by Lola Gabriel
“They aren’t supposed to follow me indoors,” she said. “It’s how I initially knew you didn’t belong in my detail.”
Max smiled sheepishly.
“I guess I didn’t do my research all that well,” he said, sitting back to study her face. “But how else does one manage to catch the attention of a beautiful princess?”
“As I said earlier, a simple hello would have sufficed,” Poet laughed. “How come I don’t recall seeing you around campus?”
“Would you really have remembered me if you had?” he asked, and Poet’s mouth gaped slightly.
Does he really not see how attractive he is? she wondered, blinking. Or is he merely fishing for compliments? Oddly, she didn’t believe he was looking for his ego to be stroked. She nervously cleared her throat to keep their conversation going.
“What do you study?” Poet asked, hoping he would not notice the crimson of her cheeks in the dim French restaurant.
“Sociology,” Max answered, but Poet detected a falsehood in his voice. Before she could call him out on it, he leaned forward across the table and stared into her eyes. “And you are an archeology and anthropology major,” he said. “A double masters from one of the most prestigious universities in the world. That speaks volumes about you.”
“You truly have done your homework,” she admitted, impressed he had taken the time to learn so much about her. Other men had tried to woo her by talking about who they knew, as if their political or business connections would impress her because of her father’s standing in the world.
Never had she been with a man who wanted to speak about her accomplishments.
It’s almost as if he doesn’t care that I’m of royal blood, she thought, the idea foreign to her. At the same time, Poet knew she was smitten with the idea that Max was invested in her as a person, not as a princess.
“Both subjects are passions of mine,” she continued, her eyes fixing on his. When their gazes met, she was once more consumed with what felt like electricity. It was as though Max could look into her soul. Where had he come from?
“Can I offer you something from the bar?”
The server appeared, interrupting Poet’s thoughts, and she reluctantly pulled her eyes toward the waitress primly dressed in a crisp, white shirt.
“I will just have water,” she replied, and Max scoffed.
“This is a celebration,” he declared. “Champagne. Something French and expensive. Surprise us.”
“Very well, sir,” the girl replied, turning away, but not before Poet caught a slight glimmer of envy in her eyes.
I am sitting here with a huge catch, she thought. A gorgeous, intelligent man who is treating me to champagne for no reason in particular.
“A celebration?” Poet chuckled. “That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?”
“No,” Max responded, catching her hands in his. “I have never in my life spent an evening with a woman as beautiful and smart as you. I feel like I should commemorate this event with stupidly expensive sparkling wine.”
He was really laying it on thick, wasn’t he? Still, Poet couldn’t help being flattered by the attention.
“So, tell me, Poet,” Max went on, “what are you doing your thesis on?”
Poet’s instinct when someone asked was to clam up about the subject, and Professor Kincaid’s reaction to hearing about it flashed in her mind.
So many questions about my thesis today, she thought, fiddling with the napkin on the table before her.
“Is this a touchy subject?” Max asked. “Most grad students I know are eager to talk about their papers.”
Kincaid’s words reverberated in her mind. Then again, how well could Kincaid be trusted in his old age? Her other professors would be eager to learn about the existence of dragons among them. Poet knew they obviously had nothing to fear, or the dragons would have taken over them by now. They meant no harm to humans like her.
“If it’s too personal, forget I asked,” Max said, and Poet’s head jerked up to look at him in surprise.
“My thesis is on dragons,” she replied.
“Dragons?” Max chuckled. “Sounds positively science fiction. Or do you mean the komodo type dragons?”
Poet’s eyes narrowed, despising the mocking tone of his voice. “Never mind,” she snapped hotly. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“No, wait, I’m—” Max shook his head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make fun of it. I want to understand!”
Poet glared at him for a moment, trying to gauge his reaction for sincerity.
“This is why I don’t tell anyone about my research,” she muttered, and Max’s face grew contrite.
“I wasn’t trying to discount your field of study, truly,” he mumbled softly. “I am just perplexed. Dragons don’t exist.”
“They do!” Poet exploded, and several patrons paused their meals to stare at her disapprovingly. “Sorry,” she apologized, casting her face downward in embarrassment. “I just hate not being taken seriously.”
“I’m taking you very seriously,” Max replied, slipping toward the end of his chair to show he was hanging off her every word. “Tell me what you’ve learned.”
Poet took a deep, shaky breath and exhaled, realizing that he genuinely wanted to hear what she had found.
“Since the beginning of recorded time,” she started, “there have been allusions to dragons among us. From Hindu mythology to ancient Mesopotamia, there are stories of serpent-like creatures who evolved from the waters and sprouted wings. In eastern culture, they are revered as sage beings,” Poet explained in a low voice. “It always made me wonder how cultures spread so far apart in those times could have such similar depictions and tales about such beasts.”
“In those days, people had little other than their imagination to keep them entertained,” Max offered, but Poet barely heard him.
