Chapter 1

She’ll never make it as an operative. Simon had his arm propped over John’s shoulder as they watched me recover from a stumble.

I heard that! Pinwheeling my arms to regain my balance, I resumed my fight training. The two idiots were standing right at the edge of the training mat, scrutinising my every move like know-it-alls.

She’s my wife, not one of your lot, John replied. But you’re right. An operative she will never be. At least she’s honing her defence skills. Clumsy, but still…

Well at least now she won’t second-guess her strength or abilities, Simon continued. A few months ago, she would’ve chosen to duck and run. Now she meets the threat head on. She’s finding her confidence or her ignorance.

I’m right here, guys. I aimed a punch at the sparring droid’s belly, but it dodged, and I missed. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

Her cover will stand though, Simon muttered, a chuckle in his tone and still acting like I was invisible. Honestly, what was I even thinking when I suggested she be an operative?

Oh, come on. You know you like her. Why can’t you just admit it? John said.

My old friend, your wife is crass, rude, nosy, and naïve as a child. But—incredibly—she’s managed to tame your brute heart and resurrect your fun side. And she has this uncanny superpower that makes you swoon like a girl. Something that was practically unheard of until she came to live at the Citadel. For that, she’s okay. Best pals? No.

I twisted my torso and pivoted into a lunge to complete a difficult counter-attack kick on the sparring droid. Upturning it with success, I then gave it a final crotch kick, and another, not that it mattered much to the droid. With a huff, I strode towards the two men.

Temper, temper, Simon clicked his tongue, not quite masking the nod of approval at my performance.

John smiled at me. You didn’t want to stick your tongue out at it?

Such restraint, Simon smirked.

Tell that to the stupid fucking droid, I retorted, out of breath. "And I just bet it was you who programmed that last fancy bit of arm-work. I mimicked a series of hand movements, like a cartoon martial arts fighter. Hah! But I beat it, so there." I flashed John a wide grin and stuck my tongue out at Simon.

Yanking a towel from a shelf, I scrubbed my sweaty face with enthusiasm. What time is it? I flung the towel over my neck and looked to John. Isn’t it time to go yet?

Almost three. John smiled at the floor; head lowered in his usual manner, to hide his embarrassment from staring at me as he did. I usually teased him about if I ever caught him doing so, which was most times.

Enough time to get cleaned up, dressed, and transported to Toronto. Simon, helpful as ever, grinned. And scrub extra hard, with soap this time. You’re a bit smelly.

I rolled my eyes and snorted. Well, at least I’ll smell clean at the end of it, unlike you, who’s just naturally stinky. I huffed again. A lame retort, but I couldn’t let Simon have the last word.

John suppressed a laugh and shook his head. Hooking an arm through mine, he tugged me into the elevator that would take us to the kitchen a floor above.

Come along, children, John said. We’ve also a little time to grab a quick bite before we head off.

Does he really have to come with us? I glanced up at John, who was a few inches taller.

Someone has to keep an eye on you. He winked, squeezing my arm. Two days is not long, but it’s long enough for you to get into all sorts of trouble.

I groaned loud and long, tipping my head back. "I promise not to get into trouble!"

Promises, promises, Simon muttered from behind us. The elevator doors opened and we filed out into the large kitchen.

One of John’s automated housekeepers, cleaning the cooking range, turned to offer us a polite smile. The thing was designed to look middle-aged with soft-features and greying hair, like everyone’s favourite aunt.

I still wasn’t accustomed to having robots around, especially ones that looked human. Their waxy, artificial complexions and over-bright eyes put me off the most. With a scowl in place, I gave Crocker a wide berth before planting my backside on a kitchen stool. At least John’s name for the droid was amusing—his wry sense of humour in naming it after the legendary Betty.

John instructed Crocker to provide us with refreshments and a light snack. With a small inclination of the head, Crocker obliged with cheer. I grunted with a sneer. I hadn’t spoken directly to any of John’s robots, yet, preferring to defer that task to him.

