by Angel Payne
And right now, I was completely out of demolition ideas.
Leaving me to watch as he jogged away down a dark beach…alone despite the security detail flanking him. Alone, despite my body still remembering him, my heart still so full of him.
Alone, despite the tears I shed for us both.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‡
TWO DAYS LATER, despite the perfect island morning outside the breakfast room’s window, I clenched back the same damn tears. My makeup aside—Mishella had made me concede to a little mascara blush and lip gloss now—tears probably tasted disgusting in coffee.
While stirring hazelnut creamer into my java instead, I stole a glance at Syn through my lashes. Holy God, he was stunning. I yearned to jump him again, despite having done so this morning in bed. Okay, technically, he’d jumped me—my wrists still bore the blissful marks of just how hard and passionately—but semantics weren’t important in my fantasy. I swirled my spoon dreamily, letting the scene play out. I’d find him in his office. Would let him keep his crisp black shirt and red vest in place, though slide his pants down to his ankles so I could roam over his tight ass and muscled thighs…while taking him deep in my mouth. I’d let his moans vibrate through me, feeling them in every shivering nerve, as I sucked and tasted and licked his gorgeous penis, worshipping him until he—
“If you keep staring at my brother like that, I may have to charge you an access fee.”
The interjection, spoken in a voice like lava and butter mixed, made me look up then laugh. Shiraz Cimarron had a face and body one would expect on the pages of a high fashion magazine, but the demeanor of a shark straight from Wall Street. He was the poster child for dichotomy, confounding many, but I’d always admired that about him. What fun was a person if they could be figured out in minutes?
“Now there’s a way to maximize some revenues for the economy,” I joked back. “But it’s a tax deduction for me, right?”
A feminine grumble pulled my gaze around. “Are you two already talking business?” Jayd groused. “Creator’s toes. The funeral was just yesterday. Some of us are still raw.”
Shiraz arched an urbane brow. “You mean the pretend funeral?”
“Ssshhh.” She jogged her head toward the reporters in the corner—all so absorbed in tapping on their laptops, an army could’ve stormed the beach without their notice—and added, “Pretend or not, I hated it.”
Shiraz chuffed. Muttered to me, “But she loved Paris, where gloom is everyone’s middle name.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Not gloom, imbezak. It is called drama. And feeling. And passion.” She elbowed him. “They belong in that thing called a heart, my brother. You remember what that is, oui?”
“Non.” Shiraz shrugged. “Waste of time and space. Ev and Syn are doing just fine in the mooning hearts arena.”
She nudged me next. “I cannot wait until a woman knocks him on his backside.”
Shiraz sipped his coffee. Scowled and scooped more sugar into it. “Sister, I do not get ‘knocked’ anywhere.”
“Hmmmph. Except that damn office of yours.”
“The business of the country is not accomplished by magical elves, little one.” With a nod of satisfaction at his coffee, he turned from the buffet. “On that note, good day, ladies. Three days away from the office will be hell to make up.”
Jayd growled. “If you die at your desk, ’Raz, I shall hate your soul forever.”
Both his brows jumped now. “And that is not gloomy?”
She shot a defiant pout. “Do not die! Nobody else is allowed to die. Got it?”
“Well, wasn’t this a fun place to join the conversation?” My brother’s cute, crooked grin swung into view. I tried not to notice the extra gleam across Jayd’s face, but it was like ignoring a glint of sun on chrome. Forget it.
“Bon sabah, Dillon Valen.” Her smile was tremulous.
“Bon sabah to you too, Jayd Cimarron.” He bonked her nose with his bagel—like a doof messing with his buddy. Jayd’s eyes dimmed a little. I was tempted to grab the bagel and stuff it up Dil’s nose. Or other places. “You too, Shiraz.”
“You as well.” Shiraz’s murmur was civil, though instinct said I’d have help in the bagel ramming duties, if I requested it.
Without skipping a beat, Dil scooped up some cream cheese and capers. “Hey…errrmm…you two mind if I steal the queen for a few minutes? Private sibs stuff. You know how it goes.”
