Into His Command (12 page)

I
nside a moment,
the air crackled once more. Sparked to life, breath-stealing and heart-stopping,
by the attraction I could no longer hide…by the desire he couldn’t cloak in return.
The electricity we’d denied for six damn years…and now would be fighting for the rest
of our lives. Before now, it had always been the erasable elephant in the room, explained
away as “leftover energy” from the unique circumstances of our first meeting. Now,
we couldn’t deny what that touch had really been.

Attraction.

Desire.

Destiny.

And like idiots, we’d thrown laser beams at that star, in the form of mind-altering
sex. Thinking we’d kill it. Instead, turning it supernova.

And blinding ourselves in the doing.

Blinded. Yes. It was as good an excuse as any for why I stood there with my underwear
at my ankles, my heart in my throat, and my gaze unable to tear from him, shirtless
and perfect, as he sucked in a long but strict breath. Let it out with equal brutality—before
turning to the en suite vanity to swipe a cloth beneath the faucet.

He closed the gap between us with silent, staunch steps. “Sit,” he directed, barely
giving it volume.

“Samsyn—” His head tilted, cutting me short. With a short fume, I obeyed. My face
burned again as he wiped my inner thighs, his enormous hands disguising infinite tenderness.
Or maybe he’d simply had a lot of practice.

I twisted my eyes shut.
No. Don’t go there
.

Too late.

“Dammit.” His hand stilled. “I
did
hurt you.”

I yanked the cloth from him. Hurled it across the room. Seethed out while jerking
my panties up, “Don’t. Dammit Syn, don’t you dare apologize for it. Not a moment of
it! All right?”

Remarkably, that seemed to register. He rose high enough to park himself on the ottoman
in front of the reading chaise, elbows braced to knees. “All right.”

I averted my gaze. I’d never get out of here with him so close and sinewy and huge.
Fortunately, my bra was nearby. “God forbid,” I muttered, jerking it over my head,
“that I become a burden, after all.”

Yeah, I deliberately threw down the throttle on the bitterness. Not completely fair,
making Syn take the brunt for words Jag had issued, but it wasn’t like he’d fought
Jag on them, either.

And you’d expected him to
?

Fact: Samsyn Cimarron wasn’t a one-woman man. Even two women. I didn’t want to consider
where that number ended, but his allergy to commitment was no state secret, clearly
growing stronger as the years passed.

Fact: The secrets Samsyn Cimarron
did
have, he kept close and tight. Had girded with extra force by choosing the role of
protecting Arcadia’s security. Nobody expected a man to speak much, when blades, bullets,
and his fists did most of the job already.

Fact: Facts one and two aside, Samsyn Cimarron was a heartbeat away from the Arcadian
throne. Technically, I was still American. The man wearing “the big crown” had already
bucked a dozen beloved traditions by selecting an American for his bride. If anything
ever happened to Evrest, Syn would never be forgiven for even having an American on
the side, let alone with him in public. Like I’d even be okay with “on the side”.
I had zilch experience with any of this, but instinct bellowed loud and clear: a mouthy
astremé
with working knowledge of nunchuks and throwing knives wasn’t likely to be okay with
watching her man nuzzle someone else in public.

He’s not your man. He won’t ever be.

And
that
was the most ultimate fact of all.

It was time to face it. To accept the achy, awful
yuck
of letting him go—as a lover, perhaps even as a friend. I didn’t know if I’d ever
be able to look at him again and not remember those lips crushed on my mouth…those
legs tangled through mine…those long fingers against my skin, and inside my most intimate
channel.

It hurt.

A lot.

Thank God I’d logged three years of hiding my deepest pain.

Minimizing was a great start. With terse jerks, I stuffed my breasts back into my
sports bra then layered the long-sleeved workout shirt on top. As I did, Syn finally
spoke again.

“How much did you overhear?”

Why he sounded so defeated about it was beyond me. “Does it matter?” I sighed.

