Into His Command (28 page)

Despite exactly what was
in
my mouth, I felt like inserting my shoe instead. Had I just gone and called him that?
Nothing like kicking a guy in the figurative balls, when my sole objective was bringing
pleasure to the real ones.

And nothing like that same amazing guy to give a beautiful surprise in return.

“Sweet little wife…” He hissed, digging a hand into my hair. “This time, I truly must
agree with you.”

Emotion slammed me once more. But this time, it wasn’t a truck. It was a sailboat,
racing on the wind, chasing the sun—and finding it, in the gaze and the touch and
the passion of the man beneath my lips and fingers. I wanted more. So much more. I
showed him so. I licked him, stroked him, and squeezed him. Told him so with my eyes
as I moved up…and surrounded him with my mouth. Then loved him, absorbing every thrust
of his power and heat and passion…before drinking down his very life, taking him deep
inside…

Where he’d be, in so many ways, forever.

Many minutes later, as his eyes returned from the back of his head and his breathing
returned to normal, he slid a sultry look down at me. “Whatever am I going to do with
you, woman?”

I tossed back an impish grin. “I have a few ideas if you don’t.”

“I have
many
ideas.” He pulled on my good shoulder. “Come here…”

But as I straddled him, a hail signal blared through the car. The comm line had been
programmed into the Ferrari’s phone system. Jagger’s voice boomed around us like Darth
Vader on crack.

“Wildcat, please come in.”

Correction. Darth Vader, badly in need of a valium.

“
Wildcat
!”

Syn stabbed at the button, opening the comm line. “This is Wildcat.” He growled as
I sidled off, returning to the passenger seat. “What the fuck is the problem? This
is not time for radio check.”

“It is if you stop the damn car.” Jag’s huff turned the line to static. “Are you two
all right?”

I stifled a giggle. Samsyn’s mouth squirmed, battling back his own smirk. “We needed
to…stretch.”

Well, that did it.

I held back my full laugh only long enough for him to mute the line. Even then, I
wasn’t sure about my success. Not that Jagger needed it. His retort resonated with
foregone conclusions. “Stretching is not on the schedule. Get your ass back on the
road, with its fucking pants
on
.”

I shrieked with new laughter. Syn wasn’t so jovial. Though his sleek lips still held
the hints of a sexy smile, the rest of his face was dismal. “I am sorry about this,
astremé
. I had hoped to return the…generosity…of your wedding gift.”

I dropped my giggles into a chastising huff. Underlined it by grabbing his face and
jerking him to me in a quick, hard kiss. “Haven’t you figured this shit out by now,
big guy?
You
were the best present of the day.”

He snorted while revving the car again. “Only because the rest of it was a giant lump
of coal.”

I whacked his shoulder. “Shut up and drive. And sing some more Foo to me, baby.”

He did just that.

Best afternoon of my life.

‡

N
othing like a
whirlwind honeymoon.

As soon as we arrived in Sancti, a whirlwind of a different kind took over. And why
the hell was I being poetic? “Hurricane” was more appropriate now, begun the moment
Syn guided the car to the Palais’ parking garage—through a throng of reporters that
swarmed the car like attack bees.

“Holy crap,” I blurted, as soon as the gates slid shut and we handed the car off to
his valet team. “Maybe the main bridge would’ve been easier.”

“The throng
there
is certainly bigger.” Syn guided me into the elevator by the waist.

“Shut the front door!”

He peered around before angling a frown back down at me. “We are nowhere near the
front—” Stopping himself short when I over-smiled in apology for the slang, he bent
in to push me against the lift wall. His scowl was tight but his gaze sparkled. “Little
one, we may have to come to an agreement about those colorful little expressions of
yours.”

Blue flames joined the mini fireworks in those eyes, now fixated on me. Like a kid
enthralled with the show, I lifted my hand, fanning fingers across his cheek. “An…agreement?
You mean, like a pact?”

“More like an understanding.” His stare swept down, roaming across every inch of my
slightly parted mouth. “Do you not think it fair that every time you trip me up with
one of those, I get to…trip you up…in return?”

“Trip me up?” My echo was shredded reeds. Good thing I wouldn’t be called on to sing
an aria tonight—though every cell of my body sang for this man, so elegant and huge
and passionate, fitting his hips between mine, ducking his mouth against my neck.
“And…h-how…do you propose…doing that?”

He grabbed both my hips, notching my cleft directly against his cock.

Glided his lips along the curve of my ear…

Bit my neck…

Kissed my jaw…

The moment before he took my lips, the elevator jerked to a stop.

We broke apart, barely done straightening our clothes and composing our faces, before
a computer-generated version of Turkish bells announced our arrival—

Where?

My astonishment was so real, I felt it altering my face. Popping my eyes. Locking
my teeth. That part was necessary, to keep my jaw from plummeting. Something told
me that wherever we were in the palais,
oh-my-gah
gapes wouldn’t be accepted behavior.

I’d been to the complex before, of course. There’d been the big celebration for Evrest’s
ascension to the throne, as well as the yearly trips down the mountain for
Liberlük
in the summer and Christmas festivities in the winter. But all those times, Mom and
Dad had been careful to keep us in the shadows or on the sidelines, never venturing
far from the anonymity given by the throngs. Inevitably, I’d always associated the
Palais Arcadia with bustle, chaos, and crowds.

