Treachery's Devotion (The Masters' Admiralty Book 1)
Author: Dubois, Lila; Carr, Mari
Date: 2017-11-13
Publisher: Farmboy Press
Rights: Copyright 2017 Mari Carr. All rights reserved.

Treachery’s Devotion

Masters’ Admiralty, book 1

Mari Carr

Lila Dubois

Copyright 2017 by Mari Carr and Lila Dubois

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book, with the exception of brief quotations for book reviews or critical articles, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Editor: Kelli Collins

Cover artist: Lila Dubois

Created with Vellum

Contents

Treachery’s Devotion

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

About the Authors

See where it all began…

Other books by Mari Carr

Other books by Lila Dubois

Treachery’s Devotion

Masters’ Admiralty, book 1

A warrior with everything to prove.

Tristan Knight has served the Admiral of England since he was a teenager. As a knight he has pledged his life to protect the Masters’ Admiralty, and when he’s assigned to escort an archaeologist on a research trip he knows the menial task is punishment for the failure of his last mission.

A woman in a gilded cage.

Sophia Starabba is a brilliant scholar and accomplished law enforcement officer, working for Italy’s cultural heritage protection department. But none of that matters to her family or the other members of the territory of Rome. To them she’s the “Principessa”- daughter of the Admiral.

The man who holds the key.

James Rathmann lives for mysteries. In another life he would have been a detective, but a love for digging in the dirt made him an archaeologist. Now one of the world’s leading experts on coins, and curator at the British Museum, he’s been called to Rome to examine a recent discovery.

An old enemy back from the dead.

Among the coins they find something alarming—a message from a villain everyone had assumed was long dead. Tristan leads them on the trail to identify and protect the next potential target and possibly discover the identity of the Domino, a killer and anarchist who plagued the Masters’ Admiralty in the past.

But the Domino isn’t dead, and together James, Sophia and Tristan will fight to stay alive and one step ahead of a killer who will do anything to destroy the Masters’ Admiralty.

Prologue

The scent of death lay over every surface and permeated the air. Three bodies, three different methods of murder, but the reek lay over, in, and on every molecule in the cave, binding the horrifying tableau together.

“Don’t look at them.” Her brother, Antonio Starabba, cupped her elbow, turning her away from the bodies. The cave had once been natural, but humans had lived, loved, and died on these lands for thousands of years, and the cave bore the scars of human use—the floor had been leveled, niches carved out of the walls, and steps cut into the crevasse that served as entryway into the cave.

Antonio steered her past two people who were quietly photographing and processing the scene. One looked up in time to see her face—or what there was to see of it between the mask and the hood of the all-white disposable coveralls she’d put on before entering.

It should have rendered her anonymous, but the woman recognized her.

“Principessa,” she murmured quietly, bowing her head.

Antonio led his sister to the far side of the cave, where rough shelves had been cut into the walls. The shelves were filled with what a lay person would have called a treasure-box decorated with rough-cut jewels that indicated they had been made long before the refined tools jewelers used today were available. A stone bust from ancient Greece, as well as two paintings on the floor, leaning against the walls, both impressionist-style paintings of the Italian countryside, all burnt orange and shades of yellow and citrine.

As lovely and interesting as all those things were, the vast majority of the treasure on display—and despite her training, she couldn’t help but think of this as treasure—was coinage. Gold and silver coins, most with the rough, thinned edges of ancient currency.

For the most part, the coins were simply loose on the stone shelves, except for three stacks on the right-hand side of the top shelf. Each stack had nine coins.

Three bodies. Three stacks. Nine coins. All multiples of three.

She stepped back to look at the paintings. One had three oaks in the foreground, the other had three plump sheep in a field.

“Whoever this is, they know,” she said.

Antonio nodded. “Yes. You will handle the art?”

“The art, the jeweled box, yes. But I’m not a coin expert.”

“Get one.”

“There’s someone in England.”

Antonio frowned, his dark brows drawn down over his gold eyes. “The country or the territory?”

“The territory. He’s one of us.”

“Merda. I don’t want this spreading outside of Rome.”

“Now is not the time to play games.” She had very little patience for the political games the territories played. She understood them, but that understanding didn’t mean she shared her brother’s—or father’s—suspicious and secretive policies. The boundaries of the nine territories had been drawn and redrawn, existing entirely separately from the national boundaries of the countries of modern-day Europe.

“Do you really think a stranger would have found this place, on this land?”

Antonio shook his head, but he said, “It is possible.”

“Who is going to handle…” She couldn’t stop herself from looking over toward the bodies. Her gaze fell first on a severed limb. With a shudder, she forced herself to turn back to the little cache of art and coins.

“We will.”

“Antonio,” she protested. “You cannot.”

“We can, we will.”

“We do not have what the Polizia di Stato do—the labs, the tests.”

“The Carabinieri do.”

“We do not—”

“Not your division.”

The Carabinieri, one of Italy’s two police forces, were technically members of the military and older than the modern country of Italy. But they didn’t deal with homicides the way the polizia did, and were better known for responding and providing support after major events like earthquakes than for taking on barbaric killers.

“We will not involve the polizia.” Antonio squeezed her shoulder.

“You are a fool.” Her brother surely had to see that this was not something they could hide from the normal authorities.

“Tell me the name of the coin expert you need. I will contact England.”

“Antonio.”

He turned away.

“Coglione,” she muttered under her breath. Her brother was a moron. She cast one last look at the three stacks of coins. She would make sure they weren’t moved, not until the coin expert got there. If this was meant as a clue, then everything about the coins could be a clue, not just where they were from or their value, but their condition—which side was faceup—and even their relation to each other.

Taking a moment to push down her anger, she walked toward her brother, avoiding looking at the bodies. She was careful on the rough-hewn floor. She’d been at a gala when she was called out. She’d left her stilettos and ball gown in the back of a black van pulled up near the entrance and wore only thin slippers inside protective plastic booties. She could feel damp cold leaching up into the balls and heels of her feet. She told herself the dampness wasn’t blood, but she started to gag, her skin crawling.

Her brother cast her a hard glance, and she forced down the need to retch and straightened, walking through the room as if she were still at the gala.

There were now four people photographing and measuring the cave. Murmurs of “Principessa” followed her as she walked to the foot of the rough stairs.

Her brother walked up with her, and when they got to the top, he motioned to some trees off to the left. She checked to make sure no one could see, then stumbled over and vomited up the canapés and prosecco she’d consumed.

She used her mask to wipe her face, then walked back to the van. Her brother held the side door open for her. She climbed in and started stripping off the coveralls. She could still smell the death. Good God, was the smell in her hair?

“Name?” Antonio demanded.

She shimmied out of her coveralls, debated making the drive home in nothing but her shoes, thong and the half corset she’d worn under the ball gown, then decided that was asking for trouble and pulled the champagne taffeta designer gown off the floor of the van, where she’d carelessly discarded it.

“Rathmann at the British Museum,” she told her brother.

“Grazie.”

“Ah, no no no, Antonio.” She gathered her skirts and backed up while still in the van. “Zip.”

Antonio Starabba, a man many feared—and rightly so—grumbled as he zipped up his sister’s dress.

She turned, still holding her skirts up off the forest floor. “Be careful, Antonio.”

“I will.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “And you, Princess.”

Sophia Starabba rolled her eyes. Only with her brother would she dare mock the title. “Don’t move the coins. The paintings can come up. If you wait a few hours, I will be back, and I’ll do it.” It was after midnight, but it would still take her at least forty-five minutes to get back into Rome, half an hour to shower, change, grab her kit, and another forty-five minutes back to the villa. The cave entrance was within the villa’s expansive walled grounds.

A villa that on paper was owned by her father, but in reality, was owned by the Masters’ Admiralty, and the territory of Rome

Chapter One

He was being punished. It hadn’t been explicitly stated, but Tristan Knight knew that his latest assignment was meant as punishment. As a knight of the Masters’ Admiralty, he should be above playing nanny and chauffeur.

But that’s what this new assignment was. He was going to play nanny.

His boots hit the stone steps a bit harder than was strictly necessary, and he had to hold back a curse as he dodged a camera-wielding tourist.

Damn Weston Anderson, this was his fault. Tristan had stuck his neck out for Wes, who’d been his friend for years. The reward for doing what Tristan had thought was the noble, right thing to do—the knightly thing to do—had been a rather spectacular bolloxing and this shite assignment.

He slipped through the heavy wooden doors of one of London’s most visited attractions and stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust. Blue light lay softly over the creamy-white stone in the atrium of the British Museum, filtered in by the curved, circular glass ceiling. On a Tuesday morning, it was packed with school groups and a smattering of tourists. He oriented himself, plotted a course through the throngs of people, and started walking.

A little girl in a bright blue jacket bearing a school logo on the arm caught sight of him and then pointed, speaking excitedly in German. “Teacher, teacher, that man has a sword!”

The teacher, a man with salt-and-pepper hair, a bulging knapsack, and a jacket to match that of the little girl’s—and those worn by a clump of probably fifteen other children—frowned at Tristan. His gaze lingered longer than was polite before he looked down and flipped through his program, probably checking for information on whatever living history display or education program he’d decided Tristan must be a part of.

Tristan had been a knight for England for nearly fifteen years, and in the past five years he’d given up on hiding his sword. He’d gone through phases of carrying a gym bag, wearing a long coat, and even trying to make it look like a cane. Then one day, he’d simply strapped on the sword and headed out. People had looked at him oddly but no one said anything. No one stopped him. Not even police.

If they knew that the sword wasn’t just some odd quirk—that he had the right, as a knight, to use the blade to defend and protect the members and interests of the Masters’ Admiralty—they probably wouldn’t let him pass with nothing more than a sideways glance.

Then again, they wouldn’t know who the Masters’ Admiralty were.

There were plenty of conspiracy theorists who ranted and raved about secret groups who controlled the world—the Illuminati, the Rosicrucians, and the Trinity Masters.

They weren’t wrong. They just didn’t have the right name.

The Masters’ Admiralty was a highly selective and secret organization that had been operating in and controlling Europe since the Black Plague. At one point, members had controlled most of the governments, but now they no longer had such overt political control. They were no less powerful, but that power was channeled differently than it had once been.

It was another reason Tristan could wander around wearing a sword. If he were stopped or arrested, he would be out in a matter of hours and there would be no record of what had happened. For that matter, if anyone looked too closely, they’d find that Tristan Knight seemed to appear out of thin air at the age of sixteen, with no significant records before that age.

One of the things Tristan had given up to become a knight was his name.

He moved out of sight of the German school group, and no one else paid any particular attention to him. It would be the same if he were walking down the footpath in the financial district or through Covent Garden.

People, especially Londoners, were passionately dedicated to not getting involved, and so he went about his business in slacks, a button-down shirt and a utilitarian sword belt.

On the far side of the atrium, he stopped to consult a map, then wound his way through a gallery filled with delicate pottery to a heavy wooden door with a small plaque that read “staff only.”

He tapped in the code his vice admiral had given him, and then slipped out of the public areas of the museum. Behind the scenes, the building was no less beautiful, but there were signs of day-to-day use—industrial gray carpet covering the wood and stone floors, cubicles in several of the more open areas. In one instance of particularly bad decisions, one room had acoustic tile and fluorescent lights hiding the arched stone ceiling.

The offices and cubicle farms he passed were sparsely populated by people. Some desks were covered in papers, other were bare. There were posters commemorating past exhibits interspersed with lovely paintings in heavy gilt frames. In another museum, the art that hung in the offices and halls would have been featured pieces, but given the depth and breadth of the British Museum’s collection, these ranked display space in cluttered offices.

Tristan had to stop and ask for directions twice before he found the door labeled “Numismatics” on one of the upper floors. He was so deep in the labyrinth of the museum that he’d had to actively track the turns, twists, and stairs he’d taken. It was habit—always know the point of regress. Check the defensible positions.

The numismatics office was located in a small room off a large gallery on one of the upper floors. Tall windows let light fill the gallery, turning the gray stone of the walls and columns silvery-gold. Half of the gallery had cubicles, which seemed as out of place against the tall windows and stone floor as a plastic party hat at the Kentucky Derby. The other half of the gallery housed rows of chest-high filing cabinets. A rectangle of sunlight stretched across the floor from a window to the door of the numismatics office, as if lighting his way.

Tristan knocked. There was no response. Aware that it had taken him more time to get here than he’d planned, he knocked again, and then swung the door open.

The office beyond would have been large if it had been for one person, but there were three desks crowded in the place, and a long white counter ran the length of the wall on his left. Bright white lights shone down on the counter, and there were magnifying lenses mounted at even intervals along the wall. There was only one occupant, a man who sat hunched over the counter. He was big and broad, out of proportion with the room. The stool under him seemed too small for his large frame.

Tristan thought he looked a bit like a bear who had been stuffed into a lab coat and then jammed into the little room.

“Mr. Rathmann?”

The bear turned, and a black-haired man with the coloring and features of a native of the Polynesian islands regarded Tristan with a flat look.

Tristan tensed. He’d seen that look before—on the streets of Croydon where he’d grown up. It was the look young men learned to adopt to hide their fear. And as those men grew up, the expression became a mask they pulled on just before they swung their fists or pulled a knife.

The bear—whom Tristan recognized from his picture in the vice admiral’s file as James Rathmann, England’s foremost expert on old and rare coins—looked like he was about to start breaking heads in a back-alley brawl.

Tristan didn’t take a step back, and he managed to keep his hand from going to the hilt of the sword, but he did shift his weight onto the balls of his feet and bend his knees.

James Rathmann’s dark gaze moved from his face to the sword at Tristan’s side…and the flat look melted away into a welcoming smile.

“A knight. Fuck me if that ain’t cool. Come on, man, you wanna see this?”

James waved Tristan over with one big bear-like paw. The other man’s accent was a bit odd. It wasn’t precisely low-class English—it was more lyrical and melodious than Tristan’s own original accent, which was as cockney as anything that could be found on one of the BBC gangland documentaries. There was a hint of maybe Australian or Kiwi in the way he spoke. If Tristan hadn’t known that James was English born and bred, and a legacy to boot, he would have guessed the other man was a Kiwi and native Maori.

Tristan nodded—it was a nice neutral response—and walked over to the long counter. James rolled his stool to the side and motioned for Tristan to look through one of the lighted magnifying glasses that had been positioned over the table. Tristan started to refuse; it wouldn’t be smart to turn his back to the other man, and bending forward to look through the glass would put him in the perfect position to have his head smashed into the counter.

Nanny. This is a nannying job. Not a dangerous assignment. Not an important assignment.

And James Rathmann was the one he was supposed to be babysitting. Well, technically, he was escorting him to Rome, where James was due to consult on something. Tristan hadn’t been given many details. All he’d been told was that he was to escort and protect James.

Tristan very much doubted that an expert on rare coins was going to be in any kind of danger, but like a dutiful knight, he’d accepted his assignment. Seeing James in person made it very clear that if this man did run into problems, he wouldn’t have any trouble dealing with them himself.

Yet another sign that he was being punished for the fiasco with the Trinity Masters. Bloody Americans.

England’s Vice Admiral Lorelei Madden clearly hadn’t been satisfied with blistering his ears. She’d cooked up the most insulting assignment she could think of, just in case Tristan hadn’t understood exactly how little faith she had in him.

Tristan bent at the waist and looked through the magnifying glass at a small gold coin. He was prepared to say something polite about the coin, but frowned when he actually saw what was printed on it.

“Is that an elephant?” he asked.

James slapped him on the shoulder so hard, Tristan rocked forward.

“Fucking brilliant, isn’t it? It is an elephant. And on the other side…” James slipped on a white cotton glove, then reached out and carefully turned the coin over, revealing a Roman-style bust. “That’s Philip the first. They called him the Arab.”

“Roman?” Tristan asked.

“Yes. Kids found a cache of coins outside Bristol.” James motioned to a green and beige lump. “That’s the first one I’ve cleaned.”

“Those are coins?” Tristan looked at the lump.

“Yes. Wrapped in cloth. They were stored together, probably buried.”

“When?” Tristan asked.

James’s brows rose. “Two hundred seventy A.D.”

Tristan started to whistle then stopped himself. Whistling was low-class.

“You a collector?” James asked.

“Of coins, no.”

“Intelligent then.”

“Well…” Tristan frowned. “Just curious.”

James shook his head. “Intelligent. Figures. The knights are smarter than the security goons. Isn’t that the way?”

Tristan looked around, reassuring himself there was no one there to hear James casually discuss the inner workings and structures of their secret organization.

“Mr. Rathmann, it’s best if you don’t mention things like that in public.”

“True enough.” James waved a hand casually. “Off to Rome then?”

“Yes. I’ve made our travel arrangements. Do you have everything you need?”

James picked up a small suitcase—maybe it was a regular-size suitcase and it just looked small in his hand. “Yep. Enough for a week.”

Tristan had been distracted trying to figure out how tall the other man was. Tristan wasn’t short at just over six feet. James didn’t seem to be more than an inch or two taller than Tristan, but he was big.

Finally, his words penetrated and Tristan shot the other man a glance. “A week? You expect it will take that long?”

“It depends on what they have. Rome is being tight-lipped.”

“I’d like to know more about what you’ve been told on the way.” Tristan and James both reached for the door. Tristan took hold of the knob firmly, opened the door, and motioned James forward.

James frowned slightly, then stepped through.

It was only then that Tristan noticed the other man’s uneven gait. When he walked, James didn’t bend his left leg—he swung it out to the side and forward in a shallow semicircle.

“You probably know more than me,” James said. He turned right, rather than left, which was the way Tristan had come from. Tristan hesitated for only a heartbeat, then followed James.

“I doubt that,” Tristan replied. “All I was told was who you are, and that I was to escort you to Rome.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, Mr. Rathmann.”

“James. Call me James. Which one are you?” James turned and started down a different set of stairs than the one Tristan had come up. James’s progress was slow, almost painfully so. He always led with his stiff left leg. Tristan debated offering to carry the other man’s suitcase, but held his tongue. Whatever was wrong with James’s leg, it clearly wasn’t a new injury, and he doubted the big man would appreciate being treated like an invalid.

“Which one?” Tristan repeated, unsure what the question meant.

“Which one are you?” James repeated. “Wait, let me guess. Percival?”

“No.”

“Galahad?”

“No. Tristan.”

“Tristan. That’s a good one. Nice choice.”

“Thank you.” The words came out flat and hard.

James stopped and looked at him. “You going to be like this the whole way?”

“Like what?” Tristan knew his words were clipped.

James’s lip curled a bit. “Fucking uptight prick.”

“’Bout you watch your fucking mouth?” Tristan shot back, letting his speech patterns fall back into the accent of his youth. “Fucking” turned into “foohkin.”

James’s brows rose. He nodded once and started down the stairs again. Once at the bottom, they exited into a short hall, and from there into the atrium.

Damn it, that had been a much shorter route.

“Our car is waiting out front,” Tristan said.

James nodded again, and they walked side by side through the atrium. The crowds parted before James like the Red Sea for Moses. Most people didn’t seem to be consciously moving out of the way. They simply saw a large someone coming and moved aside.

They didn’t speak again until they were in the American-style chauffeured car, complete with a barrier between the driver’s areas and the back seats.

“How are we getting to Rome?” James asked, breaking the silence.

Tristan turned to face the other man, keeping his polite, neutral mask in place. “Private plane.” He hid the wince. The last time he’d ordered a private plane had been for Wes—the lying fuck.

“Good. I don’t do so well in commercial.”

“I’d suspect not.”

“I’m guessing we’ll have to go to the crime scene tonight.”

Tristan stared at James, sure he’d heard that incorrectly. “I’m sorry?”

James raised his raven-black eyebrows, and his dark eyes sparkled with hints of amusement. “They didn’t tell you anything?”

“Only that I was to escort you to Rome and stay with you. What crime scene?”

“One of the members in Rome was murdered. Ritual killing.”

“Ritual killing?” Tristan shifted in the seat to fully face James. This was not what he’d expected to hear.

“Yep. They wouldn’t say much over the phone. And no pictures. But they found some coins.” James tapped his fist against his chest. “That’s where I come in. They want a coin expert. She’s meeting us at the airport.”

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday or the day before. They found the body yesterday morning. Vice Admiral called me last night.”

She’d called Tristan to give him the assignment this morning.

“Rome’s security minister must be keeping this from the Italian authorities.”

“Not hard for them to do. The admiral of Rome has a lot more control over his territory than we do over ours.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Tristan said.

James shrugged. “I have a cousin who’s a member in Rome.”

“I forgot you’re a legacy.”

“I don’t look much like a legacy, eh?”

Tristan shook his head. “I meant no offense.”

“I’m used to it.”

Tristan felt like a racist prick. “Please accept my apologies. You’re right, you don’t look like most of the legacies, and you don’t sound like them either. Your accent is…what is your accent?”

“Mom was ambassador to New Zealand so I spent some time there. But my grandfather was Samoan.”

Tristan nodded. He’d been right about the other man’s ancestral origins.

“I grew up there, then stayed to play for the All Blacks.”

Tristan blinked. “You played rugby for the New Zealand All Blacks?”

“Yep.”

Tristan whistled. He didn’t care if it was low-class. That deserved a whistle.

The car pulled into London City Airport, and they climbed out. It took them about an hour to deal with the abbreviated security procedures and board the plane. They’d fly to a small, private airstrip outside of Rome proper, where they’d be met by an escort from Rome.

Once they were settled in the plush seats, which were large enough to seat even James comfortably, Tristan leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees.

James took a drink of the beer the flight attendant had provided. “Tighthead prop.”

Tristan blinked in surprise.

“That’s what you were going to ask. What position I played. I was front row for two years.”

“That’s brilliant,” Tristan said honestly. “But actually, that wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

“Oh?”

“You said ‘her.’ That we were going to meet ‘her.’ Who were you talking about?”

James smiled, and Tristan started to get a sinking feeling.

“She works for the Carabinieri Department for the Protection of Cultural Heritage. The Italian art police. She consults for Interpol too.”

“Is this a murder or an art heist?” Tristan hoped James didn’t notice the way the words art heist had made his eye twitch. Fucking Weston and his art were what had landed him in hot water to begin with.

“A murder, but a crime scene with lots of art clues. At least that’s what they think.”

“And this art police woman, she’s a member?”

“You could say that.”

“Fuck, man, just tell me,” Tristan said, all reserve gone.

James grinned. “The woman we’re meeting is Sophia Starabba.”

Tristan blinked. “Wait, isn’t she…”

“The principessa. The daughter of the admiral of Rome.”

Chapter Two

It wasn’t a long flight from London to Rome, and the private plane journey included a hot meal and seats that reclined almost all the way, making it seem even shorter than it was. James exited the plane via air stairs, taking them one at a time, always leading with his bum leg. He felt refreshed and loose, instead of cramped and tired.

His left leg ached from the changes in altitude, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it would have been if they’d flown in a commercial plane, even if they’d flown first-class. At six foot three and nearly three hundred pounds, James wasn’t sized to fit in most things—he stood in the Tube, had to fly premium economy or higher, and got most of his clothes custom-made.

As a legacy member of the Masters’ Admiralty, he—almost by definition—came from a family with money. Added to that, his carefully invested earnings from his days playing pro meant he had the option to upgrade his seats and take black cabs, which wouldn’t have been realistic on a curator’s salary. Still, the private plane was a new experience, and one he’d happily repeat.

James made it to the bottom of the stairs and stepped to the side to let the knight pass him. Hot, golden afternoon sun—a particular light that was unique to Rome. He closed his eyes, and let the warmth and heat soak into him. After a moment, he felt Tristan pass by.

The knight was a bit of a puzzle. Good-looking—golden blond, broad shoulders, and trim waist. Except for the bit of scruff on his jaw and his slightly shaggy hair, he fit the image of a knight—noble and stalwart. Yet there was a tension in him, and a terseness to the way he spoke, that made Tristan seem aggrieved or vexed.

James might have thought it was his natural state of being, but he’d seen Tristan relax. Or maybe it would be more appropriate to say “drop his guard.” James had first seen it when Tristan studied James’s new baby—the coin with Philip I on it. Tristan had even dropped the clipped, upper-class accent once or twice.

James had never met a knight before. He’d seen them when he’d accepted his invitation to join, but they’d been in their formal robes, and had been nothing more than intimidating, armed, hooded figures standing behind the admiral.

Tristan cleared his throat slightly, and James opened his eyes.

“If you need a moment, we can wait.” Tristan spoke bluntly, not snidely. James appreciated that.

“No, I’m grand.”

Tristan nodded, then took the handle of the suitcase and started walking. It was James’s suitcase, and Tristan had looped his own duffel bag over the handle.

“I can roll my own bag,” James said mildly.

“I mean no offense,” Tristan replied, but he didn’t hand over the case.

“Shattered knee.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s why I limp. I shattered my knee. Broke sideways. They replaced it, but the replacement wasn’t wholly successful. It bends, but not easily.”

Tristan stopped, and once more that tension slipped, along with the crisp diction and precise grammar that had marked his speaking voice. “Damn. I remember that game. You were playing savage, and then they just rammed you.”

“I think I still rank as one of the top five worst rugby injuries of all time,” James agreed.

“That’s fucked is what that is. That had to bloody hurt.”

“Lucky for me, I don’t remember most of it.”

“Ended your career, right?”

“It did.”

“I’m sorry, mate.”

“No worries.”

They walked on in companionable silence, and James was glad some of the tension had left Tristan. James prided himself on his ability to disarm almost anyone—at his size, it was a skill he’d learned when he was young. A man as big as he was had to know how to put people at ease.

They followed the directions of the flight attendant to the small terminal building. Just before they reached the doors, Tristan asked, “The victim—do you know who it was?”

“No. And I’m guessing you don’t?”

James hadn’t meant it as an insult, but Tristan tensed. “No,” the knight said. “I wasn’t given any information besides your name and the destination.”

James made a humming noise of consideration, then said, “You’re probably here to chaperone.”

“Chaperone?”

“The ladies love me. They probably don’t want an international incident when the principessa falls in love with me.”

Tristan snorted out a laugh and relaxed again. “I’m not a chaperone. I’m your nanny.”

“Nanny?”

“You academic, art-history types always end up getting yourselves into trouble.”

James laughed. Tristan held open the door and James went through, not bothering to try to fight to be the one who held the door.

“Be careful,” James warned Tristan. “The principessa is an art historian and a cop.”

“A geek with a gun. Yep, I’m the nanny.”

They were both grinning as they entered the small, tasteful lounge area that served as the check-in gate and waiting area.

A woman rose. She’d been seated with her back to them. As she turned and took a step forward, a ray of that too-gold sunlight fell over her.

Tristan and James both stopped. Stopped talking, stopped moving. After a moment, James realized he’d even stopped breathing. He exhaled noisily.

“Jay-sus,” Tristan breathed.

The most breathtakingly beautiful woman James had ever seen raised one dark eyebrow as her lips curled into a faint smile. Her hair was black and fell around her heart-shaped face in big, loose waves. Her eyes were a bright, clear gold, lined with dark lashes. Her cheeks weren’t all boney, the way magazines seemed to love—they were sweetly rounded, paired with a small, delicate chin and lush lips.

She had the features of a younger woman, or perhaps it was more accurate to say that her features were those that typified youthful beauty, but she wasn’t a girl—she was a woman, at least thirty. There were smile lines at the corners of her eyes, and a half smile still curved those unbelievable lips. The smile was a knowing expression—not haughty or disdainful, but amused and maybe a little rueful. She wore jeans, sneakers, a black tank top, and a fitted leather jacket with a diagonal zip. The outfit was simple, and not particularly tight, but he could see the outline of her hips, the curve of breasts.

“Mr. Rathmann, Mr. Knight, I am Sophia Starabba.”

Her English was excellent, but she spoke with a delicious Italian accent. James had heard the expression “sultry voice” before, but hadn’t understood it until now, until Sophia.

Merely cataloguing her features, attire, and voice didn’t do her justice. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that a simple description couldn’t capture the essence of her, the expression that lit her face, the way she stood so casually confident. It reminded James of any number of stories where the beautiful princess sneaks out of the castle, and though she wears the clothes of a commoner, they don’t hide her nobility and beauty.

It was no wonder she was known as the princess.

The sedan she’d borrowed to pick up their distinguished English guests was barely big enough. Far larger than her Alfa Romeo, and a large car by Italian standards, the four-door black town car was barely large enough to fit James Rathmann. She knew him—by reputation, not by prior meeting—so Sophia had been prepared for his size. The tale of the rugby player who’d become a leading numismatist had been quite the talk of the art and archaeology community, and even made the news in some parts of Europe and New Zealand.

Knowing he would be a big man was not the same thing as standing next to him and having a sudden, vivid fantasy about being tossed over his shoulder and carried off to his barbarian lair. Sophia hid her grimace—the fantasy was immature and insulting to Mr. Rathmann. And it was even more insulting that the fantasy had expanded to include Mr. Knight, who would come riding to her rescue on a white steed, his sword shining in the sun.

She was thirty-five years old. She was a grown, sophisticated woman with a wealth of sexual experience. A woman who saw two attractive men and couldn’t help but have the most pedestrian fantasy possible. Maybe it wasn’t pedestrian so much as it was a fairy tale. A lifetime of being called “princess” had clearly left its mark on her brain.

Maybe next week she would take some time off, go to the Caribbean, find a man, take him back to her room, and do wicked, wicked things to him. And more importantly, let him do wicked things to her.

While sheltered in the privacy of a Caribbean resort, she could be a sophisticated, sexually mature, and aware woman. While at home, she needed to be the loyal daughter, honorable officer of the law, and protector of Italy’s art and culture. The loyal-daughter/officer-of-the-law version of herself did not—should not—have fantasies about a ménage a trois with two members from England.

“Where are we going, Ms. Starabba?” The knight—Tristan, he’d said his name was—leaned forward. He’d chosen the seat directly behind her, and the position left her a bit twitchy, so she settled for checking on him in the rearview mirror every few moments.

“To a villa just outside of Rome.”

“Is that where the coins are?” Mr. Rathmann’s voice was a delicious rumble, and it affected her in a way she didn’t like. No. That was not the truth. She liked it very much, but it was not the time or place to be thinking about those sorts of things, and he was not the right man for her, even for something casual.

Many members of her father’s territory took lovers from outside Rome before their marriages. It was almost expected that members of the Masters’ Admiralty would come to their marriages with not just sexual experience, but sexual expertise. But she was the principessa of Rome. She could not, would not, consort with members outside her territory.

In these modern times, the term “princess” had come to mean the innocent, brave heroine of children’s stories, or a stylishly dressed woman who took up humanitarian causes. That was not the kind of princess Sophia was. Her father would have made a good feudal lord. To him, his son and daughter were assets to be used in his quest to protect Rome. Marrying the princess was a reward he used to manipulate and motivate men and women in his territory. She’d been betrothed to three different trinities since the time she was twenty, and had even been publicly engaged twice. In all instances, her father had called off the unions.

As the ammiraglio of Rome, her father was the one who decided who would marry whom. He arranged the marriages of members of their territory the way other men play chess—every move calculated to elicit a specific outcome and response. The grande ammiraglio, the fleet admiral, had to approve every trinity, in every territory, but to her father, that was only a formality. He was, in his own mind, closer to a king than anything else.

“That is where the crime scene is,” she answered.

“Who is the victim?” Tristan asked.

“Victims,” she corrected.

Both men tensed. She could see James’s arms and shoulders tighten into hard mounds of muscle. Tristan had a hand on the back of her seat, and pulled against it as he sat forward even more.

“How many?” Tristan asked.

“Three.”

James bowed his head and crossed himself. A good Catholic boy.

“Jay-sus,” Tristan blasphemed. Not a good Catholic boy.

Sophia forced herself to stop thinking about James and Tristan. It was easy to do as the discussion moved to the horror of what was in the cave.

“The coins are…are in the bodies?” James’s voice had gone up an octave or two.

“In them? No, no, no. The coins were found near them. It is possible the coins are there by coincidence.”

“Possible?” Tristan asked. “You don’t sound like you believe that.”

“I don’t want to color your perceptions.” She honked a few times and whipped around an idiot car. They were nearly out of the city. She drove for another ten minutes in relative silence, growing impatient with the other drivers the closer they got to escaping the sprawling metropolis of Rome. A few times James sucked in a breath and clutched at the dash, and she could see Tristan’s wide-eyed, panicked expression in the rearview mirror. The English were so uptight.

She turned off E821, the main road headed south out of Rome. Within a few moments, they were out in the Italian countryside, the landscapes unspoiled—low rolling hills, tall Cyprus trees, gnarled oaks, fields of fat purple grapes. Here and there were straight-sided old country houses, interspersed with the occasional sprawling villa.

“Beautiful,” Tristan said. Now that there were fewer cars, the men had relaxed somewhat, though they tensed when she took a curve.

“Have you been to Italy before?” she asked them.

“Once, but just to Rome. The city I mean, not the territory.” The knight met her gaze in the rearview mirror for a moment.

“I love Italy,” James said by way of reply.

The territories of the Masters’ Admiralty did not follow the lines of the modern countries of Europe. And the names of the territories often had nothing to do with the modern locations that bore the same appellations. The territory of Rome was based on what had been the Holy Roman Empire, and included Italy, Greece, and parts of Croatia, Bosnia, Montenegro, Albania and Slovenia—everything that touched the Adriatic Sea.

“The modern city of Rome is…” She had to stop and think of the right word in English. “It is impressive. But this is beauty.” She gestured to the landscape.

“You’re from here,” Tristan said.

She met his gaze in the mirror. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Just a guess.”

“You are perceptive, Cavaliere.” She used the Italian word for knight.

“Thank you, Principessa.”

“You may call me Sophia.”

“Thank you.”

“Can we get back to the dead bodies?” James asked. “Are they contaminating my coins?”

“Yes and no,” she answered. “The coins should be fine. The smell of the…of the bodies is horrific, but not damaging to the coins. However, there are paintings. I cannot say that they will survive.”

“Ugh,” was James’s reply.

“Why did you leave the coins near the bodies?” Tristan asked.

“I will not say more,” she repeated. “I want you to see it for yourself.”

“James,” Tristan said to the other man. “If you want, I can go in and bring them out.”

“If the placement of the coins was not important, I could have brought them to England. Or taken pictures.” They crested a low rise, and for a moment she glimpsed the roof of the villa. They were close. “I wish I did not have to ask you to enter this place, but I must ask it. Three people are dead. This is not a mugging or a random murder. My…the man in charge believes that everything at the scene is meant to tell us something. What do you say in English?”

“A clue?” James guessed.

“Everything in there is a clue.” Tristan sounded skeptical.

“Clue, yes. The coins are one of the clues I cannot understand on my own. If I could, I would not have asked you to come here.”

“I understand,” James said.

Sophia turned off the road. The car seemed too big for the narrow driveway lined with mature trees. The narrowness was a sign of age. This driveway had been used long before cars were invented.

The drive rose slowly at first, then more steeply as they approached the villa. They emerged from the flanking rows of trees, and Sophia hid a smile as she watched Tristan and James react to the sight. The Villa Degli Dei was large and grand, made of warm travertine and brown-veined marble. An elegant white statue stood amid the roses in the center of the circular drive. Until Sophia was twenty-one, the statue had been a genuine Roman statue of Apollo.

When she was twenty-one, she’d been at university, studying art and art history, and had come home bristling with the outrage only university students could manage. She’d thrown a fit, demanded the statue be placed in a museum. Her father had agreed, but only if Sophia could provide an exact replica, in marble. She’d taught herself to sculpt marble, and then spent two years working on the statue that was there now. It wasn’t an exact replica by any means. To her trained eye, it looked new, but her father had graciously agreed to let the original statue go to a museum.

She remembered tearing up with love and gratitude. Her replica wasn’t good. She was no master sculptor. Her father had agreed because he loved her and wanted her to be happy, and because he was rewarding all the time and effort she’d put into creating the replica.

Antonio had dismissed her romantic notion, telling her she had to think like Father. That she should try to figure out what he got out of making her sculpt the replica. She’d stubbornly refused, believing the best about her father.

Six months later, her father hosted a grand party at the villa, and the admiral of Rome had announced that his daughter was now a master sculptor, and proceeded to gift her early works—rough busts, failed attempts at sculpting smaller, thirty-centimeter figurines—to those most loyal to him.

The next day, she’d dropped her art major and decided to join the Carabinieri.

Her father had laughed, and reminded her that scarcity only made her art more valuable.

“Damn,” James said. “Now that’s a villa.”

“That statement is entirely accurate.” Sophia did her best to imitate an English accent. Both men looked at her and then started laughing.

Sophia smiled and pulled around the side of the villa, heading for the stables, outbuildings, and the countryside beyond. It was good to make them laugh. They would need to laugh before they saw what was in that cave.

Tristan twisted in his seat to look out the back window at the rear of the villa, with its long balconies, arched windows, and warm stone facades. “The bodies aren’t in the villa?”

They passed the stables and the large temperature- and humidity-controlled garage, where the family’s collection of Italian cars was kept. The drive changed from paved to gravel as they got farther from the buildings. They made a sharp right, away from the manicured gardens and wide, rolling lawns directly behind the house.

The borrowed car scraped against bushes and the occasional tree as she maneuvered it along what had once been the game warden’s path and was now used by security and the gardeners.

“No. They’re on the grounds. That’s how he was able to do this.”

Tristan leaned forward again. “He? Do you know who the killer is?”

“No. I use it because, well, I think it must have been a man.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure a woman could have done it.”

“Women are just as vicious as men.”

“No, no, no, Cavaliere. Women are far more vicious. But we are not so coarse. So brutal.”

James made a nervous little sound, which was rather comical coming from the big man.

“Do not worry, Mr. Rathmann. I will protect you.” She said it as somberly as possible, hoping to make him smile.

“Thank you, Principessa.” His voice was solemn but his eyes sparkled.

“I thought that was my job,” Tristan said mildly.

“To protect him?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I thought you were the nanny?” James shifted in his seat, the whole car rocking slightly as he did.

“Nanny?” Sophia asked. That word was familiar but she couldn’t think of the translation.

“Babysitter,” James supplied. “Someone who looks after children.”

She laughed. “Tristan is your bambinaia, James?”

“According to him.”

The rocky path started to rise, and here and there, heavy granite boulders stuck out from the undergrowth. The topsoil was thin in places, and deep enough to support trees in others.

Sophia had come up with a snappy retort, but they were too close to the cave. The words stuck to her tongue. The men must have sensed her change in demeanor, because they fell silent. She slowed to a crawl and looked around, checking the undergrowth for signs as to where to turn. There would be signs of the other vehicles that had come this way since the discovery, and she could follow the trail of broken branches.

She didn’t need to look so hard. Someone had hung a streamer of yellow crime scene tape from a branch as a marker, and the scrubby brush and layer of fallen leaves under that grim pennant was squashed nearly flat, the paths of car tires very obvious.

She followed the tracks into a small clearing. The ground here was mostly rock, with only patches of moss and the occasional pool of soil that had settled into the dips in the rock like water into a tide pool when the tide was out. She parked off to one side, next to three other cars. The white van was in the middle of the clearing, closest to the entrance of the cave.

She shut off the car, then twisted in her seat.

“Mr. Rathmann, I doubt the knight was sent here to be your bambinaia. I am sure your admiral sent him to support you. What you are about to see, it is…it is horrible. If I did not think it essential that you see the coins in place, I would not ask it of you.”

“The bodies are still there?” Tristan said. “Weren’t they found yesterday?”

“They were.”

“Then why are they still there?”

Sophia met Tristan’s gaze. His eyes were beautiful—dark gold. For a moment, her treacherous imagination took over, and she was sure he was not a man, but an avenging angel. Or maybe Apollo, her statue come to life to ravish and worship her.

“You will see, Mr. Knight. Come. We need to prepare.”

They exited the car and she led them over to the van. There was no one inside, but the back doors were open. She jumped in and found sets of white coveralls for herself and Tristan. James tried to put on a set of XL coveralls she’d found in the bottom of the bin, but they were too narrow around his heavily muscled legs. With Tristan’s help, she was able to cobble together coverings out of various disposable smocks and some medical scrubs.

At any other time, it would have been comical, and they would have been laughing.

Right now, however, they weren’t laughing.

When they were ready, Sophia handed each of them a mask and led them to the fissure where two of the huge slabs of rock they stood on met.

The cave had probably been carved by water that had flowed down between the two massive rocks, carving into the stone bit by bit, looking for a way out, a way back to the earth. Then the determined water broke through, finding a pocket of space created by the great rocks, and had continued to slither into that small space. And after a millennium of doing that, the water had created an opening large enough for someone—possibly even one of Sophia’s ancestors—to find the cave within.

She led the way, lowering herself into the crevice, ducking under an overhang created by the uppermost rock, and started down the steps that had been carved into the stone.

There was a muffled curse behind her, and she looked to see James bent nearly double at the waist, one hand on his head.

Their gazes met and she fought down a shiver.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” he replied. “Am I going to fit?”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Now hurry.” The cold coming off the stones was seeping into her skin and she wanted to get this over with. She hadn’t felt that way when she’d come here last night. Then again, last night, she hadn’t known what waited below.

Chapter Three

Tristan knew that smell. It was the smell of death. He breathed through his mouth, each breath tasting slightly papery due to the mask.

Down they went, into what he now suspected was a cave. He kept an eye on James, in case the other man was claustrophobic. If he fainted, either from the close quarters, the smell, or the sight of the bodies, it would be hell to try to get him back up the steps.

Sophia paused every meter to turn back and look at them. All that was visible of her was her forehead and eyes. Every inch of the rest of her body was covered by the paper coveralls, a mask, and gloves. Tristan wore the same outfit, and though he wasn’t wearing coveralls, James was similarly protected.

At the bottom of the rough, uneven steps, there was an arched entrance. The arch was clearly manmade, but the masonry work had happened long enough ago that time and nature had muted the edges—there was a chunk of rock missing from the right-hand side, and moss coated the upper part of the arch.

Light spilled from inside the cave, casting a hard white light onto the ground before them.

Sophia faced them. “Once we go in, we are going to the left. You won’t be able to see where we’re going from the entrance, so just follow me.”

Tristan studied her for a moment. “Why are you telling us this?”

“Because…because the first thing you’ll see when you walk in are the bodies. You don’t need to see that. If you’d like to close your eyes, I will take your hand.”

“I’m fine,” Tristan said, voice hard. He intended to investigate the crime scene. He may have been sent here to escort James, but he was a knight. He was going to help find whomever had done this.

“I’m not here to prove anything,” James said. “I won’t look, and thank you, I will hold your hand.”

Tristan frowned at James, but the big man held out his hand. Sophia took it in hers and then stepped into the cave, telling James to duck.

Tristan followed them in.

The inside of the cave was warm from the heat coming off two freestanding sets of paired halogen work lights. One of the four individual lamps were pointed up at the ceiling. The other three were focused on the center of the cave.

Tristan took a long, slow breath, forcing down the need to vomit, and carefully shutting away the part of his mind that was screaming “run, run, run!”

If Sophia hadn’t told him there were three victims, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to tell.

Sophia kept to the side of the cave, and James kept his face studiously turned away.

Tristan could have, maybe should have, followed them. Instead he took a step closer to the bodies. There were five coverall-clad people working there—crime scene techs from the looks of it. One was taking photos, another measurements. The third was lifting samples of various—ugh—fluids and carefully labeling each small test tube. The fourth was holding a clipboard, and as Tristan got closer, he could see that they were sketching the scene. That was smart. Even with the halogen lights, taking photos would be difficult, and a sketch could eliminate nonessential information.

The fifth person was overseeing it all. It was either a man or a broad-shouldered, tall woman. The figure turned to confront him.

Definitely a man. Though he wore the same anonymizing coveralls and mask that Tristan wore, the man’s frown was easy to see.

The dark-eyed, dark-haired—judging by his black eyebrows—man took a step toward Tristan, holding up a hand. “Stop there, knight.”

Tristan stopped, tensing. “I’m here with Sophia Starabba, and—”

“I know who you are. I’m the one who called your admiral.”

Tristan’s fingers twitched. He’d left his sword in the car, and the lack of its familiar weight made him feel naked.

The other people working the crime scene had all stopped to look at them. Tristan schooled his face into a calm mask. He was a knight of England. He would not be intimidated.

The dark-haired man looked over his shoulder, meeting the gaze of each crime scene tech. Under his glower, they swiftly resumed their work.

“You’re here to protect your asset, not to interfere with the scene.”

“I am well aware of my duties. I’m not going to interfere with the scene; however, if you believe the coins are a clue left by the perpetrator of these crimes, it may be necessary to know the details of the murders. I will not subject Mr. Rathmann to this.” Tristan gestured to the bodies.

The dark-haired man nodded once, then, much to Tristan’s surprise, held out a hand. “I’m Antonio Starabba.”

Tristan looked to the side where Sophia and James had disappeared behind an outcropping of rock. “Are you related to Sophia?”

“Her fratello, brother. I am a security agent for Rome.”

Tristan stiffened. The knights of each territory served as both police and judge, maintaining law and order. They reported to the vice admiral, and by extension, the admiral. But sometimes the territories needed something else, something more. They needed people who would do what was necessary, no matter what the law was. They were assassins, spies and, when needed, thugs. They’d had many names throughout the years, but in modern times, they were referred to as security specialists or security officers.

Sophia’s brother was an assassin for Rome.

Oh good, what this whole situation needed was a gun-toting security specialist who thought the law didn’t apply to him.

Tristan took Antonio’s hand, shaking it briefly. “I’m surprised that security is handling this, and not the knights.”

Antonio snorted. “Of course a knight assumes every problem should be solved by a knight. This situation is not what the knights do.”

Tristan stepped up beside Antonio and had to acknowledge that the other man was right. This was not what the knights were meant to handle. No one should have to “do” this—to stand before the waste of what had once been fellow human beings and try to understand what had happened.

One body was still intact—though maybe that wasn’t the best word. He had been a well-built man in his fifties, with a slight gut and graying black hair.

His throat had been slit, the cut deep enough that his head hung back at a horrible angle, the muscle and sinew on the inside of his neck clearly visible. His torso was reclining against something Tristan couldn’t see, his legs on the stone floor. The position allowed his head to hang back, the bloody mess of his neck on display.

“He was posed,” Tristan said, pointing at the man.

“Yes.” Antonio’s calm, commanding tone slipped, and the word was full of rage.

The cut throat was not the only damage to the victim. There was a deep cut across the inside of one thigh, and another on the opposite wrist, so deep the hand had nearly been severed.

Both points with major arteries.

That explained the pooled blood on the floor, the spatters on the cave wall to the body’s right.

“Do you know which cut killed him?”

“The throat.” Antonio’s voice was once again calm. “The blood on the wall means his heart was still beating. What do you call that in English?”

“Blood spatter,” Tristan confirmed.

“Spatter. Yes. The other two were done when his heart stopped.”

“He drained the body of blood.”

“Yes.”

“It means the man was killed here.”

Antonio looked at Tristan, his brows raised in mild surprise. “Yes.” Antonio shrugged in that very Italian way. “Tell me, knight, what else do you see? I want to know if you see what I do.”

Tristan turned back to the scene, assessing it once more. The man’s body was the easiest to identify, to understand. Tristan turned his attention to the severed arm that lay only five feet from where he stood.

It was a woman’s arm. The nails on that hand were painted a pale pink. She’d had medium-brown skin—maybe Middle Eastern or North African. Her torso—neck down to belly button—sat next to the first victim’s leg, propped up, as if she were sitting on the floor, back straight. As it was, her body simply stopped at the floor. Tristan’s brain made a good faith effort to convince him that she’d somehow sunk into the stone—as if that was a more reasonable conclusion than she’d been cut in half.

The base of her torso rested in a pool of blood.

“That’s not her blood.” Tristan pointed at the torso. “It’s his.”

Antonio made a noise of agreement.

Tristan forced himself to look at what could only be described as a pile of meat. It was several feet away from the man’s body and the woman’s torso. Nearly two feet tall, the mound of body parts and chunks of flesh was so revolting that Tristan had to swallow against the bile that rose in his throat. It took a moment before he was able to visually dissect it, rather than looking at it as one horrifying whole.

“I see her other arm, and maybe her leg?”

“Yes, the other pieces of that body are all there.”

Tristan studied the arm that he now suspected had rolled off the pile. “The cuts are clean.”

“Cauterized,” Antonio said, pronouncing the word carefully.

“So she was dismembered carefully. But not the third victim.”

“No. Her death was…it was a bad death.”

Tristan had to take Antonio’s word for it, because all he could see was chunks of flesh. There was a mangled hand, three fingers missing, a piece of what looked to be a thigh, and a hank of blood-soaked blonde hair.

“How did she die? Do you know?”

“She was ripped apart by dogs,” Antonio said quietly. “We found teeth marks on bone, animal saliva.”

“You mean after she was dead, dogs started to, uh, eat her?”

“No. She was alive. There were defensive wounds on her arms. Her arms, back, legs, and shoulders had the worst damage. She curled up, protected her belly. If she’d been dead, the animals would have gone for the softer parts first.”

“That’s a bad way to die.”

Beside him, Antonio murmured a few words in Italian and then crossed himself.

I hope you’ve found peace.

It wasn’t exactly a prayer—Tristan wasn’t much for organized religion—but seeing something like this made him want to believe that their souls, spirits, or whatever it should be called were in a place with no pain or fear.

Tristan cleared his throat after a moment. “The women weren’t killed here.”

“Yes. This is what I think, also.”

“Have you been able to determine who died first?”

“It is hard. The cave is naturally cold. But we think Christina died first.”

“Christina?” Tristan asked. “You’ve identified them?”

“Yes. They were all reported missing. We were looking for them.”

“We…you mean they’re all members?”

“Yes. They were married.”

“A trinity?”

“They all went missing the same night. There is blood on Nazario’s hands, blood that belonged to his wives. We think the killer made him help carry Christina and Lorena’s bodies here, then he was killed.”

Tristan closed his eyes, eliminating the visual input so he could concentrate. After a moment, he turned slightly and found Antonio watching him.

“Were there any defensive wounds on Nazario’s body?” Tristan asked.

“No. But marks on his wrists and ankles.”

“Drugs in his system?”

“Not that we have found so far.”

Tristan turned back, his heart aching at the conclusion he’d reached. “They were kidnapped, all three of them. Nazario and one wife were forced to watch as the other wife was mauled to death by dogs. Then the killer killed and dismembered the second wife.”

Antonio made a distressed noise. “We think the woman who was dismembered is Lorena. And…we think she was alive when her arms were severed.”

Tristan shook his head. “Nazario watches his wives being tortured and killed, then he has to help bring their bodies here. Finally, he is killed. He doesn’t put up a fight. He lets the killer slit his throat.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Antonio asked. “After seeing such things?”

“I’m not saying he should have fought. I’m wondering if that’s what the killer wanted.”

“Explain.”

Tristan ignored the fact that it was a command. He didn’t answer to a security officer of Rome, but with the kind of stress Antonio must be under, now wasn’t the time to play dominance games.

“Maybe the killer wanted to break Nazario mentally before he killed him. He wanted him to give up.”

“That makes sense. But of all of them, it was Lorena who was the most powerful.”

