Bold Beautiful Love -- A Temptation Court Contemporary Romance: Temptation Court: Passion in New York (20 page)

“Well what?” It sounds as stunned as I feel.

“Aren’t you going to see what she wants?”

Part of me—the girl in me—wants to say no. Vylet’s evasion, while relatable, has been a salted nick since I arrived. But another part of me—the woman I now embrace and appreciate, seeing more of myself through Cassian’s eyes—yearns to simply love her, no strings or petty hurts attached. Today’s events alone have slung some huge life lessons into the sack of my experience—

Along with one huge truth.

Every moment is a treasure.

And treasures are not given by the Creator to be wasted.

I walk to the bed, followed by a squee’ing Brooke, to scoop up my phone. After unlocking the home screen—a picture of a sundrenched Cassian from our sailing day on New York Harbor three weeks ago—I blink back tears at the familiar font of my best friend’s text.

:: Heard about the mess with Cassian. I am sorry. ::

Brooke gasps. “Halle-freaking-lujah. It’s an olive branch, M!”

Quizzical glare. “Olive branches are for ending wars.” My chest still panging from the image of Cassian, I add, “Or, in the case of Rune Kavill, for chopping off, sharpening up, and starting them.”

A chest-deep growl rolls out of my friend. She follows with a spitted, “Amen,” her own history with Kavill still clearly a fresh wound.

The little heart I sent as an answer receives a quick reply from Vy.

:: You staying here or heading back to NY? ::

I tap back:

:: New York. Cassian has a legal team there, already working on things. These charges are the work of
imbezaks
. ::
I quickly add:
:: We are leaving for the airport now. ::

A strange instinct drives me to share it. Maybe a stupid hope—

:: Maybe you can stop by my place on your way. ::

—of that.

“Thank the Creator.” Brooke breathes it while hugging me from behind. I smile once more—but truly mean it this time.

“Let us be on our way, then.”

At least
one
good thing will be coming from this trip to the airport.

*

Vylet has one
of those rare situations most of us dream of. She and her sisters, Lauryl and Rynata, rent a house of their own along the south shore—but it is three doors away from their parents, affording the propriety still demanded by Arcadian society. Not that my friend worried too much about decorum once Alak proposed on New Year’s Day. Everyone had been gathered for a big party on the beach. He pulled her away, up the shore a little—but not so far that we all could not see the man drop to his knees with a ring. Vy’s answering scream had surely terrified even the fish. She had nearly ripped off the man’s clothes in her haste to make the whole thing “official.”

The two of them were beyond official.

They were the real thing.

A love story that inspired us all.

Proof that sometimes, the old ways still worked. That parents still cared—and got a girl one of the good ones. We were all told to look at Alak and Vy as an example “Young Arcadia’s Best”, everlasting love
because
of their parents, not in spite of them.

Nobody prepared us for an early end to everlasting.

A truth written across every plane of Vylet’s face now.

I thought I had prepared myself. Knew the grief, now several days old, would gouge into her, perhaps fade her light a little. All right…maybe a lot.

Lauryl had answered the door, then attempted to prepare us on our way out to the terrace. Muttered that she was glad Vy reached out, because she and Ryn had been scared. Brooke and I had traded a swift glance.
Scared
? Vy is a woman of many different moods, shades, and humors—but she is not scary.

Not before now.

Now…

I am scared.

The vibrant woman I have known for so long is…a skeleton. Beneath her sundress, a red pin-up style halter that is—
was
—one of Alak’s favorites, her collarbones are prominent, her arms lifeless twigs. Her hair, once as lustrous as ink, is pulled into a dingy ponytail. Her skin is pale and splotched.

But her eyes…

are the worse part.

The brilliant centerpieces of her face, like bright purple sparklers, were always the gateways to her infectious spirit, her take-no-shit humor, her easy and carefree laughter. They never just brought her name to life because of their color. They brought her essence to life because of
her.

