Prince of Blood and Steel

by Nazarea Andrews

  As Seth looks at him, Rama struggles to keep his face straight save from the teasing smile. The city’s son is as beautiful as his brother and Emma—a dark, deadly beauty and feline grace wrapped in an expensive gray suit and splash of blood red. The unbuttoned collar is enticing, and Rama suppresses a tiny shiver. Rama summons a small quirk of the lips, a challenge and threat. Small fingers brush his collar, slip under the silk to tease skin, return his attention to her. He smiles. “I remember, mali. No need remind me what dancing does to you. Not now.”

  The action jolts Seth out of his trance, as does the way the stark whiteness of the girl contrasts to the smooth chest. He focuses on her—slender, clad in a designer, one-shouldered dress, with long, strawberry hair cascading down her back in loose curls. Now that he is looking, he recognizes her at once. His expression never changes, but inside is pure hell and chaos as the opposing man whispers something in Emma's ear, which solicits a giggle.

  She laughs softly at the implied promise, and Rama smiles. Two fingers under Emma’s chin tilt her head up, and he kisses her. Emma responds instantly; the bartender, Kai, even security at Rama’s side are forgotten as she curls closer, her arms twisting around his neck, pressing against him as she whimpers under his kiss. She stares at him, heavy lidded, as he breaks the kiss. It is odd that his eyes aren’t on her, but focused above and beyond.

  She turns, expecting a scantily clad debutante, a whore—anything but Seth, standing with his hands in his pockets, his eyes a roiling mess of emotion. She goes utterly still, and her thoughts go white. His eyes sweep her caustically, and she sees the tiny change, the minute widening of his eyes—pain filling them that is different from the betrayal. She bites her lips, hard, and a tang of blood fills her mouth.

  She feels boneless, suddenly, rooted to where she stands, too close to Rama, when she would run to Seth, throw herself at him and beg for understanding. She can see him, almost forcibly taking hold of himself, and she recognizes the pompous air he wraps himself in—the one he uses as a shield. She watches him take her in, the sweat covering her exposed limbs, the way she sways. Just as she acknowledges his reaction, he recognizes that look on her, that heightened, almost desperate energy. It is the sheen of the relentless party. It feels like a punch to the gut. Yeah, it hurts, but only because he knows that he has worn the same sheen, and because she makes it look just as good as he does.

  He must force himself away from that train of thought. His thoughts coyly escape to the arm-wrestling photograph, Caleb's damp, light hair, the fire in his eyes. Emma is a devastating ghost haunting this floor and its prince, which he decides is not such a good focal point. Her reaction to seeing him is an adequate anchor. His subsequent reaction is so cold. She looks like she wants to run and cry and scream all at once. She doesn't move, doesn't dare. His expression never changes, but she can recognize the ache in his gaze. She has betrayed him.

  Seth cuts across the floor with frightening agility. The Thai's expression has faded. His attention is keen; Seth can feel it as another piece of his tattered heart breaks into the pit of deception. Nothing will stop him tonight, and now is not the time to feel this tragedy. He stops just out of arm's reach of Emma. He cannot speak, cannot air any grief in this setting. His eyes slide viciously past her as he slips his hands into his pockets.

  She knows she has been dismissed. He can feel her distress. The Thai has fallen from his elated arrogance to an uncertain tension. Seth wonders if the other believes for just a moment that he will die. Tears well in Emma's eyes.

  “She looks like him, doesn't she?” says Seth, voice quiet and ruthless. Despite the bass and the voices from below, he can hear the gasp that escapes Emma. He can feel her shocked attention seeping toward him, and her brilliant-yet-inebriated inference skills kick into action. He continues, “Same color hair, same-shaded eyes, the same pale perfection. They even have the same last name.”

  Emma's horror is apparent to him, though she holds her composure very well. He knows she is smart enough to have divined his insinuation. He leans closer so that his chin is almost above her shoulder, so that his face is only inches from both her ear and the Thai’s face. “But her lips don't feel the same, do they? And they don't taste the same either, do they?” And he glances at the cigarette pack on the bar.

