by Angel Payne
That maybe I’d just not met anyone enough for me.
That maybe, I finally had.
The connection was a burst of right in my brain—and a bolt of wrong in my heart. Through my heart. Fate is cruel. The genius who coined that one must have also been like swami Tilda, possessing the ability to see through time and peg this moment as the perfect example. My soul had never expanded with such joy, only to be deluged by such grief. The mix turned me into a mute, confused mess—
As I clutched at the only person on the planet who could make it better.
The one person I should have been shoving away.
The man I kissed with fevered desperation…and open surrender.
Who moaned into me, his lips crushing me harder, his tongue invading me deeper.
Who growled even harder as I pulled back, and started licking my way down the rippled ladder of his abdomen.
Who tangled both his elegant hands into my hair, slicking the strands back to watch with dark lust, as I worked my tongue into the weeping slit atop his hard stalk.
“Va cock de Créacu,” he grated. Hitched his hips forward, so a little more of his flesh slid between my lips. A half inch of movement, awakening every nerve ending in my body…and shard of gratitude in my soul.
I needed to show it to him. In the most elemental, primal, perfect way I could imagine.
“Master…”
He growled low. “Yes, sweet one?”
“May I worship you with my mouth?”
“I expect nothing less, tupulai.”
He pushed his cock down my throat.
I took his essence into my soul.
I couldn’t have him forever. But I was sure as hell going to take whatever moments the grace of fate now gifted to us.
Because sometimes, a moment was all it took to change things.
To change everything.
Chapter Eighteen
‡
“Baby Jesus in a windstorm.”
It wasn’t a cute turn of phrase this time, only I wished it was. Staring at the tarmac where I’d taken my first step on Arcadia just three days ago—well, what was left of it—drilled a truth into my head with brand-new clarity.
You can call the wind Mariah, but don’t ever call her gutless.
The airstrip was located about thirty minutes from Sancti, on Arcadia’s southwest side, flanked on two sides by thick groves of banana trees. Well, they had been groves. About half the trees, sitting in rain-drenched soil, had been blown right out of the ground, then decided on an orgy in the middle of the runway. Piles of the trunks, twenty and thirty deep, could inspire revisions to the Kama Sutra. Their tattered fronds were strewn everywhere, almost forming a leafy carpet as I walked along the asphalt with Prince Samsyn, the King Father Ardent, and Jagger Foxx.
When we got to the middle of the strip, Arden paused, locked hands at his back, and made a slow circle. I studied his profile for a second, noting that in So-Cal, he’d likely be a hot commodity on the market. Lots of older women with dirty minds in LA-LA Land, ready and willing to tap that lean, plus-fifty ass, despite the weathered skin speaking to tobacco use. Like I said, an easy negative to overlook for the full package. Ardent, standing nearly as tall as Samsyn, also wore his hair on the longer side. The style lent him a roguish air, though today, also like Syn, he’d tied it back with a thick leather band.
“It is a désorlik, to be certain,” the man finally muttered.
Samsyn dipped a precise nod. “Indeed, Majesty.”
Hmmm.
Majesty.
Samysn didn’t call him Father, like Shiraz, Evrest, and Jayd did. The difference struck me as odd but maybe it wasn’t, considering Samsyn’s status as the military commander for the island. The formality was probably an “Arcadian thing”.
“So getting aerial aid is out for now.” Ardent’s eyes were hidden by spectator shades, though I glimpsed the hardened creases at their corners. Clearly, Samsyn did too. So I wasn’t imagining it. There were cords of tension between the two men. Ardent’s implied disappointment. Samsyn’s answering energy, filled with the same damn thing.
Thank God Jagger had tagged along. Back home, he’d be a solid entry in the category of Sizzling Surfer Sex God, with those whiskey-colored waves to his shoulders and those significant shoulder bulges. Right now, I was just glad he wanted to play affable peacemaker.