“Probably not.”

I gazed at the top of his head, now dropped between his shoulders. Fought back the
urge to kneel beside him and run my fingers through those satiny strands once more.
“For the record, you held your own well in the pissing match, big guy.”

“
Merderim
,” he returned. “I think.” His sarcasm made us both laughs, a welcome ease on the
tension. But he was serious once more when going on. “Jagger was right…about the one
thing, though.”

“The one thing…what?”

“I should have stopped for a condom.”

I rolled my eyes. “I already told you, Syn. I’m on the pill, and—”

“It was irresponsible,” he snapped. “I was not thinking.” His hands coiled into fists.
“Dammit. I should have been
thinking.
”

“No. You were busy doing other things—like feeling. And making
me
feel.” I let temptation take over. Slipped to the floor in front of him, wrapping
a hand around one of his taut ones. “And it was all…amazing.”

He wrenched his face to the side. “I was…gone. Everything was…you.” His sentences
were almost questions, as if he couldn’t believe he uttered them. “I have never just
lost all thought like that—” He stabbed his other hand into his hair. “Fuck.”

I reached for that hand too. “Well, is that a bad thing?”

He still didn’t look at me. “I do not know.”

My grip slackened. His confusion scared me. Fury wasn’t far behind. “So you
are
sorry about it.”

His head jerked up. “I said nothing like that.”

I lurched to my feet. “You didn’t have to.”

“Brooke!” His shout followed me out into the sitting room, where I was forced to return
to the rotunda—avoiding any glance at the windows this time—to retrieve my boots.
Fortunately, it looked like Jagger had bought a clue and made himself scarce. “Brooke.
Dammit!”

I whirled. Made a barefooted break for the stairs—until stopped by a wall of bronze
muscle. I closed my eyes, refusing to look at him. Scent wasn’t so easy to shut off.
My lungs, heaving in and out, filled my senses with his earthy, leathery essence until
I got dizzy. Uncontrollably, I swayed toward him.

I wanted him…

But you don’t need him.

Empowered, I pushed back. Planted both feet. Forced my head up until I looked at him
fully again.

And gulped back a sigh at his carved, swarthy jaw.

Clenched back the craving to fist his thick, dark hair.

Trembled against the pull his whole body had on mine, like the moon beckoning to the
damn tide.

“Samsyn.” It had twice the volume I’d anticipated. And four times the desperation.
“Just let me go!”

He grabbed me by both elbows. Dipped his head, making sure every drop of fire in his
gaze penetrated into mine. I took a deep breath. Let him do the same. We stared at
each other, letting our hands fall and twine together, as everything filled our silence
except our words. A flock of birds splashed across the lake. Morning wind rushed by
the windows. Creatures in the trees chittered and scrambled and foraged, rustling
branches as they went.

A pair of hearts cried out, struggling to find their way to each other.

But once more, were lost

Blinded by the supernova.

Crushed…by the facts.

I stepped back. Samsyn yanked me back in, grinding his forehead against mine. A rush
of air left him, hot and desperate, though turned oddly cool when hitting the wet
streaks down my cheeks.

He tilted his head. Let his mouth find the way to mine.

I wrenched free. He snarled. I matched it.

“Brooke.” It was a raw command.

“Samsyn.” It was a rasping plea.

“We cannot leave things like this.”

“We
have
to leave things like this.”

With that, I pushed away—

Knowing there was no other way to say it. Or do it.

‡

“M
y lady, you
are stunning!”

“Ah, indeed! Like a true princess.”

“Like a true
queen
.”

“Ah, indeed!”

If I weren’t wearing a dress costing as much as a car, I would’ve puked all over the
silver gems sewn into the overlay of its voluminous blue-black skirt. Orielle Preetsok
and her little
bonami
, Freya Lyte, had apparently—and conveniently—forgotten every pro-Pura rant they’d
gleefully exchanged over the last five days.