There was no bustle here. Definitely no crowds. And to borrow an apt expression from
Samsyn, the silence was deafening.

No. Not complete silence. As we stepped further down the hall—more like a magical
tunnel with every inch of its walls and ceiling covered in red, gold, and silver tiles—the
strains of traditional instruments bled through the thick wooden doors. Lute. Violin.
Some kind of woodwind, perhaps an ocarina or recorder. A metallic melody strummed
on a zither. From behind another door, the distinct taps of someone on a computer.
Behind another, the cadence of quiet conversation. The décor was a fascinating mix
of old and new as well. The tiles, seemingly as old as the island itself, were the
backdrop to modular furniture with clean lines. Cube-style tables supported lamps
that would make an antique enthusiast drool, though the pieces glowed with the clean
light of LED bulbs. Beneath our feet, old carpets were newly scrubbed and spotless.

We turned left, entering a long portrait gallery. Believe it or not, I breathed a
little easier.
Now
this felt like a palace. I looked up at the formal paintings, featuring Cimarrons
from hundreds of years ago until now, not thinking twice about inserting Samsyn into
some of those noble scenes. God, he’d look incredible decked out in fantasy movie
finery, broadsword across his back, muddy boots to his thighs, gauntlets on his thick
forearms.

I’d worked that mental magic on about six paintings, before noticing he wasn’t peering
at any of them.

His stare was fixed on me.

I laughed uneasily. “What?”

He smirked like a kid with a secret. “Nothing, wife. Nothing at all.”

“Bullshit.” I twisted at the clasp of our hands—but finished with a little grin. Would
my chest
ever
not flip over when he used that word on me?
Wife. Wife. Wife.
Gah.

“You…like this room.”

“Yes.” I also liked—a whole hell of a lot—that after just a minute, he saw that.

“I am glad. I like it, too.” That was when he gazed up. “There is a story to each
one of these paintings. Sometimes a few. Each Cimarron…what they did with their life,
how they contributed to the island…the mistakes they made getting there, the lessons
they learned…”

“And whom they learned them with?”

“Oh, that too. Comrades and enemies, advisors and betrayers…”

“And spouses?”

He stiffened. A pulse ticked hard in his jaw. “And others.”

“Others?”

He gave me three seconds of a glance—but three seconds was all it took. One, two,
three, and the full blade of his sudden rage was embedded in my gut, deep and wrenching
and unforgettable.

“Royal sanction is a diamond with sharp edges. It opens every door. Unlocks every
power.”

“And brings anyone to your bed.”

He glanced again. No fury this time. I wasn’t sure how to define his look now. I only
knew the way he stared, eyes cold as hail and nostrils flaring hard, sluiced deep
sadness through me. Sorrow that hadn’t invaded for a long, long time. Not since the
moment I’d turned my gaze from the burning wreckage of my home and looked toward the
sky that held my future—and beheld only darkness and loneliness.

Why did those skies dominate
his
gaze like that?

Who—
what
—had sucked the sun from his eyes?

And why wouldn’t he
talk to me
about it?

Syn pivoted with military precision, giving me the last word on our exchange, as he
continued up the gallery. I followed, not protesting his looser grip now, letting
him keep to his thoughts for a few more steps. To be honest, I needed the respite
to compose my own thoughts. I didn’t have the advantage of being on familiar ground
anymore. This was all his turf, and even without the trip down the magic looking glass
hall, I felt a lot like poor Alice, down the rabbit’s hole.

Or a lot like me, on the Sancti tarmac six years ago.

The reflection earned me a hit of courage.

You can do this. Of course you can. Because you’ve done it before—and you didn’t have
half the discipline, knowledge, or strength that you do now.

I repeated the mantra even as we passed countless portraits—including one covered
in a black shroud. At my curious glance, Syn replied smoothly, “Evrest’s. It will
remain covered for the next month.”

I didn’t ask about the wide space already cleared to the left of the shroud. His tighter
tension gave it away. That was where his portrait would go.

I pulled in an awed breath. Expelled it to let out a more important query. “Syn…where
are we going?”

He snorted, clearly trying to summon humor—and failing. “I am surprised you do not
know,
astremé
. They have a fun phrase for it in America, after all.”

“Oh?” Keeping it light wasn’t happening on my end either—especially since
he
still looked like we headed for our own execution. “Enlighten me?”

He paused for a moment, putting the words together. “‘Schmoozing the in-laws’?”

I jerked my hand away. “Are you fucking kidding?”

He wasn’t fucking kidding.

In the middle of my charge, a young man emerged from one of the double doors at the
end of the gallery. Cream doublet. Crimson sash. Pole-up-the-butt walk. Cimarron court
pages were definitely recognizable. “Your Majesty, King Samsyn,” he intoned. “The
high couple will see you now.”

Welcome home to us.

Shit, shit, shit.

‡

“S
amsyn!
Chér-ev
!”

Syn didn’t even pretend to enjoy the endearment from his father. His discomfort instantly
became mine, meaning my smile was total plaster by the time Ardent strode all the
way across the drawing room. Now that the setting was more private than the Le Blanc
Tower’s terrace, I wondered if the king father would attempt embracing his son again.

He didn’t. Imagine
that
.