by Angel Payne
Two. Days.
Cassian Court.
I cannot help myself. The syllables are synonymous with so many other expressions. Engineering genius. Corporate wizard. Billionaire icon. Consultant to kings. Yes, that includes the leader of our land, Evrest Cimarron, who has invited his friend for a “modernization think tank” with Arcadia’s leaders. Yanking a kingdom forward by two hundred years in two days is no small feat.
Two. Days.
World. Upended.
Not to mention my thoughts. And my bloodstream. And the very wiring of my nervous system…
“Mishella?”
Vylet’s playful prompt is perfectly timed. “Hmm?” I am grateful to leave behind a memory that has been taunting, of the man in his formal wear from the party King Evrest threw for him last night. Out of respect for Arcadian tradition, he wore a doublet-style jacket with his tailored Tom Ford pants, everything flawlessly fitted to his tapered torso and long legs. The black garment had featured one modern touch: a moss green zipper instead of buttons, drawing out the same shade in his eyes. Matching zippers had adorned his hip boots, making him look very much “at home” in the ballroom’s courtly crowd…
“You truly have no comment?” The edges of Vy’s lips curl up. Little wench. She knows I would sooner watch a storm come in over the sea than have to look at the body part they’ve referred to on Cassian Court’s incredible form.
Incredible.
And magnificent.
And breath-stealing.
And in just two days, has made me painfully aware of how small my island home truly is. The man and his magnetic pull have actually made me yearn for a land as big as his, though the expanse of America still does not seem big enough for all these new feelings he inspires—sensations that sweep in again, as I gaze upon him training at swords with Jagger Foxx on the palais lawn.
Dizzy.
Giddy.
Hot.
Needy.
No.
I cannot. I will not.
Instead, I compress my lips harder. Swing another censuring look at my friend. “I was being courteous, in deference to Her Highness.”
“Oh, here we go again,” Brooke mutters.
Vylet hides a laugh behind her elegant fingers. “But Mishella wants to practice her protocol, Your Highness.”
Brooke glowers. “Am I going to kick your ass about this now, too?”
“Not in that pretty tea frock, missie.”
“Oh, even in this rag, ho-bag.”
“Who you calling ho…ho?”
“Say it twice because I own that, baby.” Brooke swirls then stabs an index finger. “Especially after last night’s marathon under that man of mine.”
“Ohhh!” Vy roller coasters the syllable with knowing emphasis. “And I thought you were just walking funny from the platform pumps.”
“See how I did that? Gotta have a cover, girl.”
They snicker harder than before. I fume deeper than before. Attempt a prim glance down at my lap, but only get two seconds of the reprieve. A fresh punch of testosterone hits the air, swinging all our stares back up.
By everything that is holy.
The masculine energy is well supported. Even a hundred feet away, the two men are like gladiators of old, shirtless bodies lunging, gleaming muscles coiling. Jagger Foxx, the Arcadian court’s lieutenant of military operations, does not give his American guest an inch of visitor’s courtesy—a handicap Court would take as an insult anyway.
The result is…
Glorious.
Slanted forward, his body forty-five degrees from the lawn, Cassian Court is a breath-stealing study of sinew, strength, might, and motivation. His thighs, clearly etched beneath his white fencing pants, wield the force of a stallion. His torso, the color of a lion in the sun, coils with equal power.
Their blades clash. Metallic collisions zing the air. Jagger stumbles back. Again. Grunts hard—though not as deeply as the man besting him. Just like that, Cassian Court turns into an even more exhilarating sight. His beauty is meant for the glory of physical triumph.
All the heavens help me, I cannot stop staring. Or wondering. What would it feel like…to be held by those massive arms? What would it be like, to lie beneath that beautiful body? To spread my legs, allowing his hardness against my welcoming softness…my tight readiness…
My throat turns into the Sahara. I swallow, coughing softly as the moisture clashes with the dryness.
“Holy hell,” Brooke murmurs.
“Which has to be where I’m going, after what I just imagined about that man.”
