Prince of Honor (House of Terriot Book 1) Page 3

  Her mother had been fond of saying one reaped what one sowed. If that was true, a bitter harvest awaited her at Lake Tahoe, and Turow was dragging her to meet that end.

  They sat in silence, both staring ahead at the bleak landscape while trying to forget the surprise of waking up nose to nose.

  As that awkward moment had stretched out like the endless miles surrounding them, Sylvia was all too aware of her visceral reaction to him, and of his to her. A reminder that they’d slept together twice after long, pleasurable bouts of love making. Not sex. That’s what scared her about Turow Terriot.

  Sex was a casual part of being a Terriot, like fighting, flirting, and playing hard. It was freely pursued and exchanged by both male and female, and freely enjoyed without care, condemnation or consequence, at least until the permanence of a mating bond joined one to another. Beyond the obvious pleasures, it was also bartered for favors, for prestige, and for protection, like currency.

  What she’d shared with Turow hadn’t been just sex the way it was with his half-brothers. Just sex was easy to control and compartmentalize as something necessary in her promised rise to power within the House, and none of the other princes had expected it to be more.

  But Turow always looked at her as if she had that more to offer. He was wrong. Sadly mistaken, just as she’d once told him with killing kindness. She was after power, not pleasure or whatever other scary promises she’d seen in his eyes. That more he’d require her to give when he’d soberly asked her to become his mate simply did not exist within her targeted plan for a future at the side of a Terriot king. A plan made for her without regard to what she might want or whom she might choose.

  She’d refused to recognize the unexpected pull of his request. Just as she forced herself to ignore him in spite of the enjoyment found in his company, even when they were at odds. Especially when they were at odds. She prided herself on being able to provoke an uncontrolled response from the rigidly methodical prince. She was one of the few who knew he could actually make a complete sentence as well as string them together into conversation. They could have been friends – they had been friends – until intimacy and expectation ruined that comfortable ease between them. Pride wouldn’t allow her to admit how much she missed him in that role. Purpose prevented her from casting him in the one he desired to claim. Those things she so admired about him—his quiet conviction, his strength, his goodness, she’d have crushed and destroyed.

  Those very things she depended upon now if she was to survive.

  And now, as her jailor, he could pretend to act solely on the orders of his king, but his body told her otherwise. Caught with his defenses down, passionate intent had hammered against the valley of her thighs earlier that morning, and need blazed bright and hot as his gaze held her own. His lips had softly parted, either for words they’d regret or in hopes of a kiss. She’d never know which because her determined push against his chest brought that distancing wall up between them.

  Staring out into the bleak promise of the day, Sylvia forced her thoughts from how that kiss might have tasted to consider other more desperate matters. Like escape.

  No matter what Turow promised, she knew Cale couldn’t afford to let her live. She was a threat to his crown, to his new bond, to his authority. She’d aided and abetted her mother and his older brother, James, in their plan to overthrow Cale’s hopes of holding on to his father’s title, first through a dangerous Shifter-specific designer drug, and then by attempted assassination. Not knowingly on her part, but he’d never believe that now. She’d admitted to tricking him. She’d run rather than standing to plead her case. Cale wouldn’t have listened then any more than he cared to hear her now. In the eyes of her clan, she was a betrayer, a traitor, both manipulator and accomplice. In the way of their kind, they’d tear her to pieces.

  She didn’t care what they thought of her. She never had. Only one opinion ever mattered to her, that of her half-brother Wesley.

  Her gaze touched on the stoic male beside her.

  Maybe two.

  And because she couldn’t crush that weakness, the middle prince in the House of Terriot was more dangerous to her than its king. Her mother was dead. James’s plans were in ruin. There was nothing Turow could do, even if the impossible happened and he chose to try to derail the fateful conclusion that would come if they reached their destination.

  Her fate was in her hands. As always. She’d been schooled by a coldly clever master in how to make the most of it.

