Page 94 of Roaming Holiday

“No. She had two daughters who grew up in the United States.”

I would’ve assumed that he’d need proof, or at least would put up some type of argument because of my race. Perhaps Wesley is important enough in this business where his word is enough.

“It looks like we have royalty in our midst,” Adonis says with a slight smile. “Everyone knows the rules here. No harm will come to you.” He steps closer to me, and I resist cowering from the mesmerized glint in his black eyes. “I hope you will remember the mercy I’ve granted you here, Your Highness.”

My voice is small. “I will. Thank you.”

Relief starts to prickle through me as we wade toward our room for the night, but a woman cuts off our path. I feel disgusting, covered in dirt, blood, and dust, and my patience is thinning.

“It really is you,” the woman says, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, black hair draped over a shoulder.

Wesley sighs. “Daria.”

“I thought I would never see you again.”

My skin prickles. Ex-girlfriend?

“If it was up to me, you wouldn’t,” he says.

Maybe not.

“I’ll pretend that doesn’t hurt.” Daria pouts. “You’re in town on business?”

“No.”

She hesitates as if expecting elaboration. This time, he doesn’t offer it. She clears her throat, eyes sharpening. “You got out. You should’ve run halfway across the world.”

“Maldana is my home.”

She scoffs. “Then it’s no wonder you’re back.”

“I’m not back,” he grits. “What are you even doing here? You hate Kosita.”

“Maybe I was hoping you’d return.” From her lustful stare at him, my suspicions are confirmed. They had a relationship. Daria slowly assesses me, and I try not to squirm or hide behind Wesley.

“Who’s this? You haven’t introduced me to your friend.”

Every now and again, I might question myself or envy another woman’s style or figure, but this woman downright frightens me. There isn’t a single hair out of place and I’m sure she could kill me without chipping her nail polish.

“She’s very beautiful,” Daria purrs, reaching out as if to touch one of my loose curls. “Hi?—”

Wesley snatches her wrist, its painful grip making her wince and rip away. She sends him a glare. “Fine. Message received.”

He leads us away from her without another word. But when I peek over my shoulder, I spot her studying me from head to toe, her expression tight.

47

NINA

A plaque outside our room for the night reads Presidential Suite, and the interior lives up to the name. The expensive, sleek design is all black.

It’s good to know princess privilege extends underground.

Someone drops by with a cart, and Wesley accepts it as if he’d been waiting. It has a stack of clothes, socks, a first aid kit, some canned food, and a phone.

I hold up the last item. “A phone?”

“A burner,” Wesley says. “I’ll be able to call Jack and arrange for a pick-up first thing in the morning.”

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