Into His Command Page 5

  Making me a world-class heel.

  Who tried making up for it by shoving to my feet, squaring my shoulders, and presenting my strongest game face. “Then we’ll make it work in six days.”

  “Agreed.” Grahm rose too.

  “Agreed.” Blayze was next.

  One by one, the others stood and pledged their own commitments for the next week. Samsyn accepted each vow with a solemn nod but little else. I watched the shadows in his eyes, sensed him rationing his dwindling energy over the remaining tasks of the day. And dammit, I didn’t like seeing it…nearly feeling it with him. I hated fighting off all my protective impulses, burning hotter by the second, telling me to march across the room, drag him to the yoga studio, and force his stubborn ass down on a mat for even an hour of the rest he clearly needed.

  I hated still caring.

  This much.

  And wondered how the hell I was going to get through this entire damn week without looking at Samsyn Cimarron…wondering what it would’ve been like to complete that kiss at the waterfall. How his lips would’ve reacted to mine. What his body would’ve felt like. What sounds would’ve unfurled from him, as our senses awoke to each other…

  Oh, God.

  I had to turn it all off. Thinking straight, functioning correctly, depended on it.

  It had to be easier than I thought. It had to be. One quick search inside. Just find the spigots marked H and S.

  H for heart.

  S for spirit.

  Then crank them off. Lock them down.

  I could do this. I had before. I was just a little rusty. And yeah, there was the difference in both experiences too. The last time, I’d been staring from a helicopter at the smoldering remains of my house. This time, I gazed at the most beautiful warrior prince God had ever put on Earth. The bold set of his face, while silently assessing the room. The million thoughts behind his crystalline eyes. The sensual tumble of his hair against his nape and shoulders.

  The chaos he caused in me, as soon as he looked up again.

  Looked at me.

  Looked into me.

  Curled heat and need and longing into so many secret places of me.

  Crank them off. Lock them down.

  Right. And just tell myself to stop breathing, too. To stop feeling more aware, more inspired, more alive—

  More a woman.

  Dammit.

  I was in for six days of some major suckage.

  Freaking. Lovely.

  Chapter Four

  ‡

  TEN HOURS LATER, and it only felt like two. Or twenty, depending on what part of my sanity was still left to listen to.

  After the meeting at the Center, briefing packets were distributed about everyone’s roles during the three days of the royal visit. Logistics would be intricate, complicated by the news that select members of the international press had also been invited to attend the Engagement Ball. That was before we tackled the issue about adequately housing everyone in the royal retinue. In Sancti, the Palais Arcadia could house hundreds in luxury. Faisant had the Sauvage Ranch. In Colluss, there was the impressive Librante Villa. But in Tahreuse, the breathtaking scenery demanded payback in architectural challenges. Sprawling buildings? Utterly impossible. Most structures, literally built into the sides of cliffs, had to be constructed with creative usage of space. Very creative.

  That truth bore just as much weight inside the mayor’s house—though I had to convince my plummeting jaw and popping eyes of it.

  “Wow.” Lame, lame, lame. But what else fit? As I followed Mayor Trieste’s magistrate down each level of the Residence Rigale Tahreuse—all twelve of them—it was the only word that surged to mind then lips, over and over. Okay, so the man and his family had twelve levels as compared to the two of a normal family on the mountain, all furnished in an elegant palette of crimson and gold with astounding views of the lake, but everyone in town knew all that already. My astonishment sprang from something deeper. A sensation at the center of my chest, awing me but warming me at once. I couldn’t describe it further, except that for the first time, I thought about the day Rune Kavill would finally be caught, and we’d be able to go home to Vermont—and violently fought the pull of sad tears.

  “Miss Valen?”

  I jerked around. The magistrate waited, impatient scowl on his face. He stood next to the fireplace on what was called the ML level, standing for “main living”. It was almost midnight. Right now, Mayor Trieste would likely be sitting at the big desk in the corner, or reading documents next to the fire. His wife might be in the opposite chair, or saying goodnight to their two teenage boys. They were all out of sight tonight, perhaps preparing for their very VIP visitors.

