Into His Command (3 page)

“I do not know,” Tryst replied. “King Ardent only told me he that Senator Valen has
been a friend for close to twenty years, and that the moment Kavill was released,
Valen called, begging to hide on Arcadia if the situation became dire.”

Samsyn dropped his glare to the image of the music box again. “This looks dire.”

“Indeed.”

“How soon until they arrive?”

“Not long.” Tryst raked his gold gaze up to the sky. “Valen didn’t feel safe even
radioing ahead until they were departing Rome.”

“And they have nothing with them but their clothes and travel documents?”

“Correct.”

“Fuck.”

“Agreed.”

It had no sooner left Tryst’s lips than a distant engine growled in the sky. Sure
enough, the lights of a small plane appeared, twinkling on approach to the runway.

Though everything felt like just another aircraft landing on Arcadia, Samsyn tapped
the comm piece at his ear, opening the channel to the ten elite soldiers hiding in
the foliage along the landing strip. On paper, nearly all of them still outranked
him—a factor rapidly pushed aside since he was here as King Ardent’s emissary. All
the unknowns of the situation, as well the danger they presented, made Father’s absence
a necessity. Samsyn resigned himself to accept it, not enjoy it.

“Everyone on alert,” he directed calmly. “We have to expect anything.”

Well-spoken advice. That he completely neglected to take personally.

Or maybe it would not have mattered, anyway.

Prepared or not, maybe he was destined to walk out on that tarmac, watch the plane’s
door descend, then remember nothing except one pair of perfect, petrified eyes.

Literally…nothing.

Had he greeted the senator? He vaguely recalled his lips moving on the words, the
assurances to Chase Valen that they would be safe and guarded here.

Had he said anything to Mrs. Valen? Her shoulders had trembled when he pulled her
in, briefly bussing her cheeks in formal greeting, had they not?

Had he said anything to the boy? Dillon. They’d clasped hands like men, though the
young man clung long and hard, silently conveying his fear.

He
had
remembered. All of it.

And that all of it was just going through the motions—

Until she got off the stairway.

Chin jerked high—beneath wobbling lips. Steps taken proudly—on legs so fatigued, they
barely held her up. Shoulders set firm—while shaking from each shellshocked breath.

But most of all, it was her eyes.

Her huge, terrified, mesmerizing, crystal blue eyes.

Reminding him…

of him.

No. More than that. It only started there, this draw he felt toward her…this pull
of raw connection, fueled by fires he’d never experienced before. This…
need
…to get nearer to her, though not in any way that would harm her or frighten her.
It wasn’t sexual or even emotional. It extended so far beyond those labels, into a
realm that was…

What?

Mystical?

Fuck.

No.
No.
He was not fairy dust, magic drops, and
Für Elise
. He was
not
“mystical”. And he sure as hell was not crashing, cataclysmic connection with a fucking
teenager, even if she did walk like a queen despite the hell she had endured, and
the darkness in which she stepped.

He wanted to be this creature’s strength, sword, and shelter. He craved to drop to
his knees before her, sweep his head low, pledge his fealty forever, and utter all
the other knightly things from the classic books he had never learned in school. He
mentally stabbed himself for it all now. For not getting past the cramped desks and
stuffy classrooms and listening to a few of those lessons, instead of ticking off
the minutes until he could be free and moving and
doing
something.

Now, he prayed for a single perfect line from one of those books. One ideal thing
to say when walking up to the only person who had ever affected him like a human super
magnet, drawing him like a million helpless metal shavings, able to achieve his true
form only because she grew nearer.

“Hi.”

That was
not
the perfect thing.

“Hi.” She blurted it between one nervous glance and the next. He wished her no blame.
If he were standing in her cute little tennis shoes, gawking up at a hulk like him,
he would steal nothing but glimpses too. At once, he rounded his shoulders and gave
into a small smile. It rendered no good. His adorable, brave little refugee still
trembled like a star readying to fall from the heavens.

A star.

Yes. That was it.

“Starlight, star bright.” Though he did not murmur it with the greatest confidence,
it felt right. Even she seemed to sense it, that wide blue gaze softening.

“Wh-what?” The accusation fled her tone. A tiny smile threatened her scared scowl.

“Starlight, star bright.” He was more confident about the repetition, even scooping
up her hand and adding a low bow over her fingers. “Look what beauty the sky has brought
me tonight.”

Her fingertips shook against his palm. Her lips quaked harder, as if she was unsure
what to say or feel. That certainly made two of them. “This is…kind of weird.”

“Well…‘weird’ is all right.” He laughed a little, as her vernacular teased his tongue.
He remembered himself the next moment, straightening back to noble formality. “As
long as safe goes with it.” He bent over her as far as he dared. “You
are
safe now, Brooke Valen. Of that you can be assured.”

Her gold-tinged brows arched. “That so, big guy?”

He chuckled. “That is so, little
astremé
.”

“Oh, yeah?” Her head tilted, blowing little chunks of her hair across her lightly-freckled
cheeks. Her hair was also intriguing. It was so different than Arcadian styles, chopped
at vastly different lengths. “Says who? Because in case you haven’t heard, this evil
asshole just blew up our whole house and—”

“Brooke.” Her mother whipped a glare over. “Language!”

Samsyn held Brooke back, waiting for the woman to keep going, before he leaned closer
over her. “‘Evil asshole’ is about right.” Once regaining the full connection of her
gaze—because he knew he would get it—he asserted, “And if he comes anywhere near you,
the commander of the Arcadian armed forces, Prince Samsyn Cimarron, personally swears
he shall slice the bastard from one ear to the next.”

