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She made herself presentable and then climbed up onto the deck, sighing a bit as the island gleamed there before her, golden and glorious, just as she remembered it. The old fortress rose imposingly, burnished to shine. It was a small island, easily walkable, and she already itched to wander its paths and sit on its rocky cliffs to look out to the endless, beckoning sea. Surely she would find herself here. Surely she would encounter the woman she was meant to be as she left the Princess behind.
A shiver of foreboding worked its way down her neck. Amalia told herself it was the breeze.
It seemed particularly quiet, she thought as she stepped off the boat. She smiled vaguely around her, looking for the hotel staff that she remembered being effortlessly ubiquitous when she’d been here before. Perhaps it was different when there were other guests about.
She walked along the stone path that led from the docks straight toward the grand front entrance of the hotel. Each step was like walking through her memories. She longed to kick off her shoes and let the warm stones kiss her bare feet. She couldn’t wait to take down her hair from the ruthless chignon she always wore as Princess Amalia. She wanted to swim in the sea and dry herself on sunbaked stones, letting the salt stay on her skin. She wanted to bask in the sunshine, letting it tan her skin without a single thought as to how that might make her look in endless rounds of photos that her mother had always decreed ought to look timeless.
This place was timeless, so she need not be.
That was what she was thinking when she walked in the grand, open arches that served as doors, yet were always open to the elements, inviting her in. Inside, the hotel lobby was empty. She stopped then, confused. For surely there ought to be staff here, if not down at the docks. There ought to besomeone. She turned in a circle, taking in the ornate architecture, the high ceilings. The fireplace that seemed to hover in one wall. The fountain that splashed in the center. The sense that somehow, though she stood in an ancient fortress that had been built to keep everything out, it somehow invited in the sun, the sky, the sea.
It was only when she turned the second time that she saw a shadow detach itself from the far wall.
At first she thought she was imagining it. That she was too dizzy from the sunlight that poured down from the ramparts, memory like magic, making her silly.
But he kept coming.
And her body knew him before his name fully formed in her head.
She felt that betraying flush, rolling over her, making her pink...everywhere. Between her legs, there was a kind of keening, an ache so intense it seemed to bloom and spread. It rolled to her breasts, making them feel heavy and tender. It wrapped itself around her, pulling taught.
Still he kept coming.
And she knew this dream. She’d had this dream a thousand times and always woke up, gasping for air and shattered to discover herself alone. Always alone.
She knew this dream, but today it was different.
Because as he drew closer, she drank him in, greedily. It was still him. Still the Joaquin she remembered. It was gloriously, unquestionably him. He was still breathtakingly tall. His body was a symphony of lean muscle, from mouthwateringly wide shoulders to narrow, athletic hips. He wore an obviously, exquisitely bespoke dark suit, yet still managed to look vaguely disreputable. It was the dark hair. Or his jaw, like that of a boxer. It was the way he carried himself, perhaps, as if he was ready and able to handle whatever might come his way. Whether it be bandits or wayward princesses.
She had pored over pictures of him in these last five years. She knew the possessive way his hands splayed on the back of any woman he squired about to this event or that. And could remember how it had felt when it was her. She’d wept over such things in the privacy of her bed in the palace. She’d studied his face in every picture, looking for hints of the Joaquin she’d known. How she’d loved the sculpted lines of him, the angelic cheekbones, the sensual mouth.
But what she had never seen before was the way those green eyes of his blazed a cold fire as he approached.
In her dreams, he never looked at her like that. In her dreams, there was only ever heat. Love. Understanding.
Forgiveness.
He kept coming until he was standing before her, and even then, he did not pause. He reached out and he was touching her again, taking her chin with his fingers and holding her still.
She could feel the bluntness of his grip. The strength in him as he moved her head one way, then another, as if inspecting her. As if she was a horse he was considering purchasing.
Amalia found herself trembling as if she was exactly that much of a thoroughbred, when she knew—when the entire world knew, for that matter—that she was no such thing.
“Not so high and mighty today, are you, Princess?” came his voice. Just as she remembered it. Rough. Low and intent. She’d heard that voice in her ears as he’d danced with her in empty ballrooms here. As he’d moved above her in the bed they’d shared that summer, taking her innocence and giving her so much more in return. Lust. Longing. Love. A whole life. “Did I not tell you what would happen if you dared return?”
“Joaquin...” she whispered.
“Allow me to remind you.” His green eyes glittered with a fury she had seen once before, on the day she’d left him. And this was no homecoming. Not the kind she’d imagined all these years. This was vengeance. “You destroyed me, Amalia. I promised you that if you ever gave me the opportunity, I would return the favor. And here you are. Humbled. Cast out. Slinking back to my island, tail between your legs, as I told you that you would.”
“Joaquin,” she tried again, though it seemed that every time she spoke his name, his grip on her tightened. Just enough to remind her. Of how commanding he was. How...bossy. How he had set the terms of their trysts and then executed them and she had melted, and burned, and happily done as he pleased.
Because it was what she pleased, too.
She pulled in a breath and fought for calm. And she wasn’t sure she managed to get there—but the fact that she was capable of trying showed her how different things were now. How differentshewas from the girl she’d been five years ago, because she’d spent that time training to become a queen. And queens could not allow anything to rattle them.
Not even Joaquin Vargas.
Amalia found herself grateful for all those years she’d thought wasted.