So, I cleared my throat. "After the big do tonight…"

Leaning against the kitchen counter, John glanced at me. You’re sure? And watched me for signs of distress.

I nodded, but frowned.

Three hundred years was a long time to wait to see one’s hometown again. It had changed. A lot. But I had to see it with my own eyes. Holographic images and pictures of the city was one thing, but to be there was another. It would be painful, knowing how much it had changed, and gone forever. But it was something I needed to do. Closure, a word I detested hearing and using even from my time, was what I really needed.

Thoughts of visiting my hometown dredged up ancient memories, which had been circling my mind since John mentioned two weeks ago that he had a big gala to attend in Toronto. I’d known I’d revisit the place one day, but that one day had come far too soon. I was ready, but there were moments when I wasn’t so sure I could handle it. To me, it all seemed like the other day when I’d climbed into the stasis pod.

I titled my head to John, who was giving me his Lancaster inspection. Watchful and worried, and a pinch, what? Annoyed? I returned it with one I hoped said I’m fine.

John held my gaze a moment longer, then averted his eyes to the floor, clamping his lips together in his habitual way. And, you know, I can only accompany you in the afternoon.

I nodded and flicked a glance at Simon’s square, angular face. Everything about Simon was straight and sharp, from head to toe—tall and proud, with the strong bones and face of a Viking. Short, cropped red hair hugged his scalp and matched his eyebrows. Paler lashes framed small, intense blue eyes. He was the light to John Lancaster’s dark and mysterious. Complete opposites.

"I know. You said so. Meantime I get Thor-Igor here as a babysitter." I snorted, scowling at Simon.

He and John stood shoulder to shoulder in height. I knew from experience that both moved with lightning speed and lethal power. They had mastered the art of combat until it had become part of them. And the two were as devoted to each other as lovers, and then some.

A frown creased between John’s brows. And as I said before, I don’t think it’s wise to go to Prince Edward Island. There’s nothing there to see anyway. Your brother’s farmhouse…is gone.

Why not? I wanted to retort, but held my tongue. It would sound petulant and petty. I know, I replied, my tone flat.

We had discussed and argued about it to no end, yet he kept reminding me. Prince Edward Island was where my brother and young family had once lived, on a farm, growing potatoes and producing alternative fuel for the island. The farm held some of my happiest memories. When I was there, the scent of the country, the idyllic lifestyle, and family moments squeezed my heart in all sorts of emotional ways. Everyone was happy, at ease and at peace. And alive.

And PEI was also where my father had ended up secreting away my stasis pod. With me sleeping inside, right there in that dark, damp cellar amid bags of potatoes and stacks of jams and preserves. How and why I’d ended up there was a complete mystery. I’d probably never know, and tried hard to accept that. But like a splinter under the skin, it needled me, irritating and insistent. Why there? No one was alive now to tell me. My father, the underrated Dr Peter Bettencourt, had died, documented as killed under mysterious circumstances soon after he’d hidden me. But before his death, his research had been published, and pandemonium had spread throughout the scientific community. Suspended animation was doable, safe, and here to stay! All sorts of parties were for it, dishing out money and force to obtain it from Dad. And all sorts of groups were just as strongly against it.

The fate of my brother and his family was another mystery, one I loathed to know, though like that splinter under the skin, curiosity tweaked incessantly, begging me to find out. Initial searches had come up empty. Had they also been murdered, or had they lived out their natural lives? Had the world’s economic downfall and famines affected them? Were their descendants still alive? Did I still have family? I wanted to know, and at the same time, didn’t. That place held many mysteries, and perhaps many clues too. The desire to go there was intense. But pointless.

PEI was now home to one of the most sophisticated and ultra-secret defence posts for the Atlantic Basin, a facility run by the Lancaster government. What happened there stayed there. Operatives were trained at those facilities, becoming lethal and adept at their trade. A place loosely touted as being where I had come from—training-wise. Close enough to the truth, yet so wild and fictitious, even I had trouble keeping the facts straight. Posing as an operative had its downfalls when it came time to be truthful. So, I’d learned to keep my manner aloof and my mouth sealed shut. But that didn’t stop people from talking about me with keen interest.

