Into His Command

by Angel Payne

  “Excellences,” I murmured, “désonnum for stating the obvious, but…can we speak so openly here?” I looked at Samsyn, deducing he’d know the answer more than them. “Has this room been wired with audio scramblers? Thermal heat monitors to detect ‘unwelcome ears’?”

  That earned me a loud laugh from Ardent, his head falling back. “Still playing Jamie Bond, eh little Brooke?”

  I stiffened, but forced a neutral stare. “I don’t play around when it comes to the royal family’s safety, Excellence.”

  Ardent barked with more laughter. “Well done! And you certainly should not, since you are now one of us.”

  “For the time being,” Xaria prompted.

  “Yes.” Samsyn tucked me closer to him. “But as all my teams know, appearances are only as good as what you believe. That is why I requested this immediate meeting with you both. The media will be informed that Brooke was presented to you, and received your full approval as my wife and queen. We shall also publicize the wedding certificate.”

  “And plan a more proper celebration of the occasion?” Xaria’s lips twisted and hardened, momentarily freaking me out. Damn clear who Syn got that one from.

  “If you wish,” Syn conceded. “After we ‘mourn’ Evrest and Camellia for the traditional month, as well an additional two weeks in recognition of the special circumstances.” His jaw notched higher. “Those dogs shall be clear about our message. We are not going to easily forget their treachery.”

  “Hell yeah!”

  My fist, pumped in support, unraveled just as quickly. Lowered to wrap around my sling. Freaking. Lovely. Today’s lesson, kids: how to make sure your new father and mother in-law officially think you’re a cretin. It’s so much easier than you think!

  I fixed my face into apologetic lines. Inched it up toward Syn.

  Who already fixed a stare back at me—

  Suffused with quiet pride.

  And I thought the car ride had been the best part of my day?

  “Beginning at once, Brooke will take her rightful place by my side,” Syn went on, also in calm conviction. “Including abiding in my suite, and assuming every possible duty as befits a new queen of the kingdom.”

  Xaria pulled in a distinct breath. The woman wasn’t stupid; she’d picked up the same implication I did. As Arcadia’s last functioning queen, she’d just been assigned to train the new girl. Wisely, I didn’t fist-bump this one. Or even grimace as she murmured, “Of course” like a prom queen ordered to dance with the math geek.

  “Well! That certainly settles things.” Ardent smacked his palms together with a whomp—though it certainly wasn’t the end of his celebration. With a grand sweep, he hauled me in and clutched me tightly. “Welcome to the family, little Brooke!”

  Help. Though the word screamed inside, I couldn’t have spurted it aloud if I tried. So this was what Eau de Cloying smelled like—on a sweaty man. Not the good kind of sweat either.

  Gah. Was I actually analyzing the properties of my father-in-law’s perspiration?

  “Mmmmm. We are so happy to have such a lovely new Cimarron.”

  And was he actually making me listen to that creepy croon through the echo chamber of his chest, as he relentlessly extended the hug?

  The air spiked with a strange shot of energy. I’d have called it tension but that was like comparing a fast jab to a Superman punch.

  “Father.”

  Speaking of Superman blows…

  And growls that threatened the very stability of my blood…

  “Take your hands off my wife right now, or I shall remove them myself. And then I shall break them.”

  It didn’t carry a sliver of ambiguity. Or humor. Or fear. Karma saved that one through me, spidering my body, icy and sure. When Ardent didn’t slacken the hold, I started running action plans. What story would we give the press about Syn breaking both his hands? Would Xaria stay quiet? The woman was an enigma—but despite her mystery, she loved her son. I saw at least that much in her proud stares at him.

  Ardent let another beat go by.

  Before he busted into hearty laughter again, tossing up both his arms. “And…goooooaaal! So well done, chér-ev!”

  If things weren’t surreal before, they sure as hell were now. It almost felt like the ninjas’ break-in at the Rigale again, time moving in strange pieces of slow motion and fast-forward, of terrifying and—

  Even more terrifying.

