by Angel Payne
“Probably not.”
I gazed at the top of his head, now dropped between his shoulders. Fought back the urge to kneel beside him and run my fingers through those satiny strands once more. “For the record, you held your own well in the pissing match, big guy.”
“Merderim,” he returned. “I think.” His sarcasm made us both laughs, a welcome ease on the tension. But he was serious once more when going on. “Jagger was right…about the one thing, though.”
“The one thing…what?”
“I should have stopped for a condom.”
I rolled my eyes. “I already told you, Syn. I’m on the pill, and—”
“It was irresponsible,” he snapped. “I was not thinking.” His hands coiled into fists. “Dammit. I should have been thinking.”
“No. You were busy doing other things—like feeling. And making me feel.” I let temptation take over. Slipped to the floor in front of him, wrapping a hand around one of his taut ones. “And it was all…amazing.”
He wrenched his face to the side. “I was…gone. Everything was…you.” His sentences were almost questions, as if he couldn’t believe he uttered them. “I have never just lost all thought like that—” He stabbed his other hand into his hair. “Fuck.”
I reached for that hand too. “Well, is that a bad thing?”
He still didn’t look at me. “I do not know.”
My grip slackened. His confusion scared me. Fury wasn’t far behind. “So you are sorry about it.”
His head jerked up. “I said nothing like that.”
I lurched to my feet. “You didn’t have to.”
“Brooke!” His shout followed me out into the sitting room, where I was forced to return to the rotunda—avoiding any glance at the windows this time—to retrieve my boots. Fortunately, it looked like Jagger had bought a clue and made himself scarce. “Brooke. Dammit!”
I whirled. Made a barefooted break for the stairs—until stopped by a wall of bronze muscle. I closed my eyes, refusing to look at him. Scent wasn’t so easy to shut off. My lungs, heaving in and out, filled my senses with his earthy, leathery essence until I got dizzy. Uncontrollably, I swayed toward him.
I wanted him…
But you don’t need him.
Empowered, I pushed back. Planted both feet. Forced my head up until I looked at him fully again.
And gulped back a sigh at his carved, swarthy jaw.
Clenched back the craving to fist his thick, dark hair.
Trembled against the pull his whole body had on mine, like the moon beckoning to the damn tide.
“Samsyn.” It had twice the volume I’d anticipated. And four times the desperation. “Just let me go!”
He grabbed me by both elbows. Dipped his head, making sure every drop of fire in his gaze penetrated into mine. I took a deep breath. Let him do the same. We stared at each other, letting our hands fall and twine together, as everything filled our silence except our words. A flock of birds splashed across the lake. Morning wind rushed by the windows. Creatures in the trees chittered and scrambled and foraged, rustling branches as they went.
A pair of hearts cried out, struggling to find their way to each other.
But once more, were lost
Blinded by the supernova.
Crushed…by the facts.
I stepped back. Samsyn yanked me back in, grinding his forehead against mine. A rush of air left him, hot and desperate, though turned oddly cool when hitting the wet streaks down my cheeks.
He tilted his head. Let his mouth find the way to mine.
I wrenched free. He snarled. I matched it.
“Brooke.” It was a raw command.
“Samsyn.” It was a rasping plea.
“We cannot leave things like this.”
“We have to leave things like this.”
With that, I pushed away—
Knowing there was no other way to say it. Or do it.
Chapter Nine
‡
“MY LADY, YOU are stunning!”
“Ah, indeed! Like a true princess.”
“Like a true queen.”
“Ah, indeed!”
If I weren’t wearing a dress costing as much as a car, I would’ve puked all over the silver gems sewn into the overlay of its voluminous blue-black skirt. Orielle Preetsok and her little bonami, Freya Lyte, had apparently—and conveniently—forgotten every pro-Pura rant they’d gleefully exchanged over the last five days.
Funny, how a royal entourage changed things—and how quickly their passions had flipped as soon as Camellia Saxon asked them to be her “local stylists” for the royal ball. As soon as Camellia started talking bullshit like local flowers, traditional hairstyles, and appropriate shoes for a party in a cave, the two women were squealing putty in her royal hands.