  “Sorry.” I blinked and sniffed, wishing the stuffy little man would stop scrutinizing every move I made. “It’s been a long day. What was the question?”

  The magistrate rolled his doughy eyes. “The staff shall need to know if you will be staying here each night during your duties of watching over Lady Camellia and her retinue, or departing for your own residence.”

  “She shall remain here.” Syn stepped over, eyeing the man with undisguised defensiveness. “Was there a question of that?”

  The magistrate harrumped. “Of course not, Highness. My intention was merely that—”

  “You would have some inside details about our operations to share with your ‘friends’ at the Heron tonight?”

  Syn’s reference to the little tavern, purported as the place where many Puras met to exchange information and gossip, turned the magistrate bright purple. I chewed the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling. Syn didn’t share my mirth. “Go ahead, magistrate. Share your little tidbits. His Majesty Evrest has nothing to hide about his hopes for the future of Arcadia, instead of desires to keep her mired in the past.”

  Part of me longed to whoop for him. A bigger part wanted to elbow him in the chin again. I was all for calling an opponent into the open—when the timing was right. This timing didn’t feel right.

  In the end, I refrained. Perhaps Syn had a higher plan. During one of our afternoon briefings, the necessity of a scout inside the Heron had been discussed. Perhaps Syn was goading the magistrate on purpose, hoping the man would spill information in the heat of emotion.

  “Prince Samsyn—I assure you—”

  “I am sure you do.” Syn arched his brows and jerked his head toward the stairs we’d entered from. “But you are still dismissed, magistrate.”

  “But there are four more levels after this. The private residence and bedrooms—”

  “I will make sure Miss Valen sees them.”

  “But—”

  “That is all, magistrate. Good night.”

  The man stormed out, accompanied by his own rapid-fire mutterings in Arcadian. As soon as he was out of earshot, I went ahead and indulged a small snicker. “Sorry.” I darted a sheepish glance up at Syn’s tight stare. “I couldn’t help it. You turned the man into a total Oompa-Loompa.”

  “A what?”

  “Oh, come on. You Cimarron kids at least watched movies on disc, right? Willie Wonka’s a classic.”

  “Like the chocolate bars?”

  “Like the movie. Johnny Depp? Or Gene Wilder, if you’re a traditionalist.”

  “Who?” When I threw up both hands in defeat, he scowled and flung his head back, a masculine version of the girly hair toss.

  Very masculine.

  And very hot.

  “Forget it.”

  The fight left me as soon as my gaze returned to the view…swiftly rendering me in awe. Holy…shit. So this was why everyone raved about floor-to-ceiling windows. The moon rose higher over the lake, a spectral smile casting silver sparkles across the waters, rippled by a gentle breeze. The far shores were rimmed by mist resembling angel hair.

  I shifted closer to the window, falling into silence.

  Samsyn, a few feet behind me, was also quiet. Once more, my chest tightened with that strange pull. I took in the quiet majest
y of the valley, the mountains its dark sentinels, and struggled to process a wild cast of feelings inside.

  “It…hurts sometimes, doesn’t it?” I finally whispered.

  “What hurts?” His reply, roughened by lingering wrath, was as strong as those mountains.

  “Looking at it,” I explained. “At all of it.” I gestured out the window but glanced toward him, searching for some kind of validation…knowing I’d find it. Sure enough, there it was, resting in the crystal glow of his eyes. “It reminds me of how small I am, but also makes me feel huge.”

  Stillness. Over him and over me. But only on the outside. Inside, I was whirling. Crashing. Feeling as if I’d become the lake, and the surface was a serene façade for the wet, wild tempest underneath.

  His lips parted. Closed again. “I thought I was the only one who felt that way.”

  I fought against reaching for him. Poured my heart into my voice, instead. “You’re not alone, Samsyn. You know that, right? You’re never alone, as long as I’m here.” When he grimaced, blustering behind fake confusion, I persisted, “How are you doing with all of this, besides exhausted? And when the hell do you get to rest?”

