by Sara Arden
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He swallowed hard, hating his own words.
Damara sat up and pulled the blanket around her. “Why not?”
“You know why not.” He didn’t want to do this—he didn’t know if he could.
“Look, you don’t get to make these choices for me.”
“No, I don’t. I get to make them for me.”
He tried to turn away from her, but the soft defeat in her voice cut him too deeply when she spoke. “So, you got me. You got through my defenses and got me to surrender. Now you don’t want me anymore?”
It would be easier if he could say that he didn’t, but he couldn’t hurt her that way. Not with the sorrow that already tinged her voice. “I want you too much.”
“Then why can’t we have this?” Her eyes were wide, her mouth drawn as she waited for him to explain it to her.
“It’ll make it harder for us both when it’s over.”
“Why does it have to be over?” she cried.
“When your brother is deposed, who is going to lead your people?” His voice was gentle, but the meaning behind his words was like an anvil.
“They will.”
“Damara, they trust you and they need you. The whole point of all of this was to keep you safe until you could return home. Don’t you want to go home?”
“More than anything.”
That was the only answer he needed, and the one he expected. He nodded. “The world loves you and your people love you. Don’t demand I love you, too. Because I can never have you, not really.”
He didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, he turned on the water in the shower and tried to ignore the ache in his chest.
But he wasn’t alone. She didn’t listen. She crept into the shower with him anyway.
“One day, Byron. Just give me the rest of this day. Maybe if we do everything, feel everything, it’ll be enough. Maybe we’ll stop wanting each other like this.”
“It will never be enough.”
Now she was the one pushing, demanding, manipulating his weaknesses as he’d done to her. He supposed it was only fair that it was her turn to take what she wanted from him. She wanted this day, and he’d give it to her.
“Make love to me, then fuck me and then make love to me again. Fill me up with memories so I don’t forget.” Her words were a transgression, something he’d never thought he’d hear her say. It was illicit but intimate, almost at cross-purposes.
The water cascaded over them, and he pushed her hair out of her face gently. She twined her arms around his neck, her skin slick and warm.
Every touch was more intense, every breath was somehow sweeter.
He couldn’t let this, or her, mean any more to him. Byron had to think of this as a mission. The best course of action would be to deny her, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t.
He had to step up his timetable so he could finish this mission.
Byron turned off the water. “This shower sex works in fantasies, but in real life, it’s not so much fun.” He guided her to the bed.
* * *
DAMARA MEMORIZED THE taste of him—it was different now than in Barcelona. The first time he’d kissed her, it had been wonderful, but now there was familiarity to the act that added another layer to the sensation.
He kissed down her neck slowly, nibbling and nipping at the tender skin of her throat. She clung to him and pulled him even closer. She wanted her body to remember what it was like when he held her—the way it felt to press her breasts against the wide expanse of his chest, his flesh inside hers and the thunder of his heartbeat under her cheek. She wanted all of those things to be absorbed on some primal level that she wasn’t even sure was possible.
He moved down to her collarbone and then the swell of her breast. Byron gave every inch of skin his undivided attention. There was no centimeter more important than any other. He filled his hands with her pert breasts, but he didn’t linger. It was as if he sensed what she needed, or maybe his body had accepted what her mind already knew.
That this was indeed the last time.
Or maybe he was just that skilled at giving her what she wanted from him.
He moved down her chest to her belly and veered over to her hip, the outside of her thigh. Every place his lips touched was brought to stark and vibrant life, each touch receptor vibrating with bliss.
Byron moved his way down her leg, all the way down to her ankle and then back up to the inside of her knee. She giggled, but he didn’t stop. He pressed his lips to her mound, then continued his journey to her other leg, her other hip, all the way up her ribs to her shoulder. Down the inside of her arm.
He was making love to her with his lips. Not getting her off, not to drive her higher; this is what he would do with her if he knew he could never do it again.
He was committing her body to his memory the way she’d done with him.
She didn’t think her heart could break more than once, but it did. Over and over again.
Byron reached over to the nightstand for a condom, but she stayed his hand. “I don’t want any barriers between us tonight.”
“Are you sure?” His tone was gruff, his lips swollen from their explorations.
“More than anything.”
He went back to his pursuit, kissing and tasting, exploring her body.
The arousal was secondary for her. Yes, he made her want and he made her wet, and she knew her release would be dazzling—fireworks and symphonies. But this part, where the emotion dwelled, that was what she needed, what she drank like a wanderer did water in the desert.
She didn’t want to wait anymore. She wanted the next level of this sensation. “Please, now.”
Their gazes had joined when he sheathed himself inside her, and it was like a kind of trespass to experience these feelings while looking each other in the eye. It added yet another layer to the insanity, the connection.
