by An Latro
He rolls ups his sleeve and Emma leans against the half wall. “What are you getting?” she asks, curiously.
Rama laughs softly, an unexpected flush crawling up his cheeks. “It’s a surprise.”
Emma stares, fascinated, and he blows a kiss as Choi busies herself preparing the inkpots and stencil. Emma looks around.
She has never been to a tattoo shop. Ink, in the Morgan family, means something. Means you belong and serve. There is, in the back of her mind, a niggling desire to sit down and stretch her arm out for the needle, but it's dismissed quickly.
Seth would hate it.
Behind her, the machine buzzes to life and Rama hisses, a sharp noise between his teeth that sounds erotic, somehow. She glances back at him, at Choi bent over his wrist. She's chattering in Thai and Rama says, voice sharp, “English.”
Choi frowns up at Emma. Irritation sparks in the princess and she steps back toward the little booth. Rama's eyes are lazy as he watches her, the way she moves sleek and predatory
“Is there a problem with me being here?” she’s asks, soft and almost demure. Almost. The artist’s gaze darts up to her and she shivers, shaking her head. Whatever she sees in the Morgan princess, her sulking fades.
“Finish the piece, Choi,”” Rama says, watching Emma. “I have plans for the lady tonight.”
The heat in his eyes brings to mind the nights she spent in his bed, and the kiss that did nothing but stir her hunger. She turns away, sitting on the low leather couch and scrolling through some old messages as she waits.
She closes her eyes, letting the soft murmur of voices, the start and stop of the tattoo machine wash over her. The air is heavy with the scent of ink and sweat, undercut with the distinct scent she associates with Dom: gun cleaner and wet leather.
She's half asleep when she hears Rama speak, his voice like a warm blanket.
“Thank you, Choi. It is perfect.”
“You know I could be killed for that piece,” she says.
“Not so long as you carry my mark,” he answers easily. There's the sound of tape and crinkle of plastic and then footsteps. Emma sits up on the couch, blinking sleepily. The new piece, on the inside of his left wrist, is covered. She frowns. “I don't even get to see it?”
Rama pulls her to her feet. “Not yet, mali.”
He murmurs something to Kai and the older man inclines his head.
Outside, he pulls her in front of him, holding her against the front of his body with hands tucked into her pockets. She leans into his warmth, the scent of him wrapping around her. “I have reservations, for dinner,” he says into her hair.
She twists her neck to look at him. “Do we have to go?”
His eyes heat instantly, and she smirks, pushing back against him, finding him hard. “We could get something, go to my place.”
The offer is more than the casual request she makes it seem, and from the sudden tension in his body, he knows it. “Are you sure?” he asks.
She cranes her neck back and he leans down, taking the tactic offering and kissing her softly. Against his lips, she whispers, “Quit talking and call the car.”
They stop for Thai in a little shop run by a man so old Emma isn't sure how he's standing. He scolds Rama in Thai and she watches, amused, as his head drops and he blushes under the man's censure. A king in waiting, being scolded by his people. She will never understand
Both of them are quiet on the last remaining leg of their journey. She sits nervously, twitching her sweater against her jeans. She wonders, suddenly, if bringing him to her home is a good idea.
But then the limo pulls to a stop in front of the high rise and she forces her nerves away and her voice to stay steady. “Dom, that'll be all for tonight.”
Her driver opens his mouth to protest and she cuts him a harsh look. His lips thin and she has a feeling she'll hear about it tomorrow, from Dom and Seth. But for now, he nods.
Rama watches some of the tension in her shoulders ease as she strides up to building, a Morgan Estates property. It is like watching her shake off an ill-fitting skin. Here, she belongs and is not afraid of her place. The doorman greets her by name, smiling and almost bowing to her as she steps into the spacious, marble foyer. “Any packages for me?” she asks, absently.
“Your packages are being held, ma’am,” the doorman answers quickly and Emma pauses, swiveling to give him a hard stare. He hastily adds, “At the request of Mr. Morgan.”
