“You have to admit, it's a relief not to worry about it.” Wynn pried the goggles up far enough to expose her eyes. “Are you still brooding?”
“What? No.” Chey glanced aside, met Wynn's eyes, then looked forward again. The limousine sped up to get on the freeway.
“Yes you are. After all these weeks. At some point, you're going to have to move on, you know?” Wynn patted Chey's knee with sisterly affection. She had been horrified to learn what happened to Chey in the dungeons on the flight back to Seattle. Since then, Wynn had done her best to take Chey's mind off Sander and the fiasco in Latvala.
“I've moved on,”Chey said, protesting. But she hadn't. Her days were filled with crying jags or indifference. She wasn't up to looking for a job yet, although she knew she needed to. The other half of the photography money wouldn't be coming in after all this.
“You're languishing and thinking 'what if'. I expected it for a week, maybe a week and a half. I'm kind of surprised you're still here almost four weeks later, though,” Wynn said. “You dodged a bullet where the King and Queen are concerned. I'm not sure the greatest guy in the world is worth all that.”
Chey glanced out the window. “I'm sure you're probably right. If he'd just been a regular guy...”
“There you go again with the what ifs. C'mon. Let's look forward to the party.”
Chey tried. Her mind kept veering back to the same place it had for the last three or so weeks.
Fifteen minutes later, distraction came whether she wanted it to or not. The limousine pulled in past a modest gate toward a good sized mansion nestled on its own five acre lot. Lamps lined the curving driveway toward the broad front steps leading to the doors. Trees dotted the dark landscape to the side of the mansion, in front beyond the wide drive, and off in the back.
Bringing the limousine to a stop, the driver let the engine idle while guests unloaded from a vehicle in front of them.
“There are supposed to be like a hundred and fifty people here tonight,” Wynn said, positioning her goggles back over her eyes.
“That's a big crowd.” Chey wished she was looking forward to the party.
“Very. Okay, it's our turn.” Wynn disembarked after the limo pulled up and the driver got out to open their door.
Chey followed, flicking the edge of her cloak to release wrinkles. She tucked the key to her apartment into a small pocket on the inside of the skirt at the waist. Otherwise, she had no purse, no phone, nothing to worry about leaving behind or losing.
Four white, tall columns marched along the porch on either side of the steps. To the side of the double doors sat a coffin with half the lid propped up. Inside lay a vampire, hands folded neatly over his double breasted coat. Pale skin offset ink black hair and bloodless looking lips. As the girls approached, the vampire sat up and smiled just enough to expose the glimmer of sharp eye-teeth.
Wynn laughed and hurried Chey along, giving her name to another vampire just inside the foyer. One had to be on the list to get in.
The mansion spread out in three directions, with a dining hall to the right, an enormous living area to the left, and a double staircase straight ahead leading to the second floor. Spider webs, caldrons and dry ice were just a few of the decorations that transformed the mansion into a scary haunt. Purple lights replaced regular bulbs in a high chandelier and a ghost greeted them at the archway to the living area. Any and all regular furniture had been removed; in its place, tables with chairs lined the walls and a glossy dance floor made up the middle. Two more chandeliers sat over the dance floor, replete with purple lights. Swags of purple silk draped the walls and candles in tall floor holders flickered in four corners. Sheer panels of silk and gauze hung from the ceiling, creating floating wisps of material that added mystery to the overall décor.
Already, the party was in full swing.
Every type of costume was represented, from zombies, to Dorothy and Toto, to the Creature From the Black Lagoon.
A zombie took possession of Chey's cloak just before they entered the room, and also discreetly took her name so she could retrieve it at the end of the night.
Wynn glanced back with a broad smile on her mouth, and led the way deeper into the throng.
Chey returned the smile, even if hers felt hollow and forced. She stuck on Wynn's heels, catching glimpses of herself in gilded mirrors situated every so often among the swags. Once, she saw how haunted her own eyes looked. Even make up couldn't hide the veil of sorrow she had existed in for the last three weeks.
