PROLOGUE
ISLA
Eight Years Old
ONLY TWENTY MINUTES AFTER the headlights pulled up to my family’s estate in the dead of night, the chaos began.
Papá’s explosive voice was barking in Spanish. His heavy fist slammed against a solid, wood surface. Sardonic, sinister chuckling came from someone else that I didn’t know, but whom I’d heard before on previous nights just like this one. More voices I didn’t know, but that I’d also heard before.
Feet pounding on the marble floors, echoing through the halls of the cavernous house.
The shatter of glass.
More shouting.
The quick, sharp slide of metal scraping metal.
I was only eight years old, and I was already well-acquainted with the sound of someone chambering a bullet in a gun.
I was convinced that eventually the chaos that often erupted in the middle of the night in my home would end with a shoot-out. And I didn’t want to be there when those unknown people murdered my father.
I leaped out of bed as silently as possible and scampered toward the window.
If I were brave or heroic, I might have had the presence of mind to venture down the hall to wake up my younger brother and sisters and make them escape with me. But they always slept through those moments of chaos, and despite not knowing exactly who the people were, I knew they weren’t there to come after my siblings or me. They also weren’t there to come after Mamá, and she knew to simply stay in her room and wait. This was how we’d lived and survived for as long as I could remember.
I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t heroic. I was just scared. And I just needed the person who’d been like a security blanket for my entire life.
His family’s summer estate flanked ours on the western side, and he was only ten years old. Even I knew he couldn’t do anything about the chaos in my home. It wasn’t about what he could or couldn’t do. It was about how he made me feel.
How he always made me feel.
Safe.
On some level, my heart and soul knew that I was safe with him no matter what.
After scaling down the wrought iron trellis just below my window, I took off through an expanse of dew-dampened grass with only the silver moon lighting my way. I blindly sifted through the ivy to locate the loose portion of the fence that had been overlooked by the gardeners and lawn maintenance staff, and then pushed the plank aside just enough to squeeze my slender frame through to the other side.
The Sterling Estate had an equally expansive lawn, and I reached the similar trellis on the side of their house. By the time I reached the window, he had already pushed it open because he always knew. Something in him was connected to something in me, and he always knew.
“Isla,” Malachi whispered, halfway hanging out the window, arms reaching toward me. “Grab my hands.”
One hand by one hand, I released the trellis and gripped his arms just above his elbows. He was pretty strong for only a boy, but I’ve always been pretty small for my age, and he pulled me up with ease while my bare feet pushed against the cold, iron bars. We landed in a heap of gangly arms and legs on the floor of his dark bedroom, but he was quick to stand and help me up. I darted immediately to his bed and climbed under the covers, wrapping them tightly around me.
Rather than slipping into the sheets and blankets with me, Malachi tucked them more securely around me and then lay down. He draped his arm and knee over the cocoon of cotton and goose down encasing me, holding me in place and fortifying the fluffy fortress of bedding. Only the top of my head was exposed, and he settled his chin against my hair.
“It’s okay, Isla. You’re safe here.”
Malachi’s family is from the small island nation of Corwick, nestled between England and Ireland, and his accent is a warm, soft, subtle combination of both neighboring countries. It’s so warm and soft that it was one of the first things that elicited that peculiar and unprecedented sense of safety. The other thing was his eyes. Eyes the color of steel, but that held the same warmth of his voice.
Also, his family isn’t just from Corwick. They are the family of Corwick. The royal family. His parents are the king and queen, which means Malachi and his older brother, Philipp, are princes. When Malachi came of age, he officially became the Duke of Corwick, but he’s still a prince. And just like in every fairy tale I’ve heard in my life, he’d always been there to save me from the terrors that lurk in the dark on my family’s side of the fence.
He’d always been there.
Until he wasn’t.
“They had guns, Malachi,” I whispered against the blankets. “I heard them.”
“But nobody fired them. I would have heard it,” he countered, still quiet. “And now you’re here, and nobody can hurt you with me around. I can protect you, Isla. I’ll protect you for as long as I live.” He tightened his full-body hold on me and moved his mouth close to my ear. “And one day, I’ll take you to Corwick, and we’ll live in my palace, high on a stony bluff overlooking the ocean, and no bad people will ever be able to reach you.”
Aftershocks of the fear of chaos in my house and adrenaline from fleeing coursed through me, and I wriggled under the blankets to turn over toward him. My cheek was pressed to the side of his neck, and his chin was still firmly nestled on top of my head. As intimately close as it occurred to us to be as such young children.
“Do you promise me you’ll do that?” I quietly supplicated. “Truthfully promise?”
“I do,” he returned; promises and vows that were far beyond our years. “I promise. I swear on my own life that I’ll take you there, and keep you safe forever.”
ONE
ISLA
Twenty-Eight Years Old
THE DAY IT HAPPENED was in the middle of a summer heat wave the likes of which New York had never seen. Even the pool at my family’s Southampton estate was warm. And even though el calor runs through my Mexican blood, it became too much for me, and I spent the majority of the summer hiding in my bedroom, plunking away at the keys on my Macbook. At the very least, the heat wave was conducive for making progress on my latest novel.
My deep, dark secret is the fact that I am a decently successful romance novelist, independently published under a pseudonym. I’ve been publishing about four books a year for the past six years, and all of those books manage to bring in approximately the equivalent of the median individual income in the state of New York. Six years ago, I had to figure out a way to provide for myself in the event that Papá decided to cut me off and deny me my inheritance.
My other deep, dark secret is the reason he almost did.
I couldn’t keep that secret from my parents, but I’ve managed to keep my books from them. Thanks to modern technology, I exist as an author solely through the magical world of cyberspace, and I’m slowly building a safety net that can catch me if Papá ever changes his mind.
I had finally made traction with a chapter I’d been struggling with all morning when my phone buzzed on the desk next to my keyboard.
Mamá: Ven aquí, por favor.
Pressing my lips together and sighing, I saved the file and closed the laptop, then stood up. My phone buzzed again.
Mamá: Asegúrate de estar vestida.