by Angel Payne
I went for relieving everything with another laugh. Thank God he joined in. “You know,” I finally felt strong enough to remark, “if this whole thing were for real, we’d have some damn good stories to tell our kids.”
Syn snorted. “We had them the night we met, astremé.”
“Right?” This time, the laugh was more genuine. “Shit. It was your birthday. I’ll bet Tryst and Cullen threw you quite a rager.”
“Something like that.” Our fingers had started to loosen. He retightened the clasp. “But you were the best present of the day.”
“So…your friends all brought lumps of coal? I’m serious, dammit,” I girl-snarled in reprisal to his dragon huff. “I was so young and silly and terrified.”
He abruptly swung the car to the shoulder. Cut the engine before shifting to confront me, his hands framing my face. “Do not ever use those words to describe yourself again.”
“Syn,” I chastised. “I really was—”
“Bold and determined and brave.” They weren’t pretty words on his lips. They were complete command, and the firm lines of his face ordered me to obey. “And beautiful.” Still a mandate, despite the ragged breath it came on. “Always…so damn beautiful.”
I gulped hard. Again. Don’t feel it. Don’t give in to it. Don’t let it sweep you away. But the tenderness tore in…threatening to let in the love right after it.
Countermeasures. Now.
“You know, mister,” I drawled, throwing in whatever shred of sassiness I possessed, “Comments like that are liable to land us in deep trouble.”
His eyes flared. He bit his lower lip. “Trouble?”
It was almost a dare. Should I call him on it? It might be my only chance to actually do so. And we were wild and free newlyweds, were we not? What would my husband do if I really jumped into his wicked challenge?
“Mmmm hmmm.” I stalled and taunted with the same naughty syllable. “Deep.”
“But deep…can be good.”
“Certainly can.”
As we magnetized toward each other, I slid one finger down the V of his shirt. He moaned against my mouth as I slipped three buttons free, gliding into the muscled alley of his chest. He made another sound, rough and needy—and in that sweet, perfect surge, he gave me something I’d badly needed since the invasion at the Rigale.
He returned my power.
Controlling this—controlling him—was a mini miracle, a reconnection with so many things that those ninja bastards had taken from me. My strength. My self-belief. Even the feeling that I could do something good.
Something so good…
His erection swelled beneath my fingers the moment I dipped my good hand to the apex of his legs. The flesh grew hotter, warmed even more by the streaming sun through the windows, stretching the black fabric. I sighed. Syn swallowed. We sucked breaths back in together, passions growing, lust taking over.
I cupped him harder. He grunted and bucked his hips. Ohhh, I remembered this. Every incredible inch. I’d wanted it this morning after Syn had made me come, my channel wet and ready, my mind blown and open. But Jagger and his damn timing had taken care of that fantasy becoming reality.
Time to make up for lost time.
Now, in the perfect time. Here, in the perfect place.
I urged him back into his seat. As his head fell against the headrest, he punched a button. With a low whir, the seat slid back. I wasted no time crawling to the new space in front of him, directly between his knees. Before the whirring stopped, my fingers tore at his belt buckle.
I didn’t get very far.
“Shit!” I whined, staring up like a kid denied an ice cream cone. “Help?”
Like the kid tasked with finding the chocolate sauce, his movements were fast and fierce. He barely made a sound until his cock came free, a perfect pillar of burnished beauty. As I watched, evidence of his lust brimmed from his dark red crown, glistening in the sun. I bent my head and sucked in the milky drops, reveling in the tart taste of his desire, loving how his flesh hardened and surged beneath my mouth.
“Astremé,” he grated. “Do not strain yourself…”
I chuckled, following one of his pronounced veins with the tip of my tongue. “I’m definitely not the ‘strained’ one here, husband.”
Despite exactly what was in my mouth, I felt like inserting my shoe instead. Had I just gone and called him that? Nothing like kicking a guy in the figurative balls, when my sole objective was bringing pleasure to the real ones.
And nothing like that same amazing guy to give a beautiful surprise in return.