And it felt like nothing else. She felt so full of him, but still she wanted more. She’d never get enough of him, or the sense of fulfillment she got only when she was in his arms like this.
She locked her legs around his waist as if that could somehow draw him even nearer to her, pull him deeper or give her more of him than she already had.
He gripped her hips and rolled them so that she was on top of him, and she got exactly what she was looking for. She’d taken him as deep as he could go.
Damara braced her palms on the mattress and pushed down with her hips. His hips thrust up to meet her, but still he didn’t look away or close his eyes.
Her hair fell like a curtain around them and it was almost as though it was hiding them from the rest of the world. If only.
If only what?
If only she wasn’t a princess and he wasn’t a ranger? Then they wouldn’t be who they were. Then this might not be so perfectly imperfect.
She didn’t hold anything back from him now. She didn’t try to hide from him; she let him see whatever he wanted as he looked into her eyes. Damara loved the play of expressions on his face as he neared completion. The way he sought it out but fought it at the same time. The tight cords of muscle in his neck as he strained against the pleasure and against her.
Even the slightly tender spots on her hips from where his fingers had gripped her just a little too tightly.
Every time she touched the tender flesh she was reminded of what had transpired to make it tender.
He grabbed her hard around the waist.
“Roll over.”
She complied without question, lifted herself off of him and lay on her stomach.
“Up on your hands and knees,” he commanded.
Damara did as he instructed, and his arm wrapped around her waist, his chest hot against her back. She shivered, waiting to see what he wo
uld do to her.
“You said you wanted me to make love to you, then fuck you, then make love to you again, right?”
“Yes.”
“This is the fucking.”
She gasped when he entered her again with a powerful thrust. At this angle, it hit a new place inside her that made her cry out.
He didn’t stop; he didn’t ask her if she was okay. He knew she was. He knew she wanted more. Already he could read her body like a map.
He drilled into her without mercy, but she wanted none. She met his thrusts, pushing herself back against his hips and thighs. Every time he went deep, sensation spiraled through her belly, her cleft and even down to her toes.
Damara curled her fists in the blanket and gasped.
He tangled his fist in her hair and tugged, just enough to get her to lift her head but not enough to hurt.
She loved it.
“More!” she demanded.
He increased the speed and tempo of his thrusts, slamming into her and giving no quarter. Her sheath spasmed around him as new bursts of sensation ricocheted through her.
Byron swore, and he pulled her back against him hard as he spent.
He dropped down on the bed next to her, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead and his eyes closed.
She twisted so she could face him, and Damara kissed his cheek. The corner of his mouth.
He moaned. “Woman, are you trying to kill me?”
“It would be a good death.”
“Yeah, but I need a minute.”
“Just one? Or did we break it?” She grinned against his mouth.
“It’s unbreakable.”
“Good. You still owe me another round.” She tried not to cry. It would be stupid to cry, but with her body still shaking with the aftermath of what they’d just done, she was wired with emotion. The first time had been a warm-up. The second time had been about lust. And this time, it was about everything.
Byron pulled her against him, his hand a brand on her back.
She nestled into him, fitting perfectly, as if they’d been made for each other. She thought he was just being sweet, but after a few moments he pulled her leg over his hip and angled her so that he could push inside her again.
He pressed his forehead against hers and slowly began to move.
Damara hadn’t known he was capable of such tenderness.
Byron slipped his hand between them and brought her to a devastating bliss before they dissolved in each other’s arms.
For one day, her marriage had been one of heat and passion. It had been real.
And just like that, it was over.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WHEN DAMARA CAME downstairs the next morning, she wasn’t sure what she expected to find. She was thankful that some of those purple boxes from Sweet Thing were part of the package.
Two of the purple boxes had been demolished—their smashed and battered tops, not to mention empty remains, were on the counter by the waste can.
The last box was being guarded by Byron, uniform fatigues, weapon and all. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so tragic. She saw the living room was full of people. She was glad she’d bothered to dress before coming downstairs. She plastered on her princess face.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. From your faces, it appears we have a situation. Let me get my coffee and we’ll get started.”
Sonja handed her a paper cup, and Damara sipped the dark brew. It was slightly bitter, even with the sugar and heavy cream. But it was exactly how she liked it. The coffee fortified her. She helped herself to something from the purple box. She didn’t want to face impending doom on an empty stomach.
Byron released the box into her care, and she let herself enjoy the moment. Then she said, “What’s happened?”
A man in a suit who she didn’t know, but who had been part of Renner’s team when she’d met him on the tarmac, typed some buttons on a laptop. The big-screen TV came alive.
With her brother’s face.
