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That said storm was going to blow over the whole damn castle, entombing us beneath it.
Worse, that the ramparts wouldn’t hold against the surge and we’d drown.
And I’d be helpless to do anything about it.
I didn’t do helplessness very well.
Who the hell was I kidding?
I didn’t do it at all.
So why was I subjecting myself to it now?
“Because you’re crazy?”
Like I said before…
My mumble inspired an empathetic look from Crista, her wide eyes even more pronounced with her hair yanked away from her face. Tendrils of the stuff were webbed across her cheeks and neck, as she gazed at the kids too. “Crazy,” she echoed, her voice wistful. “That is a funny word. I believe I like it.”
I leaned my head against the tunnel wall. We sat next to each other on the damp stone floor, our phones side-by-side between us. A lot of good that did, since the thick walls and rain soup all but ensured we wouldn’t have decent signals for a while. “It’s a sturdy one,” I returned. “Serves a variety of uses.”
“Especially when a male of a certain royal family drives one to pull her hair out?”
I snickered but stopped, turning my side-eye into an astonished stare. “Holy shit. Crista.” Barely held back from face-palming myself.
“Holy shit what?”
Despite how adorable as she was, blurting the profanity through her formal accent, my shock was unfazed. “You have a jones for him, don’t you?”
“A what?” Then the context slammed her. “Wait. For who? For…His Highness?”
“I’m sorry. I should have realized sooner. And oh my God, you’re the only one who knows what I did to him! I mean, not what I did to him—I mean, with him—but not even in that way—”
“Oh, dear Creator.” She giggled softly. “No. No, Lucy. He is my—how do you say it?—my direct employer. My…”
“Boss?”
“Yes. My boss.” She jerked another inch upright, face twisting with the squick factor. “I mean, His Highness Shiraz is certainly lovely to gaze upon and has that Cimarron air that makes everyone nervous and fidgety…”
Nervous. Fidgety. Not exactly the two words I would’ve picked, but they sure did apply. “But…?” I prompted into the clear pause she provided.
“But,” she repeated, before sheepishly shrugging. “I mean…well…”
“Ew?” I finally supplied.
“Yes.” She beamed. “Ew.” Tilted her head, murmuring the word one more time beneath her breath. “I like that American word too.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t really a word. Didn’t matter anyway, especially with the issue I still attempted drilling down on. “So if Shiraz is an ‘ew’, and you can’t be referring to Evrest or Samsyn…”
Her face turned ashen. “No! They are also fine men but—” Her nose crinkled. “They are taken and mated and—” A rapid shake of her head became a shudder. “Just…no.”
I scrunched my brows. I was tired but not that tired. She’d brought up “that Cimarron air” as if she’d had firsthand experience with the subject, but—
Wait.
A flash hit. Part of my first conversation with Shiraz.
A pair of my father’s finest advisors…were joined by my cousin…
