Page 87 of Desperate Games

Thumb flicking over the screen, searching.

For one thing.

Andy.

Any message. Any little text.

Fuck, I’d take an emoji at this point.

Nothing.

But it’s only afternoon here, so I know it’s still early there. She likely hasn’t gotten a chance to text me yet. Probably hasn’t even made it to the drop off line for Callie’s little preschool yet.

I check the GPS on the car assigned to her while I’m away. Top Sigma team, I insisted on picking the men myself.

Just like I warned them what would happen to them should anything—and I mean anything—happen to my wife and family while I’m away.

Still, it makes me grind my teeth until my jaw aches.

Because every second I’m here playing soldier for Sigma and kissing ass for Volkov business deals is another second she’s slipping further out of reach.

She’s pregnant. With my babies. At home with Callie. In my bed.

And I’m a continent away, stuck babysitting a prince with an ego problem, instead of holding my wife’s swollen body against me where she belongs.

“Excuse me, Mr. Falco?”

The voice cuts through the courtyard, smooth and polished, and when I turn, I know right away this isn’t one of the grunts.

This guy’s different. Expensive suit tailored within an inch of its life, hair too perfect for someone who claims to keep soldiers in line, and a smile that says he’s used to getting whatever the fuck he wants.

The Greek prince. Has to be.

“That’s me,” I say, wiping the sweat off my chest with the back of my arm.

“Atlas Stavros,” he introduces, lips quirking like he already knows I’m sizing him up.

I nod. I don’t bow. I don’t even pretend to.

Hell, I’m not even sure that’s a thing anymore, and even if it is—I’m nobody’s fucking courtier.

“You bested Vasilis.”

I glance at the pouting prick still sulking in the corner. His pride’s more bruised than his ribs, which is saying something considering the way I dropped him.

“That his name?” I ask flatly.

“Indeed,” Atlas says, voice calm, but I can hear the amusement beneath. “He was said to be impossible to beat.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” I reply, locking eyes with him, letting him see I mean every word.

He studies me like I’m some rare animal he can’t quite decide if he wants to cage or hunt. Then he smiles, all teeth and entitlement.

“I see. You know, Mr. Falco, I’d like to learn more about you. You will join me for dinner tonight.”

My gut clenches. Fucking fantastic.

Now I have to spend the evening playing suck-up over lamb skewers and ouzo while wearing a tux I’ll probably want to burn after.