The Kingmaker (All the King's Men, #1)(22)

“So many things were taken from us,” she says, her voice hushed, but strong. “They tried to strip our language, our land, our home, our family. Even our traditions.”

I listen, wanting to hear her much more than I want to hear myself.

“To me, to many of us, activism is as holy as the ceremonies we almost lost because it connects us to the land and to our ancestors. It’s how we join their fight. We take our place in the line of generations who will resist.” A snort of cynical laughter escapes her. “Even when it seems like a lost cause.”

“It’s not.” I grab her hand and tuck it into the crook of my elbow, shorten my steps to match hers. “Don’t ever think that.”

She glances up at me, searching my face before nodding, smiling.

“Why Amsterdam?” she asks, shifting the focus to me.

“Well, Europe is far ahead of us in clean energy. For whatever reason, Europeans are less resistant to the energy shifts we need. I came here to study the progress they’re making. How the governments educate the populace and persuade them the changes are necessary. The Dutch are really forward thinking, especially when it comes to wind.”

“You’re kinda smart, aren’t you?” She grins and tightens her fingers on my arm. “PhD and all.”

“I promise not to make you call me doctor.”

“I think I will, Doc.” Her grin widens, and the humor is like a candle lit inside of her, illuminating all the things I like most about her face. The pride in the jut of her chin. The strength to the set of her jaw. The kindness, intelligence, and curiosity in the metal/mettle silver eyes.

I break our stride and look down at her, and cup one side of her face in my hand. It’s cool against the dry warmth of my palm.

“Ask me how many times I’ve thought about you since that protest.” My voice scratches gruffly against the cool silk of the quiet night.

She stares up at me, and at first I think she’ll wave off my question, pretend this is normal, what’s happening between us. But she doesn’t do that. She doesn’t pretend or wave it off. She meets it head-on and answers with unflinching honesty.

“Maybe as many times as I’ve thought of you.”





10





Lennix





My father would lecture me until his face turned blue.

He’d send the authorities searching for me.

A man I met only once before tonight, a stranger whose last name I just discovered an hour ago, has me alone on a nearly deserted street in a foreign country at three a.m.

It may not be wise, but I’ll be damned if I would be anywhere else right now. Not safely tucked into my top bunk at the hostel knowing Maxim was out there wanting my company. We’ve been wooing each other with tiny touches and furtive brushes and lingering glances. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand it.

“So you thought of me, too, huh?” His grin is rakish on the handsome “somebody” face. There’s a Kennedy vibe about him. Not just the dark, dappled hair, or the tall, fit body, or the confidence in his shoulders. It’s his ideals and the iron will barely hidden beneath the casual manner. I’m not fooled. This man is not casual. He bleeds ambition. I wonder if he tries to hide it—to blend in with everyone else. It’s laughable to think he could camouflage his driven nature and be something that he’s not. Be domesticated when he is indeed, like Kimba said, a wolf.

“You’re probably already too conceited for me to answer that.” I grin back and start walking again.

“Tell me.” He says it like he means it, grasping my arm gently and halting our steps again. “You thought of me?”

Words rise and fall in my throat. I could tell him that I didn’t realize it until right now, but he was a bar no other guy ever cleared. That it had nothing to do with how handsome he was, or his formidable body or dazzling smile. That the moment he stepped between me and that dog, something inside me recognized him as more than the rest.

I can’t say any of that, so I answer with only a solemn nod. There’s a wild flare in his eyes, like that ambition, that will I see tucked beneath his easy demeanor, roaring to life. He places a hand on either side of my face, his palms to my cheeks, and caresses the sides of my neck.

“Can I kiss you, Lennix?”

The question lights a fiery thread that binds us to one another, and it burns so strong, so hot, that words seem superfluous. How could he not know I want that, too? He has to know I hunger for this kiss, but I nod again.

He slowly backs us up a few feet to where the cobblestone street meets a wall. We’re partially hidden in the shadow this building casts. There’s stone at my back, the Amstel river glittering ahead, and Maxim’s body flush against mine. I feel every hardened ridge of him perfectly fitting to my body. His fingers slide into my hair. He looks down at me, and though his face is painted in shades of night, I see those gem eyes, gleaming bright and green, staring at my mouth.

He doesn’t ask again if he can kiss me. He just does, bending to test the texture of my lips with one swipe of his tongue and then another, like I’m a lollipop he wants to know how many licks it takes to get to the center of. He probes at me, seeking something I want to give. I open and take him in completely, tasting that last glass of whiskey and him. God, him. I want to crawl down his throat. My hands climb his shoulders and rove into the thick hair falling around his nape, all the while I tilt my head to get and give as much as possible.