Prince of Blood and Steel

by Nazarea Andrews

  Is it any different, living in this elegant, modern penthouse, being driven by Seth’s people, her life watched by his dark gaze—is it different from living with her mother? She sighs, laying her head against the window. There is a welcomed layer of grime, a gritty reality to the taxi in which she revels.

  Nicolette’s words are still echoing through her, and she finds herself gripping her phone, finger lingering over the tiny button that will call Seth. She is tired, furious, confused. The taxi jerks to a halt, pulling her from her thoughts. Her finger slides away, and she digs into her small purse to find a fifty to throw at the cabbie.

  The bouncer’s gaze takes in her clothing as she strides up to the door. She doesn’t acknowledge him as she sweeps past the velvet rope into the club. She has been here often enough that it doesn’t cause a reaction.

  Inside, there are a few dancers, the waitresses winding their way through the softly chattering working girls—it is early enough that business is still slow, and the girls watch with open interest as Emma crosses the almost deserted floor and climbs the stairs.

  A few Thai playboys are playing cards at the large booth. Kai, Rama’s personal guard, sits by himself with a glass of white wine next to the folded paper. Emma stalks to his table and sits without invitation, reaching out to steal his wine. Kai barely glances at her. “Why are you here?” he asks, his gaze darting back to the dancers.

  “I need to see him,” she says, her voice flinty.

  Kai finally turns his dark gaze on her, considering. When he nods, it is with an expression she cannot fathom. “He’s not here. I will take you.”

  He pulls a slim phone from his pocket and speaks quickly before he motions her forward.

  They drive in silence that leaves her unnerved. She sits straight-backed, her hand closing and opening on her phone convulsively. For the first time since meeting Rama, she feels a tingle of fear. She is walking into danger, into another syndicate’s stronghold, with no backup or safety net. Here, there is nothing to protect her—no name or cousin who will shelter her. It’s intoxicating, the mix of fear and excitement that danger sparks.

  The building is shoddy—far more so than she expects. Her nose wrinkles, just a tiny bit, but there is no time before Kai opens her door. She inhales deeply, gathers all the dignity and strength she possesses before she steps out of the car.

  Kai walks her to the elevator, and she shudders at the darkness, the foreign voices calling from offices on the first floor. Kai uses his body, protecting her from the curious eyes as she walks up the hall.

  He looks over his shoulder at her, his gaze challenging, and her chin comes up as she pushes past him, slipping into the elevator and waiting with an imperious air. Kai barely hides his grin as he joins her.

  The doors glide open to a world of black cherry wood and scarlet silk. She steps into the penthouse, stunned that the disreputable façade could hide such oriental beauty. The room is sparsely decorated—a low couch and coffee table, three brilliantly colored paintings, a tall square table near the kitchen.

  She realizes with a start that Kai has walked into the penthouse, and she hurries to catch him. As the tall Thai vanishes into the brightly lit kitchen, she hears soft voices over the clink of glass. Her nerves vanish, and she is suddenly desperate to see him. She discards her coat and purse easily, hurries down the hall.

  The door is open, and, for a moment, Emma cannot process what she is seeing. There is too much, too many undressed women, too many of them so young it is shocking. Liquid black eyes watch the girls, interest too obvious. “Rama?” she whispers, her voice shaking with anger.

  His head comes up, almost lazily, his eyes taking her in as his hand drops away from the girl in front of him. He straightens slowly. “Why are you here?” he asks, and his voice is empty, so empty.

  It hits her like a slap, and she flinches as she backs away. Anger is lingering below the surface of her hurt, and she latches onto it, desperate to feel anything but betrayal.

  She stalks away, shaking. Her phone is in her hand almost before she realizes it, and Kai appears, dark eyes questioning and warning. “It is business, Emma,” he says simply, eying the phone in her hand before focusing on her.

  “Business?” she chokes on the word. “What business requires him to have naked girls in his bedroom?”

  Patient knowledge fills his eyes, and she feels all her anger drain away in shock as the puzzle pieces fall into place.

  “I see,” Emma murmurs faintly.

