by A. N. Latro
The city that never sleeps seems quiet. As she stands shivering next to him, she wonders at the anticipatory air—as if it were waiting for something. A sleek black limo comes to a halt before them, and Rama helps her slide in. He sits next to her and looks at her questioningly. “Where to, mali?”
She glances at him, startled by the affectionate name, shrugs. “Anywhere.” She leans back, stares dreamily out the sunroof as the lights slide by. “The city is ours.”
He laughs at that and catches her hand. “No, this is yours—I am foreign and always will be.”
There are secrets in his words, and she suddenly wonders if this is her key—if Rama knew Caleb. She should ask, and the question lingers on the tip of her tongue before she pushes it aside. Snuggles into him and whispers, “Then let me show you my city.”
He stares down at her, and she can see the knowledge in his eyes. They recognize each other, as only those born of their world can recognize another. Her breath catches, and she wonders if this man, so far from home, would push her away. “Tonight, mali,” he says softly, and there is an underlying message to the word. Tonight and only tonight.
“Tell me about Bangkok,” she murmurs, kissing his neck. It’s sweaty and warm and spicy.
He blinks, startled, and then smiles. The limo glides through the night as Emma listens to Rama weaving a tale of exotic lands. His voice is warm, a softly lilting lullaby that soothes her as nothing has since Seth told her stories to put her to sleep. “You’re tired. Lie down, mali,” he murmurs.
She shakes her head, and he sighs. He unearths several furs and throws them at her feet. Then tugs her hand until they both slip to the pile of fur, curl around each other in the thick warmth.
“Why did you dance with me?” she asks suddenly.
Rama laughs behind her, a soft shaking against and around her. He kisses her shoulder, where a large bow rests. “The bows,” he murmurs huskily. “You looked so above it all—that gorgeous hair, the ruby flowers. But it was the bows. Elegant and classy and ridiculous.”
She flushes, buries her head in his chest. He makes a soft, shushing noise, kisses her hair. “I like them. And your flowers.”
Black eyes regard her with fond amusement, and she wonders what he will think, how he will look at her, when he learns she is a Morgan. Her gaze is fuzzy and unfocused, and she stares into space, thinking about that moment, for too long. He shakes her slightly. “Not tonight,” he reminds her, and for a moment, her prince, her king, her family, is all set aside.
It is nice, she muses, as they talk of nothing and everything, watching the sky lighten and the city come to life, to be liked for your bows and not the name Morgan.
Graystone Apartments, New York City. June 7th.
The walls seem to shrink, and Emma glares out at her million-dollar view. She has become used to it—immune to the beauty. She hates this gilded cage, the pre-selected furnishings that remind her it was all chosen for her. Behind her, Nicolette taps a long, manicured nail impatiently. “I need answers, Emma.”
“And I’m trying to get them,” Emma snaps. “I’m not a damn monkey who performs on command.”
Nicolette’s expression in the glass reflection is contemptuous. “You’re performing something, Emma. Your drivers report you get dropped at Bamboo four nights a week, for the past two weeks.”
Emma shoots an indignant glare over her shoulder, and Nic meets it levelly as she pushes to her feet. “How long do you think you can do this without Seth finding out?” she asks. “Do you really think he’ll allow it to continue, if he knows? He’ll kill your boy toy as soon as look at him.”
“I’m trying,” Emma says, and her voice quivers with something between rage and fear. “You can’t expect Rama to tell me everything two weeks after meeting him.”
Nicolette pauses in adjusting her long coat. “His name is Rama?” Emma nods, and the foreign princess gives a small shake of her head. “I’ll find out what I can.”
As Nicolette leaves, Emma sighs. The sun has dropped, and the city sprawls before her in indolent glory and glittering lights. She mutters a curse as she goes to dress. For a long time, she does nothing but glare at her closet and try to see past anger and fear.
In the end, she wears dark jeans and a pale green long-sleeve top. She is overly casual for Bamboo. She slides a raincoat on and leaves the suffocating apartment. She should call her driver, but Nicolette’s words are ringing in her head, and anger chokes her.