“There had to be a common link, something at least some of these ancient civilizations had come across, and I wanted to learn more about it,” she continued. “So, I began to research them, how they could exist, what they could be, if there was even a possible genetic mutation on the evolutionary scale for such a phenomenon.”
Even though Max remained silent, Poet could see he was taking in her words carefully.
“Almost three years ago, scientists uncovered a fifty-foot ‘dragon’ dinosaur in Hong Kong, which they believed walked about 160-million years ago.”
“Don’t you mean ‘flew’?” Max quipped.
Poet offered him a wry smile. “Yes,” she agreed. “I do.”
The server reappeared with their drinks and poured the champagne for them in goblets while they silently watched.
“Are you ready to order?” she asked. “I can go over the specialties tonight if—”
“We just need a few more minutes,” Max interjected. “Please.”
“Of course.” The waitress disappeared through the maze of tables, and Max turned his attention back to her.
“How does all of this pertain to your thesis? You are trying to determine the existence of dragons a hundred million years ago?”
Poet shook her head, leaning in closer to him, her blue eyes huge. “No, no,” she whispered. “I have followed the evolution of dragons from sea serpents to winged beasts and back down to earth again.”
“You think they live off in caves somewhere in the alps?” Max asked, and Poet could hear the skepticism in his voice.
“No,” she answered quietly. “They have evolved in their environment.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that dragons literally walk among us every day with the ability to shift back and forth from reptile to human.”
Max’s mouth dropped open. “How can that be, Poet?” he gasped, his face growing pale. “That’s scientifically impossible.”
“No,” Poet protested. “It’s not. I have spoken with people who can attest to these beings.”
“Credible sources?” Max demanded. “I don’t mean
to sound like a doubting Thomas, but there are also people who believe in UFOs.”
“I know where I can find proof!” Poet replied excitedly. “In the north, there is an abandoned kingdom, the castle still kept by an old man and his wife. All of my research tells me that they are sitting on a mountain of evidence that I need to publish my findings.”
Max stared at her, his lips pursing.
“Where is this place?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Well up in the middle of nowhere, really,” she said, “I’ve only been there once.”
“What is it called, Poet?” Max questioned, his voice sharp.
Poet stared at him curiously.
“Misty Woods,” she replied, and she watched as his face crumpled before her eyes. “Do you know it?”
Max lifted his head. “No,” he said flatly. “I don’t believe I do.”
6
I must simply dissuade her by explaining the impossibilities of what she is saying, Maximus decided that night. It seemed like an easy enough task. But as the next few days progressed, he began to realize just how impossible that was going to be.
Maximus became Poet’s shadow, following her to class and escorting her around in his rented car. He needed to learn precisely how she had come to the knowledge about him and his kind.
The more she disclosed to him, the bigger the knot in his stomach grew. She had done her research—there was no question.
“How did you come across this information?” he asked her. “I mean, what inspired you to look for such a thing?”
Poet smiled at him, rolling onto her stomach to kiss his lips sweetly. She curled her naked form into his, their breaths still ragged in the aftermath of their lovemaking.
“You have not stopped asking me about my thesis since the first night we were together,” she said. “I am beginning to think you’re out to steal my work.”
Maximus snorted, his fingertips gracefully tracing the sensual lines of her shoulders.
“You captured my imagination,” he replied, pulling her against his chest to lay her head on his breast. “Who else can claim such an intriguing area of study?”
Poet laughed, draping a leg over his, her thigh grazing his heavy sack as her fingers trailed along his nipple.
“People think I’m crazy,” she told him. “They think I read too much Harry Potter or something.”
“Did you?” Maximus teased, trying to keep his voice light.
“I don’t know why I have always been fascinated with dragons,” Poet answered instead. “I was born in the Chinese year of the dragon.”
“Maybe that’s it,” he agreed, his pulse still thundering.
Even after the week they had spent in one another’s arms, he still could not stop himself from growing dizzy when the conversation arose.
I’m the one who keeps bringing it up, he reminded himself.
“They are so majestic,” Poet continued, her voice taking on an almost dream-like quality as she spoke. “What else in the world is like them?”
“Assuming they exist in the first place,” Maximus piped up.
“You are such a skeptic,” she said with a laugh. “But I will prove it to you this weekend.”
He looked down at her.
“What’s this weekend?” he asked. She shook her head.
“It’s a secret, but I hope you don’t have plans.” Maximus shook his head, glancing at her.
“Have we gotten to a place where you are bossing me around now?” he joked, and Poet giggled, placing another kiss on his lips.
“Considering you haven’t gone home since you arrived on my doorstep five days ago, I think I have earned the right to boss you about some, wouldn’t you say?”
“I know better than to argue with a beautiful woman,” he replied. “In fact, I may even enjoy being bossed around by a beautiful woman.”
“I knew you were smarter than you looked,” she laughed, slipping off the bed.
“Wait!” Maximus called, a flow of blood reclaiming the spot between his thighs. “Where are you off to now?”
“I have class. I thought you might pretend to go to class, too,” she said evenly, and Maximus’ face turned crimson. “I mean, if you’re still going to pretend you’re a sociology student.”