“Who was she?”

Antonio just looked at him.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. If Lorena was the main target, then maybe he kept Nazario alive because he knew he’d need help carrying the bodies. Since Lorena was alive when she was dismembered, maybe she was tortured for information. Could the killer have wanted to get information from her?”

“Sì.” Antonio’s next words came out almost as a growl. “The killer, he is taunting our admiral.”

“Your father?”

Antonio shook his head once. “Our admiral.”

Okay then, there was something going on there, but that wasn’t critical to the moment. “And you think the art are clues?”

“Or a message. The principessa knows art, but insisted your Mr. Rathmann come to look at the coins.”

“And I’m guessing you insisted that a knight come with him.” While it was clear Antonio didn’t want him there, Tristan figured the security officer wouldn’t want to take any chances with something happening to James.

Antonio shrugged. “There should not be any danger to you. This is Rome’s problem. But it is better to be safe.”

Tristan owed Lorelei a huge apology. And probably owed James one too. This wasn’t a nanny job.

“Then I’ll go and help them.” Tristan turned away. “I know you won’t take me up on this, but if there’s anything I can do while I’m here, please let me know.”

“I am not so proud, or so stubborn, that I won’t accept help.” Antonio turned away from the scene, facing Tristan. “The same cannot be said of my sister. She refuses a knight to watch over her. She wants everyone focusing on finding this…this animal.”

“That’s understandable.”

“She will not accept protection from me, and the vice admiral will not go against her.” Antonio shook his head, and from the lines around his eyes, Tristan suspected he was smiling. “She is, after all, the princess of Rome.”

“And the admiral will not insist?”

“He wants the killers found, and he believes no one would dare harm her.”

Tristan shook his head. “I’m sorry, then. What can I do?”

“Stay with her. I believe she will want to be close to your Mr. Rathmann while he examines the coins. Watch over her, as well as your own man.”

“I will, on my honor.” Tristan spoke the solemn words, and several of the crime scene techs looked over, apparently fluent enough in English that they’d understood.

“The honor of a knight of England is a great thing. Thank you.” Antonio took a step forward and embraced Tristan, which Tristan endured with great British fortitude while reminding himself that the other man was Italian and this was normal.

They broke apart. One of the crime scene techs called Antonio over. Tristan turned his back on the corpses of what had once been a trinity, and went to find James and Sophia.

Chapter Four

James took another picture with his cell phone, then gingerly lifted the first coin off the second stack. Beside him, Sophia held a clipboard and took notes as he spoke.

“Stack two, coin one. Modern coin. Canadian twenty-five-dollar piece. Silver. Faceup side has a mask or carving of a native entity.”

“Finito.”

James placed the coin in a small plastic bag already labeled with “Stack Two, Coin One.”

Once they’d done their initial inspection of the coin shelf, he and Sophia had pre-labeled small bags for the twenty-seven stacked coins. He also had a larger bag for the other coins on the shelf. As much as he might want to document the position and relative position of every single coin, he wasn’t going to be able to stay down here that long. He’d have to settle for individually bagging the stacked coins and lumping all the others in together to be examined at a later time.

“Stack two, coin two. Another modern coin. Faceup side text reads ‘The Mask of Agamemnon 2007.’ Image is of the mask.”

Sophia leaned close to him to look at the coin he was holding. “It is not really a mask of Agamemnon.” She made a dismissive noise that might have been called a grunt if she weren’t such a beautiful woman. “Heinrich Schliemann’s wishful thinking.”

James grunted in agreement—when he did it, it was a grunt—and bagged the coin. “It’s a ten-dollar coin from the Republic of Liberia.”

“Finito.”

James heard footsteps and turned to see Tristan walking up to them. Turning meant he could see some of the well-lit horror in the center of the cave, and he quickly turned back.

“Stack two, coin three. Ah, beautiful. Ancient coin.” He picked it up reverently between his gloved fingers. He would have preferred cotton gloves when handling ancient coins, but he was perfectly happy for the plastic gloves—he didn’t want to risk touching anything in this place with his bare skin. Though he knew it was psychosomatic, he was sure there was a layer of death clinging to his skin.

Shaking his head to banish that thought, he turned back to the coin. “It’s from Rhegion.”

“Truly? May I see?” He turned so Sophia could see the coin.

“What’s Rhegion?” Tristan asked.

“Not what, where.” James held the coin up so the shadow of his body didn’t block the light. “It was a place of learning in the time of Ancient Greece. It is where the Pythagorean School was.”

“As in triangles?” Tristan leaned forward to peer at the coin. He was well into James’s personal space, and James was suddenly aware of the other man in a way that went beyond physical.

“Rhegion was in the heart of the area first called Italia,” Sophia added.

“What does that mean?” Tristan asked.

“That the coin came from the south of Italy? I don’t know. Not yet. But I—” James stopped himself.

“What is it?” Sophia asked.

“Nothing. At least not yet. I want to wait and see.”

“James.” Tristan laid his hand on James’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “If you think you know anything that will help, tell us, please.”

“Let me finish, and then I will tell you what I think.” James looked at Sophia. “Faceup side is a lion scalp mask.”

He bagged that, trying to move more quickly now. “Stack two, coin four. Modern coin. One obol coin from the Ionian Islands. Faceup side is the lion of St. Mark, and it says Ionian State in Greek. 1819.”

Coins five and six were both smaller silver coins, most likely from a Babylonian mint, from 300–400 BCE, and so degraded he was surprised that the stack had stayed upright.

“Stack two, coin seven. Modern coin. A Vatican lira. Faceup side is…it’s badly damaged, but I think it’s Pope John Paul II.” The face of the coin was scarred and blackened.

The final two coins were both Vatican issue. One a gold zecchino, the other an oxidized coin bearing the Christogram of the Jesuits—“IHS” inside rays of light.

“That’s six catholic coins.” Sophia’s voice was tight.

“You think this has something to do with religion?” Tristan asked her.

“I hope not,” Sophia spoke softly, almost as if she feared the words.

Without thinking, James reached out and covered the hand in which she held the pen. Her head came up and she met his eyes.

Damn, but she was beautiful. It was her eyes, he decided. They were the eyes of a confident, smart woman. In another time, another place, she would have inspired men to go to war for her. No, she wasn’t just a lovely face and figure. She would have ridden at the head of her army, not necessarily a warrior, but a fearless leader, a goddess come to life who could inspire people to greatness.

And he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her with the same desperation that he wanted to get out of this godforsaken cave.

He looked away first. “Let’s finish and then we’ll talk about it.”

He started on the last stack. When they were down to the last two coins, there was a shout of alarm from behind them.

James, Sophia, and Tristan all turned, Tristan taking a step forward, placing himself squarely in front of them.

If James had been a shorter man, Tristan’s back might have blocked his view of what was happening. But he wasn’t that lucky.

Two of the white-garbed men working the crime scene had tried to pick up what seemed to be a leg. The limb came apart in their hands, falling onto the pile of no-longer-human bits. In an instant, the smell of rotting meat and putrid blood doubled.

James gagged, then pressed his fist against his mouth. Sophia turned toward him, her eyes bright with tears.

James reached out and jammed the last two coins into their respective bags, shoving them into his pockets with the others. He grabbed the large bag, holding it with both hands. Sophia took the cue and started scooping handfuls of the non-stacked coins into the bag. A few fell to the floor. He winced but didn’t comment.

Tristan stooped and picked up the fallen coins, tossing them into the bag. When the last one was in, James twirled the bag to close the top.

Tristan took both his elbow and Sophia’s and started leading them out of the cave. When Sophia turned to look at the horrific scene, Tristan moved up beside her, blocking her view.

Sophia stopped, frowning as if she were about to object.

James was barely holding on. He wouldn’t make it if he had to stand there waiting for them to hash out whose balls were bigger.

“Move, woman,” he growled.

Sophia turned toward James with surprise on her face—what he could see of it. And then the surprise turned to interest.

No, that couldn’t be right. Wishful thinking on his part.

“Come on.” Tristan put his hand under Sophia’s elbow and led her out. James was on her heels. They climbed the stone steps with more haste than grace. The instant they reached the top, James ripped off his mask, stumbled behind the van and was violently ill.

The fancy meal from the plane came back to visit, and even after that was gone, he dry heaved for a few minutes.

Tristan appeared at his side, handing him a wet wipe. James took it, cleaning his face, then accepted the proffered bottle of water, taking a big mouthful and then spitting it out. He repeated that several times before dumping the remaining water on the rock, washing away evidence of his body’s reaction to the horror.

James straightened. He still had the large bag of coins gripped in one hand, his pockets full of the smaller coins. The sun had set while they were in the cave, and the last rays of golden light painted the Italian countryside with lavender, blue, and gold.

“Are you all right?” Tristan asked.

“For now. That was…that was horrible.”

Tristan nodded grimly. “It was. What do you need?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you need in order to figure out what the coins are supposed to say?”

“Someplace quiet and clean with Wi-Fi. I need to spread them out, check details on a few.”

“You mean you couldn’t identify every single one on sight?”

James was about to shoot back a hard reply when he saw the corners of Tristan’s eyes were crinkled with a smile that didn’t touch his lips.

“Be nice, or when we get back to London, I won’t show you our secret collection of dirty coins.” James passed Tristan the bag of coins to hold while he slipped out of the protective layers of plastic-lined fabric.

“Dirty?”

“Sex. Lots of sex happening on those coins. Mostly from behind.” James wiggled his eyebrows at Tristan, then checked to make sure all the smaller coins were safely tucked in the pockets of his pants. It was far from ideal—the thin metal of the coins would heat up being held so close to his body—but the coins were far better off in his pants pocket than in the cave with the dead bodies.

“Guy on guy?” Tristan asked.

“Some, and some with girls. What do you prefer?”

“In porn coins? I’m not sure. Haven’t seen one before.”

James barked out a laugh.

Sophia came over, frowning slightly. “Andiamo. Let’s go.”

Her accent had thickened, and her face was damp, as if she’d splashed water over it. Tristan and James shared a look, their gazes meeting for a second too long to be casually appropriate.

“I’ve booked us a hotel in Rome,” Tristan told Sophia as they walked to her car. “Can you give us a lift there, or to the closest place where we can call for a car?”

“No, no, no. No time. We will go to the villa.”

“The villa?” James looked at Tristan, who shrugged.

“Yes, yes. My father owns it.”

“Wait, do you mean to say he owns that palace?” James asked.

“Villa.” She yanked open her car door and got in.

Tristan and James both jumped into their seats. Tristan’s door wasn’t fully closed before she had the car in reverse.

James waited until she managed to get the car turned around and headed out the way they’d come in. “What’s wrong, Ms. Starabba?”

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “How could you ask me that? Do you not think what we saw was wrong?”

“Of course I do. I just don’t understand the sudden urgency.”

She deflated slightly. “What if their souls are not yet at rest? What if they’re waiting there, in that horrible place, for justice?”

James touched her shoulder. “Are you Catholic?”

“Of course.”

“Then have faith that they’re at rest. That they’re with their Father.”

Sophia blinked and a tear slid down her cheek. “You are right. Now is not the time to let my faith falter.”

“We’ll go to the villa.” James twisted to check with Tristan, who nodded. “We can look at the coins and see if that helps them figure out who those people were.”

“We already know who they are. Were.”

Tristan’s words were so unexpected, Sophia nearly crashed the car.

“What?” she demanded. “Who?”

“All I got is first names. Christina, Lorena, and Nazario. But your brother said they’ve been missing.”

“No, no, no,” Sophia chanted. “Ah, their poor children!”

“They have kids?” Tristan asked.

James held his hand up. “Okay, hold on. First of all, Sophia, your brother was there?”

“Yes, he is in charge of the investigation.”

“Her brother is one of Rome’s security officers,” Tristan added darkly.

Oh shit.

“Oh shit.”

“Exactly my thoughts,” Tristan replied.

“Second question,” James continued. “You said they had kids. Does that mean the three bodies down there…”

“They were married, yes.” Sophia took out a bush as she rocketed back toward the villa at what had to be an unsafe speed for this terrain. “One of our trinities. Their children are all grown. All members.”

That meant they were at least eighteen. Legacy members of the Masters’ Admiralty were invited to join at age eighteen, and they had one year to accept that membership.

“Lorena was a finance officer.” Sophia maneuvered them out of the trees until they were once more on the road beside the manicured grounds. They reached the bottom of the small valley that separated the high ground where the villa stood from the high ground of the forested area and cave. The big car started up the incline. Once they were past the stables, rather than continuing along the side of the house, Sophia turned into a small paved area behind the villa. She turned off the car and they all climbed out.

They followed her to a large wooden door. On any other residence, it would have been an impressive front door, but for this grand place, it was relegated to the rear entrance.

Sophia opened the door and gestured them inside. “Benvenuti nella Villa Degli Dei.”

James’s Italian wasn’t great, but when he stepped in the back door into a grand central hall, the ceiling three stories above them arched and painted like that in the Basilica, he knew why the place was called Villa of the Gods.

“I think the furniture must come to life.” James draped one of his big, heavily muscled arms over Tristan’s shoulders. He didn’t tense at the contact—first off, it felt good, which was something he’d have to think about later. Second, Tristan was too busy gaping at the living room.

Five minutes ago, they’d stopped in here to drop off the coins, then Sophia had directed them all to different bathrooms and assigned them bedrooms. The room had transformed. The curtains lining one wall had all been pulled back. French balcony doors and tall windows showed off a panoramic view of the last moments of sunset.

The massive stone fireplace, which had been dark and cold, now held a cheerful fire, the faint scent of wood smoke mingling with the smells of food.

A round dining table had appeared. It was draped with a pale-gold cloth and set with gold candlesticks topped by fat white pillar candles. There were three place settings—the silverware gold, the plates creamy white with filigree rims. A sideboard near where the dining table had been placed had been cleared off, and silver and gold bowls and platters crowded together on the glossy wood surface, each one filled with delicious-looking dishes. The smell of the food and the wood smoke made Tristan’s mouth water.

“I have to agree,” Tristan told James. “The villa is enchanted and the furniture comes to life. And apparently cooks.”

“Enchanted? No, no, no.”

Sophia’s voice startled Tristan enough that he whipped around, placing himself between her and James, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

Sophia raised a brow. She’d pulled her hair up into a ponytail and wore a long, thin sweater coat in place of the leather jacket. She looked younger than she had before, her face softer. She’d taken off her makeup.

James stepped up beside Tristan. “Sophia, are you cursed and living all alone in an enchanted palace?”

She smiled—no, not just smiled. She grinned, and he was struck again by how lovely she was.

James slapped Tristan on the back. “I just happen to have a handsome knight right here. He could break the spell.”

Tristan snorted, but some stupid romantic part of him wanted to grab Sophia and kiss her, just in case. Better safe than sorry.

As if he were the sort of knight who championed fair maidens, went on quests, and whose kisses could break spells. No. He was the bloodied soldier raised up to the status of knight, something far beyond his station, to serve the king.

“I’m just a soldier,” he said, though the words cost him something. “James is a legacy. Far more likely to be the man who’d break the spell.”

“Look at me.” James gestured to himself. “I’m the evil henchman.” He bared his teeth.

Sophia tipped her head to the side, then sighed. “You English are so strange.”

She walked past them into the room, not at all startled by the sudden appearance of the elegantly set table or feast.

“Seriously, where did all this come from?” Tristan asked.

“My father’s servants are masters of their craft.”

She ignored the table and the food, heading instead for the coffee table in front of the fire. That’s where they’d dumped the coins.

She dropped down to sit cross-legged on the floor. “Where should we start?”

James once more draped his arm over Tristan’s shoulders. “We should start with food.”

Tristan turned his head, careful not to push James away. “James, unless you’re starving, it would be best for you to look at the coins first. We need to get whatever information we have, whatever clues we’ve found, to Sophia’s brother.”

“I have a theory.” James dropped his arm from Tristan’s shoulders and his expression grew grim. “I’ll tell you while we eat.”

Sophia started to rise, bracing her hands on the table. Tristan hurried over and held out one hand, his other on the hilt of the sword to make sure it stayed out of his way as he bent forward to offer her assistance.

Sophia looked up in mild surprise, then placed her hand in his.

Tristan sucked in a breath—the skin-on-skin contact sent shivers of awareness and arousal up his arm and into his chest.

He pulled her gently to her feet. They were standing close together—close enough that when Sophia took a deep breath, her breasts brushed his chest.

Tristan took a hasty step back and gestured for Sophia to proceed him.

He stared at the carpet as he walked, fighting down the feelings Sophia’s touch had awakened.

He looked up as Sophia picked up a plate from the table and went to the buffet. James was watching them. His eyebrows were lowered over eyes that glittered with…

Tristan first thought it was anger, but no, that wasn’t it.

The expression on James’s face was one of possession and lust.

Tristan picked up the remaining two plates, passing one to James.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Tristan said sotto voce.

James’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Caught that, did you?”

Tristan clapped James on the back. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who was thinking about what it would be like…” Tristan cleared his throat but didn’t finish the sentence. He’d been about to say, “between the three of us together.”

They stepped up to the buffet, then stood in a reverent moment of silence, saying thanks for the spread laid out before them.

“You know, you never answered my question.” James used a silver-embossed, cake-knife type utensil to cut himself a piece of lasagna.

“What question?” Tristan asked.

“What you prefer. Guy on guy, guy on girl.”

“Before I joined, girls only. But I’ve been expanding my tastes.”

“Prepping for your trinity. Smart.”

Tristan and James looked at each other, and their gazes met. Another shiver of awareness and arousal shook Tristan. He grunted and stabbed a piece of eggplant parmesan, putting it onto his plate. “This is not the time or place.” He was speaking more to himself than anyone, but beside him, James stiffened.

You’re a bloody fucking wanker.

Tristan took his plate to the table, sitting across from Sophia. James joined them a moment later, taking the seat between them.

Sophia had a small mound of angel hair pasta tossed with basil, tomato, and olive oil. The rest of her plate was filled with salad.

Tristan’s and James’s plates were piled high with pasta and meat.

“Tell us, per favore,” Sophia said.

James finished chewing what was in his mouth and swallowed, then took a sip of the poured red wine. This place had to be enchanted.

“There were twenty-seven stacked coins, divided into three piles of nine.”

“Everything in multiples of three,” Tristan said. “There is no doubt that the killer knows about the Masters’ Admiralty—they took a trinity.”

There was silence while they absorbed that, and everyone took another bite.

James cleared his throat. “Within each stack of nine coins, there were three sets of similar coins.”

“What do you mean?” Sophia asked.

“Nine coins. The first three coins in each stack had a mask on them. The coins themselves were all different—some modern, some ancient, but each depicted a mask.”

Tristan frowned. A mask. That meant something, but he couldn’t remember why the word mask was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“The first trinity of coins within the stack is a maschera. What about the next?” Sophia asked.

“Coins four, five, and six, the second trinity, are a bit trickier. Again, it was a mix of ancient and modern coins. I think the clue is the modern coin from the Ionian Islands.”

“I don’t understand,” Tristan admitted.

“In the nineteenth century, the Ionian Islands currency included an obol coin.”

“Obol. They used that name?” Sophia asked with sharp interest.

“Yes. And the other coins are all small gold and silver Greek or Roman coins.”

“They could have been obols.”

Tristan took a bite of delicious, herby sausage, hoping they would explain. No explanation was forthcoming. James and Sophia were just grinning at each other.

Tristan sighed. “I still don’t understand.” He wished that once, just once, he could go for a whole day without being reminded just how outclassed he was. Members of the Masters’ Admiralty were chosen because of both who they were and what they could become. Except in his case. Who Tristan was when he’d joined wasn’t anything to brag about. But he’d changed since then. He strived to live up to the ideals of a knight, to be Tristan Knight.

But that couldn’t hide the fact that he hadn’t had a fancy classical education, or that he didn’t come from a long line of scholars, artists, or businessmen.

All that meant was he had no idea why James and Sophia, both legacies, were grinning at each other as if they’d just decoded the map to El Dorado.

“Obols were coins used in ancient Greece, and again in Rome, though not as widely. Think of obols the way you would, say, a penny.”

“An American penny?”

James pointed at Tristan with a breadstick. “That’s just it. The word ‘penny’ is used in many different countries. What you did was right. You were specific—an ‘American Penny.’”

Sophia took over. “The, the…what is the word? The criminal made sure we would know that the ancient coins were obols by including the modern coin.”

She raised her glass in a toast. “Intelligente, Mr. Rathmann. I would not have seen that.”

“Mask, then obol,” Tristan said. “What’s the last set?”

James’s smile vanished. “This one is both more obvious and more obscure.”

Tristan gave up. He knew it was bad manners, but he planted his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. “Someday. Someday someone will give me a straight answer.”

James clapped him on the shoulder. “Not today.”

“Of course not.” Tristan sat up, reminded himself he was a knight, and looked at James. “What’s the deal with coins seven, eight, and nine?”

“They were all issued by the Vatican.”

James had mentioned that in the cave, but the implications of that started to sink in. Tense silence fell over the table. A log in the fireplace snapped, the sound like a crack of gunfire. Sophia and James both jumped, and Tristan’s fingers hurt, he was gripping the hilt of his sword so hard.

“The Vatican,” Sophia breathed. She crossed herself.

“And you’re Catholic.” Tristan remembered her comment from the car.

Sophia shrugged. “I’m Italian.”

James raised his eyebrows. “I’m Catholic.”

“If the church had something to do with this…” Tristan let the statement hang, unfinished.

The Masters’ Admiralty had been founded after the Black Plague, and one of the most important roles of the organization after its inception was to balance the influence of the church. Without the Masters’ Admiralty, the rulers of Europe would have ended up ceding their power to the church, and what was now dozens of different nations would have merged into an all-powerful Holy Roman Empire.

It had taken nearly a hundred years for the church to figure out who the Masters’ Admiralty were, though at the time they’d had another name—the Illuminati. The way Tristan had heard it, many of the founding members had been among the last handful of the remaining Illuminati.

The relationship between the church—first only the Catholic Church, and later many of the Orthodox churches—and the Masters’ Admiralty had existed in a state of tense detente.

“If the church has something to do with this,” Sophia said, “the time of peace is over.”

Tristan stiffened. “You think it would come to that?”

“Yes. Not war as we know it now—not tanks and planes—but assassinations, sabotage.” She shook her head. “My brother would…it would be a hard time for the security officers and for the knights of Rome…and the other territories.” She looked at Tristan. “I will pray that we are wrong.”

James shook his head. “I wish it were different. I will look at the coins again. We know what they are, but we still do not know their meaning.”

“What do you need?” Sophia rose as she spoke. “Cotton gloves?”

“Yes, and a piece of felt if you have it. I have a small piece in my bag. White lights.”

“I’ll get your bag from the car.” Tristan rose.

“Tristan,” James said. “I hope I’m wrong.”

“Are you?”

“About where the coins came from? No.”

“If I am needed to fight, then I will fight.” Tristan nodded once and walked out of the sitting room.

He kept his head high and did his best to ignore the dread knotting his stomach.

Chapter Five

James paused to stretch his back. Sitting hunched over the table was making every muscle in his lower back ache. His leg felt stiff, which wasn’t exactly news, but he should probably get up and walk around.

It was full night now. They’d left the curtains open so they could see the stars and the rolling Italian countryside. Sophia had spoken with her brother an hour ago, letting him know that the coins indicated a tie to the Vatican. If anyone had the ability to find out information from the Masters’ Admiralty’s oldest adversary, it would be the security officers and knights of Rome.

James ignored the way his fingers trembled with adrenaline. The need to keep going, to learn every detail of every coin, was riding him. He had a sickening feeling that if he missed something, people might die. Intellectually, he knew that was absurd, but emotionally, he was convinced that if he screwed up, people he cared about, people he knew, would die.

People like Tristan Knight.

It was times like these when he missed rugby—there was nothing like a good scrum. Pitting his body mass and force of will against that of his opponents, while his teammates dug in beside and around him, was the ultimate in aggression and stress relief. When he’d been younger, he’d needed that outlet.

He’d had a chip on his shoulder since he’d first realized how different he was from the other boys at the private school he’d attended in London. Most of them were, like him, the children of rich and powerful families. But they’d almost all been pale and slim. In comparison, he’d been a hulking, dark-haired and dark-skinned fish out of water. It didn’t matter that his grandfather had been a Samoan king, his grandmother the daughter of an English peer who went to live in the South Pacific at a doctor’s suggestion due to James’s grandmother’s bad lungs. It didn’t matter that James’s father, the youngest of three sons, had decided to move to England, and in doing so, accepted his legacy membership to the Masters’ Admiralty.

All that had mattered was that he was too big, too dark. There’d been a few years where he’d dreaded going to school, though he was a good student. But in time he’d found a way to be comfortable in his own skin, and sports had helped him figure out who he was. He’d floundered for a bit after his early retirement thanks to his busted knee. While convalescing, he’d gone back to a hobby from his youth—collecting coins. It had started when he’d found an old box containing a handful of Roman coins that had been discovered during an excavation on one of his family’s estates.

That had led to an interest in archaeology, one encouraged by both his medical team and his family. An archaeology team from Bristol had an outstanding request to excavate a site on property owned by his uncle. His uncle had agreed to let them excavate, if James could be part of the team. James hadn’t wanted to go, sure that the “real” archaeologists would resent having him forced upon them. He’d earned his fortune and made a name for himself in rugby—and that success was all his own, not a byproduct of his family’s wealth and connections.

Boredom made him swallow his pride. There was only so much TV he could stand to watch.

He’d been welcomed into the dig team with open arms. He hadn’t realized that most archaeology digs were staffed by students and volunteers, with only the leader of the dig team an actual PhD archaeologist. The digging itself had been a bit hard on his still-recovering knee, but he’d loved sitting on the ground, bad leg stuck out to one side, carefully scraping away thin layers of dirt and cataloguing what was found.

They’d discovered bits of decayed metal and three coins. Not much for a whole summer’s worth of work, but he’d loved it.

After that, he’d applied to any dig, accepting offers from the famous digs in Greece that had waiting lists several years long, to smaller digs in Turkey and Morocco. He’d done eight digs over the course of several years, taking university classes along the way to learn more about the background and theory of archaeology.

He’d unearthed things that hadn’t been in human hands for millennia, met people, made friends, and discovered what it was he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

He’d gotten a master’s, considered going for a PhD, but stopped when he realized that his favorite things were coins. No matter what they found at dig sites—including a baby skeleton in a jar, which had been seriously interesting—the coins were what fascinated him. He’d stepped back from a career as an archaeologist and focused on coinage.

From there, his interest had expanded into more than just coins, including the idea of money and payment. Numismatics wasn’t exactly a huge field, so after attending lectures and reading everything he could get his hands on, he’d gone looking for more—more to learn, more to know. Within six years of his retirement from rugby, he’d had a paid part-time assistant curator position at a small museum focused on Roman Britain—the same museum where the three precious coins they’d found on his first dig were displayed.

His book, a small volume on the few Roman coins produced in England, had been a bestseller. He had no illusions about why that was—the novelty factor of a former world-famous rugby star writing a stuffy academic book had captured the public’s imagination.

A year later, he’d gotten a call from the British Museum, offering him a position. He’d figured it was a publicity stunt on their part, but his pride wasn’t greater than his desire to dig around in the museum’s massive collection of coins. Much to his surprise, it hadn’t been a stunt, and the director of the museum hadn’t even known he’d played rugby.

All of that had led him here—to a beautiful villa outside of Rome, a table full of coins…and a stomach-churning anxiety that he wasn’t good enough, didn’t know enough, to help catch the killer who had tortured those poor people in the cave.

He walked over to the buffet, where dessert and coffee were laid out. This time they’d seen the people who came to clear away the food, so he’d had to abandon the idea that the castle was run by sentient pieces of furniture and objets d’art.

He took one of the demitasse cups of espresso. It was lukewarm, but still delicious. The anxiety faded, and his shoulders relaxed. In place of anxiety, he felt rather fatalistic. Life’s turning points were usually identified in hindsight—that was when it was easy to see that failures had actually been the start of new opportunities, to realize that success wasn’t necessarily an identifiable milestone, but a feeling. He’d felt this before, during a match when he’d known a recruiter from the All Blacks was there, and though he’d said that was a “good opportunity,” he’d known it would be the start of something for him.

His life had taken strange twists and turns, and he couldn’t help but feel like all those changes in direction and unexpected corners had led him to this moment. That if he didn’t use everything he knew, everything he’d learned, to not only help catch a killer, but prevent a war, it would all have been wasted.

Time to get back to it. James set down the espresso cup and rolled his shoulders. Placing one hand on the wall, he lifted his right leg off the floor and squatted, using only his bad leg. Muscles and tendons screamed, and he gritted his teeth. The pain did more to wake him up than the espresso did.

He forced himself to squat three more times, trying to loosen the joint so that he could resume his seated position.

He turned to see Tristan watching him. The knight’s hands were braced on the arms of the chair he’d taken beside the fire, as if he were poised to stand. Concern marked his face, his golden eyebrows drawn together. Tristan really was handsome. If children were asked to draw a knight, Tristan was who they would draw.

Interesting then, the moments of insecurity James had sensed in him.

Sophia sat at a second table the quiet, scarily efficient servants had brought in. On it lay two paintings and several artifacts, including a jeweled box. Both their tables were draped in clean white fabric, though James had added a square of black felt over the white tablecloth. A lamp with a bright “daylight” bulb sat on his table, and the coins gleamed with the muted glow of old metal.

“James?” Tristan’s voice was pitched low, so as not to disturb Sophia, who was carefully examining the treasure box.

“I’m fine.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. I need to get back to work.”

“It’s late. Perhaps you want to get some sleep? I can call a car to take us back to Rome.”

Sophia looked up. “No, no, no. You will stay here. You should get some sleep.”

“I want to keep working.” James resumed his seat, making sure he didn’t wince as he did so.

Sophia looked between him and Tristan. “You have done so much already. Alerted us to the possibility of the church’s involvement.”

“There’s more here. Some of these coins are rare, and all of them are valuable. There is more to the message than just the church.” James inhaled through his nose. “I should have waited until I knew more. Shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You did what was right.” Tristan rose and joined James at his table. “We needed whatever information you might have, as soon as possible.”

James looked down at the twenty-seven coins he’d lined up. Three sets of three for each of the stacks, the message repeating in each.

“Talk me through it,” Tristan said.

James grunted and passed him some cotton gloves. “Put these on.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Not professor. Not yet. I haven’t finished my PhD. Can’t teach yet.”

“You’re getting your PhD in, uh, old money?”

James caught the dubious look Tristan was giving the coins and laughed. The laughter helped ease some of the tension from his shoulders and back.

“The first three coins in each stack are masks.” One by one, James picked up the coins and handed them to Tristan.

“It’s obvious enough on the modern ones, but,” Tristan held up a coin that was, conservatively, 2400 years old, “how do you know this is a mask?”

“Years of study, the scholarship of generations of numismatists who came before me.”

“Ah. Well.” Tristan set the coin down. “First clue, masks.”

“Next, we have obols. In each stack, there was one modern obol.”

“And what does that mean, that they’re obols?”

“Death,” James and Sophia said at the same time.

Tristan’s eyebrows rose. “And you both knew this and didn’t tell me.”

James winced. “Sorry, I…” I thought you’d know. He stopped the words in time, remembering the way Tristan’s accent had slipped. James wasn’t such a pompous ass that he assumed Tristan’s accent meant he was uneducated, but the accent, with a few other things, were possibly an indicator of a vast difference between James’s and Tristan’s upbringings. “You mean normal people don’t automatically know what an obol is and therefore what it’s meant to symbolize?” He put enough fake incredulity into his voice to make it obvious it was a joke.

“I’m normal,” Sophia protested without looking up.

“Of course, Principessa,” Tristan murmured.

James snorted out a laugh. “How’s your Greek mythology?”

Tristan sighed. “Pretend I know nothing.”

“In Greek mythology, when a person died, their soul had to cross the river Styx before reaching the underworld.”

Tristan frowned. “There was a boat or something?”

James grinned. “The price of a ride across the river was two obols, paid to Charon, the ferryman.”

“Obols were dead man’s money?”

“Yes, though they were a widely used monetary denomination. Actually, originally, obols weren’t coins, but a bundle of—”

Tristan held his hand up. “No. Focus.”

James humphed. Obols were fascinating. Conceding that Tristan probably had a point, he contented himself with planning a nice obol lecture for their plane ride back to London.

“Masks and death. That’s what we have so far,” Tristan summed up.

“And finally, the last three coins in each set. All issued by the Vatican.”

“Besides that, is there anything similar?”

“They all bear a Christogram, which is hardly unexpected.” James started sliding the coins around gently, grouping them together. “Of the nine Vatican coins, six of them have the Christogram of the Society of Jesus—the Jesuits. Two of them are modern coins with the profiles of modern Popes on them, though both of the modern coins are blackened.”

James stopped speaking, staring at the coins. There was something there.

Tristan picked up the coin bearing Pope John Paul II’s image. “It looks like this was intentionally damaged.”

James picked up the final Vatican coin. This one was black and green with age and oxidization. One side bore the Greek letters IHS, but none of the other markings of the Jesuit Christogram. The opposite side was the silhouetted image of a man.

No. Wait.

James lifted his magnifying glass. Not just a man. A monk. The tonsure was there, if hidden under layers of grime.

James set down the coin and grabbed his laptop off the seat of the third chair.

“Jay-sus bloody Christ,” Tristan breathed. “Does this mean they’re going to kill the Pope?”

Sophia gasped then raced over, dropping into the chair the laptop had been occupying a moment before. “What did you just say?”

“The coins with the picture of the Pope. They’re damaged. The obols mean death.”

“Madonna santa.” Sophia pressed her hand against her heart. “This cannot be.”

James found what he was looking for in the museum database—a similar coin, in better condition, with the text clearly visible. If he was right about that coin, then that meant…

He looked at the coins bearing the images of masks. This time it wasn’t the fact that he was a numismatist that let him make the connection, but the fact that he spent every day in one of the world’s best museums. Last year, after the release of a new Jane Austen movie adaptation, there’d been an exhibit on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century fashion.

“Stop.” James’s voice was harder than he’d meant it to be, but his heart was in his throat. “It’s not the Pope. Not the Roman Catholic Pope.”

He folded back the felt, hiding the twenty-seven stacked coins. Then he grabbed the bag of loose coins and emptied it onto the white tablecloth. His fingers sifted gently but quickly through the coins, his eyes flicking to each.

After only a moment, he knew he was right.

Sophia was also sorting the coins. “There are only two kinds.” She picked up one. “This is some British commemorative coin.” Her breath caught. “Commemorative of Admiral Lord Nelson.”

Tristan picked up one of the other coins. “This is a Manx pound. The currency of the Isle of Man.”

No one moved. No one breathed.

“No, no, no.” Sophia’s words broke the silence. She shook her head, her ponytail whipping side to side.

“The leader of the Jesuits, the Superior General, is sometimes called the Black Pope, because the Jesuits wear black.” James looked at his companions. “Right, Sophia?”

“Si,” she whispered.

“So the Vatican coins may mean this has something to do with the church. Or the Jesuits. Most of the coins show the Jesuit Christogram, and the damage to the blackened papal images could be meant to represent the Jesuit Superior General—the Black Pope.”

“I sense a ‘but’,” Tristan said grimly.

“But…” James inhaled, then exhaled again, keeping his breathing steady so he didn’t panic and freak out. “My great aunt, a Masters’ Admiralty historian, told me that the leader of our society used to be called the Shadow Pope, or the Dark Pope.”

Sophia folded back the felt, revealing the stacked coins. “The mask will kill the Shadow Pope.”

Tristan surged to his feet, hand on his sword. James looked down at the coins—the currency from the Isle of Man, where the Masters’ Admiralty was headquartered. The coins bearing the likeness of Admiral Nelson, for whom the society was currently named.

“This has nothing to do with the church.” James met both their gazes in turn. “He’s going to kill the fleet admiral.”

Chapter Six

Sophia tried, and failed, to control the outrage in her voice. “Father, you must listen to me. The coins—”

“The coins aren’t important anymore. They’ve told you what we needed to know.”

She wanted to scream and throw her hands in the air, but knew that wouldn’t get her anywhere with her father. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to see her hands since they were on the phone. “The paintings too. They were painted by Daniel Giovossi, who spent ten years living on the Isle of Man before returning to Italy.”

“All that is meant to do is to taunt me. He’s telling me he knows exactly who I am—that I have ties to both the isle and to Italy.”

Sophia noted that her father had used the first person. The admiral of Rome was assuming the killer’s message was directed at him. Her father’s arrogance was astounding.

“If it was directed at you, there would have been other ways to indicate that.”

Tristan appeared in the doorway to her left and held up six fingers.

“Father,” she said, somewhat desperately, “if you were the target, they would have included Roman coins, with the images of Caesar.”

“This murder took place in Rome.”

“Please, Father. You have to alert the fleet admiral.”

“He does not need to be troubled by these sorts of things.”

Sophia held the phone so hard she could hear it creak in her hand. This conversation was hopeless. “Of course, Father.”

He made a pleased noise. “Very good, Sophia. I will speak with you later.”

“Goodbye.” She hung up, laying the antique ivory and gold phone back in the cradle.

Tristan was still in the doorway. “I don’t speak Italian, but it doesn’t sound like that went well.”

“It did not. He won’t listen.”

Tristan nodded. “Our plane leaves at six a.m.”

“You’re leaving?” That explained why he’d held up six fingers. It was nearing midnight now.

“Yes. We’ll return to London long enough for the plane to refuel and for James to deplane.”

“You’re going on, to the Isle of Man?”

“Yes. And you should know that I’ve told England’s vice admiral what we found. Our other knights are otherwise occupied, so Lorelei is going to alert the Spartan Guard.”

Sophia nodded. “Good. And I’m coming with you.”

Tristan raised his eyebrows. “Pardon me?”

“My father would not listen to me. If you hadn’t been here…” She heaved a sigh. “No one in Rome will go against my father.”

“He’s the admiral.”

“Caesar. He thinks of himself as Caesar. He would prefer we call the fleet admiral the emperor.”

“I thought we stopped calling him that two hundred years ago.”

“My father does not like that we adopted English terms. But that is not my point. If we’re right, the fleet admiral is in danger. My father would not warn him because he thinks there’s no need, and I’m afraid our vice admiral would not go against him. If you weren’t here to send the message through your leadership, the fleet admiral would not know he was in danger.”

Tristan’s face was hard. “It is the duty of every member to safeguard and protect the fleet admiral.”

Sophia realized that she’d just informed a knight of England that the admiral of Rome was not doing his duty. Shit.

She rushed over to Tristan, taking his hand in hers. “Please, I did not mean it the way it sounded. My father is a good man, a proud man. He is sure they will catch the killer here, in Rome.”

“I am a knight.”

Sophia dropped his hand and took a step back. “I know that. What will you do?”

“I will do exactly what I said. I will go to the Isle of Man and provide support to the Spartan Guard.”

She raised her chin. “I’m coming with you.”

“Why?” He stared at her as if she were a stranger. Logically, she knew they were strangers to one another, but the horror they’d seen together felt like a bond, as if in only a few hours they were more connected than people who’d spent years together.

Sophia folded her hands at her waist, back straight, gaze level. “I am the Princess of Rome. I am an officer of the Carabinieri. I will travel with you as an ambassador of Rome. While my father and brother focus on finding the killer here in Italy, I offer my support to the Knight of England on your quest to ascertain the safety of the fleet admiral.”

James appeared behind Tristan. He must have heard most of what she’d said, because he was smiling.

“You just got out-politicked, Tristan.”

Tristan sent a baleful look in James’s direction. “This isn’t about politics; it’s about protecting the fleet admiral. That’s my duty as a knight.”

“Technically, isn’t it the Spartan Guard’s duty?” James mused.

She switched tactics. “Please, Tristan. Let me go with you.”

He shook his head. “I have to tell my vice admiral what I know. That will include the fact that your father was aware of what we found, and did nothing.”

Sophia’s stomach clenched with anxiety. Her father was savvy and powerful. He could weather a storm like this, though not unscathed. That didn’t lessen the fact that she’d made such a big mistake, speaking so openly in front of a knight of another territory. “I understand you have your duty. And I have mine.”

“Sounds like it’s settled.” James threw his arm over Tristan’s shoulders. “We’re all going to the Isle of Man.”

“Wait, what? You’re not going,” Tristan said.

“Yep. I am.”

“No.”

“Oh, but yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a part of this. I want to see it through.”

Tristan shrugged off James’s arm and said something so fast, and in such a strong accent, that Sophia couldn’t comprehend it. “I didn’t understand.”

“He called us bloody fucking wankers. His east end is showing.”

Sophia shook her head. “East end?”

“Why do the two of you want to go?” Tristan demanded. “What possible reason could you have? Do you remember what we saw in that cave, what was done to them?”

James crossed his arms, and the small gesture made him seem twice as large as he was. His easygoing manner was somewhat at odds with his big, heavily muscled frame, making it hard to remember just how physically dominant he was until he adjusted his posture to make use of his size.

Sophia licked her lips. If she went, she’d be traveling with a golden-haired knight and a man who could throw her over his shoulder and carry her away to ravish her while carrying on a conversation about antiquities.

Damn her imagination. Now was not the time to be considering exactly how nice it would be to be ravished by James, especially if Tristan took a turn ravishing her too.

Sophia blinked. This was an inappropriate time to be fantasizing about a ménage a trois. Though it had been half a year since she’d last been intimate with someone. Over a year since her last highly erotic intimate encounter—a ménage a trois with a lovely couple, German backpackers. Sophia was not ashamed of her sexual desires and had sought out all different flavors of experiences. After all, she didn’t want to fumble and be awkward once she was married.

“Sophia? Sophia.” Tristan touched her arm lightly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you by reminding you about the cave.”

That snapped her back into the moment. “Just because I am afraid doesn’t mean I am not going with you.”

“You just admitted you’re scared. You don’t need to go. Don’t put yourself through this.”

“Saying I am afraid is not a weakness. We should all be afraid. If you say you are not, then…” Sophia raised her chin. “Then you are the fool.”

Tristan sighed. “But you just looked—”

“I was not thinking about the murders.”

Tristan’s golden brows drew together. He wasn’t convinced. It was time for her to play her best card.

“I will be able to get information about the investigation from my brother. If I’m with you, I can tell you everything the security team in Rome learns.”

“The fleet admiral can ask your father for that information.” Tristan’s response wasn’t aggressive. No, that wasn’t the way of the knight. Instead, he spoke almost casually, as if they were having a discussion about someone unrelated to murder and threats of violence.

“Vero, but this will be faster. And I doubt the fleet admiral, and the Spartan Guard, will give you whatever information my father gives them.”

When Tristan had approached her brother back in the cave, when he’d looked over the bodies and started asking questions, Sophia knew that he was the sort of person who needed information. Maybe it was part of being a knight—knowledge is power. Maybe it was unique to Tristan—was he a man with a curious nature? Either way, she was betting that Tristan’s desire for information would override his other objections to her coming.

“Damn, man, she just outmaneuvered you again.”

Tristan took a few steps and rested his butt on the edge of the table. He crossed his arms and his chin sagged to his chest. “Why?”

“Why what?” James asked, not bothering to hide his smile.

“Why do I always end up with crazy people?”

“Always?” Sophia asked, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Yes. Always. That wanker Weston and his merry band of lunatics, now you two.” Tristan continued to mutter to himself, voice low enough they couldn’t hear. She thought he said something like, “safer to keep her with me or make sure she stays here? With me. Only way to be sure.”

Sophia and James traded a glance, and then a grin.

“It’s late,” she said. “We should all get some sleep. We’ll leave at three.”

“A.M.?” James’s horror was comical, but genuine.

“Yes. We have to swing by my apartment in Rome to get my passport and some clothing.”

“I’ll call the travel service.” Tristan fished his cell phone out of his pocket. “See if we can go straight to the Isle of Man.”

“Your rooms are adequate?” she asked.

“They’re gorgeous. Do you have a room?”

James’s question hung in the air, and Sophia raised one brow.

“Uh, I…just. I…”

“Now who got outmaneuvered, big guy?” Tristan slapped James on the shoulder as he passed, phone pressed to his ear.

“I do have a room, James.” Sophia walked up to him, hips swinging. His eyes traveled the length of her body, lighting with desire. “Would you escort me?”

James held out one arm, and Sophia laced her arm through his. She guided him out of the sitting room they’d been using, up to the third floor and the family wing. She had a lovely suite of rooms, all decorated in a manner whatever expensive designer her father had hired felt was appropriate for a princess. There was lots of gilt, crystal, and pale blue.

She opened the door, stepped inside and turned to face James.

He stared down at her—way down. He really was quite tall. His shoulders filled the doorway, and his physical presence made her feel small and fragile, and ravishable.

Sophia placed her hands on his chest, rose on tiptoe…

And kissed his cheek.

The flirtation had felt good, as had her brief moments of fantasy, but she wasn’t a schoolgirl, and wouldn’t be so foolish as to take any of it seriously. After the horror they’d seen, humor and flirtation were bright counterpoints to the dark of night.

“Good night, James.”

She closed the door, but even through the wood, she heard what he said next.

“This isn’t over, Princess.”

Chapter Seven

James should be asleep. He’d only slept for two and a half hours at the villa and another hour in the car on the way to Sophia’s apartment in Rome. Three and a half hours wouldn’t get him far, but he needed to research more than he needed to sleep.

The plane was quiet, the drone of the engines and the air outside, a nice white noise that would make sleep all too easy. If anxiety wasn’t eating a hole in his gut, he would have his head back and eyes closed.

He hadn’t told them about the mask. He wouldn’t, not until he had more information. And more information meant talking to his cousin, who was currently in Singapore. It had been the middle of the night Singapore time when he’d sent the message, so he’d known he wouldn’t hear back until today. It was now eight a.m. Rome time, and two p.m. in Singapore, and his cousin had sent the information he’d requested an hour earlier.

Cousin was an oversimplification of his relationship to Cecilia St. John, but she, like her mother—James’s aunt—was an historian. She worked for a multinational import/export company, but her passion was history. If anyone would be able to confirm his theory, it was Cecilia.

James read through the information Cecilia had sent, the knot of dread in his stomach growing larger with each piece of information.

Sometimes it bloody hurt to be right.

James looked at Tristan, who was asleep in his seat, long legs stretched out. He was wearing jeans and a white oxford shirt. His sword lay on top of his body, the hilt at his breastbone, one hand loosely gripping the handle.

Sophia was asleep in the chair beside him. She slept in a messy, sprawling way that wasn’t very princessy, and James liked it. She had one leg thrown over the arm of the chair, one arm above her head, and she was breathing heavily through her mouth.

Between the two of them, it was Tristan who looked like he was waiting for love’s first kiss to break the spell.

That thought made him smile, and some of the sick feeling eased. They’d only been asleep for forty minutes. James got up and quietly grabbed two blankets, dropping one over each of them. He’d let them sleep.

Let them rest before he told them what he now suspected.

Tristan woke to the smell of coffee. He stretched his left arm, holding his sword firmly with the right, and blinked.

James was upright in his seat, a tiny cappuccino cup on the table in front of him.

“What time is it?” Tristan asked.

James turned away from the window. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

The words were teasing, but James didn’t smile.

Tristan pushed away the blanket he didn’t remember having and sat up. Resting his sword on his seat behind him, he stood and stretched. Sophia was also asleep, but as he watched, she stirred—opening one eye and glaring at him.

“We’re going to land in about an hour.” James had bags under his eyes and Tristan was sure he hadn’t slept. “I told them to hold off on breakfast. Lunch. Whatever meal it is they were going to serve.”

“We should eat on the plane. Once we land, we’re not going to stop.” Tristan headed for the galley to let the flight attendant know they wanted to eat now, then stopped to use the bathroom. When he came out, Sophia was waiting her turn.

Tristan walked back to his seat, which the flight attendant had returned to a seated position. The blanket was gone too, and the table was set up.

He took his spot, placing his sword beside him between the wall and the seat, wedging it so the handle was up and easy to grab.

“You look tired,” Tristan said to James.

James’s normally warm-brown skin had a gray cast to it.

“Not tired. Worried.”

“Worried?” Tristan sat forward. “Why?”

“Because I think I know what the mask means.”

“What does the mask mean?” Sophia asked. Instead of taking the seat she’d been sleeping in, she settled on the couch across the aisle from their chairs.

Tristan immediately rose. “Please.” He gestured to his seat.

“No, no, no. I’m fine here.” She tucked her legs up in a cross-legged position. “What does the mask mean?”

James considered waiting for breakfast. Maybe this would be less terrifying if they had something to eat.

Stalling. You’re stalling.

James sighed and began speaking.

“Masks have many different meanings. Since there were a variety of different masks presented on the coins, we could interpret the mask in several different ways.”

“The mask is going to kill the fleet admiral.” Tristan’s voice was grim.

“Yes, but what is the mask?”

“Don’t you mean who?” Tristan asked.

“Not necessarily. The mask could signify a group—masks have in the past been used to provide the safety of anonymity to a group.”

“Protestors wear scarves, something over their faces,” Sophia said.

“Exactly.” James looked at Tristan. “Think of Guy Fawkes’s masks.”

“Shit. I would much prefer it if this were one guy. That’s what we figured based on the bodies.”

Sophia tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “How?”

Tristan looked between them and shook his head. “Later. Let’s figure out this mask thing. I’m assuming you have a point, Rathmann.”

James’s jaw clenched. Maybe it was time to just cut to the chase. “There are many different kinds of masks.”

“We’re been over that. Different coins,” Tristan snapped.

“Why don’t you shut up and listen?” James snarled. His voice was louder than he’d meant it to be.

No one spoke.

James held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I’m…I’m worried.”

Tristan opened his mouth, but Sophia stretched out one leg and tapped his knee with her foot. He closed his mouth.

“In eighteenth- and nineteenth-century England, masquerade balls were popular. Most men wore small masks that just went around their eyes, along with evening kit. Those kinds of masks are called a ‘domino’ mask—”

Tristan exploded out of his chair, his face white under his gold-kissed complexion. He fumbled for his phone.

“I have to call our admiral.”

James shoved his tray to the side, his empty cappuccino cup tipping over. “You know about the Domino?”

“Yes. Damn it, yes.” Tristan held his phone to his ear, then pointed at Sophia. “Call your brother. Tell him they were killed by the Domino. Tell your brother he’s back, and tell him to get your father in line. We don’t have time for secrecy and politics. Not if the Domino is going after the fleet admiral.”

“Domino, like the game?” Sophia was looking at Tristan, who was pacing the tiny cabin of the private plane, but her words were for James.

James joined her on the couch. “Yes, is the word the same in Italian?”

She raised a brow. “The word is the same in English. Dominos were invented in Italy.”

“Oh.” James looked slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t know.”

Sophia waved one hand dismissively. “Everything important was created in Italy.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and he was sitting close enough to Sophia that she could feel the heat of his body.

“According to my cousin—she’s an historian—the Domino has been an enemy of ours for centuries.”

“Centuries? Then it’s not a person, it’s a group.”

“Possibly.”

Sophia raised an eyebrow. “You think perhaps it is a…what is the word, a vampire?”