John continued to watch me with that all-seeing Lancaster stare.

As much as it pained my heart, John was right. Nothing was there for me, nothing familiar. Prince Edward Island was military base, nothing more. Cold, stark, deadly and secret, and any trace or memory of what the island once was or had, was no longer.

I know, I repeated. I said I won’t go. With a sigh, I looked away, inspecting my reddened knuckles.

John gave my arm a light squeeze to bolster my spirits. He didn’t like to see me sad or troubled; it worried him. So I put on a brave smile for him.

Crocker returned with a tray laden with small savoury treats, the meaty tang seasoning the air and made my belly somersault in anticipation. Taking them to a round table in a breakfast alcove overlooking a lush forest of mountain pines, the robot dished them out. With the table set, Crocker inclined her head and asked what we wanted for beverages. John ordered three mineral waters and followed me to the food—my stomach never failed to dictate my actions before all else. Food came first, always.

But I’m still going to my old neighbourhood, I announced, stuffing a meat pie into my mouth. "I don’t care if it’s a hyper-super-whatever-mall, I want to see it. And I want to cruise up Yonge Street—at least that’s still there."

Once our hasty meal was consumed, I dashed into the shower to clean up. Before long, we were in the shuttle and heading to Toronto. Butterflies made a frenzied attempt at breaking loose in my stomach. I had to take discreet breaths to calm my nerves. I was really going back.

The shuttle had been in the air not ten minutes and already Simon found some shit to fling at me and start an argument. John groaned and reclined in his seat. In a quiet corner at the rear of the shuttle sat Loeb, John’s aide. He was making a point of studying the speech John would give later. Whatever thoughts running through Loeb’s mind regarding me, never showed. He was always professional, his face neutrally bland. Loeb was fond of me, I could tell, but not in the icky way. Respectful. Professional. To Loeb, John and I were part and parcel of his job. He showed kind patience with me and exhibited immense tolerance towards my abrasive manner. I knew my cussing grated on his refined sensibilities. Loeb was almost a throwback character from centuries ago, like a butler or valet who saw and did everything, but never uttered a word about it or let it influence their personal opinions. A true gentleman.

John ran a hand through his dark hair; he seemed distracted by it ever since it had been trimmed too short for his liking. The last time he looked in the mirror he grumbled, saying his scalp felt exposed, and made his widow’s peak spike up like a mountain. For all the gruffness he liked to portray, he was quite particular with his grooming regime. With his eyes closed and head resting on the seat back, he ran a palm over the widow’s peak, trying to flatten it. The sight made me smile and, without meaning to, my eyes drifted along his body. That tall and slender form, tapered like a diver’s physique, complemented his lithe and fluid movements, accented his keen predatory demeanour. John was the epitome of dark and brooding. Utterly comfortable in his own skin, and accustomed to the power he wielded as if it were second nature. But his manner and actions were always in check, deliberate, reined in to contain the wild elemental force within. John was consciously aware of and in control of his emotions. Attuned. But at times, he’d be afflicted with random outbursts, especially when something affected him so deeply that the only outlet was to roar. And roar he did. It was hard work being John. Who wouldn’t have a hissy fit now and then?

All his life, he’d been observed with a mixture of loathing and awe. Being the grandson and son of two dictators didn’t help his image much. Because of this, he’d learned to keep his face in control, thoughts private, head bowed. Thirty-seven now, but beginning to show the strain and stress of leadership around his eyes and mouth. His brows, thick and dark, moved as if by their own design, expressing a multitude of emotions the rest of his face seemed incapable of expressing. And those dark hazel eyes, set deep in his face; I swore they glowed with a dark menace—predatory.

When I first met him, his appearance had chilled me to the bone. He was a contradiction; gentle but wild, handsome yet marred, young and also, ancient. John was quiet by nature, accenting it by holding his head low, his thoughts secret. Private. He had a habit of compressing his mouth and it added to the intense persona he exuded. His complexion was pale, his nose small and a little upturned—delicate but brutally male. The sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, his combat-ready stance, these all embodied the fearsome presence that was John Lancaster.

