Into His Command (2 page)

“OMG, what a book! This author pours her heart and soul into her books. You can just
feel it.”

—
Kimmie Sue’s Book Reviews

ABOUT THE SECRETS OF STONE

(WRITTEN WITH VICTORIA BLUE)

“Blue and Payne have a style that is like smooth whiskey…goes down hot and lingers
for a while.”

—
The Jeep Diva

“Completely sigh-worthy…the heat they generated could have caused fissures to erupt
in the earth’s core. An enjoyable read that makes us believe fairy tales very well
could come true.”

—
The Romance Reviews

“It’s romantic, it’s beautiful, and Mr. Stone is incredibly swoon-worthy. I devoured
this book in one night.”

—
Shayna Renee’s Spicy Reads

“A whopper of a read. There’s everything in this book to keep the reader hooked, And
the description of THAT kiss…ohh, la!”

—
Noble Book Reviews

“Exceeded my expectations. I was surprised at how emotional I became while reading
the book. I was able to connect so much to these characters that I was concerned for
their welfare. 5 bright and shining stars.”

—
A Thousand Lives Book Blog

“An OMG page-turner that will blow your mind. I loved every minute!”

—
Paranormaly Yours Reviews

“Payne and Blue have taken the traditional fairy tale romance and made it perfect
for our generation to dream and strive for. Thank you for a Cinderella we can all
be proud of and a prince to rival all princes!”

—
The Book Fairy

“WOW. This book. Part of me doesn’t have words. I really enjoyed this.”

—
Twin Opinions Reviews

“This book is fantastic! Blue and Payne play off one another so well. The sex is off
the charts, the banter is awesome; I couldn’t stop reading.”

—
Niki’s Book Addiction

“GREAT read!”

—
Book Boyfriend Hangover

“A MUST READ. Total hotness right from the start. This story had me laughing and crying;
prepare your emotions for a ride. Highly recommended.”

—
Radical Reads Book Blog

“I will be thinking about this story long after I put it down.”

—
Sizzling Hot Books

“A can’t-put-it-down read…well-written with suspense, humor, and lots of dirty bedroom
talk. It won’t let you go!”

—
DRC Blog

“Very well-written…great chemistry…a book that will leave you wanting more.”

—
Battery-Operated Book Blog

“Sweet. Funny. Quirky. Angsty. Sexy. A different change of pace…but easy to follow.”

—
Renee Entress’s Blog

‡

“H
appy birthday, Prince
Samsyn.”

The curvy blonde batted her big brown eyes, curled her full dark lips then opened
her purple satin robe.

She was naked underneath. As he had expected.

His body responded with cold nothingness. As he had also expected.

It was almost midnight. He had officially been twenty-one years old for four hours.

He felt older.

So much older.

Officially, the world was now supposed to be his—how did they say it in America, those
“crazy kids” who would be his peers, if he lived there?—his bitch. Yes. That was it.
The world was now his bitch, ready to be molded to his will, commanded at his whim.
The Ferrari, McLaren, and Jaguar in the garage downstairs would help him do it faster.
When he was done, he could return to this twelve-room suite, on the top floor of a
palace, with just as many servants to see to his every desire. He could relax on his
own terrace, with a view of the Mediterranean arguably better than that of the king’s.

Best aspect of that? He
wasn’t
the king. On the island of Arcadia, where the twentieth and twenty-first centuries
balanced on an interesting teeter-totter, second in line to the throne meant the best
of both worlds. All the fun, none of the responsibility.

Or so they said.

Somebody forgot to let fate in on that joke.

As fate liked reminding him, with floods of glee, during moments like this.

He eyed the nude beauty over the rim of the scotch she’d brought. From the moment
she entered, he’d known the expensive liquor was just the beginning of Father’s “extra”
birthday gift. His gut still roiled because of it. He had nearly taken the bottle
then tossed out the woman, but what if Father’s minions were watching, ensuring she
performed the assignment? He hated how much that made sense.

The scotch bloomed to a burn throughout his mouth and throat. He yearned for the warmth
to seep lower, into the ice between his thighs. By the Creator, how he craved just
an hour of turning his mind off for the throes of a good fuck—but tonight, it simply
was not to be.

Tonight, he could take the hypocrisy no more. The sham of a birthday party Father
and Mother had thrown for him, with that room full of people—his brothers and sister
included—gazing at King Ardent and Queen Xaria like they were the couple who damn
near walked on the sea outside the windows. Like they adored each other as much as
they did their beautiful children. Like they couldn’t wait to end the party and be
in private chambers with each other—instead of Mother summoning the pool boy between
her thighs, and Father—

Well…Father liked to have choices.

A fact Samsyn should have been more peaceful with by now. He certainly had not discovered
the sham yesterday, after all. Three years was a long damn time to live with lies.

Yes. He was old.

And angry.

And tired.

And needing to forget.

Praying to forget.

He took a bigger gulp of the scotch. It loosened him enough to speak to the woman.

“What is your name?”

She blushed prettily. “Arista, Your Highness.”

“You are lovely, Arista.”

“
Merderim
, Highness.”

“Did my father say the same thing when he fucked you?”

