Page 17 of Broken Kingdom

Speaking of Natalie, I have a private message from her, as well. I open it to reveal a few simple lines that make my throat close up—You’re going to get her back and live a beautiful life together. I feel it in my bones. Thinking of you and sending you strength. I’ll be waiting to welcome you both back to Lost Moon with open arms.

I have no idea if Juliet will want to return to Lost Moon long term or not, but I’m grateful for Natalie and everything she’s done for us. We may not have an entire brotherhood at our backs or control of our pack, but Juliet and I have made some real friends in the past few weeks. Natalie has shown us so much support and Catherine and Layla are as brave and loyal as they come.

Layla proved that when she stayed by our side on the obstacle course, even when I was dead weight and likely a lost cause. And Catherine is proving it right now.

I glance over the edge of the roof in time to see Layla’s bouncing brown curls emerging from the clothing store. She’s carrying a small purse. Inside the purse is Catherine in her hedgehog form and two of the walkie-talkies. I have the third in my beach bag.

I take it out now, my palms starting to sweat for reasons that have nothing to do with the afternoon heat.

This is it.

We’re finally taking concrete action to get to Juliet. My hands shake with a mixture of hope and anxiety as I turn the walkie-talkie on and set it on the chair beside me, the better not to attract the attention of people at tables nearby, enjoying chips and salsa with their margaritas.

I remind myself that we have no idea if Juliet is even inside the compound and that this could all be a wild goose chase. If I’d gotten closer, I should have been able to sense her through our fated mate bond, but Layla and Catherine insisted it was too much of a risk, and I agreed. We don’t want Jean-Paul to realize he’s lost his would-be bride until we’re on our way back to Lost Moon with Juliet.

If he’s married her or touched her or done anything else to damage her in the hours since he became her captor, I’m going to kill him extra slowly.

I will kill him, even if I have to break into Maxim’s prison once Jean-Paul is captured and awaiting trial. Kidnapping isn’t an execution-worthy offense in shifter courts, but I have enough friends in Maxim’s pack that I bet I can convince someone to look the other way while I make sure Jean-Paul realizes what a mistake it was to take what’s mine.

To take what’s hers.

Ours.

It’s all tangled up with Juliet. What’s hers is mine, what’s mine is hers, and I can’t imagine a future that isn’t ours to share together. I don’t know who I’d be or what I’d do, I only know it would be a tragic waste. I was meant to be her partner, her champion, her husband, and I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to make the dream of a life with her a reality.

Even sit here and let our friends take the first steps to win her freedom, even though I’m champing at the bit to do something, hit something, tear something—preferably Jean-Paul—apart with my teeth.

As I watch, Layla approaches the sewer grate, still bouncing along with her easy, breezy, “sightseer enjoying the big city” energy. As she gets closer, she pulls her cell from her pocket and starts to type something on the screen.

When she trips a few seconds later, it’s totally believable, even though there was nothing to trip over on the smooth pavement. When her cell goes flying, the shock on her face is equally convincing. She kneels down on the ground, gathering the case, screen protector, and phone, which I’m sure she rigged to fall apart as soon as it made contact with the ground. She makes a show of trying to put them together as she shifts position until her body conceals most of the grate.

Thanks to her superior shifter strength, she’s able to discreetly move the grate to one side, while still messing with her phone, and slide it back a few seconds later, presumably after Catherine has hopped inside. I don’t see any sign of her hedgehog form, but Catherine is a professional. She has practice sneaking into dangerous places without being seen or getting caught.

Hopefully, today will be more of the same.

My breath comes a little easier as Layla stands, tucking her phone in her purse as she turns up the alley and disappears from view. Just a few seconds later, my walkie-talkie speaker crackles and Layla’s voice whispers, “The Hokey Pokey is in and swimming herself around. Over.”

Picking up the device, I press the button on the side, and murmur, “Good. The eye in the sky is keeping watch. Ping you if I see anything suspicious. Over.”

“Fingers crossed. Over,” Layla replies.

I’m placing the bright yellow toy back on the seat beside me when a teasing voice behind me asks, “Are you on a super-secret spy mission?”

I turn to see a gorgeous redhead in sunglasses, a red bikini, and matching red lipstick holding a pink drink with a little umbrella tucked into one side. I clear my throat and force a smile, “Nah, just playing a game with my little sister while she’s on her way to ballet class.”

“Aw, isn’t that sweet? What a good brother.” Her lips push into a pout as she steps closer, circling around to the empty chair on my left, right in the path of my view down to the compound. “Can I join you? All the other tables are full.”

“You can have it.” I start to push my chair back, but she reaches out, resting her drink-cooled fingertips on my arm.

“I lied. The other tables aren’t full, I just wanted to join you.” She peeks at me over the top of her glasses. “Don’t tell the rest of them, but you’re the cutest guy on the roof. I checked.”

I clear my throat, more uncomfortable than I would have expected. I used to flirt with women—and be flirted with—all the time. But that was before. Before the pits, before the rage that ate me alive, before the love that made me a better person than I was before.

Now, flirting with a woman other than Juliet would be like a fish trying to ride a bicycle.

I exhale and shrug. “Sorry. I have a girlfriend.” “Girlfriend” is too flimsy a word for what Juliet is to me, but it’s something this human woman should understand.

She straightens, pulling her fingers from my arm. “Gotcha.” She smiles. “Well, can’t blame a girl for shooting her shot.” She nods toward my bag. “Tell your little sister she’s a lucky kid. My brother spent most of our childhood putting bugs in my bed and cutting the hair off my dolls.”

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