Into His Command

by Angel Payne

  Damn.

  And wow.

  If it were possible, he was even more bite-my-lip-worthy from the front. A fresh shirt, in dove gray this time, was complimented by a black vest with matching pinstripes. The pinstripes continued in his slacks. Everything was undoubtedly tailored to him. The ensemble formed to his physique without a millimeter of error. He hadn’t conceded totally to the new king look, though. From the middle of his shins down, his pants were stuffed into a pair of well-used black cargo boots, top four eyelets empty, the extra laces whipped around and tied at the back of his legs instead of the front.

  The only way he could’ve been sexier was naked.

  As soon as our stares met again, the stern expression on his face softened. One side of his mouth kicked up. He gestured for me to sit in one of the chaises but I shook my head and mouthed the word shower. I’d feel better about joining him if I was ready to face the day too. Whatever the hell it was going to bring.

  I left him to finish the call, picking up enough of his Arcadian to discern it was about repairs on the water pipeline between the mountains and the central valley, and made my way back inside. I wasn’t dressed to give myself a full tour of his suite yet, but took a quick mental inventory of what I could see. At least two more big bedrooms, with a hall likely leading to more. Kitchen. Living room. Conference room. Woman.

  Woman?

  At that point, I simply saw red. Didn’t help that her blonde hair was woven with the same inimitable color, turning it a shade of envy-worthy strawberry. Her big green eyes, centered over a button nose and bow-shaped lips, peered around the living room. She didn’t radiate man killer, though. Her black taffeta dress seemed from another era, its Peter Pan collar and fitted bodice cinched into a tight waist, flaring to a full skirt ending just below her knees. She carried a large patent leather purse. Add cat-eye glasses, and I’d have pegged her for getting lost on her way to auditioning for Grease.

  But maybe that was how Samsyn liked his women.

  Well, not while the ox wore that gold band on his finger.

  I yanked the robe tighter. Pointedly cleared my throat. “Miss? May I help you?”

  She started like a cat with its paw on the bird. “Oh! Your Majesty.” After hurrying over and curtseying low—then lower still—she raised up with an uncomfortable smile. “I am afraid you righted the words from my mouth.”

  “Huh?” Wow, she was weird—but that was what I liked best about her. “You mean, took the words right out of my mouth?”

  “Ummm…yes.” She smiled gratefully but swiftly schooled the look. “It sounds so much better, coming from you.”

  “Okaaayy.” I hoped she’d pick up on my confusion. Her eyes might have been big, but they were also intelligent.

  “Sweet Creator,” she mumbled. “Where is my etiquette?” After smoothing her skirts and tossing her braid down her back, she poked out her hand, almost robotically. “I am Mishella, Your Majesty. I am your new secran.”

  “My new what?”

  She blinked. “Secran. Errrmm…secretary? Assistant?”

  Since Mishella was minding her Ps and Qs, I should’ve been too. Instead, a giggle spurted out. Then something worse. “Well, hell. Why didn’t you just put that horse in front of the cart?”

  Her face crunched. “I…did I not just—”

  “I’m sorry.” I took her hand, squeezing affectionately. “It’s just a silly expression.” I watched, a little nonplussed, as she dropped my hand to reach into her purse. Out came a legal-sized note pad, yellow pages and all, along with a gold pen. She started madly scribbling. “Mishella? What are you—”

  “Making note of the ‘silly expression’.” She attacked the task like—well—a lawyer in court. “The queen mother told me you had many idioms, and to take meticulous notes, so I could learn them.”

  Comprehension set in. Not the good kind. “The queen mother sent you?”

  “Well, assigned me. Yes. To—”

  “Assist me. Yes. I heard the first time.”

  While her head jerked up, the ginger brows lowered. “I will be good at my job, Majesty. I have trained in Queen Xaria’s offices for nearly a year now. I am excellent at organization, calendaring, filing, keyboard input, and even wardrobe selection.”

