She still managed to surprise him, though.
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but—when I was a little girl, my dad had this cheap little statue of the Eiffel Tower. It was the funniest-looking thing, and when I found out some people in Paris built it for a fair—I mean, a World’s Fair but still, essentially an overgrown fair—but then they kept it because it became a national symbol, I thought that was the most incredible thing. That people could build something as a novelty that would become a symbol for love and travel the world over. It made me think that no matter who we are, or how we start out, we can become something different—something meaningful.” She glanced away, a blush crawling up her cheeks.
“So I wanted to go to Paris. That’s a big reason why I took this trip with my friends. And I love my friends, don’t get me wrong. But one of the stops on our itinerary was Paris—we’d be there for three whole days, and Lauren promised me that she’d put us up in a hotel that had a view of the Eiffel Tower. That we could visit and go to the top, no matter how long the lines were.” She shook her head, glancing down the long park toward the brighter lights at the far end. “I still have that silly little Eiffel Tower somewhere. It’s one of the few things I kept, but I couldn’t throw it away.”
Ryker sensed her restlessness, so he let her tug out of his embrace, then followed as she pulled him along the walkway, away from the celebration and toward the bold lights in the distance. “Will you go to Paris then?”
She laughed. “Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe not this trip after all, but one day. I’ve heard it’s beautiful, though it has the problems any big city does.” She sent him a sideways glance. “Can you remember now, if you’ve been?”
Ryker lifted his gaze up past the treetops as they walked, taking in the starlit sky. “I can,” he said. “I don’t know when or how, but I’m certain that I’ve been there, and that those memories aren’t bad ones either, but simply waiting for the right time to come out.” He squeezed her hand. “I feel good about them, though. I think Paris was a good place for me. That I was happy there.”
“I think you probably were too,” she said softly.
They walked to the end of the park, and when they finally cleared the last of the trees, Ryker saw why there had been so many lights. A building soared above the city streets, walled and gated but lit brightly enough to seem like full day. And to either side of the gates was the symbol he’d come to know so well. The royal seal.
His heart started hammering in his chest for no reason, and he regarded Francesca with a frown. “Why have you brought me here?” he asked. “I thought we agreed—not tonight.”
“Because it’s time that you saw it,” she said, pointing up to the royal palace. “This…well, this is your home.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ari stared at the castle walls, lit up like a birthday cake. “What are you talking about?” he rumbled. “It’s the royal palace.”
She nodded, but inside Fran was roiling. Was this the right thing? Was it time?
There was no way to know. But there also was no denying that Ari had already been recognized twice today. First by the cabbie, though he hadn’t realized exactly who he was seeing, and secondly by the beautiful woman at the festival.
Whether Fran wanted it to happen or not, time was running short, and if she didn’t want Ari to be blindsided by what she was about to hand him into, she owed him some explanation.
Coward. This wasn’t about solely Ari, though, if she was being honest with herself. This was about avoiding any more of his questions—questions which made her yearn to spill all the stupid, inconsequential stories of her past, stories she’d never been able to tell. Couldn’t tell.
Wouldn’t tell.
So, the most effective redirect she’d managed yet to escape revealing her own secrets? Telling Ari about his.
“It’s as I thought,” he said, his words startling her out of her self-castigation. “I work for the royal family. I knew it had to be something like that.”
She grimaced. “Well…that’s not exactly it.”
Fran continued before she lost her nerve. “Twelve months ago, Aristotle Andris left the royal palace on the eve of a terrible storm over the Aegean,” she said, holding on tightly to Ari’s hand as it began to shake. He never took his eyes off the castle, though, and he didn’t turn away. She plunged on. “He took off in his two-seater plane from the municipal airfield south of the city, and never came home. Pieces of his plane were found, but no body. After months of searching, he was officially declared dead.”
“Dead?” The shock and growing panic in Ari’s face seared Francesca, and in her heart she knew she’d done the right thing, telling him. He would have time to process the information…and his mother would never have to see that look of profound loss on his face, the bewildered betrayal.
“But how could they do that without a body? Didn’t the royal family object?” he asked. His other hand flailed and she reached for it, locking them both in hers. He stared at her in wild confusion.
“You were missing—and no one could believe you were gone. That you wouldn’t come back. Your parents threw every resource into the search, but nothing came of it. The entire country sank into mourning, and as the weeks dragged into months, your parents could see the grief was damaging the spirit of Garronia,” she said. “The people were broken with your loss and couldn’t heal without moving on in some way. Your younger brother—”
Ari jolted and glared at her, his eyes widening in disbelief. “I have a brother?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak for a moment given the hope and wonder in his face, the realization that he did have a family. Then she cleared her throat and carried on, despite the strangled pressure in her throat. “Kristos. He also refused to believe you were dead. Your best friend too. Your parents. None of them could accept it, but the country needed to recover, needed to have a reason to hope again. They—the people wouldn’t let you go, otherwise.”
“It’s a proud country,” Ari murmured, and there were tears glistening in his eyes as he gazed back to the palace walls. “Proud and fierce and passionate in its grief. For any of its lost sons.”
