The Awakened Prince

by Elise Marion

  “There you are,” he sighed against her neck, scraping the skin there with his teeth. “You can try to play aloof all you wish, but we both know how easily I can make you burn for me.”

  There was no way she could disagree with him while she quivered and shook in his arms, heat suffusing her from head to toe. She really was on fire, and all from just the touch of his hands. One finger found its way into her and then another. She cried out, trembling as he thrust into her desire-swollen sheath, his thumb steadily stroking over the tight nub at her center.

  “Serge, please,” she pleaded.

  “Please what, Isabelle?” he whispered. “Please stop, or please more?”

  “More,” she groaned, her head falling back against his chest, her breaths coming out in harsh pants.

  The promise of release coiled deep within her, looming just seconds away. She reached behind her with a shaking hand, searching for the buttons at the front of his breeches, but his free hand clamped around her wrist before raising it high above her head, imprisoning it there. He pressed his body even tighter against hers, until she was completely incapable of movement. His fingers stilled, wrenching a desperate cry from her. She’d been so close…

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he rasped. “You’d like nothing more than to win your little game by driving me mad with lust for you, turning me into a mindless fool sniffing about your skirts like all your other admirers.”

  “No,” she whispered, twisting in his hold to try to face him. “It isn’t like that. Serge … please.”

  “It is,” he rumbled in her ear. “That’s exactly what you want … for me to forget that you’ve made a fool of me tonight and caused me to have to assault and threaten one of my most valuable men. To forget that you manipulated me, along with every other man in the court. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but you lose.”

  Isabelle slumped against the wall as her skirts fell back into place, and the heat and hardness of Serge’s body left her. His heavy footsteps carried him across the room and away from her. As the door to the library clicked shut behind him, Isabelle crumbled into a heap on the floor, face buried in her hands as she realized he was right. She had, indeed lost.

  * * *

  Serge paced his bedchamber like a caged beast, his hands clenched behind his back. An hour after he’d left Isabelle in the library, he still could not sleep. He had been too restless to go back to the ball, closeting himself in his room with a bottle of brandy in an attempt to calm his frazzled nerves. Despite his exhaustion and desire to spend the night in a soft, warm bed, he could not find rest.

  “I deserve a damned sainthood for that,” he mumbled to himself as he remembered how close he’d come to taking her right there against the wall.

  She’d been practically begging for it, trembling and quaking in his arms with undisguised need. But if he’d given in to what his body had demanded, he would have lost control of his head. He did not appreciate being manipulated, and hoped his point had been made when he’d turned his back on the seductive offering of her half-nude body. Isabelle had to be made to understand that he couldn’t be swayed so easily. Yes, he wanted her body, but he also wanted everything else. To tempt him with part of herself while still withholding the rest … it simply was not enough for him. And he’d come to see that he’d never be content with just parts of her. He wanted all, or nothing.

  With a frustrated groan, he flopped onto the bed and jerked the covers over his head. He’d stripped down to his smallclothes, but now contemplated getting dressed and going for a walk. The cold would help squelch his persistent arousal.

  Or, he could go off in search of his wife, drag her back to his bedchamber and finish what he’d started. He would lay her down and kiss every inch of her delectable skin, make her beg him for more while keeping her on the edge of madness. He wouldn’t give in until he’d driven her as mad as she’d made him, then he would take what was his, over and over again until neither of them could take it anymore.

  With a frustrated growl, he turned onto his side and tried to push those thoughts out of his mind. They held fast, seeming far more appealing than sulking in bed alone.

  “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, one fist pounding his pillow in a move that did nothing to take the edge off his nerves.

  The sound of a door opening and then closing startled him, and he sat up, pushing the coverlet aside. He found Isabelle leaning against the door connecting their chambers, her eyes wide and guileless as she stared at him.

  She had taken off her finery and jewels, and stood before him in an ivory damask dressing gown, her cut hair falling in soft curls around her face. Her face glowed from being washed and scrubbed, her lips a beckoning pink pucker.

  He made no move to approach her, not knowing why she had come. If it was a row she wanted, he’d have to tell her it could wait until morning. He did not have it in him to fight with her, not again, not tonight.

  To his surprise, she began approaching the bed, her hands coming to the knotted belt of her robe.

  “I don’t care about winning anymore,” she said, pausing at the foot of the bed. “I forfeit. I don’t care about being right, or wrong, or proving my own point. I want my husband back. I want my best friend back. I want you.”

  She held his rapt attention as she loosened the belt, then allowed the robe to fall open. It slipped off her shoulders and fell to the floor, revealing that she wore nothing beneath. His stomach clenched, his teeth grinding together from the tension in his jaw as he looked her over from head to toe.

  Her hair wasn’t the only change that living in the compound of the women’s regiment had brought about in his wife. Her body—which had already been a heavenly temptation of ripe curves—was now taut with muscle in the arms and thighs, her waist curving inward and her thighs displaying a power born of hours in the saddle of a horse. He could see the changes archery and swordplay had made while still leaving behind all the supple womanliness he’d always loved about her.