When a ghoul in flowing robes swept Wynn out onto the dance floor, Chey diverted to a bubbling cauldron for a glass of neon green punch. The first sip told her it was heavily spiked. It didn't stop her from consuming the entire thing and going back for seconds. Walking away from the cauldron lest she be tempted to drown all her sorrows in liquor, Chey wove in and out of the costumed guests, admiring an elaborate get up now and then. Some had gone to extremes, including none other than the Headless Horseman, replete with a pumpkin tucked under his arm. A fake flicker of fire showed through the cut out eyes and jagged mouth.
She was halfway through her second glass when someone touched her on the shoulder. Chey twisted a look back—and up. A man in an elaborate gold mask, red cape draping from his shoulders to the floor, gestured toward the dancers with a gloved hand. The mask was full faced, giving her no glimpse of his nose, mouth or jaw.
Chey hesitated, glancing toward the swirling bodies, about to deny him. She wasn't in the mood, just wasn't ready to pretend like all this was okay. Like she was okay. Where she should be was home, out of the limelight, licking her proverbial wounds. They were many.
He touched her elbow with gentle encouragement. Chey set down her glass and allowed him to escort her onto the floor. She didn't care that her hesitance was obvious, nor that her eyes past the mask probably expressed her desire to be elsewhere. Swung into his arms, Chey picked up the steps to the waltz easy enough. Of course it just reminded her of the dance she had with Sander in Monte Carlo, which did nothing for her desire to be out here now.
With spare tolerance, Chey followed his excellent lead, ignoring the prick of pleasant masculine cologne and the weight of his hand at the small of her back. When she glanced up into his eyes, she found she couldn't easily see them for the shadows cast by the mask. He twirled her, instinctively threading through other dancers without having to wrench looks over his shoulder.
She was loathe to admit how good he was. Which mattered here nor there in the grand scheme of things. Many men were decent dancers.
“You could at least pretend to enjoy this,” the man said. His velvety accent was only slightly muffled by the mask.
Chey snapped her gaze up to the shadowy holes for eyes and gasped. “Sander?”
“Shh. Say my name too loudly, and you'll tip someone off.”
Breathless, shocked, Chey couldn't unscramble her mind. How could he be here? How had he known? Her steps faltered for the first time. Sander guided her into recovery with smooth hands and swift feet. Elegant, the cape swirling around his ankles, he followed the rotation of the couples until he could easily guide her off the floor without interrupting the rest.
Assaulted by all manner of emotions, Chey allowed him to lead her by the hand through the room and around a corner into a shady niche. He turned her toward the wall and crowded close, blocking her in with his body. Only then did he push the mask up to expose his face.
Reaching for hers, he inched it up until her face was as bare as his.
Chey experienced a spike of lust and passion so sharp that she didn't think twice before sliding her hand around the back of his neck to pull him in for a kiss. A kiss he was already leaning down to claim. From the get go it was electric and hot, the taste of his mouth familiar and heady. Her tongue tangled with his, dipping into the hollows, and a groan escaped her throat when he returned the same.
She knew she shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't let him obliterate everything in her world except Sander.
But it was as natural to be in his arms as it was to breathe, and she'd missed him more than she could ever explain.
Breaking the kiss, he braced one hand on the wall behind her head and stared down into her eyes. “I shouldn't be here, not after you stood me up at the cafe, but--”
Pulse racing, Chey lifted trembling fingers to her lips. Then they fled to his, cutting his words off. “I was there. Waiting for you. Wynn and I were in a booth,” she whispered, suddenly frantic to tell him what happened.
He frowned. “You weren't when I got there.”
“I know. Sander—you might not believe this, but your father had men take me from the cafe, unconscious, and put me in the dungeon. In one of those older cells with the stone slabs.” Chey saw his eyes narrow in the gloom, heard the harsher rasp of his breathing.