Again, James laughed, and it was a glorious sound. “Not a vampire. But my cousin said they think it’s one man per generation. He passes on the legacy to another.”

“Like an apprentice.”

“Yes. Though I was going to say like the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

“So this man, he calls himself the Domino. He left the mask coins so we would know it was him?”

James nodded. Sophia thought about what he’d said for a moment. “If he is called the Domino, why would he not leave a domino? If you hadn’t been there, looking at the coins, we might not have understood the message. Or, if I’d called in another numismatist, one who wasn’t English, who wouldn’t know that there was a type of mask called a domino, we might not have known.”

“You were going to call someone else? Who? Hagen? She’s an idiot.”

“James, you must see that it’s unlikely that this is the Domino.”

Tristan dropped into his seat. “Funny. That’s what Lorelei just said.”

“Lorelei?” Sophia asked.

“The vice admiral of England. She asked for our evidence, and said that if it really had been the Domino, he would have left a domino. Usually snake eyes.”

James shook his head. “He did that fifty, sixty years ago, yes, but there has been one other murder, thirty years ago, that my cousin thinks was the Domino, and that time he left a mask.”

“Our vice admiral disagrees. She says this isn’t the Domino. It’s a different killer. The Mask.” Tristan sighed. “I just made an ass of myself. Again.”

James looked between them, his lips parted in shock. “You really don’t believe me.”

“James, man, when you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail. You’re a coin expert with a family full of historians. Put those together and you’re seeing something where there’s nothing.”

“The more logical explanation is that the current Domino decided to leave different clues.” James was biting off each word, but stopped as the flight attendant brought them trays of bread, jam, butter, and fruit.

Sophia touched James’s shoulder. “You haven’t slept. Eat something. We’ll land on the Isle of Man soon.”

“But I’m right about this. I need the two of you to believe me. Trust me.”

“This isn’t an issue of trust.” Tristan held up his hand in a placating gesture. “The masks mean something. The threat to the fleet admiral is clear.” Tristan sighed. “At least I think so.”

James didn’t touch the food. He crossed his arms and stared at Tristan. “The Domino hasn’t always used dominos. There was a point during the First World War where he drew two black dots on his victims’ bodies. He didn’t use an actual double-one domino piece, he just drew two dots. It wasn’t until after WWII that someone, my great-aunt in fact, made the connection.”

Sophia shared a look with Tristan, who grimaced. She was starting to see Tristan’s point.

“James, I understand that your family has some ties to this person, and that you want—”

“We don’t have ties to him.” James turned his imposing glare on her. “It just so happens that my great-aunt was also an historian. She’s the one who put it together.”

“Or maybe the black spots were random markings, or the records about the condition of the bodies was incorrect.” Sophia was, after all, an officer of the Carabinieri—she knew how to work through a mystery, to ask the tough questions. Making assumptions and trying to make the facts fit a theory was unacceptable.

“Eh, fuck off and listen to me.” James glowered at both of them. “If this is the Domino, we have to be careful.”

Sophia narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you just say to me?”

“Damn it, woman, listen—”

Tristan pulled his sword free of its sheath. The quiet, menacing sound of the blade against the scabbard made Sophia and James both look over.

“Enough.” Tristan rested the tip of the blade against the carpeted floor, both hands on the hilt.

Sophia took a deep breath and let it out. They were all tired, frustrated, and scared. They were also strangers to one another, no matter how easy their rapport.

James uncrossed his arms. Sophia stretched out her legs, flexing her ankles. After a few moments of silence, Tristan slid the sword back into the sheath.

“What were you going to do with it?” James asked conversationally.

“Usually all I need to do is draw it. You’re both legacies. I was betting that you’d respond to the authority of a knight.”

“It worked.” James blew out a breath, then reached out to snag a small breakfast roll, slathering it with butter.

It was Sophia’s turn to pseudo apologize. “We all saw the bodies, we are going to be careful. No matter who the enemy is.” She picked up her cafe latte. “Knowing this is the Domino wouldn’t change anything.”

“Actually…” Tristan washed down a mouthful of food with a sip of coffee. He grimaced as he drank. “If this were the Domino, we would put all the territories on high alert.”

Sophia’s mouth dropped open in shock. She shook herself. “What? What do you mean?”

“When I was a squire, we were briefed on possible threats. James is right that the Domino has been operating for a long time. He’s killed plenty of members, including the admiral of Bohemia.”

“Why have I never heard of him?” As the daughter of an admiral, she was privy to more information than general members had.

“Because he hasn’t been active in a long time. And because if people knew about him, someone might try to hide a crime of their own by throwing a domino on the ground at a crime scene.”

That made sense. “Then why aren’t you taking James seriously?”

“Switched sides, eh?” James didn’t quite smile, but some of the anger faded from his face.

“For the reasons you said,” Tristan replied. “The connection isn’t strong enough.”

“What would it hurt to put the territories on alert? Why won’t the vice admiral do it, just to be safe?” James asked.

Sophia met Tristan’s eyes. There was anger in the depths of his golden gaze.

“Politics,” she answered for Tristan. “If England puts up the call and is wrong, they lose face, possibly they would have to pay reparations or penalties for any strife resulting from the alert.”

“Pay reparations?” James crossed his arms, his anger once more seeming to fill the cabin of the small plane. “That’s idiotic. It means no territory is going to say anything about pending danger until it’s too late.”

“Stupid. It’s really fucking stupid,” Tristan agreed. “I don’t think it’s the Domino, but I do think there’s a threat to the fleet admiral.”

“Does our vice admiral?” James asked.

Tristan shrugged. “She didn’t order me to stop.”

James looked to Sophia. “Is that why your father was hesitating to say anything to the fleet admiral—he doesn’t want to pay reparations?”

“It was probably one of his many reasons.” Sophia pushed away her nearly untouched plate. Her stomach was in knots.

There was silence for a moment, each of them thinking their own thoughts. Sophia wondered if either of them had thoughts similar to hers. The captain announced they were beginning their final descent, so she and James rose and went back to their seats.

When they were buckled in, and the flight attendant had hurriedly picked up their breakfast dishes, she leaned forward to ask the question she’d been worrying over.

“What if…what if it is the Domino?”

James and Tristan looked at one another, and then at her.

“For our sake,” Tristan said slowly, “let’s pray James is wrong.”

The plane lurched through some turbulence, the sound of the wind and engines increasing as they neared the ground.

All the noise meant she almost didn’t hear James and Tristan’s low-voiced conversation. Almost.

“I’m not wrong.”

“You need to be. Because if you’re not, this whole thing is going to turn into a bag of shite.”

Sophia tugged her phone out of her slacks. She hadn’t bothered to turn it off, so as they rumbled and vibrated toward the Isle of Man, she fumbled through a text message.

Killer may be the Domino. In English domino can mean mask. Stammi bene. Bacioni.

When the phone dinged indicating the message had been sent, Sophia leaned back and closed her eyes, pressing her phone to her chest. All this talk of secret, masked killers, and the still-fresh sight of the dead bodies had amped up her fear and anxiety. Logically, she knew that they were twenty-five hundred kilometers away from the real danger. The killer was mostly likely still in Italy, not on the Isle of Man. Someone capable of doing what had been done in that cave would want to stay close to the investigation. He, or she, would want to keep an eye on the investigation. Possibly insert themselves into it. Sophia’s heart clenched in worry for Antonio, but her brother was capable, and dangerous. He may be in danger, but she wasn’t. She was headed to one of the safest places in all of Europe—the seat of power of the Masters’ Admiralty.

The headquarters were guarded by the entirely terrifying Spartan Guard, and even if there was an attempt on the fleet admiral’s life, there was no way it would be successful.

She repeated that line of thought, reminding herself again and again that this was most likely a fool’s errand. That the fleet admiral was well protected. That the Isle of Man had served as the stronghold and refuge since the time of the plague and their founding.

She, Tristan, and James were not in danger.

They were not in danger.

The wheels touched down and the dread that seemed to coat her, weigh her down, doubled.

As they taxied the short distance to the terminal, her logical mind lost the battle with her emotions and she was sure, sure, that something was about to go terribly, terrifyingly wrong.

Chapter Eight

Tristan paused a moment as he exited the plane, looking out at the Isle of Man. It was gorgeous as always—a piece of pastoral paradise in the middle of the Irish Sea, halfway between the Lake District and the eastern edge of Northern Ireland. Typified by green fields, rocky shoreline, stone cliffs, and whitewashed cottages, it had seen a resurgence in interest and tourism in the last fifty years.

The capital city of Douglas boasted a population of twenty-six thousand, while the isle’s total population topped out at just over eighty-five thousand. It was overall prosperous and peaceful. The schools were good, the people healthy and happy, and the median income higher than that of either England or Ireland. The island’s main economy was tourism—and it attracted visitors who wanted to romanticize the past. Though the living history demonstrations of the life of crofters made sure to mention the poverty and disease that would have plagued those who’d worked the land, the truth was, Man’s tourism industry was selling a fantasy. The fantasy of a simpler life, a time when a family could live in peace and pastoral security.

“They know we’re coming?” James asked as they descended the steps out of the plane.

“Yes.” Tristan once more took James’s bag. He looked at Sophia’s small rolling suitcase, trying to decide if he could take that too while still keeping his sword arm free.

The problem solved itself when the cab driver the flight attendant had called ahead to arrange ran over and took Sophia’s bag. He touched his hat to his fingers as he did it—an old gesture of respect. Privately, Tristan considered almost every aspect of the isle a front designed to hide and protect the society’s seat of power. But he shouldn’t forget that there were people here who could trace their ancestry back a thousand years. People who still spoke the original language of the isle—Manx. People who he thought were probably a security threat, because there was no way these families had lived here for generations without noticing something.

The official reason why the Isle of Man’s flag and coat of arms included a triskelion—three legs joined together at the top of the thigh—was unknown. But the Manx people surely would have noticed the strangers who moved to their island, took control, and always traveled in threes.

The Masters’ Admiralty was classist. He knew that from experience. The admirals and fleet admiral assumed that anyone who wasn’t a member, or who didn’t do something that elevated them to the point of being considered for membership, was blind and deaf. When Tristan had voiced this opinion, he’d been applauded for his “inventive” thinking, and then they’d given him his first assignment and nothing more was said.

Without speaking, the driver opened each of the doors. James took the front seat, and the driver’s eyes widened a little as James wedged himself into the compact blue car. Tristan finished loading the bags, then offered Sophia a hand to assist her getting in. She slid into the car without taking his hand, but gifted him a warm smile. Tristan ignored the way his heart thumped as if he were a schoolboy, and closed her door before circling around the back and climbing in the other side.

It took them nearly forty minutes to get from the airport to their destination, which was due to the roads, not the size of the island. No one spoke during the ride. Sophia was looking out the window, James had his eyes closed, and Tristan was clenching and unclenching his fist around the handle of his sword. They passed through populated areas on the outskirts of the capital city, then headed up and in, the road rising as they traveled toward the mountainous center of the island. To an outsider, the rolling green fields and carefully tended whitewashed cottages would have seemed peaceful and nearly timeless.

The history of the isle was far darker and more complex than most of the residents knew. It had been the seat of power for the Masters’ Admiralty since 1440 AD, and the fact that the isle was a self-governing British Crown dependency, and not a fully integrated part of the British Empire, was entirely a result of the work of past fleet admirals.

Cashtal Ny Tree Cassyn was located on the northern tip of the island, far from Castle Rushen—a medieval castle that served as a museum and major tourist draw—and the cities of Douglas and Port Erin.

In contrast, Cashtal Ny Tree Cassyn—which translated from Manx to English as Triskelion Castle, or more literally, The Castle of Three Legs—was a fortified manor house and estate. Tristan had, as part of being knighted, spent two nights in the manor house—which in the privacy of his thoughts he still referred to as a castle. The fleet admiral and his trinity lived in private quarters on the third floor. The second floor had six bedrooms and a receiving room, which had been redecorated and updated in the 1700s, and carefully maintained since then. Luckily, the second-floor bathroom was entirely modern.

The first floor of the manor had a foyer, library, offices, and kitchen. But the majority of the square footage of the first floor was given over to the great hall, which would have been more in keeping with Rushen’s medieval layout. It had been built to serve as a gathering place for the society, though now the room could not have held their entire membership, which was well over a thousand individuals all across Europe.

They spotted Triskelion Castle long before they reached it. They were headed downhill, from the high center of the island toward the north shore, when they came around a curve and the view opened up—green fields, fluffy white sheep, and the wild blue ocean. And there, standing tall against the wind and waves, was Triskelion Castle.

Ten minutes later, they pulled to a stop at the outer wall and gate.

“It’s beautiful,” Sophia said as they climbed out of the car. “I’d forgotten how beautiful.”

“I haven’t been here since I accepted my invitation.” James kept his voice low, in case the driver was listening.

“I’ve been here a few times.” Tristan passed the driver a handful of British pounds, which were accepted as payment anywhere on the island, before taking the bags out of the car. He set their bags by the whitewashed outer wall of the estate and peered between the bars of the gate, looking over the outside of the structure, reminding himself what he knew of the layout. The arched gothic windows, steeply angled roofs, and intricately carved capstones would not have been out of place in a cathedral. Between the wall and the gray stone castle were gardens and lawns.

The taxi pulled away, the driver giving them a considering look. Triskelion Castle was only open to the public one day a year. The owner of the castle was still one of the largest landholders on the isle and famously reclusive. The tall wall enclosed the fortified manor house, gardens, and a second modern-style house on three sides.

The fourth side of the estate was bordered by the sea, and from where they stood at the iron gates looking in, Tristan could just barely see the tips of the white sails docked in the private harbor. The castle sat on elevated land, the boats accessed via a path that had been cut into the cliff. He could faintly hear the crash of waves. The bleating of sheep was much louder. If the taxi had continued down the road, they would have come to the farmyard that belonged to the estate. As far as anyone knew, the owner made his money by exporting coveted Manx wool.

James stepped to the side and pressed the intercom button.

A moment later, the gates parted.

Tristan stared at the open gates, and for a moment considered turning back. He’d insisted on coming here. Lorelei had not been happy, but agreed that it was better safe than sorry, even if she would not officially send him.

If they were wrong, and if the fleet admiral took exception to being disturbed, he could lose his knighthood.

It would be a drastic step, and as annoyed as Lorelei was after the fiasco with the Americans, he was relatively certain that she wouldn’t sacrifice him for the sake of politicking. After all, she’d given him this assignment, which was not the “nannying” he’d first assumed it would be.

But he hesitated.

Being a knight was everything to him. It was who he was—who he’d become. He’d put that at risk once before, when he went against orders to help his American friend, Wes. The United States wasn’t part of the Masters’ Admiralty, their “territory” coming into play too late in the history. The British territory wasn’t about to include a bunch of wild rebels in its esteemed society, so the Americans were left to their own devices.

However, the founding fathers of that new country had enough knowledge to understand how most things worked, how countries survived and thrived, not because of what their leaders did publicly, but because of what happened in the shadows.

They’d formed the Trinity Masters, which clearly proved that some far-reaching branches of the Masters’ Admiralty—legacies who’d crossed the sea to live in a New World—had been amongst those so-called wild rebels.

His friend, Wes, had uncovered a secret sect determined to bring down the Trinity Masters, and along with it, information that had rocked both societies.

Sophia raised her chin and walked forward. James followed her.

Tristan scooped up their bags and set them against the inside of the wall. He wanted to be unencumbered.

A few quick steps and he caught up, walking just behind and to the right of Sophia, while James walked on her left.

As they approached the front entrance—a heavy wooden door set in a pointy-arched alcove—armed men appeared atop the walls. The walls of the house ended in a parapet, and there was a gap between the three-foot parapet and the angled part of the room, creating a walkway that could serve as a serene place to take in the views of the countryside and sea.

Or it could be used as a defensive post for snipers.

Tristan tensed and his steps slowed.

“No, no, no,” Sophia murmured. “Show no fear. You must walk in as if you belong here.”

“We do belong here,” James pointed out.

“Precisamente.”

Tristan forced his fingers to uncurl from his sword and followed Sophia and James into the cool, dark foyer of Triskelion Castle.

Chapter Nine

Sophia was no stranger to grand houses. Her father’s villa—the showpiece among his many properties—was far larger and grander than this house. Her father’s house in Rome, an historic and ornate place in the heart of one of the oldest cities in the world, was more memorable than this.

She still found Triskelion Castle imposing. It reminded her that this organization was greater than she was. It was greater than her father. It was greater than any one member.

The foyer had a low roof—only ten feet tall. The walls were hung with oil paintings, many of them scenes of the Isle of Man. The floor was not stone, but beautifully polish hardwood that gleamed with wax and age. A large oriental-style rug in pale tones of taupe and silver ran down the center of the long, narrow foyer, muting their steps as they walked. Light came not from any windows, but from sconces that looked like they should have held candles, but instead had electric bulbs.

High above them on the third floor were the private chambers of the fleet admiral and his trinity. She had met the fleet admiral twice in her life. Once when he’d come to visit her father in Rome, and again when she’d accepted her membership. She’d been only a girl when the fleet admiral came to Rome. She’d been a prop—as she so often was—in the grand production her father had put on for the man he privately called the emperor. She had been dressed up like a little doll in designer clothes and brought out so she could curtsey and smile and sing an Italian aria for him.

His trinity had been with him. The fleet admiral had two wives, both of them lovely, but unlike her father’s wives, who had been chosen for their beauty and social skills, the fleet admiral’s wives were both powerful in their own right, each with a will of iron that she’d been able to sense even as a little girl. In a way, seeing those powerful women who stood not behind, but beside the most powerful man in her reality had helped her to find her own strength. One of the fleet admiral’s wives, Manon, held a powerful position within the EU. The other, Greta, served as the financial head of the Masters’ Admiralty. That was not a role given to her because of her position as the fleet admiral’s spouse, but because of her own fierce intelligence. She had been an investment banker who worked for the Swiss National Bank before marrying.

Tristan was the last one to enter, and he closed the door behind him. The sound it made was solid and sure…and more than a little alarming. Her unruly imagination reared up once more, silently whispering in her ear that the door was locked. That they were trapped here now, and no one would ever find their bodies. They were fanciful thoughts, crazy thoughts. She knew better. Yet she wanted to turn around, reach for the door and jiggle the handle, just to make sure it was still unlocked.

None of these thoughts showed on her face.

She was the princess of Rome.

She’d chosen her outfit for this meeting carefully—nothing too formal, because she wanted her clothing to convey that this was an emergency. If she looked like she’d had time to dress to impress, her words might be dismissed. Instead of a tailored designer dress or even a gown, she wore wide-legged brown pants. Her white silk shirt had elegantly flowing sleeves. Her accessories were a gold belt made of actual gold links and a trio of different-length gold chain necklaces. Her hair was down and loose, her makeup minimal. Considering how she normally appeared when at Masters’ Admiralty functions, this was the equivalent of someone else showing up in workout gear.

“Where is everyone?” James asked.

“I’m not sure.” Tristan was looking around, and his hand was back on the hilt of his sword.

“Don’t do that.” Sophia gestured with one hand, a brushing motion, as if she were trying to sweep his movement under a table.

Tristan looked at her. Their gazes met and he nodded, releasing his sword. Sophia felt a little thrill go through her that he’d not only listened, but he’d obeyed her command. Between her father and brother, it was rare that she was listened to, though her brother was always the first to acknowledge her intelligence and capability.

At the opposite end of the foyer from the main entrance were two large double doors, which she remembered opened onto the great hall. The stairs up to the second floor were accessed through a small recessed archway on the left. She always found it a bit odd that there wasn’t a grand staircase leading to the upper floors, but considering that this place had been built in a time when swords were the height of defensive technology, and that even now the manor was meant to serve as a stronghold, it was no surprise that the spiral staircase—designed to be easily defended by men with swords—was still the only way to access the second and third floors.

“Well, this isn’t creepy,” James said. “Here we are in an empty house where the doors seem to open all by themselves.” Tristan snorted a laugh and Sophia smiled.

It was then that they heard footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later, Greta Meier stepped into the foyer.

Sophia changed her smile from amused to polite and waited with all the patience in the world as Greta approached. She was in her early sixties, with white hair cut in a chic chin-length bob. She wore a pebble-gray sleeveless sheath dress that fell to her knees and showed off muscular arms with skin only slightly wrinkled and marked by age.

“Ms. Starabba, it is a pleasure to see you again.” She inclined her head to Sophia, speaking Italian.

Greta turned to James and switched to English. “Mr. Rathmann, it is good to see you. How is your father?”

“Which one?” James put a teasing note into his question, and Sophia tensed. James’s informality was inappropriate at best and stupid at worst.

Greta laughed.

Sophia blinked in surprise, though perhaps it was her surprise that was foolish. She’d known James less than twenty-four hours and yet was comfortable with him. For all his intimidating size, he was both charming and disarming.

“A very good point, Mr. Rathmann. I meant your father Fetu, since I think we can all acknowledge Fetu is more than likely your biological parent. But you are quite correct, so how is Mr. McGregor?”

“He’s well, thank you, Frauline Meier.”

“That is good to hear. And your mother?”

“She is well. Her roses are looking particularly good this year.”

“The cutting she sent me years ago has matured into a beautiful bush.”

“I’ll let her know. How is Manon?”

Sophia couldn’t help it. She twisted to stare at James. Tristan was looking at him with a mildly flabbergasted expression as well.

James looked at them and grinned, but his smile faded when Greta’s gaze turned to Tristan.

“We don’t have time for any more niceties. Knight,” Greta said.

Tristan inclined his head, the heel of his left hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword.

“I believe you insisted on coming here, Knight.” From the way Greta said the word “knight,” Sophia wasn’t sure if she was using it as a title or as a name.

“Yes, ma’am. I believe…”

Sophia saw the indecision and doubt on Tristan’s face. Tristan didn’t turn his head, but his gaze slid to James.

Sophia and James both started speaking at once.

“I am the reason—”

“We’re here because of me and—”

Tristan held up his right hand, and Sophia and James both stopped speaking. He stepped forward, passing close enough to Sophia that she was able to reach out and lay her fingers on his back for a fraction of a second. A gesture of encouragement and support.

Greta’s gaze focused on Sophia’s hand, and one iron-gray eyebrow rose.

“Ma’am.” Tristan’s voice was calm and sure. He stood tall, and there in the foyer of a building that had stood since medieval times, he seemed every inch the knight. All he lacked was chainmail and a noble steed. “We are here because we believe the fleet admiral is in danger.”

“Your admiral said as much when he called, though he said that he was allowing you to come in order to encourage your initiative, not due to the credibility of the threat.”

Greta wasn’t going to make this easy on Tristan. Sophia clenched her teeth, feeling protective of him.

“There was a murder in Rome. I went to escort Mr. Rathmann, who was called in to examine some of the evidence.”

Greta’s blank expression shifted into a frown. “I thought you were a curator for the British Museum?”

“I am.” James’s voice had lost the light teasing note. As if he too didn’t like the way Greta was talking to Tristan.

“There were pieces of art and,” Tristan paused, searching for the word, “treasure at the crime scene.”

“Treasure? Surely you are joking, Knight.”

Sophia stepped up, speaking Italian rather than English. She could control the subtleties of language much more precisely in her native tongue. “This honorable knight is not joking. Treasure is the appropriate word. Paintings, a jeweled box, and a cache of coins were found in the cave, along with three mutilated bodies. We are here because we believe the fleet admiral is in danger. We know that if we are wrong, there will be repercussions, especially for this knight. Yet we are here to protect the fleet admiral, and you.”

Greta blinked twice. Sophia wasn’t sure if it was due to shock or surprise. Sophia held her breath, waiting for a reply.

Greta inclined her head to Sophia, speaking Italian. “Thank you for explaining, Ms. Starabba.” She switched to English. “Please follow me. A cup of coffee and something to eat will serve us well.”

Greta turned on her sensible heel and disappeared into the stairs. Tristan and James looked at Sophia.

Sophia shrugged and pushed her hair back. “I merely informed her that treasure was the appropriate word.”

“Uh, it sounded like you said more than that.”

Sophia slipped her arm through Tristan’s and held out a hand to James. He took it, and together they followed Greta to the stairs.

Tristan was warm and solid at her side. James’s large hand enveloped hers, making her feel whole and safe.

She’d reached out to both of them, united them, on instinct.

At the foot of the narrow stairs, she released her hold.

But not before Greta, standing four steps up, saw them. Again she raised one brow, cocking her head to the side and looking at Sophia, asking a question without words.

Sophia raised her chin and started up the steps. Greta turned away and preceded her. James and then Tristan followed.

She’d expected that they would go to the second floor, where there were bedrooms and a small sitting room. However, instead of stopping on the second floor, Greta led them down the hall and onto a small interior balcony that overlooked the two-story great hall. The balcony served as stage and pulpit when the fleet admiral needed to address a gathering, and ran the length of the short side of the gathering room, which took up its own wing of the building. At the end of the balcony, a tapestry concealed another spiral staircase.

Sophia’s heart started to thump in her chest. They were being taken to the private quarters of the fleet admiral. She didn’t know anyone, anyone, who’d been up to the third floor.

She risked a glance over her shoulder and could see the surprise and shock on her men’s faces.

Control your imagination, girl! They’re not your men.

At the top of the stairs, a heavy steel door stood open and sunlight spilled down onto the staircase. When she stepped over the threshold, she had to stop and blink a few times before her eyes adjusted.

The third floor was full of light and soft, modern furnishings. The staircase let them out directly into a large living space that housed two separate seating areas, one positioned before the cold fireplace. There was a large dining table with comfortable-looking chairs, and an open-plan kitchen. The kitchen was done in tones of white and gray—gray cabinets, a white marble countertop, stainless steel appliances, and lovely white dishes edged in silver, visible through the glass cabinet fronts.

The flooring throughout the entire area was weathered wood that held tones of gray, taupe, white, and mossy brown. The furnishings were brown leather, cream sailcloth, and gold brocade. It had the lived-in look that none of her father’s residences could boast, but even as simple as the furnishings were, the place reeked of wealth and good taste.

A hall extended off the kitchen on one side, and opposite that, an entire wall of glass offered a panoramic view of the ocean. Huge sliding-glass doors had been pushed open, eliminating the division between outdoors and indoors, and the breeze that fluttered past was flavored by the sea.

“Come,” Greta said. “I’ll remind you that your loyalty is to the Masters’ Admiralty, above even your territories. If you’re asked to keep secret anything you learn here today, then you will do so.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command.

“Of course, ma’am,” Tristan said.

They stepped out onto a balcony that had been built off the side of the castle. It was made of dark wood that was just now starting to bleach in the sun. Sophia looked around, and realized that from the gate and main entrance to the building, the pitch of the roof would hide the balcony from view. Below them was manicured grass that gave way bit by bit to rocky terrain before ending in weather-worn cliffs. Pristine white boats bobbed gently, the docks clean and well cared for.

Behind her someone sucked in a breath, and Sophia whirled. She’d headed right for the railing, wanting to take in that view and let the ocean play with her hair. In doing so, she’d walked right past the fleet admiral without even realizing he was there.

She too gasped when she caught sight of one of the most powerful men in Europe.

He sat hunched in a large wicker chair, a blanket over his legs, two sweaters draped around his shoulders. He looked up at her and smiled, his eyes bright with intelligence in a face that was gaunt and marked by lines of pain.

Tristan moved first. He carefully drew his sword, setting the tip against the decking. Then he knelt, bowing his head, both hands on the handle of his sword. “My lord,” he greeted the fleet admiral.

“Rise, rise, Tristan. Though it’s nice to see someone who treats me with the kind of respect I deserve. The ladies are full of sass.” He grinned, as if pleased by the word. Kacper Kujakski still retained some of his Polish accent.

Tristan raised his head. “My lord, how may I serve you?”

Greta poured her husband a glass of water from a pitcher that waited on the table beside him. “Drink, Kacper.”

“See what I mean, no respect.” He took a long sip of water, his hand shaking as he raised the glass to his mouth. Some of the water spilled down his chin. Greta took the glass and dried his face with a corner of the blanket.

The fleet admiral looked around at each of them. No one spoke or moved. His eyes hardened, the joviality replaced by an incredible force of will. “Sit,” he commanded.

Sophia found the first empty chair and sat down.

“My body is old, not my mind. I am not dying. I have arthritis. But lack of physical strength can be misconstrued as weakness of will. I have mellowed somewhat in my old age.” Kacper looked at Greta, and for a moment that jovial expression returned. Then it was gone so suddenly, Sophia wondered if she imagined it. “But I am the fleet admiral of the Masters’ Admiralty. You will not look at me with pity, because I would take that as a sign of disrespect. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He stared at each of them in turn, and Sophia could only hold his gaze for a moment before she looked away.

When they’d each been stared into submission, Kacper let out a soft chuckle. “I’ve still got it, Gretie.”

“Of course you do, schnucki.”

“Now then. I got a call from the admiral of England telling me that I might be in danger, but probably I’m not, but maybe, so one of his knights is coming to tell me about it.” Kacper grunted. “That man was a born politician. He can talk without saying anything.” The fleet admiral’s gaze turned to Sophia. “Imagine my surprise when the knight arrives and he has with him the princess of Rome.”

Sophia’s cheeks heated with both embarrassment and anger. Embarrassment because she had no right to be called princess. It was her father’s arrogance that had started the trend. And anger, because as false as the title might be, she’d spent her life trying to live up to it, and the people of the territory of Rome respected and loved her. The amusement in Kacper’s tone felt as though he were insulting not just her father, but everyone in Rome who used that appellation.

“Tell me.” The fleet admiral’s attention had returned to Tristan while she fought with her emotions. “Why do you think I’m in danger?”

“I am not the one who should explain it, my lord. Mr. James Rathmann decoded the clues.”

“Good.” Kacper raised his voice, and in a sharp, commanding tone said, “To me.”

Armed men appeared from inside the living space, leapt up over the railing, and even slid down from the roof.

Tristan leapt to his feet, his sword in hand. Not that it would do much good against the automatic weapons the men all carried.

Each man wore a black long-sleeved shirt, black pants, and a black tactical vest. The tactical vests had a small gold logo embroidered on the shoulder—a profile of a man in a Greek-style helmet.

Sophia leapt to her feet and wrapped herself around Tristan. “Wait, wait! It’s the Spartan Guard.”

Tristan vibrated like a live wire, his body humming with tension.

“Put the sword away, my knight,” Kacper said, not unkindly. “Though it does you credit to see how well and how fast you reacted.”

Tristan’s tension eased with painful slowness. “They’re the Spartan Guard? They were not so…”

“Military and imposing last time you were here?” Kacper asked. “Yes. I have a new captain of the Spartan Guard. Mateo Bernard. He’s changed how they operate.”

One man stepped forward. Mateo’s stereotypical dark coloring would have betrayed his Castilian blood if his first name hadn’t. However, Sophia was struggling to make Bernard, a very French moniker, fit. “Sir, please go inside. This area isn’t secure.”

“There’s nothing but the sea here, and I like the fresh air.” Kacper hit Mateo with a look, and the other man glanced away, but not before holding the fleet admiral’s gaze for far longer than Sophia had been able to.

“This is one of England’s knights,” the fleet admiral said. “He’s here because he and his companions think I’m in danger. If there is a threat, you should hear about it.”

“Sir.” Mateo made some complicated hand gesture. Four of the nine guards who’d appeared took up positions on each corner of the deck. The others disappeared, two of them leaping over the side of the balcony. Sophia resisted the urge to run to the railing and see if their broken bodies lay mangled on the grass three stories below, or if they’d sprouted wings and flown away.

Mateo stood, hands behind his back. Tristan sheathed his sword, but did not resume his seat. When Sophia headed for the chair she’d occupied before, Tristan caught her elbow, guiding her into the chair he’d vacated.

“Stay close,” he breathed as she sat.

Kacper watched all of this with a hard, intelligent gaze. He turned his head toward James. “Mr. Rathmann, tell me why you think I’m in danger.”

Chapter Ten

James reached into his pocket and Mateo tensed. When he pulled out a small bag containing five coins, he shook it, making the coins jingle. Mateo relaxed a fraction, then nodded, as if giving James permission to continue.

James’s gaze slid over to Tristan, who stood, facing Mateo. Tristan raised one brow. James decided to err on the side of caution—he wasn’t being a coward, he just really didn’t want to get shot—so he handed the bag to Tristan, who walked it over to the fleet admiral.

Their leader raised his hand, turning it palm up. His fingers were curled and gnarled like a vulture’s claws, and his hand shook.

Once the bag was in his hand, Greta reached out and took it, pouring the coins onto her own palm and holding her hand so Kacper could see it.

James opened his mouth, planning to explain the meaning of each coin and then his line of reasoning. He stopped, reminded himself that time was of the essence, and instead said, “We think the Domino is going to try to kill you.”

The fleet admiral’s head snapped up. “The Domino?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at the coins in Greta’s hand. “Where did you find these coins?”

James looked to Sophia, who said, “Three bodies were discovered on the lands of my father’s villa outside Rome. They were members of Rome, a trinity. One of them was a finance officer. The coins—there are many more than that—were found, along with art and some artifacts, in the cave where their bodies were left.”

Kacper nodded once. “And you, Mr. Rathmann, were brought to Rome to discover the meaning in the coins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what meaning did you find?”

“The main coins to focus on are the one with the mask, the smaller silver one, and finally, the one that’s blackened on one side.”

Greta rearranged the coins in her hand. James resisted the urge to walk over and do it for her. It made him antsy to see other people handling his coins. She wasn’t wearing gloves. The oils from her hands—

Focus.

“The coin with the mask is meant to represent the Domino. In English—”

“A black half mask is known as a domino,” Kacper said. “Over the years, there were a few sightings, and he always wore a black mask.”

Tristan tensed. “I was unaware of that, sir. Isn’t that information that the knights should have?”

“Since the last confirmed sighting was in 1730, it was hardly high priority,” Greta snapped.

Tristan’s posture didn’t change, but James was close enough that he could feel the tension rolling off the knight. Sophia, seated in a chair beside Tristan, must have felt it too, because she reached out and touched his hand.

“Dominos, the game pieces, are a relatively modern invention.” Kacper’s tone was far milder than Greta’s had been. “Every man who holds the title of Domino has a different signature.”

“Holds the title?” Tristan asked. That was an odd way of phrasing it.

“We know that the Domino always has an apprentice. As he ages, becoming too old to take on our knights, the apprentice becomes the Domino and kills his mentor.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“In 1840, the body of an old man was found with a single domino piece in his mouth. There was a letter in his jacket saying that he had served bravely and died a hero’s death.”

“Served?” Sophia slid forward on her chair, looking at Kacper and Greta. “Served what? Served whom?”

Rather than answer, they looked at James. “Tell us about the other coins,” Kacper ordered.

“The next is an ancient Greek coin. The coins in your hand are just a sample of what we found, but I know, for reasons I want to tell you but won’t because there isn’t time, that it’s an obol.”

“Obol?” Kacper bowed his head, the position making him look even older and more hunched. “Two obols was the price souls paid to be ferried across the river Styx.”

James blinked. The fleet admiral had an amazing memory, and an amazing mind, if he’d put it together so quickly and remembered what obols were. Most people learned something of Greek and Roman mythology in school, but the information faded into the recesses of their mind by the time they were adults.

“And this represents death?”

“Yes, sir. While obols have continued to be a unit of currency even in modern times, I believe they were meant as a threat. That you would need them to pay the ferryman.”

“When I die, I doubt there will be a ferryman,” Kacper mused. “I agree with you, Mr. Rathmann. An astute deduction. And the final coin?”

James was enjoying getting the chance to discuss coins with such an attentive audience. “There were nine coins issued by the Vatican. At first we thought that meant the church was involved in some way.”

“The church, as an enemy, is not what it once was.” The fleet admiral sounded almost wistful.

“Uh…yes…it’s terrible when your enemies don’t live up to the hype.” James leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “All the coins had either the Christogram of the Jesuits or an image of the Pope that had been damaged, blackened. The Black Pope is sometimes used as a title for the Superior General of the Society of Jesus. But, if I remember my society history correctly, the position of what we now call the fleet admiral was, at one time, called the Shadow Pope.”

“Yes, that was a title my office used.” Kacper raised a shaking, gnarled hand and poked awkwardly at the coins on his wife’s palm. “Your conclusion is that the Jesuit coins, and this one, with the blackened image of the modern pope, were all meant to represent me?”

James sat back, palms flat on his thighs to avoid clenching his hands into nervous fists. “Yes, that was my conclusion.” He put a slight emphasis on the word “my.” From the fleet admiral’s tone, he wasn’t convinced what the coins meant. James didn’t want this to reflect badly on Tristan or Sophia.

“You told both admirals, in Rome and England, what you’d concluded?”

“Yes.” Did the fleet admiral think he was wrong? Had he insulted him in some way? James could feel Sophia looking at him, but didn’t glance in her direction. “Though we thought it was the church, and that’s what we told them—the admiral of Rome, I mean—first.”

“A simpler, cleaner interpretation of the evidence.”

“But the final two coins I brought should make it easy to see that I’m right.” James spoke quickly, wanting Kacper to understand. “These weren’t stacked with the others—they weren’t placed in a special order to create a message. There was just a large pile of similar coins. See, it’s a Manx penny with the triskelion and a commemorative English five-pound coin featuring Admiral Lord Nelson.”

There was a beat of silence. The guards at the corners of the deck looked at one another, then at their leader, Mateo.

“That’s certainly direct,” Greta said.

“Exactly.” James sighed in relief. She got it.

“But,” Kacper said, “it could mean only that the Domino wanted to prove he knew our secrets—he knows where this place is, knows our current name. It could be a sign that the Domino is going to try to ignite an old rivalry between us and the church. That he might kill the Superior General of the Jesuits and frame someone among us for the death.”

James suddenly felt very, very stupid. Those were all logical possibilities.

Sophia looked at him, chagrin pulling the corners of her mouth back in a wince.

“Yes, sir,” James said. “It could mean that. We—I mean I—wanted to speak to you. Better safe than sorry.”

“And your admirals wouldn’t convey the warning, would they?” Kacper laughed weakly, then started coughing. Greta picked up the glass of water and instead of handing it to the fleet admiral, held it to his lips.

He took a sip, and then took the glass from Greta.

The glass shattered in his hand.

At first James thought Kacper had gripped the glass too hard, but the sound of shattering glass was accompanied by a meaty thumping noise that didn’t make sense.

Mateo shouted, “Attack!” and dove forward, lifting the fleet admiral out of his chair and racing inside, holding the older man as if he were a child. A second man grabbed Greta and hustled her inside.

What the hell was going on?

Tristan’s sword was out, and he grabbed Sophia by the arm, lifting her to her feet and shoving her behind him. He scanned the edge of the balcony and the sky.

James jumped to his feet. “What’s going on?”

“Down!” Tristan snapped.

James obeyed without conscious thought. Tristan’s voice rang with authority. James dropped into a crouch behind his chair. His knee screamed in protest at all the sudden movements.

“Sophia, I’m going to start backing up, stay behind me, close to my body.” Tristan’s voice was eerily calm.

“What is happening?” Her accent was thicker than normal.

“The fleet admiral was shot.”

“Eh?” James nearly stood, just so he could see if Tristan was fucking with him, then decided that was a terrible idea.

The black-clad Spartan guards were scrambling up over the railings, taking positions behind the guards who were still in their respective corners, and manning the corner that was empty because one of the original four men had hustled Greta inside.

James stayed crouched behind his chair, trying not to think about the likelihood that either his head or ass was probably sticking out. The shooter—

That thought made him pause. Where was the shooter? There was nothing but sea and sky. Even if there had been someone with a long-range rifle on higher ground toward the center of the island, the entire manor shielded the deck from view of the land. He tried to peer at the tops of the boats, but even those didn’t rise high enough.

Tristan and Sophia appeared beside him, footsteps in synch. Sophia was gripping the sides of Tristan’s shirt, her shoulders hunched, head down. Tristan was looking up, scanning the sky, sword held ready in his right hand. They were walking backwards, one step at a time.

“James,” Tristan didn’t look at him as he spoke, “on the count of three, I want you to run.”

“Bad idea,” James said immediately.

“You need to get inside.”

“I could start dragging the chair—”

“No, it would make too much noise. We need to be quiet to let the Spartan Guard listen.”

“I don’t run, mate.”

Now Tristan and Sophia were past him, closer to the glass wall of the house than he was. Sophia peeked around from behind Tristan, her dark eyes wide with shock and fear.

“Your knee?” Tristan darted one quick glance at him.

“Yeah.”

“Fast walk?” Tristan asked.

James grimaced. His knee was screaming at him, but at least it was already bent. The part that hurt was going from straight-legged to bent, and that’s why he avoided that motion when he walked, limiting the amount of pain he was in.

But if he started off from a crouch, and ran as if he were about to body-tackle someone—upper body bent, legs staying mostly bent and pumping, he might be able to run.

He swiveled on the balls of his feet so he was facing the glass wall of the manor. Someone had pulled the curtain, because instead of being able to see in, the glass looked black. Only one of the doors was still open.

The silence was unnerving. Though he knew there were nine people on the balcony deck—six guards, plus himself, Sophia, and Tristan, there was almost no sound beyond the crash of waves and the far-off sounds of the farmyard.

“I’ll run,” James mouthed.

Sophia nodded and stood on tiptoe to speak into Tristan’s ear. Tristan held up his left hand, palm facing James in the universal sign for “stop”. The knight’s gaze was seemingly focused on something in the sky.

“There,” he yelled. “My one o’clock, sixty degrees. It’s a drone.”

The Spartan Guard didn’t hesitate. The first crack of gunfire was so loud that James flinched, hunching down deeper behind the chair.

“James, run!” Tristan barked.

James planted his knuckles against the wood, braced the balls of his feet, and took off. The announcer for the All Blacks had once commented that once he was up to speed, James Rathmann was like a locomotive and you’d best get out of his way. That’s how James ran for the door, full steam, head down, leading with his shoulders, as if he were about to tackle someone.

As James ran past Tristan and Sophia, Tristan shoved Sophia at him. James wrapped an arm around her waist, tucking her close to his body, and carried her the final five feet into the manor. He was moving too fast to be nimble—once he’d been fast and nimble, but with the bad leg and years of relative physical inactivity, it was a miracle he’d been able to move that fast at all.

The room that had been light and airy was now full of murky shadows, and he hit a chair before his eyes had time to adjust. Hands reached out from the darkness, grabbing his shoulders and helping him stop.

“Sophia,” he whispered, embarrassingly out of breath. He needed to do more cardio. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered, voice a little shaky. “The fleet admiral?”

James’s eyes were now adjusted enough for him to see the outline of the furniture. It was harder to pick out the guards, who were silhouettes of black against the shadows.

“He’s alive,” the man who’d helped James stop said.

Sophia stumbled over to one of the seating areas, dropping to her knees beside the couch. James followed more slowly, his knee screaming in agony. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth against the pain. To distract himself, James looked around the room. It wasn’t curtains that had made the walls dark—or at least, not traditional curtains. Heavy sheets of what James could only describe as chain mail covered the windows from the inside. That was some serious defensive hardware.

He hit an ottoman with his bad leg, muttering, “bloody, buggering fuck,” before he could stop himself.

“Are you all right, Mr. Rathmann?” Kacper’s voice was weak, but only slightly weaker than it had been.

“Sir.” James sat on the low table he’d crashed into. “Are you alright?”

“No, you imbecile. He was shot.” Greta’s voice was high and reedy.

“Greta, my love…” Kacper spoke to her in what James thought was Polish for a moment.

When he stopped speaking, there was a heavy silence. There was no more sound of gunfire from outside. No one spoke. No one moved.

At the sound of footsteps, James tensed. One of the Spartan Guards emerged from the stairwell, sword in hand, gun hanging from a strap across his body. He went to Mateo, speaking to him quietly. Mateo nodded, then bent over the back of the couch to address the fleet admiral.

James’s eyes had adjusted enough that he could now see details. The fleet admiral lay on the couch, his back and shoulders propped up on pillows. Greta sat in a chair that had been pulled in close, her arms outstretched to hold Kacper’s hand.

Sophia still knelt on the floor by the side of the couch. As if she could feel James watching her, she turned her head, and there was a frown of confusion on her face.

James knew why she was confused. There was no blood on the fleet admiral.

He considered remaining quiet, but the adrenaline coursing through him, combined with the pain from his leg, meant he didn’t have a lot of patience. “You were shot?” The words were blunt.

Kacper laughed, then coughed. Greta shot James a glare. He didn’t care.

“He was shot with a dart, not a bullet. He’s wearing light body armor. The dart was able to penetrate, but not fully deploy. We’re testing the contents of the dart now.” Mateo stared at James as he spoke. There was an unspoken accusation in the guard’s eyes.

Tristan slipped in, sheathing his sword. He stopped just inside the entrance, moving to the side so his back was against the relative safety of the metal curtain.

“You have something to say?” James asked Mateo. There was a whole lot of adrenaline running through him and no outlet for it.

“You arrive and the fleet admiral is shot.”

James planted his hands on his knees and pushed to his feet. The pain in his knee was fuel for the rage building inside.

“We came here to warn you. We came even though no one thought we should. Would you have been standing out there, close enough to take him to safety, if we hadn’t been here?”

Mateo’s jaw clenched, and he started to draw his sword.

Tristan had moved silently. He placed his sword against the side of Mateo’s neck. “Sheath your weapon.”

James blinked in surprise, the shock muting some of his anger.

Around the room, there was a rustle of sound. Every one of the guards now had their guns pointed at Tristan.

Sophia calmly rose from the floor, walked over to Tristan, and placed her back against his. If they wanted to shoot him, they’d risk shooting either Sophia—if they tried to shoot him in the back—or Mateo, if they tried to shoot him in the front.

“I am Tristan Knight, knight of England. This man threatened a lawful member of the territory of England. It is my right and honor to defend Mr. James Rathmann.”

“He’s in the right, Mateo. Sheath your sword or put down your gun.” The fleet admiral had twisted as much as he was able, trying to see what was happening, but he must not have been able to see everything.

Mateo released his sword, letting it fall back into its scabbard, and held up both hands. Tristan moved his sword away from Mateo’s neck. Sophia moved out of the way and Tristan stepped back.

“Come where I can see you. All of you.”

Tristan, Mateo, and Sophia all circled around to the front of the couch. Sophia positioned herself between the men.

If they were about to be accused of treason, James wanted to be with them. He took up a position on the other side of Sophia, edging Mateo away. The captain of the Spartan Guard made space, but didn’t look at him.

Sophia reached out, taking James’s hand. He laced his fingers with hers, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she also held Tristan’s hand.

The fleet admiral looked at them, his eyes like glittering pieces of obsidian in the shadows.

James was ready to answer any accusation that was thrown their way with facts, justifications, and explanations. He had to hope that would be enough to get the three of them out of there. James thought the worst that could happen would be that the fleet admiral would be annoyed, and tell their admiral to get them under control. How wrong he’d been. If the fleet admiral changed his mind, decided that they were there as assassins, not to warn about a possible-maybe-depending-on-your-interpretation assassination attempt, he could have the Spartan Guard kill them right now and there wouldn’t be a damn thing anyone could do about it. Tristan would go down fighting—hell, they all would—but they would go down.

The fleet admiral cleared his throat.

“I hereby bind you, Tristan Knight of England, Sophia Starabba of Rome, and James Rathmann of England, in marriage.”

The world went still and quiet—a moment that seemed to last forever.

What had he just said?

“Your union will serve to better and protect the people of our proud and ancient society.”

Those were the formal words of the trinity marriage ceremony.

“It is your duty to love, protect, and keep your spouses. I will hear your pledge to not only keep and protect one another, but to strive to better our world.”

James had stopped breathing during the fleet admiral’s first sentence. His lungs registered their protest and he blew out a long breath. Beside him, Sophia made a choking sound and pulled her hand from his.

That hurt.

Stupid, James, very stupid. She doesn’t even know you. Of course, she’s going to pull away.

Tristan recovered first. He cleared his throat, then turned to James and Sophia. He dropped to one knee. “I pledge on my honor as a knight, and as your spouse, to love, protect, and keep you all of your days.”

Holy shit. This was actually happening. They were getting married. Right here. Right now.

He should protest. He should point out that they were strangers to one another.

But that was the way it was in their society.

James took a deep breath and grinned. He was getting married. That deserved a smile. Rather than kneeling—he was going to keep his leg straight for as long as possible—he bent at the waist in a deep bow. Then he too repeated the formal words. “I pledge as your spouse to love, protect, and keep you all of your days.”

Sophia looked between them, her eyes wide with shock. She opened and closed her mouth several times. It was only then that James realized she now had no choice but to accept. Not that she really had a choice—the arranged trinity marriages were the cornerstone of their society. But maybe she could have said something to dissuade the fleet admiral. Maybe she had an informal understanding as to who her trinity would be. Her father was also her admiral. It seemed likely that he would have picked out people for her to marry.

For her to object now would be rude, disobedient, and uncouth.

Shit.

James straightened slowly, trying to catch her gaze, but Sophia was staring into the middle distance. She swallowed heavily, licked her lips, and spoke the words, first in Italian, then in English.

“I pledge as your spouse to love, protect, and keep you as long as I live.”

The fleet admiral made a sound of pleasure. “Good, good. Now, let us finish speaking about the Domino.”

James blinked, trying and failing to change mental gears with the same speed as Kacper.

Tristan rose to a standing position and backed up, not looking at either of them. The amusement and fuck-yeah-let’s-do-this feeling that had made James smile slipped away, leaving him feeling a bit ill.

He’d just gotten married.

“This Domino has used poison before,” Kacper said. “I suspect you were right, that the message in the coins was directed at me. That does not mean that there isn’t also a threat to the church, or that the church isn’t involved. From what I know, this Domino is not a member of the clergy, but in the past, he has been.”

“Sir, are you telling me that the Domino has been active recently?”

“Of course. There was an attack seven years ago.”

“How do you know it’s the same man?” Sophia asked. Her voice sounded strangled, but he could tell she was trying to keep it together.

“Because when he blew up one of the Ottoman territory properties he left a black mask at the scene.”

Chapter Eleven

Tristan felt like he was in a boxing match, a match he was losing. But instead of physical punches, the fleet admiral was using words.

He’d just gotten married.

No, there wasn’t time to focus on that.

The last time the Domino attacked, his signature had been a mask. James was right.

And the fleet admiral had just been shot. By the Domino? Was he here now? Tristan should be searching. He looked at Mateo. No, that was the duty of the Spartan Guard.

“It is the Domino,” James said. Tristan had to give him credit, there was no hint of an “I told you so” in his tone.

“My lord, why weren’t the admirals, or the knights, informed of this?”

Kacper said nothing.

That was a bit intimidating, but Tristan forged ahead. “If that information was known, the admirals of both Rome and England would have reacted differently to our information.”

“You mean they would have committed to something, rather than sacrificing you three by sending you here to possibly make fools of yourselves, while maintaining deniability.”

Tristan had a huge respect for his admiral, and didn’t like to think that he would ignore good intelligence simply to avoid losing political points.

“Or,” the fleet admiral continued, “they would have realized that your arriving here might prompt the Domino to act. Which he did.”