There was still so much I didn’t know about him. Every day I learned something new, whether good or bad—and he, I guess, learned likewise about me. To us, the other was as vital an element like oxygen. We rarely parted for extended periods—couldn’t. And if we did, remained in close contact with one another. We’d grown to depend on each other. A unit. If someone had ever asked me about love being so inseparable, I would’ve laughed it off and deemed it clingy. But now I was living proof that love like that did exist.

And it was mine. He was mine. Who would ever have guessed—

What was Simon nattering on about now? Security?

Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re such an asshole, you know that? I plastered on a frown and snapped back. That seemed an appropriate enough response, especially since he was scowling at me.

Loeb cleared his throat with a closed fist to his mouth. People hardly, or just didn’t, swear in this stick-up-the-ass future. He’d been lightly briefed on my past; the key dates and damning facts having been omitted. As far as anyone was concerned, I was a pod-survivor from fifty years ago, just as the first Lancaster took control of the world. The story went that I’d been resuscitated and re-trained to serve as an operative for the current Lancaster. This would account for my crass, old-world behaviour.

When Dane Lancaster ruled, he’d implemented a strict new law—death would ensue on breaking it—forbidding the use of expletives and other behaviours deemed crude and obscene. The porn industry must’ve taken a nosedive. The law enforced the proper use of language, including the instillation of old traditions of formality, etiquette and behaviour, and the resurrection of strong familial values that over the previous centuries had run askew. People were encouraged to report incidences where the rules weren’t followed. Usual fare, rat on your neighbour and all that glorious, tyrannical stuff. And now, generations later, old habits die hard.

Josie, Simon grumbled, but obviously enjoying himself. I’m not taking you to eat at some fast-food outlet. I wouldn’t even breathe the air around it. They serve nothing but poison in places like that—processed poison.

Oh, yeah. That was the argument. "I don’t care. It’s my stomach! And Fried City is still around. That’s fucking unbelievable."

What is this obsession with food? Simon frowned.

I do not have an obsession with food. And since when do you care about what I eat?

Despite my fretful manner, it touched me to know Simon cared. A traitorous smile pulled at the corner of my mouth before I hid it with an irritable snort. But his comment was somewhat true. Ever since waking up from stasis, I had been obsessed with food. I was hungry. Like, all the fucking time.

John gave me a knowing wink before turning away. And Simon wasn’t all that guilt-free. He had a taste for the brutally vicious Venom Cocktail that he indulged in, and it bothered me like a fussy mother. It was known to render the drinker insensible for hours, and I’d once found Simon in such state with barely a breath to stir his chest. I’d freaked out, but then I made John swear he’d never tell Simon just how much I’d freaked. Simon and I had a special friendship based on insults and jabs, and so I struggled to fix my face to look annoyed.

If Aline heard you’d eaten some processed junk, she’d have a fit.

Only if you told her, and I bet you’d love to rat me out. You tell her everything, even if I stub a toe! And the next thing I know, I’m hauled off into Casualty with a bandage the size of a motherfu—

"And the security measures alone will be a nightmare—let’s not forget that aspect." Simon cut me off before I could finish my rant. He then went on about some procedural drivel and having a fleet of his operatives needing to do a sweep of the surrounding areas several hours before, during and after, to ensure the safety of the president’s wife.

And don’t even think of hopping onto a public transport, he warned with narrowed eyes.

Well, I mumbled, "I wouldn’t do that. But don’t tempt me or I just might."

Will you two just shut up? John sighed from his seat. Just listening to you both is giving me a headache. You’ve been acting like high-strung cats for the last few hours. Enough! I’ve got a function to prep for, so quiet, please.

For a final jab, I flipped Simon the bird.

Chapter 2

My first official outing. In the three months we’d been married, this was the first time I was accompanying John to a public function. One with dignitaries and important people who acted like they’d never scratched their asses before. And the media.