He was still as handsome as ever. Strong jaw made to look even sharper by the high collar of the imperial jacket he wore. His eyes were large and dark, and they’d always been his secret weapon. No matter what he said, how blatant the lie, he always seemed so earnest because of those eyes. She knew her brother would employ whatever means necessary to get what he wanted.
Although she was surprised that he’d sent a public plea. And surprised that it brought Renner and company all the way to Glory from D.C. for a group viewing.
Perhaps Renner had been right and Abele didn’t want to risk angering the international community. That would be a first for him. He had to have some other motivation. He’d probably already installed the Kulokavs in some official position on Castallegna.
Damara watched the screen in front of her and the image of her brother talking to her, imploring that she see reason and return home like a dutiful, loyal citizen of Castallegna.
The part at the end was the best, where he begged that if she wouldn’t return home, she at least call him and let him know she was safe.
He looked so sincere.
Damara wasn’t stupid. He was planning something.
Most likely her death.
And it broke her heart.
Abele had been a different person when she was a child. He’d been caring, attentive and everything a big brother should be.
It had been Abele who’d taught her how to read, helped her escape her comportment tutor. He’d been her rock when their mother had died. Their father was a good man, but losing his wife had torn something vital out of him.
Abele had picked up the pieces.
Damara didn’t know what had happened to them. A descent down a slippery slope that had started with a little stumble. He’d gone away to university in Greece and he’d come home a different man. Then their father had died and the Abele she knew and loved was gone.
When one of her tutors had told her about the torture, the disappearances, she hadn’t wanted to believe them.
Until she’d seen it for herself.
She narrowed her eyes. “He’s wearing my father’s sash.”
“What does that mean?” Sonja asked.
“It means he’s declared himself king,” she answered. “And since I’ve already called him, he’s setting the stage for something else.”
“Known associates of Kulokav’s tried to enter the U.S. this morning, but they were stopped and detained by customs,” Renner said.
“He really wants me dead. He’s not going to stop until he kills me.” Saying it out loud made it more real somehow, drove it home into that place in her heart that still loved her brother. She bled on the inside, a bile of pain and loss.
“You already know my solution for that,” Byron said grimly.
“He’s a king. You can’t just kill him,” Renner said, as if he were explaining to a child why he couldn’t have another cookie.
“Yes, I can. You’d just prefer I don’t.”
“I think the princess would prefer you don’t, as well,” Renner said meaningfully.
Damara chose not to answer that. Instead, she said, “So what’s our next move?”
“We do the satellite interview today. Then we move up the wedding,” Sonja said.
“Didn’t we already do that?” Byron asked.
“The production. There has to be a ceremony so all the little girls can wish they were Damara. The people need to see the beginning of your happily ever after,” Sonja supplied.
Damara nodded. “Okay, let’s make this happen.”
She couldn’t look at Byron, but she didn’t need to look at him to feel the weight of his stare.
He was right—it hadn’t been fair to either of them last night. She shouldn’t have ask
ed that of him, and now it was all she could think about. Especially now that she had irrefutable proof that Abele wanted her dead.
She’d seen Vladimir’s associates in the palace, and they were the same ones who’d been seen talking to villagers who’d gone missing. She didn’t need them to spell it out for her.
Damara wondered if she’d ever see Castallegna again.
It made her wish she were a different sort of person. Someone who could say that, yes, she wanted a man dead. Yes, she wanted her brother dead.
But she didn’t. She wanted him to be safe, to be well. She wanted him to be like he was when she was a little girl. Damara knew it was time to mourn that boy because Abele would never be him again.
Sonja led her back to the stylist, who had clothes laid out for her and was waiting to do her hair. The cosmetics had been splayed out just as she’d asked previously, a ritual for her to calm her nerves.
“You know, it’s okay that you don’t hate him,” Sonja said quietly.
“Is it? There are so many lives in danger because of me.”
“No, it’s not because of you. It’s because of him. Your people will have hope because of you. You can do this. Look at how far you’ve come already.”
Damara didn’t feel as though she’d come very far at all. She felt as if she’d screwed everything up beyond fixing. If she’d just been quiet, done as she’d been told— No, she couldn’t doubt herself. If her father had taught her anything, it was that while she had to be aware that she wasn’t infallible, she also couldn’t second-guess herself.
Her phone rang, and a sense of foreboding slipped over her like a shadow. She knew without looking that it was Abele.
“I didn’t think you had it in you, sister.”
Abele’s voice chilled her blood to ice. “Had what?”
“Are you afraid?” His voice was silky with the implied threat.
“We all have our resources, Abele.” She assumed he meant his goons being detained at customs.
He laughed. “Is that so? We’ll see about that in person very soon.”
“I’m sure we will. I’m not afraid of you.” But if she were being honest with herself, she was. She was terrified of the stranger that lived in his skin.
