by Trish Morey / Caitlin Crews / Nina Harrington / Raye Morgan
“They cheered,” she said, not knowing she meant to speak, not knowing her voice would sound so insubstantial. She swallowed, and reached a hand toward the window, the glass cool beneath her reaching fingers. “When we were in the car, heading back here. Why would they do that?”
“You are their princess, now their queen,” Adel said, his even voice filling the small room, pressing against her ears, and burrowing beneath her skin. “The last of an ancient and revered bloodline, the daughter of a beloved ruler now lost to them. You were stolen away from them when you were just a girl. They celebrate your safe return to the place you belong.” He paused for a moment. “Your home.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, not knowing why she trembled, why his eyes seemed so sure, and yet managed to make her feel so raw inside. She wanted to speak—perhaps she wanted to scream—but nothing moved past her lips.
“They adore you,” he said.
“Not me.” She shook her head, swallowed. “Some idea of what I should be, perhaps, but not me.”
He heard the dark, wild panic in her voice, and moved toward her, though he had promised himself he would not touch her again. A promise he had already broken repeatedly. In the cathedral. In the car. In the endless reception. He, who held his vows to be sacred. And still, he moved behind her, setting his untouched drink on a side table and letting his hands come to rest on her shoulders.
“It becomes easier,” he murmured, close to the perfect shell of her ear, the tempting, elegant line of her neck.
“How do you stand it?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the city outside the windows, as if one of the most beautiful views in the kingdom disturbed her. “All that … expectation?”
She sounded torn. Terrified. And he wanted to soothe her. He wanted to kiss the panic from her body, make her forget herself and the demands of her station. But he could not afford that kind of misstep. Not now, when the King was buried and gone. When so much remained at stake.
“We will marry at the end of the week,” he said gruffly. “There is no time to waste.”
He felt the shock move through her body, like an electrical current.
“What is the hurry?” she asked, turning so she faced him, not seeming to notice that his hands remained on her, sliding down to hold her upper arms in his palms. “Surely what matters is that I am here. Must we force all of these changes into only a handful of days?”
Her voice caught slightly on the word changes. He hated himself for pushing her, but he had no choice. He had been bound over to his country so long ago now he no longer remembered any other way. There were far greater things than the hurt feelings of one woman to worry about, even if it was this one, and far more important things to consider than his abiding desire to comfort her. There was much more at stake than these quiet moments that he knew, somehow, he would never get back.
But he had never had any choice.
“The ceremony will be in the cathedral, as tradition demands,” he said as if he had not heard her. She frowned up at him. He found himself frowning back at her, a surge of sudden, unreasonable anger moving through him, though he knew it was not her he was angry with. “Will you fight this, too, Princess? Will we see who wins this latest battle? I should let you know that I am unlikely to be as easy on you as I have been. My patience for these games of yours wears thin.”
For a moment she looked as if he’d slapped her. Her face whitened, then blazed into color. She pressed her lips together for a moment, and then her silvery eyes seemed to look straight into him. Through him.
“What is this?” she asked, in a calm voice that sounded eerily like his own. As if she’d learned it from him. “What are you not telling me?”
He did not know, in that moment, whether he wanted to strangle her or tumble her to the floor. He was appalled at the riot of emotion inside of him. He stepped back, forcing himself to let go of her. Making himself breathe and regain his own control.
He had always known he would marry this woman, that she was his. And he would make that happen, one way or another. The fact that he loved her, that he burned for her—that was incidental. It had to be.
“Many things,” he answered finally. “Did you imagine it would be otherwise? Have you shared all your secrets with me?”
Her wide eyes searched his, then dropped. He saw her pull in a steadying breath, and wanted to touch her—but did not.
“It occurs to me that I am already the Queen,” she said after a long moment, looking every inch of her heritage, her head held proudly, her inky black hair in that elegant twist. “While, if I am not mistaken, you must marry me to become king.”
“You are correct,” he said silkily, watching her closely, the warrior instinct stirring to life within his blood. Was that pride he felt? That she was a worthy opponent even today of all days? “Your ancestors have held the throne of Alakkul since the tenth century.”
Her head tilted slightly to one side as she considered him. “And what is to prevent me choosing a different king?” she asked in that soft voice that he did not mistake for anything but a weapon. “One I prefer to you?”
He felt himself smile, not nicely. Far stronger men had quailed before that smile, but Lara only watched him, her eyes blazing with a passion he did not entirely understand. But oh, how he longed to bathe in it.
Soon, he told himself. Soon enough.
“Theoretically,” he said, “you can choose any king you wish.”
She blinked, and then seized on the important part of what he’d just said. “But not in practice?” she asked.
“There is the matter of your vows and our betrothal,” he said. “Honor matters more here, to those people who loved you enough to cheer you in the streets, than in your other world. Breaking your word and defying your late father’s wishes would cause a deep and lasting scandal.” He shrugged. “But you are American now, are you not? Perhaps you will not mind a scandal.”
