HIS HEART THUNDERED HARD, the blood firing through his veins hot and fast. He drew himself away from her. “Get down on your knees for me.”
“The floor is hard,” she said, her expression blank.
“That is true,” he said, sweeping her up into his arms and crossing into his bedchamber. “We shall make it a bit more comfortable for you.” He set her down in front of his bed, on the plush rug there. “Will this be a little more gentle on your royal knees?”
She blinked. “I...”
He cupped her chin, gazed into her eyes. “Kneel for me.”
She complied, and he had to close his eyes, grit his teeth tight, to keep from coming then and there. She hadn’t even touched him, but that simple act of compliance did more for him, did more to him, than a thousand illicit acts before had ever done.
“Take off that gown,” he said, indicating the belt that held her robe closed. “I need to see you.”
With shaking fingers, she undid the knot, let the silken fabric slide down her shoulders. And there she was, naked before him on her knees, her black hair tumbled over her shoulders, her sleek curves so enticing it took all his control to keep himself from lifting her back up into his arms and tumbling her onto the bed. To keep himself from burying himself inside her body again, and forgetting these little power games.
It occurred to him then, that if she was a virgin it was entirely possible she wasn’t on any sort of birth control. He had taken her earlier without a condom, and he had no intention of using one this time, either. The idea of her pregnant, growing round with his child, only sent another shock of satisfaction through him. Then she would truly be bound to him. Forever.
She would not be able to leave. At least, not easily.
Ah, yes, your father’s son.
He pushed the thought away again as he tangled his fingers in her hair and drew her toward his body. “Take me in your mouth,” he said.
She looked up at him, uncertainty on her face. Perhaps she would reject him now. And perhaps, that was what he had been pushing her toward the entire time. Maybe that was what he wanted. To find her breaking point. To find the point at which she would become disgusted with him. For it had to exist. The fact that she had wanted him up until this point made no sense to him.
But, she did not pull away. Instead, she adjusted her position, lifting her hand and curling her fingers tentatively around his length. Then she leaned forward, her slick tongue darting out over the head of his arousal before she slowly took him inside her mouth.
And then, whatever he had imagined might happen, whatever guidance he thought he might give, was lost completely. There was nothing. His mind was blank and his body was on fire. She had absolutely no skill, was clearly not a woman who had ever touched a man before, and yet, it was the most erotic experience of his life.
Because it was just for him. As she had said. It was an intimacy. It was special. And that mattered. It mattered to a man who had never had such a thing before. A man who had never even known to hope for such a thing. She wanted him. She wanted him when she had wanted no other man before him.
She gave to him, generously. Gave him far more than he deserved. Those inexpert hands moving in rhythm with her lips and tongue as she lavished pleasure on him. Like a woman would do for her beloved, not for her kidnapper.
Not for a man who had commanded she get down on her knees and give him pleasure as though it was his due.
And then, he was no longer able to control himself. He tightened his fingers in her hair, pulled her head back. “Not like this,” he said.
She rocked back on her heels, wobbling, and he caught her by the wrist, drawing her up against his body and claiming her mouth in a searing kiss.
He tumbled her backward onto the bed, groaning loudly as every inch of her naked body pressed against every inch of his. She was impossibly soft. Refined. Delicate. Lovely beyond measure.
Not for him.
And he felt... He felt like a criminal, getting away with the perfect crime. Which was—he discovered in that moment—an intensely satisfying feeling. To be in possession of something far too lovely, far too fine, for a man such as himself.
Perhaps other men might feel guilt.
He was not other men.
He was a monster. And she knew it. She wanted him still.
He groaned, lowering his head, taking one tightened nipple between his lips and sucking hard. She arched beneath him, a raw sound on her lips.
“Why do you want me?” he asked, the question surprising even himself, the words broken, torn from a part deep inside himself he had not known existed.
She looked at him, her dark eyes glazed, her expression full of confusion. “What?”
“You’re too good. You’re too soft. Why do you want me? It doesn’t make any sense. You should be disgusted by me. Don’t you understand that? I’m not a good man. You are a good girl. A very good girl. Soft and fragile. Protected. Protected from monsters like me. And yet, here you are, flinging yourself at me. It makes no sense.”