“Sweet little wife…” He hissed, digging a hand into my hair. “This time, I truly must agree with you.”
Emotion slammed me once more. But this time, it wasn’t a truck. It was a sailboat, racing on the wind, chasing the sun—and finding it, in the gaze and the touch and the passion of the man beneath my lips and fingers. I wanted more. So much more. I showed him so. I licked him, stroked him, and squeezed him. Told him so with my eyes as I moved up…and surrounded him with my mouth. Then loved him, absorbing every thrust of his power and heat and passion…before drinking down his very life, taking him deep inside…
Where he’d be, in so many ways, forever.
Many minutes later, as his eyes returned from the back of his head and his breathing returned to normal, he slid a sultry look down at me. “Whatever am I going to do with you, woman?”
I tossed back an impish grin. “I have a few ideas if you don’t.”
“I have many ideas.” He pulled on my good shoulder. “Come here…”
But as I straddled him, a hail signal blared through the car. The comm line had been programmed into the Ferrari’s phone system. Jagger’s voice boomed around us like Darth Vader on crack.
“Wildcat, please come in.”
Correction. Darth Vader, badly in need of a valium.
“Wildcat!”
Syn stabbed at the button, opening the comm line. “This is Wildcat.” He growled as I sidled off, returning to the passenger seat. “What the fuck is the problem? This is not time for radio check.”
“It is if you stop the damn car.” Jag’s huff turned the line to static. “Are you two all right?”
I stifled a giggle. Samsyn’s mouth squirmed, battling back his own smirk. “We needed to…stretch.”
Well, that did it.
I held back my full laugh only long enough for him to mute the line. Even then, I wasn’t sure about my success. Not that Jagger needed it. His retort resonated with foregone conclusions. “Stretching is not on the schedule. Get your ass back on the road, with its fucking pants on.”
I shrieked with new laughter. Syn wasn’t so jovial. Though his sleek lips still held the hints of a sexy smile, the rest of his face was dismal. “I am sorry about this, astremé. I had hoped to return the…generosity…of your wedding gift.”
I dropped my giggles into a chastising huff. Underlined it by grabbing his face and jerking him to me in a quick, hard kiss. “Haven’t you figured this shit out by now, big guy? You were the best present of the day.”
He snorted while revving the car again. “Only because the rest of it was a giant lump of coal.”
I whacked his shoulder. “Shut up and drive. And sing some more Foo to me, baby.”
He did just that.
Best afternoon of my life.
Chapter Twenty-One
‡
NOTHING LIKE A whirlwind honeymoon.
As soon as we arrived in Sancti, a whirlwind of a different kind took over. And why the hell was I being poetic? “Hurricane” was more appropriate now, begun the moment Syn guided the car to the Palais’ parking garage—through a throng of reporters that swarmed the car like attack bees.
“Holy crap,” I blurted, as soon as the gates slid shut and we handed the car off to his valet team. “Maybe the main bridge would’ve been easier.”
“The throng there is certainly bigger.” Syn guided me into the elevator by the waist.
/>
“Shut the front door!”
He peered around before angling a frown back down at me. “We are nowhere near the front—” Stopping himself short when I over-smiled in apology for the slang, he bent in to push me against the lift wall. His scowl was tight but his gaze sparkled. “Little one, we may have to come to an agreement about those colorful little expressions of yours.”
Blue flames joined the mini fireworks in those eyes, now fixated on me. Like a kid enthralled with the show, I lifted my hand, fanning fingers across his cheek. “An…agreement? You mean, like a pact?”
“More like an understanding.” His stare swept down, roaming across every inch of my slightly parted mouth. “Do you not think it fair that every time you trip me up with one of those, I get to…trip you up…in return?”
“Trip me up?” My echo was shredded reeds. Good thing I wouldn’t be called on to sing an aria tonight—though every cell of my body sang for this man, so elegant and huge and passionate, fitting his hips between mine, ducking his mouth against my neck. “And…h-how…do you propose…doing that?”
