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“Did you even bother with a fucking condom?”
I’d had better wakeup calls. Ones that were a lot less confusing, for sure. Certainly ones that didn’t jerk me from a dead slumber into bolting straight up, gasping at my bare-ass body, then covering it with a comforter as unfamiliar to me as a designer ball gown. Not that the cover couldn’t be Maria Von Trapp-ed into such a thing. I curled curious fingers into the mint green satin covering my breasts, wondering what aliens had absconded with me in the middle of the night and dumped me into this strange bed.
That was when I shifted my legs.
Sore on the inside.
Sticky on the outside.
Ohhhh, hell.
Samsyn. Samsyn.
The moonlight—and his kisses. The shadows—and his touch. The window seat—and his passion.
And then in here—for even more.
As if summoned by my memories, the man himself growled. The sound filled the sitting room, though was distinctly different than the passionate rumble he’d branded into me last night. Razors of anger sliced it now.
“For Creator’s sake. Keep your voice down!”
“Right. Sorry, arkami.” The snorting punctuation instantly gave Jagger away. Silently, I jerked the covers higher. Holy shit. Jagger. How had he gotten in? What had he seen? “My bad,” he snapped, “for thinking that an entrance and egress recon, requested by you, would take me through an empty mansion. Should I have texted first, man? Made certain you were finished with the morning fuck before I barged in? Let Brooke do her hair, perhaps? Unhook her hand from around your dick?”
Heat drenched my face. From rage or shame, I couldn’t tell. Did it matter?
Two stomps from the other room, shaking the walls as only Syn could, were oddly soothing.
“Be careful where you tread, man.” His snarl, just as violent, was like another swipe of aloe on my burn.
“Because you were?” Jagger retorted.
“It is none of your business, Jag.”
“It is all of my business.” Another set of raging steps, faster than Syn’s but just as virulent. “You specifically asked for her on the tactical team you bade me to assemble for this—the team you put me in charge of. It is my job to be clear about the preparedness, physical and mental, of every member of that team. You are not good for her readiness on either of those levels. On any damn level.”
The whoosh of Samsyn’s spin made the leaves flutter on the potted palms inside the bedroom’s door. “I am your prince!”
“Then haul out the guillotine and chop my fucking head off.” Jag’s clenched emphasis was so clear, I could practically see his locked teeth through the wall. But he finished with a resigned sigh. “You are my prince—but you are also my friend. Right or wrong, that designation bears priority to me.” There was a rustle, denoting he’d sat or leaned somewhere. “We have known each other for a long time, Syn. I know all the burdens you bear, the old and the new.”
I swallowed heavily. Sensed Samsyn doing the same. “Yes,” he finally grated. “You do.”
“None of it has been easy for you. Even as second to the throne, the weight on your shoulders is immense. It is not a crime not to wish yourself burdened with the care of a regular woman, as well.”
Knotted stomach. Fisting hands. And I had no idea why. Every word Jag spoke was true. I’d known it all before now—but hearing it spoken was like peeling the scab on a wound. It hurt. For stupid reasons.
“Who the hell said I wanted a regular woman?”
Let the bleeding begin.
“Not who,” Jagger clarified. “What.” He exhaled with audible heaviness. “The heart of the girl in that bed.” A stretch of uncomfortable silence. Another. I silently yearned—and dreaded—for Samsyn to say something. He didn’t. “She is half in love with you, Syn. You are probably the only person who doesn’t see it. Or perhaps does not want to see it?”
My breath stuck in my throat like a ball of Asuman porridge. Spread an ache through me, tight and torturous, as Samsyn’s reply took forever to come.
When it did…
“Fuck.”
I buried my face into the thick satin, muffling my broken sob.
“So how do you wish to handle this?”
Jagger’s question, like he addressed some kind of tactical detail, jerked my self-pity to an end. My heartache turned to rage—enough of it to swing out of bed, dragging the sheet along. I jabbed it around me, covering enough to be decent. The rest of Jag’s respect, I’d have to earn on my own—and damn well planned on doing so.
I would not be a “this” to be “handled”. Nor the pathetic “girl in the bed”. And no, I wasn’t even the desperate thing who’d taken up fight training merely as a way of gaining Samsyn Cimarron’s attention. Not anymore.
Never again.
My steps lengthened. Strengthened.
In a way, perhaps many, I had to thank Jagger for this. The epiphany might have never hit without him barging on us. But hearing the pity in his voice as he spoke of me, like I was some groupie taking up guitar just because it was what my idol played, flared a giant match inside. In the flickering shadows behind me was the desperate girl I’d once been. In the blazing light in front of me was the woman I now would be.
A woman who sure as hell didn’t need Samsyn Cimarron’s validation anymore. Or Jagger Foxx’s, for that matter.
Easier said than done.
Especially when stepping into a sun-drenched room, dressed in nothing but a sheet, to face the warrior who’d drilled me on the training mat for the last three years—and the one who’d drilled me in the rotunda last night.
“Mr. Foxx,” I intoned. “And Your Highness. Good morning.”
“Bon sabah.” They mumbled it in unison, discomfort stamped on their faces. Made it a hell of a lot easier to disguise the wince on mine while crossing back over to the rotunda. The center glass pane was still smeared with handprints: mine and Samsyn’s. Half the seat cushion flopped to the floor—practically pointing the way to my discarded clothes.
I didn’t look back, despite the weight of their stares on my back, as I stooped and gathered my bra and top in one hand, panties and pants in the other. Without a word, I turned and paced back into the bedroom.
Closed the door slowly, letting its click resound through the stillness on my side—and theirs.
Sat back down on the bed.
And let a million tremors take over.
Shit. Shit.
So sometimes my temper overcommitted before my body could catch up. Or my heart. The heart that’d been wrenched in a thousand directions just from being in the same room again with Syn. That knew, in its deepest fibers and darkest corners, it had been just as tense for him too.
Until my memory backtracked by five more minutes. Made me cringe all over again at the words he’d spat. Who the hell said I wanted a regular woman?
And who the hell gave me the right to indulge one moment’s worth of being hurt by that? Hadn’t we let ourselves give in to last night because of that tacit agreement? That by freeing ourselves from redefining things because of sex, we could just give in to desire? That freedom was what made everything so damn amazing?
“Amazing.” By voicing it, I thought to dilute its power. A match was always strongest at first flare.
Unless it had kindling to catch.
Kindling…like the way Syn’s kisses had flooded my soul. Like the way his touch had launched my arousal to the stars. Like the way his body had consumed me until I forgot what existence was without it.
Just all that.
Just the fact that I loved him now more than ever.
And because of that…had to let him go.
I looked down at my hand. Forced it to uncurl from the pillow into which it had coiled. Fiercely pushed up, regaining my footing.
“Knock it off. Get your shit together, Valen.”
I dropped the sheet. Picked up my panties.
Had only gotten them over my ankles—when Syn walked in.