  His shoulders stiffened. “A soldier’s work begins at exhaustion. You know that.”

  “I only know I’ve read that motivation poster already.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t start with proper and princely on me now, big guy. Stop evading the question.” I turned fully toward him, wondering if I should dare a step closer. “How are you, Syn?” I refrained from moving—barely. “How are you…really?”

  So much for restraint. He pivoted quietly. Advanced by three measured steps, until the space between us consisted of just inches. “How are you?”

  Time to throw him a side eye. “Uh-uh, mister. I asked first.” And busying myself with that meant I didn’t think of other temptations. Like fantasizing about pushing forward, then press my face against his chest. Then fitting my arms around him, maybe sliding them beneath his sweater to the muscled warmth of his skin. To behold this breathtaking view in the arms of a magnificent man, feeling the majesty of this land pulsing through his veins, as much a part of him as the stars were of the sky. To give him all my strength in return…letting him feel what I’d already known for so long.

  I loved him.

  I always did. I always would.

  Safer subject. Now.

  I attempted a little laugh. “Well, at least I learned something new about you tonight.”

  His head cocked a little. His brows arched. “This should be interesting.”

  “You really don’t like Oompa Loompas.”

  “Not that one,” he snapped. “Arrogant imbezak. He was treating you like the dust on his boots. How those Pura are winning converts to their cause is a mystery to me.”

  I had no comeback except to kick at the floor. Treading water. Sea of awkward. After so many years of hanging with a boys’ club, pretending I didn’t have one too many X chromosomes let alone exposing it, the potency of Syn’s protectiveness was like feeling the sun after hiding in a cave. Kind of awesome. But still really weird.

  “Wow,” I finally muttered. “And I just thought he was doing what everyone else does.”

  “What everyone else does?” He pivoted, now wearing a full glare. “And what does everyone else do?”

  Another laugh. Well…an attempt. Wasn’t happening with his crystalline blues drilling me like that. “Writing me off as the scrawny bimbo who can’t fight her way out of a pile of kindling.”

  At last, his mood lightened. “Is that so?” He chuckled.

  “Yeah,” I snickered back. “Gee, what a relief. The man’s just Pura, not sexist.”

  He snorted. “Makes more sense than labeling you as scrawny.”

  I narrowed a mocking glare. “Is that so?”

  His grin broadened. It emphasized the dark scruff along his jaw, complemented the sexy sway of his hair…and turned him into a jaw-dropping sight as he took a steady, slow step to me.

  Another.

  He practically blended with his own shadow, black-clad and whisper-smooth…threatening to envelop me as he loomed over me…

  Yeah. He loomed.

  And ohhhh yeah, did I bask in it.

  “Want to prove the point by Barbie-snapping me now?”

  Shivers took over my body. My head tilted back, surely exposing the wild pulse beating at the base of my throat. “You’d have to lay me out again for that.”

  His eyes dilated, pitch black against piercing blue. I felt his quickening heart rate, throbbing nearly audibly, as he pushed in, closer and bigger…and hypnotizing. I shivered before his hand even touched mine, tips to tips then knuckles to knuckles…then finally, fingers meshing with slow, perfect sensuality.

  Our palms met.

  Our breaths hitched.

  Oh God…

  I wanted him.

  He curved his fingers tighter…until the tips scratched my knuckles. I gasped. He swallowed. Then turned, tugging me with him.

  “Wh-where are we going?”

  Syn stopped. Swung another meaningful stare back at me. Had he stepped so deeply into the shadows that his irises now seemed totally black…or was his gaze beneath full eclipse for another reason? And was the answer important?

  “I told the man you would get a tour of the bedrooms, did I not?”

