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Chapter Twenty-Three
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It didn’t completely shock me.
But my mouth popped open enough to make her happy. Or whatever Ambyr Stratiss’s version of “happy” was. As established, the woman took serious to a new level of dedication.
That being said, she tapped her foot—actually waiting for me to answer. Must’ve been pre-written in her mind’s eye for this scene. No way in hell did I risk taking her off-script now.
“Okay…Ambyr…listen—”
“Shut. Up.” Right on schedule, along with the acidic huff of punctuation. “Excuses are futile. I may dress like a fashion doll, but I assure you, I am not one.”
I lowered to a bench, hoping the motion would signify respect. “That’s been clear from the start, I assure you.”
“Good. So you must know that I know by now.” She moved only to raise up her spine, regarding me with a new infusion of haughty. “I have eleven years of history with Shiraz Cimarron, in which I have studied nearly every nuance of his moods, masks, and miens. The one he presented at breakfast the morning after the storm…”
The morning after he and I had finally fucked.
No.
Made love.
I forced myself to make the private confession, despite carefully hiding it from her. Yeah, I’d loved him, even that night. From the moment he’d exposed my darkest fantasies…then boldly accepted them…then made so many of them come true with such blinding, brilliant magic…
Goner. Me.
Hisgoner.
“Was what?” I filled in Ambyr’s extended silence, forcing myself to go gently. Her hands were raised in front of her waist again, though now they were restless twists instead of choirgirl serenity.
“He was…different,” she finally murmured—only to jolt herself from the troubled trance, as if remembering she wasn’t confessing to a friend but confronting an adversary. “Yes,” she spat. “Different…in that way a man gets when he has been…slaked.”
“Slaked.” I dove at it like trying out an exotic food in a foreign land, because when would the opportunity ever roll around again? Had to admit, it wasn’t as gross as munching on crickets. Barely. “You mean…he was happy?”
She laughed then. An honest-to-God giggle. But instead of enhancing her natural beauty, it harshened the sharp angles of her face. “Go ahead and gloat, salpu. Even throw a parade that you had him all that night, then again in the dirt at Endigoh Beach, and Creator-knows-where after that. For all I know, Samsyn even covered for the two of you with that tale about rescuing horses out at Asuman.” She struck a pose, one hand raised and the opposite toe pointed, fashion plate haughty on bitch steroids. “For all of that, I am actually grateful. You broke him in, so I did not have to.”
Blink.
Blink.
Well…fuck.
I replayed the callous words and her carefree tone—still coming up with zilch on a definitive conclusion. What the hell had the woman just confessed? Did I really want to know? Was it really any of my business?
“I beg your pardon?”
Guess I did. Guess it was.
Because after everything was said, done, celebrated, and settled—this conversation, Saturday night’s party, the kingdom’s recovery, the weddings, the births, and years after that—the only damn thing that mattered to me was Shiraz Cimarron’s happiness.
Ultimately, that meant serving his people.
With a worthy woman by his side.
“Oh, you do not have to beg it of me,” Ambyr replied breezily. “You have my pardon, Lucina.” She hitched a penciled eyebrow. “Indeed, you have my thanks.”
I pushed to the edge of the bench seat. Balled both hands atop my pressed knees. Talk about the universe’s kick in the head. I’d sat just like this, on the edge of Shiraz’s office couch, less than a week ago—minus the fists. And the cosmic shift in my heart.
