by Angel Payne
A lot more at risk—as in a whole damn kingdom. And saving it by marrying a prince. Not just any prince. The man who stood so regally next to me. Pressed his hands tighter around mine. Even shifted an inch closer, so there’d be less strain on my arm.
And ignored every syllable of my suggestion to close his eyes for this thing.
His gaze pierced down into me like blue glass, taking on a thousand facets…only miraculously, not one of them was a stand-in for a separate thought. Right now, every inch of him was here, present and focused and…
Overwhelming.
My breath stopped again. I barely blinked. But I couldn’t stop staring as sunlight filtered through the trees, turning his gaze into light as endless as stars, as profound as the constellations. I swayed from its force. Didn’t even try to fight it, knowing Syn wouldn’t let me fall. He balanced me without effort, his lips spreading with the hint of a smile…perhaps even an inward gloat about what he’d just done to me.
Cocky bonsun.
I wound up a retaliating glare. Never got the chance to hurl it. The vicar began speaking. Revision: began trumpeting. The man, the size of a Hobbit, had the voice of the Jolly Green Giant. Though I joined Syn, Jag, and Grahm in repressing gawks, I was happy knowing Evrest and Cam would get to hear everything too. Not that any of it made sense. I knew everyday Arcadian, things like “how much for the tomatoes”, “damn it’s cold today”, and “but my foot looks pretty on your neck, Jag”, but only recognized every third or fourth word of the formal ceremony the little man began. Probably for the best. This was all just for show anyway: a seal and certification we could take back to Sancti, to prove we’d truly done it. Evrest had even insisted on rings. They were simple gold bands, resting on a square of red velvet in the vicar’s palm—apparently, more symbolism there I asked no questions about—that were a convenient part of the guy’s “upgraded” wedding service.
Aside from the Hobbit’s droning, this really wasn’t so bad. It was even a pretty day. In a few minutes, Syn and I could jam the rings on, and everyone could tuck into some lunch before we headed down the mount—
The vicar stopped shouting.
Samsyn slipped his hands free from mine.
Alllll righty, then. Even easier than I’d thought.
I pulled in a satisfied breath. Released it on a contented sigh. Looked back up to Syn, knowing he’d smoothly cue me on what to do next—
He looked anything but smooth. And damn…he’d ditched the gloating thing too. The only thing he appeared was…nervous. Paul Lincoln, about fifty times worse.
Ohhhh, shit.
We weren’t done.
When the vicar started speaking again, this time in a murmur meant just for Syn and me, that truth invaded my nerves too. Made me glad that Syn circled an arm around my waist, scooting me even tighter to him…making my head tilt back as his leaned over. With our faces aligned and our breaths entwined, ancient Arcadian words again flowed around us.
And this time, Samsyn translated.
“As the sea to the moon, the brave to the sun…we enter as two, and leave as one.”
His rough rasp vibrated through us both.
“Wind in sails, shelter in storms, rain in deserts, always a home.”
And for a moment, just one magical instant, I let myself believe he meant it.
“As tides and shore, and mountains of heather…”
All of it.
“Is our bond, the Creator’s gift, now and forever.”
Just before I forced myself not to.
Nick of time. I was on the brink of turning things into a wet, teary mess.
But it still wasn’t over.
Shit, shit, shit.
The vicar began circling us, singing softly. My gaze must have betrayed my curiosity, because Syn bent in a little more to whisper, “Settle in, astremé. He’ll circle five times. Once symbolizing me, then once you…”
I did not want to know why he hesitated to finish. Like a dumb shit, I did the honors instead. “And the others for our kids?” When he smirked, looking cotillion nervous again, I murmured, “Guess we should be glad he’s not a marathoner.”
His left brow arched suggestively. “The trying part would be…fun.”
I moaned. “You are such a guy.”
