Page 31 of Royal Affair
"I've got a contact in the Luxembourg police," he said without preamble. "They're tracking the SUV through traffic cameras. Headed north toward the warehouse district."
"Send coordinates," I replied, making a hard left turn.
"James," Harrison's voice was serious.
"That note—'I know what you've done'—suggests this is personal. Nikolai isn't just a random mercenary. He's here for a reason, targeting her specifically."
"You think it's connected to whatever happened five years ago?" I asked, my gut twisting.
"High probability. Whatever she's hiding, someone knows. And they're using it against her."
The information hit me with devastating force. This wasn't just a random threat—this was personal, and I'd failed to protect her.
"I'm sending additional resources," Harrison continued. "Anton is assembling a team."
"No," I said sharply. "Too many people could spook them. Send the location to me first. I'll assess."
I ended the call as my phone pinged with an address—an old office building in the industrial district recently converted to luxury lofts. It would be perfect for a temporary operation.
I parked a block away and approached on foot. The building was dark except for the lights on the top floor—the penthouse loft.
I assessed the security system and identified the weak points—the service entrance, fire escape, and electrical box. The system is professional but not military-grade.
I texted Anton: "Coordinates confirmed. The target is likely in the penthouse. Approach silently, no sirens, no visible police. I'm going in. Wait for my signal."
Then I readied myself to hunt, using the tools I had brought for similar situations—tools I had hoped I would never need again—as I had been trained.
The red haze clouding my vision was familiar—the same killing calm that had kept me alive through three tours in Iraq. But this time it wasn't about survival or following orders. This time it was personal, and that made it infinitely more dangerous. I'd killed men for far less than what this piece of shit had tried to do to her.
Prince or not, I was going to get her back. And whoever took her would learn exactly what happens when you take something that's mine.
Chapter Fifteen
Evangeline
Pain pulsed behind my eyes as consciousness crept in. My mouth was dry, my tongue felt like sandpaper, and something rough pressed against my lips—a gag. The realisation sent a jolt of panic through my foggy mind.
I tried to move my hands, but they were bound behind me, rope or zip ties cutting into my wrists. My shoulders ached from the position. How long had I been like this? The grogginess suggested I'd been unconscious for hours - it had been late when we'd left the club, and now pale morning sunlight streamed through the windows.
Forcing my eyes open, I blinked against the pale morning sunlight streaming through tall windows. The room slowly came into focus–exposed brick walls, high ceilings with metal beams, minimalist furniture. A loft apartment? The industrial style reminded me of the trendy conversions in the industrial district.
Think, Evangeline. What happened last night?
Fragments of memory flashed through my mind: the coffee shop, sneaking away from James, the taxi ride to The Underground. It had been Halloween night, and everyone was incostume. My silver mask, now gone. Dancing with my friends. A handsome stranger with devil horns offering drinks…
Oh God.
More memories surfaced: the stranger's charming smile, his hand on my waist, the drinks that kept coming, and those ridiculous red devil horns that had made him seem so harmless at first, just another Halloween reveller. The room started spinning, and I wasn't sure if it was the hangover or the fear.
What had been in those drinks?
I twisted my wrists, trying to find any weakness in the bindings. The movement sent sharp pains up my arms, but I kept going. I had to get free. Had to find a way out before?—
The sound of footsteps made me freeze. Heavy boots on metal stairs, getting closer. My heart hammered against my ribs as I looked frantically around the room. There were no obvious exits except the stairs. The windows were too high, probably locked anyway.
A door creaked open behind me. I tried to turn my head, but a wave of nausea hit me. The footsteps circled around me until a figure appeared in my vision–tall, wearing dark clothes and a bone-white mask that covered their entire face.
"Good morning, Your Highness." The voice was male, deliberately distorted, as if he were using some kind of modulator. "I trust you slept well?"