Touted as an arts expo to promote the unification of arts and culture across the world, John, as World President was scheduled to make a short welcoming speech, then officially open the one-week exhibition and festivities. Afterwards, a gala function that required me to mingle with the guests and dignitaries. I’d almost choked on my own breath when I’d heard what I had to do.

For almost a year, I’d been safe, tucked away in the confines of the Citadel like a happy little introvert. And by safe, the kind where I could breathe easy and establish a regular bowel movement. Aside from quick and informal trips to the space station in Greenland—not that I was ever allowed to go off-planet—secret getaways in Britain and Germany, and a quick and necessary ordeal in Bali, this was the first time I’d left Switzerland in an official capacity.

Two weeks prior, I’d been given the full crash-course in proper etiquette and the social skills expected from a woman in my position in the future I lived in. I’d failed miserably. Half listening and deaf from nerves, I’d flubbed my way through the proper responses required should a question be directed at me. Also on my list of required necessities was how to ignore the media and obtrusive individuals, how to talk about nothing at all and do so convincingly. And, most importantly, not to swear in public. The latter part was written in big, bold capital letters.

I’d received a two-page agenda, hard copy for my benefit since my skills with the ever-popular Slide personal units were somewhat lacking. I mean, I was good with mobile devices from my time, but these new-fangled things required too many biometric obstacles to jump over before they even activated.

On the list, each item, and there weren’t many, had detailed instructions of what was expected of me and what I was supposed to say and do. No variations unless in dire straits or threat to life.

Fantastic! No pressure, right?

According to the schedule, I was to appear in public with John for three events. Suffer through a photo opportunity with the press—solo—while the Home Guardian Foundation presented me with an honorary master key. I had been unanimously selected to be the figurehead representing their cause, which was for the protection, safety, and defence of home, families, and loved ones. I wasn’t required to say anything except, Thank you, you are most kind, and give a demure smile.

Countless committees, boards, associations and groups wished for my presence and name. But it was my identity and who I was that intrigued the public more. I was a mystery woman who’d appeared out of nowhere and stolen the president’s heart. Some speculated I was an assassin, a deep-sleeper biding my time. Others lauded me for my amazing and daring feats—all exaggerated, of course—during the recent siege, and placed me on some platform like an idol. Had they known how scared shitless I’d been, winging through most of it, they might have reconsidered.

And many still ogled at me like I was a deadly disease; a ghost brought back from the dead to raise havoc and mayhem the moment their backs were turned. A hideous abomination or pod-survivor, they’d whisper. But I still heard. It annoyed me sometimes, but I’d been learning to ignore it. After all, it was the truth.

Abomination was a term used now to suggest anything that was unnatural. Like freaks of nature, a category into which I conveniently fell into with aplomb. But believe me, in this future, there was much that was unnatural. And I was as unnatural as they came, a well-preserved relic. While they didn’t know the absolute truth, a mere fifty-year pod-survivor still creased the edges of most people’s noses. If only they knew the truth!

But whatever the situation, people still talked about me. And wanted to see me.

John was adamant that I remain unseen as much as possible. He constantly feared for my safety. The less I was exposed to the public, the less chance of me being in harm’s way. And the less chance of him going catatonic.

Once the official functions were dealt with, I would have some free time to do as I pleased, watched by none other than Simon. This of course didn’t mean I’d be free of the ever-watchful eyes of the media. Best behaviour at all times was the directive Simon had drilled into me in every other sentence during his detailed instructions about the events to come.

My wardrobe also got a drastic facelift. I’d arrived at the Citadel with nothing more than a manky sweatshirt, oversized pants, and men’s running shoes. I’d soon progressed to a standard-issue uniform—designated for women detainees. Back then I was pretty much a prisoner. When my position changed from detainee to guest—honoured guest—my wardrobe changed again to a more casual selection of the current trendy modes of fashion.