“And you were their prince. Their future king,” Fran said, though Ari shook his head. “But your brother resisted until—well, it was less than a month ago that he finally acquiesced to be the crown prince. A job he’s quite sure he’ll hate.”
“My job,” Ari said. He turned back to her, incredulous. “You’re saying that’s my job.”
“You’re the eldest son.”
“But Ryker Stavros…” he said the words almost plaintively and Fran nodded at him. He didn’t need to be told no right now, he needed to be drawn to the yes.
“Ryker Stavros was a name you’d chosen for yourself when you were young, when you and your brother would imagine you were warriors and pilots, off on grand adventures.”
“Pilots.” Ari barked a laugh, then a new realization struck him. He pulled his hands free from hers, stepping back. “You knew…all of this. You knew who I was. And you didn’t tell me. You let me believe I was—” he glared at her. “We made love!”
Guilt smashed into Fran like a fist, and she could feel the blood draining out of her face.
This is why you didn’t fall for your patients. This was why you didn’t get too close! Even if he wasn’t a patient, she’d violated Ari’s trust…
Wait a minute. Fran scowled. Ari wasn’t an idiot, and just that fast, her own anger spiked equally hot.
“Don’t give me that,” she snapped back, her Midwestern twang loud in her ears. “You knew I had some idea of who you are. Stefan knew your family, and Nicki was my friend. You saw us talking—you knew. You’re right, I should never have—we should never have—” she flapped her hands as he scowled at her. “But we did. We did and—shit.”
Ari blinked but he wasn’t Fran’s only problem right now. She’d known standing in front of the royal freaking palace was like dangling candy in fron
t of a baby, and she’d been right. Two men came striding out of the front gates, backed by a trio of big, burly types that had to be members of the GNSF. Ari was about to be collected, whether he was ready or not.
“Look—you don’t owe me anything,” she said hurriedly to Ari. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let the honor guard bearing down on you know about the sex. That’s probably not going to sit too well with them.”
“The honor—” Ari pivoted, staring. “The captain and Stefan.”
“The captain’s name is Dimitri, and cut him some slack,” she said, her words low and tight—but there remained so much Ari didn’t remember, and so much that he needed to. “Out of everyone, he never gave up. He blames himself for you leaving that night.”
“He what?” His anger redirected to shock, Ari was left gaping at her as the men arrived, exactly as she wanted to happen. She stepped back as Stefan strode right up to the prince, his gaze swinging from Ari to Fran.
“He knows,” Dimitri said, also drawing up short. The three of them squared off like adversaries, the tension tight enough to crackle. “She told him.”
“Of course I told him.” Fran’s irritated outburst was perhaps a bit louder than she intended, but it also served. “It took you long enough to get out here, I was about to go through his family tree. He knows.” She riveted her gaze on Ari. “He knows.”
“Knowing isn’t the same as remembering,” Stefan said, and she could have kicked him in the shin.
To her surprise, though, Ari laughed. “I knew that I had met you before,” he said, holding out his hand. “Stefan Mihal. Thank you for rescuing me. And for doing what you could to make my way back easier.”
Stefan took Ari’s hand without hesitation. “Sir,” he said.
Ari turned to Dimitri, who stared at him with a belligerence that Fran knew was the only thing holding the gruff captain back from sudden, unwanted tears. Ari reached out and put his hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “I do not remember you, Dimitri. I want to. I will. I do feel that I know you, though. And that I trust you with my life.”
Fran clamped her lips together, fighting the sob that had no place in this meeting. But Ari gestured to her as he gave Dimitri a wry grin, including her in the discussion when all she wanted to do was run away. “Francesca tells me you would not give up searching for me, even after a year. Have you always been so stubborn?”
“Always,” Dimitri said tightly, and he nodded with military precision to Ari and Stefan, then rounded on his men, biting out commands in Garronois. The men fanned around them, including Fran in their cage.
“I should go back for our—”
“We’ll send a car,” Stefan said. “The queen will want to see you, immediately. She’s most grateful that you’ve both come home.”
As the trooped back into the royal palace, Fran wasn’t sure that sentiment would last the night.
Ryker…Ari…whoever the hell he was, he knew he should have been leveled with a crashing headache at the prospect of stepping foot in the royal palace. But too many emotions were roiling through him at once to settle on any one thing. The shock at discovering who he really was, the unruly reaction to the knowledge that here were two men who’d dedicated a year to searching for him…and he didn’t truly remember either of them, and his pent-up outrage and betrayal at Francesca—Francesca! Who likely had been bullied into serving as his babysitter, who clearly had secrets of her own she was desperate to hide, and who now walked behind them like she was hoping to slip away when no one was looking.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen. He reached for her hand, pulling her up beside him as they crossed under the gate. She’d been by his side for his every step in Garronia, she wasn’t giving up that job yet.
And if he was being truly honest with himself, he didn’t want her to give it up yet. In the shortest of times, he’d become used to her being there, whether watching him with absolute serenity or snapping at him with a few choice curse words. He liked both sides of Francesca, and he suspected he would like any other side she chose to reveal to him. He could afford to wait.
What couldn’t wait, however was apparently a royal audience.