Lady Camellia, one.
Local bimbos, zero.
I’d indulged a silent gloat-fest on Camellia’s behalf.
Eight hours later, I was very much done.
If either girl kissed the future queen’s ass any deeper, I’d be searching for a crowbar to pry them out of her sphincter. Considering how Camellia been sewn into her seafoam green, one-shouldered gown—literally—I was fairly sure the action wouldn’t be appreciated.
At least I wasn’t alone in the snark. Every few minutes, a face would appear from the adjoining bedroom. Jet black curls. Wide doll eyes. The factors instantly gave away the spy, though Jayd Cimarron wasn’t the sort to care. She was officially in hiding tonight, a staged pout in protest of Samsyn keeping her from the ball, though her fascination about Camellia’s new “friends” was just as grotesque as mine. She eyed them carefully as her ladyship twirled in front of the three-way mirror, making the dress’s bell skirt flare.
“Gorgeous!”
“Indeed!”
“It wouldn’t be half as pretty without your help.” Camellia turned from the three-way mirror in the corner of the cream and green bedroom, smiling at her two new friends. While they both already had makeup on, Orielle’s in shades of burgundy and Freya’s in lighter peach tones, they both still wore dressing robes, since preparing Camellia was the priority of the evening. There was no such thing as “fashionably late” for the party’s honoree. “The laurel mixed with the mint leaves is perfect,” Camellia went on, touching the fresh flowers woven into her intricate up-do. “And Ori, awesome call on going more delicate with the jewelry.”
“Indeed!” Freya pushed it from a gritted smile, while her eyes betrayed a revenge plot on her parents for naming her something that couldn’t be shortened to anything cute. “And…errrr…do you like the shoes I lent you, m’lady?”
I struggled not to roll my eyes. Was delighted when Jayd took care of the task for me.
“Like them?” Camellia yanked up the poof of her skirt. “Hell no, girlfriend. I love them. So comfy, too.” She lifted a foot, ensconced in one of the cream ballerina flats Freya had often called her “ugly stompers”. Probably not after tonight.
“Okay, fashion fairies.” Camellia pulled the two girls off the bed, into a three-way hug. “I’m officially ready for the ball and you aren’t, so shoo. Go make yo’selves fleek and fly.”
As they stepped back, I yearned for a camera. Orielle and Freya, openly confused. This was a first. Perhaps an only. Though I was just as baffled by Camellia’s slang, I yearned to preserve the moment for posterity.
Jayd to the rescue. With surprising stealth, she whipped her phone around the corner, tapping the screen to get some non-flash shots. Suddenly, there was a stab inside my cheek. Was that my teeth, biting down to keep in a giggle?
Surprise set in—a delightful version of the stuff. Laughter hadn’t been my closest pal this week. Feeling anything in general hadn’t been. The circumstances that had brought the anomaly—and Samsyn and me to this mansion at all—were, thankfully, its cure as well. Throwing myself into the logistics drills for the royal visit, along with volunteering for decorating and cleaning details, had reduced me to exh
austed putty every night. For a few blissful hours, I could then count on a few hours of dreamless sleep.
When I did dream, it was only of one person. And one perfect night. The moon glow across his body. The need in his eyes. The ache in his whispers. The bond of his soul to mine.
The connection I’d never thought possible.
If there was an “up” side to those damn dreams, I’d cling to nothing less than that.
Though dammit, the dreams weren’t all I clung to. Because they weren’t just dreams. They were memories.
And now, I really couldn’t let go of Samsyn Cimarron.
He was here…everywhere. Worse than before. Better than before. My relentless ghost. My impossible dream.
Now, more tormenting than ever—especially as Camellia motioned me over to the bed after kissy buh-byes to Orielle and Freya. Dammit. The bed? Really?
“Okay, woman.” Her ladyship suddenly appeared anything but, flopping down then patting the mattress next to her. “Come here. I’m so looking forward to hearing someone speak with contractions.”