“Go on,” was all he said then.
“He came down there. The King. He told me that Viia was never behind Elise's attack.” Chey swallowed. Oh God. Sander wasn't going to believe her. “Your mother was. She framed Viia because Viia was convenient.”
Sander grated words out in his native tongue.
Chey decided they must be curse words, as terse and clipped as they were.
“See, your sister came to the hotel Wynn and I were staying at before all this. She handed me tickets for Wynn and I to leave Latvala. Told us that if we didn't get on that flight, she'd have us labeled as terrorists and arrested. She said I was banned from your country, never allowed back.” Chey paused a moment to catch her breath.
Sander looked furious.
“What else?” he asked, voice tight with anger.
“I decided to hell with her, and went to Vogeva with Wynn anyway. To give you that note. Right after, when we were waiting for you in the cafe, is when your father nabbed us. He threatened my life, told me that he'd arrange a horrible accident for you to find, because he thought you needed to relearn a lesson--”
“He said that?” Sander said, breaking into her explanation. His fury grew until his cheeks were ruddy, even in the gloom.
“Yes. I wouldn't lie about something like that. He kept me there for two days—not in that cell exactly, he moved me to a better room down there—while he decided whether I would live or die. Sander, if I didn't know better? I'd bet they were behind what happened in Monte Carlo, too. With that guy. He drugged my drink, I know it. I felt strange, not myself, and I shouldn't have ever let him lure me outside for any reason when I was so out of it like that.” The confessions poured forth, and it felt wonderful to clear her conscious, above all else. Carrying around the weight of those things had been difficult for her to bear.
Sander closed his eyes. He seemed to be fighting for control of his temper. Not at her, but at the way they'd both been played. “I don't understand why you left, then.”
“Left where?”
“Latvala. Why did you demand to be taken home?”
Chey frowned. “What? When? In Monte Carlo?”
“Yes. I expected you to come home with me, but the guards told me you demanded to go back to the states. Why?”
Chey palmed her cheek. “I never demanded to go home. They told me you ordered me escorted back to Seattle. That you gave your apologies that it could never work out. That we were over. They brought me all the way back here, right to my apartment even.”
Sander ripped out another few words that must have been more curses in his language. Then, “You're right. Monte Carlo was a set up. I bet the whole 'security breach' was fabricated for the event, so they could put their little plan into place.”
“Sander, they're dead serious about us. About you not being with me. I meant what I said in the note—I love you. I do. More than I can even say. But I was scared out of my mind that your father was going to have me murdered on the way to the airport, and I can't live like that.” It hurt Chey more than she cared to admit to say these things. To deny her heart, their heat and passion.
Death, however, was a permanent consequence that she wasn't ready to face.
He stared down at her, expression pensive. “This also explains why they have moved forward too aggressively with the wedding between Valentina and me. Several articles proclaiming I've 'chosen my wife' or my bride or whatever it says were not sanctioned by me. In fact, they never even ran it past me before printing.”
“I can't say I'm surprised to hear it.” And she wasn't.
“Give me a little time to look into things,” he said. “I'm going to weigh some considerations carefully over the week that I'm here in the United States, try to come up with an alternate plan. During that time, I'd like to see you. Maybe take you out, though expect to keep a low profile. I think it's best if you don't tell anyone, Wynn included, that I'm here.”
It astonished Chey that Sander still wanted to find a way to make it work, even after he heard what he'd just heard. Even though, like her, he knew in the long run that the King would have his say. This close to him, she was tempted to make a pact as they had before. To agree to buck the system, to find a path around. Aksel's warnings sounded in her head, driving spikes of real fear into her stubborn streak.
