Into His Command (6 page)

“Numerous.” Grahm echoed his leader once more. And again, elaborated with care. “Which
also means dangerous.”

“Getting more to the point…yes.” Samsyn growled it before jacking his head back, as
if also turning it into a skyward plea. Either that or he really knew how incredible
that move was, brushing his hair over his beautiful deltoids and traps, causing my
instant fantasy of monkey-climbing all the way up his huge body. “Yet into the middle
of this
désorlik
, my brother has insisted on taking his fiancé on an island-wide engagement tour.”

Monster record scratch.

Fantasy over
.

“An engagement
what
?”

It earned me a brief glance, though Samsyn directed his explanation to the entire
group. “Now that His Majesty can be as open as he wishes about his hormone storm for
this woman, he wishes to share the ‘joy’ with everyone. He is convinced that he’ll
win over many Pura, once they meet Camellia and fall for her as he has.”

“And he’s taking the campaign to
their
turf for it,” I supplied.

Jagger twisted a sardonic smile. “It is a brilliant idea.
Déssonum
for the brutal honesty, my prince…but it is.”

“Agreed.” Grahm clearly didn’t feel his apology was necessary too. “He takes the message
to the people. Lets them see Camellia as a real person, the woman worthy of their
king’s true love. In the doing, she becomes a positive symbol of the economic strides
Evrest wants to make, as well.”

Blayze jiggled his knee and frowned. “Hmph. Brilliant.
If
you are not the one having to arrange logistics for all…of…”

His voice trailed off as realization slammed us all.

Jagger was the first to voice our collective conclusion.

“Fuck.”

No wonder Syn had braced his stance.

He fielded the burst of reactions, ranging from
hell no
to
hell yes
and everything in between, with quiet composure. It gave me a moment to study him.
Not that I wasn’t always doing that…but
this
moment was different than any before. I’d seen Samsyn Cimarron in many forms over
the years. Stiff and formal. Charming and reserved. Rugged and competitive. The last
trumped the others combined. But I’d never gotten to see him as a leader of men, guiding
and motivating without props like swords, cars, fists, or battle cries. Right now,
it was just him.

And he was riveting.

Regal.

Patient.

Perfect.

I also wasn’t the only one who noticed.

I’d observed, of course, that Orielle Preetsok had quietly entered the room when the
meeting was called to order, smart pad in hand. As one of the Center’s administrative
staff, she’d obviously been called in to take notes. As a preening little thing who’d
been on the island’s final Distinct selection list, she likely also had an agenda—about
the possibility of locking her claim on the next available prince in the Cimarron
line. I shouldn’t have cared—if she made Syn happy and treated him right, wasn’t
that
what mattered?—but who the hell was I kidding? Watching her undress him with her
big doe eyes, sitting up straighter to flaunt her va-va-voom curves and milky skin,
I fought against knocking back a jealousy shooter. The little brunette certainly seemed
more his type. She was a woman groomed to say
Yes Sir
no matter what the situation.

I didn’t like following rules.

I clearly got it from Dad.

Who’d landed his whole family in exile on a foreign island because of shattering a
few “guidelines” himself.

Meeting. Important. Thoughts. Present. Now
.

I pushed Orielle to my periphery, despite her continued mooning at Syn. “So you’re
expecting big crowds,” I stated. “And you need eyes and ears in them, to keep track
of any potential trouble. Local faces in plain clothes, so as to not arouse suspicions.”

Blayze swung a wide grin. “Clever girl!”

“Nah. I just wanted to be Sidney Bristow when I was in junior high.” The
Alias
reference earned me a circle of glassy stares. Nothing new; I had the skill down
to an art form.

“An equally brilliant idea,” Jagger asserted.

Samsyn didn’t waste time restating the point—or acknowledging it’d come from me. I
pushed down the resulting disappointment. Hadn’t I earned my place at this table by
proving I could be like the guys? Until half an hour ago, it was all I’d ever hoped
to get in the way of proximity to Syn. One stupid slip of judgment later, and I’d
forgotten it all.
Maybe you should join Orielle in the swoony pit.