Funny, how a royal entourage changed things—and how quickly their passions had flipped
as soon as Camellia Saxon asked them to be her “local stylists” for the royal ball.
As soon as Camellia started talking bullshit like local flowers, traditional hairstyles,
and appropriate shoes for a party in a cave, the two women were squealing putty in
her royal hands.

Lady Camellia, one.

Local bimbos, zero.

I’d indulged a silent gloat-fest on Camellia’s behalf.

Eight hours later, I was
very
much done.

If either girl kissed the future queen’s ass any deeper, I’d be searching for a crowbar
to pry them out of her sphincter. Considering how Camellia been sewn into her seafoam
green, one-shouldered gown—literally—I was fairly sure the action wouldn’t be appreciated.

At least I wasn’t alone in the snark. Every few minutes, a face would appear from
the adjoining bedroom. Jet black curls. Wide doll eyes. The factors instantly gave
away the spy, though Jayd Cimarron wasn’t the sort to care. She was officially in
hiding tonight, a staged pout in protest of Samsyn keeping her from the ball, though
her fascination about Camellia’s new “friends” was just as grotesque as mine. She
eyed them carefully as her ladyship twirled in front of the three-way mirror, making
the dress’s bell skirt flare.

“Gorgeous!”

“Indeed!”

“It wouldn’t be half as pretty without your help.” Camellia turned from the three-way
mirror in the corner of the cream and green bedroom, smiling at her two new friends.
While they both already had makeup on, Orielle’s in shades of burgundy and Freya’s
in lighter peach tones, they both still wore dressing robes, since preparing Camellia
was the priority of the evening. There was no such thing as “fashionably late” for
the party’s honoree. “The laurel mixed with the mint leaves is perfect,” Camellia
went on, touching the fresh flowers woven into her intricate up-do. “And Ori, awesome
call on going more delicate with the jewelry.”

“Indeed!” Freya pushed it from a gritted smile, while her eyes betrayed a revenge
plot on her parents for naming her something that couldn’t be shortened to anything
cute. “And…errrr…do you like the shoes
I
lent you, m’lady?”

I struggled not to roll my eyes. Was delighted when Jayd took care of the task for
me.

“Like them?” Camellia yanked up the poof of her skirt. “Hell no, girlfriend. I
love
them. So comfy, too.” She lifted a foot, ensconced in one of the cream ballerina
flats Freya had often called her “ugly stompers”. Probably not after tonight.

“Okay, fashion fairies.” Camellia pulled the two girls off the bed, into a three-way
hug. “I’m officially ready for the ball and you aren’t, so shoo. Go make yo’selves
fleek and fly.”

As they stepped back, I yearned for a camera. Orielle and Freya, openly confused.
This was a first. Perhaps an only. Though I was just as baffled by Camellia’s slang,
I yearned to preserve the moment for posterity.

Jayd to the rescue. With surprising stealth, she whipped her phone around the corner,
tapping the screen to get some non-flash shots. Suddenly, there was a stab inside
my cheek. Was that my teeth, biting down to keep in a giggle?

Surprise set in—a delightful version of the stuff. Laughter hadn’t been my closest
pal this week. Feeling anything in general hadn’t been. The circumstances that had
brought the anomaly—and Samsyn and me to this mansion at all—were, thankfully, its
cure as well. Throwing myself into the logistics drills for the royal visit, along
with volunteering for decorating and cleaning details, had reduced me to exhausted
putty every night. For a few blissful hours, I could then count on a few hours of
dreamless sleep.

When I did dream, it was only of one person. And one perfect night. The moon glow
across his body. The need in his eyes. The ache in his whispers. The bond of his soul
to mine.

The connection I’d never thought possible.

If there was an “up” side to those damn dreams, I’d cling to nothing less than that.

Though dammit, the dreams weren’t all I clung to. Because they weren’t just dreams.
They were memories.

And now, I
really
couldn’t let go of Samsyn Cimarron.