Into His Command

by Angel Payne

  His thumb pushed under my chin. His eyes fixated on my lips.

  “I am…not.”

  Chapter Three

  ‡

  OH, GOD.

  Ohhhh, God.

  He brushed his mouth against mine…for about two seconds. Long enough, I sensed, to test if I’d finally gotten the message about that nuance in his voice and that concentration in his gaze.

  Message received, Cimarron. Joyously loud and clear.

  I told him so by fisting his shirt in one hand, his hair in the other. By letting myself drown in his nearness and heat, his hardness and lust.

  Oh, God. Yeah…lust.

  This was happening. Samsyn Cimarron was lusty. For me.

  He lifted away. Only far enough to reconfirm my desire with his eyes too—perhaps to ensure I saw it in his gaze too.

  Check that box, Syn. Then kiss me, dammit.

  He growled.

  Hurry.

  I sighed.

  Please hurry.

  Galloping chest. Careening head. Throbbing pulse. The cool mist. His warm breath. Perfect. This was so perfect.

  “Your Highness!”

  Jagger’s shout parted us like a pair of lit firecrackers. Our heads dropped, resulting in their violent collision. I barely felt the pain. It was easily eclipsed by—

  What?

  What the hell was this?

  Embarrassment didn’t feel like an option. Neither did any of the other “shoulds” rightfully belonging in this situation. Mortification? No way. Regret? Not a drop. I wasn’t going to repent for taking what I’d always longed for. He wasn’t attached to anyone—the Arcadian gossip mill wouldn’t be immune to a juicy goody like that for long—and I sure as hell wasn’t either. This was what I’d craved from Samsyn since the moment his hand first tucked into mine, six years ago. Had it been just a teenage infatuation at first? Of course. But as I’d grown, so had the awareness of how he did…the proud, protecting, principled man he’d become. I wasn’t the only woman on this island who’d noticed—but I’d always hoped, in the outermost reaches of my heart, that our connection was a little more special than most…

  I’d just been on the verge of finding out.

  “Dammit, Jag.” I muttered it only for Syn’s ears. How would he react? I certainly knew what I hoped for. His lips, twitching with reined-in mirth. His eyes, glowing with barely banked passion. Then his voice, turning low and smoky, murmuring that we’d continue our conversation later…

  “What is it?”

  My anticipation sank. His bellow was all business, his face even more so. His jaw was fixed and tense. And his eyes were stark with…

  Remorse. Perhaps even shame. Looked like that was just the beginning of the list.

  “Everyone is here,” Jag shouted back. “And waiting in the Center’s conference room.”

  “On our way.”

  Syn kept his eyes on me while issuing it. Even stalled a moment before turning to leave. But it sure as hell wasn’t to promise more conversation later. It was a goodbye—at least to the path we’d only just started exploring. I didn’t hide my feedback about that, letting him have the full brunt of my glower. And what did I think that’d get me? A scrap of apology, silent or out loud? Idiot. Syn offered nothing but a hard nod, driving in his point like a mallet to a stake. The gate was closed and wouldn’t ever be revisited.

  Your damn loss, Your Highness.

  I made sure he knew it, too. Stepped around him and led the way back through the woods to the Center, making sure I turned every stomp into a subtle little sashay. When he started with his tight grunts halfway through the trip, I smiled to myself. Tried to enjoy every single second of his misery.

  Tried.

  Victories were hollow when a celebration had no heart.

  *

  “MERDERIM TO YOU all for making the time to be here.”

  Samsyn stood at the head of the Center’s huge conference table, huge and imposing—though he’d have a lock on everyone’s attention even if seated. I deliberately positioned myself near the opposite end, like the extra distance was going to be any damn help in eluding the extra pull he had on me.

  The extra pull he always had on me.

  Only now, it was worse. A thousand times more intense. I noticed everything more acutely. The daybreak brilliance of his eyes. The midnight resonance in his voice. The grace in each of his steps. The flow in his hands.

  Those hands.

