Into His Command (22 page)

“They shot you.” The words were sparse chokes, as if he could barely speak them. “Those
bonsuns
…
shot
you.” His jaw went taut beneath his beard. His gaze changed, showing me the horror
of his memories. “I charged into that room, expecting to secure everything…and all
I saw was
you
, Brooke, bleeding on the floor. I…could not think. I…could barely walk. Blood…all
your blood…so much of it…and then you were so cold, and then you were just
gone
—”

“I only passed out, big guy.” It was a whisper. I couldn’t manage anything else. My
livid rage had melted right into a lovesick puddle. How the
hell
did he do this to me? Without a backward glance, I’d plunged off the bungee bridge
again.

“Facts like that are not relevant to a man who refuses to think,
astremé
.” His head shook slowly. “And I—it was if you took my mind with you. I only wanted
you back. Needed you calling me ‘sweet’, and teasing me about my damn teeth…”

Watery laugh. “You really do have nice teeth.”

He pushed in tighter.
All
of him now. Dropped his forehead against mine. Curled our hands together, and mushed
them between our chests. “You were gone. I was helpless. I could do nothing…but shake
like a fucking junkie.”

I sucked in a ragged breath. As he let one out.

Swallowed hard. As he did.

Lifted our twined hands. Pressed a kiss to his knuckles…the same way his formed over
mine. Our gazes meshed over that intimate clasp…bound in connection, in affirmation…in
anguished acceptance of what this closeness was about to bring. We were as helpless
to stop it as the gusting wind outside, as stars tumbling from the sky above that.
That had to be the explanation for this: two stupid stars, escaping from heaven, hiding
from the gods inside our souls…and making our hearts pay the miserable, beautiful
price.

With a tight moan, he pushed a knuckle between my lips.

With a high sigh, I let him.

Welcomed him.

Kissed him back, as he replaced that finger with his mouth. His tongue. His heat.
Let him take me. Enflame me. Fulfill me.

Then matched his moan, pleading for even more…

just like a junkie getting her fix.

‡

W
hen he finally
pulled away, even more torment grooved his face. “
Brooke
.” And he shook again, like the oak with a bulldozer beneath, fighting to stay rooted
in place.

My heart cracked. I grabbed the back of his neck, forcing him to look at me. “Here.
I’m right here.” I returned his hand to my sternum. Though every movement was a small
physical agony, it was worse to watch
his
suffering: a reprise of that battle I could no more help with than understand. The
only thing I could do was exactly what I’d said. Be here.

As he drew in more air, his fingers stilled on my skin. But as he let it out, he spread
those strong tips…sliding them under my cami.

Up my breast.

Over my nipple.

Heated gasp. Aching groan. I gave him both as he lowered his head, then tongued my
bottom lip. Sighed in throaty need as he bit his way along the top one. When he shifted
his touch, caressing over to the other breast, I could no longer hold in my full cry.
I clawed the back of his scalp—and surged the soaked core of my body against the erect
ridge of his.

Blowing wind.

Falling rain.

Doomed stars.

Inevitable. Inescapable.

If I hadn’t known it before, the new surge of his tongue vanquished the doubt. I let
him in, surrendering and melting, vanquishing him in return. Stabbed my tongue harder,
sucking him in, never wanting to let go, despite his conflicted groan.

“Don’t stop.” It was a junkie’s pathetic plea. I didn’t care. “God, Syn…don’t stop.”

That sound from his chest turned into a full rumble. “Fuck.” Dissolved into a broken
growl, as his other hand worked between my thighs. “
Fuck
. Brooke.”

I rocked into his touch. “Touch me. I need it. I need
you
.”

The hand between my breasts was splayed and taut. “I can feel your heart.”

“You
have
my heart. You know that, Samsyn. You
know
that.”

He raised his head. His expression was primal, possessive…breath­taking. I absorbed
it, letting him do the same. I smiled as he did, heady from a new realization. This
was what the torment was for. This was the treasure worth the hunt, the rainbow worth
the storm, the connection worth the pain. The heaven worth the hell.

He dipped his hand to the flesh beneath my panties.

“Oh!”

His eyes darkened. His lower lip vanished beneath his teeth.

As he penetrated me at once.

One finger. Two. Three.

My head fell back. So did my good arm, securing me to the counter as his fingers fucked
in, over and over, spiraling my senses toward ultimate surrender. The whole time,
I didn’t stop staring at him. As if he’d allow it. His face was complete command,
utter beauty. Determined breaths punched from his lips. Hard lines defined his jaw.
Feral focus dictated every inch of his movements—including his tighter hold against
my chest.

“Every beat,” he grated. “Still mine.”

“Yes.” I nearly sobbed it. “Yours.”

He twisted his lower hand. Raked his thumb through the soaked folds of my pussy. “And
every throb of this sweet cunt?”

“Shit!”

“That was not an answer,
astremé
.”

“Yes!” I blurted. “Yes,
yes
, okay? Yours. It’s…all…yours. Always, Samsyn. Always.”

“Yes.” His echo was a seductive sibilance, trailed along my forehead as he pushed
in deeper, filling me with those long, glorious fingers, drowning every other thought
in my head, every other sensation in my body. “You give me so much.” His dry whisper
was a clutching contrast to the wet slicks of his fingers. “You gasp for me. Cry for
me. Even bleed for me. My sweet Brooke. My beautiful Brooke.” He pulled back, staring
in full again, though the path of his gaze was aimless…lost. “You almost make me…”
He gulped hard. Fucked me deeper. “Dammit. You almost make me believe.”

