Page 40 of The Girl Beneath the Sea

I’m his people. Not them. Not some politicians who are going to try to marry him off to someone he doesn’t love.

Four blocks. Five.

My legs keep going. I can’t go back. I’ll be no good to him dead.

I spot a bus shelter with a bench in it and a broken light. I sit down and get my right hand into my pocket. My fingers are so stupid with cold that it takes two attempts to get my phone out.

It’s dead. Of course it is.

Who am I going to phone anyway?

Sully either sold me, or maybe Sully is already in the river a mile upstream of where I went in with a hole in him. It doesn’t matter which, because either way the man is no use to me.

I miss my prince and I want him back.

I don’t know how I get him back.

I don’t know what they’ll do with the mark on his neck when they see it. What if it gets him killed?

I sit there, my head spinning.

A bus goes past without stopping.

I put the dead phone back in my pocket. I put my good hand over my left arm and press, hard, until it hurts again, and I make myself stand up.

He said I do marry you. I’m sure he meant it. I meant it. I’m going to get him back. I just need to work out how.

I start walking.

11. Aurelio

The back doors of the ambulance are already open. A woman in a dark uniform stands in front of them. She gives me a reassuring smile when she sees me walking down the plank and onto solid ground.

The ambulance lights are on, sending blue lights swirling into the dark, but the inside is a comforting white light.

I don’t get to see more than that.

“His Highness will be seen by his own physician,” Reinhardt’s man says in English. “He is a member of the royal house of Monteverra. He is not to be examined by foreign personnel. I am sure you understand.”

The American FBI agent is an alpha in his mid to late fifties, bald as an egg but with sharp eyes that catch everything. Still, he does not look as though he understands.

Or perhaps he simply pretends that he does not understand.

He looks at me, then at my feet, which are bare on the gravel, and at the silver blanket, and at the hood of the sweatshirt, which I have pulled up.

“He needs to be checked over, sir. We do not need a thorough examination. Just enough to make sure that he is not in imminent danger. It’s standard practice for this kind of scene. We don’t know what he’s—”

“He is not on your scene. He is on Monteverran soil for as long as he is in my care, which is now.” A hand under my elbow, through the blanket. “Highness. This way, please.”

The paramedic looks at the American. The American looks at me again and I see him decide.

“Your Highness,” he says. “Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?”

It is the first time in my life that a stranger has asked me a question in public that no one has prepped me for in advance. I don’t have a cue card with the answer in it.

For some reason that throws me. I don’t know how to answer. I don’t need medical attention. I need Roan. And Roan may be dead.

The horror of it skitters up my spine. I feel as if I have been punched in the gut. The bond mark on my neck aches in response and I feel as if every hormone I have is suddenly racing through my veins telling me to run. Find my mate.