Into His Command Read online

  Watery laugh. “You really do have nice teeth.”

  He pushed in tighter. All of him now. Dropped his forehead against mine. Curled our hands together, and mushed them between our chests. “You were gone. I was helpless. I could do nothing…but shake like a fucking junkie.”

  I sucked in a ragged breath. As he let one out.

  Swallowed hard. As he did.

  Lifted our twined hands. Pressed a kiss to his knuckles…the same way his formed over mine. Our gazes meshed over that intimate clasp…bound in connection, in affirmation…in anguished acceptance of what this closeness was about to bring. We were as helpless to stop it as the gusting wind outside, as stars tumbling from the sky above that. That had to be the explanation for this: two stupid stars, escaping from heaven, hiding from the gods inside our souls…and making our hearts pay the miserable, beautiful price.

  With a tight moan, he pushed a knuckle between my lips.

  With a high sigh, I let him.

  Welcomed him.

  Kissed him back, as he replaced that finger with his mouth. His tongue. His heat. Let him take me. Enflame me. Fulfill me.

  Then matched his moan, pleading for even more…

  just like a junkie getting her fix.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‡

  WHEN HE FINALLY pulled away, even more torment grooved his face. “Brooke.” And he shook again, like the oak with a bulldozer beneath, fighting to stay rooted in place.

  My heart cracked. I grabbed the back of his neck, forcing him to look at me. “Here. I’m right here.” I returned his hand to my sternum. Though every movement was a small physical agony, it was worse to watch his suffering: a reprise of that battle I could no more help with than understand. The only thing I could do was exactly what I’d said. Be here.

  As he drew in more air, his fingers stilled on my skin. But as he let it out, he spread those strong tips…sliding them under my cami.

  Up my breast.

  Over my nipple.

  Heated gasp. Aching groan. I gave him both as he lowered his head, then tongued my bottom lip. Sighed in throaty need as he bit his way along the top one. When he shifted his touch, caressing over to the other breast, I could no longer hold in my full cry. I clawed the back of his scalp—and surged the soaked core of my body against the erect ridge of his.

  Blowing wind.

  Falling rain.

  Doomed stars.

  Inevitable. Inescapable.

  If I hadn’t known it before, the new surge of his tongue vanquished the doubt. I let him in, surrendering and melting, vanquishing him in return. Stabbed my tongue harder, sucking him in, never wanting to let go, despite his conflicted groan.

  “Don’t stop.” It was a junkie’s pathetic plea. I didn’t care. “God, Syn…don’t stop.”

  That sound from his chest turned into a full rumble. “Fuck.” Dissolved into a broken growl, as his other hand worked between my thighs. “Fuck. Brooke.”

  I rocked into his touch. “Touch me. I need it. I need you.”

  The hand between my breasts was splayed and taut. “I can feel your heart.”

  “You have my heart. You know that, Samsyn. You know that.”

  He raised his head. His expression was primal, possessive…breathtaking. I absorbed it, letting him do the same. I smiled as he did, heady from a new realization. This was what the torment was for. This was the treasure worth the hunt, the rainbow worth the storm, the connection worth the pain. The heaven worth the hell.

  He dipped his hand to the flesh beneath my panties.

  “Oh!”

  His eyes darkened. His lower lip vanished beneath his teeth.

  As he penetrated me at once.

  One finger. Two. Three.

  My head fell back. So did my good arm, securing me to the counter as his fingers fucked in, over and over, spiraling my senses toward ultimate surrender. The whole time, I didn’t stop staring at him. As if he’d allow it. His face was complete command, utter beauty. Determined breaths punched from his lips. Hard lines defined his jaw. Feral focus dictated every inch of his movements—including his tighter hold against my chest.

  “Every beat,” he grated. “Still mine.”

  “Yes.” I nearly sobbed it. “Yours.”

  He twisted his lower hand. Raked his thumb through the soaked folds of my pussy. “And every throb of this sweet cunt?”

  “Shit!”

  “That was not an answer, astremé.”

  “Yes!” I blurted. “Yes, yes, okay? Yours. It’s…all…yours. Always, Samsyn. Always.”