  Emma can’t breathe. There is only one person he can mean, and the tension in Rama at her back is doing nothing to assuage her worries. Her eyes dart up to find Seth, and her heart jerks as he leans forward, so close his hair—too long—brushes her skin. She suppresses a shiver. Her eyes follow his to the pack of Marlboro Reds, and she sucks in a harsh breath. When she whirls to face Rama, his eyes are dark and watching Seth, something like awe and contempt filling his gaze. When his liquid black eyes find hers, the emotions are replaced with lust and guilt.

  She’s shaking, desperate for an explanation, anything that will erase those words, the accusation. “Rama?” she whispers, pleading.

  He stares at her, sadness filling him, making him forget Seth for a moment as she accepts it, and her expression shifts, anger and shocked disgust filling her eyes. “Mali,” he starts, reaching for her, and she freezes at the same moment that Seth steps forward.

  He doesn’t speak, but the way Emma’s eyes widen and dart to Kai, the menace in Seth’s posture—it screams danger, and Rama lets his hand fall without touching his princess. Seth’s princess.

  “My car is out front, Emma,” Seth says without looking at her. “Go.”

  Her wide eyes flash from Seth to Rama. An argument plagues her tongue, but she won't dare speak it. Anyone else in the world at the moment could not give her an order, but Seth holds a status that is completely unique. His words are like her breath. She turns on her heel, infuriated and frightened and drunk. A quiet, foreign-tinted command from Rama to his hovering security provides her with an escort down the stairs. And then the boys are alone, aside from the huge bodyguard and the service staff.

  Rama feels Seth’s eyes on him as he leans toward Kai, speaks fluidly. The man nods.

  Emma’s heart is hammering, the high of dancing fading as she stalks across the balcony, aware of Kai following her. He wouldn’t leave the VIP section, wouldn’t leave Rama while Seth faced him.

  She pushes her worry and fear and humiliation aside, channels it into anger as she moves through the writhing bodies, a royal among peasants. She can hear them speaking, can feel the security walking at her side, sheltering her, can feel the contemptuous glares from the whores. More than anything, she can feel the weight of Seth’s eyes as he tracks her progress through the club, and it’s suffocating, choking. She wants to scream, rage, fall to pieces.

  She let him down. Despite her intentions, she knows that he sees this as a betrayal, and it will devastate him. One thing she can still do is behave as a Morgan. Her shoulders twitch slightly and she steps from the club into the dirty night, fielding the stares, the dark gazes, and the exotic voices with all the imperious skill of the brat prince himself.

  She glances back, once, at the bouncer, the dark façade—and then slides into the dark decadence of Seth’s waiting Bentley.

  Upstairs, the tension has reached a plateau.

  “Would you like a drink, Mr. Morgan?” asks Rama, tone silk-smooth. He has seemingly recovered some of his ego.

  “I'd like a word,” is Seth's reply.

  The corner of Rama's lips curl the slightest bit and he says, “You are free to speak.”

  Seth allows a laugh, small and pretentious. “Obviously.”

  Rama takes a hit without either of them having moved. He is only beginning to understand the unavoidable fascination with this Morgan brother. Seth looks away, scans the floor below. Somehow, he looks natural here, like he can be so anywhere. “Are you afraid to face me alone?” he asks, eyes slinking to watch Rama sidelong.

  Rama pushes from the bar with inherent self-centeredness, relishing in the attention of the eyes that can see him. He glides to the railing to look down at his empire,
feeling their gazes crawling over him as well. “There are some who would kill for such an opportunity to get the elusive Seth Morgan alone,” he answers.

  Seth lifts his eyebrows a tiny bit, damns the spectators to the fiery depths of the deepest hell, and walks to Rama's side. He doesn't look down, rather he looks directly at the darkly-lashed, heavily lidded eyes, demands audience, which Rama cannot deny. Seth says, “And there are many who would tuck their tails and run.”

