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Upon arriving here from the airport, she and Hugo had been escorted to a large bedroom by one of the Spartan Guards, who was visibly shaken by the news that three of his colleagues, his friends, had been killed.
Lancelot hadn’t had a chance to join them yet. He’d been pulled into the fleet admiral’s chambers for a conference call with several of the territory admirals the second they’d gotten here. She and Hugo had roamed around the room—their room for the foreseeable future—until finally anxiety and stress won out, and Hugo offered to give her a tour of the cliffside fortified manor house called Triskelion Castle.
If the circumstances had been different, if a sense of tension and loss hadn’t hung in the air, she would have been delighted with exploring the castle. As it was, she stayed close to Hugo, taking comfort in his presence.
That tour ended when they found the library, both of them finding the perfect cure for their apprehension.
Hugo had also found something of interest on a shelf, some story about the Dutch colony of New Netherland, and now, he sat engrossed in it. She was pleased to know that reading was something the two of them would always have in common.
Sylvia closed her eyes, dreaming of countless future nights where she and Hugo would curl up on their couch before the fireplace and simply read. She grinned as she imagined Lancelot kicked back on a recliner nearby, grumbling about being bored before rising, intent on distracting them from their books. He’d cross the room and kneel in front of her, his hands reaching for the waistband of her lounge pants, roughly tugging them to her ankles, pushing her legs open so that he could bend forward and place his lips—
“What are you thinking about?”
She opened her eyes and realized Hugo had placed his book on the side table. Sylvia fanned herself with her book, aware her face was flushed. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it?”
Hugo shook his head. “No. In truth, it’s quite chilly.”
The knowing grin he flashed at her told Sylvia he knew he’d caught her in the middle of a naughty daydream.
“Come here, Sylvia.” Hugo patted his lap.
She walked to him, needing comfort, physical closeness. Too much had happened in too short a time. She was finding it difficult to settle her mind as images—so many images—played themselves over and over.
The bomb. A drugged Alicia. A dead Alicia. Blood. Smoke. Carnage.
“Stop,” Hugo said, grasping her hand and pulling her onto his lap. “Stop thinking about it.”
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, cursing the cast, as she pressed her face to his neck so she could breathe in the earthy scent of his sandalwood cologne. Hugo’s arms were tight around her and he placed several sweet kisses to the top of her head.
“Sylvia,” he whispered. “Mon coeur.”
She lifted her head, suddenly very sorry for the three years of Spanish she’d taken in high school.
“My heart,” he translated.
She kissed him, a gentle fusing of lips, the soft, delicate stroke of tongues.
The door opened, the two of them breaking apart at the unexpected sound.
Lancelot was staring at them from the doorway. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he all but purred, waving his hand for them to continue.
Hugo had commented on the plane that Lancelot wouldn’t be truly angry at them for anything they did without him, and that did appear to be the case. It was certainly going to take her some time to figure out the intricacies of being part of a threesome.
“Or,” she replied, “you could join us.”
Lancelot took one step into the room, then stopped, glancing over his shoulder and whispering a low curse. “I was looking for the two of you.” His eyes roamed around the room, and she imagine his internal eye roll when he said, “I should have known to start in the library. We’ve been summoned.”
“Summoned?” Hugo asked as he helped Sylvia stand before rising himself.
“To the fleet admiral’s chambers. We’re about to be married.”
Sylvia glanced down at her attire, shaking her head at the thought of attending her own wedding in sky-blue straight-cut jeans and a batwing top. “Now?”
Hugo chuckled, looping an arm around her waist. “Clothing doesn’t matter at times such as this. What matters are the words we say and the emotions behind them.”
She sighed. “Maybe so, but I have the most adorable pale purple V-neck lace dress upstairs in my bag.” Sylvia lifted her arm. “It matches my cast.”
Lancelot grinned even as he shook his head. Then he shrugged. “Considering everything we’ve put you through in the past week, I think it’s only fair we give you ten minutes to change.”
