And that he would prove it to her now, leaning down to take her mouth with the most brutal passion of his. The most painful slam of his lips. The most primal force of his groan. She tangled her own desire with it, savagely sighing into his hot, wet mouth. She dug her fingernails into his shoulder and then along his head, until she gripped him with ferocity that spurred him into pained grunts.
Oh, no!
“Creator’s mercy,” she blurted, pulling away. “We have to think about getting you back to the infirmary. You should not be up and about this much. Do not comment on that.”
She added a stern stare and a wagging finger, ignoring the fact that less than fifteen minutes ago, she would have paraded naked on the balcony at his command. Clearly, Brickham had not forgotten either. It was a secret thrill to watch his gaze narrow, wondering what discipline he was deliberating for her this time. But she was determined to stay firm. They could not strain his wounds any further. Maybe she could talk him into a little more of this heavenly snuggle time instead…
“Rahmie Creacu.”
And there, in the space of the stunned gasp that sliced across the room, went heaven.
“Jayd Dawne!” Requiemme’s burst wobbled a lot like her stance. While the latter was no mystery, especially as the woman grabbed at the door frame for better balance in her cast, Jayd could not decipher the intent of the former. No, not correct either. She saw and heard Emme’s halting little laugh.
“Whatever it is I have halted, desonnum tres sorlik.” The woman rushed forward until realizing Brickham was only draped in a towel. Or perhaps that every last dye foil was everywhere but on Jayd’s head. “Believe me, no soul is happier you two have kissed—or variations thereof—and made up. But we have higher concerns at the moment.”
Jayd was also on her way to a smile, stirred by the happy high from her friend’s support. Until she absolutely was not. “Higher?” she demanded. “In what way?”
“At the moment?” Emme returned. “The worst.” Locating Jayd’s clothes on the floor, she swept them up and tossed them over with brusque efficiency. “Something has happened. Something significant. I know only that it involves Carris—and that your brothers are on their way up here to talk about it right now.”
Chapter Eight
If looks could be torture devices, Brick was damn sure he was being racked, dog-roped, and waterboarded at the same time. The old-fashioned rack would definitely be Evrest Cimarron’s preference, while Prince Shiraz would select waterboarding for its straightforward ease—or maybe just because he knew Samsyn had dibs on the dog roping. The most hulking of the three brothers had already channeled two Rottweilers and a Mastiff into his nonstop glower at Brick, and the mental kennel wasn’t closing anytime soon.
And they call it puppy love…
How he wished it was only a piece of inner snark. But he already knew how everything must appear to Jayd’s siblings, who’d burst into her suite just seconds after he’d followed her out of the bathroom. If he’d been one of them, he’d be pulling out the figurative torture options too. He and Jayd were covered in blue dye splotches, and that didn’t cover the chaos of her new hair color. Her T-shirt was also inside out, and there was a massive damp spot on the crotch of his borrowed scrubs.
Under any other circumstances, he’d be getting acquainted with a holding cell in the bowels of this place by now.
But this wasn’t a normal circumstance. Not in the remotest sense of the word.
The flatscreen that dominated most of one wall in Jayd’s suite was tuned to BFM, France’s 24/7 news carrier. The reason was obvious: a live press conference from the main Prefecture de Police in Paris, where the soaring Florentine architecture was enhanced by a wall of stiff officers, a cluster of stern politicians, and a sizable podium that was lit up with glaring spotlights.
In the center of all that, clearly savoring every second in his massive pulpit, was Trystan fucking Carris.
Ass. Wipe.
Making it a mental mantra didn’t help Brick’s burning desire to plow his fist into the screen. But all that would get him was the grand escort to the dungeon, tromping through plops of his own blood along with the lingering hair dye.
But already, Carris was edging closer and closer to his carotid.
The disjointed feed wasn’t helping a damn thing. Most of the reporters were accommodating Trystan by asking questions in English, which was translated at once into French for the feed. Since Brick understood both, his synapses were jumping like a round of linguistic Assassin’s Creed.
“Once again, I shall be very clear about this,” Carris said to a skeptical-looking brunette who’d elbowed her way to the front of the media mob. “I was in that pub on Sunday night. I did witness everything that happened to that poor man at the heartless hand of Maximillian Brickham.”
At once, Jayd hissed. “Lying soldask!”
“Calmay.” Shiraz, definitely the prettiest of the three brothers, leaned over and tucked his sister close. “He is doing it for spin. We all know that, sister.”
The glance he speared over her head spoke differently, but Brick easily absorbed the animosity. Though the man’s sister was safely returned, it hadn’t been by a peaceful path. They had to blame someone for that, and he was the closest target.
For now.
Jayd drew breath for a fresh rant, but the intense reporter saved them all with her aggressive lean at Carris. “Pourquoi?” she demanded. “But why? To be blunt, monsieur, you have not sung us any new tune. We have all seen the footage. We all know exactly what happened, moment by moment, and precisely who was involved. What you have promised yet not delivered is why.”
“Irianna is right,” another journalist interjected. “There are too many blank spaces in this narrative. Why that dingy little pub, all the way in Montmartre, when Monsieur Brickham had a room at the Ritz? Why did the man drag her there—and why did you wait several hours to follow them there, if you were so eager to get Princess Jayd away from the lunatic? There is footage of them a half hour before that, getting cozy on the Place Blanche. Where were you and your men then?”
“Lunatic?”
Jayd squirmed away from Shiraz, looking ready to hurl her own fist into the screen. Brick bit the inside of his cheek to hide a proud as fuck grin. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had stuck up for him with such vehemence. It was weirdly cool. It was scarily arousing.
“Fembla—”
“Do not right now, ’Raz,” she spat. “Do not expect me to be calm about seeing an honorable man—a natural protector and hero, just like all three of you—being painted as a freak predator. Those are major outlet journalists! They should be ashamed. Have they not done their homework about some of this? Have they not realized that—”
“Pixie.” He dove in, knowing the arched brows he’d get from the king and both princes for his deliberate slip. The payoff, getting Jayd’s attention for longer than three seconds, was worth it. Hopefully. “I think they probably did do that footwork but ran into a few chunks of…redacted material.”
He didn’t know how else to phrase it, especially because Shiraz came through with a confirming glance. When he was joined by a meaningful side-eye from Evrest, the truth locked solidly into place.