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“What if you’re not?” Damara asked.
“Then stay here. And when you dock, get to the American Consulate. Ask them to get in touch with Renner.”
She grabbed his hand.
He smiled in the darkness. “This is what I’m for, remember?”
“There’s too many of them to kill them all,” she pleaded.
“I like a challenge.” He didn’t say “trust me” because that was the last thing she should ever do, but this, this he could handle. Byron slid out onto the deck and crouched behind the boat, watching. No matter what he decided to do, he had to do some recon to see what exactly they were dealing with.
He saw the captain of the ship—his contact Miklos Sanna speaking with one of the boarders.
“Ah, Grisha! You should have told me you were coming. There was no need for the display of firepower,” Miklos said as he clasped the man’s shoulders.
The man he’d called Grisha, a hulking beast with narrow eyes, grinned. “I need to let my dogs run free now and then. Or they will get soft.” He shrugged. “But I don’t have time for pleasantries. Do you have the Jewel?”
Miklos nodded to the stairs that led to the hold—where they would’ve been hiding had the deck been clear when they’d boarded. “They should be below.”
That bastard, Byron thought, even though he wasn’t surprised.
“They?” Grisha arched a simian brow.
“You didn’t think the princess escaped Tunisia alone, did you? A hardcase mercenary helped her. American.”
“A cowboy?” Grisha said the word as if his mouth were full of marbles, as if his tongue couldn’t wrap around the syllables.
“A real John Wayne motherfucker,” Miklos agreed genially. “He won’t be bought. You’ll have to kill him.”
Again, Byron wasn’t surprised at the betrayal—that’s what people did. The only person that could be counted on was oneself. And even that was sometimes sketchy. He thought about their options again.
Damara was right. He couldn’t kill them all—at least not while he still had to keep her safe, and that was his number one priority. It would be a dangerous game of cat and mouse to hide until they made port. It was possible Miklos would weigh anchor until they were found.
The Russians had several smaller boats that were unmanned while the crew was aboard the Circe’s Storm.
He had enough C-4 he could create a diversion and disable the cargo ship, but that wouldn’t stop the other boats from pursuit. From the position of the stars, Byron judged that they were about ten hours away from Marseille.
There was one other option.
He could let Grisha take Damara.
As soon as the thought entered his head, everything in him screamed in protest—except for his logic.
Grisha wanted her to control Castallegna. She was a princess schooled in diplomacy. She could keep herself safe for however long it was until they made port and they could escape. Byron didn’t see any other way that didn’t put her life at risk. Grisha wouldn’t kill her.
That’s not to say it wouldn’t be uncomfortable for Damara. But they were outgunned and outnumbered here. A firefight on open water could lead to her injury or her death. It was like when an animal had locked its jaws on you, you didn’t pull away because the animal would just bite harder. You pushed yourself into its mouth to force its jaws wider until you could break them.
He didn’t like his options, but they were all they had.
Byron had to make decisions with his head, not his feelings. His rage had gotten his men killed in Uganda, and he hoped that this would save her.
If not, he’d die trying.
Byron crept back to the lifeboat and found Damara gone.
A string of profanity hovered on his tongue, but he didn’t dare speak for fear of raising alarm and alerting them to his presence.
Where was she? Had they caught her already?
What if she was afraid?
But what he really meant was what if he had to add the sounds of her screams to the loop in his head.
“You don’t have to kill anyone,” he heard her say. Pride and anger swept through him. He was so proud of her for being strong and brave, but he was angry that she’d revealed herself to protect him.
Byron knew he was completely at odds with himself. That it was okay somehow for her to face Grisha only if he told her to, but the fact that she’d done it on her own made it foolhardy.
He watched her. Even in dirty fatigues, she had a regal bearing.
“I think I do. You belong to me, you see.” Grisha grinned.
She flashed him a look that made the temperature around them drop several degrees. “No, I don’t. You haven’t paid my brother for the privilege. Until you do, anything that you do to me could be considered an act of war on Castallegna.”
“A tiny country with no allies.” Grisha shrugged.
She smiled. “Perhaps. Or perhaps my brother has had other offers for my hand from stronger, more powerful men than you. There are sheiks and princes who would marry me for Castallegna’s diamond mines.”
Grisha was still smug. “Then why are you not with them?”
“Don’t underestimate what I will do if you make me angry.” Damara may have been small, but she’d positioned herself in such a way that she appeared to be squaring off with the big Russian.
“Where is your guard dog? The American?” Grisha demanded.
“How should I know? I paid him to get me passage out of Tunisia. I don’t need a keeper.”
“If he comes for you, I’ll kill him.”
Miklos scanned the area. He seemed to sense Byron’s presence. “I think you should stay aboard the Circe until Marseille.”
“Why is that?” Grisha asked.
“I know the American is still on board. I feel it in my bones. Here, we control the situation. There would be a lot of, shall we say, opportunities for him between here and Italy on a smaller craft.”
“I see your wisdom. If the princess is dead, I can’t very well marry her. We’ll take your cabin, Miklos.”
* * *
DAMARA HADN’T SEEN any possible way out of the situation that didn’t involve revealing herself. Maybe it was naive of her to trust Hawkins as she did, but she knew in her gut that he’d come for her.
She could stand a few hours of Grisha’s company—she’d had to endure it at home all the time. Of course, she’d always had her bodyguards and her brother and it had always been in a formal environment. But she was sure she could maneuver him to treat her gently at least until Hawkins could get to her.
Damara followed behind Grisha, wondering exactly how hard she’d have to hit him in the back of the head and with what to slow him down—if such action became necessary. She was thankful she’d asked her bodyguards to train her and even more thankful they’d agreed.
