by Angel Payne
“I’m already on her good side by agreeing to this in the first place.” He presses closer, looping hands at both my elbows but wrapping my whole body with the force of his urgent attention. “Armeau. Let’s finish this. Please.”
I am helpless in his thrall. While my body responds to his pull from head to toe, my heart is captivated by his dog-with-a-bone need. “Finish it?” I cannot siphon the tease from my lips or my tone. “But we are only getting started.”
The dog regresses into a puppy—bursting its way into his broad grin and his hard, thorough kiss. “Damn right we are.”
As he scoops up my hand and leads the way to the studio, my heart leaps, ebullient and dazzled—and resolved to simply enjoy the moment before picking through the details of the future. For right now, the dangerous lion and the eager puppy are playing nicely—
And for right now, that is enough.
*
Cassian
Okay…I’ve had enough.
The impatience usually itches at me between the five and six-minute mark during on-camera interviews—but today, it’s taken only half that time. Doesn’t come as one speck of a shock, despite the fact that I’m actually enjoying myself.
No. “Enjoyment” isn’t right.
I “enjoy” things like staff meetings, phone calls from Mom, and lurking at classic car shows with Hodge and Scott. Hell; I’ve even “enjoyed” a few interviews in the past—a very few—with those rare reporters who’ve seen me as more than a ratings spike or an inroad to a new scandal.
This is…something wholly different. A satisfaction I’ve never experienced before…bound to a matching rush of restlessness. The inexplicable wonder of watching my sorceress win a new convert to her fandom—while fighting my very definable urges for her.
Definable—to the point of pain.
Don’t talk to the cock. Don’t talk to the cock.
Right. Because ignoring the big guy on the playground is going to make him go away? Forgetting he’s counting the goddamn minutes until you have Ella against your bedroom door again, dressed in nothing but that bracelet and her desire? Who the hell says you’ll even make it back to Temptation? Why not order Scott to take the long way home—say, via Canada—and fuck her into three orgasms before you hit the border?
Yessss. Perfect…
Laughter stabs—and shatters—my fantasy. For the first time in my life, I’m actually grateful that Chantal Dunne giggles like a constipated parakeet. The outburst has saved my hard-on from being screenshotted across the world—at least for now.
The woman leans over and gazes as if Ella has just relayed a viable action plan for world peace. “So he really just slipped on the bathroom tile…and tumbled that hard into the shower door?”
Mishella dips her head, countering with a little laugh of her own. The actions seem authentic because they are. Not a word of what she’s said to Chantal in the last five minutes is a lie; she’s simply guided the reporter toward specific facts, letting her reach distinct conclusions—painting me mostly as a sex-obsessed Neanderthal.
Leading back to the whole I’m-enjoying-this-but-not-really thing.
Surprise fucking surprise. When it comes to Mishella Santelle, I am a sex-obsessed Neanderthal.
“Well…” She only enforces the point by tucking her lip under her teeth, funneling my attention back on her—more specifically, on that plush mouth of hers—in deliriously uncomfortable ways. “You know what they say about the power of forward momentum…”
“Oh, gawd!” The woman’s screech tears the air again. “Well, I certainly do!”
Ella bats her eyes and pretends to hide a blush. It’s a textbook just-between-us-girls move, and she pulls it off so gorgeously, half the guys in the studio clearly consider changing genders. “Well, just imagine that kind of…thrust…if thrown off-balance by certain…occurrences…”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes.” Ella meshes her laughter with Chantal’s, though angles back toward me. She lays a protective hand over the bandages she helped me change this morning, adding a playful but gentle glance—sealing the deal on her subtle mastery of Chantal’s narrative. Those are all the details you get, missie. Now let my man and me have a little moment.
To make the point clear, she coaxes my face down for a tender kiss—making sure to use the arm with her new bracelet on it. Adorable minx. I let my stare linger, imagining there’s a matching cuff on the other arm and I’m about to hook them to an eyebolt—in the headboard of my bed.
