“Oh. Ohhh. Of course, Ms. Jerami.” The hovering anxiousness was gone now. “If you need any—ah—anything in particular, check the top drawer in the bedside table.”

“Wonderful.” Nya turned and strode as confidently as she could toward the bedroom as the plane bounced over air currents, walked in, and closed the door behind her.

The room was completely dark.

Where is the light switch?

She slid her palms over the wall beside the door in frustrated panic. She couldn’t very well head back out into the cabin and ask for help after her haughty exit. Giving up, she pressed the home button on her cell phone, the dim light from the screen illuminating the edge of the bed.

She shuffled her way toward it and sighed in relief as the soft mattress gave way beneath her palms and her knees. The bed was decadent, as any bed befitting royalty would be, and she allowed her weary body to sink into the swaddling comfort.

Too soft, she thought, then chided herself for her ingratitude.

Now that she was alone in the dark, tears stung at her eyes and her chest felt tight. She would be home, Thesolo home, in less than two hours, and despite all the assurances she’d given to friends and family, she was not prepared.

She thought of how Mariha had said Jerami like the word was a hot coal on her tongue.

It was a venerated surname in the small but powerful African kingdom—Annie and Makalele Jerami, Nya’s grandparents, were respected tribal elders. Naledi Smith née Ajoua, born of a Jerami, was the country’s prodigal princess-to-be, whose impending marriage was currently the most anticipated event in Thesolo’s history.

The name was also reviled in some quarters now because of the man that made Nya’s hands tremble with nerves.

Alehk Jerami the traitor. Alehk Jerami the disgrace of Thesolo.

Alehk Jerami, Nya’s father.

He’d committed many crimes against the kingdom of Thesolo, as everyone had discovered two years before—blackmail, treason, fraud—but the worst among these had been the shameful act of poisoning his own kin. Annie and Makalele and Naledi—Ledi, whose parents had fled years before to escape Alehk’s threats and died in a land far from their ancestors, leaving their daughter orphaned—had almost lost their lives.

No. Her father had almost taken them.

Unspeakable.

In the aftermath, people spoke of how Alehk harmed everyone closest to him, as if he himself were poison. There were even rumors that his beloved wife hadn’t really died in childbirth, though Nya was certain that wasn’t true. But his daughter? It seemed that no one thought about mousy little Nya when it came to the crimes of Alehk Jerami, except to pity her or wonder if she’d aided him.

He’d loved her too much to hurt her, everyone thought, but too much love could hurt, too.

Would you leave me, too, Nya? After having taken your mother from me? Answer me, child.

No, Father. I will never leave you.

She sucked in a breath against the panic and pressed her thumbs into the corners of her eyes, as if stopping a leak in a dam. Nya wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t, even though she felt more alone than she ever had before. Even though she was certain that being home, which should have made her feel safe, would only make that hollowness inside of her feel even deeper, darker, and more inescapable.

I wish . . . I wish.

The bed suddenly shifted, the tilt of the mattress jarring, and Nya was pulled into a strong, solid embrace. Her nose tickled at the smell of lemon and lavender, citrus and almost abrasive floral, as far from the smell of the eng flower of Thesolo—her father’s poison of choice—as she could get. The arms that clamped around her were lean and muscular, and the body it pulled her against was just as fit. The body was warm—so warm and cradling her so perfectly that she relaxed and sighed at how . . . right it felt before her fear and common sense kicked in.

She was alone on the plane. But someone was in the bed behind her. Holding her. Had her distress been so acute that it had reached Ingoka’s ears? Had she conjured this sudden comfort? She knew the folklore of the lesser gods, of those who gave humans what they wanted but always took more than they gave.

No, this is no time for fairy-tale silliness.

She tried to tug herself free from the stranger’s arm because, be they god or man, something really fucking weird was going on.

The hold tightened. “Reste bei mir.”

The sleep-slurred words came out in an exhalation that tickled Nya’s ear and made her belly jolt. She pushed at one of the arms from below and the hold loosened as the stranger snorted and began to move. A large hand patted her arm, paused, then pulled away.

“What have we here?” The voice was deep and smooth, a European, judging from the strangely accented English. So definitely not a lesser god of Thesolo, and more likely a human—one who might be dangerous.

She jumped up off the bed, listing a bit as the plane dipped and tilted, fumbling with her phone as her hands began to tremble slightly. She was on the plane usually reserved for the royal family of Thesolo. Ledi had made her listen to those true crime podcasts so Nya knew that this could be some depraved assassin.

What kind of assassin snuggles people to death?

Stranger things had happened.

“Who are you and what do you want?” She tried to access the flashlight app, but her thumb was wet from the tears she’d pressed into submission and the fingerprint reader wouldn’t work. She pressed the button along the phone’s side to take photos instead, no unlocking required, and the bright bursts of the camera’s automatic flash revealed the outline of a man stretched out on the bed.