“And you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
Dammit. That shut me the hell up. Instantly joined forces with the starlight in his eyes, continuing to do so, even as the Hobbit finished the happy-joy-joy perimeter stroll then stopped with his hand held out, beckoning us to take the rings. As I held Samsyn’s and he held mine, the vicar started murmuring again. Hell. I had a feeling, a strong one, that tethering my tears wouldn’t be so easy this time. I already made up some blame-it-on-the pain-killers lines.
Just as softly and somberly as before, Syn spoke.
“Circle without end. Joy without finish. Love without bounds.” Then, as he slipped the gold band onto my left ring finger, “And heart…with its completion.”
I ordered myself to ignore the heat, blooming through my hand. To push aside the electricity, zinging up my arm.
To breathe away the love, bursting in my chest.
Much easier said than done.
Especially because I had to say the exact same words now.
And that’s all they are. Words. Just words. Just syllables you have to say, to advance the ordeal by one more step. To deepen the charade by one more layer.
But I couldn’t force the mask on now. Couldn’t pretend, with Syn’s heart beating so close…with his face filling my vision…with his presence like the magic in every dappled drop of sun that blazed through the gazebo. Every inch of my being stretched to him. Every fear in my soul vowed courage for him.
Every ounce of my heart belonged to him.
He saw it all, imbued in every word I uttered. He stiffened as I sealed them in, putting the ring on his hand. After I slid the band home, he stared like it’d been burned there, a grimace wiggling at his lips. The expression remained as he raised his gaze to mine—and unbelievably, I smiled back. The big ox probably didn’t realize it, but he already honored me as his “beloved” wife. If we were going to survive this adventure, honesty had to be the secret glue. And yeah, that meant all the time.
For now, I concentrated on surviving the rest of the ceremony: the worst part by far. No translation needed now. The vicar’s bittersweet smile—he was mourning his old king and celebrating his new one at once, after all—and animated gestures were enough to go on now.
More than enough.
It was time for Samsyn to kiss me.
The tension in his fingers, raising to lift the netting from my face, conveyed we shared the same mental boat on this one. Since the first time he’d ever kissed me, he’d never been able to just kiss me. The connection of our mouths was never just that. It was the breach into our desires. The plug into our electricity. The fusion of everything we knew about each other…sought in each other…craved in each other.
Fate refused to give us a pass this time.
And dammit, even recruited Mother Nature for the task. As Syn tipped up my chin with a finger, the wind kicked strands of his hair free, brushing both our cheeks. The scent of pine and peonies swirled with his rich masculine spice, wakening the few cells in my system that didn’t already want him. He was my magnet, my vortex, my inescapable addiction…and in the magical moments when our gazes met, just before ours lips did, I saw the same helpless need in his own eyes.
We were in such dangerous waters.
And jumping in deeper every time we touched.
Nothing like a morbid metaphor at just the right moment. Syn literally sucked the air from my mouth as he kissed me. I felt him shake too, battling to hold himself in check. Like my careening hormones would settle for that. The second my moan echoed into his mouth, we were both lost causes. Our tongues met. Our libidos gave in.
Vaguely, I registered the vicar’s delighted gasp. Grahm’s pleasant snicker.
Jag’s impatient growl wasn’t so easy to tune out. “You two want fucking scalpels for those tonsillectomies?”
Reluctantly—and all too quickly—we pushed apart.
Syn led the way back to the castle.
“Oh my God.” Camellia waited for us just inside the door. She embraced me then launched at Samsyn, who grunted like a bear being attacked by a kitten. “It was beautiful, you two. So perfect!”
I couldn’t help smiling—because I couldn’t have agreed more.
Evrest finished descending the stairs from the turret. Jerked his chin toward Grahm. “And look who caught the bridal bouquet.”
Grahm colored as we all laughed. He shoved the spray back at me and muttered, “Should you two not be on your way now?”
“On our way?” I returned. “You mean…back to Sancti? Now?”
Syn nodded, every inch the in-control commander again. Clearly, he’d anticipated my confusion. “If we want to get to the Palais before the nuptial announcement spreads, then yes.”