It took Tristan a second to put together what the fleet admiral was saying.

“Sir, I assure you that if my admiral had known our arrival would mean placing you in danger, he would have never authorized us to come.”

“You’re a good knight.”

That didn’t sound like a compliment. Tristan’s back was against the ropes and he was taking hits. The fleet admiral was, very quietly, accusing the admiral of England of something unthinkable.

“And you, Ms. Starabba? Will you defend your father’s actions?” Kacper asked.

“There is no need. His actions speak for themselves.”

Well, that was a loaded statement.

Kacper chuckled, then started to cough. And he kept coughing.

And coughing.

“Kacper. Kacper?” Greta’s voice shook with worry.

Mateo barked out an order in a language Tristan didn’t recognize.

Someone pulled the door to the deck closed and for a moment, there was total darkness. Tristan’s shoulders tensed. He couldn’t see where anyone was, and a blitz attack in the dark would be efficient and easy. But the only sound was the fleet admiral’s coughing. Tristan flinched with every hacking, painful cough coming from the couch.

Lights flicked on.

Tristan first checked Sophia and James, making sure they were both where he could see them and safe. Then he turned to look at Kacper.

The lamp by the couch spread warm golden light over a wide area. And made the blood that covered the fleet admiral glow ruby red.

He coughed again, spitting bright-red blood over his chin and neck. Some splattered onto the silvery-gray sofa, and onto the soft white blankets over his legs.

“Kacper!” Greta lunged forward, falling heavily to her knees. She slid one arm behind his back, helping him sit up. As soon as he did, blood began to pour from his mouth in a steady stream.

Then the whites of his eyes turned red, and when he blinked, bloody tears slid down his cheeks. Blood trickled from his ears and welled in his nail beds.

He raised his hand, touching Greta’s face. “Kochanie.”

His hand slid from her cheek, leaving bloody marks like war paint, and he slumped in his wife’s arms.

“Nein. Nein!” Greta wrapped her arms around her husband, rocking him back and forth. Gone was the stern, imposing figure, and in her place a woman racked with denial and horror at the death of her loved one.

Dead.

The fleet admiral was dead.

The door to the balcony slammed open. “Sir! We think we’ve got him.”

Mateo was staring at the tableau on the couch with a blank expression, but his soldier’s words spurred him into action. He looked at Tristan, who tensed, hand going to his sword. If Mateo thought they’d had something to do with this, the likelihood of all three of them getting out of this alive was slim to none.

James and Sophia must have come to the same conclusion, because he felt them move into position behind him.

“Stay between us,” James said to Sophia.

“No. I can defend myself. I am a member of the Carabinieri. I did not react well before. I will not make the same mistake again.”

There was both pride and frustration in her voice. The Carabinieri were both a police force and members of Italian military. Though she worked for the Department for the Protection of Cultural Heritage—the art cops—she still would have done basic military training.

“Mateo, we had nothing to do with this.” Tristan kept his voice calm and level.

“Guard them,” Mateo said to Tristan, pointing to James and Sophia, and then to Greta. “Protect them.”

Tristan contained his surprise as Mateo raced for the balcony door. He ran out and the door closed behind him, dropping them once more into twilight darkness.

Greta was still holding Kacper’s body, whispering, “no, no, no,” in German.

“Did we just watch the fleet admiral die?” James asked, sotto voce.

“No. He…he cannot be dead. We should check,” Sophia said.

Tristan looked over his shoulder at both of them.

“You should check,” she clarified.

“Don’t let me stop you, mate.” James flashed a brief grin.

For some reason, the exchange made him feel better. Rather than sheath his sword, he handed it to Sophia, carefully wrapping her fingers around the handle. “It’s sharp,” he warned her.

She nodded, holding the sword awkwardly at first, but then adjusting her grip, the blade no longer wobbling.

“Why don’t I get a sword?” James muttered.

Tristan took a knee beside Greta. “Ma’am. Ma’am. Let me check his pulse.”

“He’s dead. He’s dead…”

Tristan tugged at one of her arms. The minute he touched her, he could feel her trembling. She let him move her arm away from Kacper’s chest and neck. The fleet admiral’s face was drenched in blood. His eyes were open and entirely red, except for the black holes of his pupils. The sclera and iris were both filled with blood.

Tristan pressed two fingers against the fleet admiral’s neck, up under his jawbone. He waited, hoping, hoping. When he didn’t find a pulse, he moved his fingers to a different spot. Maybe blood loss meant his pulse would be hard to find.

There was nothing.

He wasn’t breathing.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry. He’s gone,” Tristan confirmed.

“The dart must have had poison in it.” Sophia’s voice was low. It probably didn’t matter. Greta was lost in grief.

Tristan tried to ease her away from Kacper’s body, but she shoved at him, snarling, “Nein!”

Tristan held up both hands and pushed to his feet. Sophia grabbed him by the elbow and started hauling him away. Her fingers were digging into him and she looked frantic.

“What’s wrong? Where’s my sword?”

“Blood. You have his blood on your hands. He was poisoned. Poison. Move!”

It took him a second to realize what she was saying. “Fuck,” he hissed, and picked up his pace.

Sophia dragged him into the kitchen, slammed on the water, and shoved him toward the sink. He thrust his bloodied hand under the water. She started opening and closing drawers frantically until she found a tea towel. She thrust it under the water, then ran back to Greta.

James had followed them to the kitchen. He flicked on the kitchen lights and set Tristan’s sword carefully on the counter.

They stared at one another. If not for the cold water running over his hands, Tristan might have thought this was all some sort of nightmare.

“The fleet admiral, the emperor, is dead.” James’s words weren’t exactly a question or a statement. They were something in between.

“The fleet admiral is dead.” Tristan made sure it was a statement.

He grabbed some soap and scrubbed his hand free of the blood then turned the water off. He looked toward the couch. The sound of Greta’s sobs made Tristan wince.

He looked back at James, and then remembered the other shocking thing that had just happened.

“So, we’re married, eh?” James said.

They glanced awkwardly at one another, then away.

“Apparently.”

“And the fleet admiral is dead.”

“Yes.”

“And we were right about the Domino.”

“But we weren’t able to stop him from killing the fleet admiral.”

“What do we do now?” James asked.

Sophia reappeared, holding the bloody towel carefully. She tossed it into the garbage, then washed her hands.

“I can’t get her to stop touching him.” There were tears on her cheeks. “He was her husband.”

The last word fell like a weight, the silence after it deafening.

Footsteps thumped against the stone steps, and they turned as one toward the mouth of the stairs. Tristan moved to where his sword lay, right hand wrapped around the handle.

A Spartan guard appeared. “Come with me.”

Tristan tensed. “Where?”

“We can’t leave her here with his dead body.” Sophia’s voice was thick with outrage.

The guard winced. “I will stay with the mistress.”

“Where do you want us to go?” Tristan asked.

“To the first floor. We caught him.”

“The Domino?” James asked.

“Yes. Mateo wants you to look on his face.” The guard had a heavy Eastern European accent that came out the more he spoke, as if he could hide it for a few words but not more than that.

Tristan picked up his sword. “I’ll go first.”

Sophia marched up to the guard. “Give me your gun.”

He rocked back on his heels in surprise, then frowned at her and shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Not the big one. Your other gun. I know how to use a firearm.”

The guard’s eyes slid to Tristan’s sword. He braced his foot on the edge of the counter and pulled up his pant leg, revealing an ankle holster. He pulled the small gun and handed it to her.

Sophia checked the safety and the small clip with precise movements, then nodded. “Grazie.”

James crossed his arms. “Why don’t I get a gun?”

“You don’t know how to handle it.” Tristan headed for the stairs.

“How do you know?” James demanded.

“Because you’re English, so you didn’t grow up with them. The Kiwis don’t like them, and you’ve never served in the military,” Tristan summarized as he started down the stairs.

James followed him, Sophia and her gun in the rear.

“You two have weapons.”

“You are a weapon,” Sophia pointed out.

“I have a bad leg.”

“And enough muscles that you could probably pick a man up and break him over your bad knee.” Tristan didn’t bother to hide his smile, and it was present in his voice.

“You two are hilarious.” James probably meant the words to be dry, but they came out tinged with humor.

After the horror of the past twenty minutes, he—they—needed a moment of levity.

Tristan led them across the balcony overlooking the great hall, into the main part of the second floor, and finally to the steps leading down to the first floor.

They were silent once they hit the first-floor staircase, by mutual, unspoken agreement. Tristan heard voices and stopped, trying to make sure they wouldn’t interrupt a critical moment.

“…you socialist scum will never know the power we hold. Your time has come to an end. You will burn as the witches did.”

“Enough,” Mateo snapped.

Tristan motioned them to follow and took the final few steps down.

The foyer was just as lovely as it had been when they’d come in—had that been only an hour or two ago it felt like barely thirty minutes had passed though she knew it had been longer?—but instead of seeming spacious, it felt cramped.

Fifteen black-clad Spartan Guardsmen stood in the hall. Five of them made a circle around a kneeling figure and Mateo. The remaining nine were spaced along the walls.

Tristan stepped up between two of the guards, looking down at the man, the Domino.

He had dark skin and dark hair, which Tristan had expected, based on his Middle-Eastern accent. Tristan knew better than to expect a villain to look like a villain, yet he was oddly disappointed by the man’s plain appearance. He wore khaki slacks and a polo shirt. He looked like any other tourist come to the Isle of Man to take in the history and scenery.

Sophia joined him, nudging a guard to take a step to the side so she could stand beside Tristan. James loomed behind them, tall enough to see over Sophia’s head.

There was a black ski mask on the ground beside the Domino, who knelt with his hands cuffed behind his back, the muzzle of Mateo’s gun pressed to his skull just behind his ear.

He raised his head, looking first at Tristan and then at Sophia. His eyes glittered with madness, or maybe it was religious fervor. “Ah, the woman. You were meant to die, too.”

Chapter Twelve

Sophia tried, and failed, not to react to the words. She’d already acted like a silly damsel in distress when the fleet admiral was first shot. She’d hidden behind Tristan like a coward.

She would not let this murderer’s word affect her.

She shrugged lightly, looking down her nose at him. “I am not dead.”

“You will be, Princess.”

Her breath caught for a moment at that. He recognized her. Knew her.

“Is he a member?” she asked Mateo.

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you certain?”

“Scared you, didn’t I? I know all about you. All of you.” The Domino’s crazed gaze transferred to Tristan. “You, the knight who shouldn’t be. You’re only a knight out of pity. You’re not worthy.”

Sophia reached out to take Tristan’s hand, wanting to reassure him. He didn’t return the gesture, and she dropped her fingers back to rest against her leg.

The Domino’s gaze flicked to James. “You’re the shame of your family. A savage pretending to be a man.”

“An insult based on my ethnicity, how original,” James drawled.

The Domino blinked in surprise. Whatever cruel spell he’d been weaving with his words disappeared under James’s utter lack of concern.

Tristan snorted out a laugh. Sophia forced herself to laugh lightly and shake her head, her hair falling around her shoulders. It was a lighthearted gesture, and she hoped it would make him think she was utterly unconcerned about him.

“What is his name?” Sophia asked Mateo.

“I am the one you call Domino. I am the one who—”

Mateo cut him off. “We’re running facial recognition now.”

Again, the Domino looked peeved.

Sophia noticed that his gaze kept returning to her. She carefully didn’t look at him. “Did you tell him that he failed?”

Mateo raised one brow in question. Then his gaze hardened and he gave her a slight nod, before saying, “No, ma’am.”

“He is dying if he is not already dead.”

“Didn’t you tell him that our leader was wearing body armor?” Sophia asked.

“Lies. Lies!” The Domino was practically frothing at the mouth.

“No, I was enjoying his rant about how we are going to burn at the stake like witches. Or something.”

“He will die. He’s been dying for a year.” Now the Domino’s voice was full of menace, and spit flicked from his lips as he spoke. “The poison eating away at his body. If even a drop of the toxin touched his skin, there will be no saving him. No way to stop the reaction of the poison already in him.”

Sophia couldn’t stop herself from reacting to that. She sucked in air.

The Domino threw his head back, careless of the gun pressed into his skull, and laughed like the madman he was.

Mateo pointed at two men with his free hand. They started up the stairs.

“How were you poisoning him?” Mateo snapped.

The Domino only grinned, and kept on grinning when Mateo slammed the butt of his gun against the Domino’s shoulder.

“I will break your collarbone if I have to. And then I’ll break every other bone in your body.”

“I will never tell you.”

“Do you all drink the same water?” Sophia asked. “You all might be in danger.”

The Domino grinned, but there was no sparkle of happy malice in his eyes.

“Food?” she asked again, watching the Domino out of the corner of her eye. No reaction.

“Is he taking anything for his arthritis?” James asked.

The Domino’s smile wavered for a moment, and then he chortled, “You’ll never find the poison. You are socialist fools who will not be allowed to—”

“It’s the medicine,” Sophia said.

Two more guards ran up the stairs.

“It’s too late!” the Domino snarled. “Too late!”

Mateo reached down and hauled him up by one arm. “You will tell me everything I want to know, in time.”

“He will die. He will die!”

He’s already dead, and the repercussions will last a lifetime.

Mateo started hauling the Domino toward the doors into the great hall, when he suddenly threw his head back, his teeth clenched.

A second later he started gagging and drooling.

Mateo snarled, “Cyanide capsule!”

Three guards rushed forward.

Sophia swallowed hard. Reminded herself that she was a member of Italy’s military. That she was an officer of the law.

And she dealt with art crimes, not blood and death. She wasn’t ready to watch another person die, even if it was their enemy.

“Tristan, James,” she whispered. “I think I’m going to faint. Don’t let me faint.”

James wrapped one huge arm around her waist as Tristan sheathed his sword. James started hauling her toward the front door.

“In here,” Tristan said. “There’s a waiting area.” They ducked into a small alcove off the foyer, and Tristan opened the narrow door there. It was so small that James had to turn sideways and duck to get in.

They found themselves in a small, comfortable room that looked almost like the waiting room in a very expensive doctor’s office. There were narrow couches on facing walls, a coffee table with artfully displayed books about the history of the Isle of Man, and a small table bearing a kettle, selection of tea bags, and a single-serve coffee maker.

She stared at the single-serve coffee maker. Why would anyone do that to coffee?

“Sophia?”

Who would want to drink terrible coffee from a plastic machine? She’d tried it once. It had tasted like stagnant, lukewarm water.

“Sophia.”

Her right hand was enveloped by James’s and he rubbed the back of her hand briskly with two fingers. The unexpected motion startled her out of her fixation on the coffee machine.

“Sophia?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Thank you. I’m…I’m better now.”

Tristan headed for the coffee machine. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

“No!” she practically shouted. “Tea, please.”

He nodded and kept going.

“Are you okay?” James asked. He was sitting beside her on one of the couches, his big body beside her both crowding and protecting.

“Yes. I am… I am not used to seeing death.” She shook her head. “I am a Carabinieri, I should have…”

“Aren’t you an art cop?” James asked.

She deflated a little. “Yes.”

“Then you shouldn’t be used to seeing death.”

“You are a curator of coins. You did not faint.”

“First of all, neither did you. Second of all, I played pro rugby. The inside of a scrum is like the bowels of hell, and I saw plenty of blood.”

Tristan returned with a white ceramic cup of tea. “I’m sorry. All they have is bagged.”

“Philistines,” James said with a smile.

Instead of lightening her mood, the comments only made her more anxious. “Tea. You drink tea. I drink coffee.”

Tristan and James exchanged a look.

“We’re married. I don’t know how to make tea without a tea bag. You—you were willing to give me instant coffee.”

Tristan took a seat on the coffee table, facing her and James. “Yes. We’re married.”

“Is it just me or did anyone else really not see that coming?” James mused.

Sophia started to laugh. Then she could not stop laughing. She leaned into James, the cup of tea vibrating in her hand. Tristan took it from her, removed the tea bag, and started drinking.

When Sophia finally calmed, she started to sit up, but James wrapped an arm firmly around her, keeping her in place.

Sophia’s blood heated, remembering the look she’d shared with James the night before. What she’d thought was just flirtation for the sake of flirtation would turn into something more. She guessed James would be a thorough, inventive lover. Tristan, in all his stalwart nobility, could be either precise and slow, or maybe he would loosen the reins of control in the privacy of the bedroom.

Her nipples pebbled inside her bra, and she remembered reading somewhere that death could be an aphrodisiac. After seeing death, the natural human need was to be reminded you were alive.

“We’re married,” she said again.

Tristan looked at them and raised a brow. “We have to tell our admirals. Do you think we should tell them before or after we tell them we were in the room when the fleet admiral was murdered?”

Sophia sat up. “Cazzo.”

“Bloody fucking hell,” James muttered.

Tristan sipped tea.

Chapter Thirteen

They had been on the Isle of Man for less than eight hours, and yet everything had changed. How could it be that he would leave the island a different person than he’d been when he arrived?

Sophia fastened her seat belt and pulled a blanket up over her shoulders. It wasn’t particularly cold on the plane. “When was the last time a fleet admiral was murdered?”

James closed the sunshade on his window. He was hoping to sleep on the flight back to Rome. The nearly sleepless night was catching up with him. Combined with the post-adrenaline fatigue, he was exhausted to the point of starting to feel sick.

Tristan walked down the aisle from the cockpit, his mouth set in a grim line. “We can’t change the flight to land in London.”

There was a beat of silence before Sophia asked, her voice silky, “Were we going to?”

“I should be in England,” Tristan said, as if it were obvious.

He wished he could close his eyes and ignore Sophia and Tristan, but that was no longer an option. They were his triad. The fact that Tristan was probably about to say and do something asinine was, in fact, his problem.

Sophia stared at Tristan.

“I am a knight of England.” His voice was solemn.

Abort, mate. Abort!

“And I should be in Rome.” Sophia’s voice was silky smooth.

Tristan’s jaw firmed. “I’m a knight. You will have to—”

“Of course you couldn’t change the flight,” James practically shouted. He had a terrible feeling Tristan had been about to say that Sophia would have to move to England.

Apparently, his new husband was a bloody moron.

The flight attendant came to check their seat belts and take their dinner orders. James ended up ordering for everyone, since both Tristan and Sophia said they weren’t hungry.

Lack of food never put anyone in a good mood.

They sat in awkward silence as the plane taxied and took off. Dinner was a quiet affair as a result. James wasn’t particularly worried about that. After what they’d all just been through, he figured they needed time to process, to come to grips with it—not only the fleet admiral’s death, but the fact they were now married.

Sophia yawned. “I might take a little nap,” she said, nestling under her blanket once more. Her eyes closed and James took a moment to study her face, to appreciate the fact that this beautiful, powerful, strong woman was his wife.

Glancing toward Tristan, James noticed his new husband was also taking advantage of the opportunity, his eyes softer now as he watched her sleep.

Tristan gave James a tired grin when he caught him looking. “Probably not a bad idea for us to get some rest too.”

James nodded, thinking sleep would be elusive. He was wrong. Several hours passed when he roused himself. Tristan was still asleep, but Sophia was awake, her alert eyes telling him she’d been up for a while now.

“Feel better,” he asked, his voice groggy, deep.

She nodded as Tristan stirred and glanced at his watch. “I didn’t intend to sleep that long.”

“We needed it,” Sophia said. The earlier tension still hovered, and James decided it was time to guide them to safer waters.

“It’s been at least a hundred years,” James said.

“What?” Sophia asked.

“Earlier. You asked how long it had been since a fleet admiral was murdered. A hundred years.”

He could see the effort Sophia put into loosening her anger. She tipped her head to first one side, then the other, relaxed her tense jaw and unclenched her fists. Finally, she took a deep breath. “One hundred years? Do you know who the last fleet admiral to be killed was?”

The last rays of sunlight coming in through her window struck her hair, lightening it to mahogany brown. Sunlight gilded her cheek, nose, and lips.

James forgot whatever it was he was about to say. “My God, you’re beautiful.”

“Yes, you are.” Tristan was seated across the aisle from Sophia, and he’d turned to watch her too.

Sophia looked at each of them in turn. “Many men have called me beautiful.”

James tracked her expression, trying to understand what was going on in her mind. Was she insulted? He understood, he really did, how hard it was to be judged solely on physical appearance.

He was about to apologize when she spoke again. “But those men weren’t my husbands.” She shoved the blanket off and undid her seat belt. “Perhaps it is time we got to know one another better.”

James’s cock was a hundred percent sure she meant they should have sex, and mini James was down with that plan. Actually, he was up, very up, with that plan.

Tristan looked like a fox in the henhouse, his gaze tracking every movement of Sophia’s body—the rise and fall of her chest, the way her neck moved when she shook back her hair.

“You deserve better than a plane.” Tristan’s words were entirely at odds with his hyper-intense focus. “We would be wankers to fuck you on a plane.” His accent had slipped, and was now hard and sharp, filled with the cadence of southeast London.

Sophia tipped her head to one side, her hair sliding like silk over one shoulder. “You English have no imagination. There are plenty of things we can do without fucking.” Her smile turned predatory. “Take off your shirts. Both of you.”

Sophia watched them as raw, base desire clawed at her insides. Normally her need wasn’t so primitive. Maybe it was in reaction to the violence and death she’d seen, maybe it was because these were her husbands. Whatever the reason, she didn’t just want them, she needed them the way a drowning woman needed air.

There was a pause, a moment that lasted just long enough that doubt crept into her heart. What if they didn’t need her in this moment the way she needed them? What if they were unhappy with the marriage? What if, what if…

Both her husbands undid their seat belts and stripped off their shirts. Sophia sighed in relief as the doubt was washed away by a fresh wave of desperate desire.

She took a minute to examine them. They were hers. It was her right, her privilege, to look over them, enjoy them.

James was thick with muscle—his shoulders and arms huge and powerful, his stomach a smooth, hard expanse of delicious brown flesh.

Tristan was just as powerful, but in a different way. He was leaner, muscles defined. His chest and stomach were those of a bodybuilder or underwear model—his upper four abdominal muscles visible, even at rest. His arms were particularly delicious—roped and corded with hard muscle. She’d held his sword. It was heavy. It was no surprise his arms looked like that.

“Your turn,” Tristan growled.

His voice had changed. He sounded like the criminals on those British police shows she liked to watch in secret.

He was losing control.

She liked that he was losing control.

What would happen when he really unchained himself? Would he turn away, remove himself from the situation until he was able to hide this true, baser self? Or would he pounce on her and ravish her?

If there was any justice in the world, it would be the second.

She switched her attention back to James. As she looked at him, he crossed his arms. That made all those thick, heavy muscles in his chest and arms bulge.

The barbarian king carried her into his castle, spanking her ass as she struggled and screamed. He carried her to his bedchamber, throwing her down on a bed covered in furs. He tore her clothes from her body, his hands rough and sure on her skin. She struggled because she knew she should, not because she wanted him to stop. When he plucked her nipples with his fingers, she whimpered, partially in pain at his rough treatment, partially in desire.

“Spread your legs so I can ravish you,” James the Barbarian growled.

“Halt!” A knight, wearing only breeches, his naked chest glistening with sweat, leapt through the door. His hair, skin, eyes, and sword were all golden. “Unhand the princess.”

James the Barbarian slid his hand up her leg, cupping her freshly waxed pussy in his palm. “Your princess is mine.”

“I will slay you,” Tristan the Noble Knight said.

“Slay us?” James stroked her clit, making her moan. “Why don’t you join us?”

Tristan threw aside his sword. “Yes, I will. I have always wanted to ravish the beautiful princess.”

“She is ours, now,” James the Barbarian said.

“Yes, ours.”

“Sophia, where did you go?”

“What?” Sophia jumped slightly as James—real James—spoke. His voice brought her back to reality. Her stupid imagination had done it again.

Tristan reached for his shirt. “This is too much. We shouldn’t do this right now.”

“Hold on, mate,” James purred. A slow, wicked grin worked its way across his face.

He knew.

“She’s not scared. She’s aroused.”

Sophia raised her chin, refusing to apologize. That primal part of her that wanted to ravish and be ravished was howling in delight that one of her men—now they were her men—was able to read her body language and expression so acutely.

“Were you thinking about what it will be like?” James uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, looking at her with predatory eyes.

“No,” she purred.

“Tell us what you were thinking about.”

“No, no, no.” She would never speak of her crude and insulting fantasy.

Tristan too was leaning forward, peering at her. “Liar.”

“What were you thinking about?” James asked again.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” James said it this time.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she say? She was lying.

“What do you want, Sophia?” Tristan asked.

“I have a better question.” James slipped out of his seat, onto his knees in front of her, the movement careful and slow. He laid his big palms on her thighs. “What do you want, wife?”

Sophia sucked in a breath of shocked, excited desire.

Tristan rose from his seat and moved to stand behind her. He gathered her hair in his hand, clumsily but carefully pulling it into a tail and draping it over the back of the seat. Her neck, chest, and face were now totally exposed.

You’re still wearing clothes. You’re not naked. You’ve lost control of the situation, but you can get it back.

But she didn’t want it back. She wanted to see what they would do.

“I’ve had a ménage before,” she told them. “But always a man and a woman. I have never been with two men.”

“And you’ll never be with anyone else but us.” Tristan’s words were absolute. The ownership and possessiveness she heard in his voice made her nipples pebble inside her bra.

“You like that,” James said. “You like hearing that you’re ours.”

The word “no” was on the tip of her tongue. Why lie? “Yes.”

“What do you like, Sophia? You started this, took control. Told us to strip. But I think maybe you want one of us to take control.”

“Both of you.” The words were out before she could stop them.

James smiled. “Tell me what your fantasy was.”

“It was not polite.” The arousal that thrummed through her like liquid honey was making it hard for her to think, and harder yet to speak English. “You say, ummm, not correct?”

Tristan touched her shoulder lightly, then slid his hand across her collarbone. He slipped his fingers under the collar of her shirt, his four fingers splayed across her chest while his thumb stroked the underside of her jaw and the front of her neck. Sophia arched her neck, inviting more of the touch and letting her eyes close.

“Do you mean politically correct?”

“Yes,” she murmured. It was much easier to be truthful with her eyes closed.

“Do you want us to take control?” James reached under the hem of her pants and unfastened her shoes, pulling them off.

“Yes,” she moaned.

She sat on her throne, the beautiful, merciless queen. “You are mine.”

The men kneeled at the foot of the dais on which her throne—made from a giant shell and thousands of pearls—rested. They both nodded their obedience.

“Yes, my Queen.”

“Rise.”

They were naked, as she’d ordered them to be, and their cocks were hard and aching.

She rose gracefully from her throne, her long dark hair falling nearly to her ankles. She reached for the single jeweled clasp between her breasts and loosened it. Her elegant gown parted, revealing her naked flesh beneath.

“You may worship me,” she said regally. “You may lick my sex, and you may suck my nipples.”

They leapt forward, desperate to serve her, to please her. She sat on the edge of her throne and spread her legs.

“Wait,” Sophia gasped.

Tristan’s hand, sliding deeper into her shirt, immediately stopped moving. James was kneading her calves, and he too halted.

“If this is too much…” James said.

“I want to be in charge,” she moaned.

A beat of silence, and then Tristan said, “This time.”

More arousal, more dark, delicious need, poured through her.

“Kiss me.” She’d meant it as a command, but it came out as a gentle request, and she was glad for it. It was better this way.

Tristan bent over the back of the seat and kissed her. The kiss was upside down and a bit odd, but his lips were warm and sure against hers. He kept it chaste, just his lips on hers. When he pulled back, Sophia started to lick her lips, wanting to taste him, but James was right there. She’d been so lost in Tristan’s kiss, she hadn’t heard or felt her other husband move.

James captured the tip of her tongue with his teeth, nipping her lightly. That made her gasp, and James took advantage of her open mouth, claiming her with a deep, hard kiss. His tongue invaded her, and her pussy ached with the need to feel that same delicious invasion.

When James pulled back, she sighed in pleasure and opened her eyes. James was kneeling between her spread thighs, his hands braced on the arms of her seat. Tristan still stood behind her, his hand inside her top, the tips of his fingers nearly touching the lace of her bra.

No one moved, and Sophia was about to scream in frustration before she remembered she’d said she wanted to be in control.

There were two of them, and one of her, and that’s the way it always would be. Based on their reactions, they both preferred women over men. She herself enjoyed both, and most of the members of Rome had similarly fluid tastes in sexual partners. It was almost expected.

Given time, her men would find their own dynamic and grow comfortable with one another. For now, it seemed that she would be in the middle between her two gorgeous, strong husbands. She was looking forward to it.

But she was Sophia Starabba, Princess of Rome.

And she wanted to remind her new husbands of that.

Sophia eased Tristan’s hand from her shirt, then stood. James kept her caged in for an extra second or two—long enough to make it clear that if he’d wanted to keep her there he could have.

Sophia didn’t acknowledge his action. She kept every motion slow and deliberate. She’d seen their reactions when they’d met, knew they were both attracted to her. While she didn’t fully understand what men found so attractive about her—she wasn’t unaware of physical appearance, but there were certainly more beautiful women—she knew how to use that reaction to her advantage.

Barefoot, she stepped over James’s knee and took up a position in the free space in the center aisle in front of the couch.

“Husbands,” she crooned, “would you like to watch me?”

Tristan’s eyes glowed like sunlight shining through gold glass. James pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, his bad leg stuck out at an angle, and slid into the seat she’d vacated.

“Watch you do what?” Tristan asked.

Sophia undid her gold-link belt, sliding it from the loops of her pants. She wrapped the belt around her left wrist with her right hand. Both men reacted to the sight of the chain around her wrist. Buono. They would enjoy some bondage. She’d found that kinky play did well when there were three.

She dropped her left arm and the belt slithered off her wrist, clinking softly as it fell to the floor.

“Now, I will undress for you. And then you will touch me. Everywhere.” Her blouse parted easily, the silk-blend white fabric sliding off her shoulders and arms to puddle on the floor around her bare feet.

Her bra was a simple tan with lace accents. If she’d known she’d be undressing, she would have worn something different, but the bra was appropriate for the shirt.

“Ah, woman, you’re gorgeous.” James practically purred the words.

Tristan said nothing, only watched her with those intense eyes.

She unfastened her pants. Rather than slide them off, she undid the zip and then folded the fabric back, showing them an inverted triangle of skin and lace.

With her pants held up by nothing more than the curve of her hips, Sophia reached up to her breasts, cradling their familiar, comfortable weight.

She squeezed them, digging her fingers in, showing them that she could handle rough touches. Then she pressed her breasts together, her cleavage glorious when she did so.

She released her breasts and scraped her nails over the cups of her bra. It was lined, but she could feel the scrape of her nails just enough that her nipples, already aching with arousal, peaked under her touch. She threw back her head and sighed in delight, stroking and kneading her breasts.

Tipping her chin back down, she was gratified to see the tenting in the crotch of James’s slacks. Tristan’s lower body was hidden from view by the back of the seat, but his cheeks were lightly flushed with color.

“Take off the bra,” Tristan demanded.

Sophia looked at him from beneath her lashes. “Say please.”

“Please,” James said immediately.

Surprisingly, Tristan, who so far had impeccable manners, gritted his teeth and didn’t say please.

Sophia reached back and undid the clasp of her bra. She slid the straps carefully off her shoulders, so the only thing keeping the bra in place was the way the cups clung to her breasts.

“My knight,” she purred, looking at Tristan. “Would you like to see my breasts?”

He nodded stiffly.

“James,” she murmured, still looking at Tristan, “remove my pants.”

James pushed himself out of the seat and knee-walked over to her. It was a slow process, and for a moment, the spell arousal had woven around her, slipped as she looked down at James with concern. She needed to know more about why he limped, what was wrong with his leg. She did not want to be cruel and ask him to do something that would cause him pain.

If she stopped now, the moment would unravel, so she would have to trust James to know his own body and his own limits.

On his knees, his head was even with her bare stomach. He was so deliciously big.

He laid his big hands on her stomach, and she sucked in a breath. His hands were warm against her skin, which had grown cold from the air conditioning in the plane.

He fumbled for a moment with the zipper of her pants, which she hadn’t lowered all the way. His big fingers found the tiny tab and unzipped the final inch of zipper. The waistband loosened and the pants started to slide. Her generous hips and thighs didn’t let them fall far, but with a quick tug, James had them down around her ankles.

Rather than step out of them, Sophia held perfectly still, letting him look.

Looking wasn’t enough. James’s big hands closed around her ankles, circling them completely, and slid up to her knees, then higher still. He turned his wrists so that his thumbs were stroking the insides of her thighs.

His hands didn’t stop. Higher and higher they rose, Sophia’s breath growing shallow as he neared the apex of her legs.

James’s thumbs pressed against her pussy, the touch sure and firm. Sophia rose onto her toes for a moment, but he kept up the pressure.

“She’s wet,” he reported. “Soaking through her panties.”

Tristan made a sound low in his throat and dashed out from behind the chair. He grabbed the strap of her bra and jerked it off her arms. The cups were ripped away, leaving her naked except for a pair of thin, silky tan panties.

Sophia’s nipples were diamond-hard points of need. She wanted, needed, their fingers and teeth on her flesh.

Tristan cupped the back of her head and kissed her, a single savage meeting of lips. He broke the kiss, leaving her gasping, and dipped his head to her breasts.

His warm, wet mouth closed around the aching peak of her breast, the ruched flesh of her nipple making contact with his hard teeth. He bit gently, then licked the captured flesh.

Sophia wrapped an arm around his neck, holding tight. His hand came around her back, as if reassuring her that he wouldn’t let her fall.

Lace scraped against her arousal-sensitized flesh as James pulled her panties off. Sophia stepped out of them and then spread her legs. James’s fingers parted her labia, letting cold air touch her wet, heated flesh. Even that was enough to have her moaning. She wouldn’t last long—she was ready to come, her body ready to take off like a race car sedately following the pace car before the flag was waved.

The physical stimulation they were providing was certainly wonderful, but it was the mental stimulation that had pushed her so close to orgasm so quickly. These were her husbands—her husbands who, like trained tigers, had leashed their savage natures. They’d accepted her control, just as she would later accept theirs.

They were virtual strangers, but they had a mutual attraction. Trinity marriages had been built on far less. They were lucky.

James sat back on his heels, then pulled her forward, onto his mouth. James’s chin and lips nuzzled the plump mound of flesh at the top of her sex.

A warm, hot tongue delved between the lips of her pussy and found her clit. Sophia buried the hand not holding Tristan into James’s hair. She tried to be gentle, but she was so close to coming that she made a fist, pulling his hair and grinding herself against his face.

Tristan grasped the breast he wasn’t sucking, kneading the flesh for a moment before pinching her nipple and giving it a little twist. There seemed to be a direct line between her pussy and her nipples, and Tristan’s nips and twists paired with the long, slow strokes of James’s tongue.

“Sto godendo.” She wasn’t speaking English—she didn’t have the brainpower to translate right now. Hopefully they understood. She’d have to teach them enough Italian so they’d understand her during sex.

The pace of James’s licking increased, and Tristan plucked her nipple, pulling it out and then letting it slide between his pinched fingers.

Sophia thrust her fingers into Tristan’s hair, and held tight as the orgasm took her. Her body arched back, a thin scream escaping her parted lips. Without Tristan’s arm at her back, she would have fallen. Sophia didn’t even consider that—she knew Tristan wouldn’t let her fall.

James laid his tongue flat against her clit as she came. Sophia would have to find the woman who’d taught him oral sex and thank her profusely. The steady pressure of his tongue as her body pulsed and throbbed in pleasure was perfection—anything more would have been irritating on her orgasm-sensitive flesh.

Tristan cupped her breast, warm palm over the nipple, and released her other breast from the hot prison of his mouth.

Sophia lifted her head, blinking. Now it was her turn. She reached for Tristan’s pants, but he stepped back, out of her reach.

Sophia froze, a little fissure of insecurity working through her.

James kissed her mound once, then tapped her right ankle. When she lifted it, he slipped her panties over her foot, then tapped the other side.

Tristan was scanning the floor. He scooped up her bra and handed it to her, then grabbed her shirt and shook it out.

“What is happening?” she asked.

“We’re landing. The flight attendant has been making desperate announcements for the past two minutes.”

Sophia’s cheeks, flushed from the orgasm, heated more.

She jerked on her clothes and they threw themselves into their seats, tugging on seat belts. Sophia looked down at herself, checking to make sure everything was in place. Her belt was missing. She scanned the floor but didn’t see it.

Tristan was in the seat across from her, while James was in the seat beside her, just across the aisle.

“Looking for this?” Tristan held up her belt, the gold links swaying with the motion of the plane. Metal clinked.

She reached out for it. Tristan captured her hand, then slowly wrapped the chain around her wrist. Once, twice, a third time.

Sophia’s body, satiated but still sensitive, hummed and throbbed at his touch.

Tristan’s gaze held hers as he finished wrapping the chain around her wrist, placing the loose ends into her palm. Then he sat back, his eyes heavy-lidded.

Her angry Apollo. No, not angry—aroused and frustrated.

The door to the cabin opened and the flight attendant peeked his head out warily. James shifted in his seat, adjusting his pants.

“I’m sorry,” Sophia murmured to them.

“You will be,” Tristan murmured.

The flight attendant stopped to check their seat belts. Sophia met his gaze and smiled lazily. She wasn’t ashamed. A bit embarrassed, of course, but not ashamed. The flight attendant, a trim man a few years older than her, blushed right up to the roots of his hair as he looked at her.

“Walk away,” James told him.

The flight attendant nodded, then took his own seat up near the galley. It was far enough away so they could speak without the man overhearing.

James was looking at Tristan. “‘You will be’? What happened to ‘you deserve a bed’?”

Tristan looked down at his lap, then at James. “Give me a minute and I’ll calm down enough to stop wanting to…”

“To what?” Sophia asked with desperate interest.

Tristan clenched his jaw and shook his head.

James chuckled. “We’re going to have a good time, the three of us.”

They were strangers. They were married.

But they were going to be very good in bed.

Sophia looked at her husbands and her smile widened. “A very good time.”

Chapter Fourteen

Tristan woke instantly when he heard the soft knock at the door. He ignored his body’s instinctive response—to yawn, stretch, or even ignore the sound altogether in favor of more sleep. Instead, he slid off the bed, sword in hand. He’d taught himself to sleep anywhere and to survive on catnaps. The knights had even had a sleep scientist come in to give a lecture on the science of sleeping in small intervals. It was based on sleep schedules developed for solo sailors who couldn’t risk sleeping for too long. It had taken some training, and the knights who’d served in the military were far better at it than he was, but Tristan had learned to sleep wherever, whenever, and to wake instantly.

He held his sword in his right hand, blade pointed out to the side. If the person knocking was a threat, having the blade pointed at the floor would mean losing the tactical advantage that the heavy blade afforded him. If he held it straight out at waist level, he could easily arch it into an upswing cut that would slice open an opponent from waist to opposite shoulder, or lower it if there was no threat.

He eased the door open with his left hand. Sophia stood on the other side, her eyes dark pools in the dim light of the hall.

“My father is here,” she murmured.

Tristan nodded and stepped out into the hall before sheathing his sword. He was fully dressed and ready to move.

James was not. When they knocked on his door, their husband was dead asleep, lying on his side. They had to let themselves into the tastefully decorated bedroom Sophia had assigned James yesterday. Had that only been yesterday? No, the day before.

Sophia spoke softly and touched James’s shoulder, but got no response.

“Let me.” Tristan took a step forward, but she waved him back.

Sophia pulled back her hand and slapped James’s ass.

He jerked awake, rolling onto his back and blinking furiously. Sophia let out a little laugh.

“Ouch,” James said.

“I’m sorry, but you wouldn’t wake up.” Sophia leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

Why didn’t I get a kiss?

Where had that unhelpful thought come from?

Stop being a fucking moron, Tristan told himself.

“What time is it?” James groaned and stretched.

“It’s nearly noon.”

Tristan checked his watch. “It’s eleven fifty-two a.m. We have one hour and eight minutes before Greta alerts the admirals at twelve p.m. Greenwich Mean Time.” Rome was one hour ahead of the Isle of Man.

James peered at Tristan. “One hour and eight minutes. Right.”

“My father is here.” Sophia pulled their attention with her simple words.

James nodded and then rubbed his face with his hands. “Give me a second.”

Tristan bit back his impatience.

“I have to get dressed,” Sophia said. “Meet me at my room. You know where it is, yes?”

James pushed off the bed, grimaced, and then did a few squats. “Yes.”

“We leave to meet with the admiral of Rome in eight minutes,” Tristan told both of them. “I need to call the admiral of England no later than eleven forty-five, English time.”

Sophia dismissed that with a little shrug. “A half an hour to speak to my father is more than enough. We don’t want more time than that. I will need at least fifteen minutes to get ready, so we won’t be leaving in eight minutes.” Sophia turned on her heel and walked out.

Tristan followed her. He could have stayed with James and hurried him along, but he wanted to stay with Sophia. It had been just over twelve hours since they’d landed. Since then, they’d driven from Rome back to the villa, eaten a hurried, quiet dinner, and then each gone to get some sleep.

There’d been an awkward moment when they rose from the dinner table last night. They’d looked at one another, each clearly wondering if they should stay together, share a bed. But exhaustion had outweighed anything, and James had smiled and headed for his room, which allowed Tristan and Sophia to do the same.

“James knows where your room is?” Tristan asked. Damn it, that was not what he’d meant to say.

Sophia arched a single dark brow as she led Tristan up to the third floor. “He escorted me to my room.”

Tristan looked around, taking in the elegant, expensive decor. “Of course.”

“Are you jealous?”

If the question had been serious, he wasn’t sure how he would have reacted. As it was, there was a teasing note. Or maybe it was hopeful.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes as they started down the hall. “Should I be?”

She shrugged in that very Italian way. “It could be interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“The jealous sex. It might be interesting.”

Tristan’s body hummed to life. When they’d gone to their rooms, he’d had to slip into the shower to deal with the pent-up frustration left over from their flight. He should have taken a cold shower, but it would have woken him up too much. Instead, he’d braced one hand against the wall, closed his eyes, and jerked off to the mental image of Sophia stripping off her clothes and teasing them.

“Interesting…” he repeated.

Sophia put her hand on a doorknob, pushing it open while keeping her attention on him. “I like you like this.”

“Like what?”

“When you forget you’re a knight.”

Tristan jerked as if he’d been shot. He snapped his gaze away from her face to the open door. He put his hand out to stop her from entering, careful not to touch her.

He slid his sword free, his jaw tight.

He was a knight.

Sliding into the room, he glanced around. He hadn’t forgotten what the Domino had said—that she was meant to die too. Maybe it was something he’d said only to try to scare them.

Or maybe the fact that the original bodies had been found less than a mile from her family’s home meant that there had originally been more planned. Perhaps when they’d headed to the Isle of Man, it had thrown off the Domino’s plans, forcing him to abandon whatever else he’d wanted to do here and go to Man.

But then why leave the clues?

Too many questions, not enough answers.

Sophia’s room was beautiful. He quickly checked what was behind the two doors—a closet the size of his London flat and a spacious bathroom. Then he opened the French doors that led onto a small third-floor balcony with a wrought iron railing and view of the Italian countryside. Unlike the balcony on the second floor, this one was not connected to anything else.

“It’s safe,” he called out.

He kept his back to the room, staring out at the landscape. He’d nearly forgotten about the cave, about the trinity who had suffered and died. The man had watched his spouses being murdered. Watched them suffer. Had they loved one another? Triads had to support and protect one another, but they were, after all, arranged marriages. There wasn’t always love.

Her footsteps were muted on the plush carpet, but not totally silent.

Sophia laid her hand on his back, and Tristan couldn’t hide his reaction. His whole body shivered in response to her touch.

“I upset you.” Now both her hands were on his back. “Can you tell me why?” She stepped closer, and he could feel the heat of her body against his back, a sharp contrast to the cool air washing over him through the balcony doors.

“I am a knight,” he said.

“Yes, you are.”

“I worked hard to become one. If at any time my behavior is not that of a knight, then I need to correct my behavior.”

Sophia pressed flush against his back, wrapping her arms around his waist. She didn’t speak.

Her touch did something to him. He relaxed, letting the point of his still-drawn sword rest against the flagstones of the balcony. “Who I was before I became a knight was not a good person.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He snorted and laid his left hand over hers, where it rested on his waist. “I was a thug. I grew up mostly on the streets.”

“You were homeless?”

He wondered if she was trying to sound neutral. It wasn’t working, because he could hear the horror in her voice. “Not exactly. My mum was a junkie. She had places she stayed—never hers, always a friend’s, or a boyfriend’s. I’d sleep on the couch or the floor.”

“When you were a child?” Now the horror was readily apparent, and she squeezed him…as if she could protect him from his past.

“I lived with my granny until I was eleven. She was poor as dirt, lived in the east end. She cleaned houses. But my life was normal, just poor. Until she died.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Tristan tried not to think about his grandmother. She’d been a hard woman, but loving. She’d taken him when he was only an infant and raised him on her own. He’d always called her “Granny,” but he’d said it the way other children said “Mum.” When she died—heart attack while cleaning an apartment less than a mile from home—Tristan had been lost.

He still remembered that day, as a series of painful moments. Walking home. Doing his after-school chores. Waiting for Granny. Looking at the clock. Wondering where she was. Making dinner—baked chips, which were his favorite, so he knew how to make them. Watching TV. An emotion he hadn’t known to call dread sitting heavy in his stomach. Looking out the window. Making her a plate of dinner, wrapping it in aluminum and putting it in the oven. Waiting. Worrying.

Late that night, after he’d put himself to bed, there’d been a knock at the door. The police were there, along with a woman. He could still picture her face—Mrs. Bagler had been his caseworker from that moment until he’d turned eighteen. She’d seemed old when he met her then, but as he aged, he’d realized she must have been in her mid-twenties when they met. She was beautiful, with dark skin and curly hair. She always wore a brightly patterned head scarf, and he’d liked to guess what color she’d have on the next time he saw her.

“What happened?” Sophia asked.

Tristan started. Had he said all that out loud? Maybe he was more tired than he realized.

“Mrs. Bagler did her best. She even helped my mom get custody of me. My mom was working at the time, had her own apartment. That lasted for about a year. I started hanging out with her friend’s kids. Petty crime, vandalism. Drugs.”

“They allowed you to stay with your mother?”

“I wanted to stay with her. I didn’t tell Mrs. Bagler what was going on. I didn’t want to end up with strangers. She eventually figured it out, of course, and she tried to get me into programs to keep me out of trouble.”

Sophia rubbed her cheek against his back between his shoulder blades.

“I like to read, thanks to Granny. And Mrs. Bagler and I would sometimes meet at the library. I started reading spy novels. True crime books. I would read them and root for the criminals. When I was sixteen, I came up with a plan to steal gold from this rich bloke in Kensington.”

“Steal gold?”

Tristan laughed a little at himself. “I thought I was the ringleader of some criminal empire.”

“What happened?”

“I tried to get my friends on board. Tried to have a meeting, like they do in the movies, to talk about our heist.” Tristan shook his head. “I couldn’t get anyone to listen for five minutes. So I decided to do it alone.”

She made a little noise of distress.

“I broke into this house, and my plan was working perfectly. I had my stethoscope so I could listen and crack the safe. It was a Tuesday night, which was perfect, because Tuesday nights the owners always went out to dinner and their chef stayed late prepping food for them, so the interior alarms were always off. I snuck in and hid until the chef left.”

“You did all this at sixteen?”

“Yes.”

“Impressive.” Her hand slid across his abdomen and the muscles of his stomach rippled in response. She made a pleased noise. “You would have made a very sexy burglar.”

He wanted to turn around and kiss her, taste that feminine power and pleasure. Instead, he decided to finish the story. She needed to know who he really was.

“I, uh, made it upstairs, and that’s when I heard it.”

Her hands stopped moving. “Heard what?”

“A drumming sound, then a sound like someone gagging. I should have turned around and run, but instead I headed for the sound. It was a bedroom, with a massive bed. The biggest bed I’d ever seen. There was a man lying on the floor beside the bed. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and he was shaking, hitting the floor with his heels.”

“My God.”

“I ran to help him. He was so hot. I called 9-9-9 from the phone by the bed. I stayed with him, did what the operator said. I grabbed glasses of water and dumped them on him. I threw wet towels over him. When the paramedics came, I let them in.” Tristan shook his head at the memory. “I ended up going with him. They asked who I was but I didn’t answer. They thought I was his kid and in shock, so they loaded me up too. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stayed with him. I was scared out of my mind that if I tried to get away, they’d figure out I had been trying to rob the place and arrest me.”

Sophia slid around to his front. “Who was he?”

“The husband of England’s security minister. When the minister showed up, she and her wife didn’t start shouting or say ‘who is this kid?’ They acted like everything was normal. And when they left the hospital the next day, I went with them.”

“Did you tell them why you’d been in the house?”

“No. Not at first. I tried to play it cool. Like I was still in a book or movie.” He chuckled softly, playing with the ends of her hair. She let him. He had the right to touch her, and she had the right to touch him.

My wife.

“What did they say?”

“They just asked the same questions over and over, until I exploded and told them. I remember feeling annoyed and freaked out. I was with them for nearly a full day. They didn’t lock me in or anything, but I knew I couldn’t leave. They were rich and powerful, and I was nothing, so I stayed. They fed me dinner and asked me questions while I ate. They gave me a room and asked me more questions while I brushed my teeth.”

“And what did they do, once they knew?”

“They told me about the Masters’ Admiralty, and they said I was destined to be a knight. Their son—in his thirties when I met them—was already a knight. I stayed with them for a week, until the husband came home from the hospital. Being there was better than being at my mom’s boyfriend’s place—she’d lost her flat by then—and I told myself that before I left, I’d steal that gold.”

“Did you?”

“No. They were…amazing people. I still don’t know what they saw in me, but they gave me the opportunity to change, and I took it.”

Tristan smiled down at her. “When their son came to the house, walked in wearing a sword as if that was totally normal, I was done.”

“You’re a romantic at heart.” Her eyes searched his face, as if she could see into his mind, his soul.

“A romantic?” He scoffed. Well, he tried to scoff, but he couldn’t. He was self-aware enough to acknowledge that there was some truth to what she said.

What he wouldn’t admit was that without the influence of his mentors and his training to become a knight, he might have become a very different man. A man like his mother’s “boyfriends.” Or worse, given the burning desire he’d had to be someone, he probably would have become a mid- to upper-level drug dealer.

“The moment I turned eighteen, I joined and became a squire the next day.”

“You’re still trying to prove yourself,” James said from behind him.

Tristan had heard the door open a few minutes ago and recognized the sound of James’s unique, uneven footsteps. Sophia, who was facing the door but whose view was blocked by his body, jumped in surprise. Tristan stroked her hair in an instinctive, comforting gesture.

She looked up and whispered, “Thank you for telling me your story.” Then she slid away from him.

Tristan sheathed his sword and turned. “Yes, I am.” James hadn’t asked if he was still trying to prove himself. It had been a statement, but Tristan felt compelled to respond.

“The son, is he still a knight?”

Tristan nodded once. James crossed his arms. “And is he still a dick to you?”

“How do you know he was a dick?”

“I know how the legacies are.”

