W
hen I woke
again, I guessed a few hours had passed at most. No gritty eyes or parched throat
this time. The air was heavy with the unique hush of night, though a gentle wind blew
through nearby trees.
Trees. Wind. But nothing else to clue me in about where we were. Even my surge of
alertness was an interesting thing. My brain was more alert, stepping from its earlier
fog, jolted in a combination of curiosity and anxiety.
I pushed up on my good arm, peering around through my mussed bangs. I wasn’t home.
Not in the Residence Rigale, either. This was just as old a structure, though—only
fitted with more modern accessories. It was a stunning room, with double doors made
of dark wood set into about twelve feet of flat stone wall. The rest of the architecture
was round and also made of stone, instantly evoking the feeling of a castle turret.
Custom-built into the far side of the room, in front of a wide leather couch and loveseats,
was an entertainment system to drool for. The modern track lighting over that area
was dimmed to half power, as were the lights set into the alcoves on either side,
illuminating sleek modern sculpture pieces.
And then I gazed around the huge bed beneath me. And over me.
As Alice in Wonderland would say, things were getting curiouser and curiouser.
The bed was such an icon, I wondered if the turret had been built around it. Posts
thicker than telephone poles gave support to a canopy of red and gold damask, which
pooled behind the padded leather headboard. Both sides of the bed had nightstands
that swiveled out, custom-built with mini drink coolers, sound systems, and electronics
chargers.
Chargers
…
for things like phones.
I bolted up straighter. “Shit.”
The man next to me lurched up too. Somehow, it didn’t stun me at all that Syn grabbed
his SIG Sauer, resting in
its
custom slot in his nightstand, and aimed it at the door. Another no-brainer: the
somersault of my belly and the new focus of my stare, as every perfect muscle in his
torso twisted together, fully waking my senses inside five seconds.
“Stand down, Your Highness.” I forced calm into it, very aware that the weapon in
his hand was deliberately made without a safety. “It’s only me, big guy.”
Took him only another five seconds to re-holster the SIG then twist fully back to
me. “What?” he demanded. “What is it? What is wrong? Are you all right?”
“Fine.” Instinctively, I lifted my left hand to cover the death grip he had on my
right shoulder. Bad idea. It hurt like hell. The second I grimaced, his stress jumped
by a DEFCON level. “Hey.
Hey.
I really am fine. Just kind of stupid.” Big grin, and not even a forced one. “Just
have to remember not to do that again.”
He exhaled hard. Dropped his hand. Scrubbed it across the stubble fast becoming a
beard. He looked a little tired. A lot disheveled. And too damn sexy for my now-rampaging
hormones.
“All right,” he mumbled. “Do
not
do that again.”
As long as you don’t command it in
that
voice again.
Shit. Between his sleep-deprived ruggedness and his ground gravel undertone, the
hormones situation was
not
faring well. And the fact that I was clad in just my camisole and panties, less than
a foot away from
him
in nothing but his workout shorts, didn’t help one damn bit.
For a moment, I simply let his magnificence seep in. Yes, all over again. I wondered
if the sight of him, clothed or nude, would ever
not
do this to me. Though the latter was definitely a lot more fun…
“Are you feeling all right?”
He was all-business now. Probably for the better. “Yeah.” I kept it crisp too, though
couldn’t help my wandering gaze. If the man was uncomfortable about me staring, he
could cover the hell up.
“Why did you cry out?”
“I saw the charger in the nightstand. It made me think of my phone. My parents—”
“Have been kept completely updated.” He reached toward me again but curled his fingers
back in, as if deciding better of the choice. My head applauded. My heart wanted to
slap him. But things might always be like this for us now. The locked gazes, each
remembering what it felt like to really be together—then doing nothing about it.
Dammit
. If only we’d met just now, instead of that night when I was so scared and starry-eyed…
“Th-thanks,” I finally mumbled. Jerked my gaze around the room again. “So…what
have
they been updated about? How long have I been here? For that matter, where
is
here?”
“A little over three days,” Syn supplied to my first query. “Sshhh,” he urged, as
I gasped. “You have needed the rest. Everyone has.”