“You asked for me,” she said simply. “That’s hardly me flinging myself at you.”
He growled, taking her other nipple into his mouth and sucking on her until she gasped, until she arched against him again. And then, he released her. “There you are. Flinging yourself at me. And I need to know why.”
“Did it ever occur to you that it’s because you’re everything I don’t have? You’re hard, where I’m soft. Dangerous. And I’ve been so protected, just like you said. And you are... Well, you’re a bit bad, aren’t you?”
She lifted her hand, touched the side of his face, and he turned, grazing her fingertip with his teeth. “Just a bit.”
“Maybe I’ve been just a little bit too good, then. Maybe people need both, and I don’t have any of my own. So, I need some of yours.”
He rolled his hips against hers, felt slick, receptive flesh beneath his unyielding hardness. “You need my darkness,” he said.
She gasped, grabbing hold of his shoulders. “Yes.”
He needed her light. Dammit, but he needed it. He wouldn’t say it, not now. Couldn’t say it. Because he was too consumed by the need to be inside her.
He pressed the head of his arousal against her entrance, slid inside inch by excruciating inch, torturing them both with that slow penetration. Belatedly, he was concerned that she might be sore. But he banished those concerns quickly enough. They paled in comparison to his need. His need to have her. To consume her in the way she was consuming him.
To have her light.
Darkness had been his constant companion, but right now he felt like he was standing on the edge of an abyss that was something beyond darkness. And only she was keeping him from falling completely.
He lost himself in her, burying his head against her neck as he chased that white-hot flame of release that he could only find in her. She grabbed hold of him, her fingernails digging into his skin, sounds of pleasure escaping her lips as she met his every thrust with one of her own.
Then she grabbed hold of his arms, a raw scream on her lips as she found her own release, her fingernails scraping a long trail down his forearms, all the way to the backs of his hands.
Marks from their encounter he wouldn’t be able to hide. Disorder. Beautiful chaos. Found within his princess.
No. His queen.
And as she convulsed around him, he gave in to his own release, flinging himself into the darkness. Because he knew that her light would be there when he reached the bottom.
* * *
The next few days passed in a flurry of activity. Briar scarcely saw Felipe in the light of day. But at night... Yes, she saw him at night. It didn’t matter if she retreated to her own room, in that case, he would come and find her. He would find her, and he would make love to her for hours. Tapping into parts of herself she hadn’t known existed.
But in the morning he was always gone. She had a suspicion that he never fell asleep with her. But rather, waited for her to drift off before succumbing himself.
It was times like this she felt her isolation keenly. The separation from her mother. If she was back in New York she could talk to Nell about this. Well, in some vague terms. She wouldn’t go talking about everything they’d done in detail.
Her cheeks heated.
She wasn’t quite sure how she had found herself in this situation. Bonding—physically at least—with the one man she should be most distant from.
When she tried to think of her life before Felipe, before coming here, it all seemed hazy. She supposed that wasn’t a good sign. That for some reason these past weeks in Santa Milagro seemed bolder, more colorful, than the life before she had arrived here ever had.
She wondered if it was a trick, too. Some magical spell that Felipe had over her, even though she didn’t believe in magic. Or rather, she hadn’t before discovering she was a princess, and being spirited away to a foreign country by a prince that was far too handsome and far too wicked for anyone’s good.
The very strange thing, though, was the fact that even though she had stepped into this life that was entirely unknown to her, had stepped into a role she had never imagined she might fulfill, she felt more herself than she ever had.
And it wasn’t just because she had been happily creating art programs, working out grants and funding for various schools and cataloging the artwork long forgotten in the years since King Domenico had shuttered the museums.
Art had always made her feel alive, it was true, but it was more than that. Perhaps it was because Felipe seemed to require nothing from her other than that she stand by his side, and that she make herself available to him when he had need of her body.
Otherwise, he didn’t want a particular sort of behavior from her. At least, not that he’d said. There was no pressure to present herself as something perfect or demure, not when she was in his presence. He liked to push her, and he seemed to enjoy when she provided him with a spirited response.
He certainly seemed to enjoy that in the bedroom. Thinking of it even now made her cheeks heat. She pressed the back of her hand against the side of her face, cool skin pressing against hot, making her shiver.
