Page 63 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

My finger rests on the trigger. I don’t have a clear shot, not with the way he’s using Rory as a human shield. I wait for my moment and take a step forward.

“Let her go,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s not going to happen.”

Her eyes look scared, frantic. I can’t look at her if I want to keep my cool, so I focus on him. He’s a stout man in clothes that are just slightly too baggy, fitting him awkwardly. His most prominent feature is a pink scar that runs down the side of his face—

I recognize this man. He was at the masquerade ball. The realization shifts uneasily in my chest. He’s been hiding in plain sight this whole time.

“Let her go,” I repeat, “or I’ll shoot.”

“And risk hurting your sweetie?” He digs the knife against her throat, indenting the skin. She twists and gasps like a worm on a hook. Chills run up and down my spine, and he smiles, her red hair pressed to his face. “I don’t think so.”

“She’s not the one you want.” That voice. It echoes boldly through the tunnel. I hear the clip of footsteps behind me. Roland steps into the light, his palms up above his head.

“Roland, what are you doing?” I hiss.

“This is about me,” Roland says, his eyes on the other man. “Yes? You want me. Not her. So let her go… and you can have me instead.”

“Roland, get back here.” My blood is buzzing with frustration. I should’ve left him behind. He’s too drunk, not thinking straight, being a bloody heroic idiot…

“Please,” Roland says. I hear the strain in his voice. This isn’t a drunken, messy decision. He wants this. This whole masochistic night of his has been culminating into one redemptive sacrifice. “You want a hostage? I’m your man. I’ll do anything you want. Just let her go.”

The kidnapper’s eyes flicker between Rory and Roland. If he takes a step toward Roland, I decide, I’m going to shoot him point-blank.

“You want your girl?” the man growls. “You can have her.”

He shoves Rory. She pitches forward with a yelp. Roland grabs her in his arms before she falls on her face.

Then the kidnapper reaches for his gun.

I fire. A single squeeze of the trigger. It hits his arm and he drops his gun with a yelp. The second shot misses him completely. Before I can fire off a third, he throws his leg over the railing and jumps. I hear a splash as he hits the Thames.

Roland has Rory. They’re safe. For now. I rip my jacket off, then my sidearm holster, and drop them on the ground. “Stay here,” I tell them as I kick off my shoes as well.

“What are you—?”

That’s all I hear from Roland before I straddle the railing. The water bobs not far below me. High tide. I’m guessing it’s about fifteen, twenty meters down before I hit the bottom. I push off the side and into the river. The cold, black water splashes up and swallows me.

The channel is narrow, and it wouldn’t be hard to swim to the other side, hop on the dock, and hide in one of the small craft boats. I scan the choppy river until I see him. His white head stands out like a mooring ball, bobbing through the water to get to the other side.

I propel myself forward. I need to catch him before he gets there. I see him turn around, spot me, and pick up the pace. This far down river, I get nothing but mouthfuls of salt water as I jet after him. We’re about midway across before I grab the bulky man by his shoulders. He veers around and throws a punch. Using land tactics in the water—bad idea. I dodge it, lock my legs in his, and push him back so he dips under.

He’s gasping when I pull him back up, eyes buggy like a trout.

“Who sent you?” I shout.

“Go ask the queen yourself!” he growls. We twist and spin, water splashing around us in the struggle. I kick, grab at him, and I feel my hits make contact, hear him grunt. Then he grabs me by the back of my head, and I barely have time to catch a breath before he shoves me underwater.

I’m a good swimmer, but this man is twice my size and twice as strong. When he pushes me down, I know I’m not getting back up. As much as I try to twist out of his grip, he’s there. I might as well be pinned under the hull of a ship. He’s unrelenting, solid as a tanker. I reach up and grab his arm, digging in. The cool air I crave kisses my fingers, but my head remains trapped under his hand.

So I stop fighting it. I sink. I fan my arms behind me and draw myself deeper under the water. Constricted around me like a boa, my attacker has no choice but to sink with me.

If I’m going down, he’s coming with me.

We’re both submerged and only getting deeper. When he realizes what’s happening, he tries to pull off me, but now I latch to him. I know this river. It’s not incredibly deep, but if I wind myself around him, it doesn’t have to be. A man can drown in two inches of water if he can’t find the surface. We’re no longer fighting each other. We’re fighting the pull of the river.

I can see nothing but darkness. I can hear nothing but the rush of water filling my ears.

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