  “Yes.” His echo was a seductive sibilance, trailed along my forehead as he pushed in deeper, filling me with those long, glorious fingers, drowning every other thought in my head, every other sensation in my body. “You give me so much.” His dry whisper was a clutching contrast to the wet slicks of his fingers. “You gasp for me. Cry for me. Even bleed for me. My sweet Brooke. My beautiful Brooke.” He pulled back, staring in full again, though the path of his gaze was aimless…lost. “You almost make me…” He gulped hard. Fucked me deeper. “Dammit. You almost make me believe.”

  I gazed at him harder. Much harder. Pounding the question my lips should’ve been forming—if my mouth was able to function. But the man had dropped his hugest bomb on my brain while lighting the biggest detonation to my body. One perfect swipe of his thumb, and I was a blinding, blissful blast. I screamed as the violence took over. It upended my world. Convulsed my body. Annihilated my senses.

  Searing my heart.

  “Samsyn!”

  “Yes, astremé.” It was more than just his response to my scream. It was a stamp of his surety, his possession, his seal of utter protectiveness. The control he needed, as necessary as blood in his veins and air in his lungs. And right now, I needed it too. Clutched its strength around me, to form the words I longed—needed—to say.

  “I love you.”

  To my shock, his composure didn’t falter.

  Not instantly.

  In another minute, his hands stilled. His entire body followed. His face took longer, transitioning slowly from desire to shock—to what looked like complete dread.

  “Shit.” I let my good hand drop. Wasn’t I the ideal emotional bartender tonight? One awesome moment killer, coming right up.

  “Brooke—”

  His strangled growl made me grimace. “Forget it. Let’s hit the delete key, okay? Heat of the moment. You know how it goes.”

  I sat up straighter. Once more, my left arm announced itself in torturous Technicolor. I should’ve been enjoying the freedom—there was likely a sling in my future, and I wasn’t going to like that fucker one bit—but at the moment, was certain that discomfort wouldn’t top this. My stomach churned. My head throbbed. And again, my heart hurt.

  Please God, let there be some obliterating pain killers in my near future.

  Though the man in front of me looked dead-set on keeping me from them.

  “Syn. Dammit…let me up.”

  “Brooke—”

  “Stop.” It was guttural and violent—and made me feel no better.

  He pulled me forward. Dropped his face into my hair. “I need you to understand—”

  “Understand?” I barely felt the pain while shoving against his chest. Hardly noticed the heat of my tears—at least on my skin. “Understand what? Dammit, Samsyn! What the fuck is haunting you like this?”

  I didn’t have to push him back any farther. He created the distance himself, stumbling back. Raked ragged fingers down his face. “Créacu, yardim met.”

  Creator, help me.

  And just like that, I was a puddle again. Sobbing as much for him as me again. Reaching for him again.

  My fingers trembled, too. “Let me in, Samsyn. Dammit, you have to let someone in.”

  He dropped his head. His shoulders fell. With more staggering steps, he turned from me. A long minute passed. Even the wind didn’t rustle the air. Into that eerie stillness, he finally spat his reply. />
  “Letting someone in. Is that not simply another phrase for invasion?”

  Before I could address the first fucked-up thing about that statement, let alone the four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine behind it, the universe decided to conspire with the man. Literally.

  The brief but deafening blare of a security alarm.

  The tweep-tweeps as it was disabled.

  Stomps and grunts. Swearing and shouts.

  Syn spun back around. Locked a stunned stare with mine. “What the—”

  He was sliced short by a bellow, filling the building from below with an authority I knew all too well. The voice that’d issued me orders on the training mat for the last three years.

  “Syn!”

  I slid off the counter and narrowed eyes at Samsyn. “Didn’t you say Jag was in Sancti?”

  “He is.” He snatched a hair tie from the counter and bundled his waves into it. “He was.” Two seconds later, he was halfway across the bedroom. “Creator’s cock. This is not right.”

  I said nothing. It’d be restating his words. The obvious both our guts had already known.

  And now, the full-blown dread overtaking mine—when I detected a distinct element among the frantic voices below.