“We have two search-and-rescue helicopters on loan from the Hellenic Air Force, Majesty,” he asserted. “They are bringing first aid and temporary housing provisions, and will remain to help with evacuations, rescues, and rebuilding efforts where needed. Cyprus has offered two more helos on top of that, but ground support is not available yet.”
“We had to let some of the men rest.” Samsyn’s addendum carried an edge, and his glare at Ardent practically filled in the remaining implication. Like you care, asshole.
Well, sheez.
No more time for me to ponder that mystery much further, once Syn pivoted toward me. “As you can see, Miss Fava—”
“Lucina,” I interjected. “Please, Your Highness. We’re standing in the middle of Jurassic Park, post T-Rex escape.” And for hours last night, in between ravaging his brother’s body as nastily as I could, I’d heard all about his fondness for orange smoothies, his boyhood collection of plastic army men, and how he volunteered to be Jayd’s “makeup model” until she turned sixteen and Xaria let her finally wear the stuff.
Thoughts I could not betray to the man now, so I stepped away and dropped my gaze. Not that the action helped. Holy shit. The banana frond carpeting was at least three or four layers thick.
“And yeah,” I said then, looking back up the decimated tarmac. “I guess I do see.” No flights were getting in or out of here for days. I hadn’t believed Samsyn when he’d first broken the news at breakfast this morning. I sure as hell did now.
Samsyn, pacing over to stand next to me, dug a toe into the mess. “You did ask to see it for yourself.”
“I did.” Wry chuff. “And I am.”
Which introduced a new dilemma. It was a dilemma, no matter how many giddy streamers my heart unfurled because of it.
I wasn’t leaving Arcadia today. Or probably tomorrow, or the next day. This was an island principality where tractors were barely used in the fields and wi-fi was “that newfangled shit” they only carried in the Palais. No heavy-duty equipment was on its way to help clean up this mess. It would be done the old-fashioned way.
Which meant being on the same chunk of real estate as Shiraz Cimarron.
Sleeping in the same building.
Knowing he knew I was still here…
Wondering what he’d do about it.
Trying to forget I’d even just thought all that.
“Miss Fava?”
“Huh?” I exited the daydream, straight into backhanding Samsyn’s massive shoulder. “Hey! What’d I say about that ‘Miss Fava’ shit?”
He smirked, as amused as if a butterfly had struck him. “I was saying, if you need to get a flight out right away, I can possibly get you to Athens. I shall pull one of the SAR helicopters out of duty here, and—”
“The hell you will.” I whacked him harder. And once I backed Ferdinanda out of that china shop, determinedly went on, “It won’t be necessary, Your Highness. Really. My schedule has been cleared for the week.” While it made us both squirm for different reasons, it was still the truth. Ezra had cleared my week based on the hope of staying here to finalize the contract for the wedding. “Please use the helos for the people who need the help. I even promise not to highjack Shiraz’s radio and tell you where to fly them.”
His smirk widened into a grin. “Deal.”
I curled a hand then held it up sideways, preparing to seal that shit with a proper fist bump, but dropped it before Samsyn could make contact. “Wait. Maybe we don’t.” I cocked a contemplative look. “Not yet.”
“The fuck?”
For a second, with his hair pulled back and the post-sto
rm light darkening his eyes, he looked just like Shiraz. I took the resemblance as a good sign—but inhaled for composure anyway.
“You know how much your little brother looks up to you, right?”
He gave a bull’s snort. “’Raz?”
“You have another little brother?”
His lips twisted. “None that I know about.”
Okaaayyy.
Deciding to steer clear of that one, I went on, “He worships you, Samsyn. You have to know that much.”
Apparently, he didn’t—or was fantastic at faking it. “Pssshhh.”
I rocked my head back. Folded my arms. “You saying I’m a liar?”
“I am saying you are ill-informed.”
I knocked my head back into place. Took another huge breath. Came to a crazy decision. What the hell; I was leaving in a few days and would never see him again. “Did you know he’s memorized the details of every military op you’ve ever led?”