“But Camellia—”
“Is back in Sancti, safe at the Palais.” He grunted in approval. “Evrest needed no
convincing to cancel the rest of their tour plans. Jagger and Grahm are there, overseeing
increased security in the whole complex.”
“And Jayd? Is she—”
“Also safe, and ordered to her quarters for the next ten years?” The grunt became
a growl. “The answer to that is also yes.”
The argument to his chains on Jayd would have to be tackled another time. I let out
a slow breath while letting the new information sink in. “What a difference three
days makes.”
He cocked his head, dark hair caressing his jaw. “I know it feels like longer. But
you are safe here,
astremé
, I promise.”
“I know.” I meant it. Tugged at his hand to prove it. Finished by peering once again
around the room. “But where
is
here?”
“Ah.” Self-deprecation quirked his lips. “The other half to Goldilocks’ question.”
I chuckled too. “Well, the bed’s just fine. No complaints there. I’ll keep you posted
on the porridge.”
“How about some frozen pizza and beer?”
“Hold the anchovies and we’re cool.” My stomach rumbled loudly. “Or maybe I’ll just
chew around the anchovies.”
His lips twisted. “Not even Jagger is allowed here with anchovy pizza.”
“Not even Jagger is…” Trailing voice. Dawning comprehension. “Wait. Is this…
your
place?” My skin tingled with little pinpricks, watching his demeanor warm with quiet
pride.
“A retreat of sorts,” he finally filled in. “No worries; we are still in Tahreuse—simply
on the far shore of Sagique, up the mountain a bit from Noir.”
“I had no idea…”
“Nobody does, except for Jag and a few of the usual guys.” He shrugged, again with
that new disarming touch that made me melt for him in brand-new ways. “I needed a
place up here. As you know, I like coming to Tahreuse. It gives me…peace.” His hesitation
over the last word was unmistakable, as if the syllable had to stand for so much more.
Still didn’t explain the triple-time of my pulse or the nerves in my stomach. When
those turned into a light laugh, he prompted, “Now what?”
My cheeks heated. “Every time you came up here, I thought you arranged for sleeping
accommodations with your favorite—” I winced. “Well, you know—”
“My favorite Tahreuse town cuties?”
“Amusing way to say it.”
I glared to emphasize my sarcasm—but never received the expected smirk in return.
Somber Syn was back, gazing past the bed’s footboard. His profile, re-torqued as if
he’d grabbed the SIG again, was etched in dark intensity. “I have found it wise not
to actually sleep with…people.”
People
.
Meaning women.
The ones he never wanted to talk about. The dozens, maybe hundreds, he’d fucked before
me. The legions he’d screw after me.
Which should’ve made his tact a rather sweet gift. Instead, it enraged me. I’d had
six damn years of “sweet”. Seventy-two months of “care” and “consideration”, like
I was a kitten to be swaddled instead of the lioness who’d earned my place by his
side, protecting Arcadia. Hadn’t the bullet I’d taken in my arm proven that enough?
I released a long breath, working not to make it a huff. “But you slept with me.”
Granted, after we’d finished everything up in the bedroom at the Rigale, it had only
been four hours at best. But it’d been sleep. The passed-out-like-the-dead kind.
No shock from
him
at that. He actually nodded slowly, as if expecting the observation. “You…are different.”
I stared harder at him. He stared harder across the room.
“What the hell does that mean?”
He swallowed deeply. “I have no idea what that means, Brooke. Only…that it is.”
Well, I wasn’t pissed anymore. But I sure as hell wasn’t eased. I couldn’t decide
whether he needed to be kissed, flogged, or both—or that I was even the right person
to do it. The big dope gave me no hint, either. He sat there looking a hundred kinds
of gorgeous—and a thousand kinds of baffled in his own right.
“Dammit, Syn.” It accomplished nothing—but was better than the silence.
“Dammit, Brooke.” His wasn’t an ice breaker. It veered close to
being
ice, complete with the fissures hinting at a massive crack. When he scraped a hand
back through his hair, the ends of his fingers trembled.
What the hell? This was all so different from the Samsyn I knew—that the whole world
knew. The booming, ass-kicking dragon had retreated to a cave of confusion—
Because of…me?