“I think I’ll announce to the world at large that the new Queen of Alakkul is in need of a king,” she said, her eyes bright, daring him. “Surely any number of suitors will present themselves. It can be like my own, personal reality show.”
She expected him to react badly, he could tell. But he saw the way her pulse pounded in the tender crook of her neck, and smiled.
“By all means, Princess,” he said. “Invite whoever you like to court you.”
“You don’t mind?” Her voice was ripe with disbelief. “You don’t think you’re the better choice?”
He laughed, enjoying the way the sound made her frown.
“There is no doubt at all that I am the better choice,” he said. “But more than that, I am the only choice.”
“According to you,” she said, defiant and beautiful.
“No,” he said softly. He reached across and traced a simple line along the elegant length of her neck, smiling in satisfaction when she hissed in a breath and goose bumps rose. “According to you,” he said, his own body reacting to her arousal. “You have loved me since you were but a girl. You will again. Your body is already there.” He did not smile now—he met her gaze with his own, steady and sure. “You will not pick another king.”
That bald statement seemed to hang between them, making the air hard to breathe. Lara’s stomach hurt, and her hands balled into fists.
“Why must I marry anyone?” she asked, her voice low and intent, growing hoarse with the emotion she fought to conceal, even as her body rioted, proving his words to be true no matter how she longed to deny them. “Why can’t I simply be queen on my own?”
But Adel only shook his head, in that infuriating manner of his that made her itch to explode into some kind of decisive action. But then again, perhaps touching him was not a good idea.
“Why should I trust anything you say?” she threw at him, angry beyond reason, dizzy with all she wanted and would not allow herself. “You’ve done nothing but lie to me from the start!”
“I will do whatever it takes to secure the throne
and protect this country,” he threw back at her. Did she imagine the hint of darker emotion in his voice? Flashing in his gray eyes? Or did she only want it to be there?
“You are exactly like him,” she said, her voice a low, intense throb of all the pain she had not been able to admit she felt today. All the loss and the bewilderment, and her inability to understand why she should even care that King Azat was dead. Why should it matter to her? Why should she be questioning her mother’s motives? And why should she feel so betrayed that Adel was the same kind of man, when he had never pretended to be anything else? When he had as good as told her that he would do just what he had done? When he—like her father before him—cared only and entirely about the damned throne to this godforsaken place?
Hadn’t her mother told her this would happen, years before? “He picked, another snake for you, Lara—just like himself! “ she’d hissed.
“If you mean your father,” Adel said evenly, the suggestion of ice in his voice, “I will accept the compliment.”
“He forced me into this years ago, on my sixteenth birthday,” she said dully, wondering why her heart felt broken—why it should even be involved. “Didn’t you know? That was when my mother knew we had to escape. She refused to let me—”
“Please spare me these fantasies.” His voice was a hard whip of dismissal. Startled, she noticed his eyes had turned to flint. “Your mother left because her extramarital dalliances were discovered. She took you with her as insurance, because she knew that if she stayed here she would have been turned away from the palace in shame. Never deceive yourself on this point. She knew that as long as you were with her, your father would never cut off her funds. Just as she knew he was too concerned with a daughter’s feelings for her mother to separate you.”
“What?” She couldn’t make sense of that. She literally could not process his words. “What are you—? We lived on the run for years! We had to hide from his goons!”
“There was never one moment of your life that the palace did not know where you were,” Adel said coolly, every word like a blow. “And I assure you, if your father wanted his ‘goons’ to secure you, I would have done so personally years ago. If it was up to me, I would have reclaimed you before your seventeenth birthday.”
She couldn’t accept what he was saying. Her mind was reeling, and she shook her head once, hard. Then again, to get rid of the part of her that seemed to bloom in pleasure, at the notion that he’d wanted her so badly.
“You would say anything.” she began, but she was barely speaking aloud.
He took her shoulders in his hands again, tipping her head back, making her look at him. Face to face, hiding nothing. Baring far too much.
“I will lie, cheat, steal,” he said. His tone was deceptively soft—with that uncompromising edge beneath. “Whatever it takes. But you will marry me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that!” she hissed, but it was all bravado. Inside she was awash in confusion. Full of the possibility that he, unlike her father and even unlike her mother, had wanted her after all. But unable to let herself really accept that possibility—unable to believe it.
She knew what he meant to do even as his hands tightened on her shoulders, even as his hard mouth dropped toward hers. She knew, and yet she did nothing to evade it.
In truth, she did not want to evade him.
And so he kissed her. That same fire. That same punch and roll. Even now, even here, she burned.
She did not know what that meant. She did not want to think anymore. She did not want to feel. She wanted to lock herself away somewhere—to escape.
But he raised his head, and his eyes were dark gray and too capable of reading too much, his mouth in that grim line that called to her despite everything.
“That proves nothing,” she said, because she had to say something—she had to pretend.
“Keep telling yourself that, Princess,” he said in that dark, quiet voice that made her alive and bright with need. “If it helps.”