  She was a goddess and a warrior, a queen and a soldier. And, God, how he wanted her … perhaps now more than he ever had.

  All his anger melted away as she crawled up onto the bed, coming toward him on her hands and knees. Instead of uncertainty in her yes, he saw determination—she would not be denied. And he would not deny her.

  When she came within arm’s reach, he reached out to take hold of her. Arms going around her waist, he pulled her against his body and leaned back against the pillows, pulling her on top of him. They moaned in unison, lips colliding as their bodies came together, her supple curves fitting against his hard and flat ridges. He cupped her face and drank from her mouth, parched for the taste of her, the feel of her tongue against his. She returned his kiss with equal fervor, hitching one leg up and pressing her warm, wet center against him while delving her tongue deep into his mouth.

  He was as hard as stone, throbbing and yearning, begging for entrance to the body he hadn’t touched in months.

  “I’ve missed you,” she whimpered against his mouth while working him out of his drawers. “I missed you so much, Serge.”

  Her words fed his need, soothing his ire at past slights. None of it mattered any longer, not when she was back in his arms.

  “I missed you, too,” he murmured, his hands smoothing down her back to her buttocks. He gave the plump flesh a squeeze, urging her tighter against him. “And now I’m going to show you just how much.”

  She sighed into his mouth as he fused their mouths back together, gently rolling her off of him and onto her back. He hooked one arm beneath her bent leg, hitching it up higher and opening her to him.

  He’d wanted to go slow, to take his time kissing every inch of her bare skin … but found he lacked the restraint after so much time apart. He needed to be connected with her in the most elemental of ways. She arched her back to invite him in, arms wrapped around his neck as she kissed his lips, his jaw, his neck.

  He guided himself into her with a low groan, restin
g his forehead against hers as he seated himself as deep as humanly possible. He urged her leg around him, then treated the other the same way, until he was wrapped in all four of her limbs as well as the clench of her sheath.

  He moved within her, slowly at first and then with a swift desperation that drove his breath from him in swift, shallow huffs. Their gazes connected and held, soft sounds of pleasure falling from Isabelle’s lips like notes of music. She rocked against him in perfect counterpoint to his thrusts, her heels digging into his back as she clung to him as if for dear life. He kissed her again, sucking at her bottom lip, then the point of her chin, then the side of her neck.

  When his mouth found her breast, she cried out, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. His pace quickened, his tongue flicking at her nipple as she squirmed and writhed, her insides pulsing around him in imminent climax.

  She fell apart in his arms, shuddering and moaning as he stroked inside of her a few more times before following her. He ground his hips into hers, wanting to feel every minute convulsion of her orgasm while filling her with his seed, along with months’ worth of want and need.

  Heavy breaths rushing together in harmony, they fell into a limp tangle of limbs, Serge turning them onto their sides so that they faced one another.

  For a long while they remained silent, locked in one another’s eyes. He stroked her cheek, tracing his knuckles down the side of her neck. She took his hand and pulled it back to her face, turning to kiss his palm much as he had kissed hers the last time they’d seen one another.

  “Serge, I really am I sorry,” she whispered. “I did not mean …”

  He silenced her with a kiss and a playful slap on her lush bottom, laughing when she gasped, her cheeks going pink.

  “Enough, hussy,” he quipped. “That was all the apology I needed. You are forgiven.”

  She relaxed in his arms and sighed with relief. The sentiment was shared, his mind and body at peace now that their battle of wills seemed at an end.

  Taking a lock of her shortened hair between his fingers, he studied the pale blond strands.

  “What have you done to yourself?”

  She furrowed her brow. “You don’t like it.”

  “I do, actually. More than I would have thought I could. It almost feels as though I’m making love to another woman.”

  He grinned, and leaned in to kiss her. She giggled against his lips, returning his playful kisses with little nips of her teeth.

  “Don’t worry,” she purred. “I won’t tell your wife.”

  * * *

  The fog was thicker than ever, so dense she could barely see her hand before her face. Isabelle walked slowly so she would not get lost in the thick, humid blanket surrounding her and the forest. An owl cooed in the distance, and the rustle of tiny critters crackled in the leaves beneath her feet.

  He was there again, just ahead of her. Lionus walked, stopping every few feet to stare at her over his shoulder with his piercing eyes. Instead of chasing him as she had before, she kept her current pace. She stalked him, her gaze locked on his back, determined not to lose him this time.

  “Lionus,” she called into the night.

  He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her. Much as it had been in life, his expression was hard, brow furrowed, mouth pinched at the corners. But he was still as handsome as ever, heartbreakingly real and here before her.

  “Is it really you?” she whispered once she’d drawn near.

  She reached her hand up to touch his face, startled to feel nothing. He was cold, like vapor. Here, but not here.

  “No, Isabelle. I exist only in your mind … the last part of me that you have refused to let go of.”

  Isabelle was taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. She felt so unbelievably happy to see him, yet she could tell from his expression that he did not feel the same way. He seemed vexed with her, if anything else.

  “Why didn’t you stop? I called out to you, but you wouldn’t stop.”

  “Because if you will not walk away, then I have to.”

