Ivan (Gideon's Riders Book 3) Read online

  “I don’t give a damn if we’re all in fancy dresses, so long as we’re there--and ready to work.”

  “I’d look amazing in a fancy dress,” Zeke announced as he transferred his shrimp to Ana’s bowl. “Who’s going to take me shopping for one?”

  “You think you’re joking,” Gabe said. “But this will probably go more smoothly if you’re dressed less...”

  He trailed off, his gaze taking in Zeke’s ripped jeans and pre-Flare T-shirt emblazoned with the fading logo of some obscure video game. A Rider would always stand out in a crowd because of their tattoos and their calling, but there was standing out, and then there was showing up at a fancy event dressed like a street kid straight out of Eden.

  “Cool,” Zeke supplied. “You were going to say I look cool, I’m sure.”

  Laurel didn’t look up from the magazine she was browsing. “My money’s on, ‘less like you just pawed your way through a city sewer grate.’”

  “Takes one to know one, baby.”

  Laurel arched one eyebrow. “So is this a bad time to tell you I’m wearing your girlfriend to the party?”

  “Which one?” Zeke rested his chin in his palm and studied her. “Lusira would look cute on you.”

  “Only in your wildest dreams, son.”

  “Stop bantering.” Reyes sat up with a grumble. “This is no time for banter. This is a serious goddamn situation.”

  Apparently. Ivan wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a situation so dire that Reyes wouldn’t crack a joke. “Most of us have never been invited to one of these fancy noble parties,” he pointed out as he set his bowl back on the table. “Maybe you should explain it to us.”

  “What, the dog-and-pony show? It’s wall-to-wall insufferable rich people.” Reyes finally grinned, an expression devoid of mirth. “You’re gonna hate it.”

  “Fernando--” Hunter began.

  Reyes cut in with a snarl. “Call me that again and I’ll stab you with my fork.”

  Fernando was a common name in Sector One. Dozens of boys were born every month and given some variation of the Prophet’s name, just as Gabe had been named after the Prophet’s son, and Ana was named for his daughter. Ivan had never wanted to ask if Reyes’s rejection of the name was tied to his clear discomfort with his family, or if the aversion went deeper.

  Asking people about an aversion to the Prophet danced perilously close to blasphemy.

  Gabe stepped into the awkward silence, his expression serious. “There’s one party per season. The Reyes family always hosts the summer solstice party. My family hosts the winter one. You know about the Rios’ spring festival, and then Hunter’s family holds the harvest celebration. And it’s not just the central families--everyone goes. All the cousins, all the cadet branches...”

  “Yeah, basically every person who makes important decisions for the sector spends a week crammed into one central, easily bombable location.” Zeke made a rude noise. “Has anyone explained this to Ashwin yet? Because he’s gonna spank our asses, and not in the fun way.”

  Ivan would be shocked if Ashwin hadn’t arrived having memorized a list of every important social event and cultural quirk unique to Sector One, but pointing that out would only activate Zeke’s paranoia again.

  Reyes rose and dropped his bowl to the table with a clatter. “Ostensibly, it’s a chance for the noble families to show their appreciation for the bounties of the seasons. Just like the street festivals.”

  The street festivals had been one of the lone bright spots in Ivan’s memories of growing up. Entertainers crowded every corner, showing their skills by juggling improbable things and exhibiting feats of dexterity and strength that had awed him. And most of the vendors had sympathetic hearts and baskets full of broken cookies or imperfect meat pies that could find their way into a hungry young boy’s pockets, even if he didn’t have the coin to pay.

  Somehow, he doubted the noble parties would share that innocent, sweet purity.

  Hunter rubbed his chin. “So we’re attending as Riders. Will we be providing extra security or investigating?”

  “Both. Except for you two.” Deacon pointed at Ivan and Bishop. “Your orders haven’t changed.”

  Ivan flexed his fingers. “I stick with Maricela?”

  Deacon nodded. “Same as here.”

