Into His Command

by Angel Payne

  The man paced forward, extending a huge hand along with his photo identification. “Captain John Franzen. United States Army, First Special Forces Group.” His grip was steeyl, his confidence a jolt of adrenalin. As he shook hands with everyone else, they clearly felt it too. “A pleasure.”

  “After I do what I’m best at, he’s here to do what he’s best at.”

  Samsyn arched both brows. “As long as I am right in front of him.”

  Franzen nodded, but not without flashing an eager grin. “It will be an honor to serve with you, Majesty.”

  Colton repeated the nod. “All right. Now that we’ve dispensed with cocktail hour, I need a place to plug in and log on, ASAP.”

  Mishella moved forward. Though she was the embodiment of courtly grace, she also was the glaring reminder of Brooke’s absence. But the woman was bright. She knew that too. Wisely, she had stayed mostly out of the way, choosing to act in moments when she could be of most service to the crisis—like now. “We have a conference room down the hall. Let me know what you need, gentlemen, and it is yours.”

  Her hospitality was echoed by the fairy—though that was where the buy-in from the group screeched to a halt. Before Colton and Franzen could take another step, Jag and Grahm stopped them, stances as stony as their stares.

  “Syn,” Jagger gritted, “are you serious about this?”

  Grahm’s version of the argument came with his normal prelude: a calm look around, a measured inhalation. “We have always handled our own emergencies.”

  “We have.” He reined the words to calmness but didn’t spare the blaze in his eyes. “And that folly has landed us here—with my wife in the hands of a madman, likely not to fuck up his second chance at killing her.”

  He finished by moving toward his friends with an old man’s shuffle. Gripped them both by the shoulders, leaning into them with the same exhausted weight. Bowed his head, letting his hair fall over his face, as words of conviction tumbled off his lips that he never thought possible.

  “Trust has to start somewhere. And I am choosing to start now.”

  *

  THE LITTLE NEIGHBORHOOD was so quiet, even the swishes of the waves on the southern shore could be heard, nearly two miles away. On any map, the area still qualified as Sancti, though a hopscotch game just to the north would end in the next district over. Passméil was a land of sprawling meadows and peaceful streams, widely recognized as a zone of peace. Homes were modest, people were humble, bicycles were used more than cars, and community vegetable gardens fed all.

  When Colton’s “miracle software” had pointed to Passméil as Kavill’s hiding place, Syn made the man recheck the data. Even now, leading his handpicked team down narrow back alleys and tree-covered jogging paths, the information was difficult to believe.

  He was running on trust.

  It was not comfortable at all.

  As a matter of fact, with every minute that passed, it felt more like hell.

  He raised his hand, curled into a fist, to signal a stop. After everyone slid soundlessly behind him, he pivoted to Franzen. And glared.

  “This does not feel right. At all.”

  “I agree.” Tryst, taking up the third position, concurred in a whisper. “Why the hell would Kavill do this here?”

  “My amcle and tanze live four blocks over,” Jag added from the fourth spot. “Every neighbor knows each other, and has for years. Why would—”

  “—he not go for a ditch or a cave or a swamp?” Franzen thunked back against a tree. He had clearly fielded this question before. “It’s called hiding in plain sight,” the American continued. “Nazi war criminals blended right in after World War Two. They became teachers and professors and inventors; one even received NASA’s highest honor. Remember the place they found Bin Laden in? Nice sprawl, peaceful neighborhood?”

  Tryst grunted. “Fuck.” Jag uttered the same thing a second later.

  Samsyn rendered his own feedback by turning and trudging on.

  Every new step carried his painful heartbeat. Every corner they turned was accompanied by another silent prayer.

  They saw nothing. They heard nothing.

  Despair slithered in. Threatened to suck in his whole damn spirit.

  He could not give up.

  Because deep in that same spirit, he knew Brooke had not.

  He held up his fist again. As everyone stopped, he hunched over the GPS tracker in his palm. Another half block, and they would be out of the area pinpointed by Colton’s program. It was useless to berate Franzen again. The man had flown halfway across the globe to attempt this. It was not his fault they were nowhere closer to Kavill than before.