  Slow-motion, as Syn reached he hauled me from an erupting volcano. His face, lined in terrible wrath. His eyes, emitting pure dragon fire. Clearly, he hadn’t yet ruled out the option of snapping Ardent’s arms.

  Fast-forward again, as my body crashed in to his, only to be whipped nearly behind while he leaned out, brandishing a long finger at his father.

  Then the terrifying part.

  The seething crawl of his voice, erupting from somewhere inside him I didn’t recognize, raging and roiling and low.

  “I am not your chér-ev, Ardent Cimarron. Nor will my bride be your new favorite trinket. She took a bullet to her arm, which very well could have been her heart, protecting your daughter. She is a hero to your country, an honor to our name, and she will be treated with every ounce of your fucking respect.”

  “Samsyn.”

  “Silence, Mother, or I shall inform the pool and butler staffs that you are ill this evening.”

  Holy shit.

  And double whoa.

  And figurative face palm. I almost indulged the real thing too. Talk about subtext I wasn’t ready for—or ready to see such blatant confirmation of, etched like tattoos across both the high couple’s faces.

  But it all made such perfect sense now.

  Awful, heart-ripping sense.

  Samsyn’s face provided the hugest confirmation. So many pegs locked into place, simply by witnessing his rage with brand-new eyes. His walls against commitment. His religion of casual sex. His dedication to the warrior’s code, where the dangers were defined, the enemy drawn clearly, and decisions were made from the head not the heart.

  Because he didn’t think he had a heart.

  Because it had been broken.

  By his own parents.

  Your new favorite trinket. The pool and butler staffs.

  Syn lowered his hand. Reached it back—for mine. When I twined our fingers, his were trembling. I squeezed tightly. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

  He dragged in several more breaths before fully straightening. Though the prince was back, the dragon still prowled just beneath his civil surface.

  “Are we done here, Excellences?” When Ardent and Xaria gave no answer but silence, he jerked a terse nod. “Very well, then. Brooke and I shall say good evening. It has been a long day”—a phrase barely servicing the subject, considering our pre-dawn passion on his bathroom counter—“and we are ready for some privacy.”

  I managed quick nods to the queen father and mother—awkward is in da house—before Syn led me out, his hand again at the small of my back.

  He didn’t speak as we traversed down the portrait gallery, then the tiled hall. When it was time to turn back for the elevator, he pulled me in the opposite direction.

  We climbed two flights of stairs before emerging onto a wide, empty terrace centered on a marble fountain with cobalt dolphins and gold-tipped sea kelp. Cypress trees were stately sentinels on two sides of the courtyard; a third side dropped into curved steps leading to a small garden with a fairytale waterfall. All of it had breathtaking views of the coast and sea.

  I’d never seen anything so breathtaking—but all I could focus on was Samsyn. His pace was barely sustainable for me, though I sensed his enormous restraint. Though it torqued my own tension, I sustained from even speaking. One of us had to keep our shit together, and it sure as hell wasn’t him. The air around him was stabbed with a million needles of ire. I had to keep them from multiplying. Too many, and they’d meld into yet another steel fortress around his heart.

  After we skirted the fountain,
heading for the palais wing on the other side, I finally dared it. “Syn—”

  “Not now, Brooke.”

  “But—”

  “I said not now!”

  I halted.

  He growled. Then twisted his hand free and kept on walking.

  I took a step. Stopped again. The world blurred behind a salty swath. I shoved it away, swallowing hard, gritting my teeth. Pulled in a ruthless breath of the early night air, mixed with salt off the water and oil from the torches down on the beach, marking the Palais’ perimeter. Seagulls dipped and glided on the wind overhead, riding the currents without a care. Or did I have it wrong? Wasn’t it just that they had no choice, and they needed the gusts to take flight?

  But without the gulls, what would the wind be? Just…air. No beauty or expression or life.

  They needed each other.

  Needed to be pushing at each other. Tangled with each other. Living through each other.

  I slumped to a padded couch. Energy sapped. Resolve drained. Heart aching.

  A flightless bird.