  Their power, barely banked, curling against my waist. Their passion, urgent to the point of quivering, as he held back on the kiss. Even the command in his damn thumb, sizzling heat up my whole face through that pressure point beneath my chin…

  I shifted in my seat. Forced my attention back up front. The task wasn’t difficult, since Jag—the shithead with the worst timing on the planet—had just finished with his version of a pomp-and-circumstance welcome to his prince. Syn officially had the floor again.

  “There is much to say, so I will get to the point.” He braced his feet and squared his shoulders. “As many of you know, my brother has set his mind on bringing some major changes to our kingdom. Whether it likes it or not, Arcadia is slowly making its way into the twenty-first century.”

  Murmurs rippled around the table, agreeing with him.

  “Bring it.” Blayze Hardwell, a hulk with a shock of bright red hair, emphasized it with a fist to his chest. “My shit flushes properly now. I get hot water in the morning.” He raised the hand to smack his cheek. “See that? Feels like a baby’s ass because of the water.”

  As everyone’s laughter waned, the guy next to him beamed a new smile. “My little sister is taking biomechanical engineering at the university now.”

  Blayze gave that a nod of approval. Just one. “So when do we get a Yogurtland?”

  “Never.” Syn’s stare turned the shade of thunder.

  I suppressed a groan. A vat of chocolate frozen yogurt topped with gummy bears sounded so perfect right now.

  Grahm Riggs, the only man on the island with hair rivalling Syn’s, was also known as the most stoic of our bunch. He fought like a demon but said as little as a monk. Even now, the care behind his words was evident. “Whether everyone ‘likes’ it or not,” he reiterated. “So are you here because of the ‘likes’ or the ‘or nots’?”

  Syn’s posture tightened, confirming a vote for the latter—but he answered wryly, “Both.”

  Everyone leaned forward, including me.

  He took in a noticeable breath. Steeled his jaw. “As you are all likely aware, not everyone in the kingdom supports leaving the old ways behind.” He hitched a grin at Blayze. “Including the plumbing.”

  Anger burned in the guy’s gaze. “Imbezaks.”

  Syn snorted. “Imbeciles may be accurate, my friend, but those voices are also numerous. And growing.”

  Nods all around. Many people of the population, young and old, were still violently opposed to the changes Evrest proposed for Arcadia. They contended the kingdom’s peace and prosperity were because of the island’s minimal contact with the modern world, not in spite of it. They called themselves the Pura, and had been cautious about vocalizing their views—until lately. They grew louder last summer, when Evrest allowed an American film company onto the island; louder still when their king bucked the law of The Distinct, a pre-selected group of potential brides, and proposed to Camellia Saxon, a member of that film crew.

  “Numerous.” Grahm echoed his leader once more. And again, elaborated with care. “Which also means dangerous.”

  “Getting more to the point…yes.” Samsyn growled it before jacking his head back, as if also turning it into a skyward plea. Either that or he really knew how incredible that move was, brushing his hair over his beautiful deltoids and traps, causing my instant fantasy of monkey-climbing all the way up his huge body. “Yet into the middle of this désorlik, my brother has insisted on taking his fiancé on an island-wide engagement tour.”

  Monster record scratch.

&nb
sp; Fantasy over.

  “An engagement what?”

  It earned me a brief glance, though Samsyn directed his explanation to the entire group. “Now that His Majesty can be as open as he wishes about his hormone storm for this woman, he wishes to share the ‘joy’ with everyone. He is convinced that he’ll win over many Pura, once they meet Camellia and fall for her as he has.”

  “And he’s taking the campaign to their turf for it,” I supplied.

  Jagger twisted a sardonic smile. “It is a brilliant idea. Déssonum for the brutal honesty, my prince…but it is.”

  “Agreed.” Grahm clearly didn’t feel his apology was necessary too. “He takes the message to the people. Lets them see Camellia as a real person, the woman worthy of their king’s true love. In the doing, she becomes a positive symbol of the economic strides Evrest wants to make, as well.”

  Blayze jiggled his knee and frowned. “Hmph. Brilliant. If you are not the one having to arrange logistics for all…of…”

  His voice trailed off as realization slammed us all.

  Jagger was the first to voice our collective conclusion.

  “Fuck.”

