one spoke, and once again Marek and Angelina exchanged speaking glances. They were the only two captains in the room, included in this high-level meeting because they headed the security details for the crown prince and the queen, and neither felt comfortable speaking up first. But when the silence dragged on, Marek asked, “Do forensics on all the bombs confirm it was the action of one group? Yes, the Zakharian Liberation Front has taken public credit, but before we rule anything else out...”
“Good point, Captain Zale.” The colonel’s gaze swept the room. “Forensic analysis is not complete, but yes, the preliminary assessment supports the theory that the bombs were all the work of one group. In fact, that they were all the work of one man.”
“That tells us something,” Angelina pointed out. “If all ten bombs were assembled by the same man, we may be looking at a relatively small organization.”
The colonel nodded. “Possible, of course. A good working theory.”
“Especially since the organization has managed to fly under the radar until now,” Marek added. His eyes sought out those of Major Stesha, the head of the secret intelligence service, who had sat himself at the far end of the conference table that could seat many more than the nine who had congregated there, and who—up until now—had avoided catching anyone’s eye. As if he felt the shame of failure more keenly than anyone else. “It is also probable the Zakharian Liberation Front has only recently come into existence,” Marek continued, welcoming the change his words wrought in the expression on Major Stesha’s face. “‘Zakhar for Zakharians’? As Colonel Marianescu said, that credo can only refer to opposition to the influx of refugees who have settled here over the past two years, and in even greater numbers in the past six months.”
“Confirmed by the targets of yesterday’s bombings, at least here in Drago,” Angelina threw in. “A train from the eastern border, carrying mostly émigrés. The refugee processing center in downtown Drago. The Zakharian National Forces facility where new recruits were training—almost seventy percent of whom were male refugees eighteen and older who had joined pursuant to Zakharian law.”
Marek, along with every other man in the room, knew what Angelina was referring to. All Zakharian men were required to join the military when they turned eighteen and serve for at least four years. Service in the military would be part of the émigrés’ path to Zakharian citizenship.
“And the preschool that was targeted but was miraculously spared due to one woman’s bravery?” Angelina reminded them all. “When the king decreed that as many refugee children as possible be placed in the same schools to keep friends together and ease their assimilation into Zakharian life, that preschool was one of the magnet schools chosen for placement. Nearly half the children in that yard yesterday were émigrés.”
Pain slashed through Marek as Angelina spoke, reminding him of how close Tahra had come to dying. But while he fought to retain his stoic demeanor, this time the pain was accompanied by an intense wave of pride. From the moment he’d heard the news about Tahra, all he’d focused on was how much she was suffering and how he’d nearly lost her. Now he realized just how courageous she was, risking her life without hesitation to save those children. If he hadn’t already loved her to the last drop of his blood, he would have for that selfless act alone.
He’d slept in her hospital room last night. And he had every intention of doing the same tonight and every night until she regained consciousness and was able to tell the nurses herself that Marek was not her fiancé and had no business being there. Some men might not have been able to sleep slouching in a chair, but Marek was not one of them. He was a soldier—he could sleep anywhere. And where he chose to sleep was at Tahra’s side.
He couldn’t guard her 24/7—there were soldiers posted outside the door to her hospital room to do that. And besides, it would be unthinkable to request leave during this national crisis, despite his desperate worry over Tahra.
But he could guard her when he wasn’t on duty. He could sit beside her. Sleep beside her. Express his love—the love she didn’t believe in—the only way he could while she was unconscious. He would do this because he couldn’t not do this.
And when Tahra came out of her coma? When she banished him from her side the way she’d done when she’d rejected his marriage proposal just over two weeks ago? I will cross that bridge when I come to it, Marek thought, his eyes narrowing with determination. For now, she is mine to protect.
* * *
Marek abruptly halted on the threshold of Tahra’s hospital room when he saw a strange woman sitting in his chair beside the bed. The woman looked up, and though he’d never met her, he recognized her from a picture Tahra had shown him, and from his own research into Tahra’s family. Carly Edwards. Tahra’s famous older sister.
Someone must have called her, he realized. Guilt stabbed through him because he should have called Tahra’s sister himself, as soon as he learned Tahra was in the hospital. But the idea had never occurred to him—too many other things to worry about. Alec, he thought. Alec must have called her.
His supposition was confirmed when Tahra’s sister stood and walked toward him, then took his arm and led him out of the room, saying softly, “The embassy notified me immediately because I’m Tahra’s next of kin. I’m Carly Edwards, and you’re Marek, right? Captain Marek Zale? I want to talk with you, but I don’t want to do it where Tahra might hear.”
She dropped his arm once they were outside, and she headed down the wide hospital corridor, not even looking to see if Marek was following her. He smiled a little to himself, remembering the bits and pieces Tahra had mentioned to him about her older sister...and Carly’s formidable reputation in the world of journalism. “Tiger Shark” was her nickname—a well-deserved one—and his smile faded as he followed her to the waiting room on that floor. Alec hadn’t called him on it when Marek had declared Tahra was his fiancée, but he didn’t think Carly would afford him the same consideration. Which meant he’d better come up with a story—in the next sixty seconds. One that would satisfy Carly. Or else his little fiction was going to be blown out of the water.
She stopped when she reached a quiet corner of the waiting room, then turned to confront him. “Imagine my surprise,” she drawled in the soft Virginia accent that reminded him of Tahra, but at the same time held a note of steel Tahra’s voice never had, “when my fiancé’s brother called me to say Tahra was in the hospital...but her fiancé was keeping close tabs on her and could keep me apprised of her condition.”
Marek had forgotten. Tahra had mentioned her sister had recently become engaged to Senator Shane Jones, who—in one of those quirks of reality—was Alec’s oldest brother.
“I can explain.”
“I hope you can, Captain. Because I’m this close—” she held her thumb and forefinger up to show him exactly what she meant “—to having you thrown out of this hospital, and arrested if I can swing it.” When Marek didn’t immediately speak, she pounced. “You are not Tahra’s fiancé. She told me all about your proposal, and why she turned it down. So you have no business being here.”
His face hardened. “Whatever Tahra may have told you about that fiasco is meaningless. She loves me. If she confided anything to you, she would have confided that. Yes?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Carly countered quickly.
“If you know that much, you know I love her, too.” The words poured out of him, the words he hadn’t been able to say to Tahra herself, but which she’d known were true when he proposed.
“Again,