Annoyance flashes in her eyes, and she says, slowly, “Fine. I’ll talk to my cousin. I want no visitors tonight—not even Seth.”
The doorman pales a little at that, and Emma feels a flash of pity for him, being caught between the cousins. Then Rama is pressing against her, and Seth vanishes from her mind.
Rama steps into the mirrored elevator after her, bags hanging at his side while she inserts her key into a hidden panel and enters the code to her penthouse. As the elevator glides into motion, he drops the bags, letting them hit the ground with a thud of wet noodles and warm curry. She has time to make a little startled noise, and then his lip are on hers, and she doesn’t care about their dinner or the time apart, or all the reasons a queen can’t be weak. All she cares about is Rama, his hands almost bruising on her hips as he lifts her up. Her legs go around his waist, and he shudders as she fits herself against him. She smirks, a hand in his silky black hair, nibbling softly before she sucks lightly on his lip. He growls, one hand snaking under her shirt to grasp her breast.
This isn’t finesse—none of the calculated seduction he’s used before. It’s not a slow assent. This is rough, and primal, a battle of lips and teeth, grasping hands and choked moans.
It’s intense and insane and not nearly enough.
When the elevator dings, the doors gliding open, she curses, without ever pulling away from him. Rama laughs against her lips, and nudges their fallen dinner out of the elevator before carrying her into the dark foyer.
Her hands are all over him, fumbling with his shirt, trying to get it off. He murmurs at her to slow down, to take her time—they finally have time. Instead she slides down his body, cupping him roughly. Rama hisses a curse, and reaches for the button on her jeans.
The world seems to stutter, stopping when Rama’s fingers dip into her jeans, brushing over the lace of her panties, then against her wet heat. Emma makes a low noise, her head falling back as he slips a finger through her, teasing. He groans when his finger sinks into her. “More,” she gasps.
Without argument, he shoves her jeans and panties down. She’s working on his belt, and within seconds, he’s got it undone, kicking off the exorbitantly expensive suit pants. He lifts her up again, so fast she barely registers the move before he’s pressing against her, sliding deep, and she whimpers, arms going around his neck.
She had thought it would ease, the fierce ache to be with him, when he was inside her.
But it hasn’t and she can’t help the mindless roll of her hips. He jerks her by the hair to his lips, tongue tangling with hers as he drives into her body. He braces her against the wall and slides a hand between them to toy with her. She screams, a broken sound that ends on a sob, and he kisses away the tear that’s escaped.
“Don’t stop,” she whimpers and even she doesn’t know if she means this, or loving her. He leans down again, kissing her hard as he pushes her toward a climax. Her body is tightening around him, her nails digging into his back and he leans back, searching for that perfect angle. Then he hits it and she shrieks, her eyes closing as her body jerks and clamps down around him.
His eyes slide closed as he lets go, orgasm slamming into him. His legs go boneless and he catches her close as he slides to the floor. They lie like that, sweaty and panting for a long time before she finally rolls to her stomach, propping herself up to stare down at him.
“I missed you, Rama,” she murmurs.
Something loosens in his expression, a tightness she hadn’t noticed, and he grins, kissing her lightly. “Dinner is getting cold, ma
li.”
He collects their dinner as she wiggles back into her jeans, then leads him into the penthouse. It’s strange, seeing it through his eyes for the first time. The penthouse is soft and delicate, done in shades of blue and cream, with an oversized chair and a couch in the living room. There are pictures—her and Caleb and Seth, Gabe, a red-haired man that still hurts to look at.
Rama knows that she hates her mother—but can he ever understand how much she loved her father? She swallows hard and ducks into the kitchen.
Emma eyes the contents of the bag while Rama prowls her home. With a muttered curse, she dumps everything into a large bowl and pulls out two sets of chopsticks. She puts their dinner on the low coffee table, and then grabs two wine glasses and a bottle of red before returning to the living room. Rama is standing at the window, staring out at the city.