She was currently digging through a room in the back of the palace that seemed to have been abandoned. There were a great many artifacts that she wanted cataloged for the museums, and she was doing her best to sort through what she might have different appraisers come and have a look at, and what probably didn’t have any value beyond the sentimental.
She had been doing a lot of historical research on her adopted country, trying to give context to all the various pieces she was discovering. It seemed that the poor nation had only experienced pockets of peace and prosperity, while mostly enduring long stretches of time with kings who were tyrants.
But the people had created beautiful things, even during their oppression. Almost most especially during their oppression.
In the palace she had mostly found personal collections. Portraits of past rulers and their relatives, pieces of the crown jewels, which had been stowed in a very secure vault. She would prefer they be on display than sitting in the back growing tarnished. Felipe seemed to have no opinion on the matter, so she was proceeding.
But in the rooms she had discovered only yesterday, it was different. The jewelry was not cataloged. It was not organized at all. And yet, it seemed to be of amazing quality. Millions of dollars in gems hidden in drawers. Beautiful paintings—still life and portraiture—hidden behind canvas. Hand-carved furniture beneath tarps.
She let out a long, slow breath and dragged one large tarp off a piece that sat against the back wall. Her eyes widened as she looked over the beautiful chest of drawers. Different pieces of wood were inlaid to create a representation of the mountainous skyline visible from the windows here in the tower.
Thin strips of gold separated the different pieces of wood, and she had a feeling it was real precious metal. She brushed her fingertips over the mountain peaks, over the sun, positioned in the upper left-hand corner of the bureau.
There was so much hidden beauty here. She couldn’t help but think it might be a metaphor for the man she was going to marry. She paused for a moment, Felipe’s handsome face swimming before her mind’s eye.
He was such a puzzle. Charming and smooth one moment, then rough and out of control the next. He seemed to crave order, his appearance never anything but perfectly polished. And yet, the night his father had died he had laid everything in his wake to ruin, including her.
She felt her cheeks grow even hotter.
What a ruin it had been.
She took a fortifying breath and turned away from the chest of drawers, making her way across the room to a shapeless mass covered by canvas that she assumed was more framed paintings of various sizes. She dragged the canvas down and was rewarded with exactly that.
Landscapes in gilt-edged frames, a painting of fruit on a table. She enjoyed looking at this sort of thing. Because it proved that people had always been people. Compelled to capture the things around them. Compelled to take some kind of snapshot of their dinner for the world to see.
She carefully moved the first couple of paintings to the side and paused when she saw a portrait of a woman she had never seen before.
She was beautiful. Her black hair was swept up into an elegant bun, a golden crown on her head. Her crimson lips were curved into a half smile, one that seemed to contain wicked secrets. It reminded her of... Well, it reminded her of Felipe.
“What are you doing?”
She jumped, turning at the sound of Felipe’s voice. “Just exploring the rooms. I’m handling the art, as we discussed. Getting everything ready for the museums.”
“That isn’t art,” he said, his voice taking on a strange tone.
She frowned. “It is a painting.”
“It’s my mother,” he said, swift and hard.
She looked between him and the painting, speechless for a moment. “I... I can see it, actually.”
He laughed. “Can you? I had thought that she and I bore no resemblance at all.”
“You do,” she said softly, not sure if it was the right thing to say. She couldn’t read his mood. But then, she so rarely could. Trying to grasp Felipe’s motivations or feelings was a lot like grabbing hold of a handful of sand. You could wrap your fingers around it for a moment, but then it all slid away into nothing.
“I would prefer if her things stayed here,” he said.
“I didn’t realize these were your mother’s things.”
He nodded once. “Yes. I think they have been in here untouched since the day she died.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“Seven,” he said, his tone detached now.
He crossed the room, making his way over to the window. It had bars over it, she had noticed earlier. She had thought very little of it then, because often windows that were so high up had a precaution of some kind in place so that no accidents happened. But for some reason, when he made his way there, when he pressed his fingers against the pane of glass, she wondered about them.
“She died here,” he said, the words conversational.
“Was she... Was she ill?”
“In a manner of speaking. She was not well, that’s certain.”
