AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Because where else would Cayetano Arcieri, the warlord of the north, rest his head? Of course it was in a forbidding stone citadel with the rest of his world at his feet.
Delaney’s reading, all the way across the Atlantic, meant she knew more about him now, too.
Some factions online referred to him the way he’d referred to himself, as warlord.
But others called him the rightful King of Ile d’Montagne.
Delaney didn’t know what to call him as they disembarked, particularly as she recognized—without him having to say a word to her in explanation or defense—that he was immediately different here. It wasn’t so much that he held himself differently, or even acted differently, it was more that he made sense. The exquisite suit seemed to match the ancient stones, somehow.
As if they both grew bigger, brighter, when connected.
As if they were made of the same material.
She had to fight back a shudder at that.
And another wave of grief at what she’d lost when he’d come to tear her away from the place where she’d made her own kind of sense.
Out on the tarmac, the men who had escorted him in Kansas were joined by even more men, all cut from the same solemn, dangerous cloth. They all spoke the same language that she did not share, but lest she think no one was paying attention to her and make a break for it, Cayetano himself herded her toward another waiting vehicle.
Just as glossy and impressive as the SUVs back home.
She braced herself for another one of his deceptively mild interrogations as the car set off, but he only cast an opaque glance her way—leaving marks behind, she was fairly sure—before taking to his phone again. And though she still couldn’t understand a word of what he said, she was certain she recognized that tone.
Commanding. Powerful.
Delaney thought again of the long, in-depth article she’d read on the plane that talked so lyrically about the true King of Ile d’Montagne. The true heir to its long-contested throne.
It turned out that the man who had turned up in the middle of her cornfield was something of a pet cause around the world. The plight of the Ile d’Montagne rebels was discussed in papers and symposiums across the globe. While the peace of some seventy years was lauded, most of the articles suggested it was destined for a bitter, bloody end. Delaney had thought she might ask him about his celebrity—and not his plans for possible bloodshed, as that seemed impolite at best—but she bit the urge back. Because somehow, she doubted very much that his international stature was accidental. She might not know anything about would-be kings or contested land or conflicts stretching back into the Dark Ages, but she knew, with a deep certainty, that Cayetano was exactly the person the articles had made him out to be.
Canny. Deliberate. And more sympathetic. Persuasive in ways his ancestors had not been.
He was, all the articles claimed in one way or another, the greatest threat to the Ile d’Montagne royal family since the last civil war that had killed so many in the late eighteen-hundreds.
And Delaney felt certain, as her heart kicked at her and the blood in her body seemed to heat whenever he was near, that he posed no lesser threat to her.
It was another thing that should have upset her, when instead it made a different kind of anticipation drum through her. Like her blood flowed to a beat.
Instead of concentrating too closely on what that must mean, she looked out the window at the lush green all around, fields and vineyards in the spring sunshine. And at the pretty villages, clustered here and there and certainly not hidden, as they moved ever closer to that fortress carved into the mountain.
It took her some time to realize that Cayetano was no longer on his cell phone.
She snuck a look at him and found him regarding her with that burnt gold consideration that made her shiver. The goose bumps seemed to take on a life of their own, marching down her arms and her spine with a certain resoluteness that made her...breathless.
Just a little bit breathless. Just breathless enough to notice it—and notice him.
Because when he looked at her it was as if she fell forward when she knew she stayed still, toppling out of her seat and catapulting deep into all that gold and heat—
“How do you find my home?” Cayetano asked, in a tone that suggested there was only one answer.
Luckily enough, it was also the only answer she wanted to give.
“It’s beautiful.” Delaney sat back in her seat, gripping her hands together in her lap and hoping it looked as if maybe she was being whateverladylikewas. Not her wheelhouse. “But surely, if you are forever at war yet live out in the open, it would be easy enough to simply come to this valley and get rid of you all.”
The gold in his gaze warmed several degrees and she did, too, as if they were connected as surely as he was to this place.
“How bloodthirsty you are,” he murmured.
But as if he liked that about her.
