“All the way up the Paris Prefecture’s chain of command, apparently,” Jagger inserted, twisting his lips.
“Which still makes no damn sense,” Brooke replied. “At a federal level, we enjoy a healthy relationship with France’s forces. Why didn’t those choads think to—hmmm, let’s see—maybe pick up the phone and call Syn directly about everything?”
Oz tick-tocked his head a couple of times, shoulder to shoulder. “Might’ve crossed our minds a few times, out on the tarmac at Bourget.”
“But there was not exactly a pause to stop for a full debrief at that point,” Jagger added. “Considering the lead confetti we were dodging, courtesy of our friends in the Gendarmerie.”
Jayd shot him a warning glance, hoping he caught her meaning. His snark was blooming in not-so-small proportions—not a wise selection of composure, given the thin rail upon which Syn was already skating. Damn it, Jag. Please think of other things. Puppies. Pies. The power loader scene from Aliens. Making out with your boyfriend…
“So we do apologize, Highness. We were a little preoccupied with ensuring your sister was shepherded to safety without a bullet in her skull. Only a few small priorities to juggle there, right?”
Damn it, really? The guy knew the power loader scene by heart. But so much for Jag listening to her telepathic hint.
And so much for hoping Syn was going to be less of a raging bonsun about it.
“Do. You. Actually. Dare?” His face, following his wife’s prediction, became the timeline photo for Ogres-R-Us. “Do you dare, cheeky soldask? You, the sneaky fuck who abetted my sister’s flight from this island to begin with?”
Creator’s mercy. That was just it.
Jayd let the ire in her belly fill the fists she shoved at her brother’s chest. “He abetted nothing, damn it. He helped me because he is my friend and I was getting no answers from anyone—answers that should have been coming from you, Evrest, and Shiraz! Instead, Ev locked all the files away as if I were seven again, begging to watch George Romero instead of Nickolodeon. At the same time, you and ’Raz were practicing on the war drums and rallying your troops for violent antics I do not want to know about.”
Syn snorted. It was less ogre and more stubborn ox this time, not that the new image altered Jayd’s ire. “Mmmph. Antics,” he repeated. “Now listen here. I do not engage in antics, sister. I am not some child, playing with—”
“A plastic toy?” She dropped her fists but arched her brows. “Then stop treating me like one.”
“I am not—”
Brooke slid in, planting a hand between the slabs of Syn’s chest. “Would you let her finish at least one freaking thought?”
The woman, obviously well-versed in dealing with hotheaded Cimarrons, even shaved off some of Jayd’s vexation.
“I may have spent much time looking like a dressed-up doll, but Syn, I am a human being. The human being you are still calling sister—for which I am deeply grateful—but a person just the same, with thoughts and reactions and feelings. Feelings that were mired in lost confusion last week after Trystan and Fortin Santelle left the palais.”
So much for the gentler emotions. Just mentioning that afternoon, now seeming much further away than five days ago, pushed stubborn tears behind her eyes. She was able to knock them back by notching her chin half an inch higher.
“I needed answers,” she asserted. “So many answers, brother. And waiting around for someone to offer them was not appearing like the brightest idea.”
Samsyn jerked up his own jaw. “So you picked the most perilous one instead?”
“All right, then. Tell me what you would have done. Paced around in your gilded tower, hoping someone would show up to tell you Evrest had finally given in and promised twenty years of your life to a Pura prispoul? Or that he had opted to give up his throne entirely? Would you have laid your delicate head on your downy pillow, entertained by the possibility that your other brother was likely concocting plans for a civil war because of it?”
His gaze, already the shade of a storm on the sea, intensified. “Not one of those has happened!”
“Not yet.”
“So you still have no trust in your brothers? You do not believe we were working as hard as we could for a reasonable solution to the crisis? Something besides those catastrophes?”
“I am not a seer, Samsyn. How would I know what you three were doing except for what my logic informed me? None of you were communicating with me. I had very few alternatives left to explored.”
She was baiting the ox, tempting him to become a full bull, and she knew it. But the fires in Syn’s eyes now told her something else too. She was pushing on his truth. The very heart of it. That was why she did not flinch when Brooke shifted forward, speaking into the silence in his stead.
“You could have come to me,” the warrior princess offered. “I thought we were more than relatives, Jayd. I’d do anything for you, as your sister and friend.”
“Indeed?” Jayd folded her arms. “Including keeping the secret about my plans, even to the man you work and sleep with?”
The question mark was a silly addition. She already knew that answer, and Brooke did too.
Still, the woman murmured, “We could’ve found a better way.”
“Concepts that do not matter now,” Samsyn muttered. He reached up for the bulkhead, stretching his uniform tight over his massive chest. “Much like me grilling her about why the fuck Brickham was brought here.”
Brooke rolled her eyes. Jayd barely held back from grabbing for both her brother’s orbs and tossing them to the birds on the tarmac. But what would that accomplish? It was the imbezak’s pompous tongue that fed her fury so steadily.
“Have you listened to anything we have just relayed to you?” she spewed. “Jagger, Ozias, and myself? Brickham risked his life for mine! And not just that one time on the tarmac at Bourget. The information in the media is not even half the story. Damn it, Syn! You of all people should know—”
“And he does.” Brooke again, inserting a tone of reason when it was most needed. “And for what it’s worth, I do too. I really believe you, Jayd. About all of it.”
“You do?” It was pathetic and desperate, but she cared not. She needed the balm on her severely bruised spirit.
“Senator’s daughter, remember?” her sister-in-law said. “Ratings points, story spins, and viral posts were like milk on our morning cereal. The media can be your best friend or your worst enemy. And as long as we’re on that subject”—she swung her gaze toward Oz and Jag—“do you guys have any clue about where Carris could be slinking now?”
While the guys shook their heads with remorse that could not be feigned, Samsyn decided to try some of his humanity on for size. “Well, the man is a mongrel, and those filthy beasts eventually get their due,” he reassured to everyone. “I have called in some extra favors across Paris, hoping to rouse the proper hounds for the job. They all relocated to the city for reasons that would not have me entrusting them with a search for my sister, but this is different.”
Brooke frowned. “How so?”
“This time, I do not care if they kill the target.” His rough grunt was hardly necessary for punctuation. Her brother was serious and everyone knew it. He growled harder before going on. “What I am more concerned about is containment. Those gutter dogs love their gossip more than all the palais hens combined. But I have also offered ample compensation to those who can supply us with the right whispers about Carris’s escapades. Let us be like the rubber tree plant and have high hopes that it buys some discretion, as well.”