Is it any different, living in this elegant, modern penthouse, being driven by Seth’s people, her life watched by his dark gaze—is it different from living with her mother? She sighs, laying her head against the window. There is a welcomed layer of grime, a gritty reality to the taxi in which she revels.
Nicolette’s words are still echoing through her, and she finds herself gripping her phone, finger lingering over the tiny button that will call Seth. She is tired, furious, confused. The taxi jerks to a halt, pulling her from her thoughts. Her finger slides away, and she digs into her small purse to find a fifty to throw at the cabbie.
The bouncer’s gaze takes in her clothing as she strides up to the door. She doesn’t acknowledge him as she sweeps past the velvet rope into the club. She has been here often enough that it doesn’t cause a reaction.
Inside, there are a few dancers, the waitresses winding their way through the softly chattering working girls—it is early enough that business is still slow, and the girls watch with open interest as Emma crosses the almost deserted floor and climbs the stairs.
A few Thai playboys are playing cards at the large booth. Kai, Rama’s personal guard, sits by himself with a glass of white wine next to the folded paper. Emma stalks to his table and sits without invitation, reaching out to steal his wine. Kai barely glances at her. “Why are you here?” he asks, his gaze darting back to the dancers.
“I need to see him,” she says, her voice flinty.
Kai finally turns his dark gaze on her, considering. When he nods, it is with an expression she cannot fathom. “He’s not here. I will take you.”
He pulls a slim phone from his pocket and speaks quickly before he motions her forward.
They drive in silence that leaves her unnerved. She sits straight-backed, her hand closing and opening on her phone convulsively. For the first time since meeting Rama, she feels a tingle of fear. She is walking into danger, into another syndicate’s stronghold, with no backup or safety net. Here, there is nothing to protect her—no name or cousin who will shelter her. It’s intoxicating, the mix of fear and excitement that danger sparks.
The building is shoddy—far more so then she expects. Her nose wrinkles, just a tiny bit, but there is no time before Kai opens her door. She inhales deeply, gathers all the dignity and strength she possesses before she steps out of the car.
Kai walks her to the elevator, and she shudders at the darkness, the foreign voices calling from offices on the first floor. Kai uses his body, protecting her from the curious eyes as she walks up the hall.
He looks over his shoulder at her, his eyes probing and curious, and her chin comes up as she pushes past him, slipping into the elevator and waiting with an imperious air. Kai barely hides his grin as he joins her.
The doors glide open to a world of black cherry wood and scarlet silk. She steps into the penthouse, stunned that the disreputable façade could hide such oriental beauty. The room is sparsely decorated—a low couch and coffee table, three brilliantly colored paintings, a tall square table near the kitchen.
She realizes with a start that Kai has walked into the penthouse, and she hurries to catch him. As the tall Thai vanishes into the brightly lit kitchen, she hears soft voices over the clink of glass. Her nerves vanish, and she is suddenly desperate to see him. She discards her coat and purse easily, hurries down the hall.
The door is open, and, for a moment, Emma cannot process what she is seeing. There is too much, too many undressed women, too many of them so young it is shocking. Liquid black eyes watch the girls, i
nterest too obvious. “Rama?” she whispers, her voice shaking with anger.
His head comes up, almost lazily, his eyes taking her in as his hand drops away from the girl in front of him. He straightens slowly. “Why are you here?” he asks, and his voice is empty, so empty.
It hits her like a slap, and she flinches as she backs away. Anger is lingering below the surface of her hurt, and she latches onto it, desperate to feel anything but betrayal.
She stalks away, shaking. Her phone is in her hand almost before she realizes it, and Kai appears, dark eyes questioning and warning. “It is business, Emma,” he says simply, eying the phone in her hand before focusing on her.
“Business?” she chokes on the word. “What business requires him to have naked girls in his bedroom?”
Patient knowledge fills his eyes, and she feels all her anger drain away in shock as the puzzle pieces fall into place.