She confirmed his suspicion as soon as her gaze dove for the floor. She feigned insult.
“I—I cannot—”

“Cover yourself, Arista.” The patience in his tone only came from clenching his teeth.
“You are not to be blamed for wanting to make your king happy.”

She softly stepped closer. “I would greatly enjoy the chance to do the same for my
prince.” Slid between his legs. Guided his touch to her naked hip. Before Samsyn could
process a protest, she knelt and pressed her mouth to his groin.

He shoved to his feet. Released a ruthless growl. “I said cover yourself.” A deep
breath reined his rage back in. “You can stay the night, Arista,” he muttered wearily.
“The scum who sired me does not have to know we never fucked.”

Her tiny sob sliced the air. “You are a good man, Prince Samsyn. Honorable and decent
and—”

He interrupted her by hurling his glass against the hearth.

As drops of liquor sprayed, the flames hissed and spat like fuming demons. Perfect.
Fucking perfect.

Honorable. Decent.

He was anything but either. Hiding his parents’ filthy secrets, even from his siblings,
had changed him. Tainted him in ways that would never be clean again.

Aged him.

A shrill ring blared through the room. His cell phone. The ring for his most private
number, designated as his
must answer
tone. Tonight, he’d never been more thankful for it.

“What?” He gave no further greeting. It would either be Tryst or Cullen on the line,
considering the late hour and the number of pissed-drunk mates he had stepped over
when exiting the birthday party an hour ago.

“Highness.” The deep timbre was all Tryst. The formality was not. Samsyn’s skin pricked,
not all in a bad way. “Your father begs your pardon for interrupting your birthday
celebration—”

“Debatable,” he snarled, knowing Tryst understood. The man only looked like a dumb
giant. T had seen and heard enough to deduce the truth about the king and queen on
his own. “What is it?”

“He requests your personal attention…to something.”

“All right.” He gave it too eagerly but didn’t care. The hook was out of his mouth.
No lies would be necessary about how he had handled the situation with Arista.

“We have…a delicate situation.”

He almost laughed. Tryst and the word
delicate
were hardly a logical match. “Creator’s fucking toes, T.” When no commiserating snicker
came from his friend, he paced off his disconcertment—and dread—by walking out to
the terrace. “Has the
éslik
gotten some poor thing pregnant?”

“No.” Finally, there was a laugh in the man’s voice—though the next moment, he went
straight back to cryptic. “But you had best get here, anyway.”

“Good enough.” He looked out to the darkness of the sea, ordering it to yield Tryst’s
non-existent details. No such luck. “‘Here’ being where?”

“The airport.”

“The
airport
?”

“Your Highness, with all due respect, just get your ass over here.”

*

“Un-fucking-believable.”

Sometimes, the raw fury of English profanity was a preferable choice to Arcadian.
This was absolutely one of those occasions.

Samsyn was tempted to repeat it, but Tryst’s grunt covered the debt. The big soldier,
braced against a palm tree just outside the island’s small airport terminal, folded
his meaty arms across his chest. A night breeze kicked against the man’s thick black
hair. Technically, it was an early morning wind—though two a.m. qualified as an excusable
gray area.

“They
lost
Rune Kavill? One of the world’s most despicable terrorists, in one of the world’s
most high-security prisons—”

“Escaped out the garbage chute. Three days ago.” T uttered it like he was merely relaying
his dog’s latest stupid stunt. Samsyn didn’t blame him for the mental disconnect.
Tryst’s sanity likely hinged on it, instead of admitting that the terrorist who’d
blown up his mother and sister had broken free by blending in with prison trash. Irony
was too ridiculous a word for this circus—especially when the ringmaster himself had
wasted no time rubbing everyone’s noses in its stench.

“Let me get this completely right,” Samsyn stated. “Now the monster has targeted Senator
Chase Valen—and his family.”

“To phrase it mildly.”

Another wry quip. T’s tone contrasted the images on the smart pad in Samsyn’s grip.
“By the Creator,” he spat. Image after image of violent destruction filled the screen,
depicting what once had been a two-story home, in an American neighborhood of manicured
lawns and sprawling driveways. “Chase Valen is a good man. He championed the worldwide
manhunt for that fuck. Went to the Hague to make sure Kavill received full justice.”

“And his family nearly paid the ultimate price.”

Syn’s finger froze over a picture. A close-up of some items in the rubble of the Valen
family home. Smashed dishes, charred curtains…

And a jewelry box.

It was clearly from a girl’s room. Lockets and baubles spilled from it, though oddly,
the mirror in its lid had remained intact—along with the tiny ballerina on a spring,
poised to pop up when the box’s lid was opened. The dancer turned, too. A pirouette
set to
Für Elise
, if it was like the box Jayd possessed in her room.

What would he do if his sister were ever subjected to a horror like this?

Feelings pushed up through him. Hot. Vicious. Protective. Prompting a question. “How
old?”

Tryst frowned. “Who? What?”

“Valen’s children. A boy and a girl, yes? Brooke and Dillon? How old are they?”

“Both just turned eighteen.”

“Twins?”

“No. They are from separate marriages. Valen’s first wife died in an auto accident
when his girl was a baby. He remarried a year later. The children have grown up together.
They are close.”

“So the king has known them their whole lives.” Things were easier, saying it that
way.
My father
pulled everything in too close. The dirt. The lies. The secrets.