Tristan raised a brow. “You’re a legacy.”

James grinned. “I barely count. We skipped a generation, and I’m not pure English.” James tapped his cheek, indicating either his skin color, his features, or both.

“You have nothing to prove,” Sophia shouted from the closet. “You’re a knight.”

She stepped out wearing a white gown. It was a one-shoulder dress, with a fitted bodice. The material looked both heavy and shiny. It cinched in tightly at the waist. Tristan had seen her naked, and he knew exactly how narrow her waist was, but the dress made it look like he could wrap both hands around her. The skirt flared out, short enough in the front that her legs up to just below her knees were exposed, but it brushed the floor behind her. She stepped into strappy silver shoes, then beckoned them over.

Without asking, Tristan dropped to his knees and fastened the ankle straps of each shoe, stroking her foot and ankle as he did so.

James grunted. “Are you wearing a corset?”

“Yes. I have to with this dress. I’m not, how do you say…” She paused as if thinking of a word, then said, “Skinny.”

Tristan sat back on his heels, looking up at her. “You cannot be serious.”

Now that he was close, he could see that her chest wasn’t expanding out, but up with each breath.

“This is a vintage Eleanora Garnett dress from 1963.” She was pressing her hands against her waist. Tristan rose and went around to help James, who was trying to zip it up. The zipper was tiny and stiff. He could see the stiff flesh-colored garment Sophia wore beneath. Tristan held the fabric together and James zipped it up.

James tapped him on the shoulder, then gestured at both of them, one brow raised. Tristan looked down at what they were wearing—he had on jeans and a slightly wrinkled white dress shirt, open at the throat. It was clean, but not formal. James wore slacks and a polo.

“Uh,” Tristan cleared his throat. “We don’t have tuxedos or anything.”

Sophia sat at a delicate vanity. “Don’t worry. It’s just me.”

“Just you what?”

Sophia twisted her hair up into a high bun and started pinning it in place. “My father named me Principessa. He likes me to look the part. It is easier to get him to listen when I am dressed the way he likes.”

James grunted. “I already hate this fucker.”

“This fucker is our father-in-law and the admiral of Rome,” Tristan reminded him.

James started cursing, a bit of Kiwi inflection creeping into the words.

Tristan checked his watch. “We’re running late. It’s twelve twenty.”

Anxiety balled in his stomach. In twenty-five minutes, he would call the admiral of England and tell him that the fleet admiral was dead, and that he’d been there when it had happened—the fleet admiral had died on his watch.

He knew it wasn’t his job to protect the fleet admiral, but he felt guilty for not doing more.

Before they left the Isle of Man, Greta said they could give their respective admirals—Rome and England—fifteen minutes of advanced notice as to what had happened. Any more than that and the other seven admirals would be upset. Normally, Greta wouldn’t have allowed them to say anything, and they would have been bound by the rules of their society to stay silent, but this was a concession to the fact that they’d been right about the Domino and his plans.

Twenty-five minutes until he spoke to his admiral. But first he had to face the admiral of Rome. Rome was historically one of the most powerful territories, and its admiral one of the most powerful among the nine.

And he’d just married that man’s daughter without his knowledge or consent. From what Sophia had said, Tristan was guessing the admiral of Rome was a bit of a control freak. As the admiral, he arranged the marriages among all the members of Rome. Like a feudal lord of old, he had the power to give his daughter, the principessa, in marriage to the people of his choosing.

Instead, the fleet admiral had usurped the admiral of Rome’s power, placed her in a trinity with men from a different territory, and then died.

Sophia rose smoothly, her back ramrod straight. Probably because she couldn’t bend at the waist.

Her dark hair was up, leaving the creamy expanse of her neck naked. Her shoulders and one arm were similarly naked.

She held out one hand, wrist soft, palm down. Tristan nodded to James, indicating he should go to Sophia. James bowed over her hand, kissing it.

“Principessa,” James murmured.

Tristan let James escort Sophia, while he opened doors and checked the hallway for potential threats. They didn’t see anyone on their brief walk from Sophia’s room. Together they started down the stairs, prepared to face the admiral of Rome.

Chapter Fifteen

Giovanni Starabba wore his age well. Though he was nearing seventy, he was fit and trim. No gray dared to mark his hair, though his beard and mustache both grew in snowy white. That was a secret only his family knew.

Giovanni had married at forty to beautiful women half his age. Maybe if she’d been born when he was younger, she would feel differently about him, but he’d been the admiral of Rome since before she was born. He wasn’t a parent she went to when she needed love. For that, she had her mothers.

She and her brother were both born to the same mother, but Sophia had always been close with their biological mother, while Antonio was closer with their other mother, who was imposing and dangerous in her own way, though also fiercely maternal. She had no memories of playing with her father.

He wouldn’t see it that way, if she ever dared voice those thoughts. He’d taught her to play chess, and on most Thursday nights between the ages of ten and eighteen, she would join him in his study for a game. That hadn’t been play. It had been a lesson, a chance to teach her strategy. A chance for her father to learn about and assess one of his most valuable assets.

She hadn’t seen her father since last month, at a birthday celebration for Sophia’s mother, who had just turned fifty. The party had been lavish and decadent, even by Italian standards, and her father had been every inch the ruler holding court, while those lesser than he danced for his amusement and vied for his favor.

And now she had to tell this intense, powerful man that the fleet admiral, the only person who had greater power than he did, had stolen one of his prized assets and given her to men of lower status in another territory.

Sophia made sure her face remained pleasant and neutral, with none of her fear about his reaction or the true source of her anger—she was his daughter, not his property or asset—showing on her face.

“Father.” She spoke Italian, knowing James and Tristan wouldn’t be able to understand, but hoping they could follow along based on their reactions. “I have just returned from the Isle of Man.”

Giovanni frowned. “Why were you there? You should not have gone without speaking to me.”

Sophia knew Antonio would have informed him. He just wanted to reprimand her.

“Our investigation—”

“Your investigation? Your brother is investigating. You are involved because he insisted you needed to look at the art.”

Sophia raised her chin. “I am a member of the Carabinieri—”

He waved that away. “Why were you on the Isle of Man? Who did you speak to? What did you say?”

She needed to try another approach. Gesturing to her right, where James stood, she said, “This is James Rathmann, a coin expert from London. He helped us understand the message the killer left on the coins.”

“The church,” Giovanni growled. “An old enemy I am more than ready to face.”

“It is not the church.”

Her father’s dark eyes focused on her. “What do you mean?”

“There were Vatican coins, yes, but they were meant to represent something else.”

Giovanni shrugged that off. “Your faith will make you a good and caring wife, but it blinds you to the evil within the church. I warned your mother not to teach you that Catholic nonsense.”

Sophia shoved the side of her tongue between her back teeth. She wanted to clench her jaw in rage, but her father would notice—bitter experience had taught her that making sure she couldn’t grind her teeth without biting through her own tongue kept her from clamping her teeth together. The tongue-in-teeth trick worked, and she was able to keep her face passive and continue speaking. “You want the church to be the enemy, so you will ignore the truth. As I knew you would.”

Her father smacked his knuckles against the top of his desk. “You speak to me this way?”

Sophia hid the little thrill of triumph. He’d gotten angry first. She’d won, he’d lost.

“I traveled to the Isle of Man with Mr. Rathmann and Tristan Knight.” She motioned to her left. Tristan inclined his head in a slight nod, the heel of his left hand on the flat disk-like pommel of his sword.

“The admiral of England sanctioned this?”

“The admiral of England was aware of what we were doing.”

“And what is it you thought you were doing?”

“We went to warn the fleet admiral that he was in danger from the Domino.”

Her father, who’d been standing behind his big desk, sat down. He threw back his head and laughed.

Both James and Tristan shifted restlessly. Sophia caught each of their gazes, giving her head a little shake, and they subsided.

“You think the Domino killed our people? The Domino is dead, and even if he wasn’t, he always leaves a domino piece.” Giovanni held up his fingers indicating the size of a domino. “Surely you would have found that among the coins. It should be easy to distinguish a rectangular domino from a circular coin, unless your coin expert is not so good. There wasn’t someone in Rome who could help you?”

Though they weren’t able to follow the Italian, the word for domino was the same in both languages, and James must have understood. He cleared his throat. “The Domino doesn’t leave the same calling card each time.” He looked back and forth between Sophia and the admiral. “You’re talking about the Domino, right?”

“And how do you know what the Domino did?” Giovanni focused on him for the first time, asking his question in English.

“There are historians in my family,” James replied simply.

“We’re running out of time,” Tristan warned Sophia quietly. “I have to call my admiral in two minutes.”

Sophia wanted to scream in frustration. This conversation was getting nowhere.

“Father.” She switched back to Italian. “The coins were a message, a threat. We…ah, translated them.” She waved her hand in the air, the time pressure making her less precise than she would have preferred. “The masked man will kill the Shadow Pope.”

Giovanni chuckled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. When none of them reacted to his laughter, he sat forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on the top of the desk. “The masked man?”

“In English, there’s a type of mask that is called the Domino.”

Giovanni merely stared at her.

“The Shadow Pope—”

Her father cut her off, his gaze now in the middle distance. “An old name for the leader of our society.” He rapped his knuckles on his desk in thought. “All this was communicated via coins? What about the other pieces of art?”

Sophia spoke quickly, watching Tristan out of the corner of her eye. “The other pieces corroborate the message in the coins—they link Italy and the Isle of Man, all have trinities represented in them. The paintings were on the floor, the jeweled box on the shelf below the coins. The coins were in a place of importance.”

“It is not clean or simple. There are too many possible interpretations.”

Sophia relaxed—this was the man who really ruled the territory of Rome. A brilliant, thoughtful man. It was times like this, when he forgot to act like the all-powerful emperor he fancied himself, that Sophia understood why her mothers, who both acknowledged that he could be difficult, also loved him.

Sophia rounded his desk and dropped to her knees beside his chair. She laid a hand over his. He frowned down at her.

“Father. There is more I have to tell you.” Now that the moment was here, she wasn’t quite sure how to say what was needed. She blew out a breath. “We went to deliver this message. If we were wrong, it would be only us who looked foolish.” She gestured to Tristan and James, who both looked grim.

Her father patted her cheek. “My princess, protecting the people of Rome.”

“Father, listen, please.” She took a deep breath. “We spoke to the fleet admiral, and he was impressed with the work we’d done. He believed us, believed the threat was real. And he…”

She let the words trail off, wanting to make sure her father was listening.

“What is it?” Giovanni demanded.

“He placed me in a trinity with James and Tristan. I’m married.”

Giovanni’s eyes went wide and he exploded out of his chair.

Sophia pushed to her feet, taking an awkward step back. Tristan was there, supporting her.

The admiral of Rome looked over, his gaze focusing on where Tristan’s arm was looped around Sophia’s waist, drawing her back against his body and away from her father.

“No! I will not have you married to them.”

“It is done,” Sophia told him.

“Time’s up,” Tristan murmured in her ear.

“Father!” Sophia shouted the word, interrupting his tirade. Tristan released her, and for a moment she was cold and alone. Then James was there, taking Tristan’s place at her back.

“Father, listen to me.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tristan sliding out of her father’s study, his cell phone in hand.

“I will speak with the fleet admiral,” Giovanni assured her.

Sophia shook her head. “You can’t, Father.”

“I will—”

“You can’t. The fleet admiral is dead.”

Giovanni Starabba sank into his chair. Expression flickered across his face—the rage that had suffused him when she’d announced she was married draining away to leave him looking pale and shocked. Then anger started to return, and he looked like he was about to yell at her.

“Kacper Kujakski is dead.” This time she spoke English. She felt James nodding in confirmation.

Giovanni’s face paled again, and he sank deeper into his chair. Sophia’s heart clenched, because in that moment, her father looked like an old man.

The quartiere Monti was a quiet spot within Rome. Though it wasn’t far from the Colosseum or the central train station, it retained the lazy pace of the Italy of old that was almost lost. Rome, like any major European city, was full of hustle and bustle. But there were places where the age-old Italian pastime of doing sweet nothing, dolce far niente, could still be found. Monti was one of those places.

Sophia’s flat was on the second floor of a three-story building facing into the Piazza della Madonna dei Monti. They’d had to turn in their borrowed car on the outskirts of the city and take a cab, since Rome’s parking situation made London’s look benign.

It was nearly three A.M. before they trooped up two flights of stairs. The piazza was quiet at this time of night, though the smell of yeast and flour scented the air. The small bakery on the ground floor of the building was awake and preparing for its day.

Sophia, Tristan, and James had yet to end their day. It had been twelve hours since the announcement of the fleet admiral’s death, and the Masters’ Admiralty was reeling in shock.

There was a small elevator in Sophia’s building, but James had refused to get in it. It didn’t look like it would take his weight. He didn’t argue when Tristan took his suitcase, the knight jogging lightly up the steps to set it by Sophia’s front door before quick-stepping it back down to where James had been forced to pause and flex his knee on the first-floor landing.

“Almost there,” Tristan assured him.

James made it to the second floor, his bad leg throbbing in pain. The door in the stairwell opened to reveal a small foyer-like room. The gilt door to the elevator was on his left. Directly across from that was a single front door. It stood open.

James limped inside. Tristan closed the door behind them.

The room that lay before them was bathed in silver moonlight and indigo shadows. The wall facing the piazza had three sets of tall, narrow balcony doors. The doors were open, letting in the cool night air, and he could see the wrought iron railings beyond.

For a moment, the place felt almost familiar—the open, airy feel to it. Then he realized it reminded him somewhat of the fleet admiral’s private quarters.

That thought made James grimace. Right now, their whole organization was in an uproar. James had spent much of the afternoon on the phone with various members of his family. His mother had been the first to call, to tell him what had happened. That had been at three o’clock Rome time, meaning only two hours after the announcement was official, the news had filtered down to members like his parents, who didn’t hold offices or positions of authority within the society.

It had started with the admirals at noon, who in turn would have told their vice admirals and security ministers. From there, the information would have gone to the finance ministers, knights, and security officers. James had figured it would take a day for the information to reach his parents. He’d forgotten that while good news travels fast, bad news travels faster.

He’d decided to suck it up and tell his mother that he’d been there. That he was in Rome because he’d been called in to help with the situation. There had been some freaking out. Some yelling. Some demands for him to come home right now, I need you to be safe.

He’d decided not to tell his mother he was also married. He was worried she’d be on the first flight to Rome.

After the call with his mother, he’d ended up speaking with almost every member of his family. He’d told the same story, answered the same questions, again and again.

And that had been nothing compared to what Sophia had put up with. Once news was out, people started calling and then showing up at the villa. Her father left her to deal with it. She went from person to person, calm and reassuring, wearing a headset so she could answer the phone while remaining mobile.

At one point, he’d gone back to the bedroom he’d slept in, changed his voice mail to, “Yes, I was there. I will call you back,” and then lay down for an hour, relishing the silence.

They’d finally managed to escape the villa at two A.M. It had been Tristan who’d informed the admiral of Rome they were leaving, and that they were needed elsewhere. Giovanni’s eyes had flashed with anger, but Tristan had hustled them upstairs to change and pack, then they’d piled into the car and headed back to Rome, to Sophia’s place.

This is your wife’s home.

He looked around again, not with the vague curiosity used when entering any strange place, but with sharp inquiry. He didn’t really know much about her. What would he find here? What would he learn about his new wife?

The apartment was massive by any standards, with an incredible location and view. The beautiful piazza and the dome of the Church of Santa Maria ai Monti were both visible through the open balcony doors.

The open concept living space was filled with soft things—a wide, deep couch covered in cream velvet, a plush throw rug before a small fireplace. A sweater was draped carelessly over one corner of an antique side table. Pillows that appeared blue, silver, and lavender in the moonlight were clustered between the arms of antique wooden chairs.

Columns supported the ceiling above, and indicated where the walls would have been before this place had been remodeled, turning the entire floor of the building into a single dwelling.

Opposite from the living area was a small kitchen, mostly open to the living room, and a large dining area. The long table had delicate wrought iron feet and a glossy white top. The table was set for ten, each place setting complete with an upside-down wine glass and simple white china placed on top of yellow-gold placemats.

She appeared from the shadows, moving into a stream of moonlight. From where he stood, her body was a dark silhouette, her hair painted with silver light. Then she moved into a patch of shadow, disappearing.

Beside him, Tristan inhaled heavily, as if he were drawing a breath before diving into the ocean.

Sophia walked into the next stream of light, and it was James’s turn to draw in a breath. She’d changed out of the formal gown back at the villa, sliding into a tailored business-style dress for the drive to Rome. Now she wore nothing but a black robe, and as he watched, she untied the belt.

She let the satin belt slide from between her fingers to pool on the floor. The robe opened as she kept walking, revealing the black lingerie she wore beneath.

She paused there in the shaft of moonlight.

“Mariti,” she murmured. “Husbands.”

She held out her hands, one to each of them, and as one, James and Tristan went to her.

This time, Tristan dropped to his knees, while James slid his hand into her hair. She arched, pressing the back of her head firmly into his palm and thrusting her breasts up.

James groaned, his cock hardening and lengthening in his pants. The weariness he’d felt faded as lust suffused every cell in his body. He wanted to consume her. To mark her and claim her.

And to be claimed in return.

James rubbed his palm against her breasts, keeping the touch light. Her nipples hardened under the black lace and he smiled.

Her balance wobbled, and James grabbed her waist, steadying her. Tristan had lifted her right foot off the floor and hooked her leg over his shoulder. James had the perfect overhead view as Tristan started to lick and nibble his way up her inner thigh.

James remembered the way she’d tasted—sweet and tart on his tongue. He wanted to taste her again.

But this time, maybe he would taste her from Tristan’s lips.

It wasn’t just Sophia’s body he needed to learn and explore. He had a husband too.

Chapter Sixteen

Sophia startled when Tristan drew her thong to one side, his lips closing around her clit, sucking it roughly. He was a dominant lover, one who would take, claim, make demands.

She responded to it in ways she wasn’t used to, but enjoyed just the same.

Her hand gripped Tristan’s hair tightly. If she was hurting him, he gave no indication. Instead, he continued to play with her, using his teeth and tongue to drive her arousal higher.

She was grateful for James’s support. Without him, she would have fallen, her legs giving way under their relentless, beautiful sensual assault.

Sophia loved this feeling of being completely desired, worshipped. Perhaps too many years being referred to as the principessa had worked their way into her subconscious, given her delusions of grandeur.

Tristan lifted her leg higher, his breath hot against her core. James tightened his hold on her.

“I’ve got you, Princess,” James murmured in her ear. His fingers found her nipples and he squeezed them, the lace adding to the sensation. “Give yourself over to us.”

That was the easiest request in the world—and maybe the hardest. Sophia wasn’t used to bending her will to anyone, and while there was no denying Tristan and James were accomplished lovers who would give her endless pleasure, handing over all the control left her feeling vulnerable.

Her fingers pressed against Tristan’s head in an attempt to pull him even closer, to direct his movements.

She should have known better.

Her knight may have played the game by her rules on the plane, but tonight, everything had changed.

He shifted back onto his heels, causing her to lose her grip. When he looked up at her, his eyes dark with lust and need, she shivered.

“We’re moving to the bedroom,” Tristan said, his tone making it clear that was not up for discussion or debate.

James appeared to agree, as he turned her, guiding her down the corridor to her bedroom with a supportive arm at her waist. She could hear Tristan’s heavy footsteps behind them.

She’d changed into the lingerie, intent on seducing them. Now she was nearly naked, while her husbands were both fully dressed. Once again, that tiny thread of vulnerability had her hesitating.

None of them bothered to turn on the lights when they reached her room. A bright, full moon ensured the room was bathed in a soft white light that allowed them to see everything.

“Lay on the bed, Sophia,” Tristan said. “On your back. In the center.”

She paused for only a moment, just long enough to let Tristan know she wouldn’t blindly follow his commands. Rather, she would consider them, then make her own decision about whether or not to obey.

He raised one eyebrow at her delay and James chuckled.

“Sex shouldn’t be a game of chess,” he said. “Lay down, love. And Tristan, ease up on the alpha-male routine.”

Both Sophia and Tristan laughed. While James wasn’t lacking the alpha gene either, he always found a way to defuse the tension before it evolved into something too big.

Sophia slid the sheer robe off her shoulders, then climbed onto the bed. Half her breasts were visible from the demi-cups. James knelt next to her on the bed, tugging her thong off, leaving her naked from the waist down.

Neither man bothered to hide their perusal of her body. She parted her legs, enhancing the view. She was hot and ready and perilously close to begging, something she suspected she would be doing quite a lot of before the night was over.

Tristan didn’t appear to be in any hurry to move them to the next part.

She lifted her hand, gesturing to their clothing. “Undress.”

James didn’t hesitate for a moment, his hands moving to undo the top button of his dress shirt. He didn’t manage to pop more than one before Tristan covered his hand, halting his actions.

Sophia frowned—until Tristan stepped closer to their husband and took over the task of unbuttoning James’s shirt. He tugged the shirttail from his pants before unfastening the last two, then he left the shirt open, hanging off James’s large shoulders. When he was finished, he leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on James’s lips. It was more brush than touch, but it turned Sophia on more than if she’d received the kiss herself.

Sophia rose up, resting her weight on her elbows as she watched James return the favor, unbuttoning Tristan’s shirt. When he finished, they both turned to face her. She twisted to her side, holding herself up on one elbow as her other hand slid slowly along her hip before moving inward.

She lightly toyed with her clit as she studied their bare chests. Both men appeared to be chiseled from marble, and she was reminded of the statue in her father’s garden all those years ago.

Tristan watched her play with herself as James stepped behind their knight, pulling his shirt off and dropping it on the floor. Then he reached around and unfastened Tristan’s pants before tugging them and his briefs over his hips and letting them fall as well.

Tristan kicked them off along with his shoes, then stepped to stand beside James again.

Sophia watched it all, stroking her clit harder before letting her fingers slide lower. Dipping two inside, she groaned with relief. She was on fire and hurting.

James stepped back to the bed, gripping her wrist firmly and pulling it toward him. She struggled briefly, but her strength was no match for his. When he took her two wet fingers into his mouth, sucking off her juices, her pussy clenched.

“Merda,” she gasped, her body aching with need. “Per favore.”

And there it was—the begging. That hadn’t taken long at all.

“That pretty pussy is ours,” James murmured as he replaced her fingers with two of his. Her hips jerked toward him, seeking out more stimulation, preferring his thick digits to her own. He filled her deliciously.

Even so…she wanted more.

“James,” she whispered, trying desperately to move against him. “Di più.”

“I do like to hear you beg in Italian, Princess.”

“Take off your pants.”

She glanced over his shoulder, searching for Tristan. He had moved to the foot of the bed, clearly seeking to see them better.

He had something in his hands, but she couldn’t make out what it was. Until he crossed to the opposite side of the bed.

Tristan had found one of her scarves somewhere. She opened her mouth to question him about it until James, who’d been moving his fingers inside her frustratingly slow, decided to curl them, his fingertips finding her G-spot.

“Ancora una volta!” Again. She wanted more.

She was trembling, so very close to coming when Tristan grasped her arms, tugging them above her head. He looped her scarf around her wrists, tying them securely together before slipping the end around a slat in her headboard. There was some slack in the bondage so she could bend her arms slightly, though not much.

“Tristan,” she whispered.

“Ours,” he said, his voice deep and sure.

James withdrew his fingers, drawing even more Italian curses from her. Though neither man was fluent in the language, they were adept at reading her tone, inferring the meaning behind her words simply by the way she said them.

“Take off your pants, James,” Tristan said, his gaze sliding over James’s bare chest. Sophia recognized the appreciation she saw there because she felt the same.

James stripped off his pants, boxers, and shoes, then stood next to the bed, facing Tristan. If Sophia weren’t on the verge of exploding into a million pieces, she’d probably find the interplay between her lovers interesting. Both had dominant tendencies, yet James seemed content to let Tristan call the shots tonight. She wondered if he’d always be so willing to do so or if he would take control of the reins the next time.

Sophia twisted, trying to free herself from the bindings.

“Sophia,” Tristan warned.

She shook her head like a recalcitrant child. “Touch me or let me do it myself. This is agony.”

James lay down next to her and ran his hand along her chest, his fingers stroking through the valley of her breasts. The bra still there, in the way. At least, it was.

James reached into the cups and pulled her breasts out, over the demi-cups, then bent his head to suck one of her nipples into his mouth.

While she enjoyed the sensation, they’d pushed her too close to the brink. She needed one of them inside her. Now.

Tristan chuckled, and she realized she’d spoken her thoughts aloud.

“You need to learn patience, Princess.”

She narrowed her eyes at her sexy knight and opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of his advice.

However, James—ever the peacemaker—kissed her deeply, thoroughly. He managed to distract her enough that she hadn’t noticed Tristan climbing onto the bed. That fact changed when he parted her legs and gave her a much more intimate kiss than the one she’d just engaged in with James.

He drove his tongue inside her as he played with her clit with his thumbs. James continued to kiss her, his hands cupping her breasts, pinching the nipples.

It was overwhelming and perfect.

Sophia splintered, shattered, screamed, but neither man ceased. They kept up their delicious torment until she came again.

“Troppo.” It was too much, yet still not enough.

Tristan rose as her second climax started to fade.

“Come inside me,” she whispered.

Tristan glanced at James, who lifted his head from her breasts and smiled.

“Do you want us to take turns?” James asked. “Or take you together?”

Sophia’s breathing was still labored and she felt lightheaded, dizzy. His question didn’t help either situation.

Both men were well-endowed, large. The idea of being so completely taken was heady, exciting.

“Together,” she whispered. “Sempre.” Always.

She gestured with her head to the nightstand since her hands were still bound. “There.”

James followed her lead, opening the drawer and finding a tube of lubrication. She wasn’t a stranger to anal play, but in the past, it had always been a finger or two or a toy. Never more.

Tristan gripped her hips, lifting and turning her to her stomach. He pressed her head down while leaving her ass higher. Sophia parted her legs.

He’d tied her well, made certain to bind her in such a way that he could move her into any position they desired.

She shivered when his hand stroked her bare ass. Then she jerked as he lifted that same hand and brought it down roughly. The sound of the spank caused her reaction, more than any real pain. It was a quick sting, followed by heat.

“Again,” she urged.

Tristan spanked her once more, then she felt James’s hand on her ass, rubbing it.

Tristan reached lower, driving two fingers inside her, and she cried out, her body still humming from her previous orgasms.

She arched her back, pushing toward his fingers, but that motion stopped when she felt James’s finger at her ass. He’d coated it with the lube, and she stilled as he slowly pushed into the tight passage.

“Breathe,” she heard Tristan murmur. That was easy for him to say. They’d robbed her of the ability, their fingers finding and stroking places inside her she didn’t know existed.

James took his time as he prepared her ass, adding more lube, stretching it with one finger, then two, then—God help her—three.

Through it all, Tristan paid attention to the rest of her, his hands gliding over her body, leaving very few places untouched.

Tonight, she was the temple where they worshiped. It was glorious.

When James pulled his fingers free, Tristan reached above her head and released the ties on her wrists.

She lowered her arms slowly, marveling over the way she missed the bindings, the feeling of helplessness, of being their captive.

Tristan lay on his back next to her. “Climb on top of me, love.”

Sophia moved without a second’s hesitation. This was the moment she’d been waiting for, begging for. Straddling his hips, she reached for his cock, running her hand along the erect flesh several times before placing the head at her opening.

Tristan’s hands were on her hips, but for the first time tonight, he gave the control back to her.

She slid down slowly, taking him in inch by thick inch. This time it was her turn to remind him to breathe.

Once he was seated to the hilt, she ran her fingers over his muscular chest, giving herself the time to adjust to him.

James knelt next to her and he surprised her when he reached down to where she and Tristan were joined and cupped their lover’s balls.

His touch caught Tristan unaware too and he jerked, the quick, hard response pushing his cock even deeper inside of her. They groaned in unison.

James squeezed Tristan’s balls again as he ran his thumb along the slit between her ass cheeks.

He was a big man with large hands, and she liked how he put them to good use.

“Ride him, Sophia,” James urged. “Get him close, but don’t let him come. Something tells me once I get inside you, this whole thing will be over fast. I’m already on the brink just from watching you two.”

Sophia lifted up, then dropped back down. She started slowly, but soon finesse gave way to something almost animalistic.

She was on the verge of coming when James gripped her shoulders, holding her still.

Tristan tightened his grip on her hips, his cock buried deep.

“Come here, Princess,” Tristan urged. “Kiss me.”

She leaned forward, her lips finding his as she showed him with her kiss how much this night meant to her.

The kiss ended with a gasp when James shifted, moving behind her, his hands parting her ass.

Sophia rested her forehead against Tristan’s chest, her breathing growing erratic when the head of James’s cock touched her ass.

“Are you sure, Sophia?” James asked.

She nodded.

“Say yes, love. He needs to hear you say it.”

“Si,” she replied breathlessly. “Yes.”

Time seemed to stand still for them as James slowly slid in.

Neither she nor Tristan moved.

“Okay?” he asked when he was fully lodged.

“So okay,” she said, prompting a chuckle from Tristan.

He cupped her face and, in that moment, Sophia—the principessa, the woman who’d grown up surrounded by admirers—had never felt more adored.

The three of them moved slowly at first, working to find a rhythm. As seemed to be the way, it didn’t take them long to find it.

Everything between them simply clicked together.

Sophia was the first to go over, her back arching into James as she came. Her inner muscles clenched and both men followed her over the cliff.

James fell to their sides as Sophia collapsed on Tristan, whose hands stroked up and down her back.

“How do you say amazing in Italian?” Tristan murmured.

“Sensazionale.”

“Bloody brilliant is what it was,” James said.

Sophia laughed lightly, her eyes slowly drifting closed as Tristan continued his gentle caressing.

“Bloody brilliant,” she repeated as she gave in to sleep.

Chapter Seventeen

“Sophia.”

Broad, rough hands slid down her naked back. She arched up into the hands, still more asleep than awake.

“Princess.” The voice was precise, with a cute English accent.

Another set of hands smoothed the hair from her face. Her blood heated, desire flowing through her though she was still resting in that place between asleep and awake.

Even in sleep she responded to their touches. Her husbands.

Sophia rolled over onto her back, her nipples hardening as the cool air washed over her naked chest.

Taking their wrists, she guided one of each of her men’s hands to her breasts. Their touches were distinctly different, and with her eyes still closed, she tested herself to see if she could tell the difference.

The hand on her right breast was hard with calluses, the touch tentative at first. Then hot, strong fingers closed over her breast, squeezing with just enough pressure to make her breath catch.

The hand on her left was large, and lay more heavily on her breast, cupping it for a moment before thumb and forefinger captured her nipple, plucking at the sensitive tip of her breast.

The breath she’d caught when Tristan squeezed her right breast escaped as a moan of pleasure when James played with her left nipple.

Tristan’s hand slid down her torso, skimming over her ribs, belly, then dipping under the sheet. Sophia spread her legs. Her sex, which ached a little from their previous lovemaking, was once more wet and ready for them.

James bent his head, kissing her nipple, and then moving up to her throat.

Sophia tipped her head to the side and blinked her eyes open. Tristan loomed over her, one hand braced beside her head, his knee on the bed. His right hand disappeared under the covers, and when their gazes locked, he spread her pussy lips with index and ring fingers, his middle finger feathering over her clit.

“Sophia.” He leaned closer. Maybe she was Sleeping Beauty, and here was her noble knight come to wake her from her sleep.

His fingers in her pussy made this a very adult version of the fairy tale, and she was more than happy with that.

There was a wicked glint in Tristan’s eyes, and Sophia tangled her hand in James’s hair.

“Sophia,” Tristan said again.

“Yes, husband?”

“Mmm, I like it when you say that.” James’s words were muffled against her neck. He flicked his tongue over the soft skin under her ear, then dragged his lips down her neck and over her collarbone, headed for her nipple.

Sophia arched up, offering her breast to James as Tristan’s fingers continued to play with her pussy.

Tristan stopped touching her long enough to throw the covers off, leaving her naked. Sophia gasped as cold air touched her hot, wet sex. “Sophia, James.” There was a note of command in Tristan’s voice.

Sophia spread her legs wider in instinctive response and licked her lips.

“Kiss me,” she demanded. Maybe it was a plea.

Tristan leaned down, his mouth hovering over her. His hand cupped her sex, palming it. She wanted him to slide his fingers into her, then his cock. She wanted James to watch, then she wanted James to fuck her. Then she wanted to watch James fuck Tristan and—

Tristan patted her pussy and straightened, leaving her poised for a kiss, her legs splayed and waiting for one of them to slide between.

“James.” Tristan’s voice was sharp.

James kissed her nipple one last time and got off the bed.

Sophia blinked. They were both dressed. She hadn’t noticed until now.

“What’s happening?”

Her husbands grinned down at her. Tristan looked at his watch. “Time to get up. We have a flight to catch.”

They walked out of the bedroom. Sophia gaped at them as she lay naked and ready on the bed. When she heard James’s chuckle float in from the living room, she narrowed her eyes. She flung herself off the bed and stomped to the closet. It took her a moment to find what she was looking for, but she pulled on a short robe of pale blue lace that was completely sheer.

She posed carefully in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, her other arm raised and bent so she could play with her hair.

Her nipple pebbled as it rubbed against the scratchy lace.

“Where are we going?” she asked them. James was seated on an armchair, the decorative pillows that normally filled it carefully stacked on the floor. The grin on his face faded as he turned and looked at her. She knew that with one arm raised, the hem of the robe only barely covered her pussy.

She wished she’d put on heels.

Next time she would. Her husbands wanted to play? Well, she was more than willing.

Tristan had his suitcase spread open on the coffee table and was carefully packing it. He looked up and froze, his eyes turning to liquid gold as he raked her from head to toe with his gaze.

But he shook himself and went back to packing.

“We need to go home.” He zipped an inner cover closed.

Sophia dropped her pose, crossing her arms over her breasts. “I am home.”

Tristan checked the buckles that held his sword to his belt. “We need to go to England.”

Anger and anxiety pooled low in Sophia’s stomach. “My home is here.”

Tristan finally met her gaze. “I’m a Knight of England.”

Sophia swallowed against the panic and anger that were choking her. Now she wished she were dressed. The robe no longer felt like a weapon in a sexy game—it felt inappropriate for the conversation they were about to have. “I am a member of the Carabinieri, a member of Italy’s military. I have dedicated my life to protecting the art and beauty of Rome.”

Tristan shook his head. “James and I are both from England.”

Sophia’s stomach burned with rage. Tristan’s arrogance was sickening. “Ah, but of course,” she purred. “I must give up my home, my life, my job to join you, because I am your wife.”

Tristan crossed his arms. “We can debate this later. I’m not saying you have to move to England.”

James muttered something that sounded like, “Abort, abort.”

“You’re not?” Sophia arched a brow. “Oh, thank you, sir.”

“Hey, you two, why don’t we talk about this—”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed and he ignored James’s interjection, speaking to Sophia. “At least not right now. But our flight to London leaves in four hours.”

James used his hands to push himself out of the chair. Their vigorous lovemaking must have hurt his knee.

“You go. I will remain here,” Sophia said.

James shook his head, holding his hands up the way a suspect did when cornered. The universal sign for don’t shoot. “Let’s just get through the next few days, then we can figure everything else out.” James looked back and forth between them. “We need to stay together.”

Sophia was starting to feel cornered. “There are plenty of triads who live separately.”

James frowned, lines appearing on either side of his mouth. He looked almost…hurt. “Is that what you want?”

Sophia refused to be put on the defensive. “I want my husbands to talk to me, not make arrangements without me.”

She expected the argument to continue, but at her words, both men relaxed and shared a grin.

Sophia’s brows shot up in alarm. Why were they smiling?

“We tried that,” James told her. His eyes sparkled. “A couple of hours ago. We ended up having sex.”

Sophia frowned, but the memories were there. Soft words she was too sleepy to translate, warm hands and warmer lips.

“You were hard to resist,” Tristan admitted. “That’s why we had to get dressed.”

Sophia let her anger fade away. She felt mollified that she had managed to seduce them in her sleep. She wasn’t losing her touch. “Good.” She slid her hand from her waist over her hip to her thigh, and started toying with the hem of her robe.

As one, their gazes dropped to where her fingers fiddled with the edge of the lace. Tristan shook himself, deliberately turning to look at the late-morning sun that bathed the piazza outside her windows. He stuck his hands in his pockets, adjusting the fabric to accommodate his hard cock.

Bene. He deserved to suffer. After all, her body still hummed with the lingering tremors of the arousal they’d called up with their fingers and mouths.

“The conclave is being held tomorrow,” Tristan said.

That sobered Sophia. “So soon?”

“The conclave has to happen within three days of the fleet admiral’s death.”

“I didn’t know that,” James said.

Sophia hadn’t known either, and that unsettled her. She’d thought she knew everything. With an admiral for a father and a security officer brother, she was sure she knew all the rules.

“At Triskelion Castle?” she asked.

Tristan shook his head. “The Spartan Guard said they cannot guarantee the safety of the admirals.”

James whistled. “They actually admitted that?”

“They did, and I could tell it cost Mateo to admit it.”

“Then where?”

Tristan turned to look at her, but didn’t speak.

He wasn’t going to tell her. “I’m your wife.”

“He won’t tell me either,” James said.

“Do you need help packing?” Tristan asked in a clumsy attempt to change the topic.

Sophia’s anger of a moment ago returned. “You’re a knight, and I know what that means. But we are your trinity.”

James held out a hand and Sophia took it, letting him draw her into his embrace.

Tristan’s jaw was hard, the muscles standing out he was clenching his teeth so hard.

“Knights make the same vows as other members when they join a trinity,” James said quietly. “I know, we both know, what it means to you to be a knight, but if you’re always going to be loyal to the knights first, and us second, then you need to tell us that—right now.”

Sophia laid her cheek on James’s broad, warm shoulder. “Are we your trinity, Tristan Knight?”

Tristan scrubbed both hands through his hair. “There will be things I can’t tell you.”

“Is this one of those things?” James asked.

Tristan shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know. There are rules and protocol for what happens when we need a new fleet admiral, and there’s protocol for what to do if the Isle of Man is attacked, but not for both.” Tristan swallowed and there was uncertainty in his eyes. Knowing what little she did about him, Sophia was sure that uncertainty would be harder for him to deal with than danger.

James held out his other arm, inviting Tristan to join them.

Tristan’s first steps were hesitant, but then he placed his hand in James’s. James drew him into his other side, and Sophia reached out to take Tristan’s other hand, completing their connection.

“My vice admiral told us that we have to trust our instincts. Our security officers are working with the Spartan Guard, and are going to provide security for the conclave. The knights will be security in the conclave itself.”

“The conclave is in London?” Sophia asked.

Tristan nodded.

It made sense—London was the closest large airport to the Isle of Man, and most members stopped there on their way to Man.

Sophia thought about it for a moment before saying, “You will have decoys go to the Isle of Man, in case he is watching?”

Tristan frowned. “Decoys?”

Sophia shrugged. “My father employs decoys quite often as a security measure.”

“No decoys. The Domino is dead.”

“He did die?” Sophia asked. She had a flashback to the man twitching and falling to the floor.

“Yes. He had a cyanide pill in his cheek. They tried their best to keep him alive, but he passed away. With his death, there’s no direct threat against the conclave.”

James jerked at Tristan’s words. Sophia lifted her head off James’s shoulder and looked at him. Their gazes met, and the same worry she felt was reflected in James’s expression.

Tristan was still talking, as much to himself as to them. “The main issue is figuring out where the security breach on the isle was, or is. The Spartan Guard are going to keep working on that, hence the London security officers working the conclave.”

When Tristan stopped, there was an uneasy silence.

“There is still danger,” James said slowly. “The Domino always has an apprentice.”

Tristan pushed away from them and started to pace. “But this Domino is, was, younger. He probably was the apprentice.”

Sophia and James shared another look. “What aren’t you saying, Tristan?”

Tristan swallowed. “I am a knight, I will—”

“You’re a knight, not a soldier.” Sophia stepped into Tristan’s path, forcing him to stop and look at her. “Tell us what you really think is going on.”

Tristan started to scrub his hands through his hair, but Sophia caught them in hers. James joined them, his big shoulders blocking out the sunlight that spilled in through the windows.

“I think this is a trap,” Tristan whispered.

“A trap?”

“The fleet admiral was killed in what is supposed to be our most secure stronghold. His death means we have to elect a new fleet admiral, which means we have to have a conclave. Our first-choice location is compromised, so we’ll go to a second location.”

“You think the Domino himself—assuming the man who died was the apprentice—is going to try to attack again?”

Tristan shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know. Clearly the Domino knows enough about us to have gotten past the Spartan Guard. He may know enough to be using our own rules to manipulate us. What if he knows we have to have the conclave within three days?”

“But he had no way of knowing where the conclave would be if it’s not on the Isle of Man,” James countered.

Sophia squeezed Tristan’s hands. “But he could guess. Or maybe have one person in each territory capital.”

Tristan shook his head. “Maybe, but that would mean there were at least nine people working with the Domino.”

“There’s never been any indication of there being more than two—the Domino and the apprentice,” James said.

“Exactly. And…and I’m sure the people in charge of security have thought of this. The admirals and security chiefs from each territory will be working with the England security officers to ensure tight security for the conclave. The knights are decorative in this case.” Tristan grimaced. “I just can’t shake this feeling.”

Sophia squeezed his hands one last time and headed for the bathroom. “I will shower and then we will call my brother.”

“And pack,” Tristan called out.

Sophia’s only reply was to move a bit more quickly toward the bathroom. The playfulness of their waking, and the fight they’d had both seemed far away, as if they’d happened hours, not minutes ago. Sophia jumped into the shower. She hated to wash away the traces of their lovemaking, but she carried reminders in sensitive patches of flesh on her hips and breasts, the aching muscles of her inner thighs, and a faint beard burn on her neck from Tristan.

She was packed and ready to go in half an hour. As she secured the locks on her windows, she looked around her apartment. It had been her home, her sanctuary, for years. Massive by the standards of Rome, this space had hosted parties and lovers alike. And now she had memories of her husbands kneeling before her in the living room, touching and caressing her in the bedroom.

She took a final look around her soft, warm home, at the way the light painted the neutral-colored surfaces gold, and couldn’t shake the feeling that she would never see this place again.

That she would never again come home.

Chapter Eighteen

The British territory’s headquarters was basically hiding in plain sight, right in the midst of the Square Mile on Threadneedle Street. Like most of London, the street was lined with old, historic buildings, interspersed with new, modern ones. The city wasn’t tied to one particular style due to its turbulent history. After all, London was no stranger to rebuilding itself, first after the Great Fire of 1666 and then The Blitz during World War II.

The Masters’ Admiralty had moved its headquarters nearly a dozen times over the centuries, each time finding a place that would allow them to blend in. They’d moved into their current building near Moorgate during the early nineteen hundreds. The building was damaged during The Blitz, but not destroyed, and recent renovations had definitely moved them into the technology age, while maintaining a flair for the classical.

Tristan watched from under his hood as the admirals filed into the conclave chamber. His admiral had been the first to enter, nearly twenty minutes ago.

The arrival of the admirals and their entourage was a tightly controlled dance that had been planned and replanned many times in the past twenty-four hours.

Every precaution had been taken, from staggered arrival times to different arrival points. Not everyone came in through the front door. Some arrived through the rear service entrance, while others entered the building next door and came through the secret passage that connected the two buildings, both owned by the territory of England.

Each admiral brought one person with them in addition to their knights. Some brought their security ministers, others brought one of their security officers. Tristan recognized all of the admirals, but not all of the people who accompanied them. For security reasons, the admirals didn’t share the identity of their companion prior to the event.

Which meant that the security officers were either taking each admiral’s word that the man or woman accompanying them was who they said they were or were rushing through abbreviated identify checks on site.

Tristan had mentioned his unease with that setup to Lorelei, but she’d stopped him mid-sentence. The vice admiral of England had spoken through gritted teeth when she’d warned him not to, even obliquely, accuse one of the admirals of being part of the plot that had killed the fleet admiral. At least the admirals’ guests wouldn’t be in the main meeting room.

Tristan had a very bad feeling something was going to happen. If the look in Lorelei’s eyes had been any indication, she was uneasy too. But she’d insisted he not say anything more. She, along with the other vice admirals, would stay far away from the conclave—another rule meant to maintain security. Another rule the Domino might know about.

But he wasn’t part of the security-planning team for the conclave, so he’d kept quiet, donned his robe, and taken his place with his back against the wall of the chamber.

As the final admiral filed in, the last stretch of bare wall was occupied. Black-hooded figures completely lined the interior of the room.

Each territory had six knights. Of the fifty-four knights in the Masters’ Admiralty, twenty-seven of them were in the building—three from each territory. The remaining three knights from England were stationed at the front desk masquerading as receptionists. The normal staff, all members or from families that had been retainers of member families in the past, had been sent on vacation.

Tristan stood directly behind his admiral, who sat at the large, imposing conference table in the middle of the room.

Admiral Winston Hammond was in his sixties and looked like an aging barrister, which was exactly what he was. He was bald on top, and what remained of his graying hair was carefully cut and combed. Small round glasses were positioned halfway down his nose. They were reading glasses, but rather than take them on and off, Winston preferred to look at people over the top of the glasses. It could be either intimidating or jovial, depending on the circumstance.

Gawain and Percy, the other knights in the room with him, were as anonymous as he was in their enveloping black robes and hoods. Each knight wore a sword, and those were the only weapons allowed in the large chamber.

Tristan looked at each knight, studying not the anonymous hooded figures, but the swords they held. There were cage-style handles of rapiers, black-wrapped handles of katanas, and a few other simple cross-like hilts similar to what he and the other knights of England carried.

The room was an interior space with no exterior windows. There were two doorways, one in each of the short walls. Security officers were positioned outside each door. The only furniture was the conference table and nine chairs—one for each admiral. Cases of bottled water were set on the floor by one of the doors.

The admirals’ guests were being kept sequestered in a chamber one floor down. If, for whatever reason, an admiral had to step out of the conclave, even just to use the bathroom, their guest would be brought up, and the admiral would give their vote to their guest, who could speak on the admiral’s behalf until his or her return. It was meant to prevent there ever being an even number of votes.

When the last admiral took his seat, Percy walked over to the case of water by the wall and ripped open the plastic. He took out a single bottle, opened it, and took a sip. Everyone watched him, waiting.

Sixty painfully long seconds ticked by before Percy screwed the cap back onto the bottle and handed it to the admiral of England. One by one, other knights repeated the action, each sipping and waiting before handing it over.

Tristan wanted to tell them that it had taken nearly half an hour for the poison to start to affect the fleet admiral. He doubted that would have helped to ease the tension level in the room.

“What is the meaning of this?” The admiral of Hungary held up the bottle. “We are prisoners given only water?”

“The fleet admiral was poisoned. There are things more important than eating and drinking.” The rebuke came from the Ottoman admiral. She was both the youngest and the newest admiral. In her mid-thirties, she had rich brown hair, golden skin, and dark eyes. Tristan knew that in reality she must have dark-brown irises, but they looked black, as if her pupils had dilated all the way. No, that would make her seem frightened, and Hande Demiratar was anything but frightened. It took a moment, but he came up with a better analogy. She looked like a bird of prey, her large dark eyes taking everything in.

Tristan was sure he wasn’t the only one looking at her, but she turned her head with a quick, bird-like motion and for a moment focused on him.

Tristan tensed, right hand sliding across his body toward the hilt of his sword.

“No,” Percy snapped in a whisper.

Tristan let his hand fall back to his side.

Beside Hande was Cezary Lis, the admiral of Bohemia. He looked like a Hollywood typecasting of an Eastern European villain. He had a round moon-like face, with slightly protruding ears. His hair was receding along the sides, though he was only in his mid-forties. His nose was large and round, his eyes small. He looked like he would be cruel or stupid, but he was neither. He chuckled lightly at Hande’s words.

On Cezary’s other side, Petro Sirko, the admiral of Hungary—the man who’d first spoken—leaned forward slightly, glaring at Hande and Cezary. The territory of Hungary lay to the north of Ottoman, and south of Bohemia. Petro didn’t seem pleased that his two closest neighbors, who just so happened to hem him in, were friendly toward one another.

Petro wore his silver hair close-cropped on the sides, and just long enough on top to be combed stylishly to one side. He wore a cream dress shirt and a cashmere scarf. The expensive clothing did little to hide the admiral’s stocky build. Though he dressed like an investment banker, he had the body of a brawler.

“Enough,” Giovanni barked. All the other admirals looked to him.

Tristan stared at his father-in-law and reminded himself that he needed to be calm and watchful. He couldn’t let himself be distracted or influenced by the fact that Giovanni had objected so strongly to their marriage. Or that he’d acted like Sophia was property that had been stolen from him.

Giovanni picked up the bottle of water, and there was silence while he took a sip. He set the bottle down, and then took a phone from his pocket. He tapped a button and set it down on the table.

Tristan looked to his fellow knights, who looked tense but didn’t object.

“Admirals, are you there?” Mateo’s voice came from the phone. All the admirals leaned in to listen.

“Yes, Mateo,” Giovanni said. He looked around the table. “Before we discuss anything, we will hear from the head of the Spartan Guard, Mateo Bernard.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” Mateo said.

“What do we know?” Petro asked.

“The fleet admiral was poisoned,” Mateo said.

“We know that. How?” Hande demanded.

“He was taking prescription medication. We’ve tested the pills still in the bottle. There was a small amount of Tetrodotoxin found in each pill.”

“They were tampered with?”

“Yes. There was an autopsy. Over the course of several years, the poison built up in his system.”

“He was shot with a dart gun mounted on a drone,” Winston said. “One of my knights was there. Are you telling me whatever was in the dart wasn’t what killed him?” There was a wealth of skepticism in the admiral’s voice, and he was glaring at the phone over the top of his spectacles. Sadly, Mateo couldn’t see it, so the effect was lost.

Several people glanced behind the admiral of England, as if trying to guess which of the three knights standing in the room had been on Man and seen the fleet admiral die. Tristan held very still.

“The dart was filled with an activating agent. When it combined with the toxin already in his body, it created a fast-acting neurotoxin similar to snake venom. The specific cause of death was exsanguination.”

Tristan remembered the blood. Blood everywhere.

“Why?” Petro asked. “Why not shoot him with a gun?”

Cezary grunted and shot the other admiral a disgusted look. “He was making a statement.”

Petro rolled his eyes. “Of course he was, killing the fleet—”

Cezary grunted and cut the other man off. “He poisoned the fleet admiral for years, and we didn’t know. He has access to sophisticated poisons we don’t have the antidotes for. An assassination would have been simple. This was more than that. It was a statement of strength.”

Tristan’s skin prickled, and he looked around. Maybe it was just Cezary’s words that made him feel as if they were being watched.

“Why didn’t we know Kacper was taking a medication? What was it for?”

Tristan lost track of who was speaking as he looked around, trying to identify the source of his unease.

The doors were both closed. There was a small heating vent on the floor near them, but it was barely the width and length of a loaf of bread. There was no way for an assassin to hide in there. The building had a closed heating system, accessed only from the inside, so there was no way to introduce a gas into the room.