She didn’t say anything. If there was one thing she had learned about Felipe—and she had actually learned several—it was that if he wanted to say something he would eventually. And if he didn’t, there was no amount of pushing that would get him to speak. There were other ways of dealing with him that were much more effective.
She took a moment to think about those ways, curling her fingers into fists as she imagined running her palms over his face. It would be rough now, because it was late in the day and dark stubble covered his jaw. She liked that. Liked when he was a bit unshaven. A bit feral.
She liked herself that way, too. Which was surprising, she had to admit.
He pressed his palms flat against the window, and she noticed his gaze dropped to his shirtsleeves. But she didn’t speak then, either. She was collecting bits of information about him. Had been from the moment she had first laid eyes on him. He fascinated her. He called to something deep inside her that she couldn’t explain, not really. Except that... He seemed to need her. And in every other situation in her life, she had needed those around her.
It wasn’t a bad thing. It was just that she’d had to make sure she behaved, make sure she was good so that she could somehow make her presence worthwhile.
He had needed her so badly he had kidnapped her. And perhaps there was some kind of twisted logic trying to make that a good thing, but then again, maybe there was no logic at all.
Maybe it was all just a feeling, and that was okay, too.
“My cuffs weren’t straight,” he said.
She looked down at them now, saw deep scratches extending from them now, lending him a look that was much less than civilized. Marks she’d left on him.
Marring his perfection. Making a mockery of hers.
She felt her face heat.
“What?” She found herself taking a step toward him.
“That was the start of it. I was never quite so orderly as my father would have me be. And he took it out on my mother. He demanded perfection that could never be achieved, particularly when he himself was creating chaos beneath the surface.” Felipe tapped the glass then turned to face her. “I did not have a nanny. My father demanded that my mother care for me. Otherwise, what was her use?”
“How did you... How did you know about all of this? It doesn’t seem right that a little boy should have heard all this going on between his parents.”
He flashed that wicked smile, but there was no joy behind it. “That was never a concern. In fact, my father demanded I bear witness to all manner of indecency he subjected my mother to. If I misbehaved and she had to be slapped across the face, he wanted me to see it. And vice versa. He much preferred punishing her for my sins and me for hers. You see, it’s so much more painful to watch your mother be struck because you spoke at a moment when you should not have than it is to be hit yourself.” He looked back at the window. “She was always quite delicate. Like a bird. She escaped him. She flew away.”
“She left him?” Briar asked, searching for clarity.
“She jumped out the window.” He wrapped his knuckle against the glass. “That’s why there are bars. I suppose my father didn’t want to lose another family member in the same way. It would begin to reflect poorly on him.”
He said the words so dispassionately, and Briar found herself unable to breathe through the grief that exploded in her chest like a bomb. For his mother. For him. It seemed unfathomable that a small boy should lose his mother that way.
It seemed equally unfathomable that the woman in that portrait, the woman who had most certainly started out with as much spark in life as Felipe himself had, could have been reduced, tormented, until she felt that was her only escape.
“Felipe... I’m so sorry. I don’t understand how he got away with that. With tormenting you both. What did the public think?”
“That it was an unfortunate accident. And of course, my father controlled the press. And no one would ever question what he had decreed.”
“So no one knew. No one has ever known.”
“No,” he said, his tone hard. “We had to perform. For the nation, for the world, pretend that everything was okay when we were...when we were dying.”
“What does that have to do with your cuffs?” she asked, her eyes falling to his sleeves. It was one of his many obsessive-looking mannerisms. He straightened his jacket and dress shirt constantly. She had seen him do it frequently from that first meeting.
“There was a state dinner. And my father chose to make that the issue of the day. My jacket sleeve was rolled up, or it was ill fitting, something.” A crease appeared between his brows, and there was a measure of confusion in his dark gaze. She had a feeling that he remembered all of it. But that he preferred not to. That he preferred not to show himself and get all of the details right, because the details were so horrifying. “She tried to protect me. She brought me up here. And then my father followed us. And he poured all of his rage out on to her. He struck her. Again, and again. And then she... She went to the window. Then she was gone.” He frowned. “I thought about following her. But I thought... I thought it could not be safe. And yet if my mother had just jumped out the window how could it be dangerous?”
His expression went blank. “All of that was answered for me later.”
Her throat worked, but she could force no words to her lips.
