Into His Command

by Angel Payne

  As she spoke, an arm locked around my waist—attached to a hand that dug in at the right place to make me squeal. I spun toward the only person capable of knowing that ticklish spot. “Brother mine, in the spirit of full disclosure, I do not own this gown. If I destroy it kicking your ass, I’m going to make you pay for the repair.”

  “Pssshhh.” Dillon flourished it with a grin, uncannily like Dad’s. Though he hadn’t inherited the man’s genes, he’d learned the best traits. “You mean if you kick my ass?”

  “Charmer.”

  “Right? Especially in this get-up.” He made the eyebrow caterpillars dance again. “I haz da swaggah tonight, yeah?”

  “Ew.” It bounced out on a laugh. This was part of Dil’s schtick, comic relief reserved for the days I came home from crazy-tough training. But right now, I couldn’t tackle him to the couch to make him stop. “Time to work the room elsewhere, perv.” I leaned over to murmur, just for his ears, “Freya’s looking pretty awesome tonight.”

  He reacted as if I’d gloated over taken the last cookie in the jar. Not that the comparison had any validation in reality. “I’m perfectly fine right here. Where are you going?”

  He actually looked a little sad. Guilt bit at my chest. We’d always found time to reconnect with each other, but even before the whirlwind of last week, training had eaten into more and more of my schedule. “I promise we’ll get an afternoon soon, D. But right now, I’m on the clock.”

  He looked around, disgruntled. “I don’t see a freaking time clock.”

  I backhanded his shoulder. Diffused his moodiness more by cocking a sassy pose, hands on hips. “Because I never clocked out.”

  “Ahhh,” Dad chimed in. “See that, Dil? All this time, smiling nice and socializing, when she’s really been protecting our king and his lady. Well done, munchkin.”

  “Father.” I glowered.

  “What?”

  “Can we stow ‘munchkin’ at home, at least for tonight?” What was with him and Dil trotting out the family-only stuff at this soiree? Now, even Samsyn noticed. The knowing—and entrancing—quirk of his lips said as much. That, of course, got Cam’s attention. She linked an elbow with mine and tugged proudly.

  “How about Jamie Bond?” she proposed. “Shaken not stirred?”

  Glower. “You’re not helping.”

  “Hmmm.” Dad grinned. “That has merit. Girl with the golden gun? From Arcadia with love?”

  “See what I mean?” I narrowed eyes again at Cam. “Not helping.”

  She leaned into me while murmuring her comeback. “Maybe not…but it’s kept Samsyn’s eyes on you nonstop.” She answered my gape with a subtle wink. “Not that you needed any help.”

  Heat. Back to my ears, probably farther. Damn. I’d had more color in my face this last week than during three years of fight training. “I have no idea—”

  “Of course you do. And now it’s clear what you were squirming about earlier.”

  “Shit.”

  “Hey. Don’t worry. It’s not like the whole room knows. Just the other woman who knows what it’s like to fall for a Cimarron man.”

  I swallowed hard. Looked to her, letting her alone see the longing pain across my face. “Sometimes, falling only gets you hurt, Ladyship.”

  Camellia twisted our arms tighter. Pushed closer, making sure she stamped me with her empathic smile. “And sometimes, you’re already sharing the drop—and you just have to reach out to know it.”

  She lifted her gaze. I followed its trajectory, already knowing I’d hate myself for it.

  And Samsyn, too.

  Yeah, you big ox. I hate you for this.

  Why did he torment us both with his riveting attention…with that laser focus in his eyes? By joining it with such a taut clench to his jaw, I didn’t know if he was grieving or furious? By making me feel like a drop of water in his desert, and the Delilah who’d ruined him? I already had a thousand balls in the air tonight. A hundred strangers in the room. Another hundred corners to be suspicious of. And now, maintaining dignity in the face of “munchkin” and “Jamie Bond”.

  Stress bypassed my tight bodice, stabbing straight for the nerves behind my eyes. Things had gotten really complicated, really fast. Why? How? The mission had been simple: keep Evrest and Camellia safe. It was huge enough of a job description, despite a dozen others being tasked with the same thing, to keep me consumed for the night. Now I had Mom, Dad, and Dillon stirred into the pie, on top of gracefully wiping my drool over Samsyn—

  And, in breaking news, remembering how to greet the high couple of the kingdom.