“I see,” Emma murmurs faintly.
“Wait in his room,” Kai instructs, pointing to the closed door at the end of the hall. “He will come when he can.”
She nods, mutely. Rama’s room is empty, stark, the bed a decadent haven of white satin sheets, and she hates it. She hates that she has been so coolly dismissed, as if she were nothing more than one of the girls waiting to be inspected.
Her fingers are itching for her phone, and that further enrages her. For once, she doesn’t want Seth to save her. With a curse, she throws the phone on the bed and takes a deep breath. She stares out the window as she gathers what dignity she has left, and waits.
When Rama opens the door and slips in, she is still leaning on the window sill, staring into the night. He moves silently through the room, taking in the stiff posture and cascade of red-gold curls.
The rational part of him knows she is furious—the way she stands makes it obvious. Shoulders are held high, her back almost painfully straight. He notices the way her purse and jacket have been thrown across his bed, her phone discarded with them. It pulls at something, seeing her here, in his space. He likes it—more than he should, he likes it.
He wants to hold her—and knows she will balk if he does. But the desire is too strong, and he moves to her quickly, coming behind her. He drops a quick kiss on the bare skin above her collar, and she pulls away.
“Mali,” he murmurs, sighing. “It’s business. They don’t mean anything.”
“Business?” She spits, “Those were naked women, and your hands were on them.”
Irritation makes him short, and he waves away her words. “Whores, Emma. They’re whores.”
“I know what they are,” she says, her voice under control again. “Rama, what are you doing? Some of those girls are children!”
His eyes widen, and he laughs, a short, incredulous noise. “Don’t tell me my business, mali. You, of all people, have no place to talk.”
She turns, her eyes wide and demanding. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You’re a Morgan, Emma,” Rama snaps. “Do you have any idea what that family does? Do you know your king murdered his heir?”
“We are not so low as to sell women,” She tries to push past him. Rama catches her, his hands hard on her upper arms, shaking and bruising.
“Morgans are backstabbing and devious—they peddle drugs and murder. Do not think they are above selling sex,” he whispers. Her eyes are chillingly blank, and he wonders if his hands have bruised her. He loosens his grip. She wrenches herself free from him and turns her back to him.
Her voice, when she speaks, is glacial and unflinching. “Touch me like that again, and you’ll find out how deadly the Morgans truly are.”
The words spark in him. He knows he shouldn’t push—after seeing him with all the new girls, she has every right to be angry. But the calm way she stands in his space like she owns it, how she can be within his walls and still threaten him—it is a turn on. A smile tugs at his lips, and he comes to stand behind her, his body framing and pushing against hers. She is stiff, and he knows that if she comes to his bed, it will be fierce, urgent, angry. She deserves more than that, this young girl who saw too much.
“You should go,” he says abruptly, pulling away.
She frowns as she turns, studying him intently.
When she walked into Bamboo weeks ago with the pretty, empty-headed girls, he couldn’t help but remember the only time he had seen her before, when she had come with Caleb. Even drunk into oblivion, she was beautiful, graceful.
That first night, he had forgotten who she had been with, only knew she was intoxicating and beautiful—city royalty. When he finally put her together with Caleb, he found himself torn between wanting to use her to get to the Morgan king, and the desire to hide all his ties to Ratchaphure.
The kings have ignored him so completely that he wonders now if Caleb had acted alone, without their knowledge. Without knowing that, can he risk getting close to Emma?
“What’s wrong?” she asks now, and he wonders again how she places within the family, that she is so instinctually perceptive. Is it just intuition, or is it something she has learned, to survive in a syndicate such as hers?
He shakes his head helplessly, unsure if he is refusing the question she poses or the ones in his head. Her hands come up, fisting in his hair as he tries to back away, sharp pain as she pulls him back to her.
