by Lily Cahill
"It was," the Empress said. "I hope one day it will be again. For your children."
"It will," Hudson said firmly, instinctively wrapping a protective hand around Kay and placing it on her stomach. The newlyweds were expecting a child, a fact which seemed to delight them both.
Hudson turned to Sam. "When all our brothers are reunited, we'll find the Zoltags and finally bring them to justice."
Sam could hear the angry tone in his voice, the determination too. Hudson had told him how the Zoltags had kidnapped Kay, just as they'd tried to kidnap Frankie. The idea of either one of them suffering at the hands of those monsters turned his stomach.
"Hell yes we will," Sam said.
This was something he could get behind. He didn't understand everything yet, but his interaction with Vic and his brothers had taught him that the Zoltags were out for blood. The Zoltags had killed his father, separated him from his family, and tried to kill his mate. He felt his hackles rise at the very thought that there were more of them out there.
It made him curse Vic again in his mind. Anger was slowly starting to seep in where the guilt had been, but Sam knew it would take time to sort through his feelings. Vic had been a friend. Then, just as quickly, he'd been an enemy. It was difficult to process.
He only knew one thing for certain: someday, the Zoltags would have pay for what they'd done.
"I need to go for a run," he said, turning to his brother. "Join me?"
Hudson grinned. "Thought you'd never ask."
#
Once Sam had run himself out with his brother, he went to find Francesca. She was dozing softly in their bed. The suite had apparently been his as a child, though he couldn't remember it. He supposed the chances of that were low, since he'd left the palace when he wasn't yet two years old. And the suite must be different now than it had been when he was a child.
There were no toys or cribs or space ships painted on the walls. There was an enormous four-poster bed which had to have been custom made with the size of their family in mind. In fact, the suite looked like it had been designed to accommodate a couple from the start. There were "his" and "hers" everything: bathrooms, sitting rooms, closets. Even "his" and "hers" robes had been thoughtfully hung in anticipation of their eventual arrival.
Sam didn't know if that meant he and Francesca would be expected to stay permanently--those were questions for later--but he liked that in crafting his space, they had included her too. He wanted her included in every part of his life.
He undressed and climbed into bed next to her and wrapped her in his arms. Her body was soft and welcoming and the feel of it against him immediately had him wanting more.
Not just wanting more, but needing it. So much had changed in so little time. The world felt like it was spinning wildly around him. The only thing steady, the only thing truly in focus, was her. He needed to feel her now. He needed her to root him back on solid ground.
He pulled her closer, inhaled the sweet scent of her auburn hair.
"Hey," she said, rousing, smiling up at him with those soft ruby lips.
He nuzzled closer and kissed her neck.
"Mmmm," she moaned softly. "I've missed that."
"Me too," he said.
He felt her plush bottom press against him and it made his need surge. She hadn't packed anything before they'd left, and so was only wearing panties and a cami to bed. The feel of her so nearly available to him--nearly, but not completely--was as delicious as it was frustrating. Her almost-bare bottom rubbed against him again and he longed to feel her fully naked, fully open and ready for him.
"I'm going to make love to you now, Francesca," he growled. "Do you want me to make love to you?"
"Yes, baby," she panted, grinding into him with that luscious ass again.
He took one of her breasts in his hand and kneaded it through the cami, loving the weight of it in his hand. He'd never imagined two breasts could be so perfect--full and soft and bountiful. They were so large his massive hands could barely contain them, and he loved it that way.
With his other hand, he slipped into her panties, parting her with his fingers to circle her clit. She was already wet for him, and it made his cock twitch with longing.
Holding her, he rolled until he was on his back, and he could feel her on top of him. He loved her there, the feel of her against him, so supple and so fucking delectable. Every part of her felt like it had been formed exclusively with his pleasure in mind.
He kept her there, touching her until he felt her energy rise nearly to the peak.
"Not yet, baby," he said, sitting up with her in his lap. "I need to feel you come when I'm inside you."
She groaned and gyrated against him and he almost lost it before they'd even really started. The thought hit him that she needed this just as much as he did, and he knew it was true.
His fingers found the bottom of her cami and pulled it up over her head. Then he shifted her until he was cradling her, lifted her, and set her down beside him.
As sorry as he was to lose the weight of her in his arms, those panties had to go. He straddled her and slipped them off, kissing her silky skin as he drew them down her body and finally tossed them to the floor.
She looked up at him then, completely naked. She was so open and so vulnerable and so perfect. He felt a surge of protectiveness rise inside him and swore that he would find the people who had sent Vic to hurt her. Anger blurred his vision. Rage filled his thoughts.
Then he felt her hand on his cheek.
"Where are you?" she asked.
He took a deep breath and met her eyes.
"Come back to me," she said.
Her gaze locked on his.
"There," she said. "There you are."
She sat up and kissed him, and he felt his anger fade. Then it was her taking control, her moving to straddle him, her sitting on his lap and lowering herself onto him in one satisfying motion. She kept her eyes on his the whole time.
"I need you to have me, baby," she said. "I need you to make me yours."