“Only if I can help.” Tryst emphasized it with a snort.

“‘Prince’?” She seemed unaware of even whispering it. “Well, no shit.”

He grimaced. “Still weird?”

“Oh, yeah.” Her lips quirked. “But cool. Maybe…more than kind of.”

Her awkward honesty tossed all his composure into fresh chaos. The shards of it hit
his blood like metal shavings, sharpening his senses, making him even more aware of
every move she made now too—

Including the new way she gazed at him.

No more surreptitious glances. No more frightened trembling. Her steps still wobbled
a little, no doubt due to the hell she’d just survived, but as Syn helped her into
the transport van that would take them up into the Tahreuse Mountains, where they
could be best hidden in case Kavill gave chase, she looked up to him once more—with
a face full of
brand-new
things.

Relief.

Confidence.

Security.

Hope.

She held back none of it. And in giving all of it, gave him yet one more, incredible
gift. A sensation in his heart and soul he had written off as forever lost.

Clean.

For many minutes after the van departed, he stood on the tarmac, in the darkness,
with a hand over his chest…and confusion clouding his brain.

What the hell had just happened?

Who the hell was he now?

He still had no answer, even when a circle of familiar faces appeared around him.
Tryst had roused the guys from the bushes, and they razzed each other with the normal
filthy humor that accompanied the end of a mission. Samsyn, normally the ringleader
of that party, remained pulled back. The space beneath his hand was still pristine
as new snow. He yearned to keep it that way as long as possible. If he could get back
to his suite at the Palais, just to be alone and cherish this longer, maybe a little
of it would stick. Even to someone like him…

“All right, all right!” Tryst flung up a hand, silencing everyone. “As charming as
you apes are, his highness still has a birthday to celebrate—and, I believe, a certain
someone to celebrate it with.” The man gave him a nasty side eye. “Maybe a sweet little
blonde, keeping the sheets hot for you?”

Fuck
.

Arista. Whom he’d told to stay in the suite as long as she needed.

His hand dropped.

Just like that, his best birthday gift vanished. Wiped out with one reminder of who—of
what
—he really was.

“No.” It spewed on a growl, though he forced a wry twist to his lips. “I am much more
open to getting back and finishing off the birthday vodka.”

“Over getting tight and hot with a willing female?” Olyver Frond, one of the team’s
more boisterous bastards, voiced it. “Who are you and what the fuck have you done
with Samysn Cimarron?”

He summoned a tighter, faker, smile—a complete disguise for how he could not bear
thinking of kissing a blonde right now, let alone bedding her. How
any
blonde would only remind him of
one
right now…

Fuck.

No.

“By the Creator’s balls. Have I not wrestled enough with young females and their needs
this evening?”

As he hoped, the men bought the sarcasm—except for Tryst, who was shrewd enough to
see through everything and smart enough to keep it a secret.

The pretense was agonizing but necessary. One day, he would be the true commander
of anyone in a uniform on this island. Cracks in
their
armor were barely acceptable. Cracks in
his
had to be impossible.

Which meant Brooke Valen—and everything she had done to him, for him—would be subjects
never visited again.

For that reason—and that alone—he prayed like hell that someone put a bullet through
Rune Kavill’s brain soon, making it possible for the Valens to return home…and for
Brooke Valen to become exactly what he needed her to be.

A memory.

‡

“D
ammit, Valen. Stop
fighting like a girl.”

I let my heavily taped hands frame my glower. I was on fire and ready to go again.
A challenging smirk answered back. It had a face attached to it, of course, but right
now, I focused only on that grin—and how pissed I was at it.

Because it was the truth.

I
was
a girl.

And God, was I sparring with the pathetic ability of one.

Which always happened when I knew Samsyn Cimarron was on his way up Tahreuse Mountain.

Syn
.

There he was again, bursting to life in my mind—as he’d done nearly once an hour for
the last six years. Prince Samsyn Obsydian Cimarron, second in line to the throne
of Arcadia Island, commander of its entire military force, notable collector of any
vehicle that could speed him across the kingdom in faster time—but to me, he was simply
my noble Syn. The first person who’d uttered a kind word to me here. The source of
my first Arcadian smile. My protecting knight, damn near ordering me to feel safe
again, filling all the dashing, gorgeous potential of the twenty-first birthday he’d
just celebrated—

And in the doing, made me fall instantly in love with him.

That had been almost six years ago today.

I really didn’t like letting go of shit.

Especially Syn Cimarron.

I gulped as the image of him intensified. Dark hair on the wind, blown across his
huge shoulders. Powerful legs, eating up the ground with his strides. Arms bulging…everywhere.
Effortless grace. Complete power. Practically bending the air around him to his will,
as if he’d arrived here through some strange time portal and was only putting up with
the twenty-first century for the cool man toys. His mighty body would be just as comfortable
in thick chainmail, a massive sword hanging from his belt…

My daydreams always had the shittiest timing.

Jagger spotted the distraction in my eyes. He swept in, scooping his right foot behind
my left ankle, instantly sending me ass-over-elbows. I sprawled flat on my back, the
fresh spring grass jabbing through my lightweight training wear. The bright Arcadian
sun glared into my eyes.

“Oof!” I pushed up, ready to pop back to my feet. “Motherf—” And again hit the barrier
of his boot, planted to my sternum.

Jag arched his russet brows. No added smirk this time. Wise move. “Well. You have
not forgotten how to
swear
like a man.”

“
Bonsun
! Let me up.”

“Impressive. Profanity in two languages today.”

“Let me
up
, Jag.”

“Not until I have your promise of twenty minutes without thoughts of him.”