Prologue
Nate
The engines scream like banshees, roaring over the heat. The dust kicks up in angry swirls, lashing at my boots as if trying to keep me tethered to this godforsaken hellhole one last time. I don’t slow down. Not for the noise, not for the sand. My boots hit the tarmac hard, my steps purposeful. They’re the final ones here. Good fucking riddance.
My squad walks with that same soldier’s gait: tight-lipped, eyes forward, bags slung heavy over our shoulders. We’re silent. Not because we don’t have anything to say, but because saying it would make this part real. The part where we leave each other.
“Flight 06A to London,” Captain Marshall’s voice cuts sharp through the haze, holding the clipboard like it’s his goddamn lifeline. “You’re up, boys.”
A few of the guys give me shoulder bumps as they pass, their grips tight, looks even tighter.
“You sure you’re not coming with us?” Jones asks, pausing, brows furrowed beneath the edge of his cap.
I smirk. “Tempting, but I’ve got a ride a little less crowded.”
“You always did have a taste for fancy exits.”
“And you always had a face for radio,” I shoot back.
He barks out a laugh and flips me off, then slips into the metal belly of the cargo plane.
I stay. Wait. Watch them board. One by one, they vanish into the plane like ghosts returning to a world they never truly belonged to. We come back changed, whether we admit it or not. Some of us wear it. Some of us bury it. Me? I let mine simmer.
My hand tightens on the strap of my duffel. Then I see it.
The jet.
It’s sleek, dangerous, and unapologetically luxurious—black as sin, with a golden phoenix painted across its body like it owns the damn sky. Of course it does. Of course he had to make an entrance.
Prince fucking Sebastian.
He stands tall near the base of the jet, his posture relaxed, but that’s just for show. The man’s always watching, calculating. His bodyguard flanks him; silent, square-jawed, and probably carrying enough firepower to start a war. Standard royal procedure.
I drop my bag. A steward in crisp uniform moves to grab it like he’s handling a damn crown jewel.
“Thanks,” I mutter, clapping him on the shoulder. He nearly topples over.
Sebastian starts walking toward me, slow and smug like he’s expecting fanfare.
I snort and offer a mocking bow, low and exaggerated. “Your highness…”
He laughs, all polished charm. “That’s how you greet an old friend?”
We meet halfway, and he pulls me in for a hug. Not one of those weak-ass, back-pat ones. A real hug. The kind you only give when it’s been too fucking long.
“Welcome home,” he says into my ear.
I pull back just enough to flash him a grin. “Thank God I’m not heading home.”
Sebastian quirks a brow, but he doesn’t question it. He knows what I mean. Home doesn’t always mean peace. Sometimes it’s just another battlefield, quieter maybe, but just as brutal.
He gestures toward the jet. “You ready?”
I glance over my shoulder one last time. The plane carrying my squad is already lifting off, fading into the haze and heat.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I step toward the jet with Sebastian beside me, both of us walking like kings across a war-torn chessboard, one in combat boots, the other in royal polish. Same beast underneath. Different masks.