  Without missing a beat, the Thai turns his head so that their faces are quite close and says, “We'll want to take the back way out.”

  Seth nods and turns back to VIP area to extract his phone from his pocket. He hits the speed dial for his driver. “Take her home.”

  They make their way toward a well-disguised door past the bar. Their silent observer moves toward them. “Stay here,” Rama says clearly.

  The other seems hesitant, but nods. He would not dare argue with his boss in such a highly formal situation. He watches them until they disappear from the VIP area.

  Chapter 26

  Rama’s Office, New York City. June 16th.

  The office is small, painted in eggshell. It has a leather love seat, adjacent to a leather armchair in dark brown, a small coffee table between them. Seth takes the love seat without waiting for an invitation, unbuttoning his jacket as he does. Rama crosses his legs into the armchair and shakes a cigarette from his pack. Seth openly watches the gesture, considering how different the act is when performed by this prince. Caleb made it look cool, rugged and masculine. These brown hands make it feel sensual and enticing, dangerous in an entirely new way. Rama knows he is being watched, keeps Seth's eyes captive with a haughty smirk. He enjoys attention, always. A whore, thinks Seth, naturally.

  “I suppose it was only a matter of time before you figured things out for yourself,” says Rama with a lazy shrug. His accent is faint, as if he has worked hard to cover it. His smile darkens and he says, “I've counted on it.”

  Seth tenses, eyes sliding into shrewd assessment. Rama cocks his head to the side, letting the smile die as he lights the cigarette. The lighting here is almost as dim as the club's floor, and his eyes look so black. Almost imperceptibly, his exotic expression transforms into a much gentler assessment of his own as the amusement wanes. The corners of his lips turn down, and his brow furrows, slightly.

  The honest pain in those dark eyes takes Seth completely off guard, eases his apprehension more than he cares to admit to himself; he can't even begin to imagine why seeing such vulnerability appeals to him so strongly. His fingers relax onto the arm of the love seat. His vision breaks, sweeps the neatly kept desk behind Rama, then the Buddha on the far wall with an assortment of incense and offerings spread around him.

  “He came to me,” says Rama. Seth finds the Thai quite ready to field the hot attention that comes crashing back to him. Seth's mask of calm never breaks, but his insides are in shreds. Rama takes a long drag, then asks, “That is what you came here for, isn't it? Answers?”

  Seth slowly smooths his suit coat, channeling his attention there for a moment's worth of collection. Being so readily called on his conviction does violent things to the anxiety that hides just beneath his surface. Inky eyes finally relinquish somber brown ones to watch the grace in the simple movement of a hand. Rama lifts the cigarette slowly, inhaling. The cherry flares in the dim room.

  A knock at the door breaks the connection. Seth glances pensively toward the sound, but Rama extinguishes his hardly-smoked cigarette and rises from his seat like liquid, ignoring the tension that tries to gather. A tiny waitress enters with a tray. She deposits warm sake on the table with two small ceramic cups. “Thank you,” Rama says, not looking at her as she is dismissed. She closes the door quietly behind her.

  “Yes,” Seth says finally as the other returns to his seat. “Some very major plays were made in my absence, and the explanations behind them have proven more difficult to get than they should be.”

  Rama's gaze is thoughtful, all smooth and downturned lines, as he focuses on pouring a shot of sake for each of them. Seth cannot help but notice how his movements are feline, seduction in motion. He would never have guessed that Caleb would be somehow attracted to a man, but the longer he observes this strange creature, he understands that it has nothing to do with gender.

  Rama offers a cup to Seth and says, “I have no reason to lie to you, or to regard you as an enemy.”

  Seth accepts and swiftly knocks back the drink. The sake is like a warm embrace. It only adds to the fire already raging within him, but his passive expression remains intact. He wonders what phantoms come with this potent wine. It has never been his choice of drinks. “My brother wanted a business alliance with you, is that right?” he asks.

  “Yes, he had some very impressive projections and ideas. He wanted to contribute to the greatness of his family's empire, which would, in turn, contribute to mine.”

