Page 93 of Roaming Holiday

But before I can run toward him, someone grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me back hard enough to tumble a few feet away. My knee scrapes on the concrete as I land. Behind the man who threw me, I spot another one headed for Wesley.

“Wesley, look out!” I scream.

I crawl back as the assailant in front of me walks closer, but an elderly woman with a headscarf slaps him and starts reprimanding him in Maldanian. He stares at her, baffled. An old man steps up to him with a baseball bat in hand, also scolding him in very quick Maldanian. The only word I can understand is woman.

A few more people step up with the same attitude. I watch in astonishment as a young woman helps me to my feet and gestures for me to go.

Wesley.

I sprint around the crowd of disapproving elders toward Wesley, who staggers to his feet. “Are you okay?” I ask, steadying him and glancing at the two writhing men on the ground.

“Come on.”

I jog behind him out of the market, my panic worsening with each limping step he takes. “Do you need a break?”

He only shakes his head as we turn down a populated alleyway. He approaches a homeless man among a cart of foraged items. “We need to see Adonis.”

The homeless man, with a hood over his head despite the heat, brushes us off. “Ne sémero pino tu milas di.”

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Wesley catches his arm before he leaves, revealing the mark below his collarbone for a few seconds. The man rethinks his decision, and when he leads us through the alley, I realize that the mark was Wesley’s burn scar—a brand. Fear threatens to coil around my limbs and lock them in place. How horrific of a business was he in where they branded him?

I hesitate to follow the man down into a cellar, so I clutch Wesley’s hand as darkness closes around us. The damp, musty stench of garbage sticks to my skin.

But after unlocking a door, we step into a hallway that’s the complete opposite of where we came from. Sconces flank the dimly lit corridor. Its walls are clean and the rug beneath my feet looks expensive. The musty smell lingers, but it’s manageable. We approach a warehouse-like room with a large rectangular table in the center. Few people scatter around as if hanging out.

The homeless man—who might not be homeless after all—approaches another and bows his head to speak. This one is middle-aged with jeans and a plain T-shirt on. Tattoos spiral up his arms. He looks at Wesley and me, taking in our appearance.

“As I live and breathe.”

Wesley squeezes my hand before whispering, “Wait here.” He approaches the man. “Adonis.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Shelter. Just for the night.”

“Shelter from who?”

“Arlo Serrano,” Wesley says, and offers nothing more until Adonis doesn’t reply. “He wants information he believes I can provide. We only need a phone to make a call and a place to stay for the night. I’m not asking for any weapons.”

“You want me to get involved in the affairs of a Serrano.” He chuckles. “You’re a rat.”

“No, I’m just a man who hates being lied to.”

A rat? Arlo didn’t mention anything like this. It dawns on me there’s still a lot I don’t know about Wesley, and it’s unsettling. Adonis crosses his arms, raking a gaze over me. My feet ache, I probably have blood on me, and I’m scared to look at my hair.

“Who is she?”

“My client. I’m her bodyguard.”

“Who is important enough to be your client?”

Wesley meets my gaze, hesitating. If he thinks the truth can help us, then so be it. The world finding out who gave birth to me seems like such a small concern after standing near death so violently in the last couple of hours. I give him a definitive nod.

“The firstborn daughter of the late Queen Ophelia.”

Adonis barely reacts. “The queen had no children.”

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