“Said one old married fart to the other?” Zeke rejoined. “Come on, all the girls talk and you know it.”
Brick stepped forward. “Can we go back to the part about me getting Stateside?” The subject was so invigorating, he forgot about the throb in his leg. At this point, he’d forego a trip back to his infirmary room for the little cup of meds that Twylah had likely set out for him by now. “Whatever ride you guys used to get here, I hope it’s still waiting for the return trip—and an extra guest.”
The guys took such a long second to respond, he feared they’d say their pilot—or skipper, or whomever—was off the clock for a long while.
At last, Ethan stated, “We put down anchor in Sancti Harbor. The captain’s holding tight.”
“Good.” Brick pivoted, gesturing for them to follow. If anything beneficial had come from his trip to Jayd’s suite today—okay, likely yesterday by now—it was his improved sense of direction around here. “Come on. I think I know a shortcut— Goddammit. What the hell, guys?”
What else was he supposed to say in response to their next hesitation? Were they waiting for emails with their VIP bar code?
“What the hell indeed, buckaroo.” Zeke shook his head. “You’re going to leave just like that? No goodbye, farewell, auf wiedersehen to you?”
“After their docs patched you up?” Ethan concurred. “After what you did—what, exactly?—for and with their princess?”
Brick scowled. “The princess won’t miss me.”
Their instant—and buoyant—laughter shouldn’t have yielded his matching jump of tension. But holy fuck, how it did. At once, he was grinding teeth and twisting fists again.
“Told you, pretty boy,” Z crowed at Ethan. “You owe me a crisp Benjamin.”
“A hundred bucks?” Brick lasered a glower at Ethan. “Why?” And then at Zeke. “And what’d you tell him?”
Never before had he seen such a wide smirk on Zeke Hayes’s lips. “That Prince Charming isn’t the only one who likes macking on the princess.”
Brick jabbed his tighter fists into the ample pockets of his jumpsuit. “All right, ladies. Can we just get the hell out of here now?”
“Do. Not. Take. Another. Step.”
Though the command lacked any native Arcadian, he knew an imperative from their most menacing prince when he heard one. Further proof of that truth—as if he needed any—were the unnerving sounds that suddenly filled the foyer. The distinct snocks of cocking gun hammers.
Samsyn was obnoxiously serious. He’d brought a small battalion as proof.
“Whoa, baby.”
“Shit.”
Z and Ethan finished the reactions with fast arm raises. Brick did the same, only to have his wrists grabbed, dropped, and slammed against the middle of his back.
Before he could quell it, a harsh grunt exploded up his throat. Nothing like severely strained stitches to make a guy enjoy being shackled a little more.
“That hurts, hmmm?” The prince seized the chain between the cuffs, which had to have been crafted in the days witches were burned at the stake, before leaning in from the side and shoving a thumb into the wound at the top of Brick’s shoulder. “Not as much as I want it to.”
Raw confusion kept him from concentrating on the pain. Brick flung it all at Samsyn with a stunned swing of his head. “Okay, what the hell?” he demanded. “You don’t like me. I get that. But I was getting ready to clear out, all right?”
“We’ll vouch about that, man.” How the hell Zeke sounded like he was unhooking Brick from a bar fight instead of tetanus-inducing handcuffs was beyond belief. “He’s antsy to be gone. Just let us take him and—”
“None of you kimfuks are going anywhere,” Samsyn barked. “Except right this way.”
Brick was jerked backward and then around. He stumbled forward as soon as a steel barrel jabbed the center of his spine. He breathed deep through his nose, positive his heart rate was about to spike and his head would jump on the resulting merry-go-round. He never knew which would hit worse about the panic attacks. He just prayed like hell that he’d be able to steady his feet and his self-control.
Self. Control.
Thank God it seemed the foremost goal for Ethan and Z, as well. Ethan never had him worried. The guy owned a rehab ranch on the ocean and did impossible yoga poses for fun. But Zeke, while one of the finest Dominants he’d ever met, was known in the ops world as a decisive thinker. That was the polite way of saying loose cannon.
Samsyn and his men pulled them along an all-too-familiar hallway, down a flight of steps, and then back into the palais commissary. Thankfully, Z remained Josey Wales-worthy in his steely austerity. Brick marveled at it for a few seconds longer than necessary, knowing it’d be supplanted by a smirk once Zeke saw him sharing any kind of space with Jayd. Even so, he swung his gaze around in search of her. That was the only part of him still able to move so freely, thanks to the cuffs and the continued clutches from two of Samsyn’s men. He couldn’t help wondering how Jayd would perceive it all. Would she rejoice or recoil at seeing him like this? Would she protest or praise her brother?
But where was she? Surely she’d beaten him back to the surface and had come right back here, eager to revel in the same sight that sparked a smile to his lips despite all the pain through his body.
The beautiful panorama with Trystan Carris at its center.
They’d plunked him into a basic steel chair, which might permanently become a part of him with all the ropes that bound him to it. He was stripped to his pale waist, now marred from the rough ropes. His legs were secured to the chair’s legs in similar fashion.
Despite the harsh custody, the man’s posture seemed lax. Practically insouciant. The observation might have been wrong, since Brick was still only looking from behind, but surely his instincts weren’t that corroded. Then again, his last official mission had seen him nearly killed because of shitty logistical calls. Judgments that would haunt him forever.
Weirdly, the same kind of wraiths that now flew across Samsyn Cimarron’s face.
Huh?
He gave the sentiment some voice with a questioning grunt. Though he didn’t really expect an answer, it was baffling to keep studying Samsyn. He knew furious regret when he saw it, and the sonofabitch was glued hard to the prince’s features.
And Christ, now that he expanded his view, across Evrest’s face too. And Shiraz’s. And most of the crowd still hanging out in here.
What the hell was going on?
Why wasn’t everyone already three sheets to the nectar-induced wind? Or indulging in adrenaline hook-ups in the bedraped alcoves? What happened to the celebration that was already winding up when he’d left the room? Had someone harshed the overall mellow by already knifing Carris? Had the man himself said or done someth—
Fuck.
All those thoughts were axed as soon as he got hauled over to stand in front of the asshole.
“Fuck!”
He wanted to repeat it again and again. In his mind, he did. But his throat was nuked by ruthless shock. The same poisonous cloud that took out his knees and fuzzed his vision.
Because Carris…
Wasn’t Carris.
What…the…living…