by Angel Payne
Where?
And why was I so panicked about it?
“Shiraz—”
“Ssshhh, tupulai.”
Wasn’t going to happen. Tomato. Pinball paddles. End of story.
Only it wasn’t.
But how the hell was this different then the conflict I’d already been dealing with? Correction. Had already dealt with. I’d taken care of all this, dammit—especially after the “friendly little chat” with Ambyr at the infirmary. If I’d had any doubt regarding the last act of this screenplay, Miss Stratiss had handled the script notes and set me straight. She would be the Sandy in the flying car with his Danny. The Julia Roberts on the fire escape, wooed by his Richard Gere. The Baby having the time of her life on a dance floor with his Patrick Swayze. Shit. I bet Shiraz did those Dirty Dancing moves really well…
With that helpful thought consuming my mind, I was tossed onto one of the most luxurious beds on the planet. Comforter like a cloud. Pillows that swallowed my head. Best of all, his scent in all one thousand of the threads surely making up the linens. Dammit. In any other case, I’d be amenable to the not-so-subtle sleepover invitation. But right here and now, with the woman he had yet to hit with the engagement ring, likely searching for his spectacular ass this second?
“Shiraz—” I attempted again.
“Sssshhh,” he ordered again—before tapping a light switch to reveal a walk-in closet more stunning than the bed. Oh my God. It was an amazing closet. Cedar paneling. Backlit shoe racks. An automated tie tree.
The subject. Your brain. Now.
“Okay, come on.” My spine straightened a little. Well, listen to that. I sounded calm. Even reasonable. Not freaking bad, considering the orgasming banshee I’d been 15 minutes ago. “Seriously. Come on.” A little more desperate but I couldn’t be blamed, considering how he shucked the boots and trousers before I could blink. “We can’t do this. Why are you pushing this?”
No more playing coy, because he didn’t. With one thwick of a side zipper from neck to waist, he freed himself from the doublet too—officially taking this conversation into the not-fucking-fair zone. “Pushing it” didn’t come close to the weapon he’d just wielded in the form of his nudity. If Evrest and Samsyn wanted a real advantage over Arcadia’s enemies, they could seriously look no further than their little brother’s inked chest, perfect arms, etched abs, and flawless legs.
And that cock.
No woman—hell, probably not a lot of men either—would be able to ignore that virile masterpiece of a cock. I sure as hell couldn’t…
Until he forced me to.
With another collection of efficient movements, he sheathed his long legs in a pair of black silk pajama bottoms. I’d never seen the look outside Saturday Night Live parodies of Hugh Hefner, but the Prince of Hotness redefined it in 30 seconds—the same way he took my expectations for this post-coital showdown in another direction I hadn’t anticipated.
“You are here because I want you to be.” He stated it while hitching a knee to the bed. The other. He scooted both forward until he was close enough to take my hands in his. “And because you cannot run out as fast from here.”
Nervousness prompted my laugh.
He didn’t join his own to it. Didn’t even smile. Just kept staring, his hands around mine, both his thumbs rubbing my knuckles. He engulfed me with a midnight gaze and an energy I’d never felt from him before.
“I’ve never run from you, Shiraz.” I gulped hard. Shit. Why was the Rock of Gibraltar back in my throat? Hadn’t I wasted my allotment of tears for the whole year in one night? “Baby Jesus in a romper, I probably should have. But there you were, from the moment we met—”
“What?” It was a rough push of sound, honing my gaze once more on his lush lips. “What was I, Lucina?”
More tears pushed out. Guess I’d be overdrawn on the allotment.
“You were…everything.” The wet heat trailed down my face. “All that I’d thought I’d never find, or given up hope of knowing.” A shrug lifted my shoulders as a watery smile broke past my lips. “A bad-ass prince who liked my jokes, knew all my fantasies…”
“And fell in love you anyway.”
I pulled one hand free, pressing it to the plane of his jaw. “And made me fall in love with him.”