Dear fuck.
I’m not a goddamned prude, by any stretch of the imagination—but balancing hard work with hard play has always been about exchanging pleasure with a woman, nothing more. Absolutely nothing more.
But this woman makes me want…
crave…
more.
Much more.
Her.
Belonging to me.
Controlled by me.
Needing me.
Begging me…
And, yeah. I’m actually thinking all this on national TV.
So maybe it’s good that constipated parakeets exist—and have struck up a secret licensing deal with Chantal Dunne.
Three seconds more, and this moment would have been one for a million screen capture keys across the internet. The reporter saves me again, tossing her head back on the laughter while re-centering herself in the hostess chair that’s been custom-designed for her coloring, arm span, and leg extension. But as she braces elbows to both armrests and prepares to pivot off the juicy angle Ella’s just gifted to her, my guard remains up. Way up. Chantal Dunne wants her Tweet-able, meme-able, screen capture-able moment. If it’s not going to be the bulge in my crotch, she’ll get it another way.
“Well, haven’t you two little love bugs given us quite the juicy visuals this morning?”
Love bugs?
Ella slides her hand down from my face in order to rest it beneath her own chin, managing innocent and impish in the same sweep of a pose. A matching gleam forms in her eyes, reminding me of fairies—but not the cute twinkly kind. “Why Miss Dunne, you already had the juice after paying off half of New York to chronicle our first ten dates—including shots of this beautiful man in black tie, yachting whites, and Pikachu yellow.” The evidence of her claim comes to life on the live feed monitors, with all the sneak photos of us once more worked into the broadcast, including the shot of me playing tourist in Times Square next to a Pokémon nearly as tall as me. Sure enough, jammed onto my head is a garish yellow cap with ears that match his. “What we have given you today, Chantal,”—and suddenly, my fae sprite is the one angling across the coffee table, gorgeous body poised and huge stare intent—“is a full, delicious smoothie. Size. Large.”
Nope. Not Tinkerbell.
As the same realization wallops Chantal, freezing her posture and stiffening her smile, I borrow some boardroom techniques to refrain from a gloating grin. The fist bump’s a tougher conceal, but the internet—and this show’s massive viewer following—don’t need to be focused on either. Ella and I are here to be bigger than that game. To beat the damn game. To showcase the desperation behind their innuendo, from the overtime on the paparazzi lenses to the “secret sources” in the hospital itself, betraying snippets of our lives that have added up to the giant zilch of their “truth.”
But Chantal is nowhere near ready to cry no joy.
And shows us so, transforming her fawn in the headlights into a flying reindeer, tossing back her head on a laugh that’s likely been rehearsed a thousand times in order to convey the perfect mix of “surprised humor” and “breezy confidence.”
“Ohhh Mishella. You are adorable. Picking up all the fun of the language already, hmmm?”
I’ve started yanking Ella back to my side, giving me the perfect angle for flashing a private but specific look over to Chantal. Fuck it, I glare. Hard. Careful where you tread, dragon. You haven’t begun to see my teeth and fire.
For the edge of a second, the corner
s of the woman’s eyes flinch. Target achieved. The rest of the world doesn’t see it, but I don’t care about them. I only care that ginger-glam girl knows exactly where her claws can and cannot go, especially as she re-crosses her legs and addresses the main camera with practiced precision.
“Don’t go far, everyone. We’ll be right back with more of your favorite prince in pinstripes, Cassian Court, as well as his fascinating new paramour from exotic Arcadia, who promises to teach us all a little more about her special smoothies. Straws up, kids!”
As soon as the red light dies and someone shouts that the set is clear for a commercial break, the place erupts like an awakened beehive. An assistant checks the water glasses in front of us (still full), while another scurries to check on the tofu recipe specialist who’ll be on after us (still ready). Three more hover around Chantal, primping hair and makeup that are already flawless. When one of the stylists approaches Ella, he’s batted away like a giant bug. Once more, I hold back from saluting my woman with a fist bump.