Vy’s confession welcomes new knives of confusion. Logically, I should be reassured. My reaction to Court is not unique or special. But another part, new and foreign, fights the urge to think otherwise. To scratch her eyes out for sliding into my territory.
As Brooke would eloquently put it: what the hell?
Men are a complicated subject in my life—contradicted by their very simplicity. They are like clothing or cars or office tools: needed but not coveted, functional but not desirable. Yes, some exist in higher-end form, but I do not think of them longer than the time it takes to interact with them. I do not dare. Father and Mother will eventually use me as a pawn to gain what they want from one. It might be the 21st century, but politics are politics—and world-changing decisions are still made by the heads between men’s legs, not the ones on their shoulders. I have to be grateful for reaching my twenty-second year without having to bother with it yet.
But I will.
And lingering lustings for Cassian Court will not make it any easier.
“Pffft.” Brooke flings the comeback at Vy while reaching across the glass table for her sun tea. At least Brooke looks like a princess today, the pale blue tea dress coaxing matching sparkles in her eyes, the daisy yellow sweater matching her platform pumps. Shockingly, she has listened to my suggestion of wearing a pearl necklace and earrings with the ensemble. “We’re mated, not entombed.” But looks can be deceiving. Her saucy smirk proves it. “Besides, neither of us is the treasure who’s caught Mr. Court’s eye—and likely some other body parts.”
Mortification. While I debate whether to let it curl me into a ball or send me under the table, Vy erupts in laughter. “True that, sistah!”
At least that helps with the decision. No shrinking now. I fire off a new glare. “Have you two gotten into the nectar?” I am half serious. Nipping at the Arcadian fruit wine, followed by sitting in today’s ruthless sun, would be a reasonable explanation for their giddy moods.
“Right.” Brooke leads on the response, laughing wryly. “We could only wish.”
Vy echoes the snicker. “Word to the princess.”
They collide fists in a punching motion, followed by fanning and wiggling their fingers, prompting my fresh fume. It is a joke. I know that. I also admit these are confusing times for everyone in Arcadia. Our country is emerging from two hundred years of self-imposed separation from the world into a reality where nearly everything has changed. The adjustment is unsettling at times, even to Brooke, who was born American but has lived here for the last seven years.
Now, she wears the gold band on her left hand declaring her legally married to Prince Samsyn—a detail Vy enjoys forgetting whenever they get together. That turns me into the reminder police.
“Do not forget your place, Vylet Hester. Brooke is your princess.”
I delete the part about Brooke having been the kingdom’s actual queen for a week—seven days she never wants to remember again, though they have brought one joyous result. At the time, she needed a secran as soon as possible, so I entered her employ—and found a purpose I never thought possible for my life. For the first time, I am no longer Fortin Santelle’s pretty trinket of a daughter, or even a faceless Arcadian court clerk, filing and typing my days away. Brooke depends on me. Confides in me. Relies on me for input on everything from appropriate clothing choices to modern political issues from a native Arcadian’s point of view.
It is a serious responsibility, and I never take it lightly—despite the fact that she sometimes does.
“Okay, listen up, missie.” The woman herself sets her drink down so hard, some of the tea sloshes out. “If you don’t loosen that caboose and relax a little, I’ll have to personally hunt up some nectar for you.”
And sometimes, she completely forgets. Like now.
“Yes! Do it!”
“No. No.”
My response overlaps with Vy’s, doubling our volumes into an outburst across the lawn—enough to freeze the men in mid-clash. But only one of them adds a concerned glance, giving his opponent a crucial second of advantage. It is the only second Jagger needs. With a shout, he plunges. With a grunt, Cassian goes down.
With a gasp, I lurch to my feet.
Just as swiftly, I sit back down. Too late. The damage is wrought. My chair has certainly sprung flames, since they waste no time climbing to my face. Vy and Brooke give me no mercy, either. They actually clap as I sit there, drowning in embarrassment, and continue the racket so long, the men obviously assume the praise is for them. Well, Jagger does. As soon as he helps Cassian up, turning both their bodies into gleaming masterpieces of sun-drenched muscle, he sweeps a gloating bow.
