A Royal Engagement: The Storm Within\The Reluctant Queen (11 page)

“Don't you dare speak of her!” Lara cried, rising from her chair without knowing she meant to move. Her hands moved of their own accord, out in front of her as if she meant to strike him. As if she dared. And oh, how she wished she dared! “You know nothing about her, or me! You have no idea what our life was like!”

“No,” he said with a seething sort of impatience, and that hard gaze that seemed to arrow into her very core, “I know
what your life
should
have been. I know what was stolen from you. And from the King. And from your people.” He made an abortive gesture with one hand. “I know that when the country needed you, you—
the Crown Princess of Alakkul
—were toiling away in some pedestrian job, in some life far beneath your station, acting as if you were nothing more than a run-of-the-mill, anonymous nobody. Instead of who you really are. The last Alakkulian princess. The dawning of a new age for our people. How can you possibly defend the woman who so dishonored you?”

There was a searing kind of silence. As if the whole world hung there between them, changing even as she tried to breathe. Lara could feel her pulse hit hard against her neck, her ribs, her wrists. And between her legs. Just like his voice. “My mother
saved
me!” She could not take his words in, could not let them register. She could only remember the stories, so many stories, and the nights her mother had wailed and screamed and cursed, and there had only been Lara to comfort her. Had it all been lies?
All of it?

“From what, exactly?” Adel demanded, incredulous, sitting forward in his chair. “Your wealth? Your heritage? Everything that should have been yours?
Me?
Are you certain she is the hero of this story—and not its villain?”

“I know all about the life I might have led, had I languished in that horrible place,” Lara threw at him. She wanted to hurt him back. To make him pay for saying these things to her, and she did not want to think about why she blamed him. “I thank God every day that my mother saved me from that. From you—a fate worse than death!”

“Says someone who has never faced death,” Adel said smoothly, his voice a dark current that moved over her, through her. That made her feel things she hated—that made her hate herself. Things that made no sense. “Because had you done so, you would not make such naive statements. Did your mother fill your head with this foolishness? That
death
was preferable to your birthright? To a marriage that at sixteen you wanted desperately?”

“A birthright—a marriage—that would have been nothing but a prison term,” Lara retorted, desperate to strike back at him, to make him as off-balance as she felt, somehow, as some kind of retaliation. Because she could remember, now, that desperate, dazzled yearning for him. Oh, how she had wanted him! It made her even angrier now. “A whole life shut away in a gilded cage—never allowed to think or dream or
live.
Trained from a girl to be nothing more than a biddable wife, a possession, a
thing.
The pawn or the prize for men like you. No, thank you.”

“You say things you cannot possibly mean,” Adel said, his voice growing softer, more dangerous. She was reminded, suddenly, that he was a warrior first, a king second. That he had all manner of weapons at his disposal. His head tilted slightly as he regarded her. “When I kissed you, you cried tears of joy. When I took your hands in mine, you trembled. You were sixteen and in love with me, and I remember the truth of what was between us even if you do not. She took that from you, too. And from me.”

“No,” Lara said, her hands in fists at her sides, afraid to let his words penetrate—to let herself remember the things he did. “I was a teenager. I was in love with the idea of love. You were incidental. My mother did us both a favor!”

“There are any number of words I could use to describe your mother, Princess,” Adel said in a deadly tone. The hairs on Lara's neck stood at attention. “But I will refrain from using them in your presence because they are disrespectful.” His eyes flashed. “Not to her, about whom I could not care less. But to you, my future queen.”

“Your mean your possession,” Lara flashed at him. Her temper was a live thing, fusing with her panic, her fear, the memories of her sixteen-year-old heart. Making her too reckless, too thoughtless. But she couldn't stop—as if she was as
desperate now as she had been then. “Your pawn. Your
object.
”

“If that is how you see yourself, who am I to contradict you?” he asked, but she could see the temper he kept at bay. It was in the fire in his cold eyes, the set of his hard jaw. “Demean yourself as you see fit.”