  What appeared as a small dot on the horizon became something much more promising. A middle of nowhere gas station. When Turow didn’t slow, apparently planning to zip right past it, Sylvia made an urgent entreaty.

  “Row, stop, please. Just for water and something to eat. And a real bathroom. Please! I’ll behave.”

  She didn’t release a relieved breath until his boot moved to the brake and he directed their dirty vehicle to the single pump. She waited impatiently for him to unlock her cuffs, fighting not to betray her elation as he gave her a long, steady stare.

  “There’s no place to run. I’ll catch you and you’ll ride the rest of the way bound and gagged in the back. Try anything foolish with that guy behind the counter, same scenario, only you’ll force me to hurt him, and I don’t want to do that. Understood?”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  A narrow smile. “Don’t waste those on me. Just don’t make things worse for yourself.”

  He backed out of the truck, and she slid after him, leaving her crumpled blanket. After he pulled a small gym bag from behind its seat, she trotted obediently at his side as he strode into the small service station. Under the scrutiny of the clerk, Sylvia tugged Row down the limited healthcare aisle where she snatched up a travel-sized toothbrush and paste set, facial cleansing wipes, a tube of caramel-colored lip protector, and a hair brush, dumping them into the plastic basket he carried.

  “Get a pair of these.”

  At his suggestion, Sylvia glanced at the display of glittery pink and turquoise gel slip-on shoes she would have normally recoiled from in horror. Wordlessly, she searched for her size, found it in the pink and put them in the basket. They were quickly followed by beef jerky sticks, pretzel-and-cheese packs, and a map, since Turow kept his cell phone turned off, and the truck had been born eons before GPS. While he picked up a 12-pack of bottled water, she tossed a package of gummy candies on top of their stash. Turow regarded them with a faint smile.

  “You remembered.”

  She gave a snort. “How could I forget picking the nasty things out of my perfect teeth?”

  He was still smiling as they neared the counter where the well past his prime clerk with a name badge imprinted “Alvin” pinned to his stretched to the limit NASCAR tee shirt offered a chew-stained smile.

  “Morning, folks. Unlock the pump for you?”

  “Use your bathroom first?”

  His cautious gaze went from Turow with his bruised face and abraded neck to Sylvia’s black eye and unusual attire, speculation darkening his expression.

  To allay his fears, Sylvia bumped her hip into Turow’s crotch and grabbed his butt, startling a slight hop from him. With a naughty smile for the clerk, she whispered, “We eloped in kind of a hurry the night before the wedding. I was supposed to be marrying someone else and,” she added, gaze caressing from Turow’s expressionless face to his crowded inseam, “changed my mind.”

  Alvin chuckled. “Ain’t love grand.”

  Turow took a couple of burritos out of the warming case on the counter and added them to their meager stash. “Could you ring these up first so we can clean up, and then add the gas to it?”

  He winked at Turow. “Sure thing. John’s back there.” He hooked a thumb toward the rear of the store, totaling the products so Sylvia could scoop them up and head in that direction with her pseudo-bride-stealer behind her.

  The restroom was low on the scale even for gas station cleanliness, with a stained sink, single toilet and overflowing
waste can. Reluctantly placing his bag on the soiled tile floor, Turow pulled out his travel kit and shared the basin for some vigorous teeth cleaning, bumping elbows and fleeting glances in the mirror with his forced companion. After both spit and rinsed, he pulled out his deodorant stick for preventative swipes in anticipation of an uncomfortably steamy day. Taking a sniff of his shirt, he stripped it off, replacing it with a clean white tee from his bag.

  While subtly appreciating the way muscles slid along his solid form, Sylvia ripped off a couple of the foil packaged wipes to rinse off her face, pausing to dab cautiously around her aggrieved eye.

  “Does it still hurt?”

  She scowled at his reflection in the glass. “Only when I laugh.” He’d broken her chokehold in New Orleans by smashing the back of his head into her face.

  “I’m not going to apologize.”