It is a million dollar view, with the sparkling lights of the city and the deep darkness of Central Park yawning into the nothingness.
“You love this city, don’t you?”
She steps up beside him, a surge of pride going through her. “Yes. I’ve never known another home—I don’t want another home.”
“I would like, very much, to show you Bangkok.”
Fear slithers through her, and she steps away, retreats to the couch. “I don’t want to be your queen, Rama,” she says, clearly.
He turns, and she watches as he fiddles with the bandage covering his tattoo. His dark eyes flick up to her, assessing, and then the bandage is gone, and she almost drops her wine glass.
It’s simple. Utterly simple and so familiar it’s impossible to mistake. A banded snake, eating its own tail.
“What does this mean to your family?” he asks, intent.
“Family. Protection. Service.” She speaks by rote, then blinks, staring at him with furious eyes. “Why?”
He sits next to her and opens his chopsticks, stirring the pad thai. “Caleb took the Ratchaphure mark, you know.”
She does know—Seth told her that Caleb had taken the Thai flower. She doesn’t understand that. In the Morgan syndicate, the upper echelons of the family don’t carry the mark. They are above that—it is for those who serve, who put the family before anything, even if they are not tied by blood. Caleb was the exception to that rule—he took the Ouroboros in high school, another silent reminder that the royal thug was different from the family, that he took nothing about his place and privilege for granted. But to take another family’s mark—to put himself in service to another syndicate—even knowing Caleb as well as she did, Emma cannot make sense of that.
“This—” he nods at tattoo, “—is a reminder to you and the rest of the world that I serve you. That you are my chosen family. That I will protect you.”
Her eyes are wide and startled. “That…no. That is meant for Seth—not for me.”
Rama’s gaze cools. “Seth is an ally and a friend. But he doesn’t have my loyalty, Emma. That is all yours. This isn’t a trick—this isn’t a test. This is my gift to you.” He shifts, reaching into the bag he carried into the living room, producing a small gift wrapped box. “And this.” She stares at the small, crimson-wrapped present in silence.
“A late birthday gift, love.”
“Rama…”
“Open it.” He says, his voice brooking no argument.
Her fingers shake as she carefully slips the tape free and lets the gold foil paper fall to the ground. A tiny blue box sits in her hand and she has a moment of fear, that he would—
Before she can follow that thought through, she opens it and her breath catches.
Not a proposal. But almost worse, in its way.
The flower hangs on a thing gold chain, four ragged petals and a thin stamen. She has seen that mark on Caleb, and kissed it on Rama’s hip, seen it at his club—the delicate syndicate mark.
“I can’t—”
He snaps his fingers, and her wide blue eyes dart to him, startled and angry. He stares at her in silence for a moment and then, gently, “I am not Nicolette. This means only that my people will protect you. Taking your mark—it means I am subject to Seth’s reprisal, if I were to double-cross either of you.”
She nods slowly. That's the unbelievable part. Not that he would give allegiance and protection—he has done that already. But the third part. The service—it puts him below her, a tool she could use or throw away. A foreign prince has done that, for her.
“This gift comes with no strings, Emma. It is freely offered. Nothing more.”
She gives him a panicked look and he takes the necklace back wordlessly, setting it on a side table, and with it out of her hands, the tension in her chest loosens a little. “Eat, mali,” he orders softly.
And because her mind is spinning and he has managed—once again—to shock her, she does.
Chapter 11. Morgan Estates. New York City. October 19th
She Still Hasn't Quite adjusted to the new office. She liked her cozy office downstairs, but Seth insisted. This was appropriate. And, she knows, he likes having her close enough that he would know immediately of any threat. Close enough that he could see her without moving.
He's on the phone now and she feels a little lost, a kite cut from its string. There is so much pressing in on all sides that she doesn't know where to begin.
