Into His Command (7 page)

T
en hours later,
and it only felt like two. Or twenty, depending on what part of my sanity was still
left to listen to.

After the meeting at the Center, briefing packets were distributed about everyone’s
roles during the three days of the royal visit. Logistics would be intricate, complicated
by the news that select members of the international press had also been invited to
attend the Engagement Ball. That was before we tackled the issue about adequately
housing everyone in the royal retinue. In Sancti, the Palais Arcadia could house hundreds
in luxury. Faisant had the Sauvage Ranch. In Colluss, there was the impressive Librante
Villa. But in Tahreuse, the breathtaking scenery demanded payback in architectural
challenges. Sprawling buildings? Utterly impossible. Most structures, literally built
into the sides of cliffs, had to be constructed with creative usage of space.
Very
creative.

That truth bore just as much weight inside the mayor’s house—though I had to convince
my plummeting jaw and popping eyes of it.

“Wow.” Lame, lame, lame. But what else fit? As I followed Mayor Trieste’s magistrate
down each level of the Residence Rigale Tahreuse—all twelve of them—it was the only
word that surged to mind then lips, over and over. Okay, so the man and his family
had twelve levels as compared to the two of a normal family on the mountain, all furnished
in an elegant palette of crimson and gold with astounding views of the lake, but everyone
in town knew all that already. My astonishment sprang from something deeper. A sensation
at the center of my chest, awing me but warming me at once. I couldn’t describe it
further, except that for the first time, I thought about the day Rune Kavill would
finally be caught, and we’d be able to go home to Vermont—and violently fought the
pull of sad tears.

“Miss Valen?”

I jerked around. The magistrate waited, impatient scowl on his face. He stood next
to the fireplace on what was called the ML level, standing for “main living”. It was
almost midnight. Right now, Mayor Trieste would likely be sitting at the big desk
in the corner, or reading documents next to the fire. His wife might be in the opposite
chair, or saying goodnight to their two teenage boys. They were all out of sight tonight,
perhaps preparing for their very VIP visitors.

“Sorry.” I blinked and sniffed, wishing the stuffy little man would stop scrutinizing
every move I made. “It’s been a long day. What was the question?”

The magistrate rolled his doughy eyes. “The staff shall need to know if you will be
staying here each night during your duties of watching over Lady Camellia and her
retinue, or departing for your own residence.”

“She shall remain here.” Syn stepped over, eyeing the man with undisguised defensiveness.
“Was there a question of that?”

The magistrate harrumped. “Of course not, Highness. My intention was merely that—”

“You would have some inside details about our operations to share with your ‘friends’
at the Heron tonight?”

Syn’s reference to the little tavern, purported as the place where many Puras met
to exchange information and gossip, turned the magistrate bright purple. I chewed
the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling. Syn didn’t share my mirth. “Go ahead,
magistrate. Share your little tidbits. His Majesty Evrest has nothing to hide about
his hopes for the future of Arcadia, instead of desires to keep her mired in the past.”

Part of me longed to whoop for him. A bigger part wanted to elbow him in the chin
again. I was all for calling an opponent into the open—when the timing was right.
This
timing didn’t feel right.

In the end, I refrained. Perhaps Syn had a higher plan. During one of our afternoon
briefings, the necessity of a scout inside the Heron had been discussed. Perhaps Syn
was goading the magistrate on purpose, hoping the man would spill information in the
heat of emotion.

“Prince Samsyn—I assure you—”

“I am sure you do.” Syn arched his brows and jerked his head toward the stairs we’d
entered from. “But you are still dismissed, magistrate.”

“But there are four more levels after this. The private residence and bedrooms—”

“I will make sure Miss Valen sees them.”

“But—”

“That is
all,
magistrate. Good night.”

The man stormed out, accompanied by his own rapid-fire mutterings in Arcadian. As
soon as he was out of earshot, I went ahead and indulged a small snicker. “Sorry.”
I darted a sheepish glance up at Syn’s tight stare. “I couldn’t help it. You turned
the man into a total Oompa-Loompa.”

“A what?”

“Oh, come on. You Cimarron kids at least watched movies on disc, right? Willie Wonka’s
a classic.”

“Like the chocolate bars?”

“Like the
movie
. Johnny Depp? Or Gene Wilder, if you’re a traditionalist.”

“Who?” When I threw up both hands in defeat, he scowled and flung his head back, a
masculine version of the girly hair toss.

Very
masculine.

And very hot.

“Forget it.”

The fight left me as soon as my gaze returned to the view…swiftly rendering me in
awe.
Holy…shit
. So this was why everyone raved about floor-to-ceiling windows. The moon rose higher
over the lake, a spectral smile casting silver sparkles across the waters, rippled
by a gentle breeze. The far shores were rimmed by mist resembling angel hair.

I shifted closer to the window, falling into silence.

Samsyn, a few feet behind me, was also quiet. Once more, my chest tightened with that
strange pull. I took in the quiet majesty of the valley, the mountains its dark sentinels,
and struggled to process a wild cast of feelings inside.

“It…hurts sometimes, doesn’t it?” I finally whispered.

“What hurts?” His reply, roughened by lingering wrath, was as strong as those mountains.

“Looking at it,” I explained. “At all of it.” I gestured out the window but glanced
toward him, searching for some kind of validation…knowing I’d find it. Sure enough,
there it was, resting in the crystal glow of his eyes. “It reminds me of how small
I am, but also makes me feel huge.”

Stillness. Over him and over me. But only on the outside. Inside, I was whirling.
Crashing. Feeling as if I’d become the lake, and the surface was a serene façade for
the wet, wild tempest underneath.

His lips parted. Closed again. “I thought I was the only one who felt that way.”