Now, as wife of the world president, my wardrobe had metamorphosed again into something quite foreign. Elegant evening dresses, sleek suits, and neat and tidy casual wear were just a few of the selections I had to choose from. But John insisted I maintain a more masculine persona while performing public duties to reinforce the perception that I was a former operative. Which, of course, I wasn’t. But he wanted me to look kick-ass and all business. Direct, strong, and unafraid was how I was supposed to be. Lethal, quick, and in control was what my actions and body language must portray.

Ignorant, hyperventilated, and scared shitless was what I actually was—on a daily basis—when dealing with people outside my tight circle.

So, borrowing the cool, calm, and sometimes cold manner John normally plastered on his face, I muddled through the first two of the three official duties required of me. I kept my features bland, my mouth shut, and head inclined to a twenty-degree bow, like John, and watched, with minute care, everything and everyone around me. John usually stood two feet to my right and Simon two steps behind us both. En garde!

I wore a special evening dress made for the gala function. The dress, a halter-top for wardrobe security and in case of combat, moulded to my body in a simple and elegant column. Made from a lightweight black fabric I’d never seen before, with muted silver trimmings to keep the subtle theme of militant authority and power.

I was also armed to the teeth with weapons, a body-shield, and at least two explosives were tucked into my pinned-up hair. The stiletto heels of my shoes each concealed a refill cartridge for my Snare Gun 3 that was holstered above my left knee.

The design of the dress was to John’s exact specifications, including the fact he’d insisted it expose my scars. Along my right shoulder was a network of still-pink scars from the explosion, and peeking up from my side, the wicked straight line from a throwing disc. Both were marks left from times I saved John’s life. He was proud of them, as was I.

Secured to my left wrist, in a sleek black holster made to look like an elegant cuff-bracelet with intricate designs in muted silver and gold, was my krima stick—my lightsabre as I called it. I never left home without it. It was the one weapon I knew well and used well. And it gave me the greatest sense of comfort and security. I didn’t care who saw me with it, nor did I try to hide it. After all, were it not for the krima, I wouldn’t have been alive. People knew this, saw this, and looked at me with a certain amount of awe, if not respectable fear. It kept them at a distance.

The krima; it was me, like a trademark.

The krima, short for eskrima stick, was a derivative of an ancient Filipino stick-fighting weapon. About two or three feet in length, back then they used it with skill and blinding speed to bring down enemies in close-range combat. The modern krima was vastly modified and modernised. About seven inches in length and thick enough to hold with ease, it used contained laser beams that shot out over a foot from both ends, making it a lethal and destructive weapon. It sliced through flesh and bone as well as some solid materials with precision and efficiency. It was effective, to say the least. These were the standard versions. I had a compact, mini-version that shot out three-and-a-half-inch beams on either side. Even the handle was smaller, thinner, and easier to hold.

John was also weaponised, though he preferred Snare Guns, or his own two fists, as opposed to the krimas. And I didn’t even want to know what Simon was packing.

Loeb was also well-equipped. Aside from his duties as personal aide to the president, Loeb had been trained as a Second Level operative. He sometimes served as Simon’s second-in-command during public outings like this. He was one of Simon’s shadows, though Simon didn’t need any help. Simon was, after all, a First Level. And First Levels rarely needed any assistance.

I greeted a blur of dignitaries and guests, giving them curt nods. Loeb murmured their identities into my ear. There was no handshaking, in case of contact explosives or poisons. I was then directed through the sea of people to a more secure area of the large reception hall. John’s firm grip at my elbow kept me close to him, yet he positioned himself so that with one quick pull, he could catapult me straight at Simon, who stood behind us, and then on to safety.

John was also a First Level. Both he and Simon could move like the wind, sail through the air defying gravity, and blend into the scenery as if they belonged there. They were lethal and adept, and legendary in their own right.

Their training was Bushi, warrior-class, based on the ancient Japanese art of Bushido. It was the code they lived by, as did many others in this century. Definitely a different world to the one I’d known. People fought for their lives with skills learned from childhood and thought nothing of it. This was a way of life—fight to survive. Literally. And ninjas were real.