I followed him across the building’s central vestibule, still wearing a frown. “And how the hell do you propose…”
My demand faded as my surprise jumped several notches.
This time, with damn good reason.
He’d pulled open the massive wooden doors leading to the front entrance—if a place as sprawling as this could really have a “main” entrance. There, on stones likely graced by stallions and carriages at some time, was horsepower of a different kind.
Sleek, shiny, black—
Gasp-worthy.
After I indulged in a couple of those, I finally squeaked, “Whoa.”
“A fascinating first,” Grahm remarked from the step above me, where he stood with Jagger and Evrest. “I think, Your Highness, you have rendered the Badger speechless.”
“He is Your Majesty now, Foxx,” Evrest prompted. “And his predecessor issues an approval of the choice from the grave.”
“Not humorous,” Syn snapped—though the tone didn’t touch the warmth in his gaze, lingering since our kiss. He directed that summer sky intent back toward me. “Are you all right, astremé?”
I let myself sway in his thrall once more. I didn’t know what made my knees mushier: his open concern, or the pumpkin he’d brought to the party—and turned into a Ferrari.
Not just any Ferrari. “This is a five ninety-nine SA Aperta.”
“Hell,” Jag muttered. “I believe I just fell in love with her.”
“That is really not funny.” Syn’s stare iced over. I punched him before he could succumb to any more chest-thumping stupidity.
“They—they made less than a hundred of these,” I stammered.
“So I was told.” No more chest beating—but his posture puffed like Tarzan in a damn tree, and he curled a tiny smirk. I couldn’t sock him for it this time. It felt good know that my pleasure gave him a little, too.
He clicked a fob and the doors swung open. I stepped a little closer, instantly giddy from the smell of the clean leather interior. “Have you ever even driven it?”
“A few times. But when I come up here, it is usually for altitude training or some climbing. Not much time left over for recreational driving.”
I beamed up at him. “Let’s recreate away.” The drive to Sancti usually took about six hours. I’d already bet we’d cut that nearly in half.
The scenery during the drive didn’t suck, either. Watching Samsyn at the wheel was like observing a master equine trainer with his horse, or a maestro with his orchestra. Massive power, turned into pure majesty. Focusing on him helped me forget the aching goodbye to Camellia, who’d become such a fast friend, as well as the longing in my heart as we took the back roads through Tahreuse. Since we couldn’t afford the time—or most importantly, the attention—of stopping at home to tell Mom, Dad, and Dillon the “good news”, we had Grahm’s word that he’d inform them within the hour, and he could bring them to Sancti to “congratulate me” in person.
After we’d gotten there first.
After Syn made it clear, to everyone in the kingdom, that there was a new king to deal with—and to bear the wrath of.
The thought almost made me feel sorry for the two outlaws still on the loose. Almost. They were idiots but they were also zealots, prepared to cut Camellia’s throat while Evrest watched. Quick thinking on Jag and Grahm’s part ensured they hadn’t escaped the island yet. Well, not alive. If Samsyn’s team found them, they’d wish they were dead.
And that was more brain cells than I desired to give the subject. Right now, I refused to think about violent, foreboding Samsyn. Or closed, belligerent Samsyn. Or even reluctant King Samsyn. For the next three hours, I had sexy, behind-the-wheel Samsyn: hair free in the wind, hands sure on the controls, body relaxed and loose…his attention on nothing but the road and me. Okay, so we had to report in every thirty minutes on the comm, too. It was a small price to pay for one last spurt of freedom, before the circus our lives really hit the big time.
No. Not our lives.
Our life.
Semi-hysterical giggle. Like I could help it? Not for every strawberry in the fields whizzing by, as we transitioned from the winding mountain roads into the agricultural valley that would be our scenery into Faisant Township.
“What is that about?” Syn lowered the volume on the music. We’d spent the first hour of the trip simply listening to A-Rock, the island’s version of a rock ‘n’ roll station. The songs were surprisingly current, and it sure as hell beat our only other two choices: A-Jazz and A-Oldies. Admittedly, it was fun watching my burly husband belt out every word of the newest Foo Fighters hit.