  “Pathetic.” I spat it at myself, beneath my breath. Like that would slacken the brutal truth of it. You’re pathetic, Brooke Allison. Stop sulking, get off your ass, and—

  I’d been so deep in my wallow, there’d been zero awareness of Samsyn turning back around. Now suddenly here he was, planted in front of me. Feet braced. Breaths harsh. Hands fisted.

  Until he plummeted too.

  Straight to his knees.

  Lunged his head forward, writhing it in my lap, still wordless…and seeking.

  Lifted hands to my hips and yanked me closer, still trembling…and seething.

  Rolled his whole torso, shoulders flexing, gripping me as if our roles had reversed, and I were the air. His air. His breath. The only thing he needed.

  I breathed him in too. Clutched his head, hands anchored against his scalp, pressing our carotids beside each other. Lifeblood pounding. Breaths entangling. Heartbeats meeting.

  Spirits…knowing.

  We remained like that for a long time, listening to the gulls and the wind and the night and each other, before Syn twined my good arm around his neck. Guided my legs around his waist. Instinctively, I tightened those holds. As I expected, he stood, carrying me without effort. He began to walk, each step as intent as his clear blue eyes.

  As soon as he stepped inside, I knew we were in his suite. The air was rich with exotic spices, seductive as burnished leather, and imbued with his masculine strength. That only made his new demeanor stand out in starker contrast, each of his movements so tender and cautious.

  With slow care, he laid me across the downy white comforter on the huge sleigh bed. The fabric absorbed my weight like a cloud cushioning a pearl. He gazed down at me with the same reverent wonder. Stretched beside me with graceful purpose. Ran the back of his hand down my body with slow, silent deliberation.

  When he got back up to my torso, he gently detached the sling from my arm. Unthinking sigh. It was wonderful to be free of the contraption. Good enough to try lifting that hand to his neck then his face. But without a word, Samsyn curled his fingers around it, lowering it back to my side.

  “Samsyn—”

  “Ssshhh.” He rose over me, capturing my lips with pressure that wasn’t aggressive but sure as hell wasn’t shy. His mouth reached for me. Courted me. The wedding dance we hadn’t had—but more. So much more. His wings sought my air. His flight craved my force. “Can we just have this, Brooke?” He tucked his forehead against my chest. “I need this, astremé. To wash it all away. Just for now…”

  I pushed a thumb beneath his jaw. Made him behold the yes in my eyes…and feel it from my thundering heart too. I pulled him up for another kiss while hooking a leg around his waist, making him roll atop me. His weight…was perfect. He was so broad and solid and forceful, consuming my sightlines, dominating my senses.

  At once, he began rocking against me. I writhed and thrusted in return, heat twisting in my core, gushing into the tunnel craving his invasion. My blood already pumped a tribal tattoo in my veins, urging me to reach for the explosion only Syn could give.

  But all too soon, he rose up—though during his move, took my leggings along. He loomed over me again, twisting two fingers into the waistband of my panties before deftly sliding them off. I hissed, impatiently reaching for my own shirt buttons. He pushed my hands back, shaking his head with solemn sensuality. “Do not deny me the pleasure, woman.”

  Woman.

  Not “little girl”.

  For that, I’d let him peel my damn skin off if he desired.

  Feeling every inch that woman, I watched from a hooded gaze as he straightened…then stripped naked. As every new inch of his bronze flesh was revealed, my breath hit sparkling shallows. His body had been crafted with care but hewn by battle, his long limbs nicked by scars both old and new. They extended from a V-shaped torso, shoulders that would put any football player to shame, slabs of gleaming pecs, then an eight pack of brutal masculinity, leading to…

  Oh, yeah. That.

  Mouth-watering was trite…but as I took in the unfettered beauty of his penis, I licked my lips without thinking. The angels had surely taken weeks perfecting it. Long and virile, trailed by veins that pumped it even fuller, capped by a rosy bulb that led the way back toward me—the luckiest woman on the planet. Especially as he sidled back up on the bed, fitting his thighs between mine, caressing my pussy with that hardness while teasing my shirt buttons free.