Her eyes now remind me of nothing but a grave.

The grave in which she has clearly buried herself, right alongside Alak.

“Vy.” Somehow, it grates out. Unbelievably, without tears. I have only the Creator to thank for the restraint. He has given me a strange sixth sense for the day, telling me weeping will crumble this moment before it has begun.

“Shella-bean.” Though it is just a rasp, she finishes it with a little croak—as if the endearment has become a very,
very
private joke. At my expense.

“Are you all r—”

Brooke shuts me down by stepping forward. “
Merderim
, my friend—for inviting us to stop by.” Maybe that is for the best. Perhaps it is the years of crisis training she has logged with Samsyn’s top lieutenants, or some of the social graces I drilled into her have paid off, but her words, followed with a sincere smile, seem to soften Vy.

Seem
to.

“But of course.” Soft has left the woman’s vocabulary. The riposte is a social nicety brushed over her anger, as thin as poison on an enchanted apple. “I could not let you leave without a proper send-off.” Her head swivels, looping her gaze out over the beach and the waves. The wind loosens tendrils of her hair across her gaunt cheekbones. “Saying goodbye is so important.
Every
time.”

Brooke grabs the chance to look to me again. Jerks her head toward Vy, urging me to go forward again. I volley with a glare—
are you kidding
?—but she persists with a stubborn jab of her chin.

With a soft shuffle, I approach Vy again. “
Bonami
. Are you all right?”

She blinks rapidly. Scrapes the hair back from her face. For a second, my own eyes widen. Unlike everything else, her fingernails are perfectly groomed and polished. That is when I remember how much Alak loved her hands. Used to kiss her fingers, one by one…

“Goodbyes are important.” Her repetition carries a new lilt. A strange one. But…a strong one. “You have to make them count, you know.”

I dare another step closer to her. Softly say, “Yes. I do know.”

She twists both hands into her wrinkled skirt, her posture stiffening as the wind picks up. “We hurried it,” she intones. “Our goodbye. We rushed it like it was no big deal.” Her head bobs, as if she silently orders herself to go on. “That day, when Prince Samsyn called and said he needed him…Alak ran for his go-pack, in such a rush. In five minutes, he was suited and out the door.”

I reach out. Long to take her hand but grasp her shoulder instead. “I know—”

“Shut.
Up.
”

She twists away. Stumbles back, hissing as if my hand is now the poison. Wipes at her shoulder before jerking her gaze up, finally looking straight at me. “You do
not
know, Mishella.” Her face wavers. Her glass-thin composure starts to tremble, to dissolve. “You say you do, but you do not!”

“Then
talk to me
.” I open my arms, letting the burn behind my eyes take over. Exposing my sorrow for everything she has lost…everything I want to help her get through, if I can.
If I can
. “Tell me, Vy. What do you need? What can I do?”

Of all the reactions in my expectations, her sudden laugh is not one. A laugh unlike any other I have ever heard from her—and I have listened to this woman laugh in a thousand ways—so high and shrill and hurting, it approaches a cackle. But not a gee-the-evil-enchantress-is-loony sound. It is the laugh of something darker. Harsher.

Scarier.

I look once more to Brooke. Her stance is tense and ready. Her eyes are observant and hard. She is thinking the exact same thing.

“What. Can. You. Do?” The verbal punches correspond to Vy’s mechanical jerks back. “That is truly funny, my friend.”

“Why?” I manage.

“Because you already did it.” She strolls now, flitting her skirt, cocking her head. “Flew off to beautiful New York with your beautiful man, yes? Miss Cinder-
ella
of Arcadia, off to the ball in Manhattan, where you fell in love…”

“Vy.” Brooke comes forward on her stealthy ninja steps. The observance does not add warm and fuzzies to my instinct about all this. “If you’re going where I think you are, you can back off
right
now.”