  No wonder Syn had braced his stance.

  He fielded the burst of reactions, ranging from hell no to hell yes and everything in between, with quiet composure. It gave me a moment to study him. Not that I wasn’t always doing that…but this moment was different than any before. I’d seen Samsyn Cimarron in many forms over the years. Stiff and formal. Charming and reserved. Rugged and competitive. The last trumped the others combined. But I’d never gotten to see him as a leader of men, guiding and motivating without props like swords, cars, fists, or battle cries. Right now, it was just him.

  And he was riveting.

  Regal.

  Patient.

  Perfect.

  I also wasn’t the only one who noticed.

  I’d observed, of course, that Orielle Preetsok had quietly entered the room when the meeting was called to order, smart pad in hand. As one of the Center’s administrative staff, she’d obviously been called in to take notes. As a preening little thing who’d been on the island’s final Distinct selection list, she likely also had an agenda—about the possibility of locking her claim on the next available prince in the Cimarron line. I shouldn’t have cared—if she made Syn happy and treated him right, wasn’t that what mattered?—but who the hell was I kidding? Watching her undress him with her big doe eyes, sitting up straighter to flaunt her va-va-voom curves and milky skin, I fought against knocking back a jealousy shooter. The little brunette certainly seemed more his type. She was a woman groomed to say Yes Sir no matter what the situation.

  I didn’t like following rules.

  I clearly got it from Dad.

  Who’d landed his whole family in exile on a foreign island because of shattering a few “guidelines” himself.

  Meeting. Important. Thoughts. Present. Now.

  I pushed Orielle to my periphery, despite her continued mooning at Syn. “So you’re expecting big crowds,” I stated. “And you need eyes and ears in them, to keep track of any potential trouble. Local faces in plain clothes, so as to not arouse suspicions.”

  Blayze swung a wide grin. “Clever girl!”

  “Nah. I just wanted to be Sidney Bristow when I was in junior high.” The Alias reference earned me a circle of glassy stares. Nothing new; I had the skill down to an art form.

  “An equally brilliant idea,” Jagger asserted.

  Samsyn didn’t waste time restating the point—or acknowledging it’d come from me. I pushed down the resulting disappointment. Hadn’t I earned my place at this table by proving I could be like the guys? Until half an hour ago, it was all I’d ever hoped to get in the way of proximity to Syn. One stupid slip of judgment later, and I’d forgotten it all. Maybe you should join Orielle in the swoony pit.

  As I willed the fist in my lap to relax, Samsyn pulled a remote control stick out of his black cargo pants. At his tap, an image came to life in the air over the table: a holographic map of the Tahreuse Mountain Range, along with the surrounding valleys.

  Jag whistled appreciatively.

  Even Grahm smiled. “Kicks ass on ten Yogurtlands.”

  “Evrest and Camellia begin the tour in three days’ time, beginning with the central valleys and the pastoral midlands.” Syn paced around the table, to the side at which I was seated. With every step closer, my instincts were harder to subdue. My body plugged into foreign circuits. My pores popped open. My nerve endings sizzled. My hand coiled again in my lap, helping me hide every shaking breath I took.

  What the hell? Why was I vibrating like an exposed wire, because of one kiss? No. Not even that, thanks to Jagger and his timing.

  As if my pulse, my skin, and the very air around me knew that difference.

  “That gives us six days to prepare for things here, for anyone keeping the math.” Syn halted right behind me—oh, why the freak not?—and punched the clicker again. On the holograph, a red line snaked its way up the slopes of Tahreuse. “On Friday, they shall depart Faisant Township after a community breakfast hosted by the Stanwycks of Sauvage Ranch. That means they will travel here via the Longitude Road, followed by the South Face Switchbacks. To be precautious, we shall close the Switchbacks to all traffic except the royal convoy.”

  “Which consists of what?” Grahm inquired.

  “Five Arcadian security trucks, to start,” Syn replied. “One serving as advance lookout, traveling fifteen to twenty minutes ahead of the main group, to radio back if something feels exceptionally out of place. Another truck shall serve as lead on the main group; one more at sweep.”

  “And the other two?”