  A female.

  Not just any female.

  “Camellia!”

  I peered around for my own clothes. Finding nothing, I yanked open a drawer in the dresser, finding a pair of drawstring workout shorts. They were Samsyn-sized—giving me two strings as long as my arms to fumble with.

  Not nearly the hassle of contending with his you’ve-grown-two-heads glare. “What the hell do you think—”

  “Shut up,” I flung. “And let’s go.”

  “Dammit, woman—”

  “I’m not your ‘woman’, Samsyn Cimarron. We just went over that part, remember?” I chucked my chin higher. “So what’s it going to be? Letting me in,”—I stabbed the center of his chest—“or letting me out?” Jerked my head toward the door, brows arching in triumph. The man’s answer already fumed across his face.

  Sure enough, Syn pivoted without tossing so much as a glance at me. Yanked open the door and stomped out, the dragon forced to stow his fire.

  I didn’t waste time gloating—and damn well not on remorse. A gut-deep instinct already told me there’d be no time for either.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‡

  “HOLY. SHIT.”

  The gasp didn’t emanate from Samsyn. It spurted from me—before we were even halfway down the wide stone stairwell. I was surprised even that made it free, considering the chaos spread out below.

  Few other descriptors fit. I stopped as Samsyn did, fighting to accept the reality of it.

  Jagger, his hair windblown and his face grimy, looked like he’d stepped in from a war zone. Grahm appeared even worse. A huge gash in his pants exposed the caked blood of a thigh wound. His hair, normally locked into a ponytail tighter than a cheerleader’s, hung in a sweaty, tangled mess.

  The two of them weren’t even the headline shocker. That honor belonged to the other pair, stumbling in between them.

  Cam.

  And Evrest.

  All four raised weary gazes at us. I locked eyes with Camellia first. As soon as her lower lip wobbled, I rushed past Syn and straight toward her. Our embrace snapped her composure. Her death grip was excruciating but her sob was heartbreaking. I clenched back a wince and lifted my good hand to the middle of her back.

  “Oh my God.” Her emotion diced it into six syllables. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  “And I you.” I stroked her spine, pouring my energy into giving the comfort she clearly needed. “Hey. Ssshhh. It’s all right. You’re here now. You’re safe.” I uttered the words out of pure instinct. Her grateful sigh confirmed I’d gone the right direction.

  “What the hell happened?” Syn pulled the question right out of my head.

  “The scum suckers showed up in Sancti.” Evrest supplied it, though looked like he hardly believed it. “Breached the royal residence.” That part was more vicious. I wondered why, until Camellia added on her visible shiver.

  “I…was in the shower. They pulled me out…of the shower.”

  “Holy shit.” I pressed her head against my shoulder, now realizing why her hair was so stiff. Unrinsed shampoo.

  “They had her.” Evrest’s hands balled until his knuckles were white. “The bonsuns had their filthy hands on her. They were going to take her, and—”

  “All right.” Samsyn raised both hands, palms up. “Calm down.”

  Evrest wheeled on his brother. “You calm the fuck down! They had her, Samsyn. Naked and helpless, their knives at her throat. The only reason they didn’t slash her open there was because they came looking for me. They were going to—” A brutal breath stuttered from him. He doubled over, gripping his thighs as if to tear them off. “They were waiting—to cut her open—in front of me.”

  Horror gashed us all into silence. Automatically, I looked to Syn—stunned to find him already staring at me. Not with the stony veneer I’d expected. Evrest’s anguish had affected him. It wasn’t simply brotherly compassion, though that was there too…it was something different. Something that made him shift restlessly, blink furiously—and fumble noticeably. He averted his gaze before speaking again.

  “Well, that clearly didn’t happen.”

  “Merderim for the analysis,” Evrest growled.

  “Shut up,” Syn muttered. He nodded toward Jagger. “Run it down for me.”

  Puzzlement. Why’d he pick Jag over Grahm? Despite the leg wound, Grahm was keeping his shit tighter than Jag.