As I willed the fist in my lap to relax, Samsyn pulled a remote control stick out
of his black cargo pants. At his tap, an image came to life in the air over the table:
a holographic map of the Tahreuse Mountain Range, along with the surrounding valleys.

Jag whistled appreciatively.

Even Grahm smiled. “Kicks ass on ten Yogurtlands.”

“Evrest and Camellia begin the tour in three days’ time, beginning with the central
valleys and the pastoral midlands.” Syn paced around the table, to the side at which
I was seated. With every step closer, my instincts were harder to subdue. My body
plugged into foreign circuits. My pores popped open. My nerve endings sizzled. My
hand coiled again in my lap, helping me hide every shaking breath I took.

What the hell? Why was I vibrating like an exposed wire, because of one kiss?
No
. Not even that, thanks to Jagger and his timing.

As if my pulse, my skin, and the very air around me knew that difference.

“That gives us six days to prepare for things here, for anyone keeping the math.”
Syn halted right behind me—oh, why the freak not?—and punched the clicker again. On
the holograph, a red line snaked its way up the slopes of Tahreuse. “On Friday, they
shall depart Faisant Township after a community breakfast hosted by the Stanwycks
of Sauvage Ranch. That means they will travel here via the Longitude Road, followed
by the South Face Switchbacks. To be precautious, we shall close the Switchbacks to
all traffic except the royal convoy.”

“Which consists of what?” Grahm inquired.

“Five Arcadian security trucks, to start,” Syn replied. “One serving as advance lookout,
traveling fifteen to twenty minutes ahead of the main group, to radio back if something
feels exceptionally out of place. Another truck shall serve as lead on the main group;
one more at sweep.”

“And the other two?”

“One behind Evrest and Camellia’s vehicle.” Even without his tight growl, I would’ve
felt his surge of tension. “My brother, looking at the world through his typical Candide
glasses, wants to travel with his wife in the royal Bentley.”

Grahm shrugged. “It
is
an elegant touch.”

“In convertible mode.”

Blayze howled. “I should have saved the
imbezak
reference for now.”

Jagger lurched to his feet. “You refer to your
king,
mongrel. Leash your words!”

Syn lifted a hand. “Jag.”

“
What
?”

“Sit.” He walked around, taking up a new position at the foot of the table. Good thing?
He was farther away, giving my nervous system a break. Bad thing? I now had to view
him in profile, and it was just as mesmerizing as the head-on way. “Besides,” he muttered,
“I align with Blayze.” His hair brushed his jaw as he shook his head, a stunning contrast
of silken sable to hard-hewn angles. “Evrest’s is the noblest soul I know—but sometimes,
that makes it the most foolish.”

“We’ll figure it out.” I tried not to sound impatient.
Yyeeaah, not-so-much
. And men said women got stuck on petty matters? “Let’s get through the big picture
first. Tell us about the rest of the convoy.”

“One car shall be for His Majesty, Ardent, and the Queen Mother, Xaria. And after
them, a car for Camellia’s parents.”

Jolt of attention, straight up the spine. “
Her
parents are coming for this?”

“My brother is very serious about the project.”

Grahm traced the wood grain of the table with a finger. “So Shiraz and Jayd will be
along, as well.”

“In their own car,” Syn clarified. “Though they will be part of the motorcade only,
and not taking part in any of the official events.”

Jagger chuffed. “And I am certain Jayd loves the hell out of that idea.”

Syn’s growl was low but firm. “Jayd will accept my decision, rendered for her own
safety, whether she likes it or not.”

I hid a smile. That explained his comment at the waterfall. Good chance I was the
only one in the room who’d seen Syn’s real conflict about his sister’s hostility—and
clearly, he wanted it to stay that way. How many difficult decisions must he make
like that, every single day? I wondered if there was anyone who knew…or was there
to help him with them.

“So what comes after that?” Blayze inserted, smirking wide. “The clowns and monkeys?”