My woman.
The certainty of it has never burned more deeply in my psyche than now, just as I’ve never been prouder to have her on my arm. While the manner in which our truth was dished to the world is still just a half-step away from a sex tape—undoubtedly, there are already a dozen Pikachu caps waiting on my desk as gag gifts—I’m damn glad we’ve been brought to the table, and compelled to recognize the new truths about our “contract.” Glad? Yeah, slight misnomer—as would be the horror from anyone on my legal team, if they ever learned where I’d really stood when approaching Ella about “new terms” last night.
Funny thing is, I don’t fucking care.
She’s agreed to give it a try. Just a try—but it’s enough, dammit. If she wants to charge me another forty million for that miracle, then so be it.
And yeah, I am choosing to call it a miracle. Something exists where it didn’t before—I actually want to get up every morning—and isn’t that what a miracle is?
Come to think of it, I kind of like the afternoons that come after those mornings too. And dear God, the magic into which Ella Santelle has turned all my nights…
The enchantment she has cast over my life…
The power she now has over my heart.
It’s a recognition with damn shitty timing, because something tells me it’s the most evident thing on my face as Chantal Dunne stares up through her lashes, her reindeer now still…and ruthlessly assessing.
Sharpening her antlers.
Someone shouts that we’ll be back on the air in thirty seconds.
Chantal smooths her skirt. Swivels back toward us, rearranging the notecards in her lap, plastic smile on her lips. “All righty,” she croons. “You two ready for a little more fun?”
Ella settles a little deeper into the crook of my arm. Cuddles there for a second, her smile remaining curved in sugar-sweet sincerity. But in her eyes, something has changed. Blazed to life like a pair of crystals activated by a sorceress’s spell—and not one made of bird song and gum drops. Even Chantal recognizes the belladonna cast of it…the stabby things Tinkerbell’s been sharpening too.
The things now carving edges to Ella’s calm reply. “Something tells me your only idea of ‘fun’ is torturing puppies, Chantal—and neither Cassian nor I plan on fetching any balls for you. That being said…bring it on.”
ELEVEN
*
Mishella
Funny, that a very real thought has struck me in the middle of a fake living room, overlooking a fake city, sipping water that came from fake mountain springs.
Bitches are the same no matter where one journeys in life.
Given a better haircut, a more flattering dress, and a few court etiquette lessons, Chantal Dunne is like every social climbing bamboo of the Arcadian Court. The word is not even my innocent idiom mash now. In Arcadia, we have no problem likening idiots to hollow, invasive plants. It has certainly made it easier to handle her, watering her stems with vapid comments that have become easy jumping boards for her own witty banter, though I am certain she considers the roots firmly in place, the plant prepared to bloom.
Cassian squeezes my shoulder. Flashes me a subtle wink. In addition to melting every cell in my blood at once, the moment conveys another important thing. He knows about bamboo too. We are unified. Chantal Dunne and her garden are getting no more fertilizer from us.
“And we’re back!” chimes the woman herself, punctuating with a toss-toss of her hair that makes me cringe on behalf of all women with curls, especially me. “Along with more of my exclusive sit-down with Cassian Court and Mishella Santelle, surely the most alluring memento he’s ever brought back to New York from his world travels.” She beams a teasing look across the coffee table. “Better than a dorky T-shirt, eh, Cas?”
Cas.
I hook both hands around my knees, digging my grip in. I have only ever heard the nickname from Mallory and Kate: his mother and the woman who might as well be his sister. Chantal Dunne has no right even sniffing at that special category—but if she has no right, neither do I. It is Cassian’s transgression to correct—and I am glad to see he looks ready to. While pulling in a long sip of the fake mountain stream, he eyes the reporter with an equal pretense of affability.
“Oh, she’s far better than a T-shirt, Chantal.” He winks again at me. “All my other T-shirts agree, since she looks damn good in them.”
“Dear Creator.” Until now, I have managed not to blush despite the hot set lights. He certainly changes that.
