But that was all years ago.
In the past.
He’s not here, so it doesn’t matter.
Besides, I’m here for important business. Not to gawk at my long lost crush.
“Too bad,” I pout, thinking of the confident, tall, rakish young man I still harbored feelings for.
“Too bad for whom? Your cock or your job?”
“Very funny,” I murmur, swiping a champagne flute from a passing server.
My eyes scan the people around us, and I can tell Max is doing the same thing. Our “lesson” earlier—if you could call it that—entailed studying the profiles of three prominent members of Citadel. The organization is run by a man named Charlie Hoeffler, who is supposed to make a secret appearance tonight. The threat against the crown is real, and this organization has expressed wanting to harm the royal family, so everyone is on high alert. I’m sure half of the people here are MI6 or private security that the King has hired. Still, as my eyes catch on a solo man sitting at the ornate bar, I nudge Max subtly.
“Is it me, or does that look like Target Number One with a bad dye job?”
The man is sipping what looks like water—or I suppose it could be vodka—as he types something into his phone.
Max taps his earpiece—something we’re all wearing—and in a low voice, speaks to Alaric, who is listening in.
“Target Number One is at the bar. White shirt, black hair.”
Max nods once and Alaric must confirm, because Max gives me a thumbs-up.
My brother and I pretend to make conversation with other guests, and out of the corner of my eyes, I see Quinn approach the bar.
Our plan—according to Sterling—would be to ensure that each of the three targets had a Lord or Lady trailing them. So it doesn’t surprise me as Quinn laughs and places her hand on the man’s arm. He seems charmed with her, and his eyes drag over her chest not so subtly.
“Target Number Two is moving to the back exit of the ballroom. Black suit, brown hair. He’s pretending to speak on the phone,” Harlow says to me through the earpiece. “The two of you need to trail him.”
“Let’s go,” I tell Max. “Target Number Two, black suit,” I say under my breath. “Back exit.”
I spot the target instantly. His eyes skim back and forth briefly before he pushes one of the back doors open.
We wait a few seconds before following him, and when we do, we’re met with a dark hallway.
“Comforting,” Max muses.
“Target Number Three heading for the back door. Astern is taking this one. He prefers blonds,” Harlow says to me.
I relay the message to Max, and as I do, a flash of jealousy works through me as I crack my neck.
“I know,” Max murmurs as if he can read my mind. “But just because we had her once doesn’t make her ours.”
“Life’s not fair,” I whine, keeping my voice low and quiet.
The sound of a door closing up ahead gives us our first clue, and when we enter, I stop so suddenly that Max runs into my back.
Alexander—PrinceAlexander—is lounging on a couch in what appears to be a formal lounge.
“Well, hello there,” he muses, and my whole body goes still at the sound of his voice. He’s wearing a navy suit that brings out his brown eyes. His dark scruff and the way he’s loosely holding a tumbler full of amber liquid give him an unhinged look. “I know you miss me, Otto, but you could’ve just texted me,” he adds, smirking.
Before I can respond, shouting voices sound from the hallway. Max and I step into the room and close the door quietly.
“Have you seen a man in a black suit?” I ask casually.
“He may have passed by in the hallway, but?—”