“Sure!” Just like that, Jayd brightened again. I watched her mental wheels turn, already writing off his platonic behavior as preoccupation with our “private sibs stuff”—whatever the hell that meant.
As soon as we took our plates and coffee to a small table in the corner, I wasted no time seeking the clarification. “What the hell, Dil? Is everything okay?”
He stared steadily at me over the rim of his coffee mug. His eyes, possessing nearly the same ratio of gray to blue as mine, were the biggest reason people mistook us as blood siblings. This morning, I just wished they didn’t look so I’m-not-missing-a-single-detail-about-things. “Hmm. Interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“That’s exactly what I was going to ask you.”
I lowered my brows. “I…don’t…underst—”
“Cut the crap, B. It’s me.” He put his cup down. Set his forearms on the table, leaning forward. “You’ve been miserable since we got here. Maybe even before that. Don’t feed me the line that we all just attended a funeral, either. This is deeper shit. Much deeper.”
I slid my own coffee back to its saucer. “Well…shit. Is it that obvious?”
He grabbed my hand. “Slow your roll, munchkin. I’m the only one picking up the vibe.”
I exhaled hard. “You usually are.”
He eased up on my hand, but not on his scrutiny. “So you want to spill, or will I have to tickle it out of you?”
I took another deep breath. Fought for a cheeky grin but managed only a wobble of my lips. “Nothing to spill.” At least the waterworks behind the eyes were dry. They’d stay that way if Dil didn’t mention Samsyn.
“Is it stuff with Samsyn?”
Fuck.
“Goddammit.” Dillon stabbed his bagel instead of spreading the cream cheese. “What’s that pachyderm done to you?
“Okay, slow your roll.” I seized his wrist, saving the bagel from mutilation. The knife clattered to his plate, forcing us to take a beat. “I love him, Dillon.”
He rolled his eyes. “Last year’s news?”
That spurred a little laugh. “Fine. Guilty as charged.”
“But is he guilty too?” He went still, waiting for me to look up. The sun had angled in, frosting the tips of his dark gold hair, beaming into his relentless gaze. “Brooke…does he love you too?”
I wanted to answer him.
And I wanted that answer to be yes.
Somehow, I even knew it was.
But the surety, once the answer to all my deepest dreams, was small consolation now. Comfort that couldn’t compete with the answer I did give Dil.
“He doesn’t trust me.”
I said it with sadness, loneliness. For me…but also for Syn. I wondered if he truly trusted anyone.
Dillon’s features tightened too. He gazed as if still studying me, and I couldn’t figure out why. It was getting unnerving.
“Why?” he finally queried.
I took a chug of coffee. “Long story. And it doesn’t matter.” The liquid felt good. The day would be warm but right now, the sea wind was chilly. “What matters is that I don’t know if I ever had it. Or if I can ever do anything to earn it.”
He leaned back in his chair—but he wasn’t relaxed. I knew him too well to think otherwise. His shoulders were taut beneath his casual polo. When he scanned the room with his gaze, finally hitting the spot where Syn was still deep in conversation with Grahm, he slid a finger along his butter knife handle, as if wishing it were a battle dagger. “You mean like…proving yoursel
f?”
Strangely, I laughed again. Savored a bite into a pineapple slice. “Yeah, Dil. Just like that. You have a magic ring I can toss into a fire and save the realm? Maybe an enchanted wand to defeat the guy with no nose?”
He shifted again, leaning back over the table—but kept his gaze riveted to Syn as he answered me in a tone without a note of mirth.
“What if you found the two renegade Puras for him?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‡
HE ALMOST GOT a face full of spat coffee.
I managed to keep the stuff down—barely—before dropping my jaw to the damn table. Then picking it back up on a soft giggle. “Holy hell, Dil. Good one. Yep, damn good one. Okay, you got me. I really thought—”
“And you thought right.”
His gaze didn’t flinch.
My heart didn’t beat.