  Except it wouldn’t be the same at all. He’d be in an unfamiliar location where he couldn’t control any of the variables. And he’d have to maneuver a political minefield with nuances he wasn’t remotely equipped to understand.

  It would be smarter to assign her protection to Gabe or Hunter. Even Reyes, for all his grumpy reluctance. They knew the terrain. They knew the potential threats. They’d be able to navigate the turbulent political waters.

  But people would notice them. Nobles would notice them. And if Ivan had always been good at one thing, it was fading into the background. That could give him the edge he needed.

  It was a pretty excuse, anyway. Ivan didn’t know how he’d sleep at night knowing that someone else was responsible for Maricela’s safety. He trusted all the Riders with his life.

  The only person he trusted with Maricela’s was himself. “All right.”

  “I know this isn’t what we usually do.” Deacon shot Reyes a pointed look that silenced his grumbling. “But it’s important. Not just for Gideon and his family, but for us, too.”

  Bishop aside pushed his empty bowl and leaned against the table. “Instead of whining about it, Reyes, make yourself useful. Ivan and I need to know how to plan for security in your family’s house.”

  Reyes pulled a battered notebook from his back pocket and slapped it down in front of Bishop. “I made some notes already. Didn’t realize I’d be going with you bozos.”

  Hunter grinned and ruffled Reyes’s hair. “We love you, too.”

  Ivan reached for the notebook as they traded more banter back and forth, letting the teasing jokes and the affectionate insults form a soothing, familiar babble as he flipped open the notebook and studied the pages.

  The Reyes estate was huge. Massive. Page after page detailed multiple wings, floors, inner courtyards, and hidden nooks. Outbuildings and guest suites. Servants’ quarters and secret hallways. Reyes had broken it all down in neat, organized sketches and lists highlighting potential danger and routes of escape. There were plenty of the latter--but far, far too many of the former.

  The man liked to bitch and moan and spend way too much time talking about what he did with his dick, but when it came time to get a job done, Reyes was meticulous, thorough, and deadly.

  Hopefully, it would all be unnecessary. If Gideon truly thought there was any danger to Maricela at this gathering, she wouldn’t be attending. But it was Ivan’s job to consider every scenario.

  And if a threat did arise, he’d take care of it. By any means necessary.

  Chapter Five

  True to his word, Ivan arrived back at the palace just before midnight.

  As the doorknob to her suite rattled softly, Maricela sat at the table, a bottle of tequila and two empty glasses in front of her. She’d resisted the urge to open the bottle and down a little liquid courage, but as the door swung open, she bitterly regretted her decision.

  Ivan stepped in and stopped, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on her at the table. His brow furrowed. “You didn’t have to sit up. There was a guard keeping an eye on your room.”

  “I know. I was waiting for you.” She pulled the chair next to hers away from the table. “Have a seat.”

  He obeyed, dropping a battered notebook on the table in front of him. “Did you have a good family dinner?”

  “It was nice.” She opened the bottle. “How are things down in the barracks?”

  “The same as usual. Laurel’s visiting again. She was talking like she might come to the house party with us.”

  “Oh?” She filled one glass with way too much tequila and slid it toward him.

  He accepted the glass but didn’t drink. “Have you met her yet?�
��

  Ana liked her so very much, and so did Gideon. If they could manage it, they’d probably talk her into joining the Riders and staying permanently. “Not yet.”

  “I’d like to introduce you before we leave. If there are going to be any activities where a male guard is impractical, Ana and Laurel can step in.”

  “All right.” He was making small talk, something she knew didn’t come easily to him, and the effort was almost enough to change her mind. She could hold her tongue, pretend that she’d waited up only because she wanted to see him. It wasn’t far from the truth.

  But it wouldn’t be fair--to either of them.

  So she filled her glass and picked it up. “We need to talk about what happened at the temple today.”

  His fingers tightened on the glass. “Okay.”

  When she’d tried to imagine this conversation, this was as far as she’d gotten--we need to talk. But now she didn’t know what to say. “We had a...moment.”