“You would love that, I'm sure,” she seethed at him, drifting closer to his seat, so focused on her anger that she hardly noticed what she was doing.
Or maybe you just want to be close to him, as you always have,
a small voice whispered, daring her even closer. “Why don't I just bow down and give you all the power? Why don't you just treat me like one more mindless marionette who dances on a string for your pleasure?”

She did not like the way he stared at her, the way his hard mouth curved into an even harder smile, the way his gray eyes glittered. She did not understand the loud beating of her heart, much less the way she shook.

She did not
want
to understand.

“Ah, Princess,” he said, his voice a low growl that seemed to reverberate through her like a drum. “You should not tease.”

And then, with an economy of movement and a shattering male grace, he hauled her into his arms, across his lap, and took her mouth with his.

L
ARA
had no time to react.

His mouth was on hers, hard and demanding. One hand held her at the nape of her neck, the other at her hip, holding her fast against the granite expanse of his chest.

His kiss was possessive, angry, hot. Nothing like the sweet kisses they'd stolen so long ago—and yet so much more. Lara could do nothing but glory in it, even as her hands rose to his shoulders—whether to push him away or pull him closer she would never know.

Fire rolled through her, scorching her, making her forget everything except the power of his kiss, the dark mastery of it, the tight, lush angle of his mouth, his heat and his taste and the breathtakingly sensual way he held her.

As if he had all the time in the world to explore her mouth.

As if tasting her was a matter of critical importance.

As if he was already inside her, claiming her, taking her, making her his in every way.

She felt more than branded. More than stamped, somehow, as his.

She felt more than the molten, restless heat between her legs, more than the wild drumming of her heart, more than his hardness beneath her, against her.

He kissed her as if he knew her as well as he claimed he did. As if it had been only moments since the last time he'd kissed her, instead of years. As if they had always been des
tined to come together like this, mouth to mouth, body to body, passion to passion.

As if they were meant for each other. As if he was, finally, the home she'd spent her whole life searching for.

It was that last, impossible thought that had her rearing back, her head caught fast in his large hand, to look into his silver eyes.

She hardly knew herself, much less him. Their history was lost in the mists of time, a teenage fantasy at best. This was all too real. Too much.

“You can't…” she began, but she had no idea what to say. How could she tell him that kissing him made the world fall away? That she forgot who she was? That she wanted nothing more than to burrow into him, lose herself in him, and the very madness of that idea made her tremble with need?

Just like before.

“Kiss me,” he urged her, as if he knew all the things she could not say.

It was not until he closed the gap between them again, that fascinating mouth so hot against her own, so right, that she realized he had stopped speaking English yet again. And more to the point—so had she.

 

She tasted sweet, just like he remembered. Like ripe summer berries and the kick of
woman
beneath it. She went to his head like wine.

Adel wanted her, this untutored, disrespectful princess of his, more than he could remember wanting another. More than he wanted almost anything else. Her lush little body curled into his, against his, as if she too could not get close enough. As if she felt the same rush of desire that surged through him, making him want to forget himself in her.

Just as it should be. Just as it had been.

He let his hands travel over the body he'd longed to possess totally for so many years. He tested the shape of her
full breasts, traced the indentation of her waist, learned the intoxicating swell of her hips. She writhed against him, her lushness against his hardness, driving him ever closer to distraction. And still he kissed her, again and again, drinking from her, reveling in her, making her pant and shake against him.

Again, he felt triumph beat like a drum in him. She was his. She was
his
, and she was more than simply this lush body, this elemental passion. She was the dream of his family for generations. She was the throne of Alakkul. She was his destiny taking shape, finally, after so many years spent preparing for it.

She was the only woman he had ever loved. His queen.
His.

Which meant he could wait a little bit longer before taking her, though he longed to do it now with every inch of his body, the want of her so fierce, so total, there was a long moment he was not at all certain he could let go of her.

She would be his queen.

She made a soft sound of distress when he tore his mouth from hers, and set her away from him. Her silver-blue eyes were wide and dark, her mouth damp and slightly swollen from his kisses. He felt a sharp surge of possessiveness, of desire. He let his hands rest on her shoulders for a moment, then dragged his thumb over her full lower lip, smiling when she shuddered her response.