  “Wait in his room,” Kai instructs, pointing to the closed door at the end of the hall. “He will come when he can.”

  She nods, mutely. Rama’s room is empty, stark, the bed a decadent haven of white satin sheets, and she hates it. She hates that she has been so coolly dismissed, as if she were nothing more than one of the girls waiting to be inspected.

  Her fingers are itching for her phone, and that further enrages her. For once, she doesn’t want Seth to save her. With a curse, she throws the phone on the bed and takes a deep breath. She stares out the window as she gathers what dignity she has left, and waits.

  When Rama opens the door and slips in, she is still leaning on the window sill, staring into the night. He moves silently through the room, taking in the stiff posture and cascade of red-gold curls.

  The rational part of him knows she is furious—the way she stands makes it obvious. Shoulders are held high, her back almost painfully straight. He notices the way her purse and jacket have been thrown across his bed, her phone discarded with them. It pulls at something, seeing her here, in his space. He likes it—more than he should, he likes it.

  He wants to hold her—and knows she will balk if he does. But the desire is too strong, and he moves to her quickly, coming behind her. He drops a quick kiss on the bare skin above her collar, and she pulls away.

  “Mali,” he murmurs, sighing. “It’s business. They don’t mean anything.”

  “Business?” She spits, “Those were naked women, and your hands were on them.”

  Irritation makes him short, and he waves away her words. “Whores, Emma. They’re whores.”

  “I know what they are,” she says, her voice under control again. “Rama, what are you doing? Some of those girls are children!”

  His eyes widen, and he laughs, a short, incredulous noise. “Don’t tell me my business, mali. You, of all people, have no place to talk.”

  She turns, her eyes wide and demanding. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You’re a Morgan, Emma,” Rama snaps. “Do you have any idea what that family does? Do you know your king murdered his heir?”

  “We are not so low as to sell women,” She tries to push past him. Rama catches her, his hands hard on her upper arms, shaking and bruising.

  “Morgans are backstabbing and devious—they peddle drugs and murder. Do not think they are above selling sex,” he whispers. Her eyes are chillingly blank, and he wonders if his hands have bruised her. He loosens his grip. She wrenches herself free from him and turns her back to him.

  Her voice, when she speaks, is glacial and unflinching. “Touch me like that again, and you’ll find out how deadly the Morgans truly are.”

  The words spark in him. He knows he shouldn’t push—after seeing him with all the new girls, she has every right to be angry. But the calm way she stands in his space like she owns it, how she can be within his walls and still threaten him—it is a turn on. A smile tugs at his lips, and he comes to stand behind her, his body framing and pushing against hers. She is stiff, and he knows that if she comes to his bed, it will be fierce, urgent, angry. She deserves more than that, this young girl who saw too much.

  “You should go,” he says abruptly, pulling away.

  She frowns as she turns, studying him intently.

  When she walked into Bamboo weeks ago with the pretty, empty-headed girls, he couldn’t help but remember the only time he had seen her before, when she had come with Caleb. Even drunk into oblivion, she was beautiful, gr
aceful.

  That first night, he had forgotten who she had been with, only knew she was intoxicating and beautiful—city royalty. When he finally put her together with Caleb, he found himself torn between wanting to use her to get to the Morgan king, and the desire to hide all his ties to Ratchaphure.

  The kings have ignored him so completely that he wonders now if Caleb had acted alone, without their knowledge. Without knowing that, can he risk getting close to Emma?

  “What’s wrong?” she asks now, and he wonders again how she places within the family, that she is so instinctually perceptive. Is it just intuition, or is it something she has learned, to survive in a syndicate such as hers?

  He shakes his head helplessly, unsure if he is refusing the question she poses or the ones in his head. Her hands come up, fisting in his hair as he tries to back away, sharp pain as she pulls him back to her.

  Her eyes hold a warning of anger that pushes him deep into desire. She smiles, just a little, and then he is kissing her, and it has none of the gentleness he has shown before. She gasps as he nips her lips, answers with a tug of his hair, her hands still tangled in the black silk. He groans as the pinpricks of pain seep through the pleasure, and she smiles against his lips.