  Though it’d been years since King Ardent stepped down to let Evrest deal with the day-to-day ruling of Arcadia, the king father’s entrance still dictated the most solemn display of respect. His queen, Xaria, was due the same. We’d reviewed the etiquette during this week’s training but Jag only allowed the Palais’ etiquette coach a half-hour with us, deciding—wisely—we all needed to know more about protecting the couple, not genuflecting for them.

  Now, I fought to yank up those thirty minutes on my mental hard drive. Servers unresponsive. Shit, shit, shit. There was a certain order of things, wasn’t there? And how did I bow? And to whom?

  Never had I been more grateful for Camellia’s proximity. “Girls bow to Xaria first.” Her whisper was clear though her lips barely moved. “But bow deeper to Ardent. Refer to either as ‘excellence’. ‘Majesty’ is only for Evrest.” And very soon, her—though I didn’t bother pointing it out again.

  I joined her and the rest of the group in making the proper motions and saying the proper things. Everyone seemed to make it through the rituals just fine—

  Except Samsyn.

  Who didn’t perform them at all.

  Who’d turned into a different person from the moment his parents appeared.

  At first, I assumed his tension was in line with everyone else’s. Even Evrest visibly stiffened with the arrival of the king father and queen mother—though after the bows and greetings were done, he turned to pull both parents into affectionate hugs. Samsyn made no such move. Samsyn didn’t budge, period. No bows. No words. No motion. He was a wall. All of him now, not just the figurative I enjoyed using for his torso. His knuckles gripped the hem of his doublet, now white as concrete. His face reminded me of the profiles of Mount Rushmore—in January. Granite defiance beneath stormy skies.

  I wasn’t the only one taking notice. While the breech earned Samsyn a pointed glare from Evrest, King Ardent chose the opposite end of the spectrum. The man was all courtesan congeniality, parting the crowd as he approached. “Samsyn, my son!” He was tall and regal in a black and white doublet over black breeches, grunting in affection as he embraced Samsyn. His clubbed ponytail gleamed like a paintbrush down his back, making him appear more like Syn’s brother than father—until he pulled away. At that point, the differences became obvious.

  Ardent Cimarron was an attractive man—but knew it. He was also a powerful man—and knew that too. Most obviously, he’d used those advantages to manipulate others—and wouldn’t hesitate to do so again.

  And of course, as soon as I came to those conclusions, the man turned—and magnetized his gaze on me.

  Why wasn’t Murphy’s Law a citable offense?

  More to the core of the matter: why wasn’t it okay to flash a huge “talk to the hand”, even to one’s king, when they bore down on you like a rat on a pizza slice?

  “And who could this fresh face be?”

  Sometimes, a girl really did need her dad. “Ardent, you old dog. Hands off my daughter.”

  As Ardent looked over, his scowl brightened to delight. “Chase! You old bonsun! And Ronnie! I barely recognized you both. But this gorgeous creature simply cannot be little Brooke…”

  I envisioned little steel ropes, attaching to my smile and lifting it. “Bon aksam, your excellence.” The last time I’d used the forced warble was at a senatorial picnic, when Senator Warden had gulped too many Long Island iced teas an
d came on to every female over fifteen. This was different. Really different. Senator Warden’s son had been a congressman with acne scars and receding hair, not the man who fired my bloodstream simply with the force of his presence. “Yes. It’s me. Excuse the crazy hair. It doubles as a great dance partner, though.” My strawberry red fall wasn’t as long as Mom’s but anything past my nape felt like hauling around an animal. I already couldn’t wait to rip the thing off—which only added to the annoyance of Ardent’s appreciative stroke of the thing.

  “I imagine it does.” One regal finger twirled a long strand of the fake stuff. “But I do prefer waltzing with something more…flesh and blood…do you not agree?”