  “One behind Evrest and Camellia’s vehicle.” Even without his tight growl, I would’ve felt his surge of tension. “My brother, looking at the world through his typical Candide glasses, wants to travel with his wife in the royal Bentley.”

  Grahm shrugged. “It is an elegant touch.”

  “In convertible mode.”

  Blayze howled. “I should have saved the imbezak reference for now.”

  Jagger lurched to his feet. “You refer to your king, mongrel. Leash your words!”

  Syn lifted a hand. “Jag.”

  “What?”

  “Sit.” He walked around, taking up a new position at the foot of the table. Good thing? He was farther away, giving my nervous system a break. Bad thing? I now had to view him in profile, and it was just as mesmerizing as the head-on way. “Besides,” he muttered, “I align with Blayze.” His hair brushed his jaw as he shook his head, a stunning contrast of silken sable to hard-hewn angles. “Evrest’s is the noblest soul I know—but sometimes, that makes it the most foolish.”

  “We’ll figure it out.” I tried not to sound impatient. Yyeeaah, not-so-much. And men said women got stuck on petty matters? “Let’s get through the big picture first. Tell us about the rest of the convoy.”

  “One car shall be for His Majesty, Ardent, and the Queen Mother, Xaria. And after them, a car for Camellia’s parents.”

  Jolt of attention, straight up the spine. “Her parents are coming for this?”

  “My brother is very serious about the project.”

  Grahm traced the wood grain of the table with a finger. “So Shiraz and Jayd will be along, as well.”

  “In their own car,” Syn clarified. “Though they will be part of the motorcade only, and not taking part in any of the official events.”

  Jagger chuffed. “And I am certain Jayd loves the hell out of that idea.”

  Syn’s growl was low but firm. “Jayd will accept my decision, rendered for her own safety, whether she likes it or not.”

  I hid a smile. That explained his comment at the waterfall. Good chance I was the only one in the room who’d seen Syn’s real conflict about his sister’s hostility—and clearly, he wanted it to stay that way. How many difficult decisions must he make like that, every single day? I wondered if there was anyone who knew…or was t
here to help him with them.

  “So what comes after that?” Blayze inserted, smirking wide. “The clowns and monkeys?”

  “If that is how you care to classify the assistants and stylists.” Syn didn’t relent a note of his determined challenge. The message, this time to Blayze, was there. Traditional sarcasm would have to be checked once this party rolled up the mountain.

  “Stylists?” On the other hand, Grahm’s query was completely serious. “They need to be…styled?”

  Syn braced his stance again. Uh-oh. “I am told that ‘styling’ is usually required for a ball.”

  “A ball?”

  We all couldn’t have blurted it more in unison if we’d rehearsed. Syn drew in a long breath, as unmoved as a teacher handing out extra homework. “My brother wishes to have a ball for his betrothed,” he affirmed, “and he feels Le Blanc Tower would be an ideal place for it.”

  I pushed back in my chair. “I’d feel the exact same way—with more than six days’ notice for the occasion.”

  Heads nodded around me. None of us could dispute King Evrest’s thinking. The Tower—kind of a pointless name, since visitors technically walked down to it instead of up—was like no other venue in the world. The huge cavern, hewn into the mountain by time and the elements, had been wired with lighting and given an extended terrace just a few years ago, turning it into the island’s most popular spot for any occasion requiring an extraordinary touch. The word only began to describe the place. The entrance walkway and stairs, all carved into the pure white granite found in so many places on Arcadia, first led a visitor to think they were entering a pristine palace with a killer view of Lake Sagique. But the main room itself was the main surprise. Naturally embedded into every wall, as well as the ceiling, were chunks of labradorite, sapphire, and euclase that turned the space into a sparkling wonderland.

  “Well, six days is what we have.” Syn didn’t try to be nice about it. As he scrubbed his face, I realized the reason why. His eyes were sheened with exhaustion, his mouth bracketed by strain. Damn. He’d likely encountered this same argument when assembling a ground team in Faisant, and counted on facing the same when moving on to Colluss on the north coast, where Evrest and Camellia would logically travel after Tahreuse.