Page 68 of The Silent Princess

No.

“Ella?” I call, petrified. “Ella? Where are you, sweetheart?” My voice breaks at the end, terror spreading like ink through my chest. She was here. She was just here. I circle the desk, scanning the shadows, the space beneath it, the armchair, the chessboard, the bookshelves, every corner my eyes can reach.

Something grips my ankle. My lungs open in a violent rush.

Ella.

I kneel so fast my knee hits the floor hard enough to hurt, but I barely feel it. My Ella is here, hidden under the table. That, I can work with. The knot inside my heart unravels, my brain coming right back on track, the house that had exploded coming back in rapid motion with everything exactly in its place. Ella needs me. Not freaked-out me. Calm. Reassuring. Able to get us out of any fucking situation. Kneeling on one foot, I get down, finding my woman hidden in the dark, shivering, curled into a ball, surely panicking for her life after seeing the photograph too. No wonder. Anyone would. It is all my freaking fault. I should have never left her without a bodyguard. From the moment we left for the library, I should have done better.

“There you are,” I try, wishing I could diffuse her fear, only mine is not so far away, ready to catch me in the jugular. Her beautiful long black hair falls over her face, hiding it like a bridal veil; the tip of her mouth parted, her hands clutch her knees, and her breathing shivers like she's been soaked in icy cold water. She is in her white working blouse, the thing too large to see her figure, but at least it keeps her warm, and a pair of jeans and white sneakers. Her little maid uniform. Contrasting with who she is—my silent princess. Royalty disguised as a servant.

“I thought…” The words slip out, but I stop them. I cannot show weakness. Whoever left this message for us could still be around. I need to act fast, and without making too much noise or wasting time. Ella needs me. I need Ella. There is only one place I can think of where no one could harm her. She lets go of my ankle, my body missing her touch immediately. I raise a hand, stopping mid-motion, as if it could shatter her. From there, she seems so fragile. Wounded.

“Can I hold you?” I ask as gently as I can, but even I hear the strain in my voice. Words breaking above my surface, mocking my attempts to stay composed. To my surprise, she does not seem to pick up on my distress. Good. With a little nod and tears rolling down her face, causing my ribs to spasm, I offer my arms, waiting for her to accept. And she does. Her whole body comes into collision with mine, a sob escaping her as she rushes to hide against my chest, her arms holding me like a lifeboat, her hands closing down on my jacket, probably marking my skin with pathways I will proudly wear for days after. Folding my arms around her, I cover her hair with my palm, her face resting against my chest, sensing my heartbeat. Can she hear it?

How desperate I am for this, for us to be together, reunited, always. My wit is nowhere to be found, and I find myself murmuring words like a broken record, probably trying to convince myself as much as her that despite the fear, the unknown, the violent nights ahead of me for us to exist in this world, I am holding her. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

“I got you,” I tell her as I hold the woman I am falling for. “I got you. I got you,” I repeat again and again as she climbs up to hide in the crook of my neck, her tears wet on my skin, my instinct telling me to kiss away the salty water and make it all better.

“It is not safe here anymore. I have to take you home, sweetheart,” I tell her, more to inform her than to ask, since there is no reality in which I am leaving her here or sending her back to her house, festering with the enemy, an enemy fully aware of us. Without argument or question, she runs her arms behind my neck, and I comply, standing and holding her in my arms like a firefighter would after a tragedy, holding my princess right to the elevator, praying we will not find another threat on our way. Because if we do, I will take no chances and eliminate whoever stands in our way. I catch her bag in the lounge and call the elevator. The doors open to the staff parking lot, where I find my car untouched. Left. Right. No one. There is no doubt we could still be watched, but if anyone wanted to harm us now, they would have already done it.

It was not an ultimate warning. It was an act of war on my territory. I will answer back. Oh, I will. And the magnitude of my wrath will defy anything they have ever known. Only for now, the only priority, my only quest, is to put Ella somewhere safe. Everything else will have to wait. The chess game, the strategy of pawns and knights and kings and queens, the combinations happening as I am walking, carrying my woman in my arms, all of it will have to wait. Holding her with one arm, I open the door, sliding her onto the passenger seat and fastening her seatbelt.

“You okay?” I ask, as she gives me a small nod. She has stopped crying, her lips pink as she calls my name. Cupping her face with both palms, as gently as I can, I lean in, dropping a kiss to her lips, sealing my fate forever with an angel fallen into my dark world, now ready to unleash hell on anyone who could stand between us. I slide behind the wheel, hyperaware not only of our surroundings but of her body language. I dropped her bag at her feet. Her hands are laced on her thighs, and she is glancing nervously at me. I’m usually an opera listener, but I doubt that could soothe her right now. What could she like? I don’t think now is the right time to ask her about her musical taste. Turning the engine on, we pull out of the parking lot while I debate calling my head of security to put everything in motion, but doing it on speakerphone in the car with Ella doesn't seem like the right move. No one is following us right now, so I will deal with it first thing when we get there.

The message was clear. Ella is in danger, walking with a target on her back.