  He didn’t deny it, just lifted his tequila and sipped it. “I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t sure blame was the issue. If it was, it might be easier--for both of them--to let him take it. But nothing about the situation felt easy. “You were far from alone. I mean, I’m the one who licked you.”

  The muscles in his arm tightened again. His lips parted, drawing her gaze, but it took another few seconds for any words to emerge. “It was a tense situation. It’s not unusual for adrenaline and fear to provoke unexpected physical reactions. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Only biting down mercilessly on the inside of her cheek kept her from bursting into nervous laughter. “That’s what you think? That I lick people when my fight-or-flight responses kick in?”

  His too-serious gaze roved over her face, so intense she could feel it. “No, I suppose not.”

  “I wasn’t frightened.” The confession should have embarrassed her, but the flush that heated her cheeks was something far more visceral. “I was turned on.”

  Still no obvious response. Ivan’s ability to keep a stony expression was legendary, but the lack of reaction was nerve-wracking.

  The silence grew as Ivan finished his drink and set the glass down with such rigid control, it barely clinked on the table. “What do you need, Maricela?”

  What a tricky, tricky question. “I don’t know. Your help, I guess.”

  He swallowed, the strong muscles in his throat working. “You can say anything you need to say. Ask for anything you want. I won’t be upset. I’m here to take care of you.”

  Oh yes, he would give her anything she asked him for--and that was the problem. “Exactly. We can’t have a relationship, even something casual based on sex. Normally, it might not be a problem, but this isn’t a normal situation. You’re acting as my personal guard.”

  “Yes, I am. And that means not crossing the line.” He reached out and covered her hand with his. His calloused fingers scraped over her skin in a rasping tease. “You can feel whatever you need to feel. Trust me to hold that line. To protect you.”

  “I do trust you.” There was no one she trusted more--and that just made things worse. She liked Ivan. She liked him too much.

  “Then we only have one relationship. Bodyguard--” he pointed to himself, then, with his lips quirking into a hint of a smile, pointed at her, “--and a very sleepy princess. We have a couple of big days of packing and preparation before we head out. You’ll want plenty of rest.”

  He was taking this all with perfect, utter calm, and she wasn’t sure whether his composure inspired confidence or indignation. But that was her bruised ego talking, the part of her that needed to know it was just as difficult for him to keep his distance as it was for her.

  The selfish part of her. A good person would be glad that at least one of them had a little self-control. That one of them wasn’t suffering the aches of thwarted lust.

  Maybe she wasn’t such a good person, after all.

  She downed her tequila in two burning gulps. “I’m going to bed.”

  “All right.” He swept up his notebook. “If you need anything, I’ll be up for a while longer.”

  “I need...” For a single preposterous moment, she considered telling him the truth. “You’re right. I need sleep.”

  She’d curl up in her bed, alone. By the time the morning sun streamed into her windows, she’d know that she’d made the right decision.

  »»» § «««

  It was amazing how a tiny bit of context could change everything.

  Maricela was tucked safely into bed, behind a pair of closed doors. Ivan sat in the antechamber he’d converted into a bedroom, his various sets of knives spread out on the table. He was glad he could clean them by rote because his mind was stuck back in the temple.

  Wide eyes. Rapid breaths. Trembling. Clutching fingers.

  He could close his eyes and imagine that moment in the alcove with crisp, perfect clarity. He could remember every noise and move she’d made, every reaction he’d interpreted as fear.

  Wide eyes. Rapid breaths. Trembling. Clutching fingers.

  All signs of arousal.

  He should know. He’d been exhibiting most of them since he’d gotten the bedroom door shut behind her.

  Ivan shifted in his chair, as if that could relieve the discomfort of an erection that seemed unwilling to subside. Somewhere around the fourth mental replay of the scene in the temple, his imagination had started to add details. Her parted lips grazing his jaw. Her fingers trailing up the back of his neck. Her mouth opening, eager for a kiss.

  By the sixth replay, she moaned as his tongue stroked hers, coaxing sounds from her that echoed off the stone walls around them. By the ninth, he’d edged her dress from her shoulder, revealing smooth, light brown skin he had to taste.