Deep canyons developed across his brow. His expression was menacing enough to land him in the 300 front line with Shiraz. “He what? Never mind,” he answered himself, clearly deciding my assertion made weird sense, before another scowl crunched his features. “How the hell do you know that?”
Because he kept me up half the night, bragging about you.
“I just do, okay?”
Rough grunt. “So what about it?”
I took a turn at toeing the leaves, hiding my new smirk. The expression wasn’t native for him, though the words carried Brooke’s bold influence. “You’d be making a dozen of his fantasies come true if you included him in the fun sometime, yeah?”
“If I what?”
His retort yanked my head up, challenging stare already in place. “He’s not a kid anymore. Did you know he can parkour the Astralle Canyon in under fifteen minutes? And that he can reassemble an M16 in two and a half minutes?”
No more 300 references. Now Syn was a seething ork from one of those CGI fantasy movies. “Where the fuck is he getting his hands on an M16? And why?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“I believe I am perceiving the point just fine!”
I dropped my arms. Breathed hard again, trying to stay away from the mental space of a four-year-old-backed-into-time-out. “I’m not talking about dragging him on some midnight raid or bomb deactivation. But even if you did, he’d hold his own—and maybe he just wants the chance to prove that to you.”
He leaned sharply at me, gaze back to being the color of hard ice. “He proves himself every fucking day. He keeps this kingdom on an even financial keel. Every day he makes decisions affecting tens of thousands of people throughout this land. Important decisions. Now he wants to lose a limb, as well? Maybe more than that?”
I arched both brows. “Are you that sure that he would?”
“Are you that sure he would not?”
“Damn straight I am.” I held firm to my stance, despite feeling like a mouse to his roaring dragon. Shit. The Cimarron men were formidable when the firing pins were pulled from their temper.
After a long minute of the stare-down, his lips finally twisted. A soft snort pushed from his nostrils. “He really remembered all my missions?”
I canted my head, giving him a sardonic side-eye. “Does about three hours’ worth of stories sound about right?” Added enough of a smile that he knew I wasn’t complaining—but hopefully couldn’t infer anything else. Like the fact that I’d savored every minute of those three hours, since nothing beat Shiraz Noir Cimarron in naked storytelling mode.
“Hmmph.” Whether that meant he believed me or not was anyone’s guess—though a silvery twinkle entered his gaze. “Fine. I shall consider your request.” Whipped up a finger, countering the fist I pumped skyward. “I said consider.”
“Acceptable.” I swung over, bumping his elbow with my shoulder. “Ferris Bueller, you’re my hero.”
“Fair is what?”
“Never mind.” I laughed then mumbled, “But as soon as you and your little bro have saved a few kittens and knocked back a few gallons of nectar, he needs to get this place on Netflix premium.”
“Huh?”
“Not important,” I reassured. “Really, Your Highness.”
He held up both hands in good-natured surrender. “Oh, I do believe you.” When I shot back a quizzical glance at his emphasizing chuckle, he explained, “Something tells me I will know it when a matter is important to you.”
A blush warmed my cheeks but I replied, “Something tells me you’re probably right.”
And he was—
With one glaring exception.
The man could never know how achingly important his brother had become to me. Nobody could. Not even Shiraz himself.
I just had to keep up the ruse for a few more days.
Chapter Nineteen
‡
“So tell me the royal codpiece is wet in more ways than one.”
I should have known better than to take a swig of water during my first contact in two days with Ezra. As soon as I chugged, the shit came back up on a giggling choke. It spattered into the soft sand next to the Endigoh Beach palm tree under which I enjoyed a break from helping with the storm clean-up efforts. Nearby, the seven other women from my task crew also lolled in the sand and chatted, though a few eyed my reaction with open curiosity.
“‘Gee, Luce, how are you?’” I emphasized the razz in my tone, since the island’s touch-and-go cell reception made a video call impossible. “‘So nice to know you’re still alive, darling, after surviving the first hurricane of your life. I was sick with worry, my little Ferdinanda. Haven’t slept in days, wondering if you were alive or dead.’”