Pressing on the music, I type: wave sounds white noise. The ocean calms everyone, right? That is what I heard when I went to a physiotherapy session once, after my left knee got jacked during a boxing session. Waves in motion fill the space as I drive ahead, leaving the city behind us, becoming the picture of calmness despite the storm raging in my head.

Staying calm because Ella needs me to.

Staying calm because this is only the beginning of the war.

Staying calm because if I do not, I could lose it all.

I could lose her.

Making sure my tone is even and composed, I clutch the wheel, my other hand finding her fingers, resting my palm above her hands.

“This isn’t your fault, Ella. I have many enemies who have long searched for a way to wound me, never finding an Achilles’ heel. Now, things…changed. I tried to be careful but…someone saw us. I know who did this, and I’m gonna take care of it,” I say, my voice as stern and direct as the one I use in meetings, explaining a plan of action as if I am not panicking, the floor disappearing under my feet. “You’re going to stay safe at my place, and I will have someone I trust look after your father. My security will check on your house, just in case anything unusual happens, and I will deal with your employer to sort out any issues coming in the next few days that might disrupt your usual schedule. Everything will be sorted in the next forty-eight hours tops. You have my word. In the meantime, and because I am absolutely not playing with your safety, you will stay with me.” She looks at me, eyes wide, hands trembling beneath mine.

I keep my gaze on the road, the city lights stretching and blurring across the windshield, the night swallowing everything beyond them. We drive in silence, except for the low hum of the engine and the distant hush of waves playing from the speakers. Every now and then, I glance at her, watching the way she keeps her fingers clenched in her lap. When the gates of my property open, headlights spill across the long gravel driveway, catching the wet leaves and the dark shape of the house ahead. My mansion rises from the trees, cut out of the night, old stone and black windows, secluded from the world. I park in front of the entrance, checking the mirrors, the trees and every possible blind spot, waiting until my instincts settle into something close to order. Once I am satisfied, I round the front of the car and open her door.

“This way, princess,” I tell her, helping her down, my fingers lacing through hers as I lead her to the door. Ella looks everywhere at once, the windows, the garden, the flowers, the old stone walls, the fountain in the middle of the driveway spilling silver under the moonlight.

“Beautiful,” she mouths more than once, and my chest rises a little higher knowing she is pleased. I press my palm to the screen on my left. The lock clicks open. Inside, automated lights stir awake, low and golden. It is only a small vestibule, barely a breath compared to what comes after, but she still slows down, taking it all in. I guide her forward.

“Living room,” I say automatically, as we pass into the lounge. The space opens around us, tall and endless, crowned by ceilings high enough to compete with a local church. Three sofas sit in a loose circle around a low square table, soft linen and deep cushions. Beyond them, arched windows stretch almost from floor to ceiling, black with night, the garden pressed against the glass.

To the left, shelves climb all the way up, filled with old books I have barely touched and first editions my father collected like trophies. Opposite the windows, the electric fireplace burns low beneath a slab of black stone, the flames throwing gold across the rug and the curve of Ella’s cheek. A chandelier hangs above us, like branches caught midwinter, and I catch myself cursing silently. Who in his right mind would live here alone? This place was made for people, for a family. It’s no wonder I avoid it most of the time. She tugs at my hand, her eyes shiny and impressed. With her next to me, it all feels like my home was waiting for her to walk into it. A place that had no purpose until she stepped in. I tighten my hand around hers.

“Kitchen is this way,” I continue. I half expect her to interrupt me, tell me to stop, or ask questions about her moving in, but she doesn't, letting herself be led. It is two a.m. now, and it looks like we are both experiencing the same suspended exhaustion. We pass by the large white upholstered kitchen with two round rusty-gold light fixtures, a large island, and everything anyone could ever need to cook. Not that I have ever used the oven myself, but I have never heard my housekeeper complain. Having Ella here could be a good way to finally try cooking something here. Taking the stairs, I notice a flinch in her step, fatigue finally catching up to her. I scoop her into my arms before she can protest and carry her upstairs. I don't stop to question morals or etiquette, since I would rather sleep on the floor next to her than in another bedroom.

So I take her straight to mine, at the end of the hallway, past the guest room and the gym. The door opens into darkness, save for the faint spill of moonlight slipping through the half-closed curtains. Dark wood stretches from floor to ceiling, with a stone wall behind the charcoal bedsheets. My own fortress. Secluded. Untouchable.

A chair waits near the window, angled toward the trees, beside the small table where I leave a pile of books I never take time to read. Perhaps she could use it for her own reading? Though I would need to add more lighting, blankets, and whatever she pleases. I cross to the bed and lower her carefully onto the mattress, keeping one hand behind her shoulders until I am sure she is settled. All sounds here are nonexistent except for the rustle of branches outside. She is out, completely asleep. Carefully, I remove her shoes. There, she’ll be more comfortable.

Searching for a blanket, I find one in the dresser. Never used it. I cover her, making sure to tuck her sides. Is she okay? Does she need anything more? I have never… Her breathing evens out as she lets out the most adorable small sigh. I guess…I guess she is okay. Kneeling with one leg, I raise my hand mid-air. Wanting to kiss her on the forehead, I stop.