Still didn’t, as I struggled not to stare as if he’d just nearly confessed to being allied with the crazies who’d tried to kill Camellia. “Dillon. What the fuck are you—”
“I’ve been Pura since last year, Brooke.”
Annnd, there was the confession. Plunked right out like acid all over the food. Sure as hell defined the landscape of my stomach now.
“I—I don’t know what to—”
Sitting here was definitely not the fill-in-the-blank for that. As the acid invaded more than my gut, I made my way out of the room. Thank God for Mishella’s training about how to keep a game face, calm queen style. Trial by fire time—through every step I took toward the Palais chapel. Once there, I finally dropped the façade.
I’d only been here once before—years ago, for Evrest’s coronation ceremony—but the beauty of the room had left an unforgettable impression on me. The simple architecture was centered on a huge, round glass window, silver stars and golden suns representing the glory of the Creator. Frantically, I prayed for everything the place stood for—strength, serenity, the will not to slap my brother senseless—as I plunked into a pew near the front.
Dillon lowered next to me—damn him, as peaceful as the Dalai Lama about it. “It’s not against the law, Brooke.”
“Not against the—”
“It’s become as much my country as yours!” He slammed a hand to the pew in front of us. So much for the Dalai Lama. “And I have the right to join with others to tell our leaders what we feel about its direction. To communicate our views—”
“Yes.” I rose, unable to stop the acidic twitches through my muscles. “To communicate your views, Dil. Not to sneak into the king’s bedroom through an air duct with the intention to capture and kill his fiancé!”
“You’re right.”
“This makes your movement no better than terrorism, or even anarchy. And—” I froze. “What?”
“I said you’re right.” For the first time, he fidgeted. It continued as he returned to his feet as well. He stepped back out to the aisle, starting to nervously pace. I was perversely glad to see it, which calmed me enough to listen as he went on. “I joined the Pura as a way to open up dialogue about the new direction of Arcadia. I simply felt, like many others, that things were going too fast. We have natural resources to protect, a beautiful land we don’t want ruined. That’s all.” He stopped. Scrubbed a hand down his face. “At least it was…until we attracted the outside money.”
Damn good excuse to let my legs give way again. “So Jagger and Syn were right. There’s an external source involved.”
“Who’s changed a lot of shit,” Dillon recounted. He began pacing again, new urgency stamping each step. “It’s emboldened the handful of radicals in the movement. Made them overreact to everything…even talk of a full rebellion, if they can’t succeed in wiping out the Cimarrons.”
The acid turned to ice. I gripped the pew with shaking fingers. “Wiping out…as in killing?”
“Wasn’t that answer made clear by what they tried four days ago?” He blew out a harsh breath. “So many of us—most of us—never wanted this. We still don’t. But the lunatics have taken over the asylum, and now we don’t know what to do…or how to control them.”
I struggled to wrap my brain around all of it. Fought to comprehend the reality, so horrific, that I hadn’t accepted even after Evrest and Cam arrived at Syn’s castle that crazy morning.
There were people on this island right now who wanted Samsyn and his family dead.
My family…dead.
“Who?” The word left me on locked teeth. I snapped my head up, drilling a demanding gaze into Dillon. “Who the fuck is it, Dil? You have to tell me. We have to figure out how to stop them.”
Dillon slumped back into the pew. “I don’t know.” Raised a glassy gaze at me. “Few of us do. They’ve compartmentalized it now. Everyone knows only what they need to.”
I snorted. “Of course. That’s what terrorists do.”
When he turned toward me, I wondered why my dread doubled. The last time I’d seen that look on his face, he’d been pulling an F in Calculus and didn’t know how to tell Dad.
“They have…sent me with a message, B. For you.”
Rocks. Stomach. What a delightful combination. “Shit,” I muttered. Only that. It was the best I could do.
“They have the two men Samsyn is searching for. They’re hiding them in the basement of a house, at the outskirts of the city—and they’ll surrender both outlaws, if you go and meet with them.”