For a second, silence. Then the distinct sound of him sipping on something. Since it was close to midnight in LA, I assumed he was sucking down a martini. “Well, I could say it, but I’d be lying. Wait,” Ez cut in, before I could fume, “it would not have been a lie, had the Prince of Hotness not reached out like he did.”
“The Prince of—” My turn for the self-interruption thing. “Who did what?”
“Oooo. Coy girl,” he drawled. “New one for you, but I like it.”
“What the hell?” Coy, my ass. This was genuine vexation. And confusion. And probably the beginnings of agitation, though I couldn’t explain why. I rose, needing to take the conversation beyond earshot of my posse. Though every one of the women was a gem, and we’d cleared a lot of debris together in the last two days, none of them needed to take home a little extra gossip today too.
Especially because said “scoop” would be unfounded.
I hadn’t seen Shiraz since he left my suite yesterday morning, before I left myself to tour the tarmac with his brother. After that, I’d asked Samsyn where I could best help with getting the island cleaned up—though I had to admit, stepping foot onto this shoreline, I’d wondered who’d received the better part of the deal. Even half-destroyed by a hurricane, Arcadia’s coast looked damn near CGI’ed. This kind of beauty, with trees this lush, sand this white, and water this stunning, simply couldn’t be real.
I’d stayed on the beach for as long as I could, meaning I was an exhausted heap by the time I returned to the suite. Shiraz’s text had pinged during the five minutes of consciousness between showering and sleeping.
:: Cannot see you tonight—but you already know that, yes? ::
“I already know what?” I’d groused at the display, fighting a roiling stomach at my first logical—and horrible—conclusion. Clearly, he’d decided to go to Ambyr. To patch up their tension from the storm shelter.…perhaps to even use the détente as an excuse to propose to her…
Oh, God.
But something about that scenario hadn’t fit. Because I hadn’t wanted it to? Or because there was a “tone” in his message, as well? Something in the way my head replayed the words, hearing them spoken in his silk-over-steel voice…and hearing the overture of accusation in them. A teasing thing, but impossible to miss.
An
d hopeless to interpret.
“Now you’re the prince of obscure too?”
I’d told him that with my answer, sending him a purple kitty with a confused frown, along with three question marks.
His response was more mystifying than its predecessor.
:: We WILL discuss this tomorrow. ::
Forget obscure.
He got the crown of totally confusing.
Words I’d have typed back if I’d been certain to continue the conversation, but that blue moon wasn’t happening in the cosmos of my exhaustion. Though more rested today, I’d managed to keep the bafflement at bay—until now. Ez was talking with the same odd overture Shiraz had used in those damn texts. You know what I’m talking about—it’s just up to you to run through my little maze and figure it out.
“Ezra.”
“Hmmm?”
“I’m too tired for mazes.”
“Huh?”
A look back at the posse. I’d walked far enough away that they wouldn’t hear my huff. “Let’s just go for straight-up. What the hell are you talking about?”
Another pointed sip. “You mean the Prince of Hotness himself wasn’t clear enough?”
“Ssshhh.” I tucked next to a palm tree, instinct driving my shoulders into a hunch. Just this morning, a couple of the women behind me had been chattering about what a beautiful betranli Ambyr was going to make for Shiraz. If they knew what another American hussy had been doing night before last with their sweet Cimarron boy…
Yikes.
Melted over a casserole of ohhhhh crap.
“Ssshhh?” Ez volleyed. “But all I said was…”
“I know what you said. Just tell me why.” After ten seconds of his thick silence stretched into fifteen, I persisted, “Ez?”
“Still here.”
Though now his voice rattled with the same anxiety prickling my chest, betraying how much he almost wished that wasn’t true. If we got lucky, the connection would poop out now and he wouldn’t have to utter what he did next.
No such luck.
Dammit.
“Fuck me, Luce. Please tell me you’re going all secret spy voice on me because five guys in black trench coats are tailing you—not because you cracked that boy’s virgin bat.”