Ryker tried to process all he was seeing as they walked along the hallways of the royal palace. Everything in the home was stunning—hardwood and marble floors, artwork lining the walls, gilded fittings, but it didn’t have the pretentious feel that it should. He didn’t know why—perhaps because he’d grown up here, gotten used to all of the luxury.
Either way, there was still no pain, for which he was exceedingly grateful. He knew there would be more eventually, but he would take what breaks he could get.
“Sir,” Stefan said, and Ryker realized they’d stopped. The ambassador was assessing him critically. “Can you recall anything about this place yet? Anything at all?”
“Not yet,” Ryker said.
Stefan nodded. “Then you’re in luck. The royal family will be at their most cautious. Don’t take their reticence for a lack of relief, though. They simply don’t want to break you.”
“Break me?”
But Stefan was already through the door, and Dimitri gestured him in, the look on the captain’s face inscrutable. As if he’d lashed down his emotions tight enough to withstand a hurricane.
“Break me?” Ryker asked again, this time of Dimitri. The captain’s chiseled face remained tense for a moment longer, then quirked into a smile.
“The queen…you’ll understand when you see her,” he said. “She’s been grieving your loss for an entire year, and she’s afraid that if she makes the wrong move, she’ll somehow worsen your condition.”
Ryker frowned. “But that makes no sense.”
Dimitri lifted one shoulder. “She’s a mother before she is queen sometimes. And she’s been through a lot.”
Then another man he didn’t recognize was at the door, a staffer, looking out to see if anything was wrong. Ryker took a deep breath, and entered the receiving room.
It was like walking into a frozen wonderland.
Before him, arrayed in careful precision, were people who he assumed were his family. An older couple and a man maybe two years his junior, all of them dressed casually but in a manner that implied great care was taken. Were these clothes they thought he would recognize? He didn’t.
The silence in the room was deafening, and Dimitri stepped to his left while Francesca tightened her hold on his right arm.
Stefan spoke first. “Ryker’s probably the best name to use, so we’ll start there,” he said crisply. “Ryker Stavros, you already know your real name is Aristotle Andris. I’d like to introduce your family to you.”
His hand pinning Francesca to his side, Ryker stepped forward. She gently disentangled herself from him when he reached his family unit, but she didn’t retreat.
The first person in line was his mother, or he assumed it was his mother. She was lovely in the way of older noblewomen in Garronia—her dark hair and eyes speaking of a life well-lived, while her skin was still that of a much younger girl. She smiled at him as her eyes filled with barely banked tears, her gaze searching his face. “You don’t remember anything, do you sweetheart?” she murmured.
The sound of her voice made Ryker stiffen and his hand went to his head as his mother gasped.
“Ari—” this was a male voice, and the next man stepped up quickly, steadying him as the pain leveled through his brain. He brought his head up, gripping the forearms of the older man, and suddenly—he knew. His father—this was his father, King Jasen. This was his father and he was Ari Andris and a flood of memories nearly took him to his knees, a lifetime of laughter and shouts and tears and studies and dinners and travel and—
“No!” he gasped, wheeling away, only to collapse into a third man, whose eyes were unabashedly full of tears, tears that were now running down his face. Unlike his parents who were trying so hard to do what was right, what was safe, Kristos practically bowled Ari over with a hug, Ari’s arms instinctively go
ing around his younger brother as Kristos burst into rough, racking sobs.
“I’ve missed you so much—so much,” Kristos gritted out, and it wasn’t the sound of a grown man, but of a little brother left alone to face the world without preparation. His sobs came from a place of isolation so deep and profound that Ari felt his own wellspring of recognition growing.
“Kristos,” he managed. “Kristos—”
His brother jerked his head back and searched his face. “You remember me? Or did they tell you.” He whirled on Francesca. “Did you tell him ? You had to have told him.”
“Kristos,” Ari said again—and he knew without question his name was Ari, knew these people. His brother shifted and Ari realized the pain was no longer quite so strong. “I remember you. All of you, but not everything about you.” He turned, his brother loosening his hold and took in his mother and father, both of them holding each other since they could not hold him.
“Mamá,” he said, holding out a hand, and the queen gave a short, strangled cry. It was Jasen who helped her take the faltering step toward Ari, and she bypassed his hand and lifted her fingers to his face, laying them along his cheekbone.
“I missed you so much, Ari,” she said, echoing Kristos’s words. “For so long I prayed for you to return, then when that didn’t work I prayed that you were healthy, or not in pain or—or somewhere safe. I couldn’t—I couldn’t imagine you hurt, or trapped, or—”
Ari wrapped his arms around her, but lifted his gaze to his father’s. King Jasen nodded. His mother had been told the truth—but perhaps not the whole truth. Ari hoped not, or she’d never let him out of her sight again.
The sound of a deep, sonorous chime echoed through the palace, and the queen stepped back, her back going straight as she lifted her hands to her face, whisking away the tears.
“Who would call at this hour?” she demanded, and Ari saw Stefan signal to two of the guards, while Dimitri considered him and Fran with lifted brows.
Crowned: Gowns & Crowns, Book 4 Page 12
