Page 17 of Bared

Brick nodded tightly, indicating his return from the brink of his mental abyss. No way should it have been so easy to crawl to that edge, considering the pill he’d just popped. But an overcrowded gallery was one kind of trigger. Hearing that men were bartering a human like a horse was another.

Even Oz didn’t have all the details on that part of his past, nor would the guy be getting them today. He’d never see Brick’s scars, physical and mental, from the mission that had changed him forever. The fuckup he’d never forget. The woman he’d failed to save. The fate she’d faced because of his mistakes.

Asha. I’m so sorry.

“We are all in alignment on that thought, then,” Fox asserted, his palms-up stance working with his vest and shirt for a modern peacemaker vibe. “Which is why we have come to you with such urgency, Mr. Brickham.”

He scowled. “Just Brick, okay?”

“All right, Mr. Brick.”

He tolerated Oz’s soft chuckle while regathering his thoughts on the safe half of his brain. The side still properly plugging logic and conclusions into each other.

“All right, let me see if I understand this story so far,” he finally said. “Once upon a time, you helped your princess slip off the island so she could escape an arranged marriage to a…”

“Fuckstick-on-high,” Oz supplied.

“Right. Thanks.” As Brick slowly paced, he scraped a hand across the top of his short-buzzed skull. “But now, you’ve hopped the rock, as well—understandable, since it seems Sir Fuckstick and his minions have also run down the princess’s plot.”

A wry grin played at the edges of Fox’s mouth. “You can pen a wise narrative, Mr. Brick.”

“Gratitude for the upvote, Mr. Fox. But I’m still missing a giant plot point here.” He jabbed a new scrutiny at his companions. “Why here? Why Paris? You know the princess could’ve fled much farther by now. For that matter, she might’ve stopped sooner. Arcadia is over twenty-five hundred kilometers away. Just a wild guess, but there are probably a lot of great hidey-holes between here and there just perfect for a runaw—”

He stammered into silence the second Ozias jammed an image in front of him.

A photograph, filling the guy’s phone screen, that contained three undeniable elements.

First, and most unmistakably, it was an image of Jayd Cimarron. Though her face was framed by a bolder, shorter haircut and topped by a dark beret, all the gorgeous basics were there. Those proud cheekbones. That heart-shaped mouth. And holy God, those eyes. Somehow, her dark makeup made them more huge and luminous than ever.

Second, there was a security camera stamp on the picture. It indicated the day and time. It was recorded three nights ago at eight sixteen p.m.

Third, there was a sign over her head from the place she was exiting. A tavern on Rue Gabrielle.

In Montmartre.

Four kilometers away. Not twenty-five hundred.

“Well, damn,” Brick muttered.

“We caught a lucky break with it,” Ozias inserted. “But it was luck created by this nifty bugger.” He elbowed Fox in the ribs, an innocuous but wholly flirtatious move in one. Under any other circumstances, Brick would’ve been tagging himself as the weird third wheel on this bizarre Louvre date, but there wasn’t time for that luxury. There was deeper information to get to.

“Hit me with it, crafty Fox,” he prompted. “Brag about your brilliance.”

“No brilliance,” the Arcadian protested. “If that was the case, that sneaky little preesh would not have cut me out of the second half of the plan, leaving me to hunt for her on security feed files instead of guiding her safely out of the palais. She also would have remembered that I was ready to face His Majesty Evrest’s wrath for it. Samsyn’s and Shiraz’s, as well. They cannot continue to keep shielding her like this. She is a grown woman, deserving of the truth—her truth—and overdue for their respect about what she wants to do with it.”

Ozias gave his main guy another quick shoulder bump. “You’re still a hero, babe. Sneaking into the king’s office and copying those evidence files for her took some mighty clangers.”

Fox snorted. “Clangers that’ll be in a steel bowl, cut straight from my scrotum, if my king ever learns what I did.”

A rumble rolled up Oz’s throat. “No one’s getting near your scrotum without my say-so.”

“And I say that’s more than enough scrot talk for the day,” Brick ordered before focusing directly on Fox. “Files that contained what, exactly?” he pressed. “The intel had to have bled some good juice, or you wouldn’t be standing here dreading the wrong end of a prostate exam.”

Unbelievably, the Arcadian’s stance tautened even more. “The name of her real father,” he muttered.

Brick’s nostrils pinched as he sucked in sharp air. “Well, there’s some healthy platelets.”

Ozias continued the explanation. “It was couched in an audio recording from years ago. Xaria Cimarron admitted the affair to a woman who was once a close friend.” He huffed. “Obviously, the queen didn’t know she was being spied on, and even led by some questions.”