Into His Command (15 page)

She cut me off with a chuckle. “Chill, girlfriend. He and I had to go through a lot
to even get here.” Her gaze, gone even mistier with emotion, drifted to the king.
If it were possible, Evrest was an even more dashing figure out here, his brocade
clothes and elegant hair contrasted by the wood flooring and rustic furniture. “We’re
solid—and we’re going to make sure it stays that way.”

As she spoke, an arm locked around my waist—attached to a hand that dug in at the
right place to make me squeal. I spun toward the only person capable of knowing
that
ticklish spot. “Brother mine, in the spirit of full disclosure, I do not own this
gown. If I destroy it kicking your ass, I’m going to make you pay for the repair.”

“
Pssshhh
.” Dillon flourished it with a grin, uncannily like Dad’s. Though he hadn’t inherited
the man’s genes, he’d learned the best traits. “You mean
if
you kick my ass?”

“Charmer.”

“Right? Especially in this get-up.” He made the eyebrow caterpillars dance again.
“I haz da swaggah tonight, yeah?”

“Ew.” It bounced out on a laugh. This was part of Dil’s schtick, comic relief reserved
for the days I came home from crazy-tough training. But right now, I couldn’t tackle
him to the couch to make him stop. “Time to work the room elsewhere, perv.” I leaned
over to murmur, just for his ears, “Freya’s looking pretty awesome tonight.”

He reacted as if I’d gloated over taken the last cookie in the jar. Not that the comparison
had
any
validation in reality. “I’m perfectly fine right here. Where are
you
going?”

He actually looked a little sad. Guilt bit at my chest. We’d always found time to
reconnect with each other, but even before the whirlwind of last week, training had
eaten into more and more of my schedule. “I promise we’ll get an afternoon soon, D.
But right now, I’m on the clock.”

He looked around, disgruntled. “I don’t see a freaking time clock.”

I backhanded his shoulder. Diffused his moodiness more by cocking a sassy pose, hands
on hips. “Because I never clocked out.”

“Ahhh,” Dad chimed in. “See that, Dil? All this time, smiling nice and socializing,
when she’s really been protecting our king and his lady. Well done, munchkin.”

“
Father
.” I glowered.

“What?”

“Can we stow ‘munchkin’ at home, at least for tonight?” What was with him and Dil
trotting out the family-only stuff at this soiree? Now, even Samsyn noticed. The knowing—and
entrancing—quirk of his lips said as much. That, of course, got
Cam
’s attention. She linked an elbow with mine and tugged proudly.

“How about Jamie Bond?” she proposed. “Shaken not stirred?”

Glower. “You’re not helping.”

“Hmmm.” Dad grinned. “That has merit. Girl with the golden gun? From Arcadia with
love?”

“See what I mean?” I narrowed eyes again at Cam. “
Not
helping.”

She leaned into me while murmuring her comeback. “Maybe not…but it’s kept Samsyn’s
eyes on you nonstop.” She answered my gape with a subtle wink. “Not that you needed
any help.”

Heat. Back to my ears, probably farther. Damn. I’d had more color in my face this
last week than during three years of fight training. “I have no idea—”

“Of course you do. And now it’s clear what you were squirming about earlier.”

“Shit.”

“
Hey
. Don’t worry. It’s not like the whole room knows. Just the other woman who knows
what it’s like to fall for a Cimarron man.”

I swallowed hard. Looked to her, letting her alone see the longing pain across my
face. “Sometimes, falling only gets you hurt, Ladyship.”

Camellia twisted our arms tighter. Pushed closer, making sure she stamped me with
her empathic smile. “And sometimes, you’re already sharing the drop—and you just have
to reach out to know it.”

She lifted her gaze. I followed its trajectory, already knowing I’d hate myself for
it.

And Samsyn, too.

Yeah, you big ox. I hate you for this.

Why did he torment us both with his riveting attention…with that laser focus in his
eyes? By joining it with such a taut clench to his jaw, I didn’t know if he was grieving
or furious? By making me feel like a drop of water in his desert,
and
the Delilah who’d ruined him? I already had a thousand balls in the air tonight.
A hundred strangers in the room. Another hundred corners to be suspicious of. And
now, maintaining dignity in the face of “munchkin” and “Jamie Bond”.