  I held up both hands. “Whoa, whoa. Untangle your panties. Don’t write that one down.” I pulled the pad from her, just to be sure. “I’m sure you’re perfectly great. And I’m actually thankful you’re here. Just give me a second. Or three.” I fumbled on, in the face of her perplexed silence, “I just thought you’d come in here for another reason, that’s all.”

  Her lips pursed, an expression that probably drove men crazy—not that I was certain the woman knew it. Or did she? “Another reason like what?”

  More of the wide doll wonder. If her all-business-no-pleasure thing was an act, it was a damn good one.

  “Like hooking up with Samsyn.”

  At least she understood that one. Her double-take was brief but blatant. After pulling out a smaller notepad from the bottomless purse—apparently, the girl believed in backup pacifiers—she pivoted to cross the room. “First, why would I commit professional suicide by ‘hooking up’ with anyone in the Palais, let alone the son of my employer? Second, His High—errr, I mean His Majesty—has been clear about his policy on blondes for a very long time now, and—”

  I stopped her by raising one hand higher. “Wait. What ‘policy on blondes’?” I knew about Syn’s preference for dark hair—hell, everyone did—but he didn’t have a freaking policy about it…did he?

  Mishella replied while turning toward the hall I’d only looked at before, kitten heels tapping on the tiles. “Prince Samsyn has refused assignations with all blonde women for years now.” She stopped in front of a door as I caught up, letting me see her wistful smile. “I was a young girl when I found out, in my last year of secondary school. I cried for days. I had quite a yearning for him…”

  “Like a crush?”

  “Yes. A ‘crush’.” Her head tilted as she considered the word. “Hmmm. Sometimes, Americans do have better ways of saying it.”

  I arched a brow. “Bet you didn’t get that from the queen mother.”

  “Actually…I did.”

  I followed her into the room, which turned out to be a sizable office. The space appeared unused, however. No equipment on the desk or paperwork tacked to the bulletin board. The computer and printer were switched off.

  “So…about Samsyn and his blondes…”

  “You mean his aversion to them.” She cringed as if accidentally spewing the f word. “Errr, I mean—until you, Your Majesty.”

  Wasn’t like the same damn thing hadn’t fallen on me like a pallet of bricks. I just thanked the crap out of the universe that I had tools to control my demeanor a little better. Ramrod spine. Tightened abs. Relaxed mouth.

  I barely managed them all.

  Until you.

  What the hell did that mean?

  “Ummm…is this your office, then?” I took a step in, pretending the blank walls were as fascinating as the Louvre. Might as well have been. I was just as uncomfortable, considering I stood there in nothing but a satin robe. The nervousness officially worsened when Mishella blink-blinked back at me.

  Gah. Not the blink-blink.

  “This is not my office, Your Majesty. It is yours.”

  I really would have preferred another minute of blink-blink.

  “Mine?” I laughed and prayed she’d join me. No luck. “Look, I don’t really…I can’t really…I mean, I do everything on my laptop. All my certifications are online; I do my kinesiology homework through the university’s web portal; I have an email and some social media and—”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, I am certain your university courses will still be fine.” She said it as if the rest was totally understandable. When I only gawked back, she continued more carefully. “You are a member of the Arcadian royal family now, Your M
ajesty. You know what that means, correct?”

  “Well…sure.” Bullshitter.

  Mishella’s face tightened. Clearly, she saw through the bluff too. Great. Doe eyes had fox smarts. Just my luck. She didn’t say anything, though. Simply flipped on the computer—a newer model thing with a wide screen that made my geek side tingle—and logged onto Facebook. My page on Facebook.

  Thank God my tongue was attached, or I would’ve swallowed it. “Holy. Shit.”

  “Hmmm,” Mishella countered. “That one is better than ours too.”

  “I have nearly a hundred thousand followers.”

  “Samsyn’s numbers are even higher.”

  “Of course they are. He has a better ass.”