“Oooo la la!” Chantal clips her index cards between two fingers in order to join the crew in approving applause. “Somebody has certainly bewitched the playboy!”
Cassian sobers his demeanor. Though setting down the water, he remains angled forward. Palming a knee with his good hand, he impales Chantal with the jade lance of his stare. “Playboy? That implies that I ‘play,’ Chantal. I’ve never ‘played’ with the women I see. Everyone knows where they stand, at all times.”
Chantal’s riposte worries me from the start. Not a second’s worth of awkwardness, like what happened after I called out the slithery tactics of her research team. Her composure remains sleek—nearly as if Cassian has played right into her script.
“So that position applied to Amelie Hampton, as well?”
Or walked into her trap.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
If the same refrain has slammed Cassian, I—and everyone else—are not privy to it. “Of course it applied to Amelie.” His brow simply furrows, as if Chantal has questioned whether his suit is custom-tailored or the sky is always blue. “And she was well aware of that.”
Chantal dips a bewildered look to her note cards. “That so? Then why did she appear on this very show to claim you ‘crushed her like a Mack truck’ two months ago, by showing up at the New York Literacy Ball with Mishella instead of her?”
“The event at which she was as drunk as a punk?” I ignore the perplexity on the woman’s face. I cannot simply sit back while the woman uses Amelie’s sloshed escapades to skewer Cassian. “She had so much, she was able to waste some on the front of my dress—before throwing the glass at Cassian.”
“Right before you walked out on him, Mishella.”
Triumphant razors gleam in the woman’s eyes. She rocks back a little, letting me wince through the suicide for which she’s gleefully assisted.
And worsens.
“You walked out because Amelie started talking.” Her head tilts as she dares going for the “best girlfriends” angle—at least to the viewers’ eyes. “And she spilled the truth, the whole truth, about what happened to Lily Court.”
She pushes forward again.
Just between us, Ella.
Reaches for one of my hands.
You can talk to me, Ella.
“Do. Not. Touch. Me.”
I barely get it seethed before the witch leans closer, though any outside observer would interpret her as the compassionate friend to my emotional wreck. “It
must have been so much to take in. A first wife with emotional instability and substance abuse problems. All those trips Lily took to rehab—”
She’s sliced into silence by the man who almost lunges across the table at her. “How the hell did you find that out?”
One corner of Chantal’s mouth twitches. “Are you denying it?”
“I’m saying that those records are sealed, and that someone broke the law giving them to you.”
“Because you wanted to hide the extent of Lily’s substance abuse?” The smirk is gone from her lips but lives on in her cutting gaze. “Because she was so desperate to stay high, she abused drugs even when pregnant with your child?”
My heart punches to my throat. Sticks there, in the moment Cassian pounds a fist to the table.
“Enough.”
His snarl impacts Chantal as nothing more than a breeze. The note cards are coyly set aside. Her upper body slinks forward, calm and knowing as a she-snake. “Maybe you just want to hide the biggest kernel of it,” she murmurs. “That the night Lily Court leapt to her death, she was still carrying your baby.”
*
Cassian
“This interview is over.”
My own words thrash the inside of my skull like ravens in a church: dark wings beating at stained glass, fury bashing the illusion of anything civilized and sane.
I watch my numb fingers tear the button of a microphone off my lapel. Next to me, Ella’s doing the same thing, though uses the extra two seconds to hiss something down at Chantal. The black thrum in my head doesn’t put all of it together until the words are out, and the reporter is responding with nothing but a saint-on-stained-glass smile.
“Creator have mercy on your sorry, awful soul!”
As she sucks in breath, gathering strength for a follow-up, I grab at her elbow. Pull hard. The last thing this moment needs is a Tazmanian devil channeled through an Arcadian blonde, ripping things up worse than Chantal Dunne already has.
Chantal Dunne, who now has what she showed to work for today.
“Enjoy the glory while it lasts, Miss Dunne.” Your ass as at the center of my dartboard now.