Stress bypassed my tight bodice, stabbing straight for the nerves behind my eyes.
Things had gotten really complicated, really fast. Why? How? The mission had been
simple:
keep Evrest and Camellia safe
. It was huge enough of a job description, despite a dozen others being tasked with
the same thing, to keep me consumed for the night. Now I had Mom, Dad, and Dillon
stirred into the pie, on top of gracefully wiping my drool over Samsyn—

And, in breaking news, remembering how to greet the high couple of the kingdom.

Though it’d been years since King Ardent stepped down to let Evrest deal with the
day-to-day ruling of Arcadia, the king father’s entrance still dictated the most solemn
display of respect. His queen, Xaria, was due the same. We’d reviewed the etiquette
during this week’s training but Jag only allowed the Palais’ etiquette coach a half-hour
with us, deciding—wisely—we all needed to know more about protecting the couple, not
genuflecting for them.

Now, I fought to yank up those thirty minutes on my mental hard drive.
Servers unresponsive.
Shit, shit, shit. There was a certain order of things, wasn’t there? And how did
I bow? And to whom?

Never had I been more grateful for Camellia’s proximity. “Girls bow to Xaria first.”
Her whisper was clear though her lips barely moved. “But bow deeper to Ardent. Refer
to either as ‘excellence’. ‘Majesty’ is only for Evrest.” And very soon, her—though
I didn’t bother pointing it out again.

I joined her and the rest of the group in making the proper motions and saying the
proper things. Everyone seemed to make it through the rituals just fine—

Except Samsyn.

Who didn’t perform them at all.

Who’d turned into a different person from the moment his parents appeared.

At first, I assumed his tension was in line with everyone else’s. Even Evrest visibly
stiffened with the arrival of the king father and queen mother—though after the bows
and greetings were done, he turned to pull both parents into affectionate hugs. Samsyn
made no such move. Samsyn didn’t budge, period. No bows. No words. No motion. He was
a wall.
All
of him now, not just the figurative I enjoyed using for his torso. His knuckles gripped
the hem of his doublet, now white as concrete. His face reminded me of the profiles
of Mount Rushmore—in January. Granite defiance beneath stormy skies.

I wasn’t the only one taking notice. While the breech earned Samsyn a pointed glare
from Evrest, King Ardent chose the opposite end of the spectrum. The man was all courtesan
congeniality, parting the crowd as he approached. “Samsyn, my son!” He was tall and
regal in a black and white doublet over black breeches, grunting in affection as he
embraced Samsyn. His clubbed ponytail gleamed like a paintbrush down his back, making
him appear more like Syn’s brother than father—until he pulled away. At that point,
the differences became obvious.

Ardent Cimarron was an attractive man—but knew it. He was also a powerful man—and
knew that too. Most obviously, he’d used those advantages to manipulate others—and
wouldn’t hesitate to do so again.

And of course, as soon as I came to those conclusions, the man turned—and magnetized
his gaze on me.

Why wasn’t Murphy’s Law a citable offense?

More to the core of the matter: why wasn’t it okay to flash a huge “talk to the hand”,
even to one’s king, when they bore down on you like a rat on a pizza slice?

“And who could
this
fresh face be?”

Sometimes, a girl really did need her dad. “Ardent, you old dog. Hands off my daughter.”

As Ardent looked over, his scowl brightened to delight. “Chase! You old
bonsun
! And Ronnie! I barely recognized you both. But
this
gorgeous creature simply
cannot
be little Brooke…”

I envisioned little steel ropes, attaching to my smile and lifting it. “
Bon aksam
, your excellence.” The last time I’d used the forced warble was at a senatorial picnic,
when Senator Warden had gulped too many Long Island iced teas and came on to every
female over fifteen. This was different.
Really
different. Senator Warden’s son had been a congressman with acne scars and receding
hair, not the man who fired my bloodstream simply with the force of his presence.
“Yes. It’s me. Excuse the crazy hair. It doubles as a great dance partner, though.”
My strawberry red fall wasn’t as long as Mom’s but anything past my nape felt like
hauling around an animal. I already couldn’t wait to rip the thing off—which only
added to the annoyance of Ardent’s appreciative stroke of the thing.

“I imagine it does.” One regal finger twirled a long strand of the fake stuff. “But
I do prefer waltzing with something more…flesh and blood…do you not agree?”