Death and danger ruled our lives; it had been so from the day John and I had met. Now was no different from back then, except I’d become more accustomed to the daily threats, if that were at all possible. My brief and rushed training in self-defence had taught me the extreme basics of survival and combat, but the constant fear and uncertainty was still something that froze me to the core when I least expected it.

Could a person ever really get used to it? Looking at John, with his calm and cool composure, I supposed one could. But he was born into a life already riddled with danger and threats. He’d been conditioned to it from birth, unlike me, who’d been thrown into this life by the circumstances of my fate.

But would I hesitate to dispense the lethal knowledge I’d acquired? No. Not for a moment. It definitely was a different world from the one I’d left behind. And I had also changed.

John directed us to a spot close to the approved and designated exit, located behind a large potted palm. The secure area was crammed with operatives: two posed as invited guests while another three stood at their posts near the exits, severe expressions on their faces. They wore black suits with red trim, the mark of Simon’s Elite team. On their faces they wore near-transparent headgear and goggles that monitored and screened every miniscule movement and individual around.

With our backs turned to them, we watched the flow of people. Loeb and Simon stood in front as a buffer. People came and went in a reserved manner, greeting us formally. I let John do the acknowledging while I stood composed, aloof and cold to any who saw. I was grateful John had insisted that I shouldn’t have to speak or behave like some demure and charitable wife of a president. He wanted me to portray power and disdain to keep the simpering politicians and tagalongs at bay. It worked.

Death and danger lurked everywhere in our lives, and today was no exception. Regardless of the tight security measures and screenings, danger still managed to slip through. Already some scuffle had taken place during our arrival. And in the distance, I was pretty sure I heard the pop of a firearm, followed by a yell.

And then…just when I thought I was getting the hang of this president’s wife thing, and the gala event was going smoothly, a portion of the glass-domed roof broke away like the crashing of a massive crystal chandelier. The resounded crack muted the initial explosion that preceded it, and then showered us with tempered glass and metal fragments. I stared at it agape, then found myself being propelled behind John, caught deftly by one of Simon’s men, and pushed sideways into the arms of another. I had enough time to register people screaming and chaos erupting before exiting and standing with one of the Elites in a quiet corridor. He spoke rapidly to someone through his headgear.

John, Simon, and Loeb joined us seconds later. John grasped me by the arm, his brow knitted and lips a thin line. Time to go. John’s tone was clipped. You’d better cancel your tour tomorrow.

Did he sound pleased when he said that? I couldn’t be sure. Ignoring my plans for tomorrow, I matched his stride as we walked along the corridor to another exit, and then into a waiting transport vehicle.

What just happened? I asked.

Clumsy saboteurs, Simon said helpfully as we hopped into the vehicle.

What the vehicle was, I wasn’t sure. It resembled a tank with the interior of an air shuttle and the speed and agility of a Formula One race car. It rumbled to life and sped off.

It’s just an arts expo. Why would people want to sabotage it? What’s the point?

Takes all kinds to cause a stir. Simon chuckled. He was so used to danger, to the point he no longer flinched at these minor disturbances. The local police can handle it. Nothing to do with us.

You’re sure?

Absolutely.

Simon and John had once headed the world unit for counter-terrorism. They had been a deadly combination, shutting down and eliminating many organisations. Whatever they’d done to achieve this goal, they never said, nor did I care to know. So a simple aerial disturbance with an unclear cause was nothing to raise a brow over. It was business as usual.

But just to be on the safe side, John said from beside me, already leaning back into his seat and getting ready to enjoy the ride back to our hotel, you’d better stick close by tomorrow.

I heard you the first time, I snapped back.

John flicked me an annoyed glance and then looked away, working his mouth into a line. I’ll take you myself another time. I promise, his voice low, so only I could hear, but he wouldn’t look at me. He glowered at the floor instead.

I glared at him for a moment longer than necessary. I’ll be holding you to that—you can be sure of it. Then, I settled back into my seat, snaking my hand out to hold his.

Pesky little saboteurs or not, they still rattled my nerves.