  If he let himself get to twelve, he’d be on his knees in front of her, making her sob with pleasure as she came on his tongue.

  After twenty years of trying so, so hard to overcome the legacy of his uncles, Ivan had discovered that blasphemy did, indeed, run through his blood. Because fantasizing about putting his hands and mouth all over the sheltered Rios princess had to be a least a little bit treasonous.

  Maybe he should focus on that. The treason. Add Gideon to his mental image. More specifically, Gideon finding out that Ivan wanted to do dirty, dirty things to Gideon’s baby sister. After all, Sector One might embrace love, but big brothers were frequent hypocrites.

  He tried to adjust his mental image to add a furiously disapproving Gideon. But the fantasy twisted. His leader faded. Maricela’s tongue touched his ear, her voice dropping to that husky whisper he’d never forgotten, the command she’d given the last playmate to crawl into her bed. “Use your tongue.”

  Shit.

  Ivan dropped his knife with a clatter and curled both hands around the table’s edge until the wood bit into his palms. Maricela might want him, but she didn’t want him. She’d all but begged him to help her keep the lines nice and crisp and clear.

  Princess and bodyguard. Rios and Rider.

  They could never be anything more. Because her destiny was to marry some rich man or woman--or both, or a few of each--and become the matriarch of a sprawling clan that bound the important families of Sector One together in shared blood and shared purpose.

  And his job was to keep that family safe. Not to imagine himself worthy of joining it.

  Gideon

  Estela Reyes was a formidable woman.

  Unlike plenty of the men in other sectors, Gideon had never been threatened or discomfited by formidable women. His aunt had been legendary for her passion and her temper. His mother’s strength might have been quieter, but Juana’s sharp mind and fearless heart had shaped Gideon’s perception of what courage was.

  Estela Reyes was every bit as sharp as Juana, but her cunning was extremely focused and relentlessly mercenary. She’d planned the seating for her welcome dinner with the careful strategy of any general, dividing the Rios family between various tables. The peo
ple she’d placed next to them revealed her priorities for the week.

  Poor Maricela had Ivan as a buffer on one side, but the rest of her table was heavily slanted toward eligible Reyes cousins who would spend the evening competing for her attention. At any other meal, Ivan’s stern-faced glower might have chilled the flirting, but noble sons of the Reyes family weren’t likely to be easily intimidated.

  Estela’s husband, Diego Reyes, was seated beside Isabela at a different table. No doubt they were exchanging fond stories of the early days growing up in the Prophet’s palace, when Diego’s father had stood at their grandfather’s right hand as his most trusted advisor. Estela knew how much Isabela valued tradition.

  But Estela had saved Gideon for herself. She sat at his left, her long black hair held back from her face in an intricate mass of braids that offered the illusion of a crown. Her complexion was slightly darker than his, and her smooth skin showed only the tiniest wrinkles around her eyes. Her spine was perfectly straight, her smile pitch perfect for an honored hostess, and it wasn’t hard to believe she’d been the most celebrated beauty of her generation.

  Which had caused plenty of men to underestimate her. Gideon might not find her threatening, but he wouldn’t make that mistake, either.

  Gideon had already considered the possibility that she might have used her considerable wealth to hire mercenaries to kill his Riders and weaken his position. A man in a weakened position might grasp for allies, or even agree to a marriage proposal. But for all of Estela’s elegant ruthlessness, Gideon couldn’t imagine her doing anything that would endanger her precious, beloved son.

  Then again, the easiest way to wipe out the Riders would have been a bomb dropped on the barracks. The fact that the Kings hadn’t taken such a simple opportunity might indicate their orders had included a command to keep one particular Rider alive. Or it might simply indicate that their leader’s obsession with Deacon had been his downfall, after all.

  The sparse evidence they had didn’t point to Estela, but Gideon couldn’t rule her out, either. Of one thing, there was no doubt--the Reyes matriarch had marriage alliances on her mind.