  Finally, the woman laughed. Okay, so it was a snort with humor. Close enough. But too quickly, she looked up, earnest eyes back in place. “Can you now understand why we must consider every piece of information that is posted, tweeted, and shared?” Mishella exhorted. “If you cannot see it from the public relations viewpoint, Majesty, then look at it from the safety one. We still have no idea who murdered King Evrest and Lady Camellia. Even posting something like a rant about your hangnails could clue those animals in about getting to you and Samsyn next. They could disguise themselves as your manicurist; get back in that way.”

  “Shit.” My belly twisted. “You’re right.”

  “I do not want to be, Majesty.” Her voice cracked. “I really do not. But those roaches are still out there, and—”

  “Okay, okay.” I soothed it in time to my hand on her back. “I get it.” I really did. And the truth was, I should’ve been “getting it” more.

  Ugh. I felt like a bitch-on-high for being so cavalier now. The woman was still mourning her young king and his betrothed, while fearing the outlaws responsible for their “deaths”. Being assigned to babysit me probably wasn’t her dream job but here she was, making the best of it despite being tagged as Syn’s booty call, enduring snark about the queen mother, and having her notepad snagged from her grip. Wonderful. How was I going to make her day in the next five minutes?

  This, on top of the stellar little get-together with Syn’s parents yesterday, would have me setting island records in no time. Fastest queen to become a hideous meme, coming right up.

  It was time for a change. A fast one. I’d already married Samsyn with my heart. Now I had to do it with my head. Become the queen he needed me to be. I could do that. I could do this.

  Mishella stepped back. Dabbed the corners of her eyes while her cheeks flushed dark pink. “I—I am so sorry, Majesty.”

  I dipped my head, meeting her big watery gaze. “Because you’re human? And you actually care about what happens to me, though you barely know me?”

  Her lips wobbled upward. “You are so kind, Majesty.”

  I bit my cheek to hold back what I longed to retort. If you call me “Majesty” one more time, I really will post pictures of my hangnails. But making her call me Brooke would be as good as yanking her nails out, then scratching them across a blackboard.

  Become the queen he needs you to be.

  “Aw shucks.” Going for the tease helped us both relax. “It’s all good, sweetie. Besides, it’s not like all of this will be for—” So much for relaxing. “Uhhhh—for the Palais newsletter.” I forced out a grin. “Right? We can’t put everything into it. We’ll have to be selective.”

  “The…what?”

  “Come on. It’s a good idea.” Actually, it was. “We can include newsy bits about what’s going on around here…”

  Her nose scrunched. “Such as Evrest’s and Camellia’s funeral?”

  And this was me, being the queen Syn needed.

  “After that, of course.” I drew myself up higher, feigning that I’d meant the exchange to go in that direction, before flashing another confidence-I’m-nowhere-near-feeling smile. “So…why don’t you get settled in here? I really need to grab a shower.”

  “Of course,” Mishella said. “While you are bathing, I shall select something nice for you to wear.”

  “No!”

  “Pardon?” Once more she looked like the kid with the coal in her stocking.

  “I meant…no problem.” I’d dodged coal but there were those memories of the popped Barbie heads. If letting Mishella dress me up for a few days helped ease her transition into this new routine, I could live—for a few days.

  Dear God, I prayed. Only for a few days, okay?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‡

  AN HOUR LATER, I emerged from the bathroom, turning left for the spacious dressing area Mishella had already shown me. As I padded over heated floors and breathed air with a touch of eucalyptus, I wondered if anyone would think it strange that the queen spent half her days in the royal suite’s bathroom.

  That was before the mirrors gave me a glimpse back into the master bedroom. And a sighting of the man in one of the big leather chairs positioned in the corner, book in hand, one ankle propped against a pinstriped leg. He’d taken off the big work boots for now, giving me an advantageous view of that foot. It was hewn into graceful angles, toes forming a perfect slant, dusted by just the right amount of dark hair along the top.

  Shit.

  Samsyn Cimarron even had perfect feet.

  I tried to turn the observation into something witty while making my detour complete. My brain gave back zilch—especially as he looked up, gaze full of sun-on-sea blue, smile full of moon-and-stars magic. I leaned against the doorway, simply staring back. Drinking in every amazing inch of him. The pride in his shoulders, even while resting in the chair. The sheen of the reading light on the top of his head. His hand on the closed book in his lap. The gold band on it, gleaming against his burnished skin.