Chapter 3

Josie lay next to him in bed. She’d tossed and turned most of the night with a fretful and annoyed spike to her manner. She was disappointed; he knew that. Revisiting her city had been the highlight of the entire trip. Sleep eluded her now, and she grumbled into her pillow.

John grunted his displeasure with each of her restless tosses. He said nothing. To say anything now would start another of their raging arguments. They didn’t argue often, and like most couples it was about the usual things, only their arguments were notably…notorious. Also, he hadn’t quite forgiven her for snapping at him like an ill-tempered horse.

He told himself it was because Loeb had been there to witness it, and Josie should’ve used some measure of discretion. But that wasn’t it at all. He wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to so abruptly. No one ever dared speak to him in that manner.

Until Josie.

Besides, John thought, any argument now would be pointless. He knew well enough that she knew it too. But it was her nature to gripe about things, if only to prove a point. Very childish, in his opinion.

All right, he said, knowing she was awake. "I’m sorry. But you know the situation. A disruption during the gala with us both present is just too close for comfort. For you to then go gallivanting around the city would be plain lunacy. You know that, don’t you?" He stared up at the dark ceiling, imagining what her expression would be like. Murderous was the first thought that came to mind.

Josie sighed and rolled onto her back. "Of course I know that. Don’t speak to me as if I’m a child. I’m not stupid. I know all that security shit. I’m just upset, is all. Disappointed." Her tone suggested she was about to start, or was already, pouting.

And I said I’ll take you once things quiet down. Maybe in a couple of months, we’ll come unofficially. Under the radar.

I know. You promised.

John flinched. It sounded too much like an accusation. Choosing to ignore it, his mind flicked to other things. Rolling to his side, he propped his head on his hand.

He had to remember Josie wasn’t like most women. She had survived three hundred years in suspension and came out of it looking like death. Jerked away from a safe and peaceful world and dropped into what for her must be a nightmare. She’d been kidnapped, threatened with death by fanatical extremists, suspected of being a terrorist and then marked for assassination. She’d even stepped before an exploding human-bomb to save him and herself, had to kill people, and then she married him and was thrown, yet again, into more dangers.

Me. The thought always made him swell with joy and pride. Warmth. And terror. John Lancaster, the World President of the United Europe and Americas. Before her, he was just a humble man, uncertain of many things. She had chosen him and, finally, seemed at peace with her new life. Connected, belonging. Happy.

But the mysteries of her past assaulted her sanity. Being here must not be easy for her, so close to her original home, yet centuries away. He needed to remember that. He needed to be more understanding.

Again. I’m sorry. John reached tentatively to touch her stomach. So, can we just go to sleep? Our shuttle leaves first thing in the morning. And I never said you were stupid.

Yes, you have. Countless times. There was no sarcastic bite to her words. She wriggled up closer, then turned her back to him and jumped. What the fuck is that?

Hmm? he murmured. His proud erection poked her back.

Don’t you ever get tired?

"Well, I figured if you weren’t sleepy and keeping me up—pardon the pun—we might as well make the most of the night. Dawn is still a long way off."

Josie giggled and snuggled closer. He pulled her firmly to his body. It was fast, hard, and desperate, the frustration of the day working its way out, and what they both needed now. Afterwards, they lay still tangled, breathing heavily and clinging to one another.

I’m sort of glad not to see it just yet. Josie’s voice was hoarse, ragged from the exertion. His arm draped over her ribs rose and fell with her heavy breathing, her heart thundering against it. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m a little scared to see it again.

It’s changed quite a bit. You’ve seen the old archive images. John kissed the back of her neck and gave her a light squeeze. He was close to dozing off; the scent of her body furred his mind. He willed himself to pay attention, but it was a losing battle. Even his speech slurred.

That it has. Josie sounded distant. Would you go back if it were you? To see?

Yes, I would. He ran a hand over her shoulder. And you want to. I know you. I’ll be there with you when you’re ready. You won’t have to reminisce on your own.

I know. She made a contented noise. I know.

John drifted into a sweet sleep, spurred by