He grabbed both my hips, notching my cleft directly against his cock.
Glided his lips along the curve of my ear…
Bit my neck…
Kissed my jaw…
The moment before he took my lips, the elevator jerked to a stop.
We broke apart, barely done straightening our clothes and composing our faces, before a computer-generated version of Turkish bells announced our arrival—
Where?
My astonishment was so real, I felt it altering my face. Popping my eyes. Locking my teeth. That part was necessary, to keep my jaw from plummeting. Something told me that wherever we were in the palais, oh-my-gah gapes wouldn’t be accepted behavior.
I’d been to the complex before, of course. There’d been the big celebration for Evrest’s ascension to the throne, as well as the yearly trips down the mountain for Liberlük in the summer and Christmas festivities in the winter. But all those times, Mom and Dad had been careful to keep us in the shadows or on the sidelines, never venturing far from the anonymity given by the throngs. Inevitably, I’d always associated the Palais Arcadia with bustle, chaos, and crowds.
There was no bustle here. Definitely no crowds. And to borrow an apt expression from Samsyn, the silence was deafening.
No. Not complete silence. As we stepped further down the hall—more like a magical tunnel with every inch of its walls and ceiling covered in red, gold, and silver tiles—the strains of traditional instruments bled through the thick wooden doors. Lute. Violin. Some kind of woodwind, perhaps an ocarina or recorder. A metallic melody strummed on a zither. From behind another door, the distinct taps of someone on a computer. Behind another, the cadence of quiet conversation. The décor was a fascinating mix of old and new as well. The tiles, seemingly as old as the island itself, were the backdrop to modular furniture with clean lines. Cube-style tables supported lamps that would make an antique enthusiast drool, though the pieces glowed with the clean light of LED bulbs. Beneath our feet, old carpets were newly scrubbed and spotless.
We turned left, entering a long portrait gallery. Believe it or not, I breathed a little easier. Now this felt like a palace. I looked up at the formal paintings, featuring Cimarrons from hundreds of years ago until now, not thinking twice about inserting Samsyn into some of those noble scenes. God, he’d look incredible decked out in fantasy movie finery, broadsword across his back, muddy boots to his thighs, gauntlets on his thick forearms.
I’d worked that mental magic on about six paintings, before noticing he wasn’t peering at any of them.
His stare was fixed on me.
I laughed uneasily. “What?”
He smirked like a kid with a secret. “Nothing, wife. Nothing at all.”
“Bullshit.” I twisted at the clasp of our hands—but finished with a little grin. Would my chest ever not flip over when he used that word on me? Wife. Wife. Wife. Gah.
“You…like this room.”
“Yes.” I also liked—a whole hell of a lot—that after just a minute, he saw that.
“I am glad. I like it, too.” That was when he gazed up. “There is a story to each one of these paintings. Sometimes a few. Each Cimarron…what they did with their life, how they contributed to the island…the mistakes they made getting there, the lessons they learned…”
“And whom they learned them with?”
“Oh, that too. Comrades and enemies, advisors and betrayers…”
“And spouses?”
He stiffened. A pulse ticked hard in his jaw. “And others.”
“Others?”
He gave me three seconds of a glance—but three seconds was all it took. One, two, three, and the full blade of his sudden rage was embedded in my gut, deep and wrenching and unforgettable.
“Royal sanction is a diamond with sharp edges. It opens every door. Unlocks every power.”
“And brings anyone to your bed.”
He glanced again. No fury this time. I wasn’t sure how to define his look now. I only knew the way he stared, eyes cold as hail and nostrils flaring hard, sluiced deep sadness through me. Sorrow that hadn’t invaded for a long, long time. Not since the moment I’d turned my gaze from the burning wreckage of my home and looked toward the sky that held my future—and beheld only darkness and loneliness.
Why did those skies dominate his gaze like that?
Who—what—had sucked the sun from his eyes?
And why wouldn’t he talk to me about it?