  “Fucking needle,” he growled. “Fucking haystack.”

  Only he could not live without this needle.

  He was so bogged down in that misery, he reacted a second behind the others—as they swung rifles around, reacting to the something that burst from the bushes behind them.

  “Don’t shoot! God, please!”

  He did not miss the cue this time. Joined the other three in a massive whoosh of relief.

  But beat them all swallowing a throat full of dread.

  It was Dillon Valen. Out of breath. Bloodied face. Hand, clearly broken, clawed against his stomach.

  With no Brooke behind him.

  “Samsyn!” The man nearly sobbed it. “Jag! Thank fuck.”

  Syn made his numb legs work. “Dillon.” He grabbed the man’s shoulder. Felt like shit for it when Dillon’s eyes popped painfully wide. The bonsuns had dislocated his shoulder too. “What happened? Where—where is she?”

  “He’s still—got her.” The information was ragged, gasped between bursts of agony. “She’s duct taped—to a chair.”

  “Is she hurt?” He hated asking it. Had to ask it. Had they fucked her up as badly as her brother? What had happened to her since that first video?

  “Not yet,” Dillon rushed out. “But soon—I think. Kavill called you—at the Palais. When they wouldn’t bring you—to the phone—he went ballistic. I used—the distraction—to escape. Had to pop—my fucking shoulder—to do it.” He sagged against a nearby wall. “Put the pieces together. Figured—you might be—on your way.”

  He leaned in, grabbing Dillon’s head tenderly this time. Pressed the side of his own against it. “I owe you a debt you cannot imagine, my brother.”

  Dillon pulled back. “I’ll owe you a bigger one if you get her out of there alive.”

  Franzen moved in, features sliced into hard battle lines. “How far away is the house? Can you show us?”

  “Of course. Come. It’s not far.”

  Thank the Creator, it was the truth. Within five minutes, Dillon led them to a house that could have been featured on a Passtéil postcard: front porch with a swing, backyard with a birdbath. They snuck across that idyllic scene with steps soft as wind and faces covered in masks, turning the tables on the pricks inside the house, avenging ninjas on the hunt.

  Samsyn grimaced. If only he could elevate his mind to such lofty terms…simply charge in with the courage of that noble banner. Higher causes had been the safe focus of Samsyn the warrior. The fortification of Samsyn the fighter. The underlying code of Samsyn the commander.

  They were nothing to Samsyn the man.

  For the first time in his life, he charged into a battle for purely selfish gain—toward something solely for him. He hurled through windows, barreled through doors, and charged through rooms with only one sacred cup in his sights, one holy treasure to gain. It drove his dagger into two enemies who dared stand in his way. Snapped the necks of two more, in hands that looked like his but were under the control of someone else. Something else. He was a dragon, ready to incinerate…prepared to destroy. He took no pleasure in the acts. Felt no remorse. He would pay the price with his soul later, if that was what the Creator wanted. His soul was a very small price to pay for—

  The treasure.

  His treasure.

  “Astremé.”

>   He stopped, frozen in place like an idiot, certain he’d been wishing for this for so many hours, it was simply another dream.

  But then her body trembled in its duct tape prison. The tears welled in her red-rimmed eyes. A moan spilled from her cracked lips, fighting to form his name past her filthy gag.

  He tore off his mask. Rushed to her side. Battled to get out words of his own. “Brooke. My love. Raismette. It is over. All over.” Fell to his knees in front of her, clawing away the dirty fabric at her mouth. She whimpered, which made him stop. “Shit. I am hurting her. I am hurting you—”

  “Shut up, you big ox.” She rasped it as Franzen appeared, putting his steadier hands to work on cutting the duct tape free. “It all hurts, okay?” Thankfully, her left arm was freed first. She dove that hand straight into his hair, dragging him to her for a loving, passionate kiss. “Guess that means you’ll have to kiss it all better.”

  Franzen chuckled. “I like the way this missy thinks.”