Her intercom chimes and she taps it absently. “Yes?”
“Bradford Oleander for you, Ms. Morgan,” Lewis says crisply.
Her brows go up and she nods to herself. "Send him back."
She takes a moment to straighten in her seat, smoothing the silk top and black pencil skirt.
Oleander is new to the board, an addition that Seth insisted on that she still doesn't truly understand. Lawyers are a dime a dozen, even the Oleanders. But Seth trusts him, said that Caleb had trusted him, and for now that's enough.
Still, he hasn't made a move to approach the new queen. Not until now. Bradford steps into her office and she notices two things: he's nervous, and Seth is watching them.
“Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Morgan,” he says quickly.
She smiles, standing. “Of course. Is there something the board needs to be aware of?”
He looks even more nervous and glances at the open door. Emma perches on the edge of her desk, crossing her ankles. Framed by the city, in her suit, with her curls falling around her shoulders, and her hands tucked under her thighs, she is a beguiling mix of innocence and power.
From across the hall, she can see Seth, the worry and hesitation in his eyes. She meets his gaze and he seems to relax, turning away.
“Feel free to close the door if you'd like privacy,” she tells Oleander.
He's watching her, and he looks torn between appreciative and terrified. But he closes the door, and his hands aren't shaking as badly when he smooths his suit jacket and sits in the large leather chair across from her.
“What can I do for you?” she asks.
“I have a letter for you. It was left in my care to be delivered after your birthday.”
Emma stills, and Bradford swallows hard. She watches him for a moment and he pales. He is a lawyer, one who works for her—and after killing Nicolette, the idea of removing a troublesome lawyer is less disturbing than she expects. She clears her throat, banishing the thought.
“Who left it?” she asks distantly, all warmth gone from her voice.
He pulls out the envelope and she knows. It smells faintly of his cologne and stale smoke and his handwriting forms the letters of her name.
Her fingers tremble as she touches it; the paper shakes and Oleander stands abruptly, going to the sidebar and pouring a splash of scotch.
“Why did you wait?” she whispers.
He flinches. Despite the broken tone, the confusion and loss there, that was a demand from an outraged queen. “The information in that—it has killed people. He wanted you to know the truth, but on his terms. When he was sure you were safe enough that it couldn’t hurt you. He wanted you beyond their reach.”
Oleander withdraws another document. This one a well-folded, worn letter. She takes it and the only noise is the crinkle of paper. Then she laughs and if there is a hysterical edge to it,
Oleander doesn’t comment on it.
Even from the grave, her cousin is still protecting her.
Without opening the envelope, she circles the desk and sits. She eyes the unbroken seal— something Caleb rarely bothered with. This was important to him, then.
She glances at the lawyer, and he shakes his head. “It hasn’t been tampered with. It’s been in my personal safety deposit box since he gave it to me.”
Emma takes a deep breath and uses a letter opener to slit it open. There is a thick sheaf of papers, but the first one has a handwritten note, and her fingers shake as she picks it up.
She never expected to see his writing again—occasionally she’ll stumble across a note from him, handed on by one of the eager boys in his division, little notes with terse orders about where to find him, or when he’d pick her up. Often, when she spent the night in his apartment, she’d crawl out of bed to find an empty living room and a note, and she’d occupy herself by cleaning the roach-infested kitchen while she waited for him to return.
Those notes are tucked away now, in her penthouse, where she can find them when she misses her blue-eyed cousin.
Seeing his handwriting now, here, where she least expects it, is like a blow.
Em-
I don’t want you to read this. I want to sit down with you—talk to you. I don’t want you to stumble into the truth the way I did. But we don’t always get what we want. And if things go south, you still deserve the truth.
They lied to us, Emma. All these years—all the shit from my dad about family and loyalty and how nothing else matters. They lied. Mikie knows. So does your mom. It’s only fair we know.
Family, right?
They said Mom died in a car. They said your dad died in California. They lied.