  “Right.” I drew the vowel out, buying time for composure. The last time I’d spent any time with King Ardent, when we’d been invited to Evrest’s coronation party a few years ago, he’d spared me a polite smile and handshake, nothing more. Not that I’d minded. Pomp, circumstance, and pageantry hadn’t been my thing even during the princess gown days, when all I’d wanted to do was skip the receiving line and get to the cake table. “To be honest, waltzing in general isn’t my jam.” I gestured toward my feet. “Two left ones. Not kidding.”

  “Nonsense,” Ardent chided. “I would stake money that you dance as if on a cloud.” He swept up an arm. “Come, now. Shall we?”

  Shit. Really?

  I gulped, hoping my true thoughts were successfully masked: that his elbow might as well have been an armed bomb. In many ways, it was. Turn down the invitation and irk the king father himself, or accept it and stumble my way across the dance floor, piling one uncomfortable situation on top of the next?

  “Your excellence, I’m so flattered. But…I’m on duty. And I really am awful.”

  “Not entirely true.” Dillon’s smooth grin didn’t make his interjection less atrocious. “You knew all the steps from High School Musical…sort of.”

  I pivoted on him, filling my glare with one message only. “Shut up or you’re dead.”

  “What?” He snickered. “You were so cute. ‘Wildcats everywhere; raise your hands up in the air’.” He clawed at the air, making it as off-rhythm as my moves from ten years ago. I closed my eyes, barely stifling a groan. If there was a graceful out for Ardent’s ick factor moves, this wasn’t it.

  “Knock. It. Off.” I gritted out each word. Re-schooled my lips into a tight smile, lifted back toward the king father. “Apologies, your excellence. Siblings love to take advantage of times like these.”

  “But of course.” Ardent tacked on a laugh, though the sound didn’t relieve me. It felt like spray butter. Same tint as the real stuff, but…not.

  “My brother’s color commentary aside, I am here for work, not play.”

  “Outstanding point.” It wasn’t the fact that Samsyn spoke for the first time in ten minutes. It was the authority he used, given his low volume and tight lips—commanding the attention of everyone present, including his father. “Miss Valen is correct. She is here as event security, not entertainment.”

  “Speaketh the official event guard dog.” Dil earned himself my elbow in his ribs for the mutter only I could hear. Even so, he added, “Arf arf.”

  Before I could actually go for breaking those ribs, Samsyn covered the diameter of our makeshift kumbaya circle. Without breaking stride, he hooked a hand under my elbow, spinning me away from the ring.

  “Dammit,” I spat. Not him, too.

  “I actually require Miss Valen’s input right now about some logistical matters.”

  Yep. Him, too.

  “Logistical matters?” I hissed it as he doubled our pace, back toward the shadows from which he’d first manifested. “Could you be any more transparent—or lame?”

  Too little, much too late. He didn’t hear a word I said, too busy ordering Jag to slide someone into my place on the terrace. By the time he clicked the line off, we’d stepped off the terrace, through a small metal gate, and onto a path that hugged the cliff.

  “Samsyn!” I barked. “Dammit; this is—”

  “Quiet, Brooke.”

  “Seriously? You want to take another good, long look back here? Last time I checked, you left your dogs back at the Palais, asshole.”

  “I said quiet!”

  It was just vicious enough to make me bite the words back. Besides, bitchitude was possible in a number of ways. I had no trouble illustrating the point to the ox, huffing and grunting and growling through every step we took. I kept it up, despite the fact that the path was well-lighted by the moon and relatively flat, despite getting a little muddy just before Syn suddenly cut left, still dragging me behind.

  We’d entered a picnic shelter of some sort. Overhead, wooden rafters dripped with bougainvillea. There were a pair of standing barbecues and a matching pair of wooden picnic tables. It was a perfect spot for such a thing. The view of the lake from here was breathtaking.

  Not that Syn gave me more than a second to take notice.

  Without a word—with barely a sign of warning except the way he snapped me around then backed me up—he plowed me into one of the tables. Hiked my ass up onto it from the sheer force of how he rammed my body with his, pinning me with his crotch.

  I didn’t hold back the outrage in my glare.

  He didn’t hold back the ferocity in his.