  Brooke turned a curious stare on the man, clearly debating whether to slap him or thank him. Obviously, she was having trouble wrapping her senses around this reality too. Before Franzen even pulled all the tape free, she jerked as if waking from a nightmare. “K-Kavill,” she stammered, burrowing tighter into Samsyn. “Wh-where’s Kavill? He was just here…laughing at me…”

  Franzen snorted. “Your husband put a knife in his gut. Tryst is finishing off the job—and having a frightening amount of fun about it too.”

  “He has earned it.” Syn let the explanation lie there.

  Brooke pushed up a little. “Can I help too?”

  “Oh, now I really like her,” Franzen drawled.

  Samsyn clutched her head to his chest, letting her listen to the violent joy of his heartbeat. “You may not help.” He tucked a kiss against her temple, “But only because of your injuries, little warrior. Once you are healed, you may have your pick of future missions—and my complete trust in accomplishing them.”

  She turned her head so their eyes met again. Though her gaze was still painted in exhaustion, a hint of its beautiful, mischievous gleam had already returned. Thank the Creator.

  “That, my husband, was the right answer.”

  He ducked his head, taking her lips with gentle but thorough love. “My incredible wife, that is just the start.”

  Epilogue

  ‡

  TWO WEEKS LATER, life began to feel like normal.

  Too damn normal.

  Making the coffee in his gut turn rogue on him in an instant.

  Dammit.

  He had been enjoying such a perfect morning. Tahreuse Mountain coffee. Fresh croissants and fruit. An ocean breeze filled with tropical flowers and orange blossoms. Best of all: a bird’s-eye view of the photo press circus taking place down on the beach, with Evrest and Camellia at center stage. Yes. Definitely the best part. The world was going insane, for the second time this month, over the Arcadian royals—only this time, it wasn’t Brooke, him, and their daring escape from the terrorists. It was King Evrest and his fiancé, back from the dead.

  He couldn’t have been happier. Giving back the crown to Ev had been like lifting a grand piano off his back. He could return to the business of keeping the kingdom’s military at the alert and ready—and trained up on the newest “miracle software”, a generous gift from Colton Worldwide.

  But with the ease of that burden, another worsened by the day. Sometimes, it felt, by the minute.

  With Ev and Camellia back in Sancti, and Brooke’s doctors well pleased about her physical recovery, the next event on the timeline was inevitable.

  He braced himself for the moment she would bring it up.

  Or maybe she simply would not. Maybe he would return to the suite at the end of one day to find her things gone, and a Dear Samsyn note on the desk.

  He pitched the rest of his coffee into a potted plant. Tore the crescent in half and hurled it to the gulls.

  At least someone around here was pleased about all this.

  The slider opened. His gut roiled even more as his wife emerged, stretching her arms…pressing the perfect globes of her breasts against the satin of her robe. “Mmmm,” she murmured dreamily. “Good mornin’.”

  “It is now.” He snarled it against her lips before she leaned in fully, giving him a kiss that tasted of toothpaste and sunshine. Before she could straighten, he circled an arm around her waist, yanking her back down. She squealed—for a second—then simply relaxed against him, cuddling in with kittenish trust.

  “I love it when you do this,” he murmured into her hair.

  “Do…what?”

  “Let the fighter go. Just rest in me. Trust in me.”

  “Well, I do. Fully. I hope you know that, Syn.”

  “Enough to do it for a while longer?”

  Only then did her body tense. She pushed back enough to meet his gaze straight on. “What are you talking about? What’s up, big guy?”

  He heard her questioning lilt but barely comprehended the words. It was so effortless to just get lost in her…to see all the facets of this incredible woman, from their first electric touch on the airport tarmac, to the ball of radiance she was in his arms now…to the brilliant mystery of what she would become, as a leader, as a lover, as a warrior, as an Arcadian…

  As his.

  He turned the thought into resolve. Then into action.

  From beneath his chair, he withdrew a wrapped package. The wrapping paper was ornate, in the Cimarron crimson and gold, with an intricately tied bow on top. Biting his lip in order to keep his hand still, he slipped it onto her lap.

