by Trish Morey
Their eyes met, held. The attraction that sizzled between them seemed to intensify, seemed to beat at him with hot, dangerous flames. Why did her anger, her restless intelligence, make him want her all the more?
“I suspect,” he said after a moment, “that you already know the answer.”
She made a scoffing noise, and folded her arms over her chest. “What a surprise,” she said after a moment, in a bitter sort of tone.
And something in him tore free. He could not have said why. It was her defiance, perhaps, or—more curious—his surprising, continuing sympathy for her plight. He felt more for her than he had ever felt for another, even across these long years of separation. He wanted her as he had never wanted any other woman. And still she looked at him as if he was the enemy. As if she did not quite grasp who he was.
Perhaps it was time to tell her. To remind her.
He was on his feet before he knew he meant to move—a shocking deviation from the usual iron control he maintained over himself and anyone in his orbit. He stalked over to her, enjoying the way her expression changed, became far more wary, though she only squared her shoulders as he came closer. She did not cower. She did not run. She only waited, and he knew she was more his queen in that moment than she realized.
He moved closer, deliberately stepping into her space, so she was trapped against the wall of the plane and forced to look up at him. He placed a hand on the smooth surface of the bulkhead on either side of her head, framing her face, and leaned in.
“If you kiss me again,” she told him fiercely, “I will bite you.”
“You will not.” But his attention moved to her mouth. “Unless I ask you to.”
“Stop trying to intimidate me,” she ordered him, but once again there was that tell-tale breathiness in the voice she’d clearly meant to sound stern. He smiled, and allowed himself to touch her hair—pulling one dark black curl between his fingers, running the thick silk over his lips, and inhaling the scent. Mint and honey. His princess.
“Stop it!” she whispered, her eyes wide. Wary.
Wanting, he thought, with no little satisfaction.
“Listen to me,” he said. He let the curl drop from his hand, but he did not move back. Her hands moved, as if she went to push him away but thought better of touching him. “I am not one of your American men. I am not politically correct.”
“Really?” Her tone was dry. Defiant. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He liked being so close to her. More, perhaps, than he should. He could smell her, almost taste her, feel the heat of her. But because indulging himself would lead precisely where he did not wish to go, not yet, he leaned away, still keeping his arms on either side of her, but removing his mouth from the temptation of hers.
“I am not modern.” His voice was low. As if he offered her his confession, though the very thought was absurd. “I cannot pretend to be to save your feelings, or to coddle your Western sensibilities.”
“Is that what’s been happening so far?” she asked, her brows arching. She shook her head. “The mind balks. What’s next? The barbarian horde?”
“I was trained to be a soldier since I was a child,” he told her, not certain why he’d started there. Not at all easy with the baffling urge to share himself with her, to let her see him, know him, as he’d thought she might long ago. Not sure he wanted to examine that urge more closely. “A barbarian by your measure, I suppose. My parents sent me to the palace when I was still a child, barely five years old. I was raised to be a weapon. A machine. One of the King’s personal guard.”
She only stared at him. “The cadre,” she murmured. And he knew that she remembered the tight band of warriors who had shadowed her father’s every movement, each one of them more dangerous than the next, whose honor and duty it was to accompany the King wherever he went. To lay down their lives for him at a moment’s notice. To live in service to his whims. He had been the youngest ever inducted into the cadre’s elite ranks. Perhaps she remembered that, too.
“I was taught to sever all emotional ties,” he continued, fighting the urge to touch her soft skin, to feel her heartbeat with his hands. “I learned to focus only on one goal—protecting and serving my king, my country. I did so, gladly. I wanted no greater glory than that. Until your father gave me you.”
“I was not his to give,” she said, but her voice was soft, as if she felt this same, strange tenderness. Her eyes moved over his face.
“And you wanted me, too,” he reminded her. “Duty and desire, all at once. We were lucky, Princess.”
Memory and desire shimmered between them, like need. Like heat.
“I remember you, Adel,” she admitted in a stark whisper. She swallowed, nerves and memories and something dark in her gaze. “I do. But that doesn’t mean I can be who you want me to be. Maybe not ever.”
“I will protect my country,” he said, though he suspected that was not an answer she would like—that she might not even understand why he said it. Or the stark truth of it. “No matter the cost. Nothing means more to me than that.”
“Not even the throne?” she asked, incisive yet again.
“There is nothing I would not do for Alakkul, nothing I would not sacrifice, and no one I would not betray in service to my country, if my duty to my country demanded it.” His voice was so sure, coming from deep within him. Why did he want her to understand? Why did he want her this much—so all-consumingly? So overwhelmingly? She gazed up at him and there was an expression on her face that made something in him twist over on itself. “I cannot pause in this and make you easy with the role you must assume. I would not even know where to begin.”
Something pulled taut between them, dark and glittering. She pulled in a breath, then another, her gaze unreadable.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice tense. Almost sad. “I told you—I remember. I know exactly who you are.”
“No,” he said, his voice harder than it should have been, though she did not flinch—and he admired her for it, almost grudgingly. “You don’t. But you will, soon enough.”
