The Aftermath

The sonic blast had done more than deafen the bad guys; the frequency had tripped the external acoustic sensors of the mountain patrol.

Twenty minutes later, floodlights cut through the blizzard. A helicopter roared overhead.

Inside the Game Room, the power was back on.

Dante sat on the leather sofa, shirtless, while a medic stitched the cut on his shoulder. Alexei sat next to him, eating a gingerbread cookie.

"That was reckless," Alexei said, swinging his legs. "Jumping off a balcony."

"That was reckless?" Dante winced as the medic tightened a knot. "You handed a terrorist a bomb."

"It wasn't a bomb. It was a prank gift for my sister. I tweaked the decibels." Alexei paused, looking at the bandage on Dante’s arm. He reached out and awkwardly patted Dante’s good shoulder.

"You didn't have to jump," Alexei said quietly. "You could have just surrendered."

"Not in the job description," Dante said.

Alexei frowned. He reached into the pocket of his silk robe and pulled out a heavy gold pin—the crest of the Royal House. He pinned it to the bandage on Dante’s chest.

"You're a terrible bodyguard," Alexei said, his voice trying to be imperious but failing. "I had to save you twice."

"Three times, if you count the chickpeas," Dante grinned.

"But," Alexei continued, looking him in the eye. "You're a decent partner."

Dante looked at the pin, then at the boy who had gone from a spoiled brat to a combat veteran in four hours.

"Merry Christmas, Your Highness," Dante said.

"Merry Christmas, Dante," Alexei replied, handing him a cookie. "Now, help me delete the security footage of me jamming the panic room before my father sees it."