Sam's other thoughts melted away as her bare skin met his. He plunged into her and let himself shed the difficulty of the past few days. He let himself fade into her with every thrust, let their lines blur together until they no longer felt like two people, but one.
Chapter Eighteen
Francesca
Frankie's heart swelled as they moved together. There was nothing like this feeling. Because it was more than just one feeling, it was all of them pressed together. She wanted so much in that moment: to heal him, to love him, to make him forget, to make herself forget too.
This last part was easy. With him so close, it was a challenge to remember anything else existed at all. Even amid her rush of emotion, her nipples brushed against his hard, rippled chest with every thrust. It was driving her wild.
He leaned his back against a bedpost for better leverage. Each undulation brought him deeper and deeper into her, filling her completely. Just when she thought she couldn't take any more, her body would open further and reward her with the most delicious sensations.
She could feel the muscles of his thighs flex and stretch as he rocked against her. She could feel his arms tighten around her. He was the only person who had ever been able to hold her like this, to contain her and set her on fire all at once.
Every part of him was strong and hard and all man. And all hers. She knew that now, knew that she would never allow anything to come between them again.
She took his face in her hands and kissed him. His tongue moved inside her mouth, greedy and hungry as his hands tangled into her hair to pull her closer. She returned his hunger with her own.
She could feel his need for her and it made something inside her melt. It made her want to give everything to him, and take everything from him in return.
She felt herself on the edge of pleasure, felt his hard cock moving inside her, felt her sensitivity rise and rise and rise. She wanted them to come together, but she wasn't sure
how much longer she could last.
"I love you, Francesca," he said. His voice was gravelly and deep. She felt her core tighten around him in response.
"I love you, too," she said.
He groaned and his hands moved to her bottom.
"Come for me, baby," he said. "I need you to."
In one hard thrust, he gripped her ass and pulled her into him, demanding her body to open to him once again, demanding everything from her.
She gave it to him.
The fire released inside her. She felt her thighs clench around him, felt heat rise and spread and rock through her. She felt his body tighten too. Felt his cock throb and pulse against her sensitive flesh, sending her even higher before she finally came back down again.
When the cloud of her satisfaction cleared, she was looking into his eyes. They were deep blue and solid as sapphires.
"I need to say something to you, Francesca," he said, closing his eyes briefly and leaning down to spread soft kisses across her neck.
"Okay," she sighed. She'd never felt more peaceful, more perfect.
"I grew up not knowing where home really was. No matter where I lived, it never seemed like it was right. This palace doesn't feel like home either. Not really. Maybe it did once, but not anymore. Especially not after today," he said. "But you do. You feel like home to me, Francesca. You've felt like home since the first time I saw you."
Frankie felt a surge of love for him. It spread up from her chest and threatened to break inside her throat as she spoke. "You feel like home to me too," she said.
"You're everything to me. You're steady and strong and wise. You're my anchor, Francesca, my foundation. And you're so beautiful I can't be near you without wanting to touch you," he said, kissing her again deeply. "I can't imagine a life without you. No matter what happens next, I want to know you're mine."
"I am," she said. It was true. He had claimed her little by little. He'd proven himself honest and caring and trustworthy. He was everything she'd ever wanted in a partner, in a man. Her heart was his.
"Then marry me, Francesca. Be my wife."
Frankie didn't hesitate. She didn't need time to think or consider, because she already knew what she wanted.
"Yes," she said with a smile. "Yes, I'll marry you."
A wide grin exploded on Sam's face. In one swift movement, he laughed and shifted to cradle her in his arms. Then he hopped off the bed.
"Yes!" he shouted to no one. "She said yes!"
She held on tight as he spun her around and around, grinning and laughing with him.
All of a sudden, Sam stopped. Frankie thought maybe he'd twisted himself dizzy, but then a cocky grin spread across his face.
"You realize what this means, right?" Sam asked.
Frankie stared at him blankly, her arms slung around his neck.
"If I'm a prince, that means ..."
Frankie stared at him, horrified, suddenly realizing. "It does not," she said.
"... you're going to be ..."
"No. No, no, no, no, no," she said, burying her face in his chest.
"My Princess."
Part Three: Prince Elliott
Chapter One
Elliott
The car jolted to a stop and Elliott woke with a start. His headache pulsed angrily against the sunlight streaming through the windows. In LA, all his car windows were tinted. That was his first clue that he wasn't at home.
His eyes finally focused and he saw a PA--a production assistant--pass by with what looked like a giant set of alligator jaws. Then it all rushed back to him: his wild night with Zara and her sister Blanca to say good-bye. And his giant fuck up at Greenlight Pictures that had gotten him exiled from LA and sent to work in low-budget hell in the first place.
Kentucky. He was in goddamned Kentucky.
The driver opened his door, and Elliott stepped out into the muggy, too-bright afternoon sun, slapping a mosquito dead on his arm. They were on location in some back-woods cabin in the Appalachian Mountains. In other words, Hickville, USA. In other words, his worst nightmare. But he supposed that was the point, wasn't it? Bruce Coche was pissed at him, and wanted to make him pay.