Lara woke slowly, aware that she was stiff and that her dreams had been wild pageants, complicated and emotional and much too heavy. It took long moments to dispel them, to remember where she was, and why.
And then she looked out the window and wondered if she’d woken up at all.
The great valley of Alakkul, mystical and secretive, spread out before her—ringed by the sharp, snow-capped mountains on all sides. Her half-remembered homeland sparkled in the morning light, white snow and deep green fields, the rich browns and greens of the forests, and the deep crystal blues of the clear mountain lakes. From high above, she could see the remotest villages and the farmer’s fields, the bustling towns and the bigger, busier cities, tucked into the foothills and spreading across the valley floor.
She did not merely see, Lara thought in a mix of elation and despair—she felt. It was as if a great wall within her, one she hadn’t known was there, began to crack into pieces, to fall. Her eyes drank in the bright red flowers that spread across the high mountain fields like a boisterous carpet in the summer sun, so cheerful against the deep greens of the grassy meadows and the smoky blues of the far mountains. All of it seemed to resonate within her, as if she had been hiding all her life and only in this moment had stepped into the light.
You are being fanciful, she cautioned herself, but the plane was dropping closer and closer to the earth, and she could not tell the difference between memory and reality—she could only feel. Too much. Much too much. The spires and steeples of the sacred city appeared before her, until they flew directly over the ancient palace itself, its turrets and towers arching gracefully toward the summer sky above.
Home, she thought, and felt that word ricochet through her, leaving marks.
Lara found she was holding her breath, but even that could not seem to stop the great swell of emotion inside of her, that seemed to rip her into pieces. She could not tear her eyes away, not even when
the plane continued its inexorable descent and bumped gently down on the runway.
She could not breathe. She was afraid she might be sobbing and she couldn’t even tell for sure, because her ears were ringing and she could not think—and the plane was taxiing to a stop and this was really happening. She was really, truly here, after twelve long years.
She rose in a daze, and followed the smiling air hostess out into the morning light. It was so blinding. So clear and pure. The high mountain air was so crisp. She walked down the stairs to the tarmac, and noticed almost distantly the way the people standing there reacted, bowing and crying out her name in their language. But her brain couldn’t quite process what they said. What that meant. Her attention was on the view all around her—the mountains, the trees, the magical palace—all of it clearly Alakkul and nowhere else. She knew, suddenly, that she would know where she was if she was blind. She could smell it, sense it. Taste it. Feel it deep in her bones.
Home, that voice whispered inside of her again, ringing through her. It shook her to the core. Changed her, she thought irrationally. Changed her forever.
It was only then that she heard someone else come down the metal stairs behind her. She turned, and there was Adel, broad and dark against the summer morning. His attention was entirely focused on her, and she felt herself burst into a riot of flames as he drew closer. How could he do that, she wondered helplessly, even now, when she felt both more lost—and more found—than she ever had before?
He stopped before her, and reached over to take her hand. She should stop him, she thought. She had not yet processed any of the things that had happened, what had passed between them, and yet she did not pull her hand away. She couldn’t seem to do it. She couldn’t seem to want to do it. How could she feel safe with this man, when she knew all too well that was the one thing she was not? Once again, she was aware of the people standing at a respectful distance, all of them bowing again, some even sinking into deep curtseys. But Adel was beside her, his hand around hers, and she felt the panic inside of her ease. Just as it always had, even twelve years ago. As if he could make the world stop at his command. She remembered the feeling. She felt it now.
Adel raised her hand to his lips and then, impossibly, his dark eyes meeting hers for a searing moment, bowed his head over it.
“The King is dead,” he said in ringing tones that carried across the tarmac, perhaps rebounding off the looming mountain guardians of her childhood to lodge in her soul.
His dark eyes connected with hers, silver and serious, and made her stomach twist inside of her.
“Long live the Queen!” he cried in the same voice, and turned, presenting her to the assembled throng. There were flashbulbs. Applause. More bowing, and some cheers.
“Adel…” But she didn’t know what she meant to say.
“Welcome home, Princess,” he murmured, his hand warm around hers, his eyes dark gray, his mouth that familiar un-yielding line.
It made the hard knot of panic inside of her ease. She felt herself breathe in, felt her shoulders settle, as if he’d directed her to do so. As if he made it possible. Just as he’d done long ago, this not-quite-stranger. He bowed his head again, and that firm mouth curved slightly.
“My queen,” he said.
And, somehow, made all of it both real, and all right.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE funeral was an ornate affair, with priests and dignitaries and far too many eyes turned in the direction of the new Queen of Alakkul.
Lara sat in the great cathedral in the position of honor, with Adel close to her side, both of them outfitted in the finest Alakkulian garments. The fabric of her severe black gown felt rich and sumptuous against her skin, despite the fact the occasion was so grim. But she could not let herself think about that, not even as the assembled masses rose to sing an ancient hymn of loss and mourning and faith in the afterlife. She could only bow her head and try to calm herself. Try to breathe—try to stay upright. Beside her, Adel shifted, and briefly squeezed her hand with his.