Brooke and Vy laugh even harder.
Shockingly, my lips twinge. Their joy might be a little contagious…and the day is perfect, with the breeze carrying salty moisture bites off the ocean, along with jasmine and orange from the trees. A little laughter cannot be such a crime. Perhaps it is…therapeutic. I am not a prude—I grew up in the back halls of the Arcadian Court, after all—but talking about lust and experiencing it firsthand are two separate things. Entirely. I have spent the last two days as skittish as a toddler at her first swimming lesson. Everyone has to get in and paddle sometime, though taking oneself too seriously can only be dangerous.
A perfect reassurance—
Until I swing my sights up, to watch Cassian Court approaching across the grass.
Striding like a king.
Rippling like an Olympian.
Staring like a hitman.
At me.
Laughter, meet shredder. Throat, get back to the desert. Composure…
Composure has gone rogue—doing whatever it bloody well wants. My mind is frozen but my sex is incinerated, cranking the intensity with every smooth, sure step with which the man dominates the lawn. By the time he and Jagger stop beneath the table’s wide umbrella, my hands are a rigid ball in my lap, and my breaths are rapid pumps against my flower-print dress—which is suddenly, completely, too tight. Oh sweet Creator, how he makes my breasts throb…and ache.
And tingle?
“Oh…my.” I keep it to a whisper for my ears alone. Miracle. My hand flies up to assuage my racing heartbeat. I easily disguise the action by fiddling with the polished piece of Minos Reef coral suspended around my neck. Usually, the purple trinket lends me focus and strength. Not now. Not even close. Not with Cassian Court continuing with his unflinching stare at me…his unyielding examination. I cannot help but note every nuance of his gaze. Even in this blazing heat, it is the color of cool forests. I am drawn to thoughts of waterfalls and lagoons in those glades…and him swimming in them, drenched and naked.
By the powers…
When his features crunch, horror sets in. I’ve blurted it aloud. Can he read the thought that has prompted it too? Does he know the lewd turn of my mind—and his importance in it?
Oh crap oh crap oh crap…
And now, I am as guilty as Vy of borrowing the vulgar Americanism. But that is where I have descended. Where he has made me fall.
“Miss Santelle?”
And just like that, with just two words, has me flying once more. Takes me higher, as I lift my gaze to meet his. Shivering on a breeze of awakening, as I absorb the regal angles of his face, contrasted by the tumble of his dark gold hair and the contemplative indents of his dimples.
“Are you all right?”
I feel my mouth open. Know sound of some sort needs to follow. “I…”
“She is fine.” Vylet’s tone is playful but her gaze watchful, installing an invisible tether between Cassian and me with the back-and-forth concentration. As if one is not there already…
“At least she will be,” Brooke adds. “Forgive her, Cassian. It’s this thing called sunshine. New concept for my sweet little secran.” She tosses a huff at me then twirls a hand at the palais. “She’s always cooped in that place. Day and night, busy as Cinderella in those dark castle halls.”
Jagger snorts while shrugging into a black T-shirt. Tosses one to Cassian. “And what does that make you? The evil stepmother?”
“Dude, I’m a wicked stepsister—in all the best ways.”
Vylet masks a giggle behind a hand. The tiny nick in her front lip, betraying the cleft repaired when she was a babe, still makes her insecure when men are near—yes, even Alak, her completely smitten betranli. “Corrupting her prince, one day at a time.”
“Only when it comes to attending his royal balls.”
Jagger and Vy fill the air with their laughs. Yes, I fume again. How can I caution the princess about making comments like that when our friends reward her for them? Jagger, now Prince Samsyn’s key aide in running the security forces of the kingdom, cannot be expected to know better—but I need more support from Vy.
And maybe I am simply being a toddler at the pool again.
I drop my head, wrestling with the thought.
Until muscled thighs in white pants kneel in front of me. And a hand, powerful and long-fingered, slips over my knee. And another hand, warm and firm, tilts up my chin.
And that stare, dark and majestic, wraps around me again. Into me.
“Out of the cinders, Ella.” His murmur is formed of the same perfect velvet. “It’s time to live in the light.”
