Page 22 of The Desert Prince's Jewel
“But our prince does,” Rohan says, forearm hooking around Kunal’s neck. “And if our prince commands it, it is so, idiot.”
“Oh, you two will be the death of me,” I say, my eyes roving behind me as I stare up the large stone steps of the museum.
I’ve always had an affinity for the arts because my mother, Neha. Though I can’t draw. I’m a patron and casual consumer, so I’m impressed by how well the city celebrates its culture. A multitude of diverse species converge at the sprawling complex’sdoors.The Metropolitan Museum of Princedelphia is more gorgeous than I’d imagined it would be.
The only thing more gorgeous is the last man I wanted to meet here,I think, as I catch sight of Mateo, tuning out the argument between the loveable dumbasses I call my closest friends raging behind me.
He’s directing a catering group as they pull into a side entrance, obviously prepping for the gala opening. I can’t even remember its name; my only concern is finding evidence on Drimitri. I mean, that was my only concern before I spotted him. Mateo’s black uniform, slacks, and button-up shirt complement him. And I can still feel the tendrils of my lust coiling inside me.
Fuck me. Am I an animal or what?I can’t seem to control myself around him, my lips, or my cocks, and both are going to land me in trouble.
“Shh, enough fighting. We split up and get to work,” I command my entourage with a snap of my fingers, no longer interested in hearing Rohan and Kunal bicker about a decision set in stone.
All of us together would set off the alarms of any criminal. Even if they didn’t recognize them, they’d remember me and automatically assume my fellow nagas are guards. Our best bet is for me to pretend to be oblivious and uninterested, a dignified guest. No one knows why I left the Court of Thar other than the inner nest other than Layla, and certainly no one’s aware that I’m after the stone and my mother’s stolen portrait. We won’t get caught if I pretend to blend in with the celebrities and royalty in attendance.
Well, that’s if Rohan and Kunal can keep their fucking cool.
“S-s-sssorry, sssir,” Kunal fumbles around the words with a slight bow.
“We’ll get to work,” Rohan chirps, dragging Kunal all but kicking and screaming away from me, but most certainly, hissing away.
I roll my eyes and make my way inside. I don’t like to order them around, but I have to get inside the museum before they come to blows, blowing up our carefully laid plans. As long as they do as I command, I feel more than safe since I am not alone. As heir to the Desert Kingdom, I’ve evaded assassins since I was a teenager. And I’ve killed more than my fair share of them under their tutelage. As long as Rohan, Kunal, and I work together, we’ll win againsthim.
“Let’s get this over with,” I murmur, steeling my resolve.
I walk into the gala with my chin held high. Not long after I arrive, I’m overcome by the magnitude of the art on display under the glittering chandeliers and spotlights of the exhibit hall. I grew up surrounded by opulence; moving in these circles comes as naturally as breathing to me. But the sheer beauty of the exhibit steals my breath away. I’m drawn to one painting in particular, stopping to admire it. I reach for a glass of champagne, not turning to look at the server until they speak to me.
“Ranbir? What brings you here? And why are you dressed like that?” a familiar, husky voice calls out, and I shudder, slowly turning on my heels with the flute in my hand.
Of course, Mateo, ever light on his feet, found me first.
I repress my fangs, a sign of affection when not laced with venom, as he steps closer to me. His thick, kinky hair is tied back into a low bun, shaved sides having grown out since we first met, so he has a full head of thick black hair. He looks me up and down with a sneer. Well, I would’ve said so a few nights ago. Now, Mateo looks at me with unabashed appreciation, and maybe something more than I care to name. There’s still hesitation in his smile, uncertainty in his eyes, but no longer theopen hostility of a man who wants to “rock my shit” again, as he put it in the closet.
I look down at myself to see what’s pleased him so much, and I scoff. I’m dressed in a casual, not ceremonial, kurta, a light-fitting emerald tunic paired with my cream-colored dhoti, flared pants. I don’t cut an imposing figure. I look positively impoverished next to the other men and women of importance in attendance. And yet, Mateo looks at me like I’m a piece of art on display. Like I’m the embodiment of the Viper’s Stone, magnificent. I can’t stop my chest from puffing out with pride.
“You look good. I didn’t know they allowed security guards to dress casually at swanky shit like this?” he says in confusion, before flashing me a toothy smile. “If I knew you were working here tonight too, we could’ve coordinated. Cy’s new guy’s place is a luxury apartment near the hotel. Oh, well, nawh you’d have to drive in with your company anyway. Still, it’s nice to see a familiar face at one of these things that’s not a co-worker, you know?”
Ah, of course, he thinks I’m working a second job just like him. I want to protest, but what would I even say? Mateo isn’t aware that I’m no longer a crown prince until Father decides to disown me publicly. But for now, to everyone else in attendance, I am still Prince Ranbir. I glance around to make sure no one’s looking, and once I confirm that, I lie to Mateo’s face, causing my heart to ache.
“Mhh, I pick up my shift after Rohan and Kunal. Night security,” I say, playing along and enjoying the easy banter between us that began in that storage closet, that blessed storage closet.
“Hmm…” he says, grinning like the Cheshire cat, “So you snuck in? Before your shift? Bold, even for you. If you’re not fired tonight, you still have your hotel gig. And to think you kept accusing me of being shady.”
I roll my eyes and attempt to clarify, but Mateo’s gaze snaps to the painting. He gasps, transfixed, almost knocking over the expensive champagne on his platter. I wrap my arms around his waist on instinct to stop him from tumbling over. We avert calamity in the form of a storm of shattered glass, a small victory. But Mateo’s ass pressed to my crotch is a battle I can’t win. How many times am I going to give myself a hard-on tonight?
We yank apart. Mateo’s skin flushes like he has a fever, as I cough into my fist and refuse to meet his gaze. After a long, awkward silence, his shaky laughter finally forces me to look up. Startled, I find his face lifted toward the painting again, mouth gaping, eyes shining with delight.
“Hidden Shadows,” he reads the plaque nearby and I nod.
It’s awe-worthy indeed. I have to admit that the dark strokes and abstract nature, like a rendition of some mythical hell, are captivating.
“It’s so beautiful,” Mateo says with a sheepish grin that’s far too endearing. Then he follows it up with, “Man, whenever I’m near art, I feel like I’m home. You know, I draw sometimes. Terrible shit compared to this. But when I see a real artist’s work, it’s like I’m home, you know, with my people.”
Those words send a sword slashing straight into my soul.
Home,I think, overcome by the sudden wave of homesickness, as I breathe in the ink still lingering on Mateo’s skin.
“Do you miss home?” Mateo asks, and I frown.