  My confusion was solved as soon as Jag stepped forward. Syn’s demand was all he needed to snap back into it. His face was all business while responding, “It was as His Majesty stated. The cockroaches snuck onto Evrest and Camellia’s floor. It was about eight o’clock last night, and His Majesty was finishing late business with Prince Shiraz in the business offices.”

  “And Jayd?”

  “Confined to personal quarters after seven, as per your instructions.”

  “Not anymore,” Evrest interjected.

  Jagger nodded. “King Evrest made us aware of some private…compartments…he has kept maintained beneath the Palais.” One discreet cough and a glance Evrest’s way later, he went on, “We have relocated Jayd and Shiraz there, until your further advisement.”

  “Advisement?” Syn countered. “Get them the hell off the island. That’s my advisement.”

  As soon as Evrest blessed that with a tight nod, Jag tapped his comm piece and relayed the order in code. “Luke and Leia are going for soufflé. I repeat, Luke and Leia are going for soufflé.”

  Syn caught Evrest’s eye again. “The apartment in Paris?”

  Evrest ticked his head again. “It is secure. Nobody thinks anyone really lives beneath the Opera House anymore.”

  I gasped. “Are you shitting me?” I whipped a stare to Cam. “Tell me he’s shitting.”

  Back burner, big time. Jagger was done, meaning the incident debrief continued now. “Who were the sentries on duty?” Syn asked of him.

  “Hugh, Cullen, Tryst, Petyr, and myself.” With the statement, Grahm officially switched with Jag. His composure faltered though his posture stayed firm. “There is no excuse for what happened, Your Highness. As the watch team leader, I take full responsibility for what happened.”

  “Merderim,” Samsyn replied. “I accept your apology.”

  “Merderim.”

  “And call bullshit on it.”

  Grahm frowned. “Highness?”

  “I would have handpicked the same team. The men on that list, you included, are the elite of our elite.” He folded his arms. Succumbed to a harsh grimace. I joined Grahm and Jag in reading his thoughts. Three days ago, Blayze’s name would’ve been on that list too. “Those Pura assholes did not simply stroll through the suite’s front door.”

  “They used the laundry chute.” Jagger
supplied it while opening his shoulder pack then pulling out his plus-one for every occasion these days: his smudgy smart pad. The smears disappeared as the screen woke up. Instead, an image appeared of a cream-carpeted hallway with alabaster wainscoting. The trim was interrupted by a laundry bin door, showing dents of rough use, as well as handprints and boot scuffs. But what had caused the mysterious round imprints? “Suction marks,” Jag responded to our curious frowns. “They worked their way up the chute from the ground floor using high-cling cups with handholds. At the top, they simply slipped around the corner into Her Ladyship’s bathroom.”

  A low snarl curled from Syn. “Impressive. To disturbing degrees.”

  “And expensive.” I peered at the high-end equipment. “Their ropes are top shelf too. They look like Japanese silk. Strong as hell; makes no noise.” Deeper scowl. “Whoever these jerks are, they’ve got a loaded Daddy Warbucks behind them.”

  “Who could be from anywhere in the world.” Syn straightened, blowing out a heavy breath. “There are just as many nations who want Arcadia to stay trapped in the nineteenth century as those who welcome the progress.”

  “Governments with this kind of flow?” Instant eye roll. Yeah, at myself. “Okay, stupid question. Of course there are.”

  “Not stupid,” Jagger assured. “Just not correct.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He set aside the smart pad. Lowered to an armrest of the huge leather couch, folding his arms. “The question is not who can fund the Puras. It is, who can fund them, then encourage these balls-out moves. Flayre turned traitor, then disgraced his family further by taking his own life. Now these batty soldasks, sneaking into the palais with the intent of taking Her Ladyship’s life…”

  Evrest looked nauseated again. And once more, Syn’s face tightened with that strange mix of fear and confusion. “Where are the mealworms now?” He pivoted back toward Jag. “I trust you processed them into Censhyr? Can we go question them?”

  Censhyr Prison was located in the craggy wasteland just north of Sancti. The place had been updated with only a few modern conveniences since its construction in 1860, turning life there into an ordeal that gave new meaning to the word “uncomfortable”.