  “Syn? What the hell?”

  He shrugged. “Call it a belated wedding gift.”

  “Wedding g—” She shot him a teary glare. “But I didn’t get you anything…”

  “Oh, woman.” He pushed back her robe enough to expose one beautiful thigh—still marked by the straps of the fucking swing she’d agreed to let him try last night. “The answer to that is very evident.”

  She giggled. “Horny dragon.”

  “Something like that.” He dutifully righted the satin then nodded at the present. “Open it.”

  She fingered the lavish bow. “I almost don’t want to.” She took a turn at the lip biting thing, not doing any favors for his newly awakened cock. “Did you wrap this?”

  “If I say yes, can we play with the swing again today?”

  She tossed a mock glower. “If you lie, I’ll know it.”

  She was right. Their ability to read each other had sharpened to shocking accuracy over these weeks—a good thing most times, a bad thing when all he could think of was getting her back in that swing, naked and spread and wet for him…

  “It was Mishella,” he admitted. “She is quite the talented multitasker.”

  “She’s been my freaking life saver.” She began to tug at the ribbon, scowling as the bow turned to limp strands. “I keep wondering if she’d like life in Tahreuse—or what she’d take as a bribe to like it. Hey,”—she palmed the sudden clench of his jaw—“what’s wrong?”

  He sharply jerked his head. “Just open the fucking box.”

  The minutes went by like slow motion as she took her time peeling back the wrapping, lifting the tissue inside the box…

  To pull out another box.

  A music box.

  Painted with pink flowers. With a ballerina inside the lid, twirling on a delicate stand to the tinkling strains of Für Elise.

  “Syn.”

  She looked at the little dancer. Back up at him.

  Tears erupted from her soft gray eyes. Flowed down her proud cheeks. Pooled against her silky lips. “I…I had one of these…”

  “Back at home,” he whispered. “I know.” He pulled in a shaking breath, nearly in time with hers. Lifted a hand to her face, and thumbed at the wetness on her cheeks. “I wanted you to have one like it here…hoping you would call this home.”

  “This?” Beethoven’s tune continued through her tense
pause, taunting him with its happiness. “You mean…this this? As in…here? With you?”

  He swallowed hard. Searched for the words he was supposed to know…the proper, princely ways of telling her what he wanted—no, needed—to have with her. But her tears wrecked him. Her beauty destroyed him.

  Her love had transformed him.

  Fuck it.

  He grabbed the back of her head. Pulled her in, kissing her hard and deep and fully, sucking her tongue in, bruising her lips, giving her his passion…showing her the farthest reaches of his heart.

  “Astremé. I cannot call this a home without you anymore. I cannot call this a life without you anymore.” He grinded his forehead against hers, breathing her in, taking up her air in return. “I love you, Brooke. I think I have loved you since the moment I first touched you. And now, I will not let you go.”

  She screwed the propriety too. Honked loudly as sobs shook her little frame. “I love you too. I always have, Syn. I always will.”

  This time, she pulled on him for a crushing kiss. And he let her.

  When they dragged apart, he pushed the hair off her face. Returned her sweet smile with a determined one of his own. “Marry me, Brooke.”

  She gave him a watery giggle. “Excuse me?”

  “The real way,” he insisted. “The real way. In the chapel, here at the Palais. With a reverante and a choir, and you wearing a dress like meringue, and me biting my fucking nails, and—”

  “Yes,” she blurted, tossing back her head with it. “Yes, yes, yes!” But then she lowered her head—with a minx’s gleam in her eyes. “The answer is yes—with one condition.”

  He moved the music box to the breakfast table in order to clutch her closer. “Anything, Princess Brooke.”

  Her lips lifted, soft and seductive. As the morning sun filtered through the palms, glistening along the tracks of her happy tears, he was hard-pressed to recall ever seeing anything more beautiful in his life. Or knowing any joy more complete.

  Finally, she murmured, “We get to try the swing again.”

  His blood raced. His cock surged. “That is the condition?”

  “Hmmm, yes. With a…little twist.”