Page 116 of Stolen Faith

Then, finally, they were inside. At the desk. In the elevator. In a bland hotel hallway.

Three doors down, two uniformed cops stood by other doors, guarding Juliette and Devon’s rooms.

The instant they were in their own room, Franco threw open the connecting door. Sebastian passed him a master key. Franco unlocked the other door into the adjoining room. Room by room, Franco made his way to his spouses, flipping latches and opening locks with the key. He passed through two empty rooms before he heard their voices.

Franco paused by the cracked-open connecting door and pressed his forehead to the wall. Tears stung his eyes, and his muscles were tight with the need to hurt the people who’d hurt them.

He swallowed it all down and opened the last door.

Juliette stood near the bed, wearing an oversized button-up shirt and loose pants. Devon lay propped on pillows, his bare chest covered by a massive bandage. Orange prescription bottles waited on the bedside table, along with bottles of water.

They looked over as he pushed the door open.

For a moment, they just stared at one another. They’d been through hell before, had survived everything life and their enemies had thrown at them. They’d always come through, but this one felt close. Felt like they were still on the edge of a cliff.

Franco started forward, eyes on Juliette. He reached for her, ready to pull her into his arms.

Devon’s arm slapped across his chest, stopping him.

Franco looked into his husband’s eyes.

Devon had jumped off the bed with surprising speed. He shook his head, and Franco looked at Juliette. She smiled, but it wavered.

He’d seen Devon get shot back in the library. Had known when he walked into this room that Devon was hurt. But now Devon was stopping Franco from touching Juliette.

Why?

Franco studied his wife—the unsteady smile, the lines of pain that marked her face. If she’d been hurt, would they have said anything? No. Since the moment they called, they’d been in damage control mode, trying to protect the society. He wanted to rage and scream at both of them that they had to take care of each other and themselves because they were his heart, divided in two and living outside his body.

Franco swallowed. “How bad?”

Neither answered.

“How badly are you hurt, Juliette?” Franco demanded.

Juliette blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “I’ll be okay.”

“How bad?” Franco knew he couldn’t yell, couldn’t attract the attention of the officers outside the door, but his rage suffused his words, turning them into a low rumble as he stared at Devon.

Devon’s arm dropped from Franco’s chest, and he started to step away. Franco wrapped an arm around him, gently pulling him back. Devon took a deep breath then rested his forehead on Franco’s shoulder.

“They whipped her,” Devon said softly. “They tortured her.”

Franco’s gaze jumped back to Juliette. “Querida…”

Juliette stepped carefully into his embrace, her cheek on his chest. He put his arm around her gently, but even so, he heard her hiss of pain. He started to withdraw his touch, but she grabbed his wrist, pulling his arm tighter around her.

They were hurt, and what came next would be hard, so hard, on all of them.

But for now, in this moment, Franco had them both in his arms, their trinity whole in a way he’d feared it never would be again.

Amaya Rolland looked from the TV to her research bookcase. Originally it had been a research stack on the corner of her desk, then a research crate on the floor, and finally she’d graduated to a whole research bookcase full of everything from published books, bound stacks of printouts, photo albums, a small display case with a ring in it, and even some framed photos.

One of the framed photos was the flag of the Isle of Man. Another was an old, blurry satellite image of a large manor house/castle on the coast of a small island in the Irish sea. Now, the place that locals called Triskelion Castle was blacked out on all satellite images. It had taken her a long time to find a cache of images that showed the large stone castle-like building and its plethora of additional buildings, all protected by a high stone wall.

A printed label taped to the top shelf of the research bookcase said, “The Masters’ Admiralty.”

She’d crossed out the apostrophe but hadn’t reprinted it because at this point, she wasn’t sure if there was a possessive in the name of the secret society.