  Her frown deepened, her mind racing as she tried to understand. “Why would you want me to walk away? Don’t you want me to remember you?”

  Lionus finally smiled, the motion blinding in its beauty and brightness. She lamented that he hadn’t smiled more in life. There were so many people who had never bore witness to how it could transform his face.

  He reached up to stroke her cheek in a tender caress.

  “Of course I do,” he murmured. “I know that you could never forget me, because I live in you, Isabelle. I live in the people around you, the people you love. I live in Damien. Can’t you see what becoming king has done for him? It has made him a man in every sense of the word. He carries on the legacy of our father. I even live in Serge.”

  He paused, giving her a pointed stare.

  Isabelle fell silent and lowered her eyes. Guilt washed over her as she recalled the passionate night she had spent in her new husband’s bed. Did the Lionus of her dreams know how much she’d enjoyed it? Did he hate her for it?

  “There’s nothing wrong with loving him,” he said, grasping one of her hands between his. “Damien always said that he was the balance between us, the better of us both. Don’t you know why you thought you saw me in his eyes? It’s because he is everything that made up the best parts of me.”

  Isabelle nodded, a tear racing down her cheek. It was true that Serge had always provided a much needed balance between the stoic Lionus and the devil-may-care Damien. It was also true that Serge had none of the emotional shortcomings his brother had wrestled with, and was better for it. That seemed a horrible thought to have about a dead man, yet it proved true. Lionus himself would have even agreed.

  “This is so hard,” she whispered as more tears splashed her cheeks. “I loved you my whole life. We were married for such a short time and then you died. It hardly seems fair that you were taken from me. Feeling that way has made it so difficult to let myself be open to Serge. I’ve made this so difficult for us by refusing to let him love me. But it feels like betraying you at times. It is confusing, to say the least.”

  “It is hard to face reality, but you have to. You cannot continue to rely on your dreams of me to sustain you for the rest of your life. I want you to be happy, Isabelle, and I want my brother to be happy, too. All the better if you find a way to do it together.”

  “I will always love you,” she said, tightening her grip on his hand as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Even spending the rest of my life with him, even letting myself fall in love with him and finding happiness … there’s a part of me that will never stop loving you.”

  “That’s all right, too,” he said before placing another kiss on her hand. Then, he released it and backed away. “But it is time to let go.”

  As he disappeared into the swirling fog, Isabelle pressed one hand to her heart and watched him fade away into the darkness. His voice resounded in her head long after he was gone.

  “It’s time to let go…”

  * * *

  Isabelle stood at the large window in Serge’s bedroom, watching the sun rise over the horizon. After her time in Gladstone, she was still accustomed to waking well before dawn.

  Remnants of her dream lingered on the edge of her mind as she watched the changing colors of the morning. Had Lionus’ spirit really encouraged her to let him go, or had wishful thinking conjured him so that she could feel less guilty about her feelings for Serge?

  Either way, it was time to face the truth. There was much more to her feelings for her husband than simple lust or platonic friendship. As she turned to watch him stirring from sleep, she felt the pangs of something familiar rippling through her.

  Could it be love?

  It felt an awful lot like it to her. Now that they were reunited, she felt the weight of their time apart. Training with the women’s regiment had been fulfilling in so many ways … but there were parts of her that had nearly shriveled up and died without h
im. Now that they had been reunited, those parts were opening again, unfurling like the petals of a flower greeting the sun. What else could that be but love, when no one else could make her feel this way?

  She turned back to the window as he rose from the bed. After shrugging into his dressing gown, he stoked the dying fire before joining her at the window. She leaned back against him as he wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her back into his body. A sigh of contentment escaped her at being in his arms again, being sheltered and loved by him. At last, she felt ready to return the love he’d given her so freely, even when she did not deserve it.

  “I am surprised to see you awake so early,” he remarked, his voice still heavy and thick from sleep.

  She smiled and laughed. “After training with the women’s regiment and rising at four o’clock every morning, I find it hard to go back to my old patterns. I love to begin my day by watching the sun rise.”

  He rested his chin on top of her head. “Well, I suppose I should wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas,” she replied. “I cannot wait to give you your gift.”

  He pulled away and turned her to face him, his hands resting on her shoulders. “Why don’t we exchange gifts now, instead of waiting until we’ve gathered with the others? I would prefer some privacy, wouldn’t you?”

  “A fabulous idea,” she said, pulling away from his embrace. “Give me a moment to retrieve mine from my dressing room.”

  She hurried to her chamber and threw open the door to her dressing room. Propped in the corner stood the brand new sword, wrapped reverently in a black velvet cloth. Isabelle lifted the heavy weapon, careful to keep it concealed in its wrapping, and made her way back to Serge’s room.

  She returned to find him sitting on the bed with two parcels in his lap.

  Isabelle extended her gift to him with both hands and smiled. “Mine first.”

  He accepted her offering and took care with unwrapping it. His eyes widened and gleamed with delight as his hand closed around the hilt of the sword. Ava had done a magnificent job with the weapon—light but durable, its hilt made of solid gold and encrusted with rubies—the colors of Barony for its newly-crowned king.