Page 63 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy
“Yiorgos!” Her voice barely reached his ears through the storm as she called out. The young boy’s face was streaked with mud and tears, still wearing that oversized tank top. “Where’s your mama?”
The child held up one of the precious new textbooks, his brave grin visible even through his fear. He’d stayed behind for the book that meant everything to him. Achilles groaned in sympathy and dread—he saw himself in that kid.
Bris grabbed at the boy’s muddy fingers.
Another section of wall gave way to the west with a sound like thunder, and before Achilles’s horrified gaze, the murky floodwater rushed against the colorful buildings, splitting into multiple streams that slithered through the streets like hungry serpents seeking prey. The water was rising faster now, buildingunstoppable power as it went. They had seconds before this new breach reached them and swept away the woman who meant everything to him.
They had to go—now! Achilles fought through the powerful current, running harder than he’d ever thought possible as the water swirled around his legs. He scooped up Yiorgos, who clutched his prized book even tighter. His other arm went around Bris. They had no place safe to run. The wall where they’d been working groaned like the sandbags barely contained a massive monster, threatening to explode in a burst that would flatten every building in this village.
“This way!”
Nestor appeared through the storm, like Achilles had been praying for heavenly help instead of cussing like a sailor. He released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, fighting through the current toward the priest. The man piloted a swamp boat, his white hair plastered to his skull, his clerical collar somehow still visible beneath his rain-soaked shirt. “Get in!”
Achilles lifted the child in first, then Bris, the warmth of her shaking body against his hands making him silently thank God for this rescue—though it had nothing to do with his sorry skin! For once, he should have listened to Phoenix and corralled the fire that was his wife!
“Polly?” Bris shouted over the storm.
Achilles climbed into the boat beside her, adding his voice to hers as they navigated the flooded streets. “Peder!” His call was swallowed by the howling wind. No sign of anyone except a few other rescue boats carrying volunteers through the chaos. Peder had better have put his admiration for Polly to good use—sweeping her off her feet to safety! And what about the other families in this town? Hopefully, they’d given them enough time to evacuate.
They searched for survivors until they had no more time, no more breath.
The storm beat against their small boat as they carved through narrow, debris-filled channels that had once been Ilion’s streets, heading toward the Gothic church perched on higher ground. The ancient stones and flying buttresses offered the promise of sanctuary, as they had for countless refugees over the centuries. Behind them, the village was disappearing beneath churning brown water, those bright painted houses vanishing like toys in a flooded sandbox.
Bris let out a heartbroken cry at the destruction, and he wrapped his arms around her, feeling her small frame trembling against his chest. Her wet hair clung to his neck as they reached the edge of the wooded grove surrounding the sanctuary.
Nestor tied their boat to a sturdy oak whose lower branches now dipped into the rising water. Bris hadn’t let go of that boy for a second, and she dragged him off the boat with her. Achilles steadied her, making sure the priest had all the help he needed. “How did you know to come after us?”
“God works in mysterious ways,” Nestor said with a weary smile. “Though I suspect He had help from my practical side—I’ve weathered enough storms to know when to get the boat ready.”
Yeah, that would do it. They sloshed through ankle-deep water among the ancient trees, their soaked clothes weighing them down like lead. Achilles wrapped his arm around Bris, trying to shield her from the worst of the driving rain, though they couldn’t get any wetter than they already were. Not that the storm wasn’t trying to change that.
The soggy grass squished beneath their feet. Nestor’s prized roses hung their heads like mourners, delicate petals scattered, and stems bent under the storm’s relentless assault. Scanning the rising floods in the distance, Achilles felt his chest tighten atthe ominous sight of debris-filled water creeping steadily up the hillside—even this sanctuary wouldn’t stay dry for long.
The church sat at the top of the hill, but the flood would eventually reach them here too. Nowhere was truly safe, though the distant palace spires glowed like a golden beacon—sanctuary reserved for only a privileged few. Just like in ages past, it represented a fist to rule, rather than protection.
Weren’t they meant to serve their people instead? Or was Phoenix right? Getting into the trenches with their people had nearly gotten Bris killed.
He blamed himself as they ducked inside the ancient sanctuary. The massive stone walls muted the storm to a distant rumble. Colored light from the stained-glass windows painted everything in jeweled tones—ruby, sapphire, and emerald hues dancing across Bris’s mud-streaked face, caressing her soft cheek.
“We need to get you warm before hypothermia sets in,” Nestor said, his voice echoing in the vaulted space. He rushed for blankets from the vestry, where his modest living quarters adjoined the sanctuary.
Achilles settled onto a wooden pew with his arm around Bris, her wet hair tangling around his forearm like black silk. Her body shook violently against him—he wasn’t sure if it was from terror or cold. Probably both. “Honey, I’ve got you,” he murmured, running his hand down her back, desperate to offer comfort but not knowing how.
Yiorgos nestled between them like a small, soggy sparrow, still clutching his precious textbook to his narrow chest. That thing had nearly gotten them all killed. Achilles could barely stand to look at it.
A rain-spattered page flipped open, revealing the history of Tirreoy, stretching back to the ancient Bronze Age kingdoms when scattered Tirrojan cities were first united under onecrown, establishing the Tyndarian dynasty that would rule for over three millennia.
Flip. Yiorgos had found the Great Siege Wars, when Tirreoy withstood a legendary ten-year siege, ultimately emerging victorious when the invaders were driven back across the Aegean.
Flip. Now smudged illustrations showed the Ottoman expansion period, the bright colors melting away into Tirreoy’s mountain fortresses when superior naval fleet successfully repelled three separate invasion attempts, maintaining independence while neighboring Greek territories fell under foreign rule.
A small moan of grief escaped Bris’s lips—they were tinged with blue from the cold, another symptom to join her poor trembling body. Achilles rubbed her back more vigorously, feeling utterly helpless, even as Nestor returned with thick woolen blankets. The priest wrapped the first around Bris, his kind face creased with concern despite his obvious exhaustion.
“My brave sheep,” he said softly, though he seemed to be addressing Bris—Achilles certainly hadn’t done anything heroic tonight. The opposite, actually. He’d been a reckless fool.
Flip. Yiorgos, now bundled in his own blanket, found the soggy World War II chapter. Queen Cassandra II had refused Nazi demands for passage through Tirrojan territory, leading fierce mountain resistance that helped delay Axis operations in the Balkans. The royal family had never fled, instead establishing command bunkers in the ancient citadel tunnels.
Nestor glanced at the illustrated page, now an abstract mess where the colors had run wild. “Ah yes, those old passages… most of them are sealed now for safety reasons.” He nodded toward worn stone steps leading down to the crypts below. “We had to close the main entrances years ago. Too dangerous—can’thave unauthorized people reaching the palace with nefarious purposes.”
