.
“I missed you,” Dalla whispered.
“I knew you’d come back,” Rune breathed. “Fate wasn’t finished with us.”
Dalla cupped her sister’s cheek. “We still have more to do. For Olaf. For Aesa. As our parents watch over us.”
Runa nodded, her eyes shining. “For Olaf, Far, and Mor. ”
Harlem: New York City
In a quiet basement beneath a five-story brownstone in New York, Harlem sat at a well-worn desk.
The melancholic swell of Tchaikovsky’s ‘Swan Lake’ murmured through the room, the strings weaving sorrow into the still air.
Shadows cast by the antique brass lamp painted golden curves across the bookshelves lined with ancient texts, first-edition novels, and a few scattered, faded photographs.
Above the desk hung the framed portrait of a smiling woman with a laugh in her eyes and a boy with her dimples. It gave him a small measure of comfort, and Harlem’s eyes lingered on them, his thumb brushing the lip of the glass of bourbon on his desk. He hadn’t touched the drink. It just sat there.
The sudden ping of his computer brought him back to the present. He glanced at the screen, where a swarm of pixelated bugs danced merrily across the display, forming a candy cane, then a snowflake. A slow grin curved his lips.
The bugs burst like fireworks and disappeared. News headlines flickered across the top of his screen.
Six months since the wedding of the Al-Rashid brothers to direct descendant of Dalla Bogadottir, the Warrior of the Sands...
Harlem leaned back, exhaling slowly. The headlines didn’t surprise him anymore. But they still made him feel... something.
“You’re brooding again,” a bright, teasing voice announced.
He released a dry chuckle and turned.
There, materializing in a holiday-themed shimmer of merriment was a very sexy RITA decked in a dazzling ensemble, complete with Candy-cane-striped heels that sparkled, a mistletoe brooch, and a velvet red dress that glowed under the antique lights and ended at mid-thigh.
Harlem chuckled, finally sipping his bourbon. “Does FRED know you’re wearing that outfit? And… I don’t brood. I reflect.”
“Reflect, my circuits,” she scoffed, arms crossed in mock disapproval. “You’ve been hiding in this museum of yours since you got back. It’s practically Christmas. Even Debra’s loosening up.”
“Debra?” he arched a brow.
“She’s doing great—thank you for asking. CIA Director now. Handled her first intergalactic meeting like a pro. Cosmos even complimented her.”
Harlem whistled low. “That’s saying something.”
RITA strolled toward his desk, her eyes catching on the holiday cards neatly stacked near his monitor. She picked up one from Raja and Idella.
“Still not going to visit them?”
He took the card from her gently, his hand staying over it. “I’ve spoken to them.”
RITA tilted her head. Her expression softened. “You’re allowed to want more, Harlem. Even after everything.”
He didn’t answer. Not with words.
She stepped back, giving him space, then stilled, her head tilting slightly as if listening to a frequency only she could hear. Then she smiled—a serene, knowing smile.
Harlem’s brow furrowed. He closed his eyes, a familiar thrum echoing in his chest. A shift in the world.
When he opened his eyes, the digital bugs on his screen shimmered like gold, swirling sand around a new report.
He rose slowly, eyes lifting to the portrait above.
His gaze didn’t leave it as he whispered, “Another has returned.”
His voice was reverent. Soft.
Behind him, RITA’s holographic form shimmered warmly.
“Yes,” she said. “But this one’s different.”
Harlem nodded, swallowing the emotion in his throat. “Yeah. I can feel it.”
As he stepped into the hallway above, the lights of the city twinkled outside the narrow windows—alive with the magic of winter and the promise of things unwritten.
Harlem reached for his coat.
It was time to stop hiding.
It was time to live again.
Somewhere out there, the universe shifted again?—
waiting.