“Ragnar, you hurensohn,” Aaron hissed into the darkness. He still had the flashlight covered with his hand to make his presence less obvious, and he’d strayed from the path to take a shortcut to the warehouse from the villas. The Icelandic prince was just ahead of him. 

A handgun was stuck down the back of his pants, a dagger on his waist. Aaron was done fucking around wondering what was going on. He went straight to the source. “Wales is dead. What the fuck is going on?”