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“Francesca,” he gritted out. “Francesca. Your brother is alive.”

He thrust the mobile at her, she took it, not even able to read the screen for a moment because her heart was somersaulting in her chest and her stomach felt tight and she was fairly certain that she was crying all over again.

But there it was, when she could see it. A text, changing the story.

Changing everything.

Cesca sank down onto the floor, down onto her knees. She didn’t have the slightest idea what she was doing, because all she could do was react.

And all she knew was that Saviero came with her.

Then, without thinking about it at all, she threw herself at him and hugged him hard, because he was the only one who could understand. There were others who might love their King, but Saviero loved her brother as if Vesuvius was his brother, too.

She was hugging him, wrapping her arms around that strong neck of his, and blurting out words that didn’t even make sense, right there in the crook of his neck.

And those strong arms of his were around her, holding her there, warm and flush against the wall of his chest.

It was one of the most intense moments in Cesca’s entire life.

Because all of the things that she had been tamping down burst free. All of the fear and fury, the terror and terrible, unbearable grief, flooded through her.

All of it.

And Vesuvius was alive, so she let it come.

She had no idea how long they knelt there like that. Cesca became aware—as her heart rate slowed, as that maelstrom inside her dissipated—that he was murmuring words of his own. In that dark, rumbly voice of his that sounded different up close.

Soothing words. Understanding words.

Because he knew, she thought again. He understood.

But then, as they continued to hold each other and press against each other the way they were, she became aware of other things, too.

Like the fact that Saviero smelled good. Of something like sage mixed with leather. As soon as she noticed it, against her will, she took another deep, almost testing breath. And somehow felt the scent of him wash through her the same way the heat of his body did.

And then Cesca was suddenly entirely too aware that his vast wall of chest muscle that she’d always admired despite the tragedy of it being his chest felt even better when she was pressed up tight against it.

She could only count herself as extraordinarily lucky that she was wearing a thick robe, because she could feel her breasts grow heavy and her nipples tighten in response to… Saviero Cimarosa.

Oh no, she thought, in horror.

Cesca pushed away from him and busied herself with wiping her face, using the backs of her hands, and trying to do something about her treacherous breathing.

She never wanted to look at this man again, not now that she’d basically had a waking sex dream about him, but he was right here. And she was the goddamn Queen, because Vesuvius was alive but had presumably still abdicated, so she made herself do it.

It was exactly as bad as she expected.

That blue gaze up close felt, especially in her overly sensitized body—she decided to call it her traumatized body, thank you—felt a lot like electrocuting herself.

Cesca told herself that the only thing he would see was that she was distraught. Not the rest of it. Not that flush, or whatever her body was doing, which she was horrified to discover involved a distinct heat between her legs.

It had to be some kind of near-death grief trauma, she told herself. She had at least ten therapists logged in her mobile and she promised herself that she would talk to every single one of them until one of them offered her a solution for this that wasn’t…what it felt like.

Because it was already bad enough she had to take on a monarchy. That she had to ransom herself off to the crown she’d always believed was her brother’s, not hers.

She could not possibly be attracted to the most boring man alive on top of it.

Cesca had always been under the impression that Stockholm syndrome took a little more time than this.