King's Ransom (Man on a Mission 2)

Andre’s words had the desired effect, and he watched in silence as Marek left the room after he was dismissed. When he turned back he found Lukas and Damon standing shoulder to shoulder in front of him, at military attention, not saying a word. Puzzled, Andre asked, “What is this?”

“We failed you, too, Sire,” Lukas said shortly.

Damon explained further, “We were convinced Prince Xavier was guilty based only on his obvious motive, not taking his character into account. We jumped to a false conclusion. We even did our best to convince you of his guilt. To pressure you to have him arrested. We failed you.”

“Ahhh,” Andre said, glad to have the riddle solved, but aware this posed a tricky dilemma. For the first time in forever he didn’t know what to say to these men. Men who were not only the best of the best and who took what they saw as failure personally, but men for whom he felt friendship. Just as with Marek Zale, he had to find the words to let them know he understood their feelings of shame, but that no blame attached to them. None. Otherwise, their sense of failure would ruin them as fighting men because they would always second-guess themselves in the future, and that would dull their reaction time.

Then it came to him. “It took great courage for you to accuse your commanding officer, knowing that if you were wrong your careers could be destroyed. And yet you were willing to risk that, and more, to protect me. To protect Miss Richardson. Rest assured, though, you did not convince me of Zax’s guilt.” He smiled his faint smile. “Nothing could have done that.”

Lukas started to speak, but Andre overrode him. “And by taking Zax into custody—by providing him with an ironclad alibi—you may have saved my life, and Miss Richardson’s, too, because Niko could not afford to kill us unless he could blame it on his brother.”

When he finally dismissed them to wait outside so he could talk with Juliana in private, Andre wanted nothing more than to sleep for the next twelve hours. But he couldn’t do that. Not yet. He glanced in Juliana’s direction and was surprised to find she was already awake. Awake, and aware of everything that had just taken place.

“You heard?”

She nodded, then held out her arms to him, arms that folded protectively around him when he went into her embrace. And as he lay there with her on the sofa, his head cradled against her breast, he realized he’d been wrong. There was one person who was closer to him than Zax. Closer even than his sister, Mara. One person he could trust enough to let his weakness show.

Juliana.

A woman strong enough to save herself and him. Strong enough to take a moral stand against him, to be his conscience. Strong enough to lend him her strength when his own wasn’t enough. My very own Eleonora, Andre thought, just before sleep claimed him. He never knew Juliana lay awake through the night holding him, guarding him as he slept the sleep of the just.

* * *

The subsequent scandal caused by the arrests of the five conspirators couldn’t be avoided. The news spread like wildfire, and the paparazzi had a field day. Rumor and speculation were rampant. There was scarcely a Zakharian who didn’t condemn Prince Nikolai’s actions as treasonous and clamor for his swift execution, the same way Prince Xavier had done. But when Andre announced he would commute any death sentence handed down to any of the five, all of Zakhar stoutly held that their king was well within his rights and praised him for his mercy.

“Mercy that should be credited to you,” Andre told Juliana in private. She just shook her head and smiled.

It wasn’t until two days later, after the initial furor had died down, that Andre and Juliana were free to leave Zakhar.

* * *

Juliana stood at Sabrina’s grave with Andre, his strong arms around her, holding her as she cried. Shielding her from the paparazzi and their long-lens cameras. Pulling her face into the comforting shelter of his chest as she wept, not just for Sabrina lying so peacefully in her grave and for her twin daughters still in neonatal intensive care, but for Dirk, too. Dirk, who stood stoically at the graveside, his face displaying no emotion whatsoever, lost in a world grown dark and cold without Bree, a world where he blamed himself for her death.

“This is my punishment,” he’d told Juliana, his eyes wild with grief when she’d gone to see him the day before. “God is punishing me, but she paid the price.” And nothing Juliana said to him made the slightest difference. Nothing she said seemed to break through that impenetrable barrier. And now Dirk had shuttered himself against everyone and everything. Against friendship. Against every human emotion. Even against fatherhood—he’d only visited his tiny daughters twice in the neonatal ICU, both times for less than ten minutes.