  Seth scoffs to cover the pangs in his chest at the irony of this stranger's assertion. Rama's troubled features slacken in surprise.

  Seth says, “Tell me then, how did my disposal fall into Caleb's grand plan?” And he feels like he has somehow offended the Buddha, whom he doesn't follow, by speaking his brother's name in this tiny space to a man who obviously adored him. The air is thick as he registers the conflict that takes hold of Rama. Once again, brown hands are moving to pour shots. Seth recognizes the action for what it is, a distraction, the same tactic he had just used. It seems they are fundamentally not so different people.

  “I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about,” says the Thai. He shoots an acute glance at the Morgan son, but just as quickly watches his own hands serve the shot to his guest.

  Seth makes a shaky sigh, his aggravation getting the better of him. He finds his eyes wandering again to the Buddha. The wreath of white flowers around the statue's neck stirs memories of the one on Caleb's forearm. He wore it so proudly, chose to display it, and Seth must wonder how much it really had to do with work. “No? Surely Caleb may have mentioned that by courting you as a business partner, he would be sentencing me to death by the hands of my own associates?”

  “He used to talk about you a lot—and he never spoke of family, to me,” Rama continues, sparing no indication that he will rush the waiting alcohol, and once again discovering resolve within himself to study the man of such far-reaching notoriety. Seth is very much like Caleb in that he keeps a damn-straight poker face, which is terrifying and unnatural to Rama's Thai roots. He says, “He did tell me, once, that he had figured out a way for this plan to work with your . . . business, so that it could be integrated. Never once was I led to believe that he wanted you dead. He actually wanted your approval on our alliance above all others'.”

  Seth realizes he is shaking his head, reacting regardless of his intention to hold still and keep his cards hidden. Nothing makes sense. Then Vera's words resound. He wanted me to find you. “But he couldn't find me,” he says, mostly to himself.

  “So he gave the idea to your uncle instead,” Rama finishes the thought.

  And suddenly, more things make sense than Seth is ready to realize. Caleb survived the first year of Seth's absence by more or less making the best of the time. He had devised an uncanny business plan that would re-situate some of the family's assets, and then expand them. Maybe he had even accepted that, while he would not head the family, he could still contribute. Or maybe he did it to prove that he was not quite the underachiever that he had been taken as, that he was just as worthy of the name of Morgan as Seth.

  Caleb had never been less than brilliant, he had only just needed the proper type of motivation to take action, and when he did, it always came with deadly accuracy and ruthless momentum.

  Somewhere into the second year of their separation, Caleb had grown bitter.

  “At some point,” Rama continues, almost tentatively, “I think Caleb convinced himself that you wouldn't approve at all, and he stopped mentioning you. He didn't like
to talk about it anymore, so I let it be. I presume your uncle did not include you in this plan upon your return. Or perhaps he did not include your return into the plan in the same way that Caleb had. Michael Morgan fully supported the idea, which would use Remi Oliver's banks, but communication from them ceased when Caleb . . . died.” The last word comes with a thick swallow.

  The rage Seth thought he had reigned in flashes to the surface. Maybe his brother really did hate him by the time he died. Why wouldn't he? Seth had been given the blessing by their father, he had been given everything and then he had ventured off like the naïve child that he was, while Caleb struggled to make the place for himself that he deserved. For all the faith his dad had never had in Caleb, the oldest son had proven much wiser and savvy than any of the family could have anticipated. Seth retrieves the shot.

  Rama follows suit. He knew the time would come, and he holds out his sake as if he wants to make a toast. “Forgive me if I am out of line,” he says, “but despite his rough exterior and uncaring facade, I believe that he held you in the highest regard.” Seth slams the alcohol in an attempt to drown the truth for which he has been seeking so diligently. His cheeks are burning. Rama is stricken by the other's movements, so easy and sure, yet they are so very human, and he adds, “I also believe that your kings treated him like a pawn, instead of the rook that he was.”