Royal Elite: Leander by Danielle Bourdon Page B

father was out in the back and unable to hear, Wynn left the porch via a side set of smaller stairs and followed the driveway toward the three car garage. Three more buildings of varying size flanked the property. One in particular, all white with small, high windows, reminded Wynn of an above ground bunker. A steel door that looked impossible to breach faced the garage, just visible from her position.
    “Hello? Excuse me, is anyone here?” She paused beside the garage. Behind the house, between it and the bunker-building, was a neatly tended yard. A back porch, larger than the one in the front, spanned the entire back of the house. Steps led down onto a square area of nestled stones that created a sitting area beneath the enormous trees, with several, expensive looking outdoor sectionals surrounding a stone fire pit.
    “Hello?” Her voice echoed, bouncing back off the landscape.
    “You better have a good reason to be here,” a voice said behind her.
    Wynn spun around, fingers clutching the letter so hard it crinkled. The man standing between her and the homestead wore such a hard look that it momentarily set Wynn back. That he'd managed to convey hostile intention with features that looked soft, almost rubbery, as if he'd not lost all the baby fat out of his face even in his middle fifties, was a feat in itself. Thin, metal rimmed glasses covered eyes the exact same color as Leander's. A neutral gray, lighter than slate but darker than ash. Close to six feet, his build was bird-like, thinner through the extremities and lean everywhere else. A plaid shirt of white and tiny blue lines looked a little more nerdly than anything Leander might wear, as well as the beige slacks and loafers this man wore. He resembled someone Wynn would expect to find at a troublesome desk job in a mediocre company.
    What shocked her more than anything was the shotgun he held in two hands across his body, muzzle pointed up in the air.
    “I...you must be Leander's father. I came here because of this.” Wynn flipped the paper around, fingers pinching the edge so the rest flopped into the man's view.
    The man never looked down. He stared at Wynn as if trying to decide whether or not to shoot her.
    Undaunted, Wynn said, “It says here that Leander is in danger. I want to know what kind of danger and how to make it go away. You—this is your letter, it has to be—state that he'll die unless he comes to see you. So what can you do to help him? What information do you have that he needs?”
    “And so he will. Die that is. Since you've got the letter instead of him, I suspect you've confiscated his mail and that he hasn't seen it. Either that, or he's choosing death.” The man tightened his grip on the shotgun, as if the thought of Leander willfully ignoring the summons upset him.
    “He hasn't seen it because he's gone right now. I mean away from home. I'm Wynn, his fiance. I opened the letter because someone hand delivered it and I thought it might be important.” Wynn forced herself to focus past the sudden pounding of her heart. To hear someone speak of Leander's demise so cavalierly shook Wynn to her core.
    The man frowned. “His fiance?”
    “He hasn't told you? It mentions a grudge in the letter. Have you two not spoken in a while?” Wynn flapped the paper up and down a few times, growing impatient with so few answers.
    “Tell him that I meant every word I said. Urge him to come home, at least for a few minutes. If he wants to live, that is.” The man, who had never bothered to introduce himself, lowered the gun to his side in an easy motion that suggested prior military training. He made a strange, flipping motion in the air with his hand, then pivoted on a shoe and stalked back toward the house.
    Wynn stared at his back, dumbfounded to be left in the proverbial dust.
    “Wait!” She trotted forward, refolding the letter, and stuffed it into a back pocket.
    He continued across the patio area toward the back stairs.
    “That's the