  Mine.

  I let the sight of that ring seal the thought on my mind…just for a few moments longer. Didn’t feel a drop of selfishness about it either. Moments were all I had…when I could’ve said it forever.

  “Bon sabah, wife.”

  If his eyes were the sunlight on the sea, his voice was the foam: smooth and gorgeous, belying strength just beneath the surface. It sent sparkling energy through every inch of me. Tilted a girlish grin to my lips.

  “Bon sabah yourself, husband.” I stole a glance into the living room. “Where’s Mishella?”

  “Off to get you some brunch. I thought you might be hungry.”

  “You thought right.” Tickled little smile. He took such good care of me. “Thank you.”

  He slid the book to a circular side table, taking his very sweet time about speaking again. Well, sweet for him. It was agony for me, having to stand there and simply watch him, when I craved to rush over, climb into his lap, feel his arms close around me, huge and safe and warm. After a few minutes of that, I’d open my robe, letting his luxurious clothes slide against my bare skin…

  When my breath hitched, he cocked his head. Steepled his fingers. “What is going on in that brain of yours?”

  I licked my lips. The truth probably wasn’t a good idea, but he’d detect a lie from me in a heartbeat. He always did. “That you look too damn good to be in mourning.”

  He rested his chin atop his fingers. “Imagine that. I was just considering you with the same thought.”

  “But I’m—” I gestured at my wet hair, the bulky robe, my bare feet.

  “My point exactly.”

  Inner swoon. Fluttering heart. And other parts…simply pulsing. I shifted my weight, praying for an ease between my legs. Rookie move. The squirm only gave my pussy a nice massage, tempting my clit to come out and play.

  Innocuous subject matter, don’t fail me now.

  “What are you reading?” My eyes widened when he tilted the book up. “Call of the Wild? Seriously?”

  “Making up for my teenage antics.” He shrugged. “I missed out on many good stories.”

  “You had teenage antics?”

  He chuffed. “To a degree.”

  I sat on the bottom corner of the bed. “Wh
en did you have to grow up?”

  His gaze narrowed. His brows hunched. He actually seemed confused.

  Time to take the reins.

  “Samysn…when did you learn both your parents were having affairs?”

  He stabbed his stare to the floor—just before bracing his feet and bolting up. I reached for his hand, already curled into a fist. I didn’t care. Hung on as much as I could, battling to work my fingers beneath his—

  Until his violent evasion. His brusque pivot from me. I’d expected both—but didn’t know what to think about his doomed man’s walk toward the terrace, slow and measured, echoing in the room like a funeral drum. The last time he’d stunned me like this had been at the Temptina Bridge, when we’d almost kissed. Had that been only ten days ago? Had I really looked at him so differently? Had I been so different?

  Yes had never been a more appropriate answer.

  Just when I thought he’d escape outside again, he stopped. Spread his long arms across the double French doors. The late morning sun streamed in around him, imparting the effect of a newly arrived dark angel.

  Or maybe a departing one.

  “I was eighteen.”

  For a second, his calm cadence was startling. Then I remembered what always happened to my own voice when speaking of the night Rune Kavill burned down my home. Only emotional distance made the feat possible.

  “That’s…young,” I replied quietly.

  “I certainly did not think so,” Syn returned. “I was a cocksure little bonsun who thought it would be more fun to sneak around at midnight with my friends than study for my secondary school finals.”

  I smiled a little. It was too easy to envision a Samsyn on the cusp of manhood, already starting to bulk up a little. In Vermont, he easily would’ve been the star quarterback, letterman’s jacket on his back and prom queen on his arm. As a prince of Arcadia, he was the cut-up of the royals, saved from responsibility by the sheer luck of his birth order—and reveling in it.

  “So you did,” I affirmed.

  “So I did.” He turned from the window, scraping his hair back. “And we did what every self-respecting bunch of gencrients would do.”