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“For…now?”
“The river carried her far.” His face darkened. “Very far.”
“But they found her before the falls?” I knew he got my reference to Atlavoler Falls, one of the island’s most breathtaking natural sights. The waterfall, fifty feet across, had a drop three times that much down. If they’d found Crista south of the site, even “alive” might be a relative term.
Shiraz pushed out another long breath and supplied, “Yes. Before the falls. She managed to swim her way into a small ravine before the drop.”
“Oh.” It was as much exclamation as reaction. “Thank fuck. So what’s the problem?”
There was a problem. It was still stamped in harsh lines all over his face. He confirmed it by wheeling away and pacing across the room, stabbing a hand through his hair. “Samsyn does not know what kind of condition she is in. He told me she waved at them, so they know she is alive, though she seems to be wedged between some rocks. She is trapped, injured or both.” With hands still locked at the back of his head, he pivoted back. “The whole situation is…” He grunted. “Fucked all to hell.”
I strolled out from behind the counter, hitching a hip to the small service counter surrounding it. Examined his chiseled profile—not a bad assignment—while attempting to connect the beginning of his statement to its ending conclusion, a considerably harder one.
As a matter of fact, it was outright impossible.
“Does not compute, hard drive,” I finally confessed. “It’s fucked all to hell…why?”
“Because, dammit! Because—” He threw his hands akimbo, keeping them splayed as he stalked deeper into the room. “Never mind. Fuck it.”
There. As his voice broke apart on a disgusted mutter, it let me see all the way into him. Shit. It was now so obvious. “Because…you want to be out there helping to rescue her.”
“I need to be out there!” He spun back around. “I can help, dammit. I know that terrain, Lucina. I have trained parkour across every mile of it—”
“And you’re the only one who has?” I managed to sift the snark from it. Making light of his frustration wasn’t my intention—but nor was making light of his life. Samsyn hadn’t told him to stay back to deny him a training session, or keep him “out of the fun” of things. Maybe he just needed to hear that. “What they’re doing out there isn’t going to be easy, Shiraz.”
“Which is why Syn needs every pair of experienced hands he can get,” he snapped. “That ravine is tight as hell. It will take an army of many to get to her, perhaps assist with lifting the boulders—”
“And maybe your brother already has that army in place.” An instant confirmation that I really was a glutton for punishment, considering the glare I received in return.
“I am not his slobbering lap dog!” He stuck the glower in by sweeping a harsh finger. “I will not be commanded to just ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ here, when one of my people needs help! When I can be helping to rescue her!”
His fury slammed through the room like a brand-new hurricane. But I knew a lot more about hurricanes now.
And I knew a lot more about him now.
“Rescue her,” I echoed, nearly under my breath. Yeah, because—note to self, duh—rescuing was what a prince did for his people. What a leader did for his followers. What a hero did for his team. What this man had grown up watching his brothers do, Evrest as king of the nation and Samsyn as commander of its army, and had yearned to do himself, likely countless of times before this—
And how many of those times had he been sidelined, just like this? Burning to make a difference, to be the protector he was born to be, only to be held back?
My gut confirmed it as truth—as my heart dealt with an odd mix of reaction. Why didn’t his family see this? Couldn’t they see he wasn’t still their kid brother, pestering to be in on the adventures? He was a man, as fit and formidable as the rest of them, with a spirit hungering to give back to his kingdom. To make a difference…
But there was a flip side to the coin. While the Cimarrons weren’t ruling royals in the purest sense of the word, their word carried huge sway with the Arcadian High Council. They were also important symbols to the kingdom’s citizens. If even one of them was killed rescue-roping down a canyon, it’d gouge the national psyche. In this case, Samsyn was clearly that risk—and hopefully, the royal who made it back alive.
It made sense on paper.
Watching it tear this man up was another thing.
Letting it stretch me apart too? There was a zinger I hadn’t prepared for—but what was one more on the list for this trip?—a deliberation that must’ve made its way to my face, for his accusing finger swept up once more.
“Do not start the lecture,” Shiraz charged. “I can recite the talking points backward. The Cimarrons are ‘vital to the country’s morale and patriotism’. Our lives are not ‘just about us’. We must ‘look at the entire picture’ with every decision we make, and ‘put the people first’.” He dropped his hand, clenching it at his side as he crossed the room in three wide stomps. Without stopping, he mounted the two steps leading to the bedroom area. “Creator’s cock, is that not what I am fighting to do?”
I took a step forward. Stopped to let him watch me take calming breath. “Look, I get it—”
His bitter laugh cut me short. “You ‘get it’. Is that so?”
My hands shot to my hips. “Yeah, prince of pricks, it is.”
He stayed silent. Watching. Assessing. Perhaps finally acknowledging I’d meant what I said…and that I really did get it. That I saw him, felt him. That I recognized his frustration beyond just a weight on the air. It was a detonation inside me too, forming a full-on canyon in my chest, blown wider by the second, as more understanding set in.