  “Syn.” In my mind, it had been an outraged snarl. On my lips, it was a stupid rasp. I made up for it with my favorite standby. “What the fuck is—”

  He ripped that short, too. His clutch at my face, his hand digging in until I felt him shaking from it, arresting the words in the middle of my throat. “He…touched you,” He growled. “Touched you as if he…knew you.” He pushed in tighter, grating his clothes against mine, a decidedly intimate sound in the small space of the shelter. My body sure as hell confirmed it. The growing ridge in the center of his body was another yes.

  “Knew me?”

  I wasn’t just being a mindless parrot—but the query was legitimate. What the hell was he talking about? Where the hell had this strange rush of caveman come from? And why the hell were groping each other in starlight and shadows again?

  And how did I not give an inch of damn about any of those answers?

  “Like I know you. Like nobody else knows you.” He pressed again, looming until I had to capitulate, flattening to my back to the table. Syn lowered with me, his hand burrowing back, pushing away my wig—

  As he crushed my mouth with his.

  Freeing me from more than the hair.

  Arousing me in more than just my sex.

  Conquering me as more than just a lover.

  He consumed and filled. Heated me, completed me, inspired me, instigated me…

  Knew me.

  He dragged away by just a few inches, looking beautiful and bold, his features outlined in silver, his gaze glowing nearly the same shade. “Nobody knows you like I do,” he commanded. “That means nobody touches you but me, Brooke Valen.”

  As he spoke, his opposite hand somehow—miraculously—found its way beneath my skirts. He punctuated the declaration by palming me where I was wettest and hottest…making it clear exactly how he intended to demonstrate his point.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‡

  FOR ONCE, IT felt wonderful to be dressed like a princess—especially the one being roused from sleep by a magical kiss.

  Corny? Yeah.

  Unrealistic? Hell, yeah.

  But in the perfection of right now, beneath the power of his body, consumed by the mastery of his touch?

  It was complete truth.

  A magic unleashed. His magic. Our magic.

  I gave in. Let it swirl through me, overtake me, sizzle into my blood and bones and senses, as I jabbed my hands up to touch him too. Anywhere I could. Everywhere I could. I unfastened his doublet, frantically twisting the hooks to reveal the sculpted bronze slabs of his chest. His dark flesh beckoned, irresistible…touchable. I grabbed at him, boldly closing my fingers around his nipple—just as two
of his lunged up into my core.

  “Samsyn!” It was a perfect scream.

  “My starlight.” It was a perfect growl. He was relentless, thrusting rougher and rougher, abrading my pouting flesh until I bucked against his hand, fucking his fingers in return. He pulled out long enough to push my panties aside, giving him better access to my soaked entrance. He worked his thumb into those folds while reinserting his longer fingers into my tunnel, working every part of my sex with long, lunging motions. “By the Creator…how did I get through a fucking week without this?”

  I laughed softly—until opening my eyes to find him studying me, brow deeply crunched. I could almost hear his inner dialogue, trying to convince himself I wouldn’t disappear. His expression stabbed tears behind my eyes. I didn’t understand it, but like the enchantment of his touch, I had no will to fight it.

  “You survived.” I lifted a hand to his face. “Somehow, we both did.”

  He kissed me again. While this embrace wasn’t the full-on maul of before, it jacked my arousal just as violently. Though he’d pulled a Neanderthal move to get me here, now I sensed him needing to feel the same from me—that I needed this too.

  If it was need the man wanted, that was what he’d damn well get.

  I moaned into his mouth while jabbing my hands into his hair. Yanked the tie free. Hurled it away. With the long, thick silk free between my fingers, I twisted in to pull him close, sucking furiously at his tongue and lips. I didn’t stop there. I couldn’t. My spirit’s desire for him drove my body, arching it against his huge hand, my thighs quivering, my sex flooding.

  “Yours. I’m yours, Samsyn.” I spoke it before he could demand it, already knowing he needed it. The effect it instantly produced in him…was a look I’d never seen before. For one moment, his face flared with joy—only the next, to be overtaken by the shadows I often saw in him. But now, they didn’t lurk at the back of his composure. They crowded him, possessed him, transformed him into something dark and intense—

  A darkness he focused totally on me.

  An intensity throbbing straight to my pussy.

  “Say it again.” His dictate began in his chest and curled out his lips, twisting between us like smoke. “Say it exactly the same.”