  A slight smile quirked her lips. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  The mood between them gave a notch as she turned back to her goal of cleanliness, using another wipe to stroke down her throat then reaching beneath her hoodie to refresh torso and underarms. He followed her movements, helplessly fascinated by the sway of untethered breasts, painfully reminded that he’d snatched her from her sheets several nights before with nothing more than soft knit covering her lush body.

  The feel of her other palm rubbing along his sorely tested zipper had his gaze jumping to hers in the mirror. Her green eyes were heavy-lidded with invitation.

  “The offer to take care of that for you if you’ll let me go is still open.”

  It took him a second too long to scoff at her husky invitation. “I’ve got two good hands. If it gets to be a problem, I can take care of it myself.”

  Her just a tad too vigorous pat made him wince. “You do that, tough guy.”

  “Finish up.” With that terse command, he left her brushing her hair as he lifted the partially bolted seat on the toilet, only to realize his aroused state was interested in only one type of relief. Growling his displeasure, he advised, “Take care of what you need to. It’ll be a while before we stop again. I’m going out to gas up the truck. When you’re done, stay back here by the door where I can see you so you won’t get any ideas about chatting up Mr. Nosy Clerk.”

  “Fine.” With that clipped promise, she ignored him.

  Uneasily, Turow left her in the bathroom, nodding to the clerk as he went back out into the gooey Texas morning air. He angled so he could keep an eye on the back of the store, watching Sylvia’s exit. She stayed where he’d told her to, thumbing through a rack of magazines. As the gallons clicked by, he admired the hasty elegance she’d restored to her bedraggled form. Even the ridiculous shoes couldn’t lessen the appreciation coiling through him.

  She’d been a willful, beautiful girl who’d grown into a steely, gorgeous female. A dangerous female, he reminded himself as the pump shut off. As he approached the station, she moved toward the front so they met near the counter.

  “Need anything else?” he asked her.

  “Could we get a couple of coffees to go. Black. And a motel room for later?” She added that for the benefit of their audience.

  The clerk snickered at her innuendo-laden reply and announced the total of their bill, waiting for Turow to separate an appropriate number of twenties. Alvin was watching her as he rang out and counted back change. The subtle shift in her demeanor had him curious as her gaze widened in desperation. She gave her head a slight tip toward the back of the store then was all smiles again as her buff and gruff boyfriend thanked him and cinched an arm about her waist to turn her toward the door.

  With the sway of her walk coaxing up an unrequited response, Alvin watched the strange couple get into the road-weary truck from the driver’s side. As the brawny fella leaned across her lap to fiddle with her seatbelt, the redhead cast another plaintive look his way, intriguing him enough to note the plate number, and to walk to the back of the store after they pulled out and headed west.

  He didn’t notice anything at first when he opened the door to the can, just that the trash needed to be emptied and the floor mopped before his shift ended. Then, as he turned to switch off the light, he saw the mirror and the message scrawled across it in waxy lip gloss.

  Help Me! and a phone number.

  They ate really, really bad burritos in silence as they crossed into New Mexico, washing them down with surprisingly good coffee considering it had probably been brewing since daybreak. That steeping quiet continued along the endless stretch of interstate, with only the buzz of passing cars providing a soundtrack. Focused on the road, Turow’s one- or two-word responses to her occasional attempts at conversation left Sylvia to her own thoughts, thoughts that prowled and wailed and schemed as the miles and hours passed in an increasingly frantic blur.

  She found herself thinking about her half-brother Wesley, the eldest of the twelve Terriot princes, and the effect her actions may have had on his life. While not close, kinship bound them. She’d been raised by their mother and her father, while he’d been brought up under Bram Terriot’s strict rule with his other half-brothers, often as not being used as a bartering chip between his two power-hungry parents. Martine’s constant petition that Wes be declared their clan’s heir apparent was nullified by the fact that Bram the Beast had mated but never bonded with her. That act would have guaranteed succession. But neither had the tyrannical and prolific king placed his mark on the mother of any of his other offspring . . . or at least, so they’d thought.