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CHAPTER SEVEN
THE summer wore on as the country settled into its new era, with its new rulers fully ensconced upon the throne, and Adel could not understand why—having finally achieved all he’d ever wanted—the only thing he seemed to think about was his wife.
Not the warring factions that forever threatened to sink the government. Not the leftover yet ever-thorny issues from the various world powers that had tried to take the strategically located Alakkulian Valley in their time. Not the need to protect and support the economy, nor the tendency of some citizens to live as if it were still the tenth century. It was not that he did not care about all of these things. It was just that his focus was Lara. Always Lara.
The way her skin felt against his, naked and soft, hot and delicious. The way her head tipped back in ecstasy, showing the long, elegant line of her neck as she cried out his name. The way her toned, athletic legs wrapped so tightly around his hips. The way she would smile at him, so dreamily, in those stolen moments after they had both reached heaven, her eyes that silver-blue that made his chest expand and ache.
He was enchanted by her, this woman he had loved for so much of his life, and the reality of her far exceeded his fantasies.
It wasn’t just the perfection of her body. He even enjoyed her when she argued with him—which was, he reflected as he took in the cross expression she wore as he entered their private breakfast room in the palace—most of the time.
“I don’t see the point of being called a queen when all I do is sit around the palace, staring out of windows and boring myself to death,” she threw at him with no preamble, her fingers picking at the pastry before her.
“Good morning to you, too,” he murmured, settling himself in his usual place opposite her while the servants bustled around him, pouring out his morning coffee and presenting him with a stack of papers for his review.
She ignored him. “I am used to working,” she said. “Doing something, not sitting around like an ornament attached to your lapel!”
“Then do something,” he suggested, picking up his coffee and eyeing her. She made his heart swell with what he could only describe as gladness. Most women cowered before him, or fell all over themselves in an attempt to please him. Never this one. She was bold. Brash. Unafraid. “You are the Queen. You can do as you like.”
“Perhaps I wish to rule, as you do,” she said, with a sideways glance at him, and he had a sudden image of what it might be like with this woman at his side forever, on the throne and in his bed—this warrior queen he had never expected would grow to be so strong. And yet he loved it. Her.
He shrugged. “You have an affinity for tedious meetings, day after day, with puffed-up, pompous men?” he asked mildly. Not his Lara, he thought. She would shred them with her sharp tongue, and he would laugh in admiration, and whole decades of careful diplomacy would go up in smoke. “Men who will insult you and berate you, who you cannot treat as you would like to do? This calls to you?”
She let out a sigh. “No,” she said after a long moment. “Not really.”
“Because, Princess, though your charms are many indeed, I do not count among them a particular gift for the diplomatic arts.” He smiled when her gaze sharpened on his. “This is not a flaw. You are too honest for politics. One of us should be.”
He could feel the tension rise between them then, that tautening of the air, that narrowing of focus until he knew nothing but her face. The swell of her lips. The shine of temper in her gaze. The sweep and fall of her black curls.
He knew her so well now. He could see the way the color washed across her face, and knew it would be the same all over her body. She would pinken as her body readied itself for him. Were he to reach for her under the table, he would find her hot and wet beneath his hands. He felt himself harden. He could not seem to get enough of her, no matter how often they sated each other. No matter how easily she came apart in his hands.
/> “I am no longer a princess,” she said, her voice husky, a gleam of awareness in her magnificent eyes. “And you never use my name.”
“I use your name,” he contradicted her, smiling slightly, “in certain circumstances.” He did not have to spell those circumstances out. Her flush deepened, as they both remembered the last time he’d called out her name, sometime before the dawn, when he’d been so deep inside of her he would have been happy to die there. She made him feel like a man, he realized. Not the soldier he had been, not the King he was now, but a man.
“There is more to life than sex,” she said, and he saw a darkness pass through her eyes—some kind of shadow. But she blinked, and it was gone.
“Apparently not for you,” he said lazily. “Apparently, you are bored with everything that happens outside our bed. One solution would be to make sure you never leave it.”
“Promises, promises,” she chided him, a gleam in her eyes. “Who would run the country if we spent all our time in bed?”
The man was insatiable, Lara thought.
And what was so astonishing was that she, who had always enjoyed the company of men but had certainly never felt compelled by them, was too.
He had her in the suites of hotels where they stayed while on royal engagements, her back up against the wall, his hand and mouth busy beneath her skirts. He seduced her on a speedboat as they made their way to one of the more remote clans, only accessible across a system of mountain lakes. There was no place he did not look at her with that dark passion, that promise, alive in his gray eyes. And no place where she did not immediately respond, no matter how inappropriate it might be.
It was lust, she told herself. And unexpected chemistry.
And she was no better.
She climbed astride him in the backseat of the plush limousine as the motorcade wove through the twisting streets of the capital city, rocking them both into bliss before a command appearance at the city opera. She had taken it upon herself to explore him in every room she could discover in the old castle—behind doors, on ancient chairs, under the fierce and disapproving glares of her ancestors high above in their glowering state portraits.