  He should back away. Send her safely back to her king and syndicate and whoever protects her. Instead, his hand slides under her shirt, finds soft skin. She whimpers as his fingers stroke the silk that cups her breast, and he knows—there is no backing away.

  They stumble, still entwined, to the bed, and he lands on her. She grunts. He pauses, hesitates for a moment, and she twists his hair. Rama growls, pulls away to rip her shirt off. Emma shivers as she hears the delicate fabric give, torn so easily. His hands find her breast, pushed up by her bra, and she arches into the caress, moans as he jerks one cup away and pulls on her nipple. The delicious abrasion of his teeth is soothed by a soft swirl of his tongue, and she writhes against him.

  “What?” he murmurs, and she will never admit how sexy his accent is, how close she is to begging.

  Instead, she pulls his silky hair, pulling him to her lips. His body is heavy on hers, crushing, almost bruising as he grinds against her, and she revels in it. Always, she is treated as if she is fragile, breakable. Even Seth treats her with fragile care. But Rama is hard, almost punishing as he pulls away and jerks her to her feet. “Undress,” he orders her abruptly. She shivers.

  His eyes are hot, glittering with desire as she shrugs off the remnants of her shirt and unhooks her bra. His hands clench, and she smiles, playfully. Rama’s eyes turn lazy as she peels off her jeans and stands before him in nothing but black lace panties.

  “Come here,” he whispers, his voice harsh with lust.

  She sways to him, and he jerks her onto the bed, over his body and the thin pants he still wears. She whimpers as he fits her against him, her eyes squeezing closed as he thrusts insistently at her. His hand fists in her hair, and he pulls, forcing her head back, and exposing the long column of her throat. Rama’s teeth scrape over the tender skin, and she feels a tiny spasm, a fierce clenching. She wants him. So badly she barely recognizes herself, she wants this man who deals in women and exotic foreign lands she cannot fathom. Emma grinds against him, licks the shell of his ear, and whispers, “I want you.”

  Rama curses, and she smiles as she slides down his body, pulling his pants off. There is something intrinsically wrong, to be on your knees when royal. Yet nothing could keep her from this—family name be damned. She takes him deep with no warning, and he almost screams as her nails dig into his thighs. Emma smiles around him, thrilling to the way his fingers are gripping her hair. She sets a fast rhythm, and he finds himself struggling not to come, to hold off. She fights him as he forces her away, and his fingers slide into her. He chuckles as she goes limp, a low keening noise sliding from her.

  “You’re ready, mali,” he murmurs, and she nods. There is anticipation, wild desire in her eyes, that banishes the cool reserve of the Morgan family. Rama shoves the thought aside and thrusts into her.

  Emma’s breath catches on a sob as he fills her, then whimpers as he slides out. It’s delicious pressure, gentle thrusts that push her quickly to the brink. She pulls him into a kiss and bites his lip, hard. Rama jerks away, searching her gaze for a moment before he slams into her, hard, and she screams.

  Later, they lie silent, sweat cooling their bodies. Her hand is still tangled in his hair, and she wonders how she will hide the bite mark on her neck from Seth. As if sensing her thoughts turning, Rama pulls her closer.

  “What does Rama mean?” she asks, content in his embrace, willing to ask any asinine question to avoid the reality that awaits them outside the bed.

  He hesitates, and she looks up. Finally he murmurs, “King.”

  A fist seems to squeeze her heart, and she slowly sits up. Naked, wrapped in the sheets that still bear the scent of their sex, the princess looks at him, a foreign prince. There is so much, in a name.

  Chapter 20

  Mandeley, New York City. June 12th.

  She waits patiently for Seth. A board member—a distant uncle, perhaps, she doesn’t remember—stopped him on their way out, and she can see his frayed patience in the way his head jerks when he nods. For another few minutes, she stands quietly to the side, waiting as Seth’s irritation grows.

  “We have a reservation,” she murmurs into a brief lull in conversation. Seth seizes the opportunity and shakes the older man’s hand before he turns away.

  Emma eyes him in the car as he slumps in quiet relief. There are tiny lines around his eyes, worry evident even here, in this semi-relaxed state.

