Page 10 of American Prince (New Camelot Trilogy 2)
And when I stepped outside the barracks, he was already waiting, the early morning light brushing a glow against the high lines of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose. He was squinting a little in the bright light, those thick eyebrows pulled together and those green eyes narrowed, and I saw him before he saw me. And for a moment—just a moment—I knew the awful, stupid truth. That if this gorgeous bastard really tried, he could snap my cherry-stem heart in an instant. He could chew it up and spit it out and I’d be as helpless as any cherry swirling in the bottom of a whiskey glass.
But why? I demanded of myself. Why? Why? Why?
No. This had to stop. It was only because he was so pretty, so stern, his body so firm, and in Prague there would be hundreds of boys like him, not to mention all the warm, sweet girls. I didn’t need to be knotted up over someone who only noticed I existed so he could shoot me in the arm. I was putting down this feeling once and for all, and I knew exactly how to do it.
I walked toward him, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “We better get a move on,” I said, walking past him as he grabbed his own bag. “The train won’t wait.”
And after we’d left the base in silence, I took a deep breath and forced myself to do it. “Which hotel are you staying at?”
“I haven’t booked one yet,” he admitted.
“You should stay with us,” I said, hating myself for the twisting in my chest. “Morgan is really excited to get to know you better.”
5
Embry
before
Two things happened that trip. Well, more than two in retrospect, but at the time, these were the only two I marked. The first happened early on, as the train rocked and swayed across the hilly uplands of southern Poland. Colchester sat across the table from Morgan and me, talking in a low, charming voice to her as they played cards. He was nothing but honest and courteous and gently funny, and after growing up among the most sophisticated men in the country, his direct openness and unselfconsciousness seemed to utterly disarm her. It was the first time I’d ever seen Morgan blush, playing cards with Colchester. I’d seen her perched on countless men and women’s laps, drinking, snorting, smoking, I’d seen her caught in lies that would drive a nun to madness, and always her ivory cheeks remained untouched.
But now, fully clothed and sober and behaved, she blushed under his attention.
This is what you wanted, I reminded myself and my brittle heart. Seeing them together, wa
tching them together. Making sure you realize this little infatuation with Colchester must stop.
But it was still too much, even with that reminder, and I leaned my head back to feign sleep so I didn’t have to watch them any longer. And as is usually the case with me, feigned sleep turned into real sleep, the motion of the train pulling me into unconsciousness though Morgan’s arm jostled mine at regular intervals as she dealt and re-dealt the cards. I wasn’t sure how long I slept, but I woke up in the stilted, regressive way that only happens in cars and on planes and trains, my consciousness stirring and then resting, and then stirring again. Finally, I became aware of a sharp pain on my arm, the cold, hard window against my forehead, the noise of the drinks cart rattling down the aisle, Morgan’s quiet snores next to my ear. I opened my eyes to find that Colchester had moved chairs, so he no longer sat across from Morgan, but was now across from me, and I could feel the place where our boots touched under the table.
And he was touching me.
He’d reached across the table and pressed his fingertips against the exposed bruise on my bicep, and there they lingered, rough and warm. The bruise had darkened from a florid crimson to a deep purple overnight, and the change in color seemed to fascinate him.
“Examining your handiwork?” I asked dryly. Sleep made my voice lower and more breathless than normal, and when he lifted his gaze from my arm to my face, I saw how wide and blown his pupils were, how ruddy his lower lip was from being pulled between his teeth.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Only when assholes poke at it.”
He pressed against it again and I sucked in a breath, but I didn’t knock his hand away. I didn’t know why I didn’t, because it did hurt and I hated him and I hated the sensations that clawed their way up from the base of my spine as he did it.
“Do you like hurting people?” I asked, trying to cover up the feelings skittering their way across my skin.
He ran his fingers along the edges of the bruise, making small circles and larger ones, sometimes with one finger and sometimes with all of them. Soft, brushing touches. Caresses. I sighed, despite myself. It was gratifying to have such tender flesh touched so tenderly. “Does that feel good?” Colchester asked, with a kind of reverence in his voice.
I should have lied. But I didn’t.
“Yes.”
“I’ve never thought about hurting people the way I think about hurting you,” he said slowly.
“Because you hate me?”
He looked startled by that. “Hate? Why would I hate you?”
I blinked at him.
He tilted his head, his touch still on my arm. “Do you hate me?”
