She lunged. He bobbed and weaved. And so it began again. A few sweaty minutes later, she was standing above Dom, adrenaline coursing through her veins, with her foot resting gently on his windpipe. “I’m sensing a chick flick in your future.”
He rolled, and she tumbled. Her cheek ended up flat against the vinyl mat that smelled of Dom—a trademark-worthy combination of pheromones, musk, and a hint of lumberjack—right as the timer went off. “I know exactly what we’ll be watching, and it won’t be some crappy movie about bridesmaid dresses or missed trains.”
She pushed herself up on her hands and knees, sucking in a deep breath, and glanced at him over her shoulder. “Just two hours of shit blowing up?”
His gaze skimmed across her skin, as devastating as his touch. “You’ll have to wait to find out.”
Giving in to the urge to play with fire, she stretched into downward dog, staying there a moment before transitioning into a standing position. His body tensed, and he fisted his hands as he stared at her, hunger coming off him in waves that battered her.
Three steps. That’s all it would take to be close enough to run a palm across his chest. “I don’t like waiting,” she said, the words referring to more than her curiosity about what movie he’d pick.
His shoulders tightened, and he took half a step forward before stopping abruptly. The heat left his eyes, and his gaze went away from her and over her left shoulder as a neutral mask replaced the flirty smirk he’d had only a heartbeat before.
“In a few days, when you’re queen, you won’t have to anymore.” He dipped his chin in deference and walked out of the sparring circle.
The cool breeze of dismissal chilled her skin, sank underneath and cooled her to the bone. Queen. That thing she’d never wanted or planned to be. The sooner she could shake off whatever was holding her here, the better. She’d give herself one more night. When Dom walked into the library tomorrow morning, he’d find himself without a sovereign. A one-two punch of guilt left her stomach aching, but she couldn’t give in—not to exterminate the ghosts she saw in his eyes when he talked about the coup, not to live up to the standards her father had set, not to protect the Elskovians unknowingly supporting a farce of a government. She didn’t owe Dom or Elskov anything. And the more she repeated that to herself, the more likely she was to finally have it sink in and take root. But somehow, no matter how many times she told herself that, she couldn’t shake the realization that she was only wasting time lying to herself.
“I’m serious about my movies.” She grabbed a hand towel and wiped her face to cover her own confusion and indecision. “This better not suck.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I never disappoint.”
With any luck, she’d find out the truth of that statement herself.
Chapter Eight
This wasn’t a date.
Dom dug through the stack of sweaters he owned but never wore for a minute before he found it. Dark blue, it reminded him of the sweater Elle had offered up for him to try on at Dylan’s. He hadn’t lied; he didn’t do casual. The tags were still on the damn wooly thing, and he’d owned it for at least a year. But he also didn’t do movie nights or days on end of only his hand for company instead of a woman. He yanked on the sweater with more force than necessary and looked at the result in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Jeans. He was in fucking jeans and a sweater. It was like he’d turned into an ad for casual lame suburban dad. The slacks and button-down shirts on the hangers called out to him, but he didn’t listen, surrendering to the inevitable. She’d gotten under his skin, and now the man who plotted to take down governments was as nervous about his wardrobe as a teenager before the first day of school.
Fucking ridiculous.
He stormed out of the walk-in closet and through his wood-paneled room without taking a moment to enjoy the breathtaking mountain view, the huge stone fireplace that dominated the south wall, or the oak bed big enough for five women when there was only one he wanted to see naked and twisted in its steel-gray silk sheets. And she wasn’t ever going to be there.
For a man who lived by a very specific set of rules, all built around obtaining his one life goal, Elle was the exception to every one. He should back out of movie night. That was the right move, the one that made sense. The one that kept him focused on the plan. The one he wasn’t going to make.
He grabbed his cell and dialed the security room. It barely made it through the first ring. “Sir.”
“Status report, Major Bendtsen.”
“Everything is quiet here, and our sources in Harbor City report the Fjende contingent remains in the city.”
Unease crept up Dom’s spine. The Fjende weren’t the sit-around types. “Have they connected Princess Eloise to Elle Olsen?”
“Unknown, sir.”
He tugged at the crew collar of the sweater as heat blasted up from his toes. “We have moles in their organization. What in the hell are we paying them for?”
“The leadership is keeping a tight lid on this one, sir.”
Big fucking whoop-de-do. “I want answers. Now. Tell the moles to do whatever it takes to get them.”
“Yes, sir.”
He disconnected, pocketing his phone as he strode out of the room. The door clicked behind him, his thoughts centered on unwinding the mystery of exactly what angle the Fjende were working. They hadn’t given up on finding Elle, and with forty-eight hours until the Kronig, the clock was ticking down.
“Nice sweater,” Elle said. “I knew indigo was your color.”
His brain braked to a stop so fast his ears rang with the squealing of rubber against pavement. She was in black jeans that fit like second skin and a T-shirt of the same color that hung off one bare shoulder. Then the fact that a bra strap wasn’t showing registered in his already lust-fogged brain, and the little things like remembering to breathe became a hardship.