Pretty Perfect Toy -- A Temptation Court Novel (Temptation Court, Book 2) (33 page)

“You’re going to have to kill me for it?”

I mock-smack him in the jaw. “Can we
please
stop jesting about your death like it is dryer lint?”

Damon chuckles in agreement, though winces as a finish. I weather another wave of remorse, viewing what damage Cassian managed to inflict on him, before remembering the man has actually survived death already. “Maybe the best way to rectify that is to start at the beginning,” he suggests.

“After we get some ice on your face,” I counter.

“Not
too
much ice,” Cassian quips. “I sort of like being the prettier one for once.”

Damon snorts. “Oh, you were
always
the prettier one, honey.”

“Shut it, douche bag.”

“Just help me up, sweet pea.”

And I am unable to hold back the fresh sting behind my eyes, as I watch Cassian reach out to his brother…

and hold on tight.

*

Cassian

Okay, so this
isn’t the craziest day of my life.

Who the hell am I kidding?

It’s the craziest fucking day of my life.

I shake my head while finally letting myself sit again. Ella remains pressed to my side, where she’s been every second since I decided to hear Damon out instead of killing him, and I gratefully tug her close. Right now, she’s the only thing resonating as real in all this. Maybe I really
am
going to wake up next to her any second, watching the sunlight play through her curls before I rouse her with a soft kiss, a hard fuck, then the insane details of this dream…

So get this,
armeau.
I dreamed Damon was alive, and told me he faked his own death to protect Mom and me from a drug cartel, before taking a new name to work for the CIA. He came out of hiding because he discovered a new threat—to Arcadia. Terrorists were posing as contractors for the new infrastructure projects for Court Enterprises, and he needed to warn me, so…

“So what happens next?” She asks it with her head against a pillow—just not the right one. Doesn’t stop the sight of her from sucking the breath from my lungs, as her hair fans over the tapestry pattern of the hotel’s decorative bolster. With one hand wrapped around my knee and the other assisting in her question of Damon, it’s almost as if we’re sitting in the den at Temptation, and Damon’s just relaying the plot of a good spy movie.

The only thing missing now…is Mom.

And a completely different set of circumstances.

Not so goddamn dangerous ones.

Damon plants his stance on both long legs. I’m struck anew by how little he’s changed, but how
everything
has changed. He’s just a couple of inches taller than he was at sixteen, though now buffed-out as hell. His skin glows with health, instead of the pasty paleness that once broadcasted his drug addiction. And he’s still an arrogant sonofabitch, despite the bruises from the blows I inflicted.

I’m not sorry for them either.

I’m also not sorry that I didn’t kill him.

I was prepared to, though. I couldn’t see past the rage, or through fourteen years of accumulated loneliness and heartbreak. Seeing him in the flesh had triggered shock, betrayal, and insult topped only by the moment Lily committed suicide before my eyes. I’d wanted Damon to pay. Parts of me still do, even after hearing his story about what happened at the hands of Santiago Noriega, who remains a key nemesis in the global drug wars even now. Doing business across the globe means having to be aware of that kind of filth too.

Which leads back to the present issue.

The projects on Arcadia.

And the fact that two-thirds of my vendor list has to be tossed out.

“What
does
happen now?” I echo Ella’s question, unnerved that I don’t have even the beginnings of an answer myself. “I’ve already got materials ordered…project managers working with locals on the island…” How many of them can be trusted now?
Who
among them is really a puppet for Rune Kavill, and what kind of violence might he be planning as we speak, not only for Arcadia but the whole Mediterranean region?

Damon slants a determined stare. “Crazy as this sounds, you remain at business-as-usual, brother.”

“
What
?” Ella pushes up, gaze glittering. “That monster’s minions might be running around on Arcadia as we speak—”

“In disguise,” Damon prompts, spreading both hands. “They have to lay low too. They’re not going to just storm the Palais—”

“Like they did less than six months ago?” she retorts. “Breaking in on Queen Camellia in her private chambers—before they took Brooke Cimarron hostage?
That
kind of laying low?”

“Which means they won’t get so bold again. Not right away.”

“Damon’s right.” I endure her—
and
Damon’s—stunned stares while leaning forward, squaring my posture into the all-business he’s asking for. “I’m sorry,
armeau
.” I reach for her hand, encouraged when she lets me hang on. “But he is. If I start pulling contracts right and left, that’ll throw up red flags. They’ll know we’re onto their game.”

Her nose crunches. “And puts you right into their path.”

I stroke across her knuckles before lifting them to my lips. For a respite of a moment, I let myself swim in the azure seas of her eyes. “Now I’m
really
glad I asked you to blow up that contract and stay longer.”

Doyle yanks me out of the water with his I’m-not-really-coughing cough. Too late. Damon is already shooting a look of strange curiosity. “Contract?” he demands. “What the—”

“Yes, well.” Ella scoops up her phone and flits to her feet, distracting everyone by whirling her hair and dress with the ease of a model in a shampoo ad. “I still owe my parents
that
particular update. Excuse me for a moment?” Before Damon can get in another word, she’s disappeared into the suite’s second bedroom.

Before she can fully unlock her phone once she’s there, I’ve joined her.

And shut the door. And locked it.

And pulled her to the bed. And down into a long, wet, I-need-you-more-than-air kiss. In response, she moans into my mouth, tangles her fingers in my hair, and fits her body to mine in all the best, curviest places. I accept every scintilla of her passion, letting her magic drench me, devour me, control me. Though my jewels are on her wrist,
she
is the one who holds
me
captive—and I never want to be set free.

Many minutes later, I finally let her pull away a little. With hooded eyes and a sultry smile, she traces the edges of my mouth with the oval of one fingernail. “Hmmm. I like what sibling rivalry does to you, Mr. Court.”

