him toward the door. “The pilot said he’d wait half an hour. Thick fog is rolling in—he didn’t think he could wait any longer than that.”
The tug on his heart was even stronger than the pull on his arm, and he pulled her close to him. “I’ll hide you. He won’t find you again. But we can’t go with the pilot he hired. There is nothing outside of this oil rig that is more important than me keeping my head down.”
“Nothing?” Her lips twitched again, and Thad thought he caught a glimmer of moisture in her eyes. The sight of it tore at him. If there was any way he could have spared Monica the pain of what he’d put her through, he’d have done it. But shortly after they’d eloped in Lydia in a solitary ceremony witnessed only by his trusted friend Kirk and the deacon who’d conducted the service, the insulated world of Thad’s royal heritage had been shattered.
His father, King Philip of Lydia, had shared with Thad the ignoble agreement he’d struck with the billionaire Octavian. There was nothing his father could have done to change what had happened. After grilling his father on possible solutions, Thad had finally concluded the only way to keep all his loved ones safe and the tiny kingdom of Lydia free from the hands of a deluded would-be despot, was for him to leave.
He repeated his answer. “Nothing.”
* * *
Monica felt dizzy. Maybe it was a lingering effect from the plane ride, maybe the result of being awake for the past thirty-six hours straight, or maybe the rig itself was moving with the rocking waves.
She’d tried to talk that madman Octavian out of his plan. She hadn’t wanted to make this trip, but her life—and her son’s—were on the line. She struggled to recall everything Octavian had told her. The man had three objectives to achieve. If she wanted to get home to her little boy, she had to do as he asked.
“Thad, listen. Your father’s in a coma.”
“I know that.” An emotion flickered in his eyes. The thick mountain-man beard that covered most of his face made him almost unrecognizable, except for his eyes. After the many years they’d spent as friends, and the short weeks of love they’d shared afterward, she knew those eyes well. How long had she silently admired this man, content to be close friends, before he’d finally acted on the simmering attraction between them? How many years had she wanted to look into his eyes, content to catch friendly glimpses and look away before her true feelings were exposed? Mere weeks before graduation, Thad had finally realized that their friendship was something much deeper, and they’d gazed into each other’s eyes until she’d memorized every glimmer that hid there. She’d lost herself, staring into those eyes years before. She could lose herself there again if she wasn’t careful.
“Your father was missing for almost a week. The cr—”
Thad gave her a look that silenced her. She gulped a breath, took a step closer to him and spoke in a rushed whisper. “The crown has passed from him, and he can’t be king anymore. You’re his successor.”
“Parliament formed an oligarchy to rule for now. My sisters are a part of it. It’s fine.” Thad’s words were mostly silence and crisp articulations punctuated by anger.
“It’s not fine. Octavian wants you to—”
“I refuse to do anything Octavian asks me to do.”
Monica realized her hands were in fists. She slowly unclenched them, thinking of Peter. Octavian knew about Peter—he’d even given her the opportunity to call her mother and leave a cryptic message about having to go away on urgent unexpected business for a while. Her mother had been confused and concerned, but happy enough about spending more time with her grandson.
Peter was in good hands. He’d be safe—as long as she could convince Thad that he needed to cooperate with Octavian. She had to make Thad understand. But the last thing she wanted to do was tell him about Peter like this.
She had to make him see that Octavian’s way made sense. “The oligarchy was intended to be only a temporary solution until the rightful heir could be determined.”
Thad crossed his arms over his broad chest. “It’s simple. They can crown Alexander. He’s the oldest after me. He’s a perfectly capable leader.”
“But your father didn’t name Alexander his successor. He named you. Unless you renounce your claim to the throne—”
“In order for my renunciation to be recognized, I would have to travel in person—”
“Precisely. If you don’t intend to rule—”
“I don’t intend to appear publically—”
“You have to—”
“They can declare me legally dead.” Thad’s voice boomed, silencing their war of whispers.
She stared at him. No, maybe those weren’t Thad’s eyes after all. Maybe this person in Thad’s body was someone she didn’t know anymore. “You’re not dead.”
But the stranger’s eyes bored into hers with a foreign sameness that gave her chills. He leaned close and whispered with intense authority, “The Crown Prince Thaddeus of Lydia is dead. I am Thad Miller, an engineer who left his wife to work in the oil fields of Alaska.”
Monica pressed her back against the wall and studied the stranger who looked so much like the man she’d once loved. He had Thad’s tall stature, his booming voice. He had the same blue eyes, but the sorrow that simmered in their depths was utterly foreign to her, as was his thick beard, his unruly hair and his attitude.
The Thad she’d once known would never have uttered any sort of lie. Certainly not about something as critical as whether he was even alive. But then, this Thad seemed to honestly believe the man he’d once been was buried and gone, and could never rise again.
A hot lump burned in her throat, and she bit back the reminder of all she’d lost. Her husband. Her life’s love. Her son’s father.
Octavian had given her more to say, but in the face of this unexpected stranger, she realized those words belonged in another world—a world that still cared about rules of succession and time-honored traditions, and the sanctity of life and death.
She’d gotten a hint of it, traveling from oil rig to oil rig, of the desolation the men endured working there, living off the dregs of greed at the edge of the earth. What had they told her time and again? Most men worked in two week shifts—on the rig for two weeks, and then back to civilization and their families for two weeks. It was the only way to keep them sane.
If a man missed his shift swap, he’d be near buggy by the time he got off the rig. Men did desperate things, and went near suicidal under those conditions. It wasn’t any way to live. Not for a few weeks. Certainly not for six years straight. But Thad, as so many had noted every time she’d asked for him, didn’t seem to be a man at all. Instead of rotating off the rigs, he hopped from rig to rig.
Never stopping. Never resting.
More like a machine than a man.
Maybe the man she’d married was gone. But that didn’t change the threat to her son.
“If you don’t cooperate, Octavian has threatened to hurt my family.”
“Why