  Martine, always the clever politician, had laid in a backup plan for her own continued influence upon the throne. Though favored by Bram for her beauty, brains and talent for mystical healing, the gracefully aging matriarch knew her power wouldn’t last beyond Bram’s rule. If the maddeningly indecisive king handed his crown to other than his eldest, Martine vowed that the new heir would reign with her daughter at his side. And so Sylvia became her pawn in that secondary plot for control.

  Both carefully crafted plans failed. Control of the clan skipped over Wesley and James to third in line, Cale, whose mother shocked them all by proving she wore the roving king’s mark. Sylvia had believed Cale securely tethered to her by lust and his dependency upon the healing herbs Martine addicted him to without his knowledge. But the heir apparent unexpectedly placed his bonding mark on another, ending Martine’s hopes, until she and an equally disgruntled James made plans for a coup. A coup that failed and made the three of them fugitives.

  Wesley had remained at the family compound when James, Martine and Sylvia fled, becoming Cale’s right hand in Tahoe. Would he welcome her back, stand by her, support her? Or would he turn aside and let her fate be decided by vengeful others?

  Would she find any friendly faces upon their mountaintop? Had she ever had a friend? True, she’d always been surrounded by females eager to share her social circle and connections and avoid her acerbic tongue, but would any one of them care if she lived or died? Would any voice lift on her behalf now that her powerful mother was dead and association with her akin to the poisons her mother had brewed? Could she blame any one of them for shunning her?

  A soft snag of sound escaped her lips before she could press them tightly together.

  She felt more than saw Turow turn her way, but continued to face the side window rather than display any weakness. She didn’t need his comfort or disdain.

  She needed the means to escape her unpleasant destiny.

  Would James see any need to expend the effort to get her back?

  There was nothing she could do except wait for opportunity to present itself. And in the meantime, she wouldn’t allow her captor the satisfaction of seeing her cry. What good had tears ever done after her father died? He’d been the only one moved by the sight of them.

  She reached for one of the bottled waters, but the chain was too short to allow her access to their bounty on the truck floor. Sylvia swallowed down the bitter taste of her situation and asked, “Could I have some water?”

 
; The sound of her voice startled Turow into looking her way again. Such beautiful eyes, a clear, pale blue, quickly guarded as he weighed her request for ulterior motive. Finally, he brought the bag up onto the seat between them, tipping it so she could access both food and drink. He watched cautiously for a moment then returned his full attention to his driving.

  Did he think she’d try to cut his throat with the edge of the jerky bag?

  Would she, if the opportunity presented itself? She pondered that for the next silent hour.

  Finally, after snacking on processed cheese and gummies until her stomach churned, Sylvia anticipated the approaching Welcome to Nevada sign as much as an invitation to her execution.

  That dread settled deeper and darker, like the sun behind the mountains, leaving her lightheaded with despair.

  “Where are we?” she finally asked as signs of civilization grew more apparent.

  “Coming up on Gallup.” The first sentence he’d spoken since they’d entered New Mexico gave no encouragement. “We should cross the line and make Las Vegas in about six hours. I’ve got people there waiting for my call to take us home.”

  Pallbearers, no doubt.

  “Could we stop in Gallup for the night?”

  “I’d rather push on.”

  “I guess I’m not in as big a hurry as you to get there. You must be looking forward to getting rid of me.”

  He cut a glance her way then returned it to the road, saying quietly, “If that were true, we’d have flown out of New Orleans.”

  Tingling with a sudden new awareness, Sylvia twisted on the seat to study his profile. She’d assumed that he’d chosen this rabbit warren of back roads to stay under the radar. Now, she considered another, less honorable motive.

  He’d wanted to spend time alone with her.

  Turow wasn’t in a hurry for her to die, either.

  “Let’s stop,” she suggested again, this time in soft entreaty. “I’d like to find a change of clothes and at least get a shower before you return me to the family in chains. Could you allow me that much dignity, at least?”