“No!”
Jayd longed to join her shriek with the woman’s but bit the inside of her cheek to stay silent. Something told her that any interference at this point would only make things worse for her terrified friend.
Creator’s mercy.
What if the coma prison and the involuntary tattoo were only the beginning? Was she not, in so many ways, already peering at that evidence? In every inch of the red marks along the woman’s neck. In every pitch of the rhythmic sighs that tumbled from her lips. Self-soothing mechanisms…
Which she was denied from the moment Trystan closed his hand back over her neck.
“Shame, shame, dearest,” he emphasized in a silken murmur. “You know you must have permission to scream. You also know how I detest little girls who disobey me.”
“D-Désonnum, Seigndim,” the woman rasped. “Désonnum beaupek. I am very, very sorry.”
Jayd hauled up her shoulders. Stiffened the set of her head. “Carris! Damn it! She says she is—”
The prispoul bellowed a laugh. “I know what she said, princess. But with naughty darlings like this, one just never knows about certain kinds of…boundaries.”
He demonstrated by twisting his hold even tighter. And then by unsnapping the woman’s jacket to the point that allowed him easy access to her breasts. Expertly, he reached in and found her nipple. Brutally, he twisted on it.
“Seigndim!” the woman cried out, panting hard to keep it from pitching to a scream. “P-Please! Just please…do not…”
“But darling, why not?” Trystan growl-hummed. “Isn’t this exactly what you crave? All of this—how do the kids say it over in the States now—the rough stuff, right? Come now, little salpu. Does this not make your blood race? Does it not soak your chanli for any stud who will dole it out?”
“N-N-No. N-N-Not anymore,” the woman rasped. “P-P-Please…stop.”
“Creator’s blessed mercy. Carris!”
The bonsun swung out a new glare. “This concerns you not, Highness.” He snarled the last of it so violently, the one word could have been two. “Unless you would like to start modeling courtly restraint with a gag between your pretty lips?”
She fought a new wave of nausea. “Are you just liking the sound of that promise, or do you plan to make good on it?”
“What?”
Despite how Power Ranger splurted it with him, Jayd stayed focused on the only face that mattered right now. The gray matter belonging to the only mind she had to sway.
“You heard me,” she declared. “You heard me loud and damn clear, prispoul. And yes, I am a hundred percent serious.”
“No,” her friend cut in from between her teeth. “No you’re not, damn it!”
She waved the woman into silence but did not look if there was compliance. She did not dare look away from Trystan now. Not with the ruthless focus he was not letting up on. Not with the heavy dose of bemusement that entered his speculative glare.
“It makes all the sense in the world, right?” she queried him. “You are still damned and determined to go through with all your…grand plans…for me, yes? So, Lord Trystan, why not begin now?”
She had to clench her stomach to keep its contents from spilling along with the title he did not rightfully possess, but her purpose was achieved. She had his attention. He even withdrew his hand from Power Ranger’s jacket. His hold eased on her neck.
As soon as Jayd gulped, he let up on the clamp altogether.
“It shall be an even trade, all right? Me for her. Plain and simple.”
But who was she trying to fool? This was nothing near plain or simple. Part of her wondered—hoped?—if this was all real. If her lips were even suggesting it. But ohhh yes, she had. And that meant standing by the offer, no matter how terrifying or debilitating. It meant keeping her word, no matter how daunting the mission.
Doing the right thing isn’t always doing the easiest thing.
Unbelievably, she owed that one to ’Raz. Creator’s mercy, her adorable brother and all the motivational posters with which he loved wallpapering his office.
The right thing is not
always the easiest thing.
* * *
Great achievement is
achieved by great sacrifice.
* * *
The girl who gets the boy
isn’t always the lucky one.
All right, ’Raz hadn’t gotten around to ordering that last one yet. That didn’t negate the pound of its truth in every damn pore of her five feet, three inches.
But she could still do this.
She had to do this.
“Plain…and simple.” As Trystan echoed it, new chills raced each other down her spine. He was warming to the idea, which should have thrilled her. But inside, she was swearing in agony just like her American friend.
“No. Fucking hell to the fucking no! Your Highn—”
“Plain and simple,” Jayd interjected, loud and bold about the enunciation. “Set your darling free, and you get the Jayd Cimarron full-access pass. That includes everything you see here”—she slid a hand from the top of her head to well past her knees—“as well as cordial introductions to everyone I know in the palais.”
And there it was.
The campaign promise she could no longer rescind. The marketing pitch Trystan could no longer ignore.
The man indicated as much by turning completely from Power Ranger, his gaze fixed on Jayd’s little nook in the wall. But the moment she thought he would rush forward and force his greedy hands—and fingers and tongue and mouth—all over her personal space, he did nothing of the sort. He remained an arm’s length away. Perhaps more. He kept examining her, as if waiting on rhododendrons to start growing out of her head or something.
“Just how many introductions?” he queried.
“A hundred at least.” She shrugged, giving away what an easy fact it really was. “Possibly one-fifty.” That was likely a low ball too, though she was not so transparent about it. Clearly, the first number was already his wildest dream come true. At least she thought so. His face vacillated between several unreadable expressions before he spoke again.
“And you are really ready to do all this?”
“No,” snapped the woman behind him. “No she isn’t and no she won’t!”
“You would truly trade yourself out like this?” he went on as if she had just chirped like a cricket. “For a person you barely know?”
“I barely know you, Trystan. But sometimes, things simply have to be done.” She attempted to stay serene, but her fingers rebelled and started tapping against her thighs. “I may only be half a Cimarron, but I know the meaning of dutiful sacrifice.”
Another indecipherable look from him. This time, Jayd wondered why he looked on the verge of a soft laugh. Maybe a not-so-soft one.
“Sacrifice,” he echoed. “Aha. The dutiful kind, at that.” More of those strange, mirthful tugs at his mouth. “Is that your passionate lesson from Paris, then? The things that your handsome soldier boy imparted?”
She hissed hard through her teeth. Even that melodrama was better than exposing her tears to the prispoul.