Into His Command (36 page)

I did nothing.

I had no other option.

The woman in me—and the friend to Jag—recoiled at the intimation. But the warrior
in me gave up her grim understanding—and the acceptance of two truths. One, Jagger
could handle himself, even against Syn. Two, if he got a little fucked up in the process,
maybe it was for the best. The
imbezak
had brought this on himself—and messed up a huge chunk of my world in the process.

Because right now, Samsyn and I were right back at square one.

No.

A few squares before
that.

He had trust issues, compounded by the ordeal of keeping them secret for so long.
But I’d made a huge mistake about them. I’d mentally dropped them in a box, labeled
it with his parents’ names, then begun my mission to love him so much he’d see that
the box didn’t have
his
name on it.
His
heart didn’t have to be a prisoner of his parents’ lies. The choice was solely his
to trust—and love—someone.

And though I’d refused to admit it, even to myself, I’d yearned to be that someone.
To be worthy of this noble prince’s heart. To simply love him into loving me.

But sometimes, it wasn’t that simple. Wishing on a star, believing in your heart…it
worked for damsels in towers and puppets who wanted to be real, not for a princess
in love with a prince who couldn’t even see the stars past his walls.

And right now, I was completely out of demolition ideas.

Leaving me to watch as he jogged away down a dark beach…alone despite the security
detail flanking him. Alone, despite my body still remembering him, my heart still
so full of him.

Alone, despite the tears I shed for us both.

‡

T
wo days later,
despite the perfect island morning outside the breakfast room’s window, I clenched
back the same damn tears. My makeup aside—Mishella had made me concede to a little
mascara blush and lip gloss now—tears probably tasted disgusting in coffee.

While stirring hazelnut creamer into my java instead, I stole a glance at Syn through
my lashes. Holy God, he was stunning. I yearned to jump him again, despite having
done so this morning in bed. Okay, technically,
he’d
jumped
me
—my wrists still bore the blissful marks of just how hard and passionately—but semantics
weren’t important in my fantasy. I swirled my spoon dreamily, letting the scene play
out. I’d find him in his office. Would let him keep his crisp black shirt and red
vest in place, though slide his pants down to his ankles so I could roam over his
tight ass and muscled thighs…while taking him deep in my mouth. I’d let his moans
vibrate through me, feeling them in every shivering nerve, as I sucked and tasted
and licked his gorgeous penis, worshipping him until he—

“If you keep staring at my brother like that, I may have to charge you an access fee.”

The interjection, spoken in a voice like lava and butter mixed, made me look up then
laugh. Shiraz Cimarron had a face and body one would expect on the pages of a high
fashion magazine, but the demeanor of a shark straight from Wall Street. He was the
poster child for dichotomy, confounding many, but I’d always admired that about him.
What fun was a person if they could be figured out in minutes?

“Now there’s a way to maximize some revenues for the economy,” I joked back. “But
it’s a tax deduction for me, right?”

A feminine grumble pulled my gaze around. “Are you two already talking business?”
Jayd groused. “Creator’s toes. The funeral was just yesterday. Some of us are still
raw.”

Shiraz arched an urbane brow. “You mean the pretend funeral?”

“
Ssshhh
.” She jogged her head toward the reporters in the corner—all so absorbed in tapping
on their laptops, an army could’ve stormed the beach without their notice—and added,
“Pretend or not, I hated it.”

Shiraz chuffed. Muttered to me, “But she loved Paris, where gloom is everyone’s middle
name.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Not gloom,
imbezak.
It is called
drama
. And
feeling.
And
passion
.” She elbowed him. “They belong in that thing called a
heart
, my brother. You remember what that is,
oui
?”

“
Non
.” Shiraz shrugged. “Waste of time and space. Ev and Syn are doing just fine in the
mooning hearts arena.”

She nudged me next. “I cannot
wait
until a woman knocks him on his backside.”

Shiraz sipped his coffee. Scowled and scooped more sugar into it. “Sister, I do not
get ‘knocked’ anywhere.”

“Hmmmph. Except that damn office of yours.”

“The business of the country is not accomplished by magical elves, little one.” With
a nod of satisfaction at his coffee, he turned from the buffet. “On that note, good
day, ladies. Three days away from the office will be hell to make up.”

Jayd growled. “If you die at your desk, ’Raz, I shall hate your soul forever.”

Both his brows jumped now. “And that is
not
gloomy?”

She shot a defiant pout. “Do
not
die! Nobody else is allowed to die. Got it?”

“Well, wasn’t this a fun place to join the conversation?” My brother’s cute, crooked
grin swung into view. I tried not to notice the extra gleam across Jayd’s face, but
it was like ignoring a glint of sun on chrome. Forget it.

“
Bon sabah
, Dillon Valen.” Her smile was tremulous.

“
Bon sabah
to you too, Jayd Cimarron.” He bonked her nose with his bagel—like a doof messing
with his buddy. Jayd’s eyes dimmed a little. I was tempted to grab the bagel and stuff
it up Dil’s nose. Or other places. “You too, Shiraz.”

“You as well.” Shiraz’s murmur was civil, though instinct said I’d have help in the
bagel ramming duties, if I requested it.

Without skipping a beat, Dil scooped up some cream cheese and capers. “Hey…errrmm…you
two mind if I steal the queen for a few minutes? Private sibs stuff. You know how
it goes.”