He didn't even know why the studio was putting money into this movie. Probably because of all the diversity flack they'd gotten lately. Apparently, the director was a woman and a minority--the publicity one-two punch.
"So you're in town for that movie, huh?" the driver asked. "What are you? An actor or something?"
Elliott had no patience for small talk, so he said what he always said in these situations, hoping the driver would lose interest. "I'm no actor. I'm the boring guy. The numbers guy."
This was only partly true. He was the executive producer. If he'd wanted to be accurate, he would have said he was the money guy. Or rather, that he was the guy who worked for the production company who was footing the bill. But he'd found that every cab driver everywhere had a screenplay under his seat, and the minute you mentioned money, they appeared like magic. The ideas, unfortunately, were always terrible.
"Really?" the driver said. "You know, I've got this idea for a screenplay. I haven't actually written it yet, but it basically writes itself. It's about a cab driver who meets lots of interesting people in his line of work. Real good guy. Standup guy. We need more movies about guys like that."
Jesus Christ.
"Sorry, man. That's not my thing. Good luck, though."
Elliott shoved a wad of cash at the man, took his bag, and left, ignoring the disappointment on the guy's face. But that was the movie business: One percent dreams, ninety-nine percent devastation. And you didn't get to the one percent by investing in shitty ideas.
Elliott strode through a maze of trucks: the star trailers, the honeywagon (still the sweetest name for a smelly bathroom he'd ever heard), the grip and camera trucks, the craft services and catering trucks, and the purring genny powering them all. At least some things never changed. Grips carried sturdy silver c-stands across the wide field as PAs hustled around with clipboards tucked under their arms, their hands laden with too many coffee cups. These sights were staples on every set he'd ever been on. And for the first time since landing in this miserable state, he started to feel a little bit at home.
Maybe he could make this work. He knew his shit, right? This might be his biggest challenge yet. But if he succeeded? He could write his own ticket at any studio in town, preferably ones without tempting blonds lurking outside their daddy's offices.
He nabbed a fresh coffee and a donut from the crafty table, and followed the flow of people toward its center: the front of a dilapidated cabin that must be the current shooting setup.
Over the din, he heard the AD--the assistant director--shout the familiar words, "Quiet on the set!"
He heard the resulting hush fall over the crowd, saw the AD position himself in front of the camera with the slate.
"Roll camera," the AD called.
"Camera rolling," the director of photography answered.
"Roll sound," the AD said.
"Sound speed," the sound guy yelled back.
"The Lost Days of Penningham, scene fourteen, take three!"
The Lost Days of Penningham. God, that was a terrible title. It would be the first thing to go in post. It sounded too sad. And old. And what was Penningham? A person? A place? No one was buying a ticket to see that.
It was a classic first-time director mistake. And this director was definitely a first-timer. Her only real credentials were a single short film that took a prize at Sundance last year, which meant it was probably boring as hell. Yet another challenge to add to the pile.
Elliott's thoughts were interrupted by a new voice. A musical, full voice. "Action!"
The voice was sitting in the director's chair inside the video village, but his view was obscured from where he stood. He took a few cautious steps forward, trying to keep his sound to a minimum. The last thing he needed was to ruin a take. Extra takes meant wasted time and wasted money. So he
stepped carefully as he moved toward that voice.
He saw her first in profile. Her dark, silky skin. Her high cheekbones and long, graceful neck. She was stunning, statuesque and regal. Her hair was shaved close to her head, and while he usually preferred long hair, it suited her perfectly. Anything else would be a distraction from her beautiful face. She was so stately and so focused on the screen in front of her, it felt almost as if he was staring at a statue in a museum. He sidestepped to get a better look at her ... and tripped over a power cord.
His enormous body tumbled forward into the shot, where two actors--a man and woman in their early twenties--were sitting on the hood of a broken-down Chevy in ragged clothes. The woman shrieked and the man was so shocked he fell right off the hood. Elliott's coffee crashed against his chest and spilled hot brown liquid all over his white oxford shirt.
"Cut!" her voice said. It was calm, controlled. But no one with ears would call it happy.
Then she was standing over him. His eyes travelled over her shapely legs, fit snugly inside a pair of skinny jeans that amplified her already gorgeous curves. God, she had curves for days. For weeks. For years. This woman was made of curves. Soft, luscious curves that had his mouth watering.
He might have noticed the scowl on her face if it wasn't for her eyes. They were so bright and so steady that they seemed like beacons in the night. The contrast of them amid her deep-toned skin was nothing short of jaw-dropping. She was, hands-down, the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on.
He felt a pull in his gut, a tightening in his belly that had him reeling. He'd heard of it before, from his friends in the small, secretive shifter crowd back in LA. But he'd never believed it. Even now, his mind was churning with doubts. He was hungover, sleep-deprived, and probably dehydrated too. Could this just be the remnants of his wild night?
But even as he thought it, he knew his doubts were foolish. This feeling was different. It was ... good. Strong. It was coming from his bear. From that deep, rumbling voice that he usually tried to keep buried in his chest. This woman was his.