“Not here,” he said, though it was more difficult than it should have been. “Not now.”

She blinked, and he could see when she understood him. Color flooded her face, staining her cheeks as she disentangled herself from him.

“You are getting ahead of yourself,” she snapped at him, in what he imagined she intended to be quelling tones, and might have been, were she not still breathless.

His smile deepened, and he let his hand drop to her breasts,
where her nipples stood out, proud and taut, against the tissue-thin fabric of her shirt. He traced one hard peak with the pad of his finger.

“Am I?” he asked lazily.

“You are a pig!” she hissed, rearing back from him, putting space between them and climbing to her feet.

Adel let her go. Temper made her coloring that much more dramatic, and in any case, he had tasted the sweet honey of her desire. He could see the way she trembled, the way her eyes kept returning to his mouth. He knew the truth. If she had to hate him, if she had to pretend—well, he knew what her body wanted, what it needed. It would betray her easily enough.

“Calm yourself,” he suggested mildly.

She looked murderous for a moment. He heard her sharp intake of breath, and then, stiffly, she gathered herself, her flowing dark curls like a curtain around her slender shoulders. He watched her spine straighten. She stood near the line of windows, and looked away from him for a moment. Then another. Biting her tongue, he had no doubt.

“I will not rut with my future queen here,” he told her when she turned toward him again, her gaze shuttered, as if she could hide from him. “On a plane, God knows where. You deserve greater respect from me than that.”

“How interesting,” she said, her voice sharp. “
Respect
seems an awful lot like
control.
”

“I am sorry to disabuse you of your deep-held fantasies,” he said softly, “but the truth is that I do not wish for you to be my puppet, dancing on a string or otherwise. I want you to be my wife. My queen.” He smiled slightly. “The dancing is purely optional.”

“And what about what I want?” Her voice was strained. Stark. He did not think this was defiance—he thought this was something else, perhaps even the thing that haunted her,
making her eyes too big in her face, her skin too pale. Would she tell him what it was? Would she learn to trust him?

He wanted her to do so more than he wanted to admit.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice hushed, as he struggled with urges inside of him he could not entirely understand. “If I can give it to you, I will.”

“Perhaps I wish to rut with you, right here and right now,” she said, her eyes meeting his boldly. He could not help but harden even further at that—almost to the point of pain—as he imagined her astride him, beneath him, her lush mouth fastened to his, her softness spread out before him. “Why do you get to make the decisions? Am I to be your queen or your slave?”

He could think of several answers to that question, but chose to take the query seriously.

“We will rule together,” he said. “As tradition requires.”

“What does ‘together' mean to an Alakkulian male, I wonder?” she mused, her eyes narrowed. “I somehow doubt it means the same thing to you as it does to me. What if we wish to rule differently? What if you are wrong? Who gets to decide?”

Their eyes met, held. The attraction that sizzled between them seemed to intensify, seemed to beat at him with hot, dangerous flames. Why did her anger, her restless intelligence, make him want her all the more?

“I suspect,” he said after a moment, “that you already know the answer.”

She made a scoffing noise, and folded her arms over her chest. “What a surprise,” she said after a moment, in a bitter sort of tone.

And something in him tore free. He could not have said why. It was her defiance, perhaps, or—more curious—his surprising, continuing sympathy for her plight. He felt more for her than he had ever felt for another, even across these long years of separation. He wanted her as he had never wanted
any other woman. And still she looked at him as if he was the enemy. As if she did not quite grasp who he was.

Perhaps it was time to tell her. To remind her.

He was on his feet before he knew he meant to move—a shocking deviation from the usual iron control he maintained over himself and anyone in his orbit. He stalked over to her, enjoying the way her expression changed, became far more wary, though she only squared her shoulders as he came closer. She did not cower. She did not run. She only waited, and he knew she was more his queen in that moment than she realized.

