His Drakon Runaway Bride

With that same recklessness that had lured him to her, she had destroyed their lives. It was that same girl he had expected to find today.

But she was right.

This was not the Ariana he had met that summer, the Ariana he had married.

And yet, letting her go was not an option.

* * *

Ariana came awake slowly, her throat parched, her mind blank. Air filled her in quick, choppy bursts.

“Drink this.”

Ignoring the questions buzzing through her head, she took the bottle and drank the water. It was cold and crisp, what she desperately needed.

“Iedas Mountain Springs,” the label on the water bottle said, with a small sketch of the majestic mountain range in Drakon... Drakon!

She jerked upright. Cream leather walls greeted her, understated luxury permeating the ambience. Soft lights from the ceiling cast a golden glow around the cabin.

Cabin... She was in the rear cabin of a private jet—a jet that belonged to the blasted House of Drakos.

The events of the afternoon came back in a fast reel.

Andreas had said they were still married.

Andreas had said he was going to take her back to Drakon.

Andreas had caught her when she’d fainted.

The panic felt like ants crawling all over her skin. She pushed her legs out and stood up. The cabin tilted but she had to get out of here.

The slither of her dress, her wedding dress, alerted her. She looked down, found the corset cut neatly down in the middle. The beaded bodice hung open through the center, gaping open to reveal her slip and the shadow of her breasts.

Ariana held it up with both hands and forced her Jell-O legs to move.

Before she took another step, he was before her.

A man as hard as the rock on which his palace sat. Yet, as she looked at him now, there were white lines around his mouth, and he was not so solid.

“Why am I here? What is that sound?”

“They’re readying for takeoff.”

“No!”

“Sit down, Ariana.”

“Get out of my way.”

“You’re in no shape to go anywhere.”

“I swear, Andreas, if you don’t move out of my way—”

His fingers gripped her arms, exerting pressure backward. “Calm down before you faint again!”

“How dare you? You bastard!” Ariana let her hand fly.

The crack of her palm against his cheek was like a pop of thunder, leaving an utter silence behind. She clutched her wrist with her left hand, shock jarring it. Breathing hard, she looked up.

He hadn’t even touched his jaw. Except for the tight clench of it, the little jerk of his head, he showed no reaction to what she’d done. He still supported her.

“Does that conclude this episode to your satisfaction, Ari?”

Her shortened name made her breath catch. “I will not apologize.”

He shrugged.

That casual gesture was like fuel to her rage.

“You’re kidnapping me. Really?” She fisted her hands and went at him, lost to all reason. “After all the propriety and decorum and a hundred other rules you demand of everyone, you’re actually kidnapping me?”

Of course it was exactly what he had planned. And Ariana had so nicely played into his hands, by literally fainting at his feet.

Damn it, Ari.

“You will not like it if I subdue you on the bed, Ari. Or maybe you will, since we both know what will happen the moment I lie on top of you.” The cold matter-of-factness of his threat made everything still in her.

Ariana turned and met his inscrutable gaze, wrapping her mind around this.

“Should we put my theory to the test or shall you calm down?”

“Let me go.”

He did instantly. With an urgency that made her flush.

Her legs simply gave out and Ariana slid into a graceless heap on the bed.

This had been coming, Ari, a nauseating voice whispered. You just buried your head in the sand. You knew he was going to catch up with you one day.

She didn’t know how long they sat like that. She on the bed, trying to catch her breath, trying to quell the panic, and he sitting in the one armchair in the corner, watching her.

A lion crouching in silence, waiting for his prey to show weakness.

The long coat and jacket were gone. Replaced by a white designer dress shirt with a white undershirt—nothing so scandalous as going without one for the uptight Crown Prince of Drakon—and black custom-made trousers for his six-four height. Dark olive skin at his throat beckoned to her. She followed the trail of the chain around his neck with her eyes.

His dog tags from his time in the Drakonite Army, where he’d trained from fifteen to eighteen, would be under that undershirt. Platinum cufflinks. A platinum-plated watch glinted on his left wrist. Black Italian handmade shoes gleamed where he’d folded one foot on top of his thigh.

The soft lightning of the cabin wreathed his face in shadows, showing the sharp planes and hollows of his face to perfection.