“Isn't it just going to hurt us more, Sander? God knows I want to be with you more than anything—but at what cost? My life? Is it really worth risking that if your father finds out? I won't tell anyone you're here.” Chey gnawed on her lip. They were costumed and enclosed in a shady niche, and she was still fretful the King's spies were out there somewhere, ready to report back that she was once more engaging Sander.
“Don't be so quick to think I don't have ways to protect you,” he said, voice low. “He might have his loyal employees, but I also have mine. They are loyal to me and me only, and I trust them all with my life. They will do as I say, not my father, because they know that one day soon, the throne will be mine. You need to give me a little more time. See me this week. I'll make sure we do it in a clandestine manner that won't put your life in jeopardy. Besides. You're not on Latvala land. You didn't seek me out, I sought you out, which pretty well negates all his current threats.”
Chey leaned into the trail his fingers made along her cheek. When he cupped her jaw, she rested a hand on the middle of his chest. She wanted to put her faith and trust in him. Did have faith and trust in him. The question still remained; was it worth risking her life? Could it work out in the end, even if he found a way to strong arm the King and Queen into accepting her as his? Chey envisioned a life of hell in the castle. Constant sniping and undercutting and outright hostility. She wouldn't ever feel safe under their roof.
Still, when he touched her, looked at her like he was doing now, she wanted to throw caution to the wind and just live. Be with him. Enjoy him. Their draw to each other was undeniable.
Rising up on the toes of her ballerina shoes, she kissed him. It was the kind of kiss a woman gives when she expects more than just a meeting of mouths. Demanding, aggressive, urgent.
He rose to the occasion, threading his hands through her hair, pins flying every which way. He didn't just kiss her back, he took her mouth with fiery need, coaxing gasps and groans out of her before a full minute was up. There in that shadowy alcove, where anyone might walk by and discover them, he had her with a ferocity that knocked the breath from her lungs. All male, driving hips, clothing coming undone under the rough tug of his hands. He imprinted himself all over her, biting her throat, leaving bruises on her skin.
Pinned to the wall by the time it was over, sweat dotting her brow, Chey buried her face in his neck and fought to get her wind back. Her lips felt raw and swollen, her body shuddering randomly from aftershocks.
Into her ear, he whispered, “I don't care what anyone else says. You're mine.”
. . .
Sander left the important parts of her costume undamaged, and for that Chey was thankful. Ten minutes after he left the hidden spot, she followed. Mask in place, she fixed what she could of her hair, but knew anyone paying close attention would realize the once neat style now looked sex-tousled.
The strong hand that landed low on her spine was immediately familiar as Sander's. Chey slanted a coy look up and aside; he was put back together much neater than she, hair slicked into place, cape lapping at his boot heels.
Without asking, he guided her into another waltz. He held her closer, touched her body more intimately, gazed down at her from behind his mask. She only saw the burn of lust in his eyes when the light hit just right. Daring to brush her pelvis against him during a turn, she smiled when he groaned.
At the end of the dance, he whispered near her ear. “Dance with others if they ask. Mingle. I'll find you for another dance in a while.”
“All right.” Chey parted from him and went to find a drink for her parched throat. Wynn caught up to her then, a sparkle in her eyes when she lifted the goggles for a moment.
“Girl, who is that guy you're dancing with? He seems like a great partner,” Wynn said. She'd been engrossed with several partners of her own.
“I don't know, but he's skilled and enjoyable to waltz with,” Chey said. She was careful not to appear too happy or altered mood-wise from when they'd arrived.
Wynn reached up to touch a wayward, tousled lock of Chey's hair. It was just that, a touch, almost as if Wynn was asking a silent question.
Chey quirked a wry smile and lifted a hand to smooth back the mussed strands. “That's what I got for trying to slide the mask up without lifting it away from my head first.”
Wynn laughed. “It's easy to forget. Are you having a little bit of a good time, at least?”
“As much as I can, Wynn. I'm not sorry I came.” Chey poured herself another glass of the green spiked punch.
King and Kingdom (Royals Book 2) Page 12