“Sure!” Just like that, Jayd brightened again. I watched her mental wheels turn, already
writing off his platonic behavior as preoccupation with our “private sibs stuff”—whatever
the hell that meant.

As soon as we took our plates and coffee to a small table in the corner, I wasted
no time seeking the clarification. “What the hell, Dil? Is everything okay?”

He stared steadily at me over the rim of his coffee mug. His eyes, possessing nearly
the same ratio of gray to blue as mine, were the biggest reason people mistook us
as blood siblings. This morning, I just wished they didn’t look so I’m-not-missing-a-single-detail-about-things.
“Hmm. Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“That’s exactly what I was going to ask
you
.”

I lowered my brows. “I…don’t…underst—”

“Cut the crap, B. It’s me.” He put his cup down. Set his forearms on the table, leaning
forward. “You’ve been miserable since we got here. Maybe even before that. Don’t feed
me the line that we all just attended a funeral, either. This is deeper shit. Much
deeper.”

I slid my own coffee back to its saucer. “Well…shit. Is it that obvious?”

He grabbed my hand. “Slow your roll, munchkin. I’m the only one picking up the vibe.”

I exhaled hard. “You usually are.”

He eased up on my hand, but not on his scrutiny. “So you want to spill, or will I
have to tickle it out of you?”

I took another deep breath. Fought for a cheeky grin but managed only a wobble of
my lips. “Nothing to spill.” At least the waterworks behind the eyes were dry. They’d
stay that way if Dil didn’t mention Samsyn.

“Is it stuff with Samsyn?”

Fuck.

“Goddammit.” Dillon stabbed his bagel instead of spreading the cream cheese. “What’s
that pachyderm done to you?

“Okay, slow
your
roll.” I seized his wrist, saving the bagel from mutilation. The knife clattered
to his plate, forcing us to take a beat. “I love him, Dillon.”

He rolled his eyes. “Last year’s news?”

That spurred a little laugh. “Fine. Guilty as charged.”

“But is
he
guilty too?” He went still, waiting for me to look up. The sun had angled in, frosting
the tips of his dark gold hair, beaming into his relentless gaze. “Brooke…does he
love you too?”

I wanted to answer him.

And I wanted that answer to be yes.

Somehow, I even knew it was.

But the surety, once the answer to all my deepest dreams, was small consolation now.
Comfort that couldn’t compete with the answer I
did
give Dil.

“He doesn’t trust me.”

I said it with sadness, loneliness. For me…but also for Syn. I wondered if he truly
trusted anyone.

Dillon’s features tightened too. He gazed as if still studying me, and I couldn’t
figure out why. It was getting unnerving.

“Why?” he finally queried.

I took a chug of coffee. “Long story. And it doesn’t matter.” The liquid felt good.
The day would be warm but right now, the sea wind was chilly. “What matters is that
I don’t know if I ever had it. Or if I can ever do anything to earn it.”

He leaned back in his chair—but he wasn’t relaxed. I knew him too well to think otherwise.
His shoulders were taut beneath his casual polo. When he scanned the room with his
gaze, finally hitting the spot where Syn was still deep in conversation with Grahm,
he slid a finger along his butter knife handle, as if wishing it were a battle dagger.
“You mean like…proving yourself?”

Strangely, I laughed again. Savored a bite into a pineapple slice. “Yeah, Dil. Just
like that. You have a magic ring I can toss into a fire and save the realm? Maybe
an enchanted wand to defeat the guy with no nose?”

He shifted again, leaning back over the table—but kept his gaze riveted to Syn as
he answered me in a tone without a note of mirth.

“What if you found the two renegade Puras for him?”

‡

H
e almost got
a face full of spat coffee.

I managed to keep the stuff down—barely—before dropping my jaw to the damn table.
Then picking it back up on a soft giggle. “Holy hell, Dil. Good one. Yep, damn good
one. Okay, you got me. I really thought—”

“And you thought right.”

His gaze didn’t flinch.

My heart didn’t beat.

Still didn’t, as I struggled not to stare as if he’d just nearly confessed to being
allied with the crazies who’d tried to kill Camellia. “Dillon. What the fuck are you—”

“I’ve been Pura since last year, Brooke.”

Annnd,
there
was the confession. Plunked right out like acid all over the food. Sure as hell defined
the landscape of my stomach now.

“I—I don’t know what to—”

Sitting here was definitely not the fill-in-the-blank for that. As the acid invaded
more than my gut, I made my way out of the room. Thank God for Mishella’s training
about how to keep a game face, calm queen style. Trial by fire time—through every
step I took toward the Palais chapel. Once there, I finally dropped the façade.

I’d only been here once before—years ago, for Evrest’s coronation ceremony—but the
beauty of the room had left an unforgettable impression on me. The simple architecture
was centered on a huge, round glass window, silver stars and golden suns representing
the glory of the Creator. Frantically, I prayed for everything the place stood for—strength,
serenity, the will not to slap my brother senseless—as I plunked into a pew near the
front.

Dillon lowered next to me—damn him, as peaceful as the Dalai Lama about it. “It’s
not against the law, Brooke.”

“Not against the—”

“It’s become as much my country as yours!” He slammed a hand to the pew in front of
us. So much for the Dalai Lama. “And I have the right to join with others to tell
our leaders what we feel about its direction. To communicate our views—”

“Yes.” I rose, unable to stop the acidic twitches through my muscles. “To communicate
your views, Dil. Not to sneak into the king’s bedroom through an air duct with the
intention to capture and kill his fiancé!”