I laughed. Was actually grateful for it. Helped with masking my clenching nerves. Though I managed to sit, it was like lowering onto pine cones. Every inch of my skin pricked with every new detail I took in—and relived. The stitched swirls on the comforter…grating into my knees as Syn lowered my body onto his. The pristine white of the pillows, contrasting his dark, swirled hair. The tiny moan of the lake’s breeze against the window…a perfect harmony for his orgasmic groans.
I cleared my throat. Even laughing to hide the pain wasn’t an option anymore.
“You okay?”
I blushed. Not in a good way. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” It was entirely too casual for dealings with the woman who’d soon be queen—or so said the cute little “etiquette expert” from the palace offices, sent ahead to ensure that the “mountain folk” knew what we were doing when dealing with the royals—but talking to Camellia felt more like talking to Dillon. Well, a female Dillon. Without the moodiness. Or the overprotective brother thing.
She answered my crack with a dismissive huff. “So, you all lined up with your wig?”
I nodded. “Guess I’ll find out if redheads really do have wild adventures.”
“Not too wild.”
“Agreed. Definitely.”
She let a contemplative pause go by. The description was accurate. Her face crinkled into lines of deep thought. “Brooke…look…you know we’ve agreed to a small media presence at this foof-fest, right?”
Despite myself, I chuckled. “I’m aware of the foofy guest list, yes.” And of the decision Evrest and she had made to let a handpicked selection of reporters into the ball, rather than letting rogues ransom their cell phone shots for money. Because of that, cells and smart pads would be checked at the event’s entrance gate.
“Well, if you feel uncomfortable about babysitting me, that even the wig and colored contacts won’t keep your identity safe—”
“I’m fine with the arrangements, Your Ladyship.”
“Camellia,” she rebuked. “No. Not even that. Call me Cam. Please. I’ll only take that ‘Ladyship’ crap when I have to.”
“You’re going to have to a lot more—especially when ‘Ladyship’ becomes ‘Your Majesty’.”
“Crap.” She fell backward, cutting the full plummet short with her elbows. God forbid she ruin the hairdo and the flowers now. “I’m never going to get used to that shit.”
“You don’t even hear it after a while,” I assured—before tacking on a fast shrug. “Or—or so I’m told.”
“By whom?”
“By who else?”
The comment, snarky layered on affectionate, came from the other room. Cam yelled in that direction, “Aren’t you supposed to be wallowing in silence?”
A violent snort burst out. Impressive. If I hadn’t known it was Jayd, I’d have guessed Evrest, Syn or Shiraz as the source. “If the subject’s rolling around to Syn, I want in on the fun of skewering him from afar.”
“Move along, girlfriend,” I teased. “No Samsyn evisceration to see here.”
“Fun killer.”
I had no decent comeback. Apparently, neither did Cam. After a stunned silence, we burst into full laughs. The glow of Jayd’s gloat was damn near visible through the walls.
“The killer says you win,” I finally called.
“Of course I do.”
After Camellia regained her breath, she cocked her head contemplatively. “So. You and Samsyn are good friends?”
My turn to sober up. “Um…friends?”
What the hell did she mean? Her face, now cloaked in Mother of Dragons serenity, seemed no different—which could mean nothing or everything. Had Jagger said anything to anyone? If so, had it gotten all the way to Camellia? To the whole damn island? And what if that were the case? What difference would it make? As far as the world at large was concerned, I was just another of Syn’s “lady friends” with benefits. The only entity that said otherwise was the mass of messed-up neurons between my ears.
“Yeah.” Cam pushed back up to rest on her wrists, as if shooting the shit with her gal-pals in a satin gown was an everyday occurrence. “Ev tells me you two are close buddies. Have been since the day your family got here.”
“True. We were.” I shut down the wistful lilt by forcing out another smile. “We are. He’s…always been there for me.” I gulped hard. Would he still be? And would he keep letting me be there for him too? The potential fallout from what we’d done, even with the hottest memories assaulting me from every corner of this room, smacked me all over again.
