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Dahlia winced. “Your poor mother.” Then she bit her lip nervously, sizing Vadisk up, and he imagined she was wondering and worrying about their future babies.
God. He hoped she wanted babies. He mentally added children to the ever-growing list of shit they hadn’t discussed yet.
They’d spent a great deal of the afternoon sharing little bits and pieces of themselves. Nothing super serious. Just snapshots of their lives. He now knew Dahlia had a younger sister and brother who were also members of the Trinity Masters, she couldn’t stand cooked fruit—apparently it was a texture thing—and she ran five miles a day when she was home. Montana was an avid surfer, he’d been trying to teach himself how to play the saxophone, and he was allergic to strawberries. Right after lunch, he’d gone on a twenty-minute rant about why music sounded better on vinyl.
Vadisk had shared stuff as well, Dahlia’s comment prompting another memory. “My mom said I was born a protector. Swore I came out of the womb with my fists clenched, ready to take down anyone who came near her.”
Dahlia laughed, delighted. “I love that.”
“Sounds like you’ve followed the right career path, then,” Montana added.
“I’m thrilled to know you’ll always have our backs,” Dahlia said, glancing over her shoulder at him. Vadisk liked that he made them feel safe, even if he knew it was close to impossible to ensure their safety here. As long as they were in Crimea, there would be a guillotine hanging over their heads, poised to slam down on them at any moment.
“Always,” he reassured them.
Montana slowed his pace, making it apparent he was sick of looking backward to have this conversation. “We’re alone,” he mouthed.
Vadisk, after a quick look around at their surroundings, relented and stepped next to them.
Montana pushed his hand in the pockets of his lightweight pants. “I notice you failed to tell us who kicked your ass.”
Vadisk grinned. He hadn’t purposely tried to dodge the topic because the beatdown hadn’t been because of anything he’d done. He’d merely been acting on orders. “It was my fleet admiral.”
Dahlia and Montana were clearly shocked. Vadisk had explained the hierarchy of the Masters’ Admiralty to them one evening at Montana’s behest, just in case the three of them decided to remain in Europe, he’d said, and they had to change societies. The fact that that was a possibility, that they were open to it, had humbled him.
Considering the Masters’ Admiralty encompassed countless countries—or territories—while the Trinity Masters only included one, they’d been fascinated by the leadership dynamics. It was easy for them to understand the fleet admiral’s role, comparing it to the Grand Master’s. But after that, there were very few similarities.
The Trinity Masters didn’t have a correlation when it came to the territory admirals, Dahlia and Montana deciding the closest thing was the Grand Master’s group of counselors. And apart from the Warrior Scholars, the Trinity Masters didn’t have any members serving in roles similar to the security officers, knights, or finance ministers.
“Your fleet admiral beat you up?” Dahlia asked in disbelief. “Did you let him? I mean…could you not hit him back because of who he is?”
Vadisk snorted. “If you’d ever seen Eric, you wouldn’t question his ability to take me down. The guy makesmelook small. He’s got this nickname—the Viking. And he’s been known to go into berserker rages whenever someone he loves is hurt.”
“Berserker ra— Holy fuck,” Dahlia murmured. “I was picturing an old, wise, and dangerous sort of person.”
“Nope. Fucking massive Dane who’s pretty easygoing, until he’s not.” There was more to the fleet admiral than the smiling, confident man he presented himself as. Vadisk had seen him with Nikolett, been with Nikolett after one of their tension-filled encounters, and that version of Eric was…
Vadisk rolled his shoulders to work out the tension.
“Why did he attack you?” Montana exchanged a glance with Dahlia, and it occurred to Vadisk he was painting a bad picture of their leader. The problem was, Vadisk’s allegiance was probably a bit skewed. It was Nikolett who’d brought him into the society, taken him under her wing, and trusted him with her life. Guilt bit at him as he thought of her. Given the fucking hell Nikolett had been through in the last six months, leaving her had killed Vadisk, and he could have killed thefleet admiralfor yanking away her primary bodyguard.
Then again, Eric didn’t know what Nikolett had been through recently.
Either way, it stood to reason that her tumultuous feelings for the fleet admiral had rubbed off on him, leaving him with a bit of a chip on his shoulder when it came to the way Eric treated Nikolett.
“I tried to stop him from killing a serial killer before we could question her,” Vadisk replied. “To be fair, the woman had killed someone Eric considered a sister, so he hadn’t exactly been in the best frame of mind.”
“Why did you try to stop him?” Montana asked. “I mean, if she killed someone. If she was a serial killer…”
“Because Nik asked me to.”
Montana and Dahlia seemed to be waiting for him to say more, and exchanged another glance, but he didn’t have anything else to add. His admiral had asked him to stop Eric, so he had.
Montana raked a hand through his hair. “The Warrior Scholars have never been asked to stand against the Grand Master. I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been for you.”
“What sort of thingshaveyou been asked to do for our society?” Dahlia asked Montana. “Anything dangerous?”
“We helped stop a bomber from blowing up the Boston Harbor,” Montana said.