  You’re so beautiful.

  I yearned to say it, but wanted nothing to shatter the energy between us…the flawless star of this moment, centered on a bond that only began with our physical attraction. He’d been right. Together, we could wash the rest of the world away. Right now, it was only Syn and me…and the magnificent, brilliant wonder of what our spirits and souls shared. Nothing else mattered. Not his freshly torn emotional wounds. Not the crazy story of my life, about to get crazier when the media learned the Valen family was actually still alive. And not the danger that could be waiting right outside the door, targeting his family.

  Here, we were only the big guy and his astremé.

  Just Syn and Brooke.

  Man and woman.

  And even better, in the husky rasps we exchanged, gazes twining into each other…

  “Wife.”

  “Husband.”

  And then, not just our stares were joined.

  He entered me in one stroke, cock sliding perfectly into my slick readiness. I took him eagerly, wantonly, whimpering for more before he was done withdrawing, preparing for another full thrust. Every lunge was like that too. His retreat, nearly to the point of leaving me, then his fullness again, hitting me deep, stretching me fully. He left my bra on, not even distracting himself with my breasts. He locked his gaze on my face alone, his eyes cutting as blue coral, his parted lips exposing his clenched teeth. He absorbed every nuance of my arousal, and gave his own in return. Because of that, our climaxes climbed together, exactly in sync. Every long, deep fuck brought us closer. Higher. Hotter. Better.

  When we climaxed, it was with the same acute connection. We gasped and groaned before clenching and coming, waves of completion rolling over us again and again. Syn bent in, pouring a kiss into my mouth as his cock emptied inside me, bathing my body in heat as he drenched my spirit in joy and gratitude…and love.

  Yeah. That.

  Always that.

  Much later, after the universe decided to hand back our souls, Syn cradled me in his arms, pulled in a long breath, and released it on a rumble that already sounded like a snore. With a soft smile, I followed him into sleep. What would we have accomplished with pillow talk? For now, we’d spoken the only things that mattered.

  Wife.

  Husband.

  We’d stress later about the rest. Probably a lot more than we wanted to.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‡

  BEFORE I REOPENED my eyes, my body made me aware it w
as there—in all its aching glory.

  I was on my back, cushioned by butter-soft sheets and pillows to match. Despite the TLC for my naked skin, my arm throbbed and my other limbs were stiff…both balanced by the delicious soreness between my thighs.

  A funny memory hit, from deep in my childhood. A television commercial. Aftershave lotion? Beer? Didn’t matter. I’m a lover, not a fighter, the actor had said, knowing smirk fully in place.

  Samsyn Cimarron would never have to choose.

  And damn, was I in trouble because of it.

  But trouble was so much more fun when shared by two.

  On that cheeky note, I sat up in bed. I was alone but hoped that’d be temporary. “Husband mine,”—I reveled in the words, even if they were only a mutter to the room—“where have you gone off to?”

  I received the answer faster than I’d expected.

  Resulting in a frantic clutch of the sheets to my chest.

  Samsyn was still near, but talking to someone. After listening more closely, I guessed he was out on the terrace. Though the shades were mostly drawn across the windows, a stealthy glance inside might still give prying eyes a “deluxe view” of the new queen in her birthday-suited glory. But what had I expected? Yesterday, all of Arcadia had been told their king was dead. Today, they needed to be told that all would be okay. In essence, it was my husband’s first day at work.

  That’s shorthand for get your ass out of bed, girlfriend.

  I was about to go toga style with the sheet but my gaze fell to the nightstand. Draped across it was a satin robe in light cream, accented with gold piping. The garment felt even better than the sheets, though it was a little long. I hiked part of it up in order to tiptoe to the door, cracking it open to hear what was going on.

  Syn, already dressed for the day, stood with his back to me. One hand was braced on his lean hip, the other held a phone to his ear. So that was why I couldn’t identify the second party in the conversation.

  After confirming he was truly alone, I emerged onto the terrace. As I stepped out, Samsyn turned around.