Uh-uh. No way.
There was something more going on. There had to be. The damn doofus just refused to
cough it up.
“You expect me to work with that?” I snapped. It whipped his head up, at least. Returned
a small fire to his eyes.
“I expect you to do nothing with that.”
So much for believing in the fire. “Right. Okay. Let me get this straight. That little
bomb you dropped in my psychological lap? Do fucking
nothing
with it? Just…pretend it didn’t happen? That
you’re
not sitting there, shaking like a half-baked junkie because of it?”
“Like a half-baked—” He broke in on himself with a snarl. “You think that bringing
up my past—
again
—then talking of what happened at the Rigale—
again
—is—”
“Turning you into a sad stand-in for a crack head.” I couldn’t fold my arms. Settled
for cocking my head. “Yep. That’s pretty much what I think.”
His roar made the bed curtains tremble.
And pinned me to the pillows like a fly in honey.
Only to look back up at his looming figure, after he rolled to his knees in one powerful
sweep.
Shit.
The dragon was back. More dark and furious than ever.
And beautiful. And masterful. And I-need-you-to-fuck-me-now-ful.
My breath turned my chest into a bellows. He matched me heave for heave.
My lips worked against each other, battling to keep moisture in my mouth. His were
still parted, exposing his continuing seethe. Well,
there
were his teeth—just not in the way I’d expected.
“Creator’s
fucking
balls, Brooke.” Not a roar now. Something worse. His guttural growl all but damned
me. “You think I trembled because of your fixation on my past?”
Screw the honey. I shoved up on
both
elbows, defying him by straining my wound. And the pain? That shit could be a worthy
ally for fury. “My
fixation
? How the
hell
is this a ‘fixation’?”
“Because you throw it in my face at every turn?”
“You haven’t seen throwing, mister.”
He smirked with no warmth. And dammit if I didn’t yearn to kiss the look right off
his lips. “Threats, little one? Truly?”
“I’m not going to do this with you. I—I can’t.” Complete truth. Anger, ire, and arousal
battled for control of my blood. I kicked free of the blankets, swinging my legs over
the side of the bed. “I’m not threatening a fucking thing, Your Highness. I’m just
taking care of myself by remembering the reality of all this—the reality that we won’t
ever be. Perhaps you should start doing the same!”
“Brooke.” It was a raw—and useless—order. “Brooke—dammit—what are you doing?”
I stood. Gasped hard, fighting the dizziness. “I haven’t bathed in three days. What
do you think I’m doing?” The room tilted like a fun house. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Get the fuck back in bed!”
“Get the fuck out of my
life
!” I found the bathroom doorway. Clung to it as purchase, whirling around, letting
him have the brunt of my pissed seethe. “No more bungee jumping for me, Syn. I’m cutting
the line.”
No more leaping off the bridge, reaching for you,
touching
you, only to be yanked away like a hooked fish. Falling. Bleeding.
Lost.
The worst part? Gazing at him…and seeing just how deeply he got that.
“Brooke—”
“Leave me
alone
, Samsyn.”
“
No
.”
The curtains quivered again. Before I could fully process that, he’d lurched off the
bed with more seamless grace, feet hitting the floor like booms of thunder.
“Dammit, woman. You will
listen
to me!” Now, even the curtains didn’t dare shake. The only element daring to defy
him was the air itself, vibrating like a sword stabbed into oak. I looked up, swearing
I saw that very blade, embedded down the center of the man who towered like that tree.
I didn’t know what to be more afraid of now: the desperation in that stance, or the
steel still glinting in his eyes.
I gulped hard. Stumbled backward.
He matched me step for step.
My bare feet hit the bathroom’s travertine tiles. Slipped a little, in my urgency
to get distance from him. I grabbed for the marble counter—then let my ass fall to
it.
“Don’t come any closer!” I flung out my good hand. Syn caught it by the wrist. Dug
his grip in hard. Pressed in even tighter, stepping even closer. My head fell back,
trying to keep him in sight. I wasn’t sure about that choice, considering the warmth
of his breath and the fury in his glare, but the alternative—letting my lips smash
into his thudding carotid—was out of the question.