  Chapter Five

  ‡

  SIX MONTHS BEFORE we were forced to leave the states, Dad took me to see Phantom of the Opera for the sixth time. It was my favorite musical show, highlighted by the scene where the masked stranger pulled Christine through the tunnels under the Paris Opera House, to use her for his mysterious passions. The music swelled, the candles glowed, and I always dreamed of having my own dark lover, leading the way down a stairwell into the sensual unknown.

  My girlish brain had been an idiot.

  As my grown-up senses discovered now.

  Oh, there were stairs, all right. And shadows and mystery…and yes, the sexiest, darkest man, masked or not, I could have ever dreamed of.

  Nobody told me the music got replaced by silence so thick, it was fog in its own right. Or that the pulsing drum track became the eerie echoes of boots against marble, soon swallowed by the hush of entering more intimate spaces. Or that the soaring notes sung by “Christine”, the Phantom’s timid protégé, would just turn into my rapid huffs, disgusting reminders of my nervousness with every passing moment.

  Samsyn was merciful—or maybe it was just my sweaty palm—in letting me go as soon as we arrived on the next level down. This was clearly decorated for Tahreuse’s first lady, with a sitting room defined by soft, rounded furniture in shades of ivory and spring green, with double doors at the far side opening to a suite of bedrooms in the same hues.

  I stepped into the room. Tried not to think about Samsyn following right behind but gave up on that impossibility after two steps. He’d always made me a little nervous—aware of myself and my body—simply with a passing glimpse or an indulgent laugh, but this…

  Felt very different.

  Different to the point of scary.

  Scary to the point of excruciating.

  Excruciating to the point of…

  I throbbed. And ached. And knew that if we didn’t make this “tour” quick, I’d be the one laying him out—and dying of humiliation the second he gently pushed away.

  The stillness pushed down on us, more weighted than before, as I hurried across the room. I battled not to watch how he matched my pace, the moonlight dappling his legs, the shadows a perfect match for his dark warrior’s grace…

  I suddenly stopped short. Who wouldn’t, when looking at the newest surprise of this place: a section of the room that opened into a rotunda with a window seat, allowing a more breathtaking view of the lake? As I gazed, a pair of white swans floated onto Sagique’s surface, gliding peacefully through the liquid moonlight.

  “Wow.” I was glad for a chance to embrace something like
friendly chit-chat. “This place gets better and better, doesn’t—”

  I had to go and think of chit-chat.

  When every concept of it fled my mind…as Samsyn yanked me around, into his arms—and his hard, consuming kiss.

  The noble brushes of his mouth from the falls? Also as gone as the chit-chat. He swept his tongue down, demanding and passionate, raking the seam of my mouth just once before pushing all the way in, commanding me to surrender in full. As if I longed to do anything else. A tiny moan, a sigh of need, and he was all the way in. I gave him all of my tongue, letting him take it, twist it, control it with his wet, unrelenting force. Claimed him in return by delving my hand into his hair, curling fingers into the silken lengths, dragging him harder and deeper down into me.

  But I couldn’t call it the kiss of my dreams.

  Because my dreams had never been this good.

  So hot. So jolting. So conquering. Oh, so good…

  And just as quickly, with a rush of freezing air, it was over.

  “Fuck.” He threw back his head, limning his bold features in stark moonlight, before dropping back down. With his hair draping our faces and his forehead pressed to mine, he sucked in fast, frantic breaths. “Fuck.”

  I didn’t know how to interpret that. Didn’t know if I wanted to. The desperation in his voice was echoed by the rush of my blood, the rise of my arousal. It was torture. It was perfect.

  I fought through the chaos of my senses, lifting a hand, tangling it in his silken mane, letting sound spill from my tingling lips. “Samsyn.”

  “Starlight.” His voice was just as ragged. “I…should not have done that.”

  “Why?” I tightened my grip. “I’ve wanted you to do that for six damn years.”

  “I know.”

  I paused, weighing the wisdom of what I yearned to say next—but was there a way to scramble back up a cliff once one had jumped over? We were already airborne. If the landing hurt, there was nothing to be done.

  “And you’ve wanted it, too.”