It didn’t spill out as I intended. It sounded like a damn murder confession, when regret wasn’t what I felt at all. Exposing my heart to him had forced me to reopen to myself. To let him accept me and cherish me, I’d had to look in the mirror, and do it for myself. I had to become better, to be better…for him.
Because of it, I’d never forget him.
Or let my heart stop thanking him.
But telling him that…
Why was it so impossible?
Because I never wanted him to stop looking at me…exactly like this. To form his hand over mine, meshing his fingers into mine, as he drenched me in both perfect oceans of his stare. To surround me with the force of his adoration and the strength of his affirmation for a week that had changed both of us. A week we’d turn into magic for two lifetimes…because that was our only damn choice.
He leaned a little closer. Looked a little deeper, as if he’d lost something and my face was the only place he’d find it. “By the Creator,” he rasped. “You really do love me.”
His declaration was everything I hadn’t been capable of. Fervent. Real. Dripping with the honesty of his heart. Incredible man. Perfect prince. Already my hero.
I kissed him with my thanks. Just once. Very softly. “Yeah, gorgeous. I do.”
He engulfed both my hands tightly again. Moved those clasps down to the tiny space between our knees as he dipped his head toward mine, directly lining up our gazes.
“Then marry me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‡
I almost laughed.
But holy shit…he wasn’t kidding.
Not in this reality or any dimension beyond it.
“You—you’re,”—I sent a wad of lead back down my throat in order to finish—“you’re serious.”
His lips parted. Lifted a little, hesitant but persistent, before he pushed forward, pressing them to mine. He only pulled back by an inch—too far but not far enough—before answering, “Yes, raismette. I am.”
Raismette.
Fuck.
Literally translated, it meant reason. But the bigger context…
Was huge.
As in, the kind of shit an Arcadian man reserved for his life mate. The woman he considered his partner, his best friend.
His wife.
Everything was real but surreal. My heart throbbed in time to the rush of the waves outside, but felt just as far away. My lungs pumped air in slices blazing hot then arctic cold. My eyes studied the devastating man before me, but through the perspective of my heart, saw much more. The heart he was offering in return. The life he was offering. The future by his side…
Shit.
Shit.
No.
“No.”
He flinched as if I’d struck him. I didn’t blame him. At the same time, I was damn glad for the distance. Or was I? It didn’t help the strange chill that coursed over my whole body, brought on by complete shock. No. Complete terror.
But I didn’t tell him that. Dammit, I couldn’t. What woman in their right mind willingly said no when a man—a prince—like Shiraz Noir Cimarron proposed?
A woman who wasn’t in their right mind.
A person who planned everyone else’s happy-ever-after because she was too messed-up to ever get hers right. Who had no idea how a real relationship even worked, because she needed to be spanked and tamed before getting off. Who had built up so many walls of snark and sarcasm to guard her spirit, she’d even written herself off as a crazy-ass little brat.
She wasn’t wife material.
She wouldn’t ever be.
“Shiraz,”—despite his fuck-you jolt, I kept one of his hands trapped in both of mine—“I l
ove you. I do. But I can’t—sheez, we just can’t—” Lightbulbs flared in my brain. A whole bank of them, forming one word. “Ambyr.” I let his hand drop. “This is the part you reserved for Ambyr, remember?”
“Fuck.” He shot off the bed like an F-18 launched off a battle carrier. Glared at me with rocket-hot eyes. “This is the part, dammit, where I remind you what I said earlier.”
I forced in a forbearing breath. “That you’re not proposing to her.”
With a hand in his hair, he exhaled. “Yes.”
“Not tonight.”
“Not ever.”
The jets re-ignited in his eyes. A matching fire, of pure confusion, blazed through my psyche. “No,” I finally blurted. “That’s not the deal.”
Crazily, he laughed. Just a short spurt, as both his hands locked to those sinewy hips, but it threw me even more off-keel as he drawled, “The…deal?”
