Page 7 of Broken Kingdom

“I hear you’re heading into Montreal on a rescue mission,” she says, glancing over to Layla and Catherine before fixing her gaze on me. “I tried to convince Maxim to let me go with you, but he wants me here, just in case Hammer has something unexpected up his sleeve. Or if he decides to ransom President Benoit.”

I told Maxim what I saw in the helicopter earlier, and it looks like he’s kept Hermione up to speed. It’s proof that she’s in fighting shape, despite the large bruise on her temple and the bandages around her upper left arm.

“That’s probably smart,” I say. “Hammer doesn’t admit defeat easily. Even when it makes sense to cut his losses.”

Hermione nods. “But the good news is his chopper was last spotted on radar headed north into the wilds, not west. You shouldn’t have to worry about him in Montreal.”

“Unless he calls Jean-Paul and warns him that Lost Moon isn’t under his control, after all,” Layla says, extending a hand Hermione’s way with a big smile. “I’m Layla by the way. Bear shifter. Big fan of badass women leaders. Appreciate you coming to help us out.”

Hermione’s expression softens. “You’re welcome. And I agree. The element of surprise hinges on getting to Montreal and to Juliet before Hammer decides to make contact. In light of that, I’ve arranged for a helicopter for the three of you. It’s fueling on the pad now. Should be ready to go in a few minutes.”

“Then we’d better hurry,” Catherine says backing away. “We have a piece of shit to interrogate before we go.” She lifts a hand. “Thank you for the help!”

“Yes, thank you. So much,” I agree as Layla and I hurry after Catherine.

When we’re out of earshot, Layla lets out a rush of breath. “Wow. Is it just me or is she the hottest, most magnetically amazing human being in the entire world?”

“She’s stunning,” Catherine says. “But she’s also at least a decade older than you are. Probably more. And she doesn’t seem like a cradle robber.”

“I’m not in my cradle,” Layla protests.

“You’re cradle adjacent,” I say. “I wouldn’t date you, and I’m only twenty-eight. Hermione’s at least thirty-five.”

Layla grunts. “Fine. But I’m getting older every day. I won’t be cradle adjacent forever. Someday, I’m going to be grown and accomplished enough for a woman like that to take me seriously.”

“I hope so,” Catherine says in a wistful voice that seems to remind Layla how dangerous our mission truly is.

The smile falls from her face and she’s silent the rest of the way to the chapel, where two armed guards refuse to let us in to talk to Beck, no matter how sweetly Catherine wheedles.

But it’s probably for the best.

Convincing Beck we made a deal with Maxim would take time we don’t have and then there’s the very real chance that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from strangling him in his makeshift hospital bed. And I can’t afford to waste precious minutes murdering Beck right now.

But as soon as Juliet’s safe?

Well, then…all bets are off.

Five

Juliet

The rooftop garden is beautiful. Potted plants and large raised flower beds cover the entire space, creating a sanctuary from the pulsing city street below.

Our private table is next to a bed filled with wildflowers attended by happily humming bees and surrounded on three sides by a burbling fountain and massive fruit trees already heavy with fat cherries and ripening apples.

If I weren’t brunching with a kidnapping sociopath who handcuffed me to the table as soon as we sat down, it would be a delightful way to spend the morning.

As Jean-Paul greets the newly arrived server, bidding him to fill both our glasses with “bubbly and just a kiss of orange juice,” I give my wrist an experimental twist.

The cuff is too tight for me to pull my hand loose, but he hooked me to the leg of the table. All I have to do is flip it over and drag the cuff off the end and I’ll be free. The wrought iron piece is heavy, and it will take a few extra seconds to flip it, but that’s okay. It’s not impossible.

Especially if I’ve bought myself a few extra seconds with some hot coffee flung in Jean-Paul’s face…

“Could I have coffee, too, please?” I ask the server, who clearly isn’t going to be any help.

He barely looks at me as he pours the champagne, but when he does, he notices the cuff and doesn’t blink. This is safe territory for Jean-Paul, or he wouldn’t have brought me here.

The man is deluded about how easily this whole “forced marriage” thing is going to work out, but he’s not stupid.

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