Page 105 of Dalla's Royal Guards
“I love you, Dalla. I love you. We’ve missed you. I love you,jameela. I love you so much,” he murmured.
“You came back,” Musad whispered, his voice breaking. “Gods, you came back to us.”
“Even death can’t keep me from you,” she said with shocked awe and relief, her own tears falling freely.
Around them, everything else fell away.
Donovan let out a bark of laughter.
Colin choked out something like a prayer.
Henri and Enrique cursed softly in disbelief.
“The Warrior of the Sands has returned,” Colin breathed.
“Returned to save our asses again,” Enrique added, rubbing a hand over his heart.
Nasser and Musad barely heard them.
He held her close.
And for the first time in months, he breathed.
Epilogue
Outside Paris, France:
Six months later
The ballroom glittered with the golden warmth of a European winter celebration. Twinkling lights wove between evergreen garlands. Delicate snowflake ornaments dangled from the vaulted ceiling.
Candles cast a soft glow over polished silver and sparkling glasses of champagne. Outside, the snow fell in lazy drifts, dusting the windowsills of the historic mansion.
Inside, laughter rippled through the elegantly dressed crowd, a low hum of music and mingling voices rising like smoke toward the rafters. Among them, Dalla moved with grace, a vision in midnight-blue silk, her braid wrapped around one shoulder, silver earrings catching the light as she tilted her head and smiled politely.
But she felt little like smiling at the moment.
She pressed a hand gently to her stomach, swallowing against the unwelcome wave of nausea that had plagued her all evening. She couldn’t blame the food—it was exquisite, as was everything at the party hosted by Sergei Vasiliev, Dimitri Mihailov, and their wife at their chateau outside of Paris. But lately, this uneasy flutter in her belly came and went without warning. She hadn’t said anything to Musad or Nasser.
Not yet.
Slipping away from the gathering, Dalla wound her way down a quieter hall, heels whispering against the floor. She passed a series of gilt-framed paintings, searching for a discreet restroom. Her breath came in small, uneven pants as she traversed the corridor, and she welcomed the silence.
The moment she found a bathroom, she sank onto the edge of the sink, resting her forehead in one hand. Her other hand found her stomach again.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered to herself. “Or... maybe not wrong.”
She was still sitting there when the door cracked open. An older woman peeked in, her silver curls pinned neatly under a jeweled comb.
“My dear,” the woman asked gently, “are you alright?”
Dalla looked up, startled. “I—I don’t know. I’ve been feeling… off. Sick. But not in the usual way. It comes and goes.”
The woman stepped in with a kind smile. “Ah. Happened to me, too. My morning sickness didn’t believe in clocks, it liked to strike in the middle of operas and ballroom dances.”
Dalla blinked. “Morning... sickness?”
The woman’s smile was kind. “A simple over-the-counter test might give you your answer. It would have helped me once upon a time, way back when. I’ll pop down the hall to the loo and check back in with you in a few minutes, dear. Let me know if you need anything.”