Huff. Not a pleasant one. Did he really need this all spelled out? “The deal where you finally get to make the difference. Where you stop being the damn lap dog.”
Hell. He wasn’t making this easy, still silently challenging me by canting his head to one side. With neck and hair porn added to the given temptation of his torso and that happy trail into his pants, it was a wonder I could still speak. But I did, dammit—and meant every word which rasped out.
“You’ve been waiting for this chance, Shiraz. You deserve it. Finally, everyone in Arcadia will recognize you as the hero you are…when you make one of their own your princess.”
His head came back up. As it did, fresh sharpness took over his face—something close to another laugh but not getting there.
“Is that what you think I want?” he charged softly. “To be ‘recognized’ as a hero?”
Confusion rockets, re-engage. “Isn’t it?”
Deep valleys formed across his forehead. His lower lip jutted, as an inner dilemma racked him. He looked ready to either put his head into the wall or between my thighs. For the sake of my sanity, I hoped he did neither.
“I never gave a flying fuck about being publicly hailed as a ‘hero’, Lucina. I simply wanted to do something worthy of the word—to give back, in some meaningful way, to my people.”
The bafflement burners were at full power now. “And you didn’t think you were doing that by successfully running the business of the country?”
“That was my job,” he explained. “Not my sacrifice.”
“And marrying Ambyr would have been that sacrifice.”
The tension in his face radiated down his body. “Yes,” he bit out.
My follow-up brimmed right to the surface. I didn’t want to ask it. I couldn’t not ask it.
“So what changed?”
Just like that, all the tautness left him. His hands slipped from his waist as an adoring smile lifted his lips—and impaled its brilliance into me.
“You got here.”
Heart soaring then tumbling. Soul rejoicing…then weeping. This still changed nothing. “So…the sacrifice thing is now old news?”
He shook his head slowly. “No. It simply changed.”
I forced out a soft laugh. Something had to balance out the weirdness of his energy. Not only because of its sobriety. It was his new serenity…
“Changed…to what?”
He began his answer with a backward step. Right into his closet. As I looked on, letting my puzzlement show, he pulled out a square of neatly folded clothing. Plunked it onto the bed in front of me. Only after a long scrutiny did I finally comprehend what I gawked at. That tangled pattern of tan, brown, and olive…
It was military camouflage.
“Our forces going for the special operations training with the Americans…”
It was my turn to jolt. As in a holy-freaking-God jolt. “Wh-what?”
“They need more technical specialists,” he went on, as if simply telling me the plot of some new book he’d read instead of a nuclear freaking bomb of information. “Personnel who can take data from multiple sources then swiftly process it into productive action for a huge team of operatives.” He crossed his arms, flashing a proud grin. “Sort of like M16 and James Bond, only with better gadgets.”
“Gadgets.” It spat out before I could help it, though I was stunned coherent words were even a thing for me right now. It was as ambushed as my heart and my soul. I splashed through the goo of another dimension, like Neo struggling to make sense of a new reality in The Matrix. Trouble was, the man I loved was still strolling around on the other side of the truth, gleefully talking about James fucking Bond.
“Quite a few, actually. There has been a great deal of pre-program reading to get through.”
All right, so he didn’t sound gleeful. He was pragmatic to the point of sexy, his posture hoisted by new professionalism, his gaze resolute and committed.
In short, exactly how he’d been when I first met him.
Only tomorrow, he wouldn’t be putting on a three-piece suit then walking to his office in the next building.
Tomorrow, he’d be getting dressed in all this soldier shit—and going God knew where in the world to put his skills put to the test.
To lay his life on the line for his country.
The thought was a brand-new mortar shell in my psyche, cratering me wider. Mortifying me deeper.
And pissing me the hell off.
Which finally gave me back my voice.
“You’re fucking kidding me.” The sound of my incensement brought extra fortitude. It highlighted how crazy he sounded. “Right? That’s it, isn’t it? You’re kidding about this shit, just so I’ll say yes to your crazy proposal.”