I let her emphasize that with a brush of her lips, answering with a long, rough purr. “Thank fuck you stepped in when you did. The punches for touching you would’ve been twice as hard.”

“
Cassian.
” She jabs a soft knee into my ribs. “He was a gentleman. Always.”

“I know,” I console. “I know. But if he
had
—”

“
Aggghh
.” The knee thrusts harder. I laugh softly.

“Didn’t you come in here for a reason?” Time to change the subject before I switch it up by myself—like conjuring an excuse to lift her skirt, shove aside her panties, and get inside her while my brother, my valet, and my houseman listen enviously from the next room. “Something about a text to your mom and dad…?”

She huffs. Rolls her eyes. But finally mutters, “Yes. Regrettably. I updated them briefly once we decided to appear on Chantal’s show, but was vague about how.”

I scowl. “And they didn’t blow up your phone
after
we went on?” More importantly, they didn’t blast her about how the whole damn thing ended?

“Surprisingly, no—but that was likely because the media sentiment swayed with
you
.” She punctuates with a soft snarl. “As it should have. Chantal pulled a smarmy move, and everyone knows it.”

“I’m also a little protective, and everyone knows it.”

“And everyone
loves
you for it.” She wriggles closer, turning up her face with that corner lip bite that makes me a little crazier for her with every new incarnation. “My passionate, neurotic warrior.”

I dip in. Am unable to resist tasting her again. “Neurotic warrior. Hmmm.
That
ought to go over well with
Maimanne
and
Paipanne
.”

She giggles. “Definitely.”

I brush some curls off her face…and let a rush of instinct rise within me. Higher. Stronger. Guiding words out of me that I’ve not expected…but feel so damn right.

“You know what might go over better?”

“What?”

“‘Neurotic fiancé.’”

Heavy blink. Complete stillness. I’m not even sure she’s breathing, until a deep gulp moves down her throat. “Wh-what?”

I let a smile rise up, originating from the depths of my heart. Gather a handful of her soft, golden curls in my hand, making sure her gaze is subject to the full intent of mine…all the love inside me…all the completion my soul will know with no one else…

“Mishella DaLysse Santelle, I want you become Mishella DaLysse Court. To be with me forever. To keep saving my ridiculous life…so I can keep owing you every inch of my heart…my body…my spirit.”

“Cassian. I—”

“I already know your heart belongs to me.” I lift my fingertips to her jaw, running them over that proud angle…the outline of the face I now know I cannot live without. “And I already know your soul won’t be so easy, because part of it belongs to Arcadia. Well, now part of mine does too.” I answer her questioning gape with a resolved nod. “This craziness Damon has presented, making me reevaluate and rethink all the projects we have there, has made me realize they aren’t just ‘projects’ anymore. I care about making things right in Arcadia…for you.
With
you.”

She answers that with a high gasp. A joyous sigh. An excited little nod—before the fervent, passionate press of her lips and the sweet, salty flow of her tears, melding her heat and her life and her love into me—

Until the door to the living room is nearly unhinged from the beats of an urgent knock.

We break apart. Sit up on the bed.

“
What
?” I bark.

“Put your clothes on.” Doyle’s bellow is no-nonsense. “And get your ass out here.”

Something in the timber of his voice sparks me to move faster than usual. Ella clearly detects the same urgency. She has herself righted and out the door before me—

Making me regret instantly that I let her win the race.

Just steps into the living room, she halts on a horrified cry. It’s layered by the most stunned version of the
f
word that’s ever left my lips. Hodge and Doyle are on my train, gritting the word as well. The only silent person in the room is my brother. The grim line of his mouth and the terse set of his shoulders surpasses the boundary of words—perhaps the most fitting reaction to what we witness on the huge TV monitor on the wall.

The Grand Sancti Bridge, connecting the two halves of Arcadia’s capital city over the wide Mousselayan River, is one of the architectural icons Arcadia got right the
first
time, an engineering triumph as well as an artistic jaw-dropper. Its soaring towers were designed to resemble a pair of flying dragons, named Pan and Faunus after the Greek and Roman versions of the god who lived in the mythological version of Arcadia. They were constructed with massive sheet metal “wings” that would balance on the wind to emulate flight—

Right now, only one of those dragons flies over the river.

The other is slowly sinking into it.

Along with half the bridge.

TGN’s live feed is dominated by shades of yellow, red, and black—the flames engulfing one end of the bridge. In a corner of the screen is the slow-motion explanation for the disaster: a detonation in the center of the expanse that cannot be interpreted as anything but a purposeful act of violence.

In TGN’s give-us-the-ratings style, the replay of the explosion isn’t edited. At least a dozen men, all in Arcadian security forces uniforms, are thrown high into the air—then into the river’s churning waters. Several more fall directly in, already hopelessly incinerated.

“Oh…
Creator
!” Ella sags against me, grief claiming her like an earthquake, buckling her body as her spirit falls apart. I hang on tight, knowing the worst hasn’t even hit her. But as soon as it does—

“
Saynt
.”

Yeah. There it is.

She grips my shirt with strength only possible from pure fear, her eyes wide and white, her lips dripping with tears.

“Saynt! No! Oh, Saynt!”

“Her brother,” I explain to Damon.

“He serves?” he inquires.

I get out half a nod before her phone blares from the bed where we were just kissing in joy. I pray, with everything in me that still believes in that shit, that the karma from
that
moment continues.

Doyle brings her the device, still rocking with Patrick Stump’s voice. With a shriek I can’t define as happy or crushed, she punches it to speaker mode.

“S-Saynt?
Saynt
? Dear Creator, p-please—oh please tell me—”

“Ssshh. Mishella. I am here. It is me,
fembla
.”