Screw the rocks. I was dealing with full boulders now. “Me? But why—” Snagged breath—released on a huge huff. “Scratch that. I know why. And do they think I’m that stupid? Mice scurry into traps, Dil, not grown women with functioning brain cells.”
He held up both hands. “They just want to talk, B. really.”
“And there’s a nice piece of land up near Censhyr I’d love to show you.”
“You honestly think they’d try anything dumb? They have functioning brain cells too. Whether they were behind the break-in on Evrest and Camellia’s suite—”
“You mean they weren’t?”
“I have no clue. And does it matter? Public perception already blames them, so fucking with the queen doesn’t improve their position for being truly heard by the king and High Council.” He firmed his stance, folding his arms. “That’s really all they want, B—to be heard. And they trust you to help them accomplish that,”—he dropped a censuring scowl—“despite your husband’s fucked up views on that matter.”
I smacked his shoulder for that. Syn’s issues might really be messed up at the moment, but no one got to voice it except me.
After the clarification, I stepped back into the confusion. “I still don’t get it. And now I’m really asking: why me?”
“Because you’re perfect for the job?” he rejoined. “Listen, dweeb.” His countering smack stopped my snarky eye roll. “You’re a reasonable sounding board, B—someone who appreciates everything Arcadia is, but has seen some of America’s mistakes with squandering its natural resources. You straddle both worlds.”
I cocked my brows. “So do you.”
“King Samsyn doesn’t look at me like honey spun of gold.”
He let that one sink in, good and deep. And hell was it good, considering how Syn’s gaze alone could turn me into that dripping honey. And deep, thinking of the golden connection beneath it.
The connection. Our connection. I wanted it back. God, I needed it. Once upon a time, I would’ve given my teeth to have two days of raw sexual ecstasy with him…but the intimacy was nothing without the bond. Being his lover came nowhere near the joy of being his friend, his confidante, his partner.
If I did this—met with the Pura and secured those criminals into custody—maybe he’d see that. Surely he would know, without a doubt, how serious my loyalty was to him and Arcadia.
Not if you go and get yourself captured—or killed.
New point for the hell no column—until Dil’s point resonated again. The Pura were pinned down like butterflies on a board. They had nowhere to pivot off
their reputation as murderers. Harming another queen would elevate their brand from terrorists into monsters. And this queen was a trained Arcadian warrior, unafraid to turn a man’s balls into mashed potatoes before stabbing out both his eyes with her fingers.
On that colorful musing, I looked back up to Dillon. What if he was right? What if, despite the rogue actions of a radical few, the Pura were just concerned citizens interested in a healthy dialogue? What if this wouldn’t be good for just Syn and me? What if this was good for all of Arcadia too?
Opportunity didn’t favor wusses. Time to slide on the big girl panties, girlfriend. To do this for the country you love, and the man you love even more.
I whooshed out a breath. Dropped a determined nod, before I lost my nerve. “Fine. I’ll do it—but only if they let you come with me.”
Dillon damn near crushed me with a hug. “I think they’ll be okay with that. Thank you, munchkin. You have no idea what this means.”
As we pulled back from each other, I let him have the brunt of my wince. “You know, dork, this was easier when you were just flunking Calculus.”
*
“YOUR MAJESTY BROOKE. Merderim for coming.”
“It’s my pleasure. Really.”
For the first time tonight, I didn’t rely totally on the calm queen training. I’d felt like crap since bringing it out with the very person from whom I’d learned it, but the white lie couldn’t be helped. Telling Mishella I was having dinner and a Star Wars binge with Dillon was better than implicating her in my slip from the Palais—accomplished, ironically, by hiding myself in a load of laundry.
Still dressed in the white turtleneck and pants that’d helped with the ruse, I took a full breath for the first time in the last hour. Even meant every inch of my smile at the bearded man with the kind eyes who greeted me with a respectful bow once Dil and I had arrived at the safe house.
“I hope you understand…about having to take your phones. They will be returned as soon as we conclude.”