Shiraz gave me another swami of serenity look. Shit; as if he’d expected exactly what I’d say. Glaring proof? He reached to the camo pile, yanking at the garment on top. It was a basic military uniform jacket, with an imprinted name tag attached over the front pocket.
CIMARRON
“Dammit,” I rasped.
“So will you still say yes to my crazy proposal?”
I struggled to catch my breath.
I struggled to catch my thoughts.
I struggled to grasp every damn corner my senses had turned in the last freaking hour.
He’d tricked me. Made love to me. Proposed to me. Then terrified the living crap out of me.
But was that the real truth?
I spun away. From the question…from him. And God, if I could have done so, even from myself.
As soon as my legs dangled over the edge of the bed, I dropped my head between them. Fought to pull in cleansing air, easing the acid in my gut at least so I wouldn’t hurl on his Turkish rug.
In the center of my vision, a pair of hands appeared. Strong and forceful, with fingers beckoning me to hang on—even now. God help me, especially now.
“Luci—”
I slapped a feeble hand over his lips, forcing him to stop. “Shiraz. Please.” Spread my fingers across the carved beauty of his jaw. His stubble stabbed my palm, a strange but welcome anchor to reality.
To the reality I had to give him.
For which I already hated myself.
I let my head drop lower.
“Tupulai.” His whisper was a plea, stumbling out of him.
I hated myself even more.
“Shiraz.” Just do it. Just get it over with. “I’m—I’m scared. Too scared. I—I can’t do this. I can’t—”
“Sssshhh.” He scooted closer. “Breathe, sweet one.” Then even closer, with his knees against my feet, his arms around my shoulders, and his lips pressed deep in my hair. “It is only for six months, Lucina,” he murmured, his tone so steadfast, thinking he was actually helping. “Only six months, all right? And it is only missions for training. It will be over before we know it.”
It killed—it more than killed—but I forced my head back up, tilting my face to bring his gaze direct with mine. I owed him that.
God. I owed him so much more than that. But this was what I could give. Perhaps all I�
��d ever be able to give. The truth, even this brutal and bitter, wasn’t just what he required as a prince, or needed as a man. It was what he deserved—as a person. The individual of honesty, bravery, and reality who had captured my heart and soul like none other.
I wouldn’t be able to lessen the blow but tried anyway, pushing a smile through my new tears…pressing a hand to the space between the dove and the hawk, where I could feel the beat of his amazing heart beyond the layers of taut muscle.
“Listen to me, Shiraz Noir.” My voice shook but at least my hand didn’t. “Those bastards would be lucky to have you for six days, let alone six months. You have got this shit—and you’re going to be amazing at it.”
As I suspected, that hardly touched his concern—or the flood of my tears. I was beyond trying to stop myself. Beyond trying to pretend the next truth I gave him wasn’t one whopper of pain—for us both.
“Then why are you crying again, sweet one?” He wrapped his hand around mine, lifting it to his lips. “Why are you so frightened, Lucina?”
Shit, shit, shit.
“Because I’ve been frightened since the second you proposed.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‡
Note to self. Drinking a salted caramel boba in the park beats sweating in the gym every time, all the time.
As notes went, it was okay—but it sure as hell beat the other note. Yeah, the one that’d been pinned to the top of the stack for so long, it should have been worn and yellow, even in the gray matter, by now. It had been nearly four months since I’d put it in—the day I’d gotten back to LA from Arcadia, tired and lonely and hating what I’d done to the man I’d claimed to love.
Fraud.
There was no other word for what I still felt like, even now, for what I’d done to him that night. For what I’d said, even if every word had been the complete truth.
I can’t be your princess. I would barely know how to be your damn wife.
We’ve been living in a fantasy. An amazing one. But marriage isn’t a fantasy.
I don’t know how to be there for you. I can barely be there for myself.