Abele would’ve had them put to death if he’d known. He’d thought it unfeminine and a sin for a woman to know such things. Of course, it had suited his purposes when hiring a contingent of female bodyguards to keep her secluded from men.
The captain’s berth was small, but it had been outfitted with every luxury. Damara knew immediately that the cargoes transported on this ship weren’t always on the manifest. If the Russians knew Miklos well, then he must have been transporting people, as well.
One of her objections to Grisha was that he’d been linked to sex-trafficking rings and she found that repulsive. How long before the young women of Castallegna began to disappear with him as their crown prince? No one would ever be safe.
It was times like this she wished she had more power. She wished she was more than a princess.
“Plotting my death?” Grisha asked conversationally.
She studied him for a moment. “Of course not. It’s no secret I don’t want to marry you, but I don’t wish you dead.”
“Why don’t you want to marry me, Damara? I have money and power. I can trace my lineage back to Catherine the Great.”
She doubted his royal lineage, but she wasn’t going to say so. “You’re a bad man, Grisha.”
“All great men are.”
She shook her head. “I must marry for my people. You know that. What would you bring to Castallegna? Convince me.” If she could keep him talking, maybe she could buy some time.
He grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall, but she shoved at his shoulders. “I said convince me for Castallegna. My body may come as a gift with the responsibilities of my people, but it has nothing to do with the decision of who will lead them.”
She prayed he heard her. His hands were just as strong and just as damaged as Byron’s, but they were not noble and they turned her stomach. Damara held her body stiff and immobile. She didn’t close her eyes, and she didn’t look away from him. Not even when he dipped his head to kiss her.
Grisha paused when they were eye to eye. Damara didn’t flinch, didn’t hide from what was about to happen. Something he saw there caused him to pull back. “Perhaps you are not as useless as your brother says.”
“Perhaps not,” she agreed.
“How is it that you make even your acquiescence sound like a challenge?”
“I assure you, it’s not. You’re obviously the one with the power. You’ve caught me. I have nowhere to go and no one to turn to for help,” Damara said calmly.
“But you’re not afraid of me.”
“Should I be? Would you like me to be?”
“You said I was a bad man.” He studied her.
“Just because you’re bad doesn’t mean I should fear you. Fear is a waste of imagination. You will do what you must and I will do as I must.”
He eyed her, hard. “I meant what I said about the mercenary. I will kill him.” As if she’d somehow said otherwise.
“I’ve no doubt. Which is another reason I can’t marry you. You kill someone because they disagree with you? My father had a dream for Castallegna.”
Grisha snorted. “A dream of democracy?”
“Yes. Being born into a family doesn’t make a person any more fit to lead than any other.”
“I did not expect to drag you to the captain’s quarters to talk politics.” Grisha scrubbed a hand over his face.
“No? What did you expect? To haul me down here, make me cower in fear and then force yourself on me so I’d be so humiliated that I would have no choice but to marry you? If my brother told you that would work, you are sadly mistaken.”
“And yet if we were on Castallegna, we would be legally married if I did.”
“That’s another thing that’s gotta go.” Tendrils of fear unfurled in her belly, but she ignored them. It didn’t matter what he did to her. She was still the Jewel of Castallegna. But her brother and men like him were convinced that her only worth lay between her legs. No man would want her if she wasn’t a virgin.
“What if I agreed to all these things you wanted?” Grisha surprised her.
“In writing? A contract that would be for all the world to see?”
“No, not in writing.” He unbuttoned his shirt and she gritted her teeth, fear blooming like a rancid flower. But he didn’t pounce on her. Instead, he showed her the tattoos on his chest, his belly. His arms. His shoulders. “I already have a contract in writing, you see. Bratva. If I am ever found unworthy of the ink on my skin, it will be removed for me.”
She found herself looking at the art on his skin. The stars on his chest. The church with the spires on his belly. “I don’t understand.”
“These are what mark me as a bad man.” He pointed to a marking in Cyrillic she didn’t understand. “The first man I killed for The Brotherhood.”
“And you want to sit on the throne?” She was incredulous as to why he would think she’d choose him to lead her people. To be her husband. He’d admitted to killing a man. Not just one, but the first of many.
“It could be good for both of us, Damara. When you lead men, you must make choices, hard choices, and sometimes people die. If you order your army to war or you set your people against me, you’re sentencing them to death.”
“You can’t offer me peace with one hand and threats with another.” Why didn’t anyone understand that?
“It’s how things are done.”
“No.” It would not be how things were done. She’d never agree to marry him. Never. No matter what he did to her.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” His voice was a growl, low in his throat.
“As I said,” she said, her mouth dry as the desert, “do as you must.” Damara tried to focus her mind, find her center and remember her training. He was bigger than she was, but she had speed and strategy on her side.
She studied her surroundings surreptitiously looking for a possible exit and weapons.
He lunged for her, and she grabbed the lamp on the nightstand, but it had been secured to the table in case of rough waters. So she used the table and the desk as leverage to deliver a roundhouse kick to his head.
It stunned him long enough for her to do it again, but he still didn’t fall. The man’s head must have been fashioned from concrete.
The door to the room swung open, and a flower of blood bloomed on his chest where Byron shot him with a .38.
Grisha clutched at his chest and staggered forward, but Damara didn’t stay to watch him fall. Byron grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the hall.
“This was not how this was supposed to go down.” His hand was warm and strong; his very presence made her feel as though everything was going to be okay. “But next time I tell you to stay put, stay put.”
“It was the only way.”
“I know that. But I had a plan.” He yanked her up the stairs toward the deck.
