“I do not understand,” she whispered as the tears dripped down her nose. For the first time in her life, her optimism deserted her, and all hope was extinguished. She had nearly achieved all she had wished and had nearly claimed a life for herself with a man who was a prince among men. He had been keeping her safe since the very beginning. He was noble and good and cared about doing what was right. He was her prince, and she loved him, yet she had never said the words. Had he died not knowing she loved him?
“Oliver,” she murmured. “I love you.” Her eyes drifted closed, and she took a shuddering breath. She remembered him in every encounter, visualized each scrape, each verbal sparring match, each glare and resentful spat. Each uneasy glance, each careful maneuver, each quiet conversation, each kiss. Each wonderful, dream-worthy embrace. The terrifying moments after she landed hard on the beach only to see him close behind, running desperately to free her from the Jump Wings and chastise her and scold her and hold her as though he would never in a million years let her go.
She smiled, even laughed at his incredulity that she would risk her safety for the carpetbag that carried her treasures. Hot tears quickly filled her eyes again as she realized those treasures were now nothing more than ash.
Everything. Gone.
She paused, then lifted her head and sniffled. “Not everything,” she mumbled. She looked over her shoulder at the fire that still burned, thanks to the heaps of paper on it, but also the stool and the carpetbag.
The portmanteau full of her things.
She scrambled up and lunged for it, but the bag was just out of reach. Her fingers brushed against the stool, and she swiped once, twice, three times and then finally grasped it. She pulled it close and stood up, every muscle and bone protesting the movement, and then lifted the stool high above her head.
She hurled it to the ground at her feet with all her strength and shut her eyes as it broke apart and bounced haphazardly into pieces. She grasped one of the legs, stretched her petite frame to its full length, and snagged the ragged wood around the bag’s handle. With a soft laugh, she pulled it toward her. She sat up and held it tight to her chest.
That bag of treasures would lead to her freedom.
Oliver staggered along Edinburgh’s Princes Street Gardens, eyeing the structures that had been constructed for the Summit week activities and tried to remain upright until he found the building he sought. The ragged wound on his neck burned, and the pain grew more intense with every passing minute.
He pulled his collar higher and mumbled an apology when he bumped into a gentleman carrying an armful of purchases piled high. He sidestepped a gaggle of children who ran past, their faces and fingers sticky with spun candy and salt-taffy treats, and looked up to see the ISRO building.
He approached the woman at the front desk, knowing his appearance was probably alarming in the extreme, and said, “I must see Signore Giancarlo immediately.”
“Apologies, sir,” she said, wide-eyed and in heavily accented English, “but he is occupied.”
Oliver planted both hands on the desktop. “Unless you want me to collapse right here in the next two minutes, either fetch Giancarlo or tell me which office is his.”
Just then, the man himself poked his head outside the door directly behind the reception area. “Dio mio! Detective!” Carlo rushed to his side and helped him step around the bewildered receptionist and into his office. Oliver collapsed into a chair, and his head fell back.
A quick stream of Italian flew from Giancarlo’s lips, and Oliver vaguely registered the man opening cabinet doors in quick succession until he returned to Oliver’s side. His eyes drifted closed, and he fought another wave of nausea, breathing shallowly, before managing to say, “Emmeline has been abducted . . . believe she’s somewhere here . . .”
“Shh, here now. Be still a moment.” Giancarlo clucked his tongue in alarm. “This wound—it’s already turned green . . .”
Oliver heard the rapid swirl of a spoon against a bowl and hoped Giancarlo was mixing anti-venom. The icy sting of the medicine against the jagged wound on his neck made him hiss through his teeth. Then he felt the lifesaving serum seeping into the wound, spreading instant relief through his neck, down his throat, and within a few precious moments, his heart regulated itself and he was able to take a full breath.
He was exhausted, limbs aching from prolonged systemic exposure to the vampire venom. Lawrence had left him for dead, but he hadn’t killed him outright or completely exsanguinated him, which suggested he hadn’t truly wanted him dead. Either that or he’d underestimated Oliver’s resilience and partial immunity to the venom he’d developed over time as a police program safeguard.
Giancarlo rested one hip against the edge of his desk and wiped his hands with a cloth. He adjusted his spectacles and regarded Oliver with understandably serious concern. “Who did this to you, my friend?”
Oliver managed an ironic smile as he put a hand to the bandage Carlo had fasted on the wound. “My brother.”
His eyes widened. “Your broth—” He clearly made the connection and nodded. “Ah. I have heard of him.” He frowned. “Have you information about our Emmeline? Your Chief-Inspector has a small army searching for you both.”
Oliver shook his head and swallowed, shoving himself upright.
Carlo grabbed a pitcher and glass and poured him some water. He handed it to Oliver with an admonition to sip slowly.
Oliver’s hand shook, but he managed to keep the water inside the cup. He swallowed gratefully and took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “Thank you, signore. When I couldn’t find a medical or police tent, I came looking for you. I knew you would have medicine at the ready.” He winced at the pain that continued to pound in his head. “Emmeline was