“If that is how you care to classify the assistants and stylists.” Syn didn’t relent
a note of his determined challenge. The message, this time to Blayze, was there. Traditional
sarcasm would have to be checked once this party rolled up the mountain.

“Stylists?” On the other hand, Grahm’s query was completely serious. “They need to
be…styled?”

Syn braced his stance again.
Uh-oh.
“I am told that ‘styling’ is usually required for a ball.”

“A
ball
?”

We all couldn’t have blurted it more in unison if we’d rehearsed. Syn drew in a long
breath, as unmoved as a teacher handing out extra homework. “My brother wishes to
have a ball for his betrothed,” he affirmed, “and he feels Le Blanc Tower would be
an ideal place for it.”

I pushed back in my chair. “I’d feel the exact same way—with more than six days’ notice
for the occasion.”

Heads nodded around me. None of us could dispute King Evrest’s thinking. The Tower—kind
of a pointless name, since visitors technically walked down to it instead of up—was
like no other venue in the world. The huge cavern, hewn into the mountain by time
and the elements, had been wired with lighting and given an extended terrace just
a few years ago, turning it into the island’s most popular spot for any occasion requiring
an extraordinary touch. The word only began to describe the place. The entrance walkway
and stairs, all carved into the pure white granite found in so many places on Arcadia,
first led a visitor to think they were entering a pristine palace with a killer view
of Lake Sagique. But the main room itself was the main surprise. Naturally embedded
into every wall, as well as the ceiling, were chunks of labradorite, sapphire, and
euclase that turned the space into a sparkling wonderland.

“Well, six days is what we have.” Syn didn’t try to be nice about it. As he scrubbed
his face, I realized the reason why. His eyes were sheened with exhaustion, his mouth
bracketed by strain. Damn. He’d likely encountered this same argument when assembling
a ground team in Faisant, and counted on facing the same when moving on to Colluss
on the north coast, where Evrest and Camellia would logically travel after Tahreuse.

Making me a world-class heel.

Who tried making up for it by shoving to my feet, squaring my shoulders, and presenting
my strongest game face. “Then we’ll make it work in six days.”

“Agreed.” Grahm rose too.

“Agreed.” Blayze was next.

One by one, the others stood and pledged their own commitments for the next week.
Samsyn accepted each vow with a solemn nod but little else. I watched the shadows
in his eyes, sensed him rationing his dwindling energy over the remaining tasks of
the day. And dammit, I didn’t like seeing it…nearly
feeling
it with him. I hated fighting off all my protective impulses, burning hotter by the
second, telling me to march across the room, drag him to the yoga studio, and force
his stubborn ass down on a mat for even an hour of the rest he clearly needed.

I hated still caring.

This much.

And wondered how the hell I was going to get through this entire damn week without
looking at Samsyn Cimarron…wondering what it would’ve been like to complete that kiss
at the waterfall. How his lips would’ve reacted to mine. What his body would’ve felt
like. What sounds would’ve unfurled from him, as our senses awoke to each other…

Oh, God
.

I had to turn it all off. Thinking straight, functioning correctly, depended on it.

It had to be easier than I thought. It
had
to be. One quick search inside. Just find the spigots marked
H
and
S
.

H
for heart.

S
for spirit.

Then crank them off. Lock them down.

I could do this. I had before. I was just a little rusty. And yeah, there was the
difference in both experiences too. The last time, I’d been staring from a helicopter
at the smoldering remains of my house. This time, I gazed at the most beautiful warrior
prince God had ever put on Earth. The bold set of his face, while silently assessing
the room. The million thoughts behind his crystalline eyes. The sensual tumble of
his hair against his nape and shoulders.

The chaos he caused in me, as soon as he looked up again.

Looked at me.

Looked into me.

Curled heat and need and longing into so many secret places of me.

Crank them off. Lock them down.

Right. And just tell myself to stop breathing, too. To stop feeling more aware, more
inspired, more alive—

More a woman.

Dammit.

I was in for six days of some major suckage.

Freaking. Lovely.

‡