Felipe regarded her closely. “Have I shocked you?”
She pressed her hand to her breast. “Of course you have. It’s a terrible story. It should be shocking. You saw her... You saw your mother...”
“Yes,” he said, that same detached tone she had heard from him many times prevalent now. “You can see now why I hate him so much. My father. There was nothing good about him, Briar. Nothing at all.”
She nodded silently, swallowing hard.
She looked around the room, surprised that he was standing there. That he was standing so near that window. Had she endured something like that she doubted she would ever have been able to set foot in that room again.
“You’re wondering how I’m in here,” he said. “It’s okay. I understand that it must seem strange to you. That it would seem strange to a great many people. People with a heart. But I cut mine out a long time ago, Briar. Because so long as you care it is dangerous. So long as you care you can be broken. My father tried to break me. He made me come in here. Told me that he would not allow for me to become softer, weak, would not allow me to build a shrine to a dead woman. So I learned.” He looked around the space. “There is no real power in this room, anyway. The real power was in plotting my father’s downfall. The real power is in the fact that I now have control of this nation, and that I will right the wrongs that have been perpetuated against the people here. That I will write the history books and I will make sure my father’s name is nothing but dirt. These are just four walls and a window. And anyway, the memories are with me wherever I go. I don’t have to be here.”
For the first time she truly believed he had a monster inside him. One made of memories; one comprised of the past horror he had lived through. And it most certainly drove his actions now. But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t. All she could do was picture a small boy who had been abandoned. Who had seen something no one should ever see.
Who had thought—naively—that he could perhaps fly out that same window to be with her, because in spite of all the indignity, in spite of all the abuse he had suffered, there was still trust inside him.
Trust that, she had no doubt, had been broken that day.
“You have a heart, Felipe,” she said, the words strangled.
He frowned. “I don’t. And why would I want one?”
She couldn’t answer that. Except, she wanted him to understand that he wasn’t broken. That his father didn’t have the power to keep him in that blank, emotionless state he had been forced to assume to protect himself. The old man was dead, and he had no power. Not now. She wanted him to know that. Wanted him to understand.
Why? For you? Because you wish it were true?
She took a step back, those thoughts halting her words. Maybe. Maybe it was about her. And about what she wanted him to need from her. She swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
She knew why she wanted him to have one. She wished that she didn’t. She wished that she could ignore those thoughts. That she could deny the feelings rushing through her like a wave.
They shouldn’t be possible. She should hate him. It shouldn’t matter how terrible his childhood was; it shouldn’t matter that he was broken, that there was no way he could possibly know how he was supposed to treat another person. He had kidnapped her. Was forcing her into marriage, or as good as forcing her, and she needed to remember that.
The trouble was that she did remember it. All too clearly.
And still...
Still, he made her body tremble. Still, he made her heart ache.
“I know what I need to do. For my country. I don’t need a heart to accomplish those things.” He closed the distance between them, brushing his knuckles over her cheekbone. “And have I not been kind to you?”
“You kidnapped me.”
He waved his hand. “Have I not given you pleasure, querida? I believe that I have.”
Pleasure isn’t love. But she didn’t say that. “Yes.”
“I don’t need a heart for such things. I only need this.” He took hold of her hand and pressed it against the front of his slacks, over his hardening arousal.
She couldn’t even be angry with him. That was the problem with Felipe.
“You’re a very bad man,” she said, no censure in her voice. “Do you know that?”
“Yes,” he responded flippantly.
Then he kissed her as if to prove that didn’t matter, either. And he proved it quite effectively.
Warmth flooded her body, flooded her heart. And there was simply no denying the truth. She loved him. She loved him and it mattered whether or not he had a heart because she needed him to have one so he could love her, too.
Later she might try and figure out if all of this was crazy. Might try and figure out why she felt this way. Right now she just clung to him. And felt a kind of certainty she had never experienced before. She didn’t feel different. She didn’t feel wrong. Like a misshapen piece shoved into the only available space.
But she wanted—so very much—to be all he needed, and she hoped that she could be. That she could be enough. That she could be...
This was her place. Here with him. Felipe was king, and in order to rule he would need a heart. Whether he believed it or not.
So she was determined to give it back to him.