Maximus bit his lip. She called him out on everything.
“One of these days,” she added, “you’re going to have to tell me the truth about who you are and why you’re here.”
“If you’re so convinced I’m not who I say, why do you allow me to stay with you?” he asked. “You seem more streetwise than that, even though you’re a princess.”
Poet stopped and looked at him, her face softening.
“I don’t know what it is about you,” she murmured, meeting his eyes with a smile on her face. “But you do something to me that no one has ever done.”
Maximus smiled. “And yet you don’t trust me.”
Poet’s own smile faded.
“I never said I don’t trust you,” she replied slowly. “In fact, I feel like I trust you more than I have trusted anyone, and I don’t even know your last name.”
“All you had to do is ask,” he said. “It’s Williams.”
Poet’s eyes narrowed at him, and Maximus suddenly felt as if he had told her too much.
“Max Williams,” she said, almost to herself. “How positively British.” She spun toward the bathroom, not waiting for a response, closing the door behind her.
Maximus admitted they had a strange relationship, but it seemed to work somehow. He knew he couldn’t continue to do this. Sooner or later, King Rui would start to wonder what was taking him so long, and if Maximus didn’t get the job done, his father would send someone along who would.
Maximus rose from the sheets of Poet’s bed. He heard the shower turn on, and he pushed his growing hard-on down, knowing that Poet would not succumb to another round with him before class. She took school much too seriously, which was just one more of his many issues.
Why couldn’t she be some college party girl? he thought. That way, at least she could be easily distracted, and I could return home without worry.
Then again, he was glad Poet was nothing like that. She was high-minded, her brain a constant source of stimulating conversation and excitement. Maximus knew the reason he was in a constant state of arousal was because of her intelligence. And her beauty. And her wit.
And her sexy, perfect body, he thought. In fact, there was not one aspect of Poet that did not arouse Maximus at any moment of the day. But that was also proving to be his undoing. He still had no plan to deter her from pursuing her thesis, and in truth, he probably wouldn’t be able to stop her, even if he wanted to.
Poet was stubborn and proud, and there was nothing Maximus could say or do that would make her change her mind.
He was on a rollercoaster of highs and lows, wanting to enjoy every exquisite minute he had with her yet knowing it was fleeting all at the same time.
He also knew he was procrastinating. He had not been back to Ansel’s once since returning to Oxford, and while his brother had sent him sporadic texts, Maximus had purposely ignored them. After all, he had nothing to report. At least, nothing that Ansel wanted to hear.
Naked, Maximus strolled from the bedroom into the living room, where Chauncey was sprawled on the sofa. The dog bared his teeth in greeting but made no sound nor effort to move as Maximus sat at the laptop on the dining room table.
He and the canine had reached a happy understanding of staying out of each other’s way, and so far, it had worked. Chauncey had made no attempt to take another chunk out of him, and Maximus’ gouges had healed within hours of the attack. He still maintained the bandage over his hand, lest his ever-observant lover note that he had superhuman healing abilities. It was not something he could easily explain away.
Maximus flipped open the computer and typed in Poet’s password, which she had freely given to him the very first day they spent together. She suspected him, and
yet she also trusted him. What he wouldn’t give to spend five minutes in that woman’s mind…
As the home screen came into play, Maximus felt his blood run cold. Google Maps was open, the route to Misty Woods displayed almost obscenely before his eyes.
Oh, shit, he realized, horrified. That’s where she wants to take me this weekend.
A knock on the door made him jump guiltily, and Chauncey howled in protest.
“Princess! Princess, please open the door! This is the King’s Guard.”
Maximus could still hear the shower going in the master bedroom, and the Cocker Spaniel continued wailing as the knocks grew more intense.
“Please open the door, or I will be forced to break it down!”
Maximus jumped to his feet and rushed into the bedroom.
“Poet, your security is at the door!” he yelled to her. “They’re threatening to break it down!”
“What the hell?” she cried. “Answer it and ask them what they want!”
“Princess!” the guard at the door screamed. “This is your last warning!”
“Dammit, Max, if they break down my door, I’m holding you responsible!” she yelled. “Go answer the damned door!”
Forgetting he wore not a stitch of clothing, Maximus sprinted into the living room and threw open the door.
“What the hell is going—?”
He was unable to finish his question—two men pinned him against the wall, spreading his legs apart.
“Who are you?” one demanded. “Where is the princess?”
“She’s in the shower!” Maximus growled. “Let go of me!”
“Hold him there,” said the other one.
“If you bust in on her while she’s in the shower, so help me God, I will kill you both on the spot,” Maximus promised. He didn’t have to look to feel their venomous looks.
“You and who else, Atlas?”
Poet turned the corner into the living room, cinching a robe at her waist.
“What the hell are you doing in my flat?” she raged at the two men.
Despite the circumstances, Maximus could not help but note how sensual she looked, her blonde tresses dripping along the red terrycloth material.