Cam grew noticeably quiet. Her distinctive turquoise gaze darkened like the sea beneath deep mist. “I still can’t believe I’m looking at you. When Evrest told me exactly who’d be heading my security detail…” She shook her head. “Well, I didn’t believe him. I watched them bury you.” She bracketed the last two words in air quotes. “They covered the service on TV. It was a really nice service.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“And a week before that…the day they broke the story about Rune Kavill’s attack on your home…I’ll never forget it. I don’t think anyone in the country will. I’d just finished interterm finals at Chapman. Every news feed in the commons—in the country—was carrying it. Your house—well, what was left of it—”
“Yeah.” I dropped my stare to my hand—and its death grip on the coverlet. “I remember that too.”
“Shit!” She bolted upright. Hauled me into a fierce hug. “Shit, shit, shit. I’m so sorry. I might’ve been damn near raised in the dirt but I was also taught not to act like it. Okay, you can officially call me Miss Piggy.”
I spurted a new laugh. Anyone who tagged Camellia Saxon as a disaster for Arcadia was simply someone who hadn’t met her. The woman embodied everything that was good about the kingdom: its warmth, beauty, brilliance, and you’re-with-family-now honesty. Because of that, I felt comfortable retorting, “Okay, give that one up right there, missie.” I reared back, mocking out a skeptical glare. “Besides…Miss Piggy? Is she still a thing? Didn’t she and Kermit ride away into the sunset and—”
“That got complicated.” She twisted her lips and patted my hand. “A lot of things have in the last six years.”
I returned her gesture by squeezing her hand. “Maybe you can fill me in soon.”
Her grin matched the sparkle in her eyes. “I’d like that.”
“Me too.”
She pulled back a little, giving me that dark lagoon scrutiny again. “So if you’re okay about the wig and the contacts…”
“More than okay.” The resolution of the statement opened a perfect chance to stand again. Anything to get even a step away from the bed.
“Then that means you’re squirming about something else.”
Hell. She wouldn’t lend Arcadia just her charm. The woman had the insight of a Vulcan—without even needing the Spock squeeze. As I debated about how to respond, I won
dered if the answer had started unraveling across my forehead anyway. Camellia certainly gawked like it had.
And sometimes, Jagger and his matchless timing were the best damn blessing on Earth.
“Oh damn.” I flashed a glance at her—what-am-I-gonna-do-with-these-guys?—before tapping the comm link that had chirped at my ear. “This is Badger. Go ahead.”
Camellia frowned. “Badger?”
“Small, fast, and won’t take any shit.” It was fun to accent that with a smirk. “Hey, it wasn’t my call.” But I sure as hell hadn’t argued with it.
“Badger, this is Robin Hood. State your twenty, over.”
“Still holding at home base with Crown Jewel,” I stated, using the team’s code term for Camellia. “But we’ll all be ready to roll in…”
“Ten minutes,” Cam supplied to my expectant look. I scowled but repeated the information to Jagger.
“Perfect.” His answer was distorted by the noises behind him. The school’s marching band, warming up to greet the royals’ arrival with trumpet fare. Motorcycles revving. Men shouting. “We will be there for rendezvous at that time.”
“Copy that.” Though I still openly gaped at Camellia.
“Robin Hood out.”
I didn’t bother responding. Chose instead to address little Crown Jewel, now letting her stylist fuss over last minute arrangements, including a micro-shine on the stunning tourmaline engagement ring King Evrest had put on her finger five months ago. “Ten minutes?” I charged.
Camellia looked at me via our shared reflections in the mirror. “You’re ready, right? And I’m ready. Let’s get this dog and pony on the road. The sooner my fiancé and I can sneak back here to nail each other, the better.” She openly sighed. “God, I miss the Palais and its…privacy.”
Deciding that statement was best left untouched, I ventured, “And Orielle and Freya…?”
“Will either be ready or late.” She let me have three seconds for open bemusement before laughing softly. “Come on, Brooke. You think I want to hang with those two airheads all night long?” She turned as the stylist moved in, wrapping a sparkling silver cape around her shoulders. “Ever heard of a thing called keeping your enemies close?”