Survival mode. Now.
Lungs, inflate.
Heart, keep going.
Survival may be overrated. Extremely. Dear sweet Creator, all I want is the blissful release of giving in to his sensual hunt…
Ugh.
Can I get any stupider? Princes like him do not chase backward bumpkins like me. They might pretend to…for a little while. Toy with them. Are perhaps amused by them, until the island novelty wears off and they return to the heights of Mount Olympus—also known as New York City—to bed nymphs and marry goddesses.
And despite that entire diatribe, I bear my gaze just as deeply into his—before rasping ridiculous bumpkin words.
“Maybe I like the dark better.”
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I expect more giggles from the girls—but they are busy bantering with Jagger, leaving room for the bubble around Cassian and me to thicken. For the world around us to fall away…
For his nostrils to flare, as if catching my scent.
For his lips to part, as if anticipating a bite into his prey.
For my whole body to quiver, as if wanting to let him…
Through one exquisite moment.
Another.
Before being ripped from our reverie by a hand at my elbow. Twisting in, issuing a silent command to get on my feet. I obey before looking, for that grip belongs to just one person in my world—the sole person I expect least right now, and dread most.
“Paipanne.” My dutiful murmur is a thread of disguise. Surely he can see every illicit thought that has been possessing my mind and body.
“Mishella,” he levels, from between tight teeth.
Once more this afternoon, my throat convulses on a dry gulp. He has seen. Creator help me.
“High Councilman Santelle.” Cassian’s tone comes as a surreal interjection. He is not a stupid man. Surely he sees how Father’s quiet fury wrings the joy from the air, though he smiles as if exchanging niceties about the weather. “What a pleasant surprise. Thought I’d have to wait for the pleasure of greetings until this evening.”
My nerves flee. No. Wrong. They double. Ice in one’s veins is trick
y that way. “Th-this evening?” I dare a glance up at him, forcing my features to neutrality—not an easy task when the wind plays with the edges of his hair, and molds his T-shirt against the steely planes of his pectorals.
“Yes.” Father’s tone modulates to match Cassian’s—on the surface. Likely, nobody but Vy and I detect its lingering tension. “It is Mr. Court’s last evening on the island, and your maimanne thought he might be tiring of the rich palais food. He and his retinue shall be dining with us at seven.”
“I—I did not know.”
“Because you were dressed and out the door before we could tell you this morning.”
“And you must be so proud.” Vylet slices out the statement before Father can issue another accusation. If I am not tempted to kiss her feet for that, her finishing look is the decider. Few are experts at sweet-but-deadly like my rule-breaking friend.
“I’ll back that up,” Brooke adjoins. “Your daughter works harder than anyone I know, High Councilman. My life would be a mess without her.”
Paipanne colors. A little. “You are too kind, Highness.” Dips his head with a thin smile. It assures me little, for his initial agenda, whatever that is, lingers in his steel gray eyes. “Her maimanne and I are certainly proud of her. On that note, I must have needs to ‘borrow’ her for a moment. About tonight, you know.”
“Of course.” The distrust in Brooke’s eyes cannot be missed from a hundred feet away, but I sneak a reassuring nod in her direction. Father will not be able to wreak too much damage right here, without all of them watching and noticing. He will restrict the blows to verbal form only; I am sure of it.
And to that, I am well accustomed by now.
*
Cassian
The craving is as shocking as it is sudden.
But sure enough, I long to smash in every inch of Fortin Santelle’s self-righteous face.
Why not? He’s an ass.
But you’ve known that from the beginning.
Still, he’s the ass willing to vouch for my ass with the decision-makers about Arcadia’s new infrastructure needs. So yes, I’m conflicted. But—perhaps this has nothing to do with Mishella. Not really. I’m just trying to reconcile doing business with a rung-grabbing bastard. Replacing my discomfort about a future in professional bed with the man by breaking—translation: snapping in half—one of my own hard-and-fast rules. Pushing my nose into his personal affairs. Actually caring about the fact that he treats his own daughter like a puppy to be disciplined.