They were secure. They were safe.

His instincts continued to scream at him. Tristan looked around again. He hadn’t been part of the team to check over the building, but the other knights had, and the English security officers, most of whom were former MI5 or SAS, had done sweeps. Tristan respected and trusted those men and women. Plus, this was their building. It had excellent security, even when it wasn’t being used for something as important as the conclave.

Maybe it was PTSD from seeing the fleet admiral spitting and crying blood that was making him twitchy.

Thinking back to that moment made him think about James and Sophia. They were safe in a hotel only a mile from there.

He’d taken them to the hotel when they’d arrived in London yesterday, and had been able to dodge questions about why they were going to a hotel and not his house. His flat was nothing like Sophia’s elegant place in Rome. It wasn’t even a proper flat. He rented a bedsit near Waterloo station. It had a bed, TV, and kettle. He didn’t even have a sofa, and every time it rained, the roof leaked. The ceiling tiles, nasty things installed in the seventies, were stained and smelled. James had offered to let them stay at his place, but it was outside the city, in Walton-on-Thames. It was an easy enough commute from there to the museum via the Waterloo line, but it was too far out to be a reasonable place to stay for the conclave.

As he’d been thinking about his flat’s rather disgusting ceiling, he’d looked up at the ceiling of the room. It was made of elegant—and expensive—Chakte Viga, like the walls. The wood was installed in this room because of its acoustic and subtly iridescent qualities. The light fixtures hung down on short gold chains, and the glossy wood of the ceiling reflected the light back into the room.

All except for one spot.

Tristan stared at the small rectangular area on the ceiling. It was almost in the dead center of the room, and thereby the table. It was the same brown as the ceiling itself, but it wasn’t glossy. It was matte. As if someone had stripped the polish from a small, perfectly rectangular area of ceiling.

Tristan could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

“What the fuck is that?” he muttered.

Percy turned just enough to glare at him. “Shut up.”

“Look. On the ceiling.”

Percy stiffened at Tristan’s tone and turned to look.

The matte patch was about eighteen inches long, six inches wide. It wasn’t entirely flush with the ceiling, meaning it wasn’t just an area of damaged finish.

“What? The bad patch in the ceiling?” Percy muttered, “Calm yourself, Tristan.”

He wished Sophia and James were there. Even as the thought popped into his head, he realized how stupid it was. If there was danger, the last thing he wanted was the two of them in the middle of it.

No, he wanted them here because they would believe him. After the things they’d seen and been through in their brief, five-day acquaintance, they had learned to trust one another.

The admirals were still talking, though at some point the phone call with Mateo had ended.

What was that thing?

Tristan’s fingers were practically shaking, there was so much adrenaline surging through him. He couldn’t just keep standing here. He was going to get up on that table and figure out what the hell that thing on the ceiling was. He was about to make an ass of himself in front of the admirals. All the admirals.

At least if they revoke your knighthood, you can move to Rome with Sophia. That will make her happy.

Tristan stepped forward.

Around the wall, the knights all came to attention. He could feel the weight of their gazes on him as he bent to whisper in his admiral’s ear.

“Sir, there’s something on the ceiling I need to look at.”

“Now, Tristan?”

“Yes, sir.”

Winston frowned, but nodded. He scooted to the side, making space between himself and the admiral of Castile.

Tristan hiked up his robe, planted one foot on the conference table and stepped up onto it. The ceiling was ten feet high, so standing on the table, Tristan had a fairly good view of the matte rectangle. Planting his hands on the ceiling on either side of it, Tristan hoped he was wrong and it was just a weird flaw in the ceiling paneling. That would mean the end of his knighthood, but his admiral would be safe.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tristan saw Percy head for the door.

He focused on the ceiling. Whatever it was, it was mounted into, not on, the ceiling. He touched it. Plastic, not wood.

It might have been an access point for electrical wiring. Did electricians need access points? Why wouldn’t it be flush with the ceiling?

“What is it?” asked a knight in a heavily accented voice.

“I’m not sure.”

The door opened, and Leo Pierson, one of England’s security officers, stepped in, Percy on his heels.

Tristan turned to speak to Leo—and the ceiling exploded.

Tristan’s right arm burned and his face felt like it was on fire. He stumbled back, barely remembering through the pain that he couldn’t take too many steps back or he’d fall off the table.

He tried to open his eyes, but there was blood on his face, making it hard to see. He brushed at something sticking to his cheek and pain zinged through his whole head. Not stuck to his cheek. Stuck into his cheek.

He twisted, trying to look in every direction at once. There was a foot-wide hole in the ceiling to one side of the strange panel that had attracted his attention.

The admiral of Castile was flopped back in his chair, a large red hole in the middle of his forehead.

Winston stared at the man beside him in shock, and Tristan shouted a warning. “Get down!”

Gawain must have come to the same realization Tristan had. He leapt forward, grabbing Winston’s chair and hauling both the chair and the admiral back across the floor.

The bullet, meant for Winston Hammond’s head, instead pierced his stomach.

Gawain threw himself in front of their admiral, and the second bullet pierced the knight’s upper back. He fell forward, onto their admiral’s lap, then slid to the floor, his black robe sprawling around him, his sword useless at his side.

“Sniper!” Tristan shouted, though he could barely hear his own voice through the ringing in his ears. “Get against the south wall.” He pointed to the side of the table opposite where Winston and the admiral of Castile had been sitting.

Based on the angle between where the bullet had come in through the ceiling, and where the men had been shot, the sniper had a perch on one of the tall buildings south of their current location. Whatever caliber of bullet he was using was powerful enough to punch through the roof of the building, anything in the attic, and the ceiling.

If Tristan was right, huddling against the south wall would actually make it harder for the sniper, because it would require a sharper angle to hit people crouched there, and it might mean the round would have to pass through the stone facing on the side of the building, and maybe even through the room on the other side, before punching through the wall.

Lennon Giles, England’s security minister, dashed into the room. He swept his gaze over the south wall, where the knights had moved the seven remaining admirals. The knights were using their bodies as shields, but based on what Tristan had seen, it wouldn’t matter.

Lennon’s gaze paused on Gawain and their admiral. His eyes widened for a moment, but he didn’t panic. He looked to Tristan, who was crouched on the table. Tristan grabbed the thing sticking into his cheek and yanked it out. He threw the three-inch splinter of wood onto the floor.

Lennon muttered something into his hand and two more security officers appeared. The newcomers dashed toward the downed admirals and knight, running at a crouch.

“Where?” Lennon barked at Tristan.

“Coming from the south. Sniper.”

Lennon shook his head. “Not possible. He’d be shooting blind.”

“Sniper,” Tristan repeated. “High caliber. Really high caliber.” Damn it, he wished he knew more about guns. He was a knight. He knew a lot about swords, not guns. “If not a sniper, then he must be in the attic.”

Lennon shook his head again. “We have a man in the attic. He reported the shots too. There’s a hole in the roof.”

Tristan was a little lightheaded, and he was starting to shiver with cold, which he knew was a bad sign. “Then it’s a sniper to the south, you bloody fucking wanker.”

Lennon raised his eyebrows. “Snipers need to be able to see what they’re shooting at.”

True. How the hell had the man been able to put a bullet through a man’s head without knowing exactly where that head was? Tristan grimaced, swiping blood out of his eyes. That fucking panel. He needed to get another look at that panel.

Lennon tipped his head, as if listening, and then opened the door. Security personnel, all in black and carrying riot shields, entered the room, running at a crouch. They passed the shields off to the knights, then went to get more. The knights angled the shields so they protected the admirals from above.

At the same time this was happening, more black-clad people arrived with stretchers. They loaded up the injured—dead, Tristan, they’re dead—and carried them out. As they did, yet more men with riot shields created a protective wall between them, and the south wall and ceiling.

Tristan watched it all with an odd detachment, as if he were viewing a play. He was surprised how quiet it was. No one was screaming. No one ran. The knights were trained to defend their admirals and to stand their ground. No one had run out of the room, no one had screamed beyond the initial exclamations after the first shot.

There was something he was supposed to be doing. Wasn’t there? Tristan shook his head, trying to dispel the detached, remote feeling. The panel. He needed to look at the panel.

Taking a deep breath, Tristan jumped to his feet. The holes punched by the bullets made it easy enough for him to grab the ceiling and pull, using his body weight. He yanked out two lengths of glossy, stained wood, until he was able to see the box.

He’d been right, it was partially embedded in the ceiling. While only a quarter of an inch had protruded into the room, in total it was five inches deep. Colored electrical wires snaked out of it, connecting up to a larger electrical cable running through the space between the ceiling and the floorboards of the attic above.

Tristan grabbed hold of the box and yanked. His right arm screamed in protest, and something snapped. His stomach heaved with the need to vomit, but then the box came loose.

Lennon had finished getting the wounded out and making sure the admirals were shielded, so he jumped up on the table with Tristan. Since his right arm didn’t seem to be working, Tristan let the box fall, and Lennon caught it. The electrical wires had torn free when Tristan yanked, and Lennon was muttering into the mic at his wrist for someone to cut the power to this room.

“I got up on the table to look at this.” Tristan pointed to the box. “It didn’t look right. Once I did, the shooting started.”

Lennon examined it, then peeled away the plastic wood-effect veneer that had helped it blend in with the ceiling. Under the veneer, it was a matte-black plastic box with embossed writing, and what looked like a company logo in one corner.

Lennon peered at the writing—and cursed a string of profanities that would have impressed even the foul-mouthed fifteen-year-old Tristan.

“What?” Tristan asked. The lightheaded feeling was getting worse, not better. As was the need to vomit.

Lennon looked over Tristan—and his eyes widened. He spoke quickly into his mic.

“What?” Tristan repeated.

Lennon balanced the box on his hand. “I’m going to get you help.”

“What’s the box? Was I right or did I just make an ass of myself?”

Lennon grabbed Tristan’s shoulder. “This is a stationary heat sensor. It reads body heat. The gunman had a bloody diagram of every occupant in this room, based on their heat signatures, thanks to this.”

Tristan pursed his lips. “Pardon me for asking, but why the fuck would you put something like that in our top-secret room, hmm?”

“I. Didn’t.”

“Oh. Ohh.” Tristan swayed slightly.

Lennon tightened his hold on Tristan’s shoulder and dropped the heat sensor in favor of barking into the mic on his wrist.

Tristan lost a few moments, but when he focused again, Lennon was helping him climb off the table, and medics were urging him to lie down on a gurney.

He sat and finally looked down at his right arm. There was bone sticking through torn and mangled flesh. Ah. Well then. No wonder it hurt.

There was also blood smeared across the table and on the floor. His blood. Too much blood.

I’m dying.

“My husband, my wife,” Tristan said to no one in particular. “Tell them I…I would have loved them. Taken care of them.”

Hands helped him lie back, supported his mangled arm. Tristan let his head fall to the left, so he wouldn’t have to see his arm. What he did see was Giovanni’s face, pale and determined. He met Tristan’s gaze and nodded once.

That was nice. He’d gotten his father-in-law’s approval before he died.

Chapter Nineteen

“Principessa, come with us.” The words, yelled through the door and accompanied by a booming knock, made Sophia jump. She was perched on the end of the bed, fingers clenched in the fabric of the hotel duvet.

James was sitting at the small desk, pretending to examine coins, but he had been staring at the same coin since Tristan left nearly six hours ago.

He should have been back by now.

James rose, but Sophia waved him back and bounced to her feet.

“Don’t answer that,” James warned. “How did they know where you are? I’ll call Tristan.”

“I won’t answer it.” She just needed something to do.

She pressed her back against the wall near the bathroom and yelled back, “Who are you?”

“Martino Cavaliere, Principessa. Your father sent me to fetch you. You and your husband need to come with me.”

Martino Cavaliere was one of the knights of Rome, and that sounded like his voice, but she wasn’t a fool.

“I will not come with you, Martino.”

There was a brief pause, and then her phone rang. She picked it up. It was her father.

“Father?” she answered.

“We’ve been attacked,” Giovanni said without greeting. “Our knight will escort you to safety.”

“Attacked,” she repeated, but in English. James stared at her, eyes widening.

“Yes. Bring your husband. The big one. Our knight will take you to Tristan.”

Her father had used Tristan’s name. And there was a note of respect in his voice.

“What happened?” she asked in a whisper, as if keeping her voice low could protect her from the answer.

“Too many things happened.” Giovanni paused. “I’m sorry, Sophia.”

“No, no, no, no.” Sophia started to sink onto the floor. James caught her. She pressed herself against him.

“Go with Martino. Do what he says.”

The call ended.

“What is it?” James demanded.

“They were attacked. Tristan…something happened to Tristan.”

Sophia snatched up her jacket and purse, more on instinct than because she was actually thinking about what she’d need.

“Is Tristan all right?”

Sophia shook her head. “No. I don’t think he is.”

James grabbed her hand, squeezing it with his. She opened the door. Martino looked grim, and he held his sword in hand, the blade glinting in the muted hotel hallway lights.

“Martino?”

He shook his head. “Come with me, Principessa.”

Sophia laced her fingers with James’s and together they followed Martino out of the hotel.

They’d taken control of and locked down an entire floor of the small, private hospital just outside of London. James had been here before. The Masters’ Admiralty maintained controlling ownership of this hospital, which catered to non-HSC procedures, such as plastic surgery. The doctors and nurses had no idea who really owned the hospital, outside of a few doctors who were members themselves. There was a maternity floor, which supposedly specialized in high-risk deliveries, but in reality, was used predominantly by members and staffed by highly paid midwives who knew not to blink when there were two fathers, or a father and second mother, attending the birth.

Though the Masters’ Admiralty essentially owned it, the hospital itself wasn’t totally secure. However, the third floor was now more heavily guarded than Buckingham Palace. Black-clad security operatives were stationed every five feet. Knights, some still wearing ceremonial black robes, stood with their hands on their swords, or in some cases with their swords drawn.

James’s ID was checked seven times—and each time, the person checking took a photo of him and called to consult with an unseen third party before letting him pass. Sophia got the same treatment, but with a deference that James didn’t merit.

By the time they were led into a waiting room, James was ready to start tossing men into walls. If someone didn’t tell him what the hell was going on, he was going to start beating the answers out of people.

The waiting room was unlike those in the few HSC hospitals he’d been to. It was elegant and stocked with food and drink. James stared at the tea kettle. Maybe he should make tea. Tristan liked tea. Didn’t he? Tristan had made tea for them that morning at the hotel. He’d been fussy about the tea bags, and called the front desk, asking for loose-leaf tea and a strainer. James knew there was a way to make tea without a bag, but he hadn’t personally done it. Tristan liked loose-leaf tea. Maybe there was some here. It was a fancy hospital after all. Did Tristan take milk or sugar?

He didn’t even know how Tristan took his tea.

“You will tell us what is going on,” Sophia told the knight who’d escorted them. Martino was his name.

“I don’t know much, Principessa.” Martino’s English was heavily accented, but James was grateful they were speaking English at all.

“What do you know?”

“The conclave was attacked.”

“The conclave itself? But it was secure…” Sophia sucked in a breath. “My father. Where is my father?”

“The admiral is safe, Principessa.”

“Then let me speak with him.”

“I cannot, Principessa. I do not know where he is.”

Sophia’s breath shuddered, as if she was having trouble controlling it.

“No, no. I’m sorry…” Martino sighed and started speaking rapidly in Italian.

Sophia nodded and answered in the same language, then turned to him. James held out his arms, offering a hug, but she only grabbed his hands, squeezing his fingers until her own turned white.

“They were all in the room when they were attacked. Someone shot at the admirals, right through the ceiling of the building. At least four people were shot. The security officers have taken the remaining admirals to a safe place.”

James’s heart sank. “The remaining admirals?”

“Two admirals and two knights were shot.”

James yanked his hands out of Sophia’s, not because he didn’t want to hold her, but because fear and anger were boiling inside him. He wanted to slam his fists through the wall, to vent this hot feeling inside him. He didn’t trust himself to touch Sophia right now.

Sophia raised her hand, as if to touch him, but paused just short of completing the action. “Tristan was shot. He’s in surgery right now.”

“How bad?”

“Martino doesn’t know.”

“We’ll find a doctor. We’ll ask him.” James started for the door of the waiting room, then paused. “The other people who were shot? How are they?”

“Martino thinks they’re all dead. He said they weren’t breathing when they were taken away.”

“Two admirals.” James turned to face her. “And your father is okay? I mean he isn’t hurt?”

“No.” Tears pricked Sophia’s eyes and she let out a sob. He could hear the relief in it.

James enveloped her in his arms. She felt small and slight, her body quaking.

Sophia wiped her eyes against his shirt and leaned back to look up at him. Her lashes were spikes, wet from the tears. She was beautiful as always.

Mine.

Ours.

Tristan, you have to be okay.

“James, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“One of the admirals who…who died. It was your admiral. The admiral of England.”

James’s stomach sank. Winston Hammond, with his little round glasses and nearly bald head, was gone. The man who had ruled England with sharp intelligence and razor wit was dead.

Sophia reached up and stroked his hair with one hand, her gaze on his face.

James swallowed and shook his head. “The fleet admiral and the admiral of England dead?”

“And one more. The Castile admiral.”

“May God preserve us,” James said fervently. “Three admirals dead.” It was…impossible. The admirals were untouchable. For the fleet admiral to be killed was horrific, for three admirals to die within as many days was catastrophic.

“You know the history. Has this ever happened before?”

“Not that I know of.” James sat, bracing his elbows on his knees. He put his head in his hands. Sophia rubbed his back. “What are we going to do?”

“We the Masters’ Admiralty?” Sophia took a breath, and when she spoke there was a note of authority in her voice—it was a clear tone, like a bell. Principessa wasn’t just a nickname. “We will go on. We will defeat our enemies. The…remaining…admirals will gather and choose a new fleet admiral and new territory admirals.”

Normally when an admiral retired or died, the leadership of that territory—the vice admiral, security minister, knights, security officers, and finance ministers, would meet in an informal conclave and compose a list of candidates. The vice admiral would then submit these names to the fleet admiral, who was the one who appointed the territory admiral. In practice, the fleet admiral usually selected someone from the list. If there was not an obvious choice, the fleet admiral could call a conclave of admirals and solicit their opinions and advice before making a final selection for the new admiral.

“With no fleet admiral, who appoints the new admirals?” James asked.

“The conclave? Perhaps Greta?” Sophia laid her cheek on his back. “That will be the real test. Will England and Castile accept their new admirals, will the power transition easily?” She sighed again. “If one of the current admirals becomes fleet admiral, that will mean three territories will have new leaders. And a territory with new leadership is weak.”

“They had better move fast.”

“I’m sure my father will.”

James couldn’t see her, but he reached back and laid a hand on her knee. “Is your father going to be the fleet admiral?” It was a question he hadn’t dared to ask.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “He would be a logical choice. He is strong. Rome is strong.” She turned her head, and he felt the press of her lips on his back even through his shirt and jacket. “We are married. He cannot undo that.”

James raised his eyebrows. “Was he going to?”

“I was worried,” Sophia admitted.

James twisted to the side and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her half onto his lap. “You’re ours. Mine and Tristan’s. No one is going to take you away from us. Or us from you.”

Sophia stroked his eyebrow, his cheekbone. “We know so little about one another.”

“True,” James conceded. “But we can learn. We have time.”

The words were out, and he couldn’t call them back, but from the way Sophia’s lashes swept down, he knew that she was thinking the same thing he was—they might not have time. Tristan might not have time.

The door to the waiting room opened. A tired-looking black woman in green scrubs, her hair hidden under a surgical cap, stood in the doorway. “Are you Mr. Knight’s spouses?”

The fact that she’d said “spouses” meant she was either a member, or one of the hospital staff who knew that many of the hospital’s patients lived alternative polyamorous lifestyles.

Sophia rose from James’s lap, then grabbed for his hand as he too rose, his leg protesting. He held on to Sophia, wrapping one arm around her waist while still holding her hand.

The surgeon ran her hand over her face, then swept her cap off her head. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun. “We did the best we could.”

Sophia gasped and turned her face into James’s chest. James blinked and felt a tear slide down his cheek.

Chapter Twenty

The rock walls of the sea cave glistened in the torchlight. Shaped like a cornucopia, with the narrow entrance hidden by the shadows of the cliff, the cave was virtually unknown and difficult to access. The choice of this location for their meeting was a gamble. At high tide, the mouth of the cave was underwater, meaning the only way in or out was with scuba gear, and even that was risky due to the power of the waves that crashed against the cliff.

The existence of this cave, and the larger network of caves that could be found farther down the cliffside, was a secret of the Masters’ Admiralty.

What had happened in London proved that secrecy alone was not enough to keep them safe. The difficulty of accessing the cave had been the deciding factor for using it as the location for the new conclave.

Giovanni, Petro, and Dolph Eburhardt—the German admiral—were the first to enter. They, plus two security officers from Rome, used a small military inflatable to navigate the rocky shoreline on the north side of Man. The narrow craft barely fit through the mouth of the cave. Once they were in, they waited in the boat for the tide to raise the water level until they were able to climb out onto a shelf at the rear of the cave, where it was widest.

They’d dressed like sports fishermen, and the thick wool trousers provided some protection from the cold, wet stone, but not much.

The security officers who’d accompanied them slid out of their sporting-oriented tourist disguises, revealing wetsuits. They pulled on hoods and masks, strapping tanks to their backs, and then slid into the water.

The three admirals sat in silence and waited.

Alma Ivarsson and Hande arrived together, popping up in the middle of the water, scuba masks in their mouths.

They swam over to the ledge. The security officers who’d accompanied them, these two from Ottoman, stayed in the water. Once Alma and Hande climbed out, the officers went to the mouth of the cave to take over guard duty, accepting the underwater-rated spear guns the Roman guards had been holding. The guards from Rome swam to another shelf, climbing out of the water and taking a moment to rest.

Alma pushed back the hood of her wetsuit. She was a trim, dark-haired woman in her fifties. She had prominent cheekbones, a straight nose and a wide mouth. Her features were strong, but not unpleasantly so, and she’d been a model in her youth. Before becoming the admiral of Kalmar, which was physically the largest territory and incorporated all of Scandinavia, she’d been a UN goodwill ambassador.

Giovanni hauled a bag out of the small boat. It was filled with large bath sheets packed in plastic bags and small chemical hand warmers. He passed one each to the new arrivals.

Five admirals. There should have been four more, but they were only waiting for two.

Cezary and Victoire Dubois, the French admiral, arrived last. They too swam in and were clad in wetsuits, but they’d been helped by yet more security officers who held a small underwater jet engine. Since they’d been the last to arrive, they’d had to fight the tide hardest. Without the underwater engine, they wouldn’t have been able to swim in against the push and pull of the tide.

Cezary and Victoire climbed onto the shelf, looking tired and a bit frazzled. Blankets, heat packs, and bottled water were passed out. This time there was no one to taste the water before they drank.

Giovanni looked at their sad little group—seven tired, angry, and, yes, he’d admit it, frightened people reduced to having to meet in a dark, wet cave.

“We have three decisions to make,” he reminded them. Each of the people there was a leader, but no one objected to Giovanni starting the conversation.

“None of us can become the fleet admiral.” Hande’s dark hair was slicked back from her face and she was huddled in her blanket. She should have looked small and vulnerable, especially given her age. Her direct stare and the challenging tilt of her chin paid homage to the notion that she was anything less than a force of nature.

She would be terrifying in twenty years, once she’d had a chance to learn and solidify her power base.

Giovanni gritted his teeth as all eyes turned to him. He hadn’t made a secret of the fact that he would accept the role of fleet admiral. His family had been members of the Masters’ Admiralty since the beginning. He was the logical choice, though Petro, who thought too much of himself, would probably assume he would be chosen.

Yet Hande was right. And though some, particularly his children, might accuse him of being arrogant and too ambitious, he was the admiral of Rome. He would do what was right for his territory, and for the Masters’ Admiralty.

Hande had spoken English, as they’d been doing in London, but since no one sitting there was a native English speaker, Giovanni switched to French when he replied, which was the other official language of the Masters’ Admiralty. He was more eloquent in French. “You know I would have accepted the position of fleet admiral.”

Petro snorted. “Would have demanded it.”

Giovanni shrugged. “Why deny it? My great-grandfather was the fleet admiral. But Hande is right. Already two of our territories must have new admirals. Those of us here now must remain with our own territories to maintain stability.”

“Then for the fleet admiral, we must choose someone who isn’t a territory admiral,” Hande said.

Petro shook his head. “Our laws state that only one who has been an admiral can become our leader.”

Hande raised her eyebrow. “Then what do you suggest we do? It is the time for solutions, not a time to cling to old rules.”

“You are young—” Petro started to say.

Hande slapped her hand down onto the rock. It made a wet snapping sound. “I am an admiral, and my age should not—”

“Peace.” Giovanni held up his hand. He was Italian. He knew how to deal with fiery women. “There is something you do not know, because you were not yet an admiral when it happened.” Giovanni looked around, and everyone but Hande nodded back at him.

“I had thought of it too.” Cezary looked wet and miserable, but his voice was calm.

“It is the best option.” Alma looked as if the words pained her.

“What?” Hande demanded.

Everyone looked at Alma, who sighed. “I have served as the admiral of Kalmar for fifteen years. I took over at a time when much of Scandinavia, and all of Europe, was in crisis.”

Hande watched Alma with the sort of focus associated with a predator.

“But I was not the admiral for the worst of the crisis. Sixteen years ago, there was a young trinity—a knight, a finance officer and a government official.

“The young finance officer had predicted the financial crash—long before anyone else realized what would happen. She insisted and fought everyone who would have rather ignored her. She protected our territory’s wealth, and much of our members’ personal wealth, from the worst of the economic turbulence. Her spouse, the government officer, had also listened to her, believed her. She was ready when things started to go bad, and in turn almost single-handedly prevented Norway’s government from collapsing.”

“You were lucky,” Hande said darkly.

Giovanni winced internally. His territory had not fared as well as Kalmar, and though his members were all safe and provided for, his entire region had been unstable for several years. It had taken every bit of power he had to stop the Italian and Greek governments from collapsing.

“We were,” Alma agreed. “And we all realized who had saved us. In the middle of all this, our admiral died. The finance officer, the one who predicted it all, was appointed admiral. Her name was the only name given to the fleet admiral. He accepted our suggestion and made her admiral. She turned it down.”

Hande frowned. “Being made admiral is an honor and—” Hande snorted out a laugh. “And I didn’t think we had the option to say no.”

“You don’t,” Giovanni assured her. “Either you accept the position or you’re removed from the Masters’ Admiralty.”

“Then what happened to her?”

Alma shook her head. “The fleet admiral told her that she had no choice, and she accepted, very reluctantly.” Alma’s mouth thinned into a long slash. “We made a mistake. She had… I do not know the word in French.”

It took a moment, but after a few rounds of translating back and forth between the over twenty languages they all knew, the word was translated as “agoraphobic.”

“Ah,” Hande said. “She could not go out, be with people?”

Alma nodded. “She preferred to be alone. Even within her trinity, she lived by herself, while her husband and wife presented themselves as a couple to the outside world.”

“Not a good trait for an admiral.”

“No,” Alma conceded. “I was the vice admiral at the time, and we were trying to decide what to do when she was assassinated.”

Hande hissed. “By the Domino?”

“No. By someone who was upset by the financial crisis. Her name was made public, the media applauded her for having spotted the problem, and berated the government for failing to heed her.”

“They shot her? Why?”

Alma shook her head. “Rage and fear do not respond to reason.”

Hande nodded slowly, then said, “Did she survive in secret?”

“No,” Giovanni said, wanting to speed up the story. “But during her brief tenure as admiral of Kalmar, her husband and wife helped her. Her husband, the knight, was appointed admiral of Kalmar after her death. He served for one year, until his wife, the politician, was also assassinated, and he was wounded.”

“After his second wife’s death,” Alma slanted an annoyed look at Giovanni as she took over the story, “he asked to be removed as admiral. Scandinavia and Kalmar were stable. And he’d lost both his wives. Admirals either die in office or step down when their age or health make them unfit.” Alma shook her head. “But for him, we made an exception. He carried a heavy burden in a time of crisis. That, plus the loss…” Alma bowed her head.

There was a moment of silence. Giovanni had to wonder if his fellow admirals were, as he was, regretting the need to ask that man to once more take up a leadership role in a time of crisis.

“He knows our laws. He has proven himself a capable leader,” Cezary pointed out.

He was trying to justify what they were about to do. Giovanni nodded to the other man.

“He’s had over fifteen years to grieve. Plenty of time,” Petro said dismissively, but he looked grave.

“Is he married?” Hande asked.

Alma shook her head. “No.”

“And how old is he?”

“Forty-one.”

Hande raised her brows again. “Then if we follow the rules he would have to marry too.”

Alma frowned. “He was married, the rule doesn’t apply to him.”

“The rule is that the fleet admiral must be married. Currently married.” There was regret in Cezary’s tone.

Alma’s jaw clenched, and the white light of the electric lanterns cast harsh shadows on her face. “We ask too much.”

“Not too much,” Giovanni told her. “To be a member is to give your life to our society.”

No one disagreed.

“What is his name?” Hande asked.

“Eric Ericsson,” Alma answered. “They called him the Viking.”

“A warrior…” Petro fussed with his shirt. It was the most casual garment Giovanni had ever seen the other man wear. “A good choice to lead us in a time of war.”

Giovanni frowned. “We cannot forget that we have to deal with the Americans too.”

Petro’s brow knitted. “That slight will have to wait until the new British admiral is selected. We are in a state of crisis, here and now, on our own continent.”

“I don’t consider the murder of so many of our children a slight,” Victoire interjected. “Punishment must be meted out, swift and sure. To wait would imply weakness. The Trinity Masters must pay for—”

“For the deaths of children slain during World War II?” Petro replied, clearly bored with this discussion. The Hungarian territory, which included Serbia, had suffered terrible atrocities during the war. As such, Petro looked upon the Trinity Masters’ sinking of a neutral ship, which just so happened to have secretly been a ship belonging to the Masters’ Admiralty and carrying children to safety in Canada, horrendous, but not particularly earth-shattering. “We are punishing the current members of the Trinity Masters for the crimes of their ancestors. If that’s the way we operate, perhaps we should still be seeking revenge upon Dolph’s territory. I think we can all agree the Germans—”

“Enough.” Dolph raised a threatening finger toward Petro. “I will not allow you to continue to throw history into my face. My territory has paid for their crimes. The Trinity Masters have not answered for theirs. It must happen.”

Giovanni nodded. “Agreed. Dealing with the Americans will be the first task the new British admiral will handle. We will stress that it needs to be undertaken immediately.”

“Initiation by fire?” Hande murmured.

Giovanni ignored her, turning things back to the primary matter at hand. “And I think we’re all agreed, Eric should be called to serve as fleet admiral. Alma,” Giovanni said. “You will serve as our messenger for this task?”

“I will.”

Giovanni looked to Victoire. As admiral of France and the closest neighbor to Castile, she was in the best position to judge likely candidates for that territory. “You have a list of candidates for the admiralty of Castile?”

“A short one. Their vice admiral did his best.”

The discussion was brief, and they decided to appoint the vice admiral to the position of admiral. The skill sets were very different—vice admirals had to be ruthlessly organized and always had some military or security experience—so it was rare that a vice admiral was promoted to admiral. The last time it had been done was when Alma was made admiral of Kalmar. In this case, as it had been fifteen years ago with Kalmar, the consensus was that they felt Castile’s stability required the vice admiral to assume the role.

“He will be able to easily appoint his successor as vice admiral,” Victoire said.

“And you will serve as our messenger?” Giovanni asked.

“I will.”

“That brings us to England.” Giovanni kept his tone simple and measured.

“Lorelei did not have time to provide a list,” Dolph said.

“How could she?” Cezary raised both hands in a helpless gesture. “The admiral dead. Two knights shot. Her security officers scouring London.” He shook his head.

Giovanni raised his chin. “I think we all know who the next admiral of England should be.”

The other admirals looked at one another, some nodding, others looking concerned.

“We are sure he will survive?” Hande asked.

“Yes, and he would no longer be fit to be a knight anyway,” Giovanni said.

“What do you mean?” Hande asked.

When Giovanni told them what he’d learned from the English doctors, the other admirals grimaced.

“Who is his family?” Pedro asked. “What is his real name?”

“I do not know his name, but it would not matter. He was not a legacy,” Giovanni said.

“Not a legacy? And we would make him admiral?” Petro scoffed.

Giovanni ignored the fact that he’d thought something similar not long ago. “There is no rule that says an admiral must be a legacy. And he has proven himself. Plus, his trinity will help him.”

“He’s married?” Alma asked.

Giovanni raised his chin. “Yes. To my daughter.”

Chapter Twenty-One

He had odd dreams. Doctors and nurses speaking to him, though the words were always muffled and far away. The bright white rectangles of the overhead lights. Then Sophia and James—crying, talking, their faces growing larger as they leaned down to speak with him. He wanted to ask why they were crying, but he couldn’t form the words.

The dreams came and went, the rest periods in between sometimes years long, other times lasting only a blink.

Then he had a more traditional sort of dream. In it, he was walking through a castle. He wore a full suit of armor, but it was black, not silver. His sword was in his hand, and it blazed with white light, making the shadows on the stone walls flicker and dance as he walked.

A figure made of shadow and smoke dropped down from the ceiling. He slashed it in half with a mighty blow of his sword. It collapsed into a circle of mist that danced and flickered for a moment before disappearing altogether. Three gold coins were left on the floor. He picked up the coins and kept walking. Again and again the shadowy monsters attacked him. Again and again he swung his sword, striking them down.

His arm started to burn with pain from all the fighting. He looked at his right hand, and it was now glowing with white light, as if it were part of the sword. But the white light was no longer cool and benign. It was glowing hot, like the heart of a star. He gritted his teeth against the pain.

The burning white light now engulfed his wrist, then spread halfway up his forearm.

He gritted his teeth and tried to release the sword, to drop it so his hand and arm were no longer burning, but he couldn’t get his fingers to work.

He screamed through gritted teeth.

“Tristan, Tristan. It’s okay, man, you’re okay.”

The voice pulled him from the dream, dropping him back into the familiar yet foreign bed.

“It’s James. We’re here.” A heavy hand rested on his left shoulder.

Smooth, delicate fingers stroked his hair back from his face. The woman they were attached to was murmuring in a language he didn’t know, yet the words comforted him, and her voice was familiar.

He didn’t know who they were talking to. Who was Tristan?

He struggled to open his eyes. He had to blink a few times before he could focus on the people leaning over his bed. A large brown-skinned man on his left, and a gorgeous woman with a cloud of black hair on his right.

He knew them. They were important to him.

He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. The man held a straw to his lips and he gratefully sucked down water.

His mind was clearing, but he couldn’t shake the dream. His right hand and arm still burned with pain, as if he held the white-hot sword.

“Tristan?” the woman asked.

He was Tristan?

Tristan Knight.

He inhaled as his brain finally started working again. He was Tristan Knight. The people leaning over the bed were his trinity—Sophia and James. And this wasn’t just a bed. It was a hospital bed. He’d been shot.

Tristan took a deep breath and dragged himself out of the mental fog that was hampering him. Answers. He needed answers.

“The admiral?” he asked, looking at James. His voice was rough and almost unintelligible.

James shook his head.

“Gawain?”

Another head shake. Tristan closed his eyes. Fuck.

“The admiral of Castile is dead too,” Sophia murmured.

That Tristan knew. There was no way to survive with that much of a head missing.

The battle—he didn’t know how else to think of it—was coming back to him in pieces.

“The shooter, did they catch him?” Tristan asked.

“I spoke with my brother. He arrived in London last night to support the search. Nothing yet. But they found where he was shooting from. And they recovered the gun and are hoping to track where he got it. He left a domino.”

“A mask?” Tristan asked.

“No, a domino piece. Two ones.” She held up two fingers.

“Snake eyes,” James said.

“It was the Domino, then.”

“Or his apprentice. The man they had captive on the Isle of Man may have been the Domino.” Sophia’s eyes were a cop’s eyes now, hard and calculating. “Or it may be that there is no longer just a master and an apprentice.”

Tristan’s right arm wouldn’t stop hurting. That damned dream. He started to lift it, but Sophia put her hand on his bicep, keeping his arm in place.

When he looked at her in confusion, tears filled her eyes.

“Sophia?”

She pressed her lips together and looked at James.

James crossed his arms. “Tristan…” James frowned. “Actually, what’s your real name?”

“Real name?” Sophia asked.

“The knights all change their names,” James told her.

“Only to Knight. In Rome, they change their family name to Cavaliere. Riddari in Kalmar.”

Tristan was doing his best to follow the conversation, but the burning in his right arm was distracting. “Not in England. We change both our names.”

“Why?” She stroked his hair back from his head. The touch was familiar, comfortingly so. She must have done it before, while he’d been sleeping. How long had he been sliding in and out of consciousness?

“We each take on the name of one of the knights of the Round Table,” Tristan told her.

“Ah. Yes, yes, yes, like the stories and books. Very romantic. King Arthur and his knights.”

Tristan chuckled.

“What’s funny?” James asked.

“King Arthur and his knights. My real name is Arthur. Arthur Billings.”

“Arthur Billings…” Sophia spoke the name slowly, and it was jolting to hear his real name after so many years as Tristan.

“Arthur suits you,” James said.

“Arthur, the leader of the knights. The king of England.” Sophia smiled down at him, but her eyes were sad.

“Tristan,” he corrected them. “I’m a knight. I’m Tristan.”

Sophia and James shared a look. His right hand burned.

And he knew.

He remembered the bones of his arm jutting through his skin. Remembered burning pain that actually preceded the sound of the ceiling exploding from the force of the bullet.

The same bullet that had killed the admiral of Castile had pierced his arm. Then he’d grabbed the ceiling, trying to disconnect the heat sensor, and his already damaged arm had broken, the bones ripping through skin and muscle.

Tristan sucked in air through his nose. He turned his head to look at his right arm. There was a pillow tucked beside him, and his upper arm and elbow rested on it.

That’s all that was left of his right arm. His hand and most of his forearm were gone.

Tristan closed his eyes, bile rising in his throat.

“They did their best to save your arm, but there was too much… Your bone wasn’t just broken, it was shattered, and the soft tissue damage was extensive.”

His sword hand was gone. He could no longer hold his sword.

Tristan gritted his teeth, but an agonized sound escaped his mouth.

James’s big hands settled on his shoulders, not precisely holding him down, but preventing him from sitting up. “They did everything they could,” he repeated. “Your arm was too badly damaged to be saved.”

“My arm is gone.” The words hurt as they left his throat, as if they’d been torn from him.

“I’m so sorry, mi amore.” Sophia stroked his hair.

“It can’t be gone. It can’t be. I can feel it. It hurts.”

Sophia started crying in earnest. She covered his face in soft kisses. He wanted to both shove her away and hold her close. James laced his fingers with Tristan’s, squeezing his hand.

His one remaining hand.

The pain in his right arm built, but he didn’t know if it was real or imagined. When it became too much, he started to scream through his teeth. Doctors and nurses entered. They spoke to him, but Tristan was lost in his own emotional agony. Then he was lost to the dreams as pain medication flooded through him via an IV.

Your arm is gone, Tristan.

He thought voicing the fact, even within the quiet of his mind, would make it more real, make it easier to deal with.

You’re not Tristan anymore. You can’t be a knight if you can’t wield your sword

Not Tristan anymore.

His temples were wet with tears when he finally fell asleep.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A paper take-out cup appeared in her line of vision. If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have yelped in surprise. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her limbs, and her only reaction was a little shudder of surprise.

The to-go cup was not the kind the hospital cafe gave out. She was intimately acquainted with those cups—blue with stylized coffee beans and too-thin plastic lids. This cup was a natural brown with a black lid, and it smelled heavenly.

“Cappuccino.” James wiggled the cup a little. “I went to an actual coffee shop around the corner.”

Sophia wrapped her fingers around the cup and inhaled. It smelled like real coffee, not that horrible drip or instant stuff people in England seemed to enjoy.

“Grazie.” The first sip tasted like heaven. The second sip made her tear up with homesickness.

“Prego.” The reply was a bit hesitant, but his pronunciation was good.

James sat beside her on the couch in the waiting area. When they’d first come to the hospital, she’d thought how elegant the waiting room was. Now she would happily burn every piece of furniture in here and cut the tasteful, neutral photos of the English countryside into angry little pieces.

James put his arm around her and Sophia leaned into his side. They fit together comfortably, as if they’d been together for years instead of…

How long had it been?

“What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

Sophia hummed as if that answered her question, then sighed. “I don’t remember what day we got here.”

“Tuesday. The conclave was on Tuesday.”

“It feels like we’ve been here for years.”

“I know.” James rubbed her arm. “I don’t know when the last time was that either of us slept a full night in a bed.”

Sophia had to stop and think about it. They’d taken turns going back to the hotel to shower and nap, but had spent most of the past two days in the hospital. “Not since Rome.”

James shifted to look down at her. Sophia kept her eyes on her coffee. She was so tired that sometimes looking at James’s kind face was enough to make her cry.

“We’ve known each other barely a week,” he murmured.

“But we’re married.” Sophia swallowed. “You, Tristan, and I.”

James squeezed her shoulder. “He’ll be okay.”

Sophia’s throat tightened with the need to cry, but her eyes remained dry. Maybe she had run out of tears.

“He hasn’t spoken since yesterday. Since he realized… Not one word,” she whispered in misery.

“Losing his hand, especially his right hand, is going to be hard.” James reached down to rub his bad leg as he spoke. “Plus, he watched our admiral and his fellow knight getting shot. All that plus losing the hand are enough to make anyone need some time to process.”

“I hope he’ll talk to him, to the…” Sophia waved her hand, too tired to think of the word in English.

“Psychiatrist. I hope so too.”

As one, they looked at the clock on the wall. They’d been booted out of Tristan’s room, where they’d spent most of their time, so he could have his first therapy session.

James’s massive chest expanded as he took a deep breath, which he then let out with a sigh. “I wonder what’s happening with the manhunt.”

Sophia considered grabbing her phone. Antonio was in England, and he would know what was going on. She’d told him, via text, that she was married to one of the knights who’d been shot, and that she’d been there when the fleet admiral was killed. After some astonished replies and cursing—and like a good sister, she’d reminded him that he had ignored what she’d said about the message on the coins—he’d stopped trying to “protect” her from information about what was going on.

But that didn’t mean he was volunteering anything. If she wanted to know, she’d have to bug him.

She didn’t have the energy for that right now.

The door opened. As one, Sophia and James came to their feet, their fingers weaving together so that they held hands.

The psychiatrist walked in. “Mr. Rathmann, Ms. Starabba.” He nodded in greeting.

“How is he?”

The psychiatrist was Indian, and younger than Sophia had expected—mid-thirties at most. His eyebrows rose at her question, showing above his thin wire-framed glasses. “Ms. Starabba, my sessions with your—”

“Husband,” James interjected. His voice was deeper than normal, and tinged with anger.

The doctor—who had surely told Sophia his name, but she couldn’t remember what it was—shifted his weight back onto his heels, and for a second it looked like he might physically retreat from James’s anger.

“Yes, your husband.” He pulled off his spectacles and examined them, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaning the lenses. “He’s suffered several serious shocks. First there is the loss of his limb, which is a catastrophic event in both the clinical and emotional sense. He was witness to, and a victim of, extreme violence, and…” The doctor put his glasses back on. “And he was recently and unexpectedly married.”

Sophia stiffened and unlaced her fingers from James’. She wanted to cross her arms, but she still held the coffee, so she settled for cupping that in both hands and taking a sip.

“You’re a member,” James growled. “That’s how it is.”

“Usually there is advance notice given. People are notified that it’s time for them to be married, even if they don’t know to whom.”

“We didn’t know either,” James insisted.

The doctor held up his hands. “I am well aware of that, Mr. Rathmann. And frankly, I’m worried about both of you as well.”

“Why?” Sophia asked.

“Because your relationship is fragile, precisely because it is so new. From what Mr. Knight told me, you haven’t spent any time together without external pressures guiding you.”

“And what does that mean?” James asked.

“It means that your relationship doesn’t have a baseline. It’s like a…” The doctor looked at James. “You came on the field after regular play, in injury time, and you’re playing with 14 men. Fourteen men you don’t know and have never played with before.”

James grunted as if that meant something to him. Sophia shrugged. She wasn’t sure if she was too tired to translate, or if they were using rugby terms she didn’t understand. James had played professional rugby—she knew that much. And she knew he’d played for the All Blacks and that it was a famous team.

Mentally, she added “learn more about rugby” to her growing to-do list.

The door to the waiting room opened and two cavalieri pushed into the room, swords drawn. The doctor, closest to the door, whirled and took a step back. The knight on the right lunged, pressing the tip of his rapier against the doctor’s tie.

“Who are you?” the Italian knight asked.

“I’m Dr. Sahil Kapoor.”

“Doctor?” The cavaliere drew his sword back, but didn’t sheath it. The second knight ducked into the hall, saying something in Italian that Sophia couldn’t quite make out.

She was so shocked by the sudden appearance of the knights that she didn’t react right away. Neither of them was Martino, who’d escorted them to the hospital on that fateful day.

The second knight pulled back into the room and said. “You may go, Doctor.”

Dr. Kapoor raised his brows. “I’m speaking with my patient’s family. I do not need your permission to be here, and I will not leave because you threaten me.”

Sophia shook herself out of the surprised stupor seeing the cavalieri had thrown her into.

“Saverio, Vico,” she snapped. “What are you doing here? How dare you treat the doctor this way?”

At the sound of her voice, both knights snapped to attention. They shared an uncomfortable look before Vico replied, speaking Italian as she had.

“My deepest apologies, Principessa. The ammiraglio is here.”

Sophia wanted to scream. How dare her father barge in. She needed to take care of her husband. That meant talking to Dr. Kapoor.

“I will not see him now.” She tossed her hands in the air in frustration. “He should return to Rome.”

Dr. Kapoor was frowning at her. “Tristan called you the princess. I thought it was a pet name, but you’re…” He cleared his throat. “You’re the principessa of Rome.”

“No,” Sophia told him. “I am Sophia Starabba, member of the Carabinieri and wife to Tristan Knight and James Rathmann.”

“Bloody fucking right you are,” James said with enthusiasm.

Sophia twisted to smile and wink at James.

The door opened and Antonio walked in. Her brother looked tired—his hair was messier than usual, his already deep-set eyes appearing sunken into his face. He wore black slacks and a dress shirt, which probably meant he’d been trying to blend in somewhere in London. Normally he wore black T-shirts with the logo of the security firm that was a front for Rome’s security operations.

“Antonio?” she asked.

He grinned and opened his arms. “Polpetta.”

Sophia slid into her brother’s embrace, hugging him fiercely. Her eyes prickled with tears as another wave of homesickness hit her. It had been a long time since her brother had used that nickname for her and hearing it brought back too many memories.

Sophia pulled back and wiped her eyes with one hand. “I’m not a meatball,” she said in English.

Antonio switched languages. “You are.”

Sophia laughed, more because it was expected. “Why are you here?”

“Father is here.”

As if that explained everything. And it did. “I cannot be his princess right now.” Sophia flung her head back to look at the ceiling and sighed. “Brother, please, take him away.”

Antonio cupped her arms with his hands. “He is not here to see you.”

Sophia’s head snapped down. Antonio didn’t speak, but the corners of his eyes were pinched with worry, and his dark brows were drawn together over his nose.

She whirled to look at James, who was eyeing the knights as if deciding who he’d take out first.

“We have to go to Tristan!”

James’s attention snapped to her, and when she took off running, blowing past her brother and Vico, James was right behind her. She heard the whoosh of expelled air as either Antonio or Vico failed to get out of James’s way.

Together they sprinted down the short hall. The security officers stationed on the walls all came to attention at the sight of people running. They started shouting in a variety of languages. Sophia made a hard left at the end of the hall, glad for her rubber-soled shoes, and nearly collided with the Roman security officer who stood squarely in front of Tristan’s door.

“Let me pass!” she snapped in Italian.

“I’m sorry, Princess, but I cannot allow you—”

James tackled him, his shoulder driving into the other man’s midsection. The doorway abruptly cleared as James and the security officer sailed off.

The security officer hit the floor and slid ten feet on the smooth, polished hospital tile. James caught himself, stumbling a little, one hand on the wall.

Sophia grabbed his arm and tugged him to the door. He was grimacing, and she knew his knee had to be hurting, but their husband needed them.

She thrust open the door, then whipped aside the curtain that shielded the bed from the open doorway.

Another security officer stood in the corner. He pulled a Taser gun from a holster and raised it. James thrust Sophia behind him.

“Don’t touch them!” Tristan snarled. At the same time, Giovanni said, “No, Milo.”

Milo, Antonio’s second-in-command, holstered the stun gun. Sophia slipped around James’s side, keeping one hand on him. She could feel the anger pulsing through him.

“Tristan.” She ignored her father. “Are you well?”

“Am I well?” Tristan glanced at his right arm and then away.

That hadn’t been the right thing to say. Sophia stared helplessly at her husband, wishing she’d had more time to talk to Dr. Kapoor.

“Father.” She whirled on him. “What are you doing here?”

Her father was frowning at her jeans, T-shirt, and jacket. “Sophia—”

“Why, Father?” she demanded harshly.

The admiral of Rome’s eyebrows rose. She’d hadn’t spoken to him like that since she’d been a teenager.

“I am not here to speak with you, Sophia. I have come to give the announcements from the conclave.”

“You had it? Where?” Tristan asked. His voice sounded more normal than it had since before he was hurt.

“In a place you will know about, but which I cannot say in front of them.”

To Sophia’s shock, her father gestured at her when he said “them.”

What was going on?

James squeezed her hand, and Sophia looked up, reading the confusion in his gaze. She shook her head once, telling him that she didn’t understand.

“Tristan Knight,” Giovanni said, his tone formal. “You are, by order of the conclave, relieved of your knighthood.”

“No,” Sophia breathed. She started to take a step forward, wanting to at least lay a hand on Tristan’s foot under the covers. Her father shot her a look and she froze.

He was, after all, not only her father, but her Ammiraglio.

“I understand,” Tristan said quietly. “I am no longer fit to be a knight.”

Sophia opened her mouth to argue. Losing his right hand did not mean he couldn’t be a knight. He could hold his sword with his other hand. He could use a gun instead. To say that the loss of one arm meant he was not worthy to be a knight was barbaric. Being a knight was about more than holding a sword.

“Arthur Billings,” Giovanni intoned.

Almost as one, Tristan, Sophia, and James looked at Giovanni in shock. He knew Tristan’s real name?

“You are, by order of the conclave of admirals, appointed admiral of England.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“I can’t be the admiral.” Tristan stared at Giovanni in shock.

The admiral of Rome stood beside Tristan’s hospital bed, dressed in an elegant pale gray suit, his dark hair and eyes so much like his daughter’s.

Tristan shifted his gaze to James and Sophia, who were at the foot of the bed. James was staring at Giovanni with wide eyes. Sophia’s eyes were narrowed as she glared at her father. She must have felt him looking at her because she shifted her gaze, and then reached out to lay a hand on his ankle.

