Page 50 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

He catches me staring and develops a sudden interest in the architecture.

Figures.

“This is fascinating,” Marina whispers beside me.

“This is a disaster,” Wes corrects, but he’s watching with the same intensity I am.

I’m about to respond when I notice Nettie has gone missing from the crowd. It takes me all of three seconds to find her.

She’s standing directly in front of one of the royal guards, a tall, muscular slab of a human being in blue and gold, and he hasn’t moved an inch since we arrived. There’s a whole row of them stationed along the palace, each one doing his level best to convince us he’s furniture. Rumor has it they’re not allowed to acknowledge the public. Not a nod, not a blink, not so much as a flicker of judgment, which frankly makes them the most patient men in Europe.

Nettie is about to test that.

Oh no.

“I love a man committed to stillness,” she announces to him, to us, to the greater Stockholm area. “It shows discipline. Dedication. And incredible core strength. And honey, you know what they say about a man with a strong core. He never quits before the job is done.”

The guard doesn’t blink.

“How long have you been standing here? Ten minutes? Fifteen?” Nettie continues her line of questioning, and she’s gathering an audience while she does it. Three different women have their phones out, recording. “I once held a plank for thirty seconds and thought I was dying. Imagine what the two of us could accomplish in a full minute. I’ll bring the mat.”

Still nothing. Somewhere in Sweden, this man’s commanding officer deserves a medal.

“Nettie,” Bess calls out. “Leave the nice guard alone.”

“What? I’m admiring his professional commitment!”

Bess folds her arms. “You’re admiring his thighs.”

“A woman can appreciate both!”

“Not from six inches away, she can’t.”

“Six inches is a respectful distance!” Nettie hikes a thumb in my direction. “Ask Trixie. She married security. She knows the protocols.”

I hold up both hands. “Leave me and my protocols out of this.”

And here I was complaining that no one asks for my opinion.

Wes has the strained look of a man running the numbers on whether a citizen’s arrest counts as an international incident. It might honestly be the gentlest way to get Nettie out of this courtyard before Sweden handles it with paperwork and a small van with bars in the back.

Marina has her phone out and is filming right along with the rest of them. She’d call it documentation. I’d call her a woman who appreciates evidence.

Magnus has drifted off to hover above a cluster of book club members in velvet capes, treating himself to a bird’s-eye view straight down a neckline or three, with the shameless grin of a man with no face available for slapping.

So very Magnus.

The Viking queen declarations march on. Women step forward to declare themselves wise queens, compassionate queens, queens prepared to balance the royal budget while inspiring loyalty through interpretive dance or whatever. One woman announces she’d be “a queen of both the broadsword and the Bundt pan,” which earns enthusiastic applause and, from me, genuine respect. Another declares she’d rule “with the fury of a mother bear and the gentle hand of a kindergarten teacher in June,” which mostly sounds exhausting. I can barely rule my own snack drawer, and I’ve governed that realm for years.

It’s touching, honestly—watching these women claim their power in a ritual their murdered leader created, even if a few of the declarations are veering into self-help seminar territory. I hope every last one of them sails home feeling like royalty.

Well, every last one of them but the killer. She can feel like a prisoner. I’m flexible on the timeline.

But while the queens keep coronating themselves, I’m watching my suspects.

Poppy stands perfectly still, hands clasped in front of her, face pleasantly attentive, serene as a Sunday morning. Except her eyes keep drifting to Freya. It could be worry. It could be curiosity. But she’s tracking that woman the way I track a dessert cart, and devoted queens don’t usually keep tabs on the competition.

Freya has moved to the edge of the group with her arms crossed and her jaw tight. And the moment one of the women pledges her undying loyalty to the crown, Freya turns her back on the entire circle and studies the palace wall with the focus most people reserve for a dinner menu. In a club built on belonging, she’s doing everything in her power not to belong. That’s not shyness. That’s a statement.