Vylet, still swishing the skirt, keeps advancing on me. Her lips do not surrender an inch of that tremulous, perilous smile. “You fell in love with him, Mishella…because he wanted you to. Because he wanted an ironclad
in
with the Arcadian Court—and with all those juicy infrastructure opportunities.”

“Vy…”

She waves Brooke off again. “He was
already
colluding with Kavill, right? He just needed someone stupid enough to jump on his Prince Charming
hook
, then let him ride her right into the core of our kingdom.”

“Vy!” Brooke yells it now. “For shit sake!”

While I love my princess for her fury, I refuse to join it. The sixth sense is intense again, ordering me to stay focused, to consider my response—or even if I
should
answer. In the center of my mind’s eye, a perfect apple blooms to life.

A poison apple.

Do not bite. Do not bite
!

“I fell in love because I had no choice, Vy. Destiny did not give it to me.”

Right into the middle of the orchard
.

I do not care. I have no choice. Vylet has plunked Cassian into that orchard—and for him, I will walk into the mouth of hell.

At first, Vy say nothing. Actually appears ready for another hideous laugh, but instead opts for a small smile. A slow, savoring, confusing smile. “That so?” The matching murmur helps clear the fog. I have fed her exactly the words she wants. “Because he is your
soul mate
, right?” She inflects it in so many of the right places, it is clear she has rehearsed it. Has been waiting for exactly this moment. “Because he
knows
you
?”

“Yes.”
Shiny, pretty, poisoned fruit. Do. Not. Bite
! But I cannot let her continue—and she
will
continue—with conclusions she has twisted into the truth. The same fabricated lies the CIA found so easy to believe. “Yes. I fell in love with him for exactly those reasons—but for a thousand more as well.” I fully face her, even imitating her pose. To someone walking on the sand, we probably look like a pair of players from one of the video games Cassian and Doyle enjoy playing—but like a Mei and a Mercy, will we be able to regenerate after this? Will our friendship? “He is an extraordinary man, Vy. Yes, he is driven and determined, tireless and at times even ruthless. He is uncompromising about excellence—most of all, from himself—and passionate about his loyalties.” Firmed chin. Inflexible stare. The only ways to get through to her, it seems. “And yes, those loyalties now include Arcadia.”

I wish her snort of a laugh came as a shock. Sadly, it does not—though now, it is no longer frightening either.

I only feel…

Sad.

Mourning deep for the friendship she is so willing to push aside, in the name of targeting vengeance for Alak—proven clearly in her next sneered words.

“Oh, I am certain he
does
love Arcadia. And the zeroes in his bank account from it, as well.”

For the first time
ever
, I have to mentally order myself not to slap her. “Cassian Court is
not
a murderer!”

Secretly, I hope
she
resorts to physicality. I would gladly endure a slap, even a punch, for any proof of the firecracker formerly known as Vylet Hester. But she reverts into a ghost again, canting her head toward me with unearthly interest. A zombie, eyeing its next delicious feast.

“He is a killer, Mishella.”

Her whisper creeps into my very marrow. “You are
wrong,
Vy. You are so, so wrong!”

One side of her mouth quirks. Drops again—as her eyes thicken into dark purple pools. “He killed my
betranli
.”

“He killed nobody!”

“Be
quiet
, Brooke.”

“It is the truth.” I lunge, grabbing Vy again by the shoulder, compelling her to refocus on me. Why I am suddenly afraid for Brooke is a mystery I cannot ponder. Only taking action makes sense right now. “Cassian knew nothing about Kavill’s plot. There is
proof.
I have seen it.”

The little lip quirk again. Why is it more disturbing every time? “We are going to free you from him, Mishella.”

Dear. Creator.

That
is why.

I step back. Several inches to the right. Back toward the house.

Vy makes no move to follow—thank the saints. Not that I release a shred of my caution…my fear.

“‘We’…who?”

Nothing like pinning down the crux of the issue.