I gazed at him harder.
Much
harder. Pounding the question my lips should’ve been forming—if my mouth was able
to function. But the man had dropped his hugest bomb on my brain while lighting the
biggest detonation to my body. One perfect swipe of his thumb, and I was a blinding,
blissful blast. I screamed as the violence took over. It upended my world. Convulsed
my body. Annihilated my senses.

Searing my heart.

“Samsyn!”

“Yes,
astremé
.” It was more than just his response to my scream. It was a stamp of his surety,
his possession, his seal of utter protectiveness. The control he needed, as necessary
as blood in his veins and air in his lungs. And right now, I needed it too. Clutched
its strength around me, to form the words I longed—
needed
—to say.

“I love you.”

To my shock, his composure didn’t falter.

Not instantly.

In another minute, his hands stilled. His entire body followed. His face took longer,
transitioning slowly from desire to shock—to what looked like complete dread.

“Shit.” I let my good hand drop. Wasn’t I the ideal emotional bartender tonight?
One awesome moment killer, coming right up.

“Brooke—”

His strangled growl made me grimace. “Forget it. Let’s hit the delete key, okay? Heat
of the moment. You know how it goes.”

I sat up straighter. Once more, my left arm announced itself in torturous Technicolor.
I should’ve been enjoying the freedom—there was likely a sling in my future, and I
wasn’t going to like that fucker one bit—but at the moment, was certain that discomfort
wouldn’t top this. My stomach churned. My head throbbed. And again, my heart hurt.

Please God, let there be some obliterating pain killers in my near future.

Though the man in front of me looked dead-set on keeping me from them.

“Syn. Dammit…let me up.”

“Brooke—”

“
Stop
.” It was guttural and violent—and made me feel no better.

He pulled me forward. Dropped his face into my hair. “I need you to understand—”

“Understand?” I barely felt the pain while shoving against his chest. Hardly noticed
the heat of my tears—at least on my skin. “Understand
what
? Dammit, Samsyn! What the
fuck
is haunting you like this?”

I didn’t have to push him back any farther. He created the distance himself, stumbling
back. Raked ragged fingers down his face. “
Créacu, yardim met
.”

Creator, help me.

And just like that, I was a puddle again. Sobbing as much for him as me again. Reaching
for him again.

My fingers trembled, too. “Let me in, Samsyn. Dammit, you have to let
someone
in.”

He dropped his head. His shoulders fell. With more staggering steps, he turned from
me. A long minute passed. Even the wind didn’t rustle the air. Into that eerie stillness,
he finally spat his reply.

“Letting someone in. Is that not simply another phrase for invasion?”

Before I could address the first fucked-up thing about that statement, let alone the
four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine behind it, the universe decided to conspire
with the man. Literally.

The brief but deafening blare of a security alarm.

The
tweep-tweeps
as it was disabled.

Stomps and grunts. Swearing and shouts.

Syn spun back around. Locked a stunned stare with mine. “What the—”

He was sliced short by a bellow, filling the building from below with an authority
I knew all too well. The voice that’d issued me orders on the training mat for the
last three years.

“Syn!”

I slid off the counter and narrowed eyes at Samsyn. “Didn’t you say Jag was in Sancti?”

“He is.” He snatched a hair tie from the counter and bundled his waves into it. “He
was.
” Two seconds later, he was halfway across the bedroom. “Creator’s cock. This is
not
right.”

I said nothing. It’d be restating his words. The obvious both our guts had already
known.

And now, the full-blown dread overtaking mine—when I detected a distinct element among
the frantic voices below.

A female.

Not just any female.

“Camellia!”

I peered around for my own clothes. Finding nothing, I yanked open a drawer in the
dresser, finding a pair of drawstring workout shorts. They were Samsyn-sized—giving
me two strings as long as my arms to fumble with.

Not nearly the hassle of contending with his you’ve-grown-two-heads glare. “What the
hell do you think—”

“Shut up,” I flung. “And let’s go.”

“Dammit, woman—”

“I’m not your ‘woman’, Samsyn Cimarron. We just went over that part, remember?” I
chucked my chin higher. “So what’s it going to be? Letting me in,”—I stabbed the center
of his chest—“or letting me out?” Jerked my head toward the door, brows arching in
triumph. The man’s answer already fumed across his face.

Sure enough, Syn pivoted without tossing so much as a glance at me. Yanked open the
door and stomped out, the dragon forced to stow his fire.

I didn’t waste time gloating—and damn well
not
on remorse. A gut-deep instinct already told me there’d be no time for either.

‡

“H
oly. Shit.”

The gasp didn’t emanate from Samsyn. It spurted from me—before we were even halfway
down the wide stone stairwell. I was surprised even that made it free, considering
the chaos spread out below.

Few other descriptors fit. I stopped as Samsyn did, fighting to accept the reality
of it.

Jagger, his hair windblown and his face grimy, looked like he’d stepped in from a
war zone. Grahm appeared even worse. A huge gash in his pants exposed the caked blood
of a thigh wound. His hair, normally locked into a ponytail tighter than a cheerleader’s,
hung in a sweaty, tangled mess.