I fought against reaching for him. Poured my heart into my voice, instead. “You’re
not alone, Samsyn. You know that, right? You’re never alone, as long as I’m here.”
When he grimaced, blustering behind fake confusion, I persisted, “How are you doing
with all of this, besides exhausted? And when the hell do you get to rest?”

His shoulders stiffened. “A soldier’s work begins at exhaustion. You know that.”

“I only know I’ve read that motivation poster already.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t start with proper and princely on me now, big guy. Stop evading the question.”
I turned fully toward him, wondering if I should dare a step closer. “How
are
you, Syn?” I refrained from moving—barely. “How are you…really?”

So much for restraint. He pivoted quietly. Advanced by three measured steps, until
the space between us consisted of just inches. “How are
you
?”

Time to throw him a side eye. “Uh-uh, mister. I asked first.” And busying myself with
that meant I didn’t think of other temptations. Like fantasizing about pushing forward,
then press my face against his chest. Then fitting my arms around him, maybe sliding
them beneath his sweater to the muscled warmth of his skin. To behold this breathtaking
view in the arms of a magnificent man, feeling the majesty of this land pulsing through
his veins, as much a part of him as the stars were of the sky. To give him all my
strength in return…letting him feel what I’d already known for so long.

I loved him.

I always did. I always would.

Safer subject. Now
.

I attempted a little laugh. “Well, at least I learned something new about you tonight.”

His head cocked a little. His brows arched. “This should be interesting.”

“You really don’t like Oompa Loompas.”

“Not
that
one,” he snapped. “Arrogant
imbezak
. He was treating you like the dust on his boots. How those Pura are winning converts
to their cause is a mystery to me.”

I had no comeback except to kick at the floor.
Treading water. Sea of awkward
. After so many years of hanging with a boys’ club, pretending I didn’t have one too
many X chromosomes let alone exposing it, the potency of Syn’s protectiveness was
like feeling the sun after hiding in a cave. Kind of awesome. But still really weird.

“Wow,” I finally muttered. “And I just thought he was doing what everyone else does.”

“What everyone else does?” He pivoted, now wearing a full glare. “And what does everyone
else do?”

Another laugh. Well…an attempt. Wasn’t happening with his crystalline blues drilling
me like that. “Writing me off as the scrawny bimbo who can’t fight her way out of
a pile of kindling.”

At last, his mood lightened. “Is
that
so?” He chuckled.

“Yeah,” I snickered back. “Gee, what a relief. The man’s just Pura, not sexist.”

He snorted. “Makes more sense than labeling you as scrawny.”

I narrowed a mocking glare. “Is that so?”

His grin broadened. It emphasized the dark scruff along his jaw, complemented the
sexy sway of his hair…and turned him into a jaw-dropping sight as he took a steady,
slow step to me.

Another.

He practically blended with his own shadow, black-clad and whisper-smooth…threatening
to envelop me as he loomed over me…

Yeah. He loomed.

And ohhhh yeah, did I bask in it.

“Want to prove the point by Barbie-snapping me now?”

Shivers took over my body. My head tilted back, surely exposing the wild pulse beating
at the base of my throat. “You’d have to lay me out again for that.”

His eyes dilated, pitch black against piercing blue. I felt his quickening heart rate,
throbbing nearly audibly, as he pushed in, closer and bigger…and hypnotizing. I shivered
before his hand even touched mine, tips to tips then knuckles to knuckles…then finally,
fingers meshing with slow, perfect sensuality.

Our palms met.

Our breaths hitched.

Oh God…

I wanted him.

He curved his fingers tighter…until the tips scratched my knuckles. I gasped. He swallowed.
Then turned, tugging me with him.

“Wh-where are we going?”

Syn stopped. Swung another meaningful stare back at me. Had he stepped so deeply into
the shadows that his irises now seemed totally black…or was his gaze beneath full
eclipse for another reason? And was the answer important?

“I told the man you would get a tour of the bedrooms, did I not?”

‡

S
ix months before
we were forced to leave the states, Dad took me to see
Phantom of the Opera
for the sixth time. It was my favorite musical show, highlighted by the scene where
the masked stranger pulled Christine through the tunnels under the Paris Opera House,
to use her for his mysterious passions. The music swelled, the candles glowed, and
I always dreamed of having my own dark lover, leading the way down a stairwell into
the sensual unknown.

My girlish brain had been an idiot.

As my grown-up senses discovered now.

Oh, there were stairs, all right. And shadows and mystery…and yes, the sexiest, darkest
man, masked or not, I could have ever dreamed of.

Nobody told me the music got replaced by silence so thick, it was fog in its own right.
Or that the pulsing drum track became the eerie echoes of boots against marble, soon
swallowed by the hush of entering more intimate spaces. Or that the soaring notes
sung by “Christine”, the Phantom’s timid protégé, would just turn into my rapid huffs,
disgusting reminders of my nervousness with every passing moment.

Samsyn was merciful—or maybe it was just my sweaty palm—in letting me go as soon as
we arrived on the next level down. This was clearly decorated for Tahreuse’s first
lady, with a sitting room defined by soft, rounded furniture in shades of ivory and
spring green, with double doors at the far side opening to a suite of bedrooms in
the same hues.

I stepped into the room. Tried not to think about Samsyn following right behind but
gave up on that impossibility after two steps. He’d always made me a little nervous—aware
of myself and my body—simply with a passing glimpse or an indulgent laugh, but this…

Felt very different.

Different to the point of scary.

Scary to the point of excruciating.

Excruciating to the point of…

I throbbed. And ached. And knew that if we didn’t make this “tour” quick,
I’d
be the one laying
him
out—and dying of humiliation the second he gently pushed away.