“Right.” I drew the vowel out, buying time for composure. The last time I’d spent
any time with King Ardent, when we’d been invited to Evrest’s coronation party a few
years ago, he’d spared me a polite smile and handshake, nothing more. Not that I’d
minded. Pomp, circumstance, and pageantry hadn’t been my thing even during the princess
gown days, when all I’d wanted to do was skip the receiving line and get to the cake
table. “To be honest, waltzing in general isn’t my jam.” I gestured toward my feet.
“Two left ones. Not kidding.”

“Nonsense,” Ardent chided. “I would stake money that you dance as if on a cloud.”
He swept up an arm. “Come, now. Shall we?”

Shit. Really
?

I gulped, hoping my true thoughts were successfully masked: that his elbow might as
well have been an armed bomb. In many ways, it was. Turn down the invitation and irk
the king father himself, or accept it and stumble my way across the dance floor, piling
one uncomfortable situation on top of the next?

“Your excellence, I’m so flattered. But…I’m on duty. And I really am awful.”

“Not entirely true.” Dillon’s smooth grin didn’t make his interjection less atrocious.
“You knew all the steps from
High School Musical
…sort of.”

I pivoted on him, filling my glare with one message only. “Shut up or you’re dead.”

“What?” He snickered. “You were so cute. ‘Wildcats everywhere; raise your hands up
in the air’.” He clawed at the air, making it as off-rhythm as my moves from ten years
ago. I closed my eyes, barely stifling a groan. If there was a graceful out for Ardent’s
ick factor moves, this wasn’t it.

“Knock. It. Off.” I gritted out each word. Re-schooled my lips into a tight smile,
lifted back toward the king father. “Apologies, your excellence. Siblings love to
take advantage of times like these.”

“But of course.” Ardent tacked on a laugh, though the sound didn’t relieve me. It
felt like spray butter. Same tint as the real stuff, but…not.

“My brother’s color commentary aside, I
am
here for work, not play.”

“Outstanding point.” It wasn’t the fact that Samsyn spoke for the first time in ten
minutes. It was the authority he used, given his low volume and tight lips—commanding
the attention of everyone present, including his father. “Miss Valen is correct. She
is here as event security, not entertainment.”

“Speaketh the official event guard dog.” Dil earned himself my elbow in his ribs for
the mutter only I could hear. Even so, he added, “Arf arf.”

Before I could actually go for breaking those ribs, Samsyn covered the diameter of
our makeshift kumbaya circle. Without breaking stride, he hooked a hand under my elbow,
spinning me away from the ring.

“Dammit,” I spat. Not him, too.

“I actually require Miss Valen’s input right now about some logistical matters.”

Yep. Him, too.

“Logistical matters?” I hissed it as he doubled our pace, back toward the shadows
from which he’d first manifested. “Could you be any more transparent—or lame?”

Too little, much too late. He didn’t hear a word I said, too busy ordering Jag to
slide someone into my place on the terrace. By the time he clicked the line off, we’d
stepped off the terrace, through a small metal gate, and onto a path that hugged the
cliff.

“Samsyn!” I barked. “Dammit; this is—”

“Quiet, Brooke.”

“Seriously? You want to take another good, long look back here? Last time I checked,
you left your dogs back at the Palais, asshole.”

“I said quiet!”

It was just vicious enough to make me bite the words back. Besides, bitchitude was
possible in a number of ways. I had no trouble illustrating the point to the ox, huffing
and grunting and growling through every step we took. I kept it up, despite the fact
that the path was well-lighted by the moon and relatively flat, despite getting a
little muddy just before Syn suddenly cut left, still dragging me behind.

We’d entered a picnic shelter of some sort. Overhead, wooden rafters dripped with
bougainvillea. There were a pair of standing barbecues and a matching pair of wooden
picnic tables. It was a perfect spot for such a thing. The view of the lake from here
was breathtaking.

Not that Syn gave me more than a second to take notice.

Without a word—with barely a sign of warning except the way he snapped me around then
backed me up—he plowed me into one of the tables. Hiked my ass up onto it from the
sheer force of how he rammed my body with his, pinning me with his crotch.

I didn’t hold back the outrage in my glare.

He didn’t hold back the ferocity in his.

“Syn.” In my mind, it had been an outraged snarl. On my lips, it was a stupid rasp.
I made up for it with my favorite standby. “What the fuck is—”