Page 66 of Bound

Brick dipped a deferential nod. Seemed the best move for communicating his mix of surprise and admiration. Evrest had probably defied his closest advisors to come down here and give face-to-face motivation to his staff and sister. Was the guy checking up on him too? Maybe. Probably. But Brick guessed there were better reasons for the man deciding to leave his designated palais safe room, especially at this very moment.

Evrest Cimarron believed in leading, not just administrating.

In being with his people, not lording over them.

In knowing their world firsthand, not evaluating reports about it.

All recognitions that Brick acknowledged down to his marrow. But not willingly. Not remotely close, damn it.

Because all that equated to new understandings. Evrest was the real fucking deal, not just the dude in the big brother box. The man rocked the world leader box too. And the stand-up guy box. And probably a few more checkmarks beyond that.

Which clicked all the way to an irreversible conclusion.

There was no room for backsliding on the pledge he’d made to the guy. Not by an inch. Not by a centimeter. Not now.

Not even with Jayd looking so small and scared across the room. Not even with how every tendon in his body screamed at him to go and pull her close, squeezing away her stress one last time. To whisper assurances into her hair and press kisses against her ear.

Not. Now.

Because now, she was an expired fantasy. The pixie that shouldn’t and couldn’t be his.

The monarch responsible for that moroseness was the same one who jerked him out of it. He snapped his head up again as Evrest shifted forward. The man’s noble features glowed electronic green as he reexamined the modern map of his kingdom.

“It surprises me not that the bonsuns have shown up at both places,” he said. “By air, they have few options except the strip, carved out of the southern palm groves. By land, they might have done better to try sneaking in over Tahreause or Colluss, but the terrain is steep in the former and rocky in the latter.”

“They’re also located on your opposite shores.”

“Indeed,” Evrest returned, not looking impressed by Brick’s quick answer. There’d be time for those gold stars later. Or not.

“So what’s the hitch?” he demanded as well. “This is all manageable, right? Unless the French have brought armed warheads?”

Surely Samsyn had banked on the same probabilities as his older brother. If Carris and his entire crew had flown down here, only the fields near Faiant Township or the Sancti Airstrip were viable touchdown points. But choosing the former would’ve forced Carris and the boys to fly inland, exposing themselves to instant radar detection.

In short, the asshole was shitting the bed in all the places they’d anticipated—and hoped for.

So why was Evrest silently scowling as if a boogie monster lurked beneath the proverbial mattress?

“Cimarron? Yo, man?” The unconventional address earned him some side-eyes from Iscah and her palais staff friends, but he stuck to his conviction. Something told him the man needed direct, not respect, right now. “Evrest. Come on. What’s eating your underwear?”

That garnered him a sharp intake of breath from the man. But before Evrest could issue the answer that went with it, the field radios flared again. An identifier on Hayloh’s screen pegged it as Oz’s comm. Yesss.

“Wizard to Greenbeard.” His friend was whispering, which usually meant good progress on the op. Good but scary. “You copy, Greenbeard?”

Greenbeard. Not the craziest call sign, but Brick swore to God, this island and its hair color fetishes…

“Greenbeard copies,” came a gruff, low rasp.

“You seeing this?” Oz queried.

“Affirmative,” Greenbeard responded. “I count six—no, seven—fancy friends at my twelve and three. And—Creator’s balls—now eight and nine.”

Brick gritted his teeth and held his breath. In his periphery, Evrest did the same. He tilted his head slightly, trying to send a calming look to Jayd, but she was already chewing a fingernail and jiggling a knee. Everyone else in the room projected similar vibes. They were terse and silent, as if they were passengers in Greenbeard’s vest pockets and the French, now so close they could be heard tromping the forest floor, passed too damn close for comfort.

Through another three minutes—yes, Brick kept time via Iscah’s computer clock—nobody said a word. Not anyone around him. Not Oz. And definitely not Greenbeard, with the invading soldiers practically on top of him.

At last, the forest-flattening boot steps faded. Then abated.

But after that, for the better part of another minute—yes, Brick was still watching, for lack of better things to do with his nerves—there was no audible check-in from their green-whiskered friend.