“I can wait until you’re ready, sweetheart,” he’d whispered, and he’d drawn her against his hard body and held her in his arms through the long night.
Once, he’d asked why there were times he could see the sorrow of the world in her eyes.
Because everything you think you know about me is a lie.
She’d told herself she hadn’t deliberately lied. He knew only what everyone else knew. That she was a student named Annie Stanton.
Then she and Declan grew close. Closer. And still she lied to him. Out of fear.
Not of him.
Never of him.
What she feared were the possible repercussions if he learned her true identity.
He was a warrior in the service of his country.
She was a princess of a kingdom that, because of her uncle, now had an uncertain relationship with the United States.
Could she ask Declan not to reveal her secret to his commanding officer? No. That would be asking him to dishonor his oath of loyalty. And if he told his commanding officer about her, what would happen next? Would his CO see too much risk in the situation? What if those further up the chain of command saw the diplomatic repercussions as impossible?
What if Declan ended up having to choose between her and the life he so clearly loved?
She’d decided she had to keep quiet—but keeping quiet was a polite way of saying she had to keep lying and eventually she’d known she couldn’t go on doing it. For his sake and hers, she knew that she had to end their relationship—but it was hard.
By then, she was deeply in love with him. Losing him would be agony.
So she did it slowly.
She saw him less often.
She only took some of his calls.
She told him she was busy when she wasn’t.
His growing bewilderment was painful. What had he done wrong? he’d asked. Had he somehow hurt her?
After a while, she’d felt as if her heart was breaking.
She’d realized that she had to tell him everything. If he hated her for not telling him the truth sooner, she would live with it. If he had to stop seeing her, she would live with that too. She just couldn’t inflict pain on him anymore.
In the end, Fate had the last laugh.
The same night she’d made that decision, she’d been jolted awake by the pressure of a hand over her mouth and another around her throat.
She’d tried to scream, but she couldn’t. So she’d struggled instead, bucking and kicking and flailing her arms.
Her efforts had been useless, especially when a second pair of hands pinned her to the bed.
“Stop fighting,” a low male voice hissed, “or I will apply enough pressure so that you lose consciousness.”
“We do not wish to kill you unless we must, Princess Anoushka,” the other man said.
After a minute, the hand lifted from her mouth.
“What do you want with me?” she’d gasped.
They told her that they were taking her back to Qaram.