Twisted Games (Twisted, #2)(106)

Of course he thought good leadership rested on manipulation and deceit. His favorite philosopher was probably Machiavelli.

“Alex,” I said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are a complete dick.”

“One of the nicer things people have said about me.” He checked his watch. “I would say thank you, but I don’t care. I trust you can take it from here?” He nodded at the USB drive.

“Yes.” Something occurred to me. I shouldn’t ask because I had a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer, but… “You have a blackmail file on me too, don’t you?”

Though I hadn’t done much in my life that was blackmail-worthy except for my relationship with Rhys when it’d been a secret…and what I was doing now.

The irony.

Alex’s lips curved a centimeter. “Information is power.”

“If anything leaks, Ava will never forgive you.”

It was the only threat that worked against him.

I didn’t think he would reveal anything, but one never knew with Alex Volkov.

His expression chilled. “That concludes our business, Your Highness.” He paused at the door. “I suggest looking at Arthur Erhall’s family file first. There’s some information there you’ll find very interesting.”

He disappeared into the hall, leaving me with nothing but a flash drive and a sick feeling in my stomach.

Drawing Alex into the situation had been a horrible idea, but it was too late for regrets.

I retrieved my burner laptop and plugged the USB in. I didn’t trust him enough to plug anything he gave me into my personal computer.

I pulled up Erhall’s file. Finances. Past relationships. Family. Political deals and scandals that had been covered up. I was tempted to dive into the last one, but I clicked on the family file first, as Alex had suggested.

At first, it looked normal, just a rundown of Erhall’s lineage and information about his ex-wife, who’d died in a plane crash years ago. Then my eyes snagged on the word children and the two names listed beneath it.

My hand flew to my mouth.

Oh my God.





45





Rhys





She wasn’t coming.

I stood on the rooftop of the palace’s northernmost tower, my jaw tight as I watched the minutes tick by on my watch.

Six minutes past nine. Seven. Eight.

Bridget was always punctual unless she had a meeting that ran over, and she didn’t have any meetings that late at night.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Uncertainty coiled in my stomach. It’d been a gamble, reaching out to Booth and sneaking into the palace, but I’d been desperate to see her.

I’d known there was a chance Bridget, stubborn as she was, wouldn’t show up. But I also knew her. No matter what she said, she’d wanted to let me go as much as I wanted to leave her, and I was banking on the fact the past two weeks had been hell for her as much as it had been for me.

Part of me hoped it hadn’t, because the thought of her hurting in any way made me want to want to burn the palace to the fucking ground. But another, selfish part hoped I’d haunted her as she had me. That every breath was a struggle to draw enough oxygen into her lungs, and every mention of my name caused a sharp needle of pain to pierce her chest.

Because hurt meant she still cared.

“Come on, princess.” I stared at the red metal door and willed her to walk through it. “Don’t let me down.”

Twelve minutes past nine. Thirteen.

The rhythm in my jaw pulsed in time with my heartbeats.

Fuck it. If tonight didn’t work, I’d try again until I succeeded. I’d fought and won impossible battles all my life, and the one for Bridget was the most important one of all.

If she couldn’t or wouldn’t fight for us—because of her guilt, her duty, her family, or any other reason—I’d fight enough for us both.

Fourteen minutes past nine. Fifteen.

Dammit princess, where are you?

Either Bridget hadn’t received the note, or she’d chosen not to come.

Booth had texted saying he’d given her the note, and I trusted him. I wouldn’t have reached out to him otherwise. If what he said was true, then…

Pain lanced through me, but I forced myself to push it aside. I’d wait all night if I had to, in case she changed her mind, and if—

The door banged open and, suddenly, she was there. Out of breath, cheeks flushed, hair fluttering across her face from the wind.

My pulse ratcheted up several notches in the space of a millisecond.

I straightened, air filling my lungs as I finally came alive again.

Bridget remained in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, her lips parted and her chest heaving.

The moonlight splashed across the roof, turning her golden hair silver and illuminating the slender curves of her body. The wind carried a faint hint of her lush jasmine scent toward me, and her green dress fluttered around her thighs, baring her shoulders and the long, smooth expanse of her legs.

I loved that dress. She knew I loved that dress. And something inside me unclenched for the first time in weeks.

“Hi,” she breathed. Her grip tightened on the doorknob like she was trying to steady herself.

My mouth curved. “Hi, princess.”