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And then Vesuvius went out and closed the door behind him. Once outside, he took a big, deep breath of the cold morning air.

It was like a knife. It was sharp and frigid and sliced straight through him, waking him up better than any caffeine could have.

He made his way across the front porch, images from last night flashing through his head.

The sinking horror of realizing that the plane was going to have to land, and his dispassionate observation that the lake was likely not frozen all the way through. That it looked like ice, but even if it was, it might not be enough ice to hold a plane.

But he’d been nearly to Chicago and he’d known that there were already members of his cabinet on his heels. He’d known he couldn’t turn back.

There had also been a fuel issue, because he had not intended to stop again.

Vesuvius had tried to go as low as possible and then land in such a way that it spread out the impact. He’d done his best.

He also remembered the crash now. It was not something he ever wanted to repeat, even though, logically, he knew that if a person had to crash a plane, that was the way to do it. And he remembered the moments immediately afterward, but he’d woken up rattled, bleeding, and with no idea who the hell he was.

Then he’d had to crawl out of that plane. And something in him had urged him to get away from it—and off the questionable ice—as quickly as possible. He’d done both, falling more than he’d walked as he’d battled his way to shore.

And through all of that, the only thing he held onto was Aeryn.

Vesuvius could see no reason to change any of that. He went down the front steps of the brownstone—shoveled clear, along with the walk to the street—and made his way directly to the hardy SUV waiting at the curb.

“I’m going to commandeer this vehicle,” he said to Marcus when he opened the passenger door and was hit with a blast of the warmth within. He nodded to the other man. “Happy Christmas. The clothes are much appreciated.”

“It is my honor, my liege,” Marcus replied dryly. “And that’s a negative. You will not be commandeering this or any other vehicle. My orders from Her Majesty the Queen—” and he slid a look at Vesuvius then, to make sure he heard that “—are that you have been put on a moratorium when it comes to operating machinery for the foreseeable future.”

“Her Majesty the Queen is not here,” Vesuvius pointed out.

Marcus was unmoved. “Not happening,” he replied.

And that was how Vesuvius had the head of his security find a way to drive through the snow-beaten city—despite the fact that very few other people were out there, suggesting that the natives were less foolish than he was—all the way up to the house where Aeryn had grown up.

It was out in the suburbs, where it was even snowier, and Marcus muttered a great many questionable things beneath his breath in his native German. Which he was perfectly aware Vesuvius spoke fluently.

It had been easy enough to get her parents’ address. Vesuvius had simply told Marcus where he wanted to go, Marcus had sighed and texted someone, and moments later an address they could map their way to appeared.

The house where Aeryn had been a little girl—a notion that made his chest feel tight—looked cozy and welcoming. There was smoke coming from the chimney and the lights of a Christmas tree beaming out of one window, while candles flickered in the rest.

“Wait here,” he told Marcus. When the man began to argue, he shook his head. “I’m not the king anymore. There’s only one threat to me in the city of Chicago, and we left her at her house.”

Marcus sighed, but let him go.

And Vesuvius decided, as he climbed up the steps to knock on the front door, that he hadn’t been entirely honest with the man. Because there was another huge threat on the other side of this door, and it was Aeryn’s parents.

Because Aeryn, no matter what she’d said earlier, was in love with him. He knew it. He knew her. There was no doubt in his mind.

But her parents? He would be lucky if they didn’t come at him with the weapons he’d been assured all Americans carried, always, though he’d never seen one brandished in front of him while he’d been with Aeryn.

Yet, anyway.

The door swung open and an older man stood there in a festive sweater and glasses.

Vesuvius recognized him. Gerald Bridgers looked exactly the same as he did in all the pictures along Aeryn’s mantel, featuring Faith.

The older man frowned, and Vesuvius saw the exact moment that he was recognized in turn.

“Can’t say that I expected to find a king on my doorstep,” Aeryn’s father said. Not in a welcoming fashion.

Vesuvius inclined his head. “Merry Christmas, sir,” he said. “I’m here with a proposition.”