He moved closer, deliberately stepping into her space, so she was trapped against the wall of the plane and forced to look up at him. He placed a hand on the smooth surface of the bulkhead on either side of her head, framing her face, and leaned in.

“If you kiss me again,” she told him fiercely, “I will bite you.”

“You will not.” But his attention moved to her mouth. “Unless I ask you to.”

“Stop trying to intimidate me,” she ordered him, but once again there was that tell-tale breathiness in the voice she'd clearly meant to sound stern. He smiled, and allowed himself to touch her hair—pulling one dark black curl between his fingers, running the thick silk over his lips, and inhaling the scent. Mint and honey.
His princess.

“Stop it!” she whispered, her eyes wide. Wary.

Wanting
, he thought, with no little satisfaction.

“Listen to me,” he said. He let the curl drop from his hand, but he did not move back. Her hands moved, as if she went to push him away but thought better of touching him. “I am not one of your American men. I am not politically correct.”

“Really?” Her tone was dry. Defiant. “I hadn't noticed.”

He liked being so close to her. More, perhaps, than he should. He could smell her, almost taste her, feel the heat
of her. But because indulging himself would lead precisely where he did not wish to go, not yet, he leaned away, still keeping his arms on either side of her, but removing his mouth from the temptation of hers.

“I am not modern.” His voice was low. As if he offered her his confession, though the very thought was absurd. “I cannot pretend to be to save your feelings, or to coddle your Western sensibilities.”

“Is that what's been happening so far?” she asked, her brows arching. She shook her head. “The mind balks. What's next? The barbarian horde?”

“I was trained to be a soldier since I was a child,” he told her, not certain why he'd started there. Not at all easy with the baffling urge to share himself with her, to let her see him, know him, as he'd thought she might long ago. Not sure he wanted to examine that urge more closely. “A barbarian by your measure, I suppose. My parents sent me to the palace when I was still a child, barely five years old. I was raised to be a weapon. A machine. One of the King's personal guard.”

She only stared at him. “The
cadre
,” she murmured. And he knew that she remembered the tight band of warriors who had shadowed her father's every movement, each one of them more dangerous than the next, whose honor and duty it was to accompany the King wherever he went. To lay down their lives for him at a moment's notice. To live in service to his whims. He had been the youngest ever inducted into the
cadre
's elite ranks. Perhaps she remembered that, too.

“I was taught to sever all emotional ties,” he continued, fighting the urge to touch her soft skin, to feel her heartbeat with his hands. “I learned to focus only on one goal—protecting and serving my king, my country. I did so, gladly. I wanted no greater glory than that. Until your father gave me you.”

“I was not his to give,” she said, but her voice was soft,
as if she felt this same, strange tenderness. Her eyes moved over his face.

“And you wanted me, too,” he reminded her. “Duty and desire, all at once. We were lucky, Princess.”

Memory and desire shimmered between them, like need. Like heat.

“I remember you, Adel,” she admitted in a stark whisper. She swallowed, nerves and memories and something dark in her gaze. “I do. But that doesn't mean I can be who you want me to be. Maybe not ever.”

“I will protect my country,” he said, though he suspected that was not an answer she would like—that she might not even understand why he said it. Or the stark truth of it. “No matter the cost. Nothing means more to me than that.”

“Not even the throne?” she asked, incisive yet again.

“There is nothing I would not do for Alakkul, nothing I would not sacrifice, and no one I would not betray in service to my country, if my duty to my country demanded it.” His voice was so sure, coming from deep within him. Why did he want her to understand? Why did he want her this much—so all-consumingly? So overwhelmingly? She gazed up at him and there was an expression on her face that made something in him twist over on itself. “I cannot pause in this and make you easy with the role you must assume. I would not even know where to begin.”

Something pulled taut between them, dark and glittering. She pulled in a breath, then another, her gaze unreadable.

“Don't worry,” she said, her voice tense. Almost sad. “I told you—I remember. I know exactly who you are.”

“No,” he said, his voice harder than it should have been, though she did not flinch—and he admired her for it, almost grudgingly. “You don't. But you will, soon enough.”