“You are refusing?” Giovanni asked.

“I can’t be the admiral,” Tristan repeated. Maybe this was a dream. That would make more sense—he was having some morphine-fueled, hyper-realistic dream.

“Of course you can. With my daughter as your spouse, you will make an excellent admiral.”

Tristan shook his head.

“You are refusing?” Giovanni asked again.

“Of course not.” Sophia squeezed his ankle. James came to the side of the bed, standing directly opposite Giovanni. He braced his feet shoulder-width apart and crossed his arms. He looked ready to do some serious damage.

The knight in the corner’s shoes squeaked as he shifted position in response to James’s movement.

Tristan looked around. It was like high noon in an old western, everyone strategically positioned so they could see the other players.

“You cannot do this to him,” Sophia told her father. “Not right now.”

“It has to be now.”

“He’s recovering from being shot. From…”

Sophia didn’t finish the sentence, so Tristan did it for her. “From having my arm cut off.”

The door to the room opened and Antonio slipped in. He glared at James, who only raised his brows.

Ha, he’s actually your new brother-in-law!

The knight in the corner nodded to Sophia’s brother, a sign of respect, then resumed watching the drama playing out around the bed.

Sophia looked at her sibling. “Antonio, tell him this is madness.”

“No, I will not.”

Sophia looked ready to kill her brother.

Antonio shrugged. “I heard what happened in that room. It is not madness that Tristan be made admiral. Security teams from all the territories swept that room. No one but Tristan noticed the irregularity in the ceiling. If he hadn’t acted when he did, the gunman would have been able to kill every admiral in the room before anyone could react.”

“No.” Tristan ground the word out. He wasn’t going to let them make him a hero when he wasn’t. “It was only after I stood on the table that the shooting started.” That fact was haunting him.

“Because they realized they’d been discovered,” Antonio insisted. “If they’d had more time to set the shots and program the computer, they could have killed more people.”

“Computer?” James asked.

“The gun they recovered was a programmable sniper rifle. The shooter would have used the heat sensor to help him aim, and then lock the gun’s exact position for each individual shot into a connected computer.”

Antonio paused, sweeping a look over each of them. “If the shooter had more time, he could have pinpointed the position of each admiral, programmed it, and set the rifle to fire automatically. It would have taken less than five seconds for the gun to reposition between shots. In forty-five seconds, every admiral would have been dead.”

Tristan stared at Antonio in dawning horror.

“My God,” James whispered.

Sophia squeezed his foot and bowed her head. No one spoke until Giovanni cleared his throat.

“Arthur Billings, I will ask you one final time. Do you refuse to become the admiral of England?”

This was really happening. That was the part he was having trouble believing. A lot of unbelievable things had happened recently, and this was just one more.

Tristan took a deep breath. “If I refuse, I’ll be kicked out of the Masters’ Admiralty.”

“Yes. And you know what that means?”

Members who disobeyed their admiral, or who were ejected from the society for violating any of their laws, could expect, at best, to be bankrupted, imprisoned, and cut off from everyone they ever knew, not to mention losing their trinity. Many were executed, if their offenses were serious enough. Tristan had never been forced to carry through on an execution, but he’d come close once, when a young member had used his power and connections to kidnap, rape, and torture three women. Winston had decided to let British justice take care of him, though the families of the young women—all of whom had been young legacies—had howled for the man’s head to roll.

“I am a knight. I know.”

“What is your answer?”

Tristan looked at James, then at Sophia. He meant what he’d said. He would have loved them. Protected them.

“I refuse.”

“No!” Sophia gasped.

“What are you doing?” James demanded.

Giovanni’s eyes glittered with anger. “You are weak. I had thought better of you.”

Tristan clenched his left hand into a fist. The muscles in his right upper arm also flexed, trying to move fingers that were no longer there. “I am not weak. Do not insult me to make yourself feel better.”

Giovanni frowned.

“I will give my life to protect the Masters’ Admiralty.” Tristan took a deep breath. “And to protect my trinity.”

“Protect us?” James bent over the bed. “Protect us from what? Don’t do this. They’ll kill you if you refuse!”

What would it have been like to have a man like James as a husband? He would never know. But he could do this one last thing for them.

“I am doing it to protect you from me,” Tristan told him quietly.

Antonio stepped closer to the bed. “You think the Domino will come after you?”

Now it was Tristan’s turn to frown. This conversation was not going the way he’d expected. “I didn’t mean that.”

“What did you mean?” Antonio asked.

“I’m protecting them from this.” Tristan used his left hand to gesture at his right side. “I can’t be what they deserve.”

In a way, this was a relief. Tristan had always felt a bit like a fraud. Some part of him had always been waiting for someone to point at him and ask who he was, or what he was doing in a society as powerful and well connected as the Masters’ Admiralty.

“Tristan—”

He cut James off. “I’m not Tristan anymore.”

“Fine, Arthur, whatever you want to be called. You’re committing suicide because you lost your hand?”

“I’m not committing suicide. I’m taking care of you. I’m making sure you two will be safe and happy. With me gone, you can move to Rome with Sophia. Find a third who’s worthy of you.”

Sophia’s face was a white mask, save for two spots of color high on her cheeks. She started to round the foot of the bed.

Antonio lunged, yanking her off her feet and pulling her back.

“Release her,” Tristan barked, starting to rise off the pillow.

Sophia was pounding on her brother’s forearm with both fists.

“She was going to slap you,” Antonio protested.

James started toward Antonio, every inch of his body radiating threat. “Take your hands off our wife. She wasn’t going to slap him. For God’s sake, he’s in a hospital bed.”

Antonio released his sister, holding his hands up, but his expression was anything but contrite.

Sophia blew past James. “Oh, yes. I am going to slap his stupid face!”

Tristan dropped his head back onto the pillow and manfully suppressed a yelp. There was something uniquely terrifying about an enraged woman coming at him.

“I told you so.” Antonio was smirking.

James grabbed her. “Calm down, Sophia.”

“Did you hear him?” Her voice vibrated with rage as James hauled her back against his chest. “He is going to kill himself—to what? To protect us?” She glared at Tristan. “You arrogant, conceited fool. If I want you dead, I will kill you. You don’t kill you. I kill you.” By the end of the tirade, Sophia’s English grammar was failing, and her voice was thick with tears.

Tristan could only blink in shock at her response. He’d expected maybe a few tears, a hug or a kiss, and then for his noble falling-on-his-proverbial-sword to be honored, and for his husband and wife to remember him fondly as they went on to live rich, happy lives with some other man as their third. A man with an impeccable pedigree and two hands.

His gaze met Sophia’s and it was like a physical blow. Though her lips were twisted in anger, her face set in a snarl, there was pain in her eyes. Pain and fear and desperation.

He’d caused that.

He was a bloody fucking wanker.

He’d been in the hospital for two days, and every time he’d opened his eyes, they’d been there. If not for the fact that they were wearing different shirts, he would have sworn they hadn’t even left the room. Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe they’d changed and showered in the tiny bathroom while he slept.

They hadn’t been married a full week, and as the doctor he’d been talking to had pointed out before Giovanni made his entrance, he’d gone through a lot in the past week. It was as if he were a boat lost at sea, with no stars to guide him home. He was so lost that he was willing and ready to just let the waves take him, to fall down into the deep, cold darkness.

But he wasn’t alone in the sea. Sophia and James were there with him. They could guide him home.

Right now, Tristan didn’t feel certain about much of anything, up to and including what his name actually was, but there was one thing he was certain of.

He could love them. Given time and a chance, he would love them more than any man had ever loved his trinity.

And there, in the pain and fear hiding in Sophia’s eyes, was that same certainty—that if he gave her the chance, she would love him.

Sophia looked away, and then stopped fighting James’s hold. She turned in his arms, pressing her face into the other man’s chest. Tristan looked up at James. The other man’s eyes were shadowed by fatigue, and there was anger and hurt in the lines on his face.

They were his.

“Sophia, James.” Tristan struggled to sit up. His whole right side was a dull throb.

“No. I won’t listen to this anymore.” Sophia’s back was to him, but he saw her swipe at her face, brushing away tears.

James glared down at him and then opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something, but he merely shook his head.

“I want to leave,” Sophia whispered to James.

“Sure.” He rubbed her arm, and then he too turned away from Tristan.

Tristan grabbed for the bed control and pushed the button to raise the head. It wasn’t as dignified as he’d wanted, but crippled beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Sophia, James, stop. Wait.”

Sophia whirled, clinging to James’s arm as she glared at him. “You have no right to speak to us.”

Tristan exhaled, then drew in a clean, calm breath.

“I have every right. I’m your admiral.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The newly anointed admiral of England stared down at his cell phone. He’d had it in the pocket of his pants the day of the conclave, and somehow it had survived the rush to the hospital. It wasn’t until James had set it down in front of him that he even thought about the little device.

“Arthur?” Sophia asked. She was speaking to him again, which was good. After the rather dramatic scene yesterday, Arthur had wanted to talk to her and James, but his arm had started to hurt to the point he couldn’t ignore it. He’d been given additional pain medication and warned not to move around so much without help. He’d slept, partially because of the drugs, partially from exhaustion, until eight a.m. this morning. The nurses had been planning to give him a sponge bath, and though Sophia and James both offered to help, he’d begged them to let him keep some of his dignity. They’d agreed, and had just returned from breakfast.

He looked up from the phone. “Who knows?”

“What do you mean?” She perched gingerly on the edge of his bed.

“I mean, who else knows I’m the admiral?”

“I could answer that, if this were a normal situation.” Sophia touched his knee. “But it is not, so I’m not sure how it is being handled.”

Tristan—damn it, he still sometimes thought of himself as Tristan—sighed. “No, it’s not normal.”

“Because you were in the hospital, my father, in his role as messenger from the conclave, might have contacted your vice admiral or your finance minister.”

“I need to call them.” Tristan—no, Arthur, from now on, he was Arthur—turned the phone over in his hand. “Lorelei, the vice admiral, has been my boss since I was a squire.” He set the phone down on the table and went to run his hands through his hair.

But there was only one hand. His right arm was strapped to his chest in a complicated sling. The good news was that while he was wearing it, he was allowed to get out of bed and walk to the bathroom all by himself. The bad news was, walking and moving were difficult.

“Do you…do you need help dialing?” she asked.

“No,” Arthur ground out.

He was going to need help. He couldn’t snap at people every time they offered.

But damn it, he could still do this. He snatched up the phone, held down the button, and used the voice command. “Call Lorelei.” He set it to speaker and placed the phone on the table.

The phone rang twice before she answered. “Admiral.”

Arthur let out a sigh. That answered his first question. She knew.

“Lorelei.”

There was a beat of awkward silence before she said, “I’m sorry about your arm.”

That answered his second question. She knew about his arm.

“Thank you, Lorelei.”

“You’re calling for a status update?”

Arthur grimaced. As vice admiral and head of both the knights and the security officers, she was leading the hunt for the shooter. “No, I’m not going to distract you. You’re busy.” That was probably an understatement. “I called in case you, uh, didn’t know.”

“The admiral of Rome called me to let me know of the conclave’s decision. I told Lennon Giles and Beatrix Faulkner.” Beatrix had served as Britain’s finance minister for nearly twenty years.

Arthur blew out air, and Sophia’s hand stroked down his good arm. Heavy fingers dug into his shoulders, and Arthur looked back to see James leaning over the back of the raised hospital bed.

“I’m sorry,” he told Lorelei. “You would be a much better choice for admiral.”

Lorelei snorted. “Of course I would.”

Arthur smiled.

Lorelei hissed as if she’d realized what she’d said. “My apologies, Admiral.”

“Don’t. Please don’t. I am not so arrogant or conceited that I can’t acknowledge that you’d be a better choice. And I’m sorry you weren’t made admiral.”

“I’m not. I don’t want to be admiral.”

“But you just said you’d be better.”

“Well, I would. But I don’t want to be admiral.” Then she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “glorified matchmaker.”

Arthur laughed, really laughed. He could feel the tension draining out of his neck. “In that case, Vice Admiral, I’d like a status report.”

“Glad you finally asked.”

Sophia looked a bit scandalized by the conversation, so Arthur squeezed her knee and winked.

For a moment, everything was okay.

Lorelei cleared her throat. “We currently have all six of our security officers, plus eight members of Aegis Canopy and eleven additional personnel from other territories on the case, searching for anything that might lead us to who did this.” Aegis Canopy was an English security company fronted by the Masters’ Admiralty.

Sophia leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Who are the additional personnel?”

Arthur repeated her question to the vice admiral.

Lorelei rattled off a list of names, which included Antonio. Sophia nodded as the vice admiral spoke. Arthur twisted his head to look up at James, who raised his eyebrows. He remembered something Giovanni had said yesterday after the first time he’d insisted he couldn’t be admiral.

“Of course you can. With my daughter as your spouse, you will make an excellent admiral.”

“That’s, uh—” Arthur cleared his throat. “That’s great, Lorelei. You found where the shooter was, right?”

“Yes. They left in a hurry. Left the gun behind. It’s a beautiful gun.” She rattled off a make and model, but Arthur knew less than nothing about guns. Some of the information was a repeat of what Antonio had told them yesterday.

“Can we track him via the gun?” Arthur asked. “Where it was purchased?”

“I did that already.”

“Ah, of course you did.” So far, he was doing a great job as admiral.

“The gun, as far as all paperwork and records indicate, belongs to a United States Marine Corp sniper.”

“The U.S.?” Arthur sat back, cradling his throbbing right elbow with his left hand, his mind whirling. “Fuck.”

“Precisely. This may have something to do with that business in Boston.”

Damn you, Wes. I thought we were friends. Then you lied to me and manipulated me.

“What business in Boston?” James asked.

“Who’s there?” Lorelei asked sharply.

“Oops,” James muttered.

Sophia straightened, though Lorelei couldn’t see her. “This is Sophia Starabba, wife of the admiral of England. The man who just spoke is James Rathmann, husband of the admiral of England and legacy member of the territory of England.”

There was a pause. “You’re married?” Lorelei asked.

“It’s been a busy few days,” Arthur replied dryly.

“You married the Italian princess?”

“Uh, yep.”

“Good. Then you might not fuck this up. The admiral of Rome is ruthless.” Lorelei practically sighed the last word, as if she could think of no better compliment than to say someone was ruthless.

“You should not speak to your admiral this way,” Sophia snapped.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t.”

Sophia looked nonplused by the response.

“Can we get back to this Boston thing?” James asked.

Arthur’s shoulders sagged, and he contemplated trying to explain the whole sordid mess. “To make a ten-year story short, it turned out that in World War II, the U.S. attacked and sank a ship that the Masters’ Admiralty was using to try and smuggle art, antiquities, and…and kids, out of Europe.”

James started massaging his shoulders again. He kept his touch light on the right shoulder.

Sophia stroked his knee. “I heard about this. My family lost children on the ship, my great-great aunts and a great-great uncle. My father was enraged when he heard what the Americans had done. What they are still doing.”

“They killed a bunch of kids, on purpose?” James’s hands paused for a moment. “No. It must have been a mistake.”

“It probably was a mistake,” Arthur conceded, “but they covered it up and kept the art. Sold it to make a profit.”

“They? The U.S. government?” James asked.

“No,” Sophia said. “The Trinity Masters.”

“Wait, go back. Art?” James said faintly. “They stole antiques? Were there coins?”

Sophia made soothing noises at James and reached up to pry his hands off Arthur’s shoulders. “My father demanded an inventory from the Grand Master—that’s what they call their fleet admiral. There’s an American man who uncovered all this. He had asylum somewhere in Europe, but he is now protected by the Trinity Masters. If my father knew this man’s name, we would have our answers.” Sophia looked once more like an avenging goddess, about to lead her army into glorious battle.

Later, much later, Arthur would confess to his role in the whole sordid thing, but he wasn’t going to do it while Sophia had that look on her face.

Arthur cleared his throat. “The point is—”

Lorelei coughed, barely hiding the word “coward” in the sound.

“—that maybe the Americans are working with the Domino.” The words were bitter on Arthur’s tongue. “Maybe, but…I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Sophia demanded.

“Honestly, they barely know anything about us. How would they know to team up with the Domino to strike at us?”

“Why would they want to strike at us?” James asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Arthur grunted. “Because once we found out what had happened back in WWII, we sent them a message. I know, because I was the messenger.”

“What message?”

“‘Some things cannot be forgiven.’”

James paused a moment to think. “They’re over there waiting for us to attack. This could have been a preemptive strike.”

“It could, but I don’t think so. The people who kept the secret were a splinter organization within the Trinity Masters…” Arthur let his words trail off. Despite it all, he still considered Wes his friend. He couldn’t be objective on this subject. “We need to keep investigating the possibility that the Trinity Masters are involved.”

“Gareth Knight has offered to run point on that,” Lorelei said.

“Good,” Arthur said. Gareth was a capable, intelligent knight who always managed to remain objective, to see and analyze both sides of a situation. He wouldn’t go over to America looking to settle a debt.

“Admiral?”

“Yes, Lorelei? Uh, yes, Vice Admiral?”

“I’d like to kill Tristan Knight.”

Arthur blinked. “You’d like to kill me? And are asking me for permission to do it?” He looked around, but both Sophia and James looked as puzzled as he felt.

“Your Tristan Knight identity. We can’t avoid reporting Winston Hammond’s death. We’re going to say it was a disgruntled employee who shot up the building. Winston Hammond, Tristan Knight and Gawain Knight were all killed.”

“Ah, I understand.”

“It might help keep your identity a secret or throw off the Domino. One way or another, it can only help us.”

“Of course. Do what you think is best.”

“I have another question.”

“What’s that?”

“Are you still going by Tristan, or do you want to be called Arthur?”

“You just said you were going to kill off Tristan.”

“Tristan Knight, yes. And the members at large will be told your name is Arthur. But what do you want me to call you?”

“I have a choice?”

“You’re the admiral.” There was an implied “dumbass” at the end of her sentence. “I didn’t call Winston, Winston.”

“That wasn’t his name?”

“No.”

“Then call me Tristan. I’m used to Tristan. I like Tristan.”

“Good. In public, we’ll use Arthur.”

“Great, thank you, Lorelei.”

He waited patiently for the line to go dead. Lorelei wasn’t fond of unnecessary niceties. In fact, this was probably the longest conversation they’d ever had. The call didn’t end.

“You didn’t hang up on me.”

“You’re the admiral.”

“Haha!” Both James and Sophia looked at him as if he was crazy when he crowed in triumph.

Lorelei made a disgusted noise and hung up.

Sophia frowned at the phone. “The English are very odd.”

James slid out from behind the bed and took a seat in the chair. Sophia braced one foot on the arm of his chair, and James started to casually knead her calf.

The two of them were easy with each other. It was effortless.

They weren’t that way with Tristan, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of his injury or if they were still angry with him over his initial reaction to being made admiral. Either way, as he watched James casually touch their wife, he felt removed from them. Alone.

“Tristan or Arthur?” James asked.

Sophia laid her hand on his thigh and the feeling of isolation faded. “Yes, which do you prefer?”

“I’ve been trying to think of myself as Arthur, but…” He shrugged. “Arthur was this punk kid. I’m Tristan. I’d rather be Tristan, but it will get too complicated if I’m Tristan in private and Arthur in public. What if one of us makes a mistake?”

“We won’t,” Sophia said with easy assurance. “If you want to be Tristan, then you will be our Tristan.”

“Your Tristan?”

“Yes,” James said. “Our Tristan.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

On the fifth day after the conclave attack, Tristan was moved to a private suite on the top floor of the hospital. He was recovering well enough that he no longer needed a traditional hospital room.

The private suite was exactly that—a suite, with a bedroom, sitting room, and spacious bathroom. The medical equipment was all hidden in dark wood cabinets, and the floor was carpet instead of tile.

James had stayed with Tristan last night, and the big man was now lying on the couch in the small living room area, his calves propped on the arm, his body too long for the tiny piece of furniture. His eyes were closed and his breathing already even and slow in sleep.

“This is a hospital room?” Tristan asked, once the team of nurses had settled him in the double-size adjustable bed.

Sophia partially closed the French-style doors that separated the bedroom and living room. “One befitting the admiral.” She kept her voice soft.

She’d gone to the hotel last night to shower and to rest. It was late afternoon now, and she was feeling the effects of only a few hours of sleep. Her eyes felt gritty, and she wanted an espresso and a pastry. Craving carbs was a sure sign she was tired.

Sophia turned back to Tristan and found him watching her with a pinched, regretful expression. He had the beginnings of a golden-blond beard, and she wondered vaguely if she should help him shave.

“This is too much,” Tristan said quietly.

“What is too much?” There was a large, plush armchair facing the bed. She perched on the edge of the cushion, but it was deliciously soft and she scooted back, sinking into the seat and pulling her legs up.

“You two have been with me night and day since the attack.”

Sophia laid her head back. “We are your trinity.”

Tristan shifted the pillow under his right elbow. Whenever he got out of bed he had to wear a sling on that arm, but for now he was unfettered.

She would never say it out loud, but she still sometimes found herself staring at his right arm, trying to figure out what was wrong. Until she remembered. It was as if her mind was having trouble processing the missing limb. How long would it take for her to stop wondering where the rest of his arm was?

And if that is how she felt, how must he feel?

“We barely know one another.” Tristan turned to stare at the window. She’d left the gauzy inner curtains drawn, so the cool white light of a London afternoon was muted, giving the room a soft glow. “I can’t see how we’ll ever be…”

Sophia’s nails dug into her palms.

He was injured. He was hurting. She needed to be kind and understanding. But she was tired.

And scared.

Five days had passed and they hadn’t yet found the shooter. The admirals had all returned home a few days ago, and now most of the territories had pulled back their personnel. The more days that passed without the shooter being found, the less willing the security officers and knights were to stay in London, away from their homes and the territories and admirals they were sworn to protect.

Her father had sent a decoy home to Rome, so he and Antonio could remain behind. Her father was going back and forth between Man and England, working with the Spartan Guard and Lorelei, the vice admiral of England. Sophia harbored a secret fear that her father was orchestrating a takeover of England. She’d mentioned this to her brother, who had insisted that their father wouldn’t do that. That hadn’t comforted Sophia, but she’d felt better when Antonio wryly added that the vice admiral would be a formidable adversary and had seemed to enjoy crossing verbal swords with their father.

Sophia hadn’t been impressed by the vice admiral’s manner during their phone conversation, but if she could hold her own against the admiral of Rome, she had Sophia’s respect.

None of that changed the fact that an unknown gunman on a mission to kill the admirals of the Masters’ Admiralty was on the loose. There were only nine admirals, only nine possible targets for this man’s rage. She was the daughter of one and wife of another.

“Can’t see how we’ll be what?” She’d meant the question to be soft, but it came out hard, as if her fear had sharpened the words to daggers.

Tristan flinched and seemed to deflate. He didn’t answer and didn’t look at her.

Her fear, worry, and sadness were pressing against the inside of her skin, making her feel brittle and hot. She was too tired to hold the feelings in anymore. “Sei una testa di cazzo!”

Tristan whipped his head around to look at her. He might not know Italian, but she was betting “you’re a dickhead” didn’t require an exact translation. It should have been obvious from her tone.

His eyes seemed to glow like molten-hot gold, and with his short, ragged beard, he looked older and more imposing. “Sophia, don’t—” His teeth clamped together.

“Don’t what, Tristan? What?” She sprang out of the chair, her hands trembling with emotion.

His jaw clenched and there was fire in his eyes. He looked like the man she’d first met. Like the knight who had barked at her to stay behind him so he could guard and protect her. The man who’d kissed her ferociously, whose passion she had tasted.

“What were you going to say?” She wanted to grab him and shake him, but couldn’t, so she threw her hands in the air and shook her fist at him. “Can’t see how what?”

“I can’t see how our trinity will survive,” he growled. “For God’s sake, Sophia. Be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?”

Amputee or not, she was going to slap his stupid face.

She managed two steps before James grabbed her around the waist. “You can’t hit him.”

Tristan grimaced. “Of course not. Don’t hit the cripple.”

James let go of her. “Changed my mind. Smack him.”

Sophia leapt across the room and raised her hand, prepared to slap his cheek in the quick, sharp gesture Italian women had perfected throughout the millennia.

Tristan grabbed her right wrist with his left hand, stopping it an inch from his cheek.

Their gazes met, and she saw pain and fear in his eyes.

And then the thing she’d wanted, the thing she’d been waiting for—desire.

Sophia swooped down and kissed him, trying to devour him. For a second, he let it happen, then he fought for, and won, control of the kiss.

His tongue swept the inside of her mouth, dueling with hers. When she nipped his tongue, he pulled back and gently bit her bottom lip, sucking to draw the blood into her lip and make her even more sensitive to the kiss.

She was getting into the kiss, when Tristan suddenly turned his head to the side and grimaced in pain, hunching toward his right side.

She didn’t realize what had gone wrong until James pulled her back. “He tried to touch you with his right arm.”

Tristan’s words were low and thick with pain. “I forgot. For just a moment, I forgot.”

Sophia’s eyes filled with tears, but they didn’t fall. “I’m sorry. I forgot too.”

“You’ll heal.” James settled his hands on Sophia’s shoulders. “And you’ll get a prosthetic. The best one in the world. But none of that will solve our current problem.”

Tristan’s lips were still twisted in a grimace and he lay his head back, looking at them from under half-lowered lids. “And what is our current problem?” He snorted out a laugh. “Out of all our many problems.”

“The current problem is that until you heal, you can’t have sex. But we need to feel like a trinity, and the best way to do that is sex.”

Tristan shifted his gaze so he was staring at the ceiling. “That’s what I was trying to say. There’s a reason new trinities are sent away for a week. That’s their time to bond. We didn’t have that. We’ll never have that.”

“Tristan, enough.” James’s tone was harsh and angry. He was normally so jovial and enthusiastic that Sophia twisted to look over her shoulder at him.

Tristan’s gaze snapped back to him. “Pardon me?”

“You want to wallow? Fine. Hell, man, if anyone deserves to, you do. But you don’t get to push us away. Yes, we’re a brand-new trinity, and yes, we have a whole fuck-ton of shit to deal with.”

Fuck-ton. She liked that English expression. She’d have to remember it.

“But Sophia and I, we’re here. We’ve been here and will keep being here.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have to. We’re your trinity. You’re ours. We’re yours. We have a lifetime to bond.”

Tristan’s eyes were luminous and gold. He blinked and a tear fell. His right arm flexed, starting to rise, as if he would use that hand to wipe away the tears. He grimaced again, carefully lowering his elbow and stub of a forearm onto the pillow at his side.

“We didn’t get a week to bond, but we’re here now. We have now.” James slid his hands down her arms, settling them on her hips. He grabbed the hem of her simple shirt and raised it a few inches.

Sophia sucked in a breath as cool air touched the skin around her waist.

Tristan blinked again, the luminous quality of his eyes shifting, changing until he looked at her with hot desire.

James bent his head, nuzzling Sophia’s ear. She tipped her face to the side. She didn’t close her eyes, but kept looking at Tristan. When his gaze locked with hers, she smiled and urged James’s hands higher, exposing more of her naked flesh.

“This is our wife.” James’s words rumbled against Sophia’s sensitive neck.

“Our wife,” Tristan repeated.

The king’s champion hauled her into the castle, casting her down before the throne. She thrust to her feet, whirling to pound on the champion’s chest with her fists. The champion’s eyes stared at her from the darkness of his helmet.

“You may have captured me, but you will not defeat me,” she snarled.

The champion pulled her against his chest, and she couldn’t resist looking at his lips. They’d shared a rather memorable kiss at the apex of the battle.

“Show her to me,” a deep voice bellowed.

The champion forced her to turn and face the throne.

The golden king sat high atop the throne, resplendent in his golden robe. He held a scepter in his left hand. The right arm of his robe was partially empty. So it was true, he had lost his arm, battling the king of the dragons.

“I found the leader of the rebels.” The champion put his hand between her shoulder blades and forced her forward.

The king braced the elbow of his damaged arm on his throne and leaned forward, looking down at her. She could feel the heat of that golden gaze and raised her chin, hoping he wouldn’t see the way she trembled.

The king looked to his champion and smiled. “Remove her clothes.”

“What is she doing?” Tristan asked.

“I don’t know, but her nipples are hard.” James’s voice was deep and dark, but she could hear that he was smiling.

Sophia licked her lips and opened her eyes. “I have an imagination. A, how do you say, vivid imagination.”

“What were you imagining?” Tristan asked.

“It’s…embarrassing.”

“Was I in it?” James’s hands crept higher, his fingers skimming the bottom of her bra.

“Yes.”

“Was I in it?” Tristan asked.

“Yes.”

James spread his fingers across her bare abdomen, her shirt held up by his hand. “Were we naked?”

“Not yet. We would have been.”

“What was your fantasy? Will you tell me?” Tristan looked at her from beneath his lashes.

She was able to imagine him when he was young—an angelic blond boy who could play the innocent when it suited him.

Would their child be blond like Tristan, or dark-haired like herself and James?

“You were king,” she whispered. “And James your soldier.”

“And who were you in this fantasy?”

“A rebel. Captured. Prisoner.” Even saying the words was making her hot—both with arousal and embarrassment. It would have been safer, easier, to lie or remain quiet, but that would be the coward’s choice, and she was no coward.

“You were our prisoner.” James’s fingers flexed on her stomach and a shiver worked its way over her skin.

“Tristan ordered you to undress me,” she breathed, speaking to James but looking at Tristan.

“Then what?” Tristan asked.

Sophia shrugged. “That’s all I had time for.”

James hummed and bent to kiss her neck again, but stopped a second before lips met skin.

Tristan was smiling, his gaze shifting between them, and she realized that James was waiting for Tristan.

“Kiss her neck,” Tristan ordered.

James’s lips settled on the spot just below her ear. She pushed up on her toes and dug her fingers into his forearms.

“Take off her shirt,” Tristan growled.

James hooked his hands in the hem of her shirt and started to yank it up. Sophia quickly raised her arms and the shirt slid off.

She was wearing a thin bra of silky blue fabric, and thankfully, a matching thong. The fabric was thin enough that her hard nipples were clearly visible, and she arched her back, hoping to entice James to touch them.

“Pants,” Tristan ordered.

Sophia helped by undoing the five-button fly of her jeans. James pushed them down to her ankles. She was still wearing her flats, and she kicked them off as she stepped out of the jeans.

Standing nearly naked before them, Sophia was acutely aware that though she’d known them ten days, this was not the first time she’d stood before them like this.

But this time she wasn’t in control. Tristan was.

“The bra. I want to see her breasts.”

Sophia reached behind her back to unclasp the bra.

“No,” Tristan snapped. “You don’t move until I tell you to.”

Heat and need poured through her body. She’d been aroused since Tristan kissed her, and as James hooked his fingers in her bra straps, pulling them off her shoulders, she nearly trembled with need.

James toyed with the edges of her bra, tracing patterns on her breasts and then stroking his way around her back, where he finally undid the clasp. The bra fell free and Sophia arched her back, her breasts heavy and aching.

“Look at our wife’s sweet tits.” James cupped and lifted her breasts as he stood behind her.

“What do you want, Sophia?” Tristan asked.

Her eyes had drifted closed when James touched her, but now she looked at Tristan. “I want you, both of you.”

Tristan shook his head. “No. Tell me specifically how and where you want to be touched.”

Sophia laid her hands on James’s, trying to guide his fingers, to show rather than tell what she wanted.

“Naughty,” Tristan growled. “I said tell me. James?”

James dropped his hands from her breasts, took a step to the side, and smacked her ass.

Sophia yelped, more in surprise than pain. A bit of heat lingered where his hand struck her bottom and that added another layer to her arousal.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” James squeezed her ass and she pressed back against him.

“Do it again,” Tristan said. “But this time I want to see.”

She caught a flash of white teeth as James grinned before spinning her around so her back was to Tristan. James braced his left foot on the side of the bed, then bent Sophia over his leg.

When James tugged her panties down so they tangled around her thighs, Sophia reached out to brace herself, one hand on the bed near James’s foot.

“It’s a beautiful ass.” James ran his palm across her bottom, and Sophia stood on her toes and spread her legs. She wanted his hand to slip down between her thighs and relieve the throbbing ache in her pussy.

“Spank her again,” Tristan demanded.

His tone was hard, merciless, like the golden king she’d likened him to.

James smacked her ass, hard enough to make her jump, but not hard enough. The sting was gone after a moment, and the heat lasted only a few seconds beyond that.

“Please, more,” she begged.

“Again,” Tristan ordered James.

Another spanking, another sweet flush of heat.

“We’re the luckiest fuckers on the planet,” James growled.

“I know I am.” Tristan sounded almost humble.

That wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted him demanding and rough. Sophia slid off James’s leg and turned to face Tristan. She wiggled out of her panties and kicked them away.

“What do you want to see?” she asked. “What do you want to watch our husband do to me?” She ran her hands down her sides, over her hips. Bending a bit, she skimmed her fingers over her knees then drew her hands up the insides of her thighs, forcing his gaze to her sex.

Tristan’s eyes were hot, and James was crowding into her, close enough she could feel the heat of his body. But he wasn’t touching her.

“Play with her nipples. Make sure I can see.”

James grabbed her by the waist and forced her to take two steps forward, until they were near the raised head of the bed.

James moved in behind her, so broad and tall that when he crowded her against the side of the bed, she was trapped there, her legs pinned in place. His hands slid up her belly, moving so slowly that Sophia couldn’t stop herself from begging.

“Please, touch me. Please.”

Delicately, as if he were playing the harp, he grasped each nipple with his thumb and forefinger. She was so aroused that it was a relief to finally have him touching her.

“Pinch,” Tristan said.

James’s fingers tightened on her nipples.

“Twist.”

Hot, delicious pain zinged through the tips of her breasts, making her long for more. She was at that point of arousal where, though she didn’t consider herself a masochist, even pain was pleasure.

“Pull.”

Sophia reached up and back, sliding her fingers through James’s hair as he toyed with her. His cock was rock-hard and huge, digging into the top of her ass. His breathing was no longer even and steady, and she could feel him trembling as if he too were close to the limits of his control.

“Now squeeze her breasts.”

James obeyed each order Tristan gave. Together, they put on a show for their husband.

Tristan was breathing slow and deep, his eyes intense and focused. Sophia glanced quickly at his crotch, but saw no telltale bulge under the sheets.

“Do you like what you see?” She arched, pressing her breasts harder into James’s hands. “Do you like watching our husband toy with my breasts?” Maybe he needed the words as well as visual stimulation. She’d had a few lovers who needed to hear the dirty words, even if they were only a running narration of what was happening. Most of those lovers had been women, but she was more than happy to say every naughty, dirty thing she could think of if it would help Tristan become aroused.

James’s lips brushed her neck, her earlobe. “The medication,” he whispered. “I don’t think he can get an erection.”

Sophia winced internally. Of course. She should have thought of that. Maybe she would have if she wasn’t distracted by her arousal. She nodded, making it look like she was rubbing her cheek against James.

“I like what I see,” Tristan murmured. “I want to see more. Get her up on the bed. I want to see her pussy.”

Sophia didn’t wait for James. She knelt on the side of the bed and spread her legs, leaning back against James rather than trying to balance.

Tristan’s gaze dropped to her pussy, and he reached out with his left hand to stroke her knee, her inner thigh.

“Touch me,” she begged.

“No.” Tristan drew his hand back, but he was smiling. A wicked, wicked smile. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

“Earned it?” Sophia’s cheeks flushed with outrage and yet more arousal. “I will— Oh…”

James’s fingers slid over her pussy and she forgot everything except the glory of his touch.

He parted the outer lips of her pussy, spreading her open so their husband could look his fill at her hot, wet core.

“How fast do you think you could make her come?” Tristan asked James.

“Five minutes, tops.”

“Do it. Make her come while I watch.”

James slid his middle finger into her pussy, stroking and rubbing for a moment before focusing on her clit. The first hard pass of his finger over her sensitive bud made Sophia arch back and scream in pleasure.

“If the nurses come, I’ll let them join in,” Tristan threatened. “You’d better be quiet.”

Right now, Sophia was so hot and ready that she would have cheerfully welcomed anyone who would hurry up and fuck her. She would have told Tristan and James that, if James’s fingers hadn’t been toying with her clit. The swift, steady rhythm was exactly what she needed, and Sophia thrashed and moaned in pleasure, her body arched in a deep bow. James used the hand not on her pussy to grab and twist her nipples. He was no longer careful, no longer precise. His motions were becoming as frantic as her own.

“Please,” she demanded. “Please!”

“Fuck her,” Tristan practically snarled. “From behind, so I can see.”

James pressed her forward onto the bed. Sophia landed on her elbows, gasping, her head nearly touching Tristan’s leg.

Tristan’s hand tangled in her hair. He made a fist and tugged, forcing her to look up at him. She stared into Tristan’s eyes and they maintained eye contact as James unzipped his pants, the quiet snick of the zipper loud in the nearly silent room.

James grabbed her hips, urging her to raise her ass a few inches. Then she felt the head of his cock, bumping first against her thigh, then her pussy. His cock stabbed her clit, then slid up the valley of her sex, finding the wet, aching entrance to her body.

Tristan lifted his gaze from hers, and from the way he smiled, Sophia was sure he was looking at James.

“Fuck her.”

James thrust into her, burying his cock nearly to the hilt with the first thrust.

Sophia screamed in pleasure as she came. That burst of stimulation from being so suddenly and completely filled was all she needed to push her over the edge.

Tristan let go of her hair in favor of cupping her jaw and sliding his thumb into her mouth. She sucked it, longing to have his cock in her mouth instead. When James reached between them to stimulate her clit, and another orgasm swamped her, Sophia bit his thumb, hard enough to make Tristan suck in a breath.

James smacked her ass—a reward or punishment, she wasn’t sure—and continued to fuck her, his long, hard cock sliding into her warm, ready body, his hands digging into her hips. Sophia’s nipples rubbed against the blanket covering the bed with each rhythmic thrust, and all the stimulation had them rolling in a tide of orgasms.

When James finished, jackhammering into her before groaning, Sophia was nearly limp.

“Let me see,” Tristan begged.

Sophia sluggishly moved at James’s urging. She rolled onto her back on the bed, then turned so her head was toward the foot of the bed, and she lay on Tristan’s left side, only a few fingers of space between her side and his leg, though he was still covered by the blankets while she was naked on top of them.

James took her right leg and lifted it, urging her to brace it on the elevated head of the bed. She had no choice but to fold her left leg in close to her body.

Tristan grasped her left knee and pulled it toward him, parting her thighs and exposing her well-fucked pussy. She lay her leg carefully across his thighs, making sure her knee wasn’t touching the pillow under his right arm. James stood beside the bed, his cock still jutting from his pants, semisoft and glistening.

Tristan traced patterns on the inside of her thigh, staring down at her pussy. Sophia pressed her lips together to prevent the moan of fresh arousal from escaping.

Tristan’s gaze slid up her body, lingering for a moment on her breasts before meeting hers. He raised one brow.

Sophia didn’t want to accidentally hurt him, as had happened when they kissed.

But she also wouldn’t lie to him, not about something as important as sex. And hiding the fact that she was wildly turned on by having him stare at her pussy, a pussy that was still wet and glistening from having been fucked by their husband…hiding that would be like lying.

She flicked her tongue across her lips and cupped her breasts, tumbling her own nipples.

James dragged a chair over. “My turn to watch.”

Tristan slid his hand up her thigh to her pussy. Gaze locked with hers, he thrust two fingers deep inside her. Sophia arched in pleasure.

“James, hold her down.” Tristan’s heavy-lidded eyes were those of a fallen angel. “I can’t have her thrashing around when she comes.”

James knelt on the foot the bed, grabbed her hands, and pinned her wrists to the mattress.

“How many more times can you come, Princess?”

He didn’t give her time to answer. Tristan’s thumb flicked over her clit and Sophia moaned.

And for the next hour, he proved that even with only one hand, Tristan could, and would, be a demanding lover.

Chapter Twenty-Six

James stared at the closed doors separating the bedroom from the sitting room of the private hospital suite. Tristan’s doctors were in there with him now. James and Sophia had wanted to stay with him, but Tristan had asked them to step out.

Reluctantly, they’d done so.

After yesterday afternoon’s kinky marathon sex session, they were all far more relaxed. James wasn’t sure he would have been able to step out of the room without worrying about Tristan’s mental state if it hadn’t been for yesterday. Last night they’d had dinner together—hospital soup—at the small dining table tucked into the corner of the living space. Meals were hard for Tristan, but last night he’d seemed relaxed and relatively comfortable using his left hand to eat.

After dinner, James had gone to the hotel and instead of napping for a few hours, he’d slept for nine hours straight. He’d come rushing back after waking, ready to apologize, and found Sophia curled up in bed with Tristan. She kept a safe distance from his body, which was covered with cuts and bruises that were easy to forget about because of the severity of what had happened to his arm, but she’d been holding Tristan’s left hand in her right, their fingers laced together as they slept.

They were going to be okay. Tristan hadn’t been wrong yesterday to be concerned that they hadn’t bonded enough, that they didn’t have enough of a foundation to survive the stress of the past two weeks. On paper, it didn’t look good, but for the first time since Tristan had been made admiral, James was feeling hopeful.

He looked at Sophia. She had her hair pulled over one shoulder in a braid and she was toying with the end, stroking it with her fingers. She was frowning at nothing in particular.

The doors opened and the doctors left, nodding to James and Sophia. When they were gone, James joined his husband, taking the armchair while Sophia perched on the foot of the bed.

“What did they say?” James asked.

“I can go home tomorrow. It’s healing well. I have to wear the sling and change the bandages twice a day. Can’t get it wet yet, not until it heals more, so no showering.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” James asked.

Tristan scratched his beard. “It is. But I, uh… My place is…”

“Tristan. It doesn’t matter what your old place is like. We’re moving into mine. Got a bang-up place in Walton-on-Thames. Bought it after my accident. It’s got three bedrooms and a big office. Plenty of room for all of us and a couple, three kids if we want.”

Tristan smiled at James’s mention of kids. “Kid talk already. You’re all in, eh?”

“All in.” James winked at Tristan, then noticed Sophia’s lack of reply. He looked at her. She was still playing with the end of her braid and frowning. “Sophia? Are you having another sex fantasy?”

“Hmm?” She looked at him, blinking a few times until she focused. “Oh, no. I was just thinking.”

“About what?” Tristan asked sharply.

They both looked at him, and Tristan only pursed his lips.

“It’s…nothing.” Sophia forced a smile. “I’m glad you get to leave the hospital.”

Tristan looked from her to James.

James held up his hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

“Nothing is wrong with me,” she snapped.

“You’ve been doing that for an hour.” James pointed at her fingers, and she let go of her hair.

Tristan sighed. “I think I get it. I’m the admiral now.”

“True,” James agreed.

“Because the previous admiral was shot and killed by a sniper. A sniper who was able to sneak a piece of equipment into one of our secure facilities.”

“Yes.” James was starting to have a sinking feeling.

“The sniper still hasn’t been captured, unless either of you got an update I didn’t?”

James and Sophia both shook their heads.

“There have been three separate attacks,” Tristan said slowly.

“Three?” James asked. “No, just two, London and Man.”

“The murders in Italy.”

James rubbed his face. “Fuck me, I had forgotten about those.”

Sophia was watching Tristan closely. “You’re thinking the same thing I am.”

James looked back and forth between them. “What? What am I missing?”

“There are too many unanswered questions,” Tristan said. “Too many holes.”

“Because you haven’t caught the sniper yet. Once you do, you’ll get your answers?” James tried to make it a statement, but it came out as a question.

Sophia shook her head. “There’s something we’re missing. A link between these things.”

“The link is the Domino,” James insisted. He wanted this to be over. Wanted them to be able to just focus on their trinity and playing house and making babies and on helping Tristan become the admiral.

“Maybe,” Tristan conceded.

“Possibly.” Sophia shrugged.

James dropped his head into his hands. “Crap.” He pushed to his feet. “All right, let me get some paper.”

“Paper?” Sophia asked.

“Yes. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to go about it logically. We have pieces, but we don’t know what the larger picture is.” James rummaged around in the living room until he found a pad of paper. He brought it back to the bedroom, setting it on the mattress by Tristan’s knee. “In an archaeology dig, you don’t dig the whole thing at once. You start with a few trenches. Spread them out over the site.”

James drew three rectangles on the paper. “Start digging in the trenches.” He pointed to the rectangles he’d drawn. “You find a bit of a wall, maybe some pottery in trench one. Another wall in trench two. Trench three, there’s no wall, but you find a body.”

He drew a little stick figure inside a rectangle, paused, then drew two more. “Or three bodies.”

Sophia leaned forward to peer at the paper, and he caught the scent of her hair—clean and floral.

“You take what you have and you try to figure out where to go next. Are the walls part of the same building? If they are, which side of the wall is inside versus outside?”

“How do you figure it out?” Tristan asked.

“In this example, the pottery. You look at the pottery. Is it thin, fine pottery that would have been used indoors, or a thick cooking pot?” In the square beside the one with three stick figures, he drew a crude gun. In the final rectangle, he drew a skull and crossbones.

“Nice sketches.” Tristan pointed at the first rectangle with three stick figures. “Italy, three people tortured, killed, their bodies put on display and clues are left for us.” He pointed at the rectangle with the skull and crossbones. “Isle of Man, the fleet admiral is shot with a dart containing an activating agent, but the poisoning had started long before. I know the Spartan Guard are still working to trace how the pills were tampered with, but the coroner estimated the fleet admiral had been taking the doctored pills for two and a half to three years. Finally, London, where we have a sniper using state-of-the-art military technology and weaponry.”

Sophia nodded enthusiastically. “Three different approaches. Three different methods.”

“We know who was piloting the drone that shot the fleet admiral,” James pointed out. “And he’s dead.”

“But we don’t know if he was the same person who doctored Kacper’s prescription medication.” Tristan frowned.

“All three seem to be the work of the Domino.” Sophia slid off the bed to pace. “There were signatures left as part of each crime.”

“Not on the Isle of Man,” Tristan pointed out.

James sat back, listening to them. It was easy to forget that Sophia was technically a cop. James wondered if she still had a job. Had she been calling in sick? Did the Masters’ Admiralty have enough influence to keep her from getting fired? He’d told the museum he was meeting with a private collector, trying to get them to donate their coins, and they’d said that was fine.

Did she need a job? Now that Tristan was the admiral, she would have to move to London. Had she realized that? Would she resent them because of it, or would the extremity of the circumstances make it easier for her to accept?

Did he get to keep his job? He loved what he did.

“There are too many unanswered questions.” Tristan’s voice was sharp with frustration.

“Yes.” Sophia whirled to James. “Will you write them down?”

He flipped to a new page. “Ready when you are.”

Tristan shook his head. “There’s no point.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m sure Lorelei and your father have it all covered. What could we do that they couldn’t…haven’t?”

Sophia stood tall, and suddenly she wasn’t just their wife, she was the principessa. “You are Arthur, the admiral of England. Your questions will be answered. If your vice admiral knows the answers, then everything is fine. If she does not, you will order her to find the answers. Or you will call the new fleet admiral, the Spartan Guard.”

Tristan blinked and looked at James. He held up his hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m not the admiral. That’s all you, mate.”

“You are the only person who was present for all of it. You saw the cave, you were on Man, and you were in the room when the sniper started shooting. You saved seven admirals. You saved the Masters’ Admiralty. You may be the only one who can ask the right questions.”

James wanted to stand up and start clapping. God, he loved the woman.

Loved her?

Yes. He loved her.

Tristan nodded once. “Thank you, Sophia. You’re right.” He turned to James. “My first question is, where was the fleet admiral’s other wife?”

Tristan had set up his office in James’s house as repairs continued at headquarters. James hadn’t lied about his house. The place was amazing. Arranged over two floors, the freehold building offered huge, open-plan rooms, as well as an integrated garage and a private roof terrace. Even Sophia had been impressed, which Tristan hadn’t thought possible, given the beauty of her childhood home in Italy.

Tristan would never admit it, but it was good to be the king. Well, in this case, the admiral. Two days ago, he’d sat in a hospital bed and written out a depressingly long list of unanswered questions. Now he was out of the hospital, had answers to half of the questions, and was on a reduced regimen of painkillers. Reduced enough that he’d just had the best blow job of his life, courtesy of his new husband and wife. He’d been a bit shocked when James had knelt beside Sophia, but his husband had taken his turn, though he wasn’t even in the same league as Sophia skill-wise.

“You look like a king in his castle.” James leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, big body relaxed.

“It’s good to be the king,” Tristan said aloud, thinking what the hell? It felt good to admit it, and James laughed.

“What’s funny?” Sophia stepped up beside James, who unfolded his arms. Sophia settled in beside him. They were easy with one another’s bodies, comfortable, as if they’d been married for years.

Tristan wasn’t there yet. How could he be? He wasn’t even comfortable with his own body yet. The number of things that became nearly impossible if you only had one functioning hand was longer than he ever would have guessed. He was currently wearing joggers because he couldn’t button and unbutton pants one-handed. He couldn’t wear elastic pants for the rest of his life, so he’d have to learn.

“What did your brother have to say?” Tristan asked Sophia.

She took a deep breath, eyes pinching at the corners. “You will have to call the other admirals.”

Tristan sat up straighter, the Velcro on his sling crackling as he moved. “What is it?”

“Antonio found one of the heat sensors, same as the one that was in the room with you, in my father’s house in Rome.”

“Fuck,” James said succinctly.

Tristan’s jaw clenched. “Sophia, if they’d moved the conclave to Rome, where would your father have had it?”

“The house in the city or the villa.”

“Have your brother check the villa. There might be one there too.”

“We were there, in the villa.” James looked between them. “So was Giovanni. If there was a heat sensor there, why didn’t he kill Giovanni?”

Sophia answered while Tristan picked up his new encrypted cell phone and dialed the first admiral’s number.

“Because if one admiral was killed in his home, the place where they’re strongest, all the other admirals would have been cautious. The plan was good—get them all in one place and kill them together.”

“We’re lucky they didn’t use a bomb,” James muttered.

Tristan’s stomach clenched, but he didn’t have time to reply before Hande answered.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as James checked his watch. “I’m going to head to the museum for a few hours, if you two are okay?”

“We’ll be fine. Keep your protection detail with you. See you tonight.” Sophia tipped her head up for a kiss. Tristan’s blood heated as he watched them kiss, but he was paying enough attention to the phone that when Hande finished greeting him, he was able to reply.

Tristan explained what Rome had found. “I think you need to check your own buildings. Where would you have hosted the conclave if we’d traveled to Ottoman?”

James leaned down and kissed Tristan’s cheek. Tristan smiled up at his husband, keeping most of his attention on what Hande was saying.

As quickly as possible, he ended the call so he could move on to the next admiral.

Sophia had set up a work area for herself in the same room as him. Actually, James’s office had enough room for all of them, plus it was light and airy and inviting.

She’d printed their list of questions and posted it on the wall. As they found answers, she crossed them off. They now knew specifically where the sniper’s gun had come from and had been able to obtain a training manual online, which meant the sniper had to be familiar with weapons and computers to operate it, but not an expert with either. They knew when the heat sensor had been installed in the building in London—six months ago, when the wiring in that room was replaced. It had been replaced because the overhead fixtures kept burning out. They’d spoken with an electrician, who’d told them that it would be, if not easy, certainly possible to make it look like the wiring was bad.