Syn pivoted with military precision, giving me the last word on our exchange, as he continued up the gallery. I followed, not protesting his looser grip now, letting him keep to his thoughts for a few more steps. To be honest, I needed the respite to compose my own thoughts. I didn’t have the advantage of being on familiar ground anymore. This was all his turf, and even without the trip down the magic looking glass hall, I felt a lot like poor Alice, down the rabbit’s hole.
Or a lot like me, on the Sancti tarmac six years ago.
The reflection earned me a hit of courage.
You can do this. Of course you can. Because you’ve done it before—and you didn’t have half the discipline, knowledge, or strength that you do now.
I repeated the mantra even as we passed countless portraits—including one covered in a black shroud. At my curious glance, Syn replied smoothly, “Evrest’s. It will remain covered for the next month.”
I didn’t ask about the wide space already cleared to the left of the shroud. His tighter tension gave it away. That was where his portrait would go.
I pulled in an awed breath. Expelled it to let out a more important query. “Syn…where are we going?”
He snorted, clearly trying to summon humor—and failing. “I am surprised you do not know, astremé. They have a fun phrase for it in America, after all.”
“Oh?” Keeping it light wasn’t happening on my end either—especially since he still looked like we headed for our own execution. “Enlighten me?”
He paused for a moment, putting the words together. “‘Schmoozing the in-laws’?”
I jerked my hand away. “Are you fucking kidding?”
He wasn’t fucking kidding.
In the middle of my charge, a young man emerged from one of the double doors at the end of the gallery. Cream doublet. Crimson sash. Pole-up-the-butt walk. Cimarron court pages were definitely recognizable. “Your Majesty, King Samsyn,” he intoned. “The high couple will see you now.”
Welcome home to us.
Shit, shit, shit.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‡
“SAMSYN! CHÉR-EV!”
Syn didn’t even pretend to enjoy the endearment from his father. His discomfort instantly became mine, meaning my smile was total plaster by the time Ardent strode all the way across the drawing room. Now that the setting was more private than the Le Blanc Tower’s terrace, I wondered if the king father would attempt embracing his son
again.
He didn’t. Imagine that.
Their handshake evoked old memories for me. If Samsyn threw on a tie to match Ardent’s, he’d be evocative of Vermont Senator Chase Valen, especially on occasions when foreign dignitaries had to be greeted. Okay, not all of them—just the ones who played nicey-nicey with Dad, only to fly home and order their generals to slaughter innocents, starve endangered animals, and bar girls from going to school.
I’d never understood it either. For a while, in my ’tweens, had even been furious with him for it. Dad would sigh and tell me that one day I’d “get the picture”. Keep your enemies closer, honey. Here and now, I still didn’t get it. But for whatever reason Samsyn forced himself to do it, I supported him. I always would. That was what wives did for their husbands.
Who the hell was I kidding?
I’d back him even without the rings on our fingers.
I’d love him even if he never gave it in return.
“Your Excellences.” Syn’s nods at his parents were as formal as the greeting. The queen mother finally rose from a window seat and approached, though at a more sedate pace than her husband. The room was so huge and imposing, though the rustic color scheme and big-cushioned furniture warmed it up. “Bon sonra,” he went on as she neared, despite the rays of early twilight glowing through the French doors overlooking the palais lawns. “I trust you are both holding up well?”
Xaria’s gloss-covered lips flitted with a ghost of a smile. She was a stunning woman with bobbed dark hair, alabaster skin, and light lavender eyes—a walking commercial for the beauty benefits of living on Arcadia. Still, there was a fragile air about her, like a bird cozy in its cage. “Well, it is certainly easier to pretend Evrest has died, instead of managing it as reality.” She smoothed the front of her black sheath, saved from the full Morticia effect by the gown’s cap sleeves. “And the press has been kind about my ‘graceful control’.”
“No surprise,” Syn replied. “You are…perfectly appointed.” Very clearly, that was his diplomatic best. But as Xaria acknowledged her son’s “compliment” with a refined nod, I already swiveled my stare around, senses heightened for a different purpose.