My husband.
“We’re…married.”
I laughed again, but didn’t hold back a note of my bewilderment. He had asked.
“Second thoughts already, astremé?” His tone teased but I caught the tension at the corners of his eyes, shaded beneath his aviator glasses. The hard line beneath his jaw didn’t lie either. I swallowed down the thrill they both gave me. I was bound for hell, taking such delight in his discomfort.
In the end, I opted for the humorous route, too. “Not if you let me call you my ol’ ball and chain.” Where would prying at him get me? Parts of his psyche—huge parts—were off-limits. Poking at them would only rouse the bear—and selfishly, I just wanted to enjoy the man a little more. To believe in the fantasy a while longer. Right now, we were just a pair of newlyweds on the open highway, basking in the sun and planning for a future as endless and colorful as the fields of fruit around us.
“Ball and chain.” He picked his way across the words in his kid-with-a-new-food way. His face twisted as if that new dish had been lima beans. “Really? Ball and chain?”
“Another one best left alone,” I quipped.
He tossed a quick glance. “I believe I want to stick with ‘big guy’.”
“Fair enough.” I laughed again. Turned a little to see him better, though tucked my arm in carefully. “All right. Turn-about is fair play. What do you get to call me now?”
“You don’t like ‘astremé’?”
“I love astremé. Ditch it and I’ll have to break something.”
He rumbled out a chuckle. “Ah. There is my girl.”
My girl.
That was it. The man had to be reading my damn mind—and heart and soul—and was doing his best to test them. Challenge accepted. I slammed the taffy pull of my stomach to a halt, and returned, “Let’s just play around. Do a ‘what-if’. So…if astremé wasn’t already around—or some hot young thing showed up one day and claimed she was your ‘little star’ first—”
“Brooke.”
“Fine. Objection sustained. Let’s just say you had to come up with something new for me. Don’t be shy, big guy. What would it be?”
He was silent for at least half a minute. I actually started struggling for something to say, afraid I’d miffed him more than I’d first thought.
But then he reached over. Curled his
right hand into my left, which poked out from the sling. And finally said, “I would call you my raismette.”
“Your…what?” I’d heard him just fine. Even thought I understood the word. But ohhhh, I wasn’t passing up the chance to hear him say it like he just had, with that rough rasp in his voice and that slight roll of the r. That single word, with that shaved granite emphasis, clenched deeper places in my body than any wanton thing he’d ever growled to me before.
“Raismette,” he repeated. “It means ‘reason’.”
Trembles. Yes, even down to the fingertips pressed against his. It was just as well that he knew, though my reaction was born of things I still didn’t fully understand. “I know the word,” I finally said. “But…why that?”
He shrugged. “It is my favorite of all the endearments we can choose for ‘wife’.”
“Reason?”
“The reason,” he emphasized.
“The reason for what?”
“For everything.”
A Mack truck of emotion parked itself behind my frontal lobe. I wanted to hurl myself into his lap and out the window at the same time. My logic was stuck in the same disgusting bind, working to reconcile how a man who confessed something like that could still proclaim he had nothing to give a woman. And that wasn’t even the real dysfunction here. The statuette for that honor had my name on it. Ladies and gentlemen of the Academy, thank you so much for this distinction. Yes, I really am more in love with him than ever before. I’ve worked so hard to be this insane, so your recognition truly means the world…
“Brooke?”
I blinked. Tried to stow the ache again. Wasn’t so easy with him still practically purring at me. “Hmm?”
“Your silence is deafening.”
Sorry about that, buddy. Let me get right on turning that down for you. Just don’t expect it to be with the truth.
“You do not like raismette.” A statement, not a question.
“I didn’t say that.”
But I wasn’t going to confess anything else either. The goulash he’d stirred in my stomach and the anvil he’d dropped on my chest were need-to-know only. He did not need to know.