They knew the name of the assassin who’d committed suicide on Man—he’d had a history of substance abuse problems and had been in and out of mental institutions, but the few times he’d held a job had been in robotics development. His family had no ties to the Masters’ Admiralty, so it was possible that he’d been recruited because he would be able to operate and modify a drone to deliver the poison accelerant.

Based on what they knew, it wasn’t likely that he was the Domino. He was the apprentice.

If he was an optimistic man, Tristan could say that meant there was no threat. The Domino—assuming he was the shooter—was on the run and his apprentice was dead.

Tristan was not an optimistic man. The two questions that concerned him the most were, why had the Domino targeted the trinity killed in Italy, and where was the fleet admiral’s other wife?

He had possible answers for the first question.

One of the women killed was a finance officer in Rome.

Killing her had a variety of repercussions for Rome. If the fleet admiral had lived, Giovanni might have called an internal conclave to help deal with the issues caused by Lorena’s death. Destabilizing one of the more powerful territories could have been a back-up goal. And that was just one of the many possible explanations they’d come up with over the past few days. There were actually too many possible answers to that question.

For the second question, he needed to talk to Mateo, but that man wasn’t speaking with anyone. The member of the Spartan Guard Tristan had spoken to had been apologetic for not being able to give Tristan everything he wanted, but he’d said that Mateo was sequestered with the new fleet admiral as part of the transition. For the same reason, Tristan hadn’t been able to speak with Greta. However, when he’d asked to speak with Manon, the guard had said she was away.

Tristan wasn’t sure why that question was the one that plagued him. There were plenty of other questions that needed to be answered.

His phone rang. Tristan set it flat on the desk and hit the button to answer. He wasn’t good enough with his left hand to hold it and answer—the answer button was in an odd position relative to his thumb. He always ended up pressing other buttons instead of the one he wanted. Or maybe he was just so distracted by the desperate desire to reach out and grab the damned thing with his right hand that the relatively simple task became unmanageable.

“This is Arthur,” he said by way of greeting.

“Admiral. It’s Mateo. I’m sorry I was only able to return your call now.”

“Thank you for calling back.”

“If I may, sir. Thank you for what you did. I want you to know I take full responsibility for the massive security breach.”

“You weren’t even in London,” Tristan reminded him gently.

“I know, sir, and I should have been.”

“Arthur. Please call me Arthur.”

“Yes, sir.”

It wasn’t worth the fight. “I have a question, and I think you’re the only one who can answer it.”

“I hope I can.”

“Where was Kacper’s other wife, Manon, on the day he died?”

No answer.

Tristan pressed on. “When we were there, when the fleet admiral was killed, we saw Greta, but no one else.”

Still no answer.

Sophia was frowning at the phone. She caught his eye and jerked her chin at the phone.

“Mateo.” Tristan laced his tone with command. “Where was she?”

Mateo sighed. “She left them.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Their marriage fell apart, sir.”

“Trinities aren’t marriages. We don’t get divorced. We don’t leave one another.” Tristan could feel Sophia giving him an arch look and carefully kept his attention on the phone.

“Yes, sir.”

“Mateo, do not waste my time by forcing me to ask question after question.”

Even through the cellular connection, Tristan could practically hear the other frowning. “You’re right, sir, but the fleet admiral allowed her to leave. He made an exception for her.”

“The admirals agreed to this?”

“They weren’t informed.”

“Why not?”

“There is no specific rule stating that—”

“You were there. You knew this and chose not to tell the admirals?”

No answer.

“Tell me that you at least kept tabs on her.”

“Yes, sir. She was in Bucharest.”

“Was?”

“Kacper’s health was deteriorating. I brought the men I had following her back. I thought we needed them at Triskelion Castle.”

“Mateo?”

“Yes, Admiral?”

“Find her.” Tristan stabbed the red button and ended the call.

“Well done, Admiral.” Sophia touched his cheek.

“I wasn’t an ass?”

“No. You were perfect.” She frowned. “You may need to propose a new rule be adopted, something that would oblige the head of the Spartan Guard to inform the admirals if the fleet admiral does something against our rules.”

“That would make the Spartan Guard a spy. It would be hard for him. If you’d told me I had to do that when I was a knight, I…”

“You what?”

“Well, I would have done it because it was a rule, so that wasn’t a great example.”

Sophia chuckled lightly. “You’ve been worried about this question.”

“I have been. And I was right to be worried.” Sophia was standing beside his chair and Tristan leaned to the side, resting his head on her very gorgeous breasts. “The Domino knows too much about us. Where did he get that information?”

Sophia stroked his hair. “The wife of the fleet admiral would be a wealth of information.”

Tristan nodded. “We need to find her.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Admiral? We found her.”

Tristan looked up from the membership roster he was in the process of memorizing. One of England’s—his—security officers stood in the door to his office.

“You found her?”

“Yes, sir. She’s here, in London.”

Sophia put her hand on his shoulder. “That’s not a coincidence.”

“No, it’s not.” Tristan braced his hand on the desk and stood. “Let’s go.”

Percy shouldered past the security officer to block his path. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I can’t let you do that.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“You’re the admiral.”

“Yes, I am. I’m going.” He may not be a knight any longer, but he’d be damned if he would become some paper-pusher sitting behind the desk, letting others do the dangerous tasks.

Percy sighed. “Would you have let Winston go?”

Tristan grunted. Damn it. Percy was right. He wouldn’t have, but that didn’t mean he’d just idly remain behind. There had to be some way…

“The admiral and I will station at the command center.” Sophia spoke graciously, but there was steel in her voice.

Tristan would have already utterly failed at being the admiral if he hadn’t had Sophia at his side. More than once he’d wondered if their marriage had robbed her of the chance to be the admiral of Rome. She would have been an amazing leader.

“I’ll, uh, let the vice admiral know.” The security officer ducked out of the room.

Percy crossed his arms. “You’re the admiral now.”

“So they keep telling me.”

“You have a vice admiral to handle things like this.”

“And I’m sure Lorelei has it well in hand, but I’m not going to sit behind this desk and wait for a report.” Tristan sympathized with Percy. If he’d been the knight standing by the door, he would be ready to tear his hair out with frustration that the admiral was being so stubborn.

He was still going.

Percy’s gaze flicked briefly to Tristan’s right arm, and he couldn’t hide his wince. Rather than continue arguing, Percy bowed. “Yes, Admiral. Once Lorelei has the plan in place, the knights and I will come and get you and your wife.”

“Good. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Percy shook his head. “Not a few hours.”

“Why not?”

“We’re waiting for Mateo.”

“The head of the Spartan Guard is coming?”

“Yes. He should be here this afternoon. I think the plan is to go in around three A.M.”

Tristan nodded and sat down. “Thank you, Percival.”

Percy snorted. “Oh good. Now I can’t even tell you to fuck off cuz you’re the admiral.”

Tristan grinned. “It’s good to be the king.”

Percy rolled his eyes and walked out.

Mateo finished checking the perimeter of the hotel again. It was his fourth sweep of the place in less than an hour, but he wanted to be sure everything was clear. He hadn’t slept a single night since the fleet admiral’s death. The man had trusted him to protect him, and he’d failed.

Failed to protect Kacper from the poisoning as well as the drone that had fired the death shot. Now if the new British admiral was right, there was a chance he’d even failed in protecting the man from his own wife.

However, Mateo was struggling to believe that. He’d always been very fond of both the fleet admiral’s wives—Greta and Manon. They’d been kind to him, treating him with equal parts respect and motherly love. Mateo had been upset when Manon asked to leave, but he had understood in a way. It had always been obvious that Greta and Kacper were the true couple, completely devoted and in love. Manon, though fond of her spouses, had always seemed a bit like someone looking in from the outside.

If she was innocent, he was going to prove it.

If she was guilty…well…

He wasn’t going to screw this up. His career—hell, his entire reputation—was on the line. Tonight, he’d make amends for everything he’d done wrong, prove to the admirals—and to himself—that Kacper hadn’t been a fool to name him Captain of the Guard.

When he had discovered Manon was staying in London, he realized Tristan—actually, he was Arthur now—had been right to question him about her. To demand answers about her whereabouts.

Mateo had prided himself on his loyalty to his fleet admiral, his commander. He’d been wrong to keep Manon’s departure a secret from the other admirals. He should have considered her a suspect, but his fondness for her had blinded him, caused him to lose focus.

Derrick Frederick, a senior member of the Spartan Guard, approached him. “She’s on the seventh floor, sir. Checked in under the name Eklund.”

“That’s her mother’s maiden name.” Mateo sighed. Why would she use a different name if she wasn’t up to trouble? He closed his eyes, silently praying that everyone was wrong. There was always a chance that this Domino was holding her captive, coercing her in some way. Mateo wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions until he had all the facts.

“The men are in place,” Lorelei Madden said, opening the side panel of the van parked across the street as he approached. She’d put on a Kevlar vest beneath her fleece jacket. Though she was a slight woman, Lorelei possessed a “don’t fuck with me” look that would hold even the toughest bastards at bay.

“You got the body camera on?” she asked.

He nodded.

Lorelei glanced back at the man behind her. “You getting it?”

The man cleared his throat, his face red. “Um…yeah.”

Lorelei caught a glimpse of the screen over his shoulder and rolled her eyes. Mateo followed her line of vision and shifted his upper body to the right, taking Lorelei’s breasts off camera as Arthur chuckled.

“Idiots,” she muttered under her breath.

Mateo started to smile, but Lorelei narrowed her eyes angrily. “Do it. Now.”

“Good luck,” Arthur’s wife, Sophia, said to their retreating backs.

Mateo, Derrick, and one of the knights of the British territory, a man named Percy, took the elevator to the seventh floor while Lorelei remained in the van, overseeing the operation with the admiral and his wife. Mateo hadn’t been surprised to discover the newly appointed British admiral in the van. Arthur might now rule the territory, but once a knight, always a knight, he figured.

Once they arrived at the room, Derrick took up position to the right of the door, Mateo the left. They remained close to the wall, out of immediate sight. The plan was for Percy to knock. Manon wouldn’t recognize him, which would give them the element of surprise. If she peered through the peephole and spotted either Mateo or Derrick, there was a good chance she wouldn’t answer or—God forbid—attack if she really was guilty.

Percy knocked, and Manon’s voice sounded from behind the door.

“Forget your key, my love?” she cooed, opening the door without hesitation.

Mateo took one look at her revealing robe, her bedroom eyes, and her kiss-swollen lips, and recognized the truth.

She’d done it.

She’d killed the fleet admiral. Killed her husband.

Tristan hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to watch from the sidelines. He’d never thought of how Lorelei must feel, sending the knights and security officers out on missions while she was stuck behind a desk, waiting for reports. He was quite literally on the edge of his seat, watching the video feed from Mateo’s body camera. Lorelei was on his left, while Sophia sat on his right, each of them perched on small folding stools, facing the wall of the van where a high-tech display was set up. The van and all the tech and toys inside it were part of the security minister’s arsenal.

The knights got swords while these guys were outfitted by Q. Unfair.

You’re the admiral, you could do something about that.

That was an unsettling thought, and not something he should be thinking about right now, so Tristan pushed it aside.

Sophia sat beside him, one hand on his shoulder. In her other hand she held her phone, and she was texting James updates. She was keeping them vague on the off chance they were intercepted.

Adrenaline surged through his bloodstream as he watched Mateo, a Spartan Guard named Derrick, and Percy position themselves in front of a hotel room door. The camera showed Percy, who was standing casually in front of the door, his body language relaxed.

A vivid memory of Gawain’s body jerking as he was shot flashed through Tristan’s head. Tristan gritted his teeth so hard they ached.

Sophia murmured something in Italian, her gaze also riveted on the screen. Only Lorelei looked like she wasn’t about to have a heart attack from the tension. She was used to it.

The door opened, and he could hear a woman’s voice. The next moment, Mateo was rushing into the room, the camera jiggling wildly. Mateo grabbed her forearms, forcing her back into the room.

Manon wore a short, silky robe that slid open to reveal a silky negligee.

“Mateo?” Her voice wavered a little bit. “What are you doing here?”

“I think you know why I’m here.”

“What’s wrong? Let go of me. You’re hurting me!”

“Ma’am, please have a seat.” Percy had pulled the chair away from the desk, placing it in the center of the large room.

“Do you know who I am?” Manon snapped at Percy.

Percy didn’t reply.

“Sit down, Manon. Please.” Mateo, still holding her by the forearms, urged her to back up.

When her knees hit the chair, she sat. “What is going on?”

The video jiggled as Mateo crouched by the arms of the chair and gently slipped a zip tie around her wrist, binding it to the arm of the chair. Manon jerked her arm in shock.

“Ouch! Mateo, what do you think you’re doing? Let me go. Immediately!”

“Kacper is dead.”

For a moment, Manon’s face was blank, then it crumpled up in a pantomime of grief. “Oh no, my poor Kacper.”

“She’s lying,” Lorelei said.

“Yes, she is,” Sophia agreed.

Tristan just nodded.

It seemed no one in the room was fooled either, because Derrick caught Manon’s free arm and held it down while Mateo slipped the other zip tie on.

“Derrick? You’re letting him do this?” Manon shook her head, as if disappointed.

Like Greta, she had aged well, but she was still old enough that Tristan felt uncomfortable seeing her in restraints. His common sense—which told him she was dangerous—was warring with an instinct that said she was too old, and too female, to be a threat. He looked sideways first at Lorelei, and then at Sophia.

He sure as shit wasn’t going to say that out loud. The women on either side of him were seriously dangerous.

“Why?” Mateo asked. “Why did you kill him?”

“Kill Kacper? You think he was murdered?”

That might have made Tristan pause, might have made him doubt his conclusion, if it wasn’t for her eyes. There was no emotion in them. They were a pretty warm brown in color, but there was no confusion or grief in her gaze.

“I’m going up.” Lorelei reached for the door.

“I’m coming,” Tristan said immediately.

“No, Arthur, you’re the admiral. We can’t risk losing you.”

Tristan ground his teeth. “Then don’t let anyone shoot me.”

“Jesus H. I hate men,” Lorelei breathed. “Thank the Lord I have two wives. Fine. At least wait for my all clear. I’m going to send some additional personnel in to secure the floor.”

Tristan settled back into his chair. His vice admiral slid out of the van while muttering.

Less than five minutes later, the radio on the small wall-mounted tech display squawked to life. “Clear. Seventh floor.”

Lorelei ordered the security on the seventh floor to report to the lobby. “I want this place surrounded. Eyes on every entrance.”

“Should we detain anyone?” one of the security guards asked.

“No,” Lorelei said and Tristan could hear the tension in her tone. She wasn’t happy with what he was planning to do. “It’s a public place. We can’t do that without drawing attention to ourselves. Report in if you see anyone suspicious.”

Sophia opened the van door for them, and she and Tristan climbed out, hurrying across the street and into the hotel.

Tristan nodded to each man and woman he passed in the hotel lobby. Sophia, directly behind him, murmured things like “good job” and “well done.” Even if he hadn’t been able to hear her, he would have known she was behind him from the way too many men’s gazes seemed riveted on something at his back.

Back off fuckers, she’s mine.

Well, mine and James’s.

When they reached the seventh floor, the hotel room door was open. Tristan paused just outside to center himself and release some of his anger. Anger wouldn’t help the situation. It rarely helped any situation.

They walked in and Mateo frowned. “Admiral, you shouldn’t be here.”

Manon met his gaze. Tristan had been right—there was no emotion in her eyes.

“Admiral?” she asked. “He isn’t one of the admirals.”

“He’s the admiral of Britain.”

A corner of Manon’s mouth twitched…as if she’d been about to smile.

Tristan clenched his hand into a fist.

“What happened to Winston?” Manon asked conversationally. “I do hope he’s okay.”

“Shut up, you dumb bitch,” Lorelei snapped.

Everyone looked at her in mild surprise. There were lines of grief etched into her face. She’d been close to the previous admiral. Tristan needed to remember that.

“Don’t speak to me that way.”

“I’ll speak to you however I want.”

Manon straightened her shoulders. “I am—”

“You’re the woman who betrayed her vows,” Tristan cut in. His words fell like stones into a pond, sending out ripples that left silence in their wake.

“You betrayed your vows to your trinity. You betrayed your vows to our society.”

Manon’s lips pulled back from her teeth. “A vow made under duress means nothing.”

“Under duress?” Mateo asked.

Manon looked around the room, seeming to consider everyone there.

“You’re not getting out of this,” Lorelei told her.

For the first time, real emotion showed on her face—hatred. “Tell me, did he suffer when he died? I hope he did.”

Sophia’s fingers laced through Tristan’s and she squeezed his hand.

“I hope he and Greta suffered.”

“They were your trinity.” There were tears in Sophia’s voice.

“I didn’t choose them. I was stuck with them on that horrible little island. I was meant for more.”

“You were the wife of the fleet admiral.” Percy looked scandalized.

“So what? What did that get me?” The narcissism was rolling off her in waves.

“You killed them because you were bored?” Sophia’s voice rang with shock.

“No, stupid girl. I left them because I was bored. I killed them because… Well, if I told you that, it would ruin the surprise.”

Mateo had taken up position by the door, not forgetting Manon’s initial comment. She’d been waiting for her lover. The man could return at any moment, which only made the fact the goddamn British admiral was in the room all the more dangerous.

Every word Manon spoke sent waves of sickness through him. She’d killed Kacper and wanted to cause Greta pain. Mateo would never forgive himself for trusting her, for believing every lie she’d ever fed him.

Because it had all been lies.

Before he could process that, he heard a voice through his earpiece. One of the security officers down in the lobby reported that a man had just entered the elevator. Mateo heard a ping that indicated the elevator had stopped on this floor.

Shit. If Manon’s lover returned, he needed to find a way to capture the man, while keeping the freaking heads of the British territory safe. Even if Arthur wasn’t used to his new position and his importance to the society, Lorelei should have known. Should have insisted the admiral remain in the van.

The door was closed, so Mateo kept his eye pressed to the peephole. He’d pulled his compact Taurus model 85 polymer-frame revolver from the back waistband of his jeans, the safety off, his finger on the trigger.

His fear became a reality when a young man stopped right outside the room, his hands rifling through his pockets in search of the keycard.

Mateo gestured for everyone else in the room to move away from view of the door with a quick wave of his gun.

Percy quickly stepped in front of the admiral, shoving him to a corner of the room where Mateo could no longer see him. The admiral’s wife stayed beside Arthur.

The man slid the keycard into the door, but before he could open it, Mateo jerked hard, pulling the man off balance.

Mateo pressed a gun to the man’s head as he shoved him farther into the room, the hotel door closing behind them.

The man tried to jerk away from Mateo’s grip, but Derrick was there, reaching out. No one wanted to pull a trigger. They needed this man alive, needed to question him.

Mateo released the man briefly to secure his gun, tucking it away as Derrick—a brute in his own right—wrestled the stranger to the ground. The battle was over quickly, and the fight seemed to leave the man when he realized a two-ton wrecking ball wouldn’t dislodge the knee Derrick had in his back.

“Check him for weapons,” Lorelei demanded.

The man raised his head, his eyes taking in everything in the room. His perusal stopped on Manon.

“Are you okay, my sparrow?” he asked.

For the second time, Mateo saw genuine emotion on the cold woman’s face. Her eyes softened, glistening with tears.

Tristan went to shove Percy out of the way, and the stump of his right arm jerked inside the sling. He winced and growled, “Move, Percy.”

Percy looked over his shoulder then stepped to the side. Percy didn’t have his sword—that would have been a dead giveaway as to what, if not who he was—but he looked ready to do some serious damage even without a weapon.

Tristan wanted an unobstructed view of what was happening. Derrick had the newcomer facedown on the ground, hands held behind him with zip ties. Manon was now jerking against her own restraints, tears streaming down her face.

When no one spoke, Tristan realized he was the highest-ranking person in the room.

Huh.

He stepped forward, and Percy fell into place slightly behind him and to his right. Sophia was on his left.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The man on the floor raised his head and glared. Mateo grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head back. “Answer the admiral’s question.”

“Scout Sniper. Primary 0317.”

“The accent. He’s American.” Lorelei tipped her head to the side and examined him the way other people looked at a car they were going to purchase. “This must be the owner of that very nice gun.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to get my gun back.”

“Oh, I’m keeping the gun,” Lorelei assured him.

“Who are you?” Tristan asked him again.

He glared.

Sophia walked over, crouched beside him, and reached under the collar of his shirt. She pulled out a pair of dog tags.

“His name is Griffin R. Rutherford. He has O positive blood and is a Baptist.” She rose, all graceful limbs and dark hair, the chain of the man’s dog tags hanging from one finger.

Tristan grinned at his wife. Derrick and Mateo had the grace to look chagrined.

“Griffin, you opened fire on a roomful of people. You killed some. You shot off my arm. Now, I took a vow, as a knight. That vow will prevent me from torturing you for information, but I think Mateo would be happy to start cutting pieces off until you talk.”

“I’ll do it,” Lorelei volunteered.

“So will I,” Sophia said.

“Look at that, plenty of people willing to torture you.”

“Don’t tell them anything,” Manon snarled at her young lover.

“I won’t,” Griffin assured her.

“Stand him up so I can see him,” Tristan ordered.

Derrick eased away from him, then grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up.

“Check his hands. Is he wearing a ring?”

Mateo slid around behind him. “No.”

“Why a ring?” Percy asked quietly.

“Members of the Trinity Masters wear rings,” he replied in an equally quiet voice.

“So they can be easily identified? Bloody idiots.” Percy shook his head in disgust.

Tristan shifted his attention back to Griffin. “Are you a member of the Trinity Masters?”

Griffin looked blank, then narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I am.”

“He’s not.” Lorelei was watching him closely.

Tristan sent up a small prayer of thanks for that before moving on to his next question. “What do you know about the Domino?”

That got a reaction from both of them. Manon laughed softly, but the man went eerily still, emotionless.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “The Domino? Surely you’re joking. He’s not real.”

“Why leave us the clues in Italy?” Sophia asked. “Why tell us what you were going to do?”

Manon’s gaze flicked to Sophia, then around the room. She swallowed heavily, confusion creasing her forehead.

“Ah, yes, yes, yes,” Sophia murmured. “You didn’t know. Who betrayed you, Manon?” Sophia patted Griffin’s cheek. It wasn’t a gentle pat. “Was it your young lover?”

“I would never betray you,” Griffin assured Manon.

Manon licked her lips like a toad. “Fine. I didn’t expect it to end this way, but you’re right. I am the Domino. I was trapped by the Masters’ Admiralty. Made a slave. I will see this society on its knees, and I will—”

Griffin jerked back, away from Sophia, Mateo, and Derrick. He bent at the waist, lifted his arms, stretching them toward the ceiling, and then jerked them down.

The zip tie holding his wrists together snapped.

He took advantage of everyone’s shock and reached for Sophia.

She didn’t freeze, didn’t play the submissive captive. Even as Tristan, Percy, Mateo, and Lorelei all reached for her, she stepped closer to Griffin, raising her knee to connect with his balls.

He twisted at the last moment and shoved her back. Sophia hit Mateo, who caught her, taking a step back to absorb the impact.

Derrick had his gun in hand, and was raising it toward Griffin’s head when the young sniper stepped into his stance and grabbed his wrist. Using what looked like a martial-arts move, Griffin disarmed Derrick as he turned, and in the same motion, raised the gun, firing twice.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mateo looked down at the floor, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

Griffin had swung the gun toward Manon, firing directly into the woman’s chest before lifting the gun under his chin and pulling the trigger again.

Griffin was lying near him, half his head missing, a huge puddle of blood and brain matter marring the beige carpet.

Manon was still tied to the desk chair, her head lolling to one side. If not for the blood gushing from the hole in her chest, Mateo could almost believe she was just asleep.

Her death mask was different from the attitude she’d projected during her last hour of life. Before, she’d been angry, vicious, arrogant, now her lifeless face registered surprise, shock. She’d been killed by a man she loved, and while Mateo was a firm believer in Karma, he couldn’t help but feel her death had come too easy. She hadn’t suffered enough for her crimes, for the unspeakable pain she’d left in her wake.

He recalled Kacper’s last year of life, the way the poison she’d been slowly feeding him had robbed him of his physical strength.

Then he remembered Greta’s face when he’d left earlier today. He’d told her of Arthur’s suspicions. She was still deep in grief over losing Kacper, and she’d refused to believe Manon was responsible. All she’d said as he left was, “Bring my wife back home safely to me.”

Yet another way he’d failed.

However, he wouldn’t regret that. Not when he considered Manon’s crimes. She wasn’t worth Greta’s grief, but he wasn’t looking forward to telling her their suspicions had been correct. It would break the dear woman.

“We need to search the room,” he said. This wasn’t the time or the place for any of those thoughts. He’d have plenty of sleepless hours in the weeks—God, probably years—ahead to ponder the mysteries of life and death, crime, and punishment.

For now, he had a job to do.

Derrick was already following his command, opening and closing the dresser drawers, rifling through the clothing there.

Mateo walked to the closet and pulled out a suitcase. It was light, nearly empty. He almost put it back, but he heard something clanking inside.

Tossing it on the bed, he unzipped it. In the inside pocket, he found a small bag of dominos. He retrieved them, handing them to Lorelei.

“Guess that proves it,” Percy murmured, looking over Mateo’s shoulder and catching sight of his find.

Mateo nodded, but realized Lorelei wasn’t as easily appeased. The dominos weren’t enough for her. She wanted more.

“I’ll continue to check into Manon’s past,” Lorelei said to Arthur.

“You’re not convinced?” Arthur asked.

Lorelei shrugged. “Simply knowing isn’t enough. We need to know the why. I want to know what the connection was between Griffin, Manon, and the trinity that was killed in Italy.”

Sophia stepped forward, nodding. “I’d like to know that as well. I’ll contact my father and brother, make sure they give you their full cooperation. It seemed to me that Manon didn’t know about the first three murders.”

Lorelei blew out a long breath. “I don’t think she did either. Which means she was only active, only aware of the things that happened on the Isle and here in London. I’m struggling to believe she is the Domino.”

“So she did all of this for revenge? Let herself be used as a pawn for some guy who resurrected an ancient enemy just to punish us all?” Mateo asked.

“What if the guy on Man was the Domino, and Griffin his apprentice? Griffin had a gun that was controlled by a computer. He might have had the skills to create the drone,” Tristan mused.

“And Manon was…? What Mateo said? A pawn?” Lorelei asked.

“Possibly. She was recruited and seduced because she would know how to get to the fleet admiral. That would explain why she didn’t know about the message in the cave. That part didn’t involve her.”

Sophia nodded. “The Domino always leaves signatures, taunts those who try to track him down. He’s not an emotionally detached professional assassin who doesn’t leave clues. For the Domino it’s emotional and personal. The clues are as important as the crime. It’s part of the game for him.”

“So, she just thought she was the Domino?” Mateo asked. “And Griffin killed her to keep her from saying anything to prove otherwise?”

Tristan nodded. “That scenario makes sense. And I think Griffin killed himself for the same reason.”

Tristan was tired and his arm hurt. He wouldn’t admit it, and he wasn’t going to go home, not when they were still looking through the hotel room. But he was relieved when Sophia managed to book the hotel room next door while helping Lorelei with crisis management in order to keep the authorities away. He went into the other room and sat down in an armchair, sighing heavily. He’d spent the past few weeks—hell, the past few months, if he considered his time following Wes around in his search for the truth about the purists—rushing around all over the damn world.

He just wanted to lie down for a couple of years and sleep.

Worst of all, his right hand hurt.

Logically, he knew it wasn’t there, but right now it was aching. What was left of his forearm was twitching because he was trying to open and close his fingers in order to ease the ache.

“Tristan?” James rushed into the room.

From the hall, he could hear Lorelei saying, “Oh good, another random civilian. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

James dropped to his knees beside Tristan’s chair. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Just tired. But don’t make a big deal about it.”

James nodded in understanding.

Someone whistled next door. “Kinky.”

James raised his brows.

“Shit. Go see what that’s about,” Tristan told him.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” James went to the open connecting door and leaned his head in. He came back a moment later. “They found a nice-size strap-on.”

Tristan snorted.

“Where’s Sophia?” James asked.

“At the front desk. Damage control.”

“Did anyone hear the shots?”

“Two rooms called the front desk to ask, but no one called the police directly. We’re lucky,” Tristan said. Although it wouldn’t have been a hard thing to cover up. Their membership had a long reach that included several high-ranking officials in law enforcement.

James covered his left hand and gave it a squeeze. “We are.”

Lorelei came in and pulled out the desk chair, dropping into it.

“You look worried, Vice Admiral.” James rose from his crouch and perched on the side of the bed.

“I am.” She pursed her lips. “What if there is a third person?”

Tristan sat up. “There were three people. Manon, Griffin, and the man on the Isle of Man. That’s already one person too many when you look at the Domino’s previous methods. It’s always just been two—the master and the apprentice. So now you’re actually suggesting there’s a fourth? Why?”

“The strap-on.”

Tristan snorted out a laugh. Lorelei didn’t crack a smile. “Oh, I thought you were joking.”

“I’m not joking. That’s a nice strap-on. Not the kind of thing heteros buy for International Women’s Day.”

James laughed, but Tristan didn’t.

“What are you saying, Lorelei?”

“What if there was a third? A woman?”

“You got all that from a strap-on?” James asked.

Tristan shook his head. “I doubt it. Manon made it pretty clear she didn’t like our lifestyle. I doubt she would have been in a trinity.”

Lorelei frowned. “Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t like her trinity. She felt trapped. She didn’t say anything about the ménage lifestyle.”

Tristan nodded. “You’re right. Check the bathroom. How many toothbrushes are there?”

Lorelei rushed away, then came back. “Two toothbrushes. Only two suitcases. The sizing on the clothes match two people, not three.”

“Then there isn’t a third. It’s done. We stopped them.”

Lorelei nodded. “You’re right. Thank you, Admiral.” She got up and walked out.

“Tristan?” James asked, concern replacing his previous humor.

He forced himself to smile at his husband. Damn Lorelei for planting that seed of doubt. It was done. They were safe.

Then, he looked up to see Mateo standing in the door. The other man was stone-faced.

“Mateo,” he started, but stopped. Tristan needed time—and sleep—before he spoke to the Spartan Guard Captain. The beginnings of a task were rumbling around in his exhausted brain, but he wouldn’t say anything more just yet. “Can you stay in London for a few days?”

Mateo nodded slowly.

“Good. I’ll be in touch.”

Mateo glanced toward the other room. “We’re almost finished with the cleanup.”

“Thank you.” Tristan pointed to the connecting door. “Please close that on your way out.”

Mateo turned to leave, nodding a silent farewell to Sophia as she slipped into the room. Mateo closed the door behind him and Tristan was finally alone with his partners.

“James,” Tristan began, unable to settle his thoughts just yet. “You said your cousin, Cecilia, is in Singapore.”

James nodded.

“Can you ask her to come home? I’d like to speak to her.”

Sophia, who’d taken a seat on the bed next to James to pull off her shoes and rub her tired feet, tilted her head. “Cecilia is the historian? The one who confirmed your initial suspicions about our killer being the Domino.”

“Yeah,” James said. “Why do you want to talk to her?”

“I’d like to show her all the evidence in this case, to get her opinions on everything we’ve found.”

“You don’t think we’ve caught the Domino,” Sophia said.

Tristan could tell from her face she wasn’t convinced they had either. “The murders in Italy are a loose thread. I’d like to tie a knot in it. Cecilia may have more information regarding the Domino’s past methods that might help us be sure that the master and the apprentice are dead.”

“I’ll call her first thing in the morning,” James said. “Knowing her, she’ll be on the first plane back. She’s mad for stuff like this.”

“Good.” With that plan in place, Tristan began to relax. He’d gather as much information as he could from Cecilia and plot the rest of his course from there.

Sophia reached her hand out to him. “Come on, my knight. Let’s go home.”

He accepted her strong grip and rose. James took her other hand, smiling, and for the first time, Tristan noticed the tight lines of anxiety by his husband’s eyes.

“Okay, James?” he asked as they walked down the hall to the elevator.

James sighed. “Had a few bad minutes there when Sophia texted to say the two of you were going into the hotel. Being married to the admiral—and a former knight—who doesn’t have the sense to stay behind the front lines is going to take some getting used to. Doesn’t help that our headstrong wife never hesitates to follow you into the fire. I don’t like being left behind. I feel a very strong need to protect what’s mine.”

Tristan had lived his entire life alone, never having to consider the feelings of anyone sitting at home, worrying about him.

Yet another thing he was going to have to learn…in addition to living without a hand and being admiral of the entire British territory.

“I’m sorry, James. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Neither did I,” Sophia said softly, raising up on tiptoe to kiss James on the cheek.

James gave them an affable grin as they stepped into the elevator and he pressed the button to the first floor. Tristan felt lucky to have landed the other man as a spouse. He was genuinely kind and damn easy to live with.

“No worries, love,” James said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, the three of them leaving the hotel. Lorelei had sent a car over to pick them up, and James whistled as the limousine pulled to the curb.

“I do like being married to royalty.”

Sophia and Tristan laughed as they climbed into the car. Once they were underway, James picked up the conversation again.

“I suppose there are a lot of things we’re going to have to start figuring out. Like living arrangements and such.”

He and Tristan both looked at Sophia.

“We have to live in London,” she said. “I know that.”

“That doesn’t mean you’ll like it,” Tristan said, glad James had taken the bull by the horns and brought the topic up. He’d been worried how Sophia felt about her rapid change of lifestyle. One minute she was a princess in Italy, working for the Carabinieri, the next she was the wife of two British men, her home and her job left behind.

“I’m happy to be here with the two of you,” Sophia said. “I will have to return to Italy soon to set my affairs in order there, but I hope you will believe me when I say I am pleased to be married to you both. I think we will make a strong trinity, a powerful team.”

Tristan agreed, but still felt a twinge of guilt. “You should keep your apartment in Rome. I suspect you’re going to need a break from the constant tea from time to time.”

She laughed. “I am going to miss the coffee. And the wine.”

James tugged her onto his lap and Sophia snuggled close, lifting her face to receive his kiss.

Tristan watched them, soaking in the warmth of their embrace, love washing over him.

“I love you.” The words came without thought.

Sophia and James both turned to look at him.

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m in love with you. Both of you.”

Sophia slid off James’s lap, kneeling between Tristan’s outstretched legs. “Ti amo, my cavaliere,” she whispered before looking back at James and repeating the sweetest Italian words Tristan had ever heard. “Ti amo.”

James reached across the distance between them, placing a strong hand on Tristan’s leg while cupping Sophia’s cheek with the other. The touch connected all of them.

“There may be a bunch of treacherous bastards out there trying to come between us, but I swear to you both right now, no man will ever be more devoted, more in love, than I am with you.”

Epilogue

Mateo looked out the window of his hotel suite and down on the picturesque courtyard below. He’d been in London nearly a week with no word from Arthur yet. He was beginning to feel like a caged bird.

He was needed back on the Isle of Man. The new fleet admiral was settling in, and it was crucial that Mateo be there to make that transition as smooth as possible. He hadn’t intended to spend so much time away. As such, he hadn’t packed enough clothing and his fitness regimen was completely fucked up. While the Taj Hotel offered a state-of-the-art fitness center, it didn’t hold a candle to his gym on Man. It was important to him that he train every day, to stay sharp, alert, ready.

He had called Greta the day after Manon was killed, wanting to be the one to break the news to her about her spouse’s death. He’d have preferred to do it in person, but the British admiral had asked him to stay in London, so he’d been forced to do it over the phone. She’d been devastated at first, but as he’d revealed Manon’s betrayal, that sadness quickly turned to silent resignation. He was worried about her. Though she was a strong woman, he wasn’t sure how much emotional stress she could continue to endure.

While his role as captain of the Spartan Guard meant providing protection and security for the fleet admiral and his family, for Mateo, it had become more than that. Greta and Kacper knew the truth about his family.

He blew out a long breath and clenched his fist. He needed to get out of here, needed to get back to the isle. He didn’t belong here.

Mateo considered going out for a run to blow off some steam, but discounted the idea.

To hell with it. If the mountain wouldn’t come to Muhammad…

He was going to go see the admiral, and then he was going home.

His cell phone rang, and the sudden sound in the silent room had him reaching for his gun for a split second. This was why he needed to get back home, back to his training. He was off-kilter, unfocused.

He recognized the number on the screen. Finally.

“Hello, sir,” he said when he answered. “I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get in touch with you,” Arthur said. “There were several things I needed to attend to first. There’s a courier heading to your hotel as we speak, but I wanted to call you in person before it arrived.”

It? What the hell was it? Rather than ask, Mateo simply said, “Okay,” his curiosity piqued.

“The fleet admiral called me. He’s spoken to your admiral in Castile as well, and they’ve both agreed that this is for the best. They asked me to tell you.”

Mateo got a sinking feeling in his stomach. Was he being fired? Let go for failing to protect the fleet admiral?

“Sir, I know that I failed in my duties, but if you’d just give me another chance to prove myself, I think you’ll see—”

“Prove yourself?”

Mateo swallowed heavily. “I swear to you, if you’ll let me retain my position, I won’t fail the Admiralty again.”

“Mateo, you aren’t being fired from your position. Kacper promoted you to captain because you were up to the task, and believe me, no one disagrees with that decision.”

“Then I don’t understand why the fleet admiral called you.”

“He wanted me to perform a task for him. You see, today is your binding ceremony. He’s chosen your partners.”

About the Authors

Writing a book was number one on Mari Carr’s bucket list. Now her computer is jammed full of stories — novels, novellas, short stories and dead-ends. A New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller, Mari finds time for writing by squeezing it into the hours between 3 a.m. and daybreak when her family is asleep.

You can visit Mari’s website at www.maricarr.com. She is also on Facebook and Twitter.

Lila Dubois is a top selling author of paranormal, fantasy and contemporary erotic romance. Having spent extensive time in France, Egypt, Turkey, England and Ireland Lila speaks five languages, none of them (including English) fluently. She now lives in Los Angeles with a cute Irishman.

You can visit Lila's website at www.liladubois.net. She loves to hear from fans! Send an email to author@liladubois.net or join her newsletter for contests, deleted scenes, articles, and release notifications.

See where it all began…

The Trinity Masters series is available NOW!

Elemental Pleasure

Trinity Masters, book 1

A dangerous Marine. A tech genius. A brilliant scientist.

When Carly Kenan joined the secretive Trinity Masters in college, she received entrée to an exclusive club that gave her access to wealth and power. But there’s a price all members must pay—they accept an arranged marriage, between not two, but three people.

Ordered to return to the Trinity Masters’ headquarters in Boston, Carly meets Marine Lance Glassco, a mathematician for DARPA, and Preston Kim, a dangerously intelligent chemist.

Though on the surface they have nothing in common, it’s clear the Grand Master thinks that together the three of them can do something amazing. And that’s why he’s declared that Carly, Lance and Preston must marry.

Though the physical attraction is instantaneous and incendiary, Carly is unprepared for the emotional intensity of the ménage relationship. Pushed beyond her limits, Carly runs from Lance and Preston. What she doesn’t understand is that she now belongs to them, body and soul…and they belong to her.

When Lance uncovers a dangerous crime at Preston’s company, Carly is caught in the crossfire and the struggling lovers are forced to move beyond desire…to trust. For the Trinity Masters, there is passion and power in three.

Primal Passion

Trinity Masters, book 2

An FBI agent. A billionaire CEO. A virgin scientist.

Deni Parker doesn’t have time for anything but her cutting-edge scientific work, and that’s how she likes it. She doesn’t have time for relationships. When she’s called to the altar—years ahead of what she expected—by the very intimidating, and far too handsome, Price Bennett, Deni’s more than a little unprepared.

Price didn’t join the Trinity Masters to play messenger. As CEO of a major security firm and heir to one of the largest fortunes in the world, he’s annoyed when the Grand Master orders him to transport the disorganized scientist to the ceremony to meet her partners. It’s only when they arrive that Price realizes he isn’t a messenger—he’s been matched with Deni.

Gunner Wells has been in love with Deni for years, but he’s resisted giving in to his attraction. When he arrives at the Trinity Masters headquarters to be bound in marriage, he’s delighted to discover Deni is not only a member of the secret society, but one of his partners…along with billionaire playboy, Price.

Their strong personalities clash—in the bedroom and out of it—but Price and Gunner have to put aside their overprotectiveness, and Deni must put aside her pride, when someone tries to stop her research—with deadly methods.

Scorching Desire

Trinity Masters, book 3

A reformed spy. A respectable lawyer. A renowned playboy.

When Damon Corso is blackmailed it’s not just his career that’s in jeopardy, but the existence of the Trinity Masters–America’s oldest and most powerful secret society. He and fellow member Marco Polin, a world famous playboy musician, enjoy sharing women, a secret that until now they’ve kept quiet.

Tasha Kasharin, the reformed spy sent to help them, knows this is more than simple blackmail. Marco and Damon’s lives are in danger. She ignores her increasingly vivid fantasies about being part of a trinity with them until their investigation is interrupted by the Grand Master, who calls them to the altar and binds them in a ménage marriage.

The men must trust their futures to the unexpectedly innocent woman who’s now their wife, while dealing with the change in their own relationship, and the complicated feelings that come with it. Blackmail escalates to violence, and they’ll have to trust and accept one another if they’re going to survive.

Forbidden Legacy

Trinity Masters, book 4

An enigmatic leader. A talented doctor. And the man who can bring them together.

Harrison Adams has served as leader of the Trinity Masters for a decade. He’s always placed the group above his own needs—even when it comes to the one woman who calls to him. When a dangerous threat to the secret society surfaces, Harrison sets a plan in motion that could save the organization, but it comes with a price.

Alexis turned down an invitation to join the Trinity Masters, afraid to relinquish control over her life, her future…her heart. That rejection means night after night of unrequited lust as she and Harrison are forced to ignore their desires. Her heart aching, she throws herself into her job and her difficult working relationship with her boss, Michael. He’s attractive and maddening, but Alexis has zero plans to give in to the crazy chemistry between them.

Harrison asks Alexis to experiment in a ménage relationship with him and she agrees unable to take another moment of longing for him. Perhaps with a third around she’ll be able to keep her heart intact. She is completely unaware their third will be Michael. She couldn’t have known how giving herself to them would inflame her desires. Or how much she would enjoy submitting to them.

But when an evil man looking for revenge sets his sights on Harrison, time is the one thing none of them have. And it soon becomes apparent Harrison’s forbidden legacy could destroy them all…

Hidden Devotion

Trinity Masters, book 5

A reluctant leader. A CIA agent. A lost legacy.

Juliette Adams’s spent her life running, from both her status as the daughter of the Grand Master and her arranged marriage. Until the day everything changed and she became Grand Master—a position she was never meant to hold.

Devon Asher has more than a few secrets, the least of which is that he’s desperately in love with Juliette, which shouldn’t be a problem since they were betrothed when they were children. Now that she’s Grand Master his secrets aren’t safe.

Franco Garcia Santiago always assumed the tales of a Trinity Masters were fantastical stories his grandfather made up, until Juliette shows up at his door. Together they uncover the secrets of the Trinity Masters, unaware of the danger they’re putting themselves in.

Juliette must decide if she’ll turn her back on her destiny or embrace the role of Grand Master, and if she’ll use her power to discontinue the trinity marriages she grew up despising, or follow her heart, which tells her happiness lies with both Devon and Franco.

Elegant Seduction

Trinity Masters, book 6

A spoiled heiress. A corporate mediator. And a man with a secret.

Sebastian has dedicated his life to upholding the ideals of the Trinity Masters. However, when his best friend, Juliette, is named Grand Master, he knows secrets he’s harbored will be revealed. While he expects Juliette to be angry, he does not expect her to call him to the altar, to bind him to a stranger, Grant, and to Elle, the woman who’s haunted his dreams for years.

Then Juliette reveals a secret of her own. There’s evil at play in the secret society and she needs him to root it out. Sebastian has no choice but to go undercover to spy on his own trinity. As the danger surrounding the trio grows, Sebastian is forced to choose between loyalty and love.

Because reluctantly bound to Elle and Grant or not, Sebastian can’t deny the pair have earned their place in his heart.

Secret Scandal

Trinity Masters, book 7

A dashing thief. A passionate scholar. And the beautiful bodyguard engaged to protect them.

Eli Wexler is a prominent art historian, a job that under normal circumstances isn’t dangerous. But Eli is a member of the Trinity Masters, and when he’s called to the altar he not only meets the man and woman he’s to marry, but is given a mystery to solve as well.

Jasper Ferrer realizes there’s trouble coming when he meets his trinity. Given Jasper’s checkered past, he doubts Eli will be thrilled by their marriage. Art historians, as a rule, dislike art thieves.

Irina Gentry knows what her trinity needs from her—her new fiancees are both art experts, and she’s there to protect them. It’s a job she’s more than qualified for, though she doubts there will be any need for her skills.

But the task the Grand Master gives them is far more dangerous than it seems. The quest for a long lost sculpture pits the new trinity against a hidden faction within the secret society, a faction who are willing to kill to keep the secrets Eli, Jasper and Irina are working to uncover.

Delicate Ties

Trinity Masters, book 8

A Broadway star. An adventurous architect. And the powerful Dom determined to claim them both.

Christian Rogers Stewart is no stranger to the stage, nor is he a stranger to the ways of the Trinity Masters. A legacy, he's grown up among brilliant, powerful people and he's more than ready to contribute to the society's noble cause when initiated as a member. However, he is blindsided when he's called to the altar by the Grand Master. First by lust for his arranged partners Charlotte and Vincent. And then by the revelation that the Trinity Masters are under attack, from within, by an insidious faction called the purists.

At their binding ceremony, Christian, Charlotte and Vincent are given two tasks: study the web of tunnels hidden beneath headquarters and investigate a suspected member of the purists, a fellow Dom in Vincent's clubs. By day Charlotte struggles to make sense of a coded blueprint of the tunnels. By night they investigate the wealthy, powerful Dom, with Vincent guiding his new lovers into the dark and sensual world of BDSM.

Both tasks lead the new trinity to earth-shaking discoveries. Not just about the purists, but about themselves and their own erotic desires.

Beloved Sacrifice

Trinity Masters, book 9

A woman with nothing to lose. A man who knows too much. A secret that could destroy them all.

Rose Hancock is no stranger to danger, fear, or pain. Her whole life has been shaped by the purists–a shadowy splinter group within America’s most powerful secret society. When the leader of the Trinity Masters has her partner-in-crime shot, Rose has nothing left to live for except revenge.

Before she can take her revenge, she’s kidnapped and wakes up to find herself in England, with the man who only days before she was sure was dead.

When a kidnapping and ransom specialist, sent by the Grand Master, shows up to “rescue” Rose, she’ll have to decide if she wants to keep running or stand and fight against the purists.

But there are more secrets to be uncovered, and some of those secrets could mean the end of the Trinity Masters…because the Masters’ Admiralty is larger and more powerful. And some betrayals cannot be forgiven.

Other books by Mari Carr

Compass

Into the Fire

Heaven on Earth

Northern Exposure

Southern Comfort

Eastern Ambitions

Western Ties

Winter’s Thaw

Hope Springs

Summer Fling

Falling Softly

Second Chances:

Fix You

Dare You

Just You

Near You

Reach You

Always You

Sparks in Texas:

Sparks Fly

Waiting for You

Something Sparked

Off Limits

No Other Way

Whiskey Eyes

Trinity Masters:

Elemental Pleasure

Primal Passion

Scorching Desire

Forbidden Legacy

Hidden Devotion

Elegant Seduction

Secret Scandal

Delicate Ties

Beloved Sacrifice

Masterful Truth

Masters’ Admiralty

Treachery’s Devotion

Wild Irish:

Come Monday

Ruby Tuesday

Waiting for Wednesday

Sweet Thursday

Friday I’m in Love

Saturday Night Special

Any Given Sunday

Wild Irish Christmas

Wild Irish Boxed Set

Wilder Irish:

January Girl

February Stars

Guardian Angel

March Wind

Big Easy:

Blank Canvas

Crash Point

Full Position

Rough Draft

Triple Beat

Winner Takes All

Going Too Fast

Boys of Fall:

Free Agent

Red Zone

Wild Card

Clandestine:

Bound by the Past

Covert Affairs

Scoring

Mad about Meg

Cocktales

Party Naked

Screwdriver

Bachelor’s Bait

Screaming O

Farpoint Creek

Outback Princess

Outback Cowboy

Outback Master

Outback Lovers

June Girls:

No Recourse

No Regrets

Just Because:

Because of You

Because You Love Me

Because It’s True

Love Lessons

Slam Dunk

Happy Hour

Madison Girls

Kiss Me Kate

Three Reasons Why

Scoundrels

Black Jack

White Knight

Red Queen

What Women Want

Sugar and Spice

Everything Nice

What Women Want

Individual Titles:

Power Play

Rough Cut

Seducing the Boss

Tequila Truth

Erotic Research

One Daring Night

Assume the Positions

Do Over

Bundles

Cowboy Heat

What Women Want

Wild Irish Boxed Set

Trinity Masters Boxed Set: Volumes 1-4

Other books by Lila Dubois

Writing as E.M. Nally, City of Angels, sci-fi/dark fantasy thrillers

Faith of Beasts

Masters’ Admiralty, Erotic Ménage Romance written with New York Times bestselling author Mari Carr

Treachery’s Devotion

The Trinity Masters, Erotic Ménage Romance written with New York Times bestselling author Mari Carr

Elemental Pleasure

Primal Passion

Scorching Desire

After Burn (free short story)

Forbidden Legacy

Hidden Devotion

Elegant Seduction

Secret Scandal

Delicate Ties

Beloved Sacrifice

The Trinity Masters: Volumes 1-4

BDSM Checklist, BDSM Erotic Romance

A is for…

B is for…

C is for…

D is for…

E is for…

F is for…

BDSM Checklist Volume One: A & B

BDSM Checklist Volume Two: C & D

BDSM Checklist Volume Three: E & F

Undone Lovers, BDSM Erotic Romance

Undone Rebel

Undone Dom

Undone Diva

Standalone BDSM Erotic Romance

Betrayed by Love

Dangerous Lust

Red Ribbon

The Glenncailty Ghosts, Modern Gothic Romance

Redemption

Lovers

Ghosts

Bones

Monsters in Hollywood, Paranormal Romance

Dial M for Monster

My Fair Monster

Gone with the Monster

Have Monster, Will Travel

A Monster and a Gentleman

The Last of the Monsters

Standalone Paranormal Romance

Briar Rose

Calling the Wild

Kitsune

Sealed with a Kiss

Standalone Shifter Romance

His Wolf Heart

Savage Satisfaction

Zinahs, Fantasy Romance

Forbidden

Savage

Bound

Boxsets

BDSM Checklist Volume One: A & B

BDSM Checklist Volume Two: C & D

BDSM Checklist Volume Three: E & F

The Trinity Masters: Volumes 1-4