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While Hugo could hear most of their conversation, he and Sylvia made no attempt to enter it, both of them worried about Lancelot. He’d never returned to the house. There’d been no trace of Alicia or their knight. No one had mentioned Lancelot to the cops, but they had given Alicia’s name. There was no point in hiding her identity.
The triplets had managed to cover quite a few topics with each passing hour. So far, they’d discussed the invitation to join the Trinity Masters, Walt’s part in trying to save Franco’s life, the lack of police questioning—no doubt strings had been pulled by the Trinity Masters—and currently, an attempt on Langston’s part to draw his brothers into a discussion on the arranged ménage marriage requirement.
Now that he’d spent some time with them, Hugo found it very easy to tell the identical triplets apart, and he was surprised he’d ever thought Langston was Oscar.
While Walt and Juliette had ridden in the ambulance, Sebastian had brought the rest of them to the hospital. They’d followed the rescue vehicle, Sebastian unwilling to let his Grand Master out of his sight. Once they’d arrived at the hospital, Sebastian had guided them all to this waiting room, instructing them to “stay here” before leaving to be with Juliette. That had been three hours ago.
Hugo wondered about the different structure of their two societies. Juliette was the equivalent of the fleet admiral, yet unlike Eric, she didn’t travel with the American equivalent of the Spartan Guards for protection. Instead, she was accompanied by Sebastian, who seemed more like an advisor than a bodyguard, and her husband Franco, who was no doubt as useless as Hugo when it came to things like defensive ops and wielding weapons more deadly than a pen.
“All I’m saying,” Langston murmured, “is two wives could be pretty hot.”
“What if they hook you up with two guys?” Oscar grumped.
The horror on Langston’s face proved he hadn’t considered that. “They can’t do that, can they?” he asked, shooting a glance in Sylvia’s direction.
Sylvia sighed, then shrugged slightly, letting Hugo know she was eavesdropping as well.
She’d been excited by the Grand Master’s invitation to join the Trinity Masters. Hugo tried not to let himself think about that too much. While she was certainly worthy of the honor, and she would be an asset to the society, it wasn’t only the triplets who’d be married to two partners. Sylvia would be as well.
Hugo had a hard time accepting that, accepting that Sylvia—and Lancelot—would live out their days with other spouses. The idea of an arranged ménage marriage had never bothered him before them.
He’d always assumed that—like his parents—he would forge a relationship with his assigned partners based on mutual respect and support. Love had never entered his mind. Not because he was a cold person or because he didn’t want love, but because that was the nature of the beast. He was a member of the Masters’ Admiralty, and he had accepted that invitation willingly and fully cognizant of what he was sacrificing.
Or so he’d thought.
Until Sylvia and Lancelot, no one had ever touched his heart.
Oh, he’d fancied himself in love with a couple of women while attending university, but now, in hindsight, he could see that neither of those relationships had him questioning his choice to join the Masters’ Admiralty.
Now…now he’d had too many quiet hours to contemplate his future. Without Lancelot and Sylvia.
A door opened and Juliette strode in, slamming the door behind her. Somewhere along the line, she’d changed her clothes. Gone was the blood-stained navy-blue dress, replaced by jeans and a light pink sweater.
Sylvia bounced out of her seat. “How is Franco?”
Juliette had been scowling when she stormed in, clearly furious, on a mission. Sylvia’s concerned tone took her back for a moment, and she broke her stride.
“He’s…he’s alive. Out of surgery and in stable condition.” She looked at Walt. “The surgeon said your quick thinking, your actions, saved his life.”
Walt, appearing uncomfortable with his praise, merely nodded.
“Thank God,” Sylvia said.
Juliette turned to Hugo, the cold look returning to her eyes. “This is my case now. Get out of the country. Wait—where’s the other one?”
Before Hugo could reply, the door opened again.
A large man stood in the door, his very presence alarming, thanks to his size.
There was only one person Hugo knew who was that big.
“Quel bordel.”
Or, as the English would say, what a clusterfuck.
Eric Ericsson walked into the private room like a general stepping onto the battlefield. Before the door closed, Hugo spotted two Spartan Guards standing sentry just outside the room.
“No. It’s still my case,” Eric said.