Her eyes hold a warning of anger that pushes him deep into desire. She smiles, just a little, and then he is kissing her, and it has none of the gentleness he has shown before. She gasps as he nips her lips, answers with a tug of his hair, her hands still tangled in the black silk. He groans as the pinpricks of pain seep through the pleasure, and she smiles against his lips.
He should back away. Send her safely back to her king and syndicate and whoever protects her. Instead, his hand slides under her shirt, finds soft skin. She whimpers as his fingers stroke the silk that cups her breast, and he knows—there is no backing away.
They stumble, still entwined, to the bed, and he lands on her. She grunts. He pauses, hesitates for a moment, and she twists his hair. Rama growls, pulls away to rip her shirt off. Emma shivers as she hears the delicate fabric give, torn so easily. His hands find her breast, pushed up by her bra, and she arches into the caress, moans as he jerks one cup away and pulls on her nipple. The delicious abrasion of his teeth is soothed by a soft swirl of his tongue, and she writhes against him.
“What?” he murmurs, and she will never admit how sexy his accent is, how close she is to begging.
Instead, she pulls his silky hair, pulling him to her lips. His body is heavy on hers, crushing, almost bruising as he grinds against her, and she revels in it. Always, she is treated as if she is fragile, breakable. Even Seth treats her with fragile care. But Rama is hard, almost punishing as he pulls away and jerks her to her feet. “Undress,” he orders her abruptly. She shivers.
His eyes are hot, glittering with desire as she shrugs off the remnants of her shirt and unhooks her bra. His hands clench, and she smiles, playfully. Rama’s eyes turn lazy as she peels off her jeans and stands before him in nothing but black lace panties.
“Come here,” he whispers, his voice harsh with lust.
She sways to him, and he jerks her onto the bed, over his body and the thin pants he still wears. She whimpers as he fits her against him, her eyes squeezing closed as he thrusts insistently at her. His hand fists in her hair, and he pulls, forcing her head back, and exposing the long column of her throat. Rama’s teeth scrape over the tender skin, and she feels a tiny spasm, a fierce clenching. She wants him. So badly she barely recognizes herself, she wants this man who deals in women and exotic foreign lands she cannot fathom. Emma grinds against him, licks the shell of his ear, and whispers, “I want you.”
Rama curses, and she smiles as she slides down his body, pulling his pants off. There is something intrinsically wrong, to be on your knees when royal. Yet nothing could keep her from this—family name be damned. She takes him deep with no warning, and he almost screams as he
r nails dig into his thighs. Emma smiles around him, thrilling to the way his fingers are gripping her hair. She sets a fast rhythm, and he finds himself struggling not to come, to hold off. She fights him as he forces her away, and his fingers slid into her. He chuckles as she goes limp, a low keening noise sliding from her.
“You’re ready, mali,” he murmurs, and she nods. There is anticipation, wild desire in her eyes, that banishes the cool reserve of the Morgan family. Rama shoves the thought aside and thrusts into her.
Emma’s breath catches on a sob as he fills her, then whimpers as he slides out. It’s delicious pressure, gentle thrusts that push her quickly to the brink. She pulls him into a kiss and bites his lip, hard. Rama jerks away, searching her gaze for a moment before he slams into her, hard, and she screams.
Later, they lie silent, sweat cooling their bodies. Her hand is still tangled in his hair, and she wonders how she will hide the bite mark on her neck from Seth. As if sensing her thoughts turning, Rama pulls her closer.
“What does Rama mean?” she asks, content in his embrace, willing to ask any asinine question to avoid the reality that awaits them outside the bed.
He hesitates, and she looks up. Finally he murmurs, “King.”
A fist seems to squeeze her heart, and she slowly sits up. Naked, wrapped in the sheets that still bear the scent of their sex, the princess looks at him, a foreign prince. There is so much, in a name.
Mandeley, New York City. June 12th
She waits patiently for Seth. A board member—a distant uncle, perhaps, she doesn’t remember—stopped him on their way out, and she can see his frayed patience in the way his head jerks when he nods. For another few minutes, she stands quietly to the side, waiting as Seth’s irritation grows.