  “Do we really have reservations?” he asks without opening his eyes.

  She nods. “At Corton.”

  He mutters a curse, one with which she wholeheartedly agrees. The classy restaurant is a hotspot for paparazzi, and neither of them is particularly easy to miss. Seth leans past her, speaks to the driver, and she wonders, idly, if she should call and cancel their reservation, but she dismisses the idea almost before it is fully formed. She turns her focus back on Seth. He’s watching her, and there are questions in his eyes that she does not want to face. Instead she glances down at her hands. His eyes are heavy, warm on her skin, and she resists the urge to fidget, to cover the fading bite on her neck that is hidden by a silk scarf.

  “Have you been out with any of the kids from Irving recently?”

  The question breaks the silence suddenly, and her eyes jerk to him. He has leaned his head back, not looking at her, but she knows he is acutely aware of her—even in the quiet safety with just the two of them, he is ever alert and intent.

  “No,” she answers shortly. “Not since graduation.”

  One eye opens to peer at her. “Why not?”

  How to explain this? She sighs, a soft, barely there sound, and his eyes open to stare at her fully. There is sadness and knowledge there, and in that moment, he seems a thousand years older than her. She looks away first, unwilling to see the emotion she has never wanted to admit in him

  “Seth,” she asks, her voice taking on a different note, one that brings his head up questioningly, “have you ever used a whore?”

  His eyes widen at the question, incredulous and shocked. She blushes and looks away, aware of the intensely intimate nature of the question. They ride in silence for a long moment, and when she finally peeks back at him, his face is composed, the shock hidden behind careful amusement. He smirks. “Do you think I’d need to?”

  Anger fills her for a moment—he is baiting her. Her gaze grows lazy as she takes in his polished shoes, the too-expensive, delicious black suit that he wears as no one can, the unbuttoned shirt—he has discarded his tie. Her eyes leisurely crawl up him, and when she reaches his still-thin face, his jaw is clenched.

  It is his turn to look away as she laughs softly, and she is only a bit amused that he still turns away at her blatant attention. The sleek black car glides to a stop, and Seth reaches for the door.


  There are no cameras waiting outside Mandeley, a classic, classy mid-town bistro. How the gossip papers have missed this tiny restaurant, she still does not know. But as she steps out behind him, and the shutter clicks are absent, she is only grateful.

  She pauses inside the door as the maître d’ realizes who has walked into his uneventful lunch hour. The man barely blinks as he comes to them, escorts them to a private table with low lighting. Seth palms him a sizeable tip as Emma slips into the dark green booth.

  They ignore the menus sitting out, but neither do they look at each other. From the corner of his eye, he watches her absorb the heavy white linen table cloth, the center piece of fresh water lilies floating with candles, the muted cream walls and vaulted ceilings with low hanging pinpoints of light. Soft instrumentals soothe over them as he orders a bottle of Chablis Vaudesir and seared salmon for them both. The waitress seems to float away, high on the brief attention, and Emma laughs softly.

  Then her eyes are on him, searching and intent, and he sighs. She will pursue this, and he would gladly forget the entire conversation in the car. She’s getting better at staying focused, although he wishes she would forget that lesson for now.

  “You didn’t answer me,” she says simply, tucking her hands beneath her thighs. It’s a move that echoes her childhood, and watching her, with her shoulders pulled up, her big eyes wide and curious, her gorgeous hair pulled up in a sleek ponytail, he feels a pang. She should not be so old that she would ask him such a thing.

  “What would you say if I did?” he asks, curious despite himself.

  Her eyes are troubled, and that is answer enough. The waitress intrudes, fumbling in her eagerness to impress. He smiles, charming and absent, plucks the bottle from her smoothly. Emma watches him as he opens the bottle and pours her a glass. She sips thoughtfully, and he wonders where her mind is. What prompts such a question from a girl like Emma?

  He pushes aside the niggling suspicion that perhaps he is not the only one with secrets, leans back against the booth as he assesses the bistro. He is familiar with it, comfortable enough in the space that he does not worry here—Emma is safe, as safe as she ever is when with him.