She dared not look at him directly, no matter how his touch moved her—how it seemed to trickle through her veins, warming and soothing her. A quick glance confirmed he looked too uncompromisingly handsome, too disturbing in his resplendent military regalia, as befitted the highest ranking member of the country, save, she supposed with the still-dazed part of her brain that was capable of thinking of these things, herself. She was afraid that she would stare at him too long and disgrace herself.
As, of course, no small part of her wanted to do. Anything to avoid the reality of her father’s death. Of the fact that this was his funeral, and she had hardly known him. Would, now, never know him. She had hated the man passionately for almost as long as she could remember, she had gone out of her way to do so to better please and placate her mother, so why did she feel this strange hollowness now? Did she believe the things that Adel had said about Marlena? If not, then surely she should feel either some small measure of satisfaction or nothing at all?
The truth was, she did not have the slightest idea what she felt, much less what she should feel. How could she? She had been in this strange place, with its surprisingly fierce kicks of nostalgia and odd flashes of memories, for under forty-eight hours. She had been whisked from the airfield to the palace, her meager possessions placed carefully in a sumptuous suite she only vaguely recalled had once been her mother’s—and soon augmented by the kinds of couture ensembles more appropriate to her brand-new, unwanted position. She had been waited upon by fleets of bowing, eager attendants, who were there to see to needs she was not even aware she ought to have. Her wardrobe. Her appointments. Her new, apparently deeply complicated life.
Her first official duty as the new Queen was this funeral. This sending off of a man who clearly inspired loyalty—devotion—from his people, and from the man who stood beside her now. Lara did not know how to reconcile the man they spoke of here, in hushed and reverent tones, with the monster her mother had conjured for her for so many years. She did not know how to feel about the disparity. She did not want to believe Adel’s story of her mother’s infidelity—but could not seem to put it out of her head.
She did not know how to feel about anything.
Her orderly, comfortable life in Denver was gone as if it had never existed. The only constant was the man at her side, and the only thing she knew she felt about him was a deep and abiding confusion. Her body still longed for him, in deep, consuming ways that startled her. Her mind rebelled against everything he stood for and his own designs upon her. And yet her heart seemed to hurt inside her chest when she pictured him as a child, forced to play war games in the royal palace, torn from his own family when he’d been hardly more than a toddler. It seemed to beat faster when she remembered their first kiss, her very first kiss ever, so sweet and forbidden, in a hidden corner of the castle ballroom when she had been just sixteen.
She did not have to examine these things more closely to know that she was undeniably, and disastrously, consumed with the man who had an intolerable level of control over this new life of hers.
The question, she asked herself as the service ended and the procession began, and he was still the only thing that she could seem to focus on, was what, if anything, did she plan to do about it?
Much later, after King Azat had been interred in his final resting place beneath the stones of the ancient mausoleum and all the polite words had been spoken to all the correct people, Lara found herself still in her new, stiff black gown, standing awkwardly in one of the palace’s smaller private salons.
Across from her, framed by the gilt and gold that graced every spare inch of the walls and floors and ceilings of this fairy-tale place, looking every inch the new King, Adel poured himself a drink. He did so with his customary masculine grace, and Lara could not understand why even something so simple, so mundane, as this man splashing amber-colored liquor into a crystal tumbler should cause her blood to heat. He turned to look at her as if he’d felt t
he weight of her gaze, his expression that same watchful, careful calmness that she knew all too well by now.
Knew, but could not quite read. Why should that make her heart speed up in her chest?
Lara felt as awkward and as stiff as the fussy room they stood in, as the elegant gown she still wore when she longed for something more casual, more comfortable. Her hands moved restlessly before her, plucking at the fabric of her long skirt. She could not seem to keep still. She wandered the edges of the small salon, stopping before the great windows that looked out over the ancient city, all the spires and rooftops gleaming white and blue as the sun dipped toward the western mountains. It looked indescribably foreign to her eyes, and yet some part of her thrilled to the sight, as if she was as much a part of the landscape as he was. As if it was in her blood.
“They cheered,” she said, not knowing she meant to speak, not knowing her voice would sound so insubstantial. She swallowed, and reached a hand toward the window, the glass cool beneath her reaching fingers. “When we were in the car, heading back here. Why would they do that?”
“You are their princess, now their queen,” Adel said, his even voice filling the small room, pressing against her ears, and burrowing beneath her skin. “The last of an ancient and revered bloodline, the daughter of a beloved ruler now lost to them. You were stolen away from them when you were just a girl. They celebrate your safe return to the place you belong.” He paused for a moment. “Your home.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, not knowing why she trembled, why his eyes seemed so sure, and yet managed to make her feel so raw inside. She wanted to speak—perhaps she wanted to scream—but nothing moved past her lips.
“They adore you,” he said.
“Not me.” She shook her head, swallowed. “Some idea of what I should be, perhaps, but not me.”
He heard the dark, wild panic in her voice, and moved toward her, though he had promised himself he would not touch her again. A promise he had already broken repeatedly. In the cathedral. In the car. In the endless reception. He, who held his vows to be sacred. And still, he moved behind her, setting his untouched drink on a side table and letting his hands come to rest on her shoulders.