have a funny way of turning things around. My partner is now Deacon Sorcha Faris.”
“I thought I recognized her.” His mother let out a long breath. “Hers is a face hard to forget.”
“She has a certain”—Merrick paused and then looked up with a slight smile—“way of doing things.”
“Just don’t fall in love with her!” Japhne flicked the tip of his nose.
“Never!”
One of her hands cupped his face. “What I really want to know, my dearest son, are you happy?”
No one had asked him that—not in all his time in the Order—and it was easy for the unconsidered reply to slip out from his mouth. “Absolutely—this is what I always wanted.”
“But you gave up your name—”
“If they knew who I was, Mother, who my father was and that he was possessed, they would never have taken me.” Guilt, the kind of guilt he had first felt when he spoke his new name to the Presbyter of the Young, surged through him.
She bit her lip and nodded. “It seems we are both caught in a similar trap, then. The Court of Chioma is even more riddled with conspiracy than Da Nanth. If any of the other wives found out you were my son, they would use it to their advantage.”
Her voice trailed off. For a moment mother and son sat there, aware how completely they were snared in their past. Finally, Japhne levered herself off the bed. “I must get back to the women’s quarters—I cannot afford to be missed.” Her hand described a circle on her belly. “The cantrips said this little one is a boy.” Her smile was uncertain. “And heir.”
Her son the Deacon squeezed her fingers. They both were perfectly aware of the consequences—both good and bad—of giving any Prince an heir.Finally she bent and pressed her lips to Merrick’s forehead. “I do appreciate your new name though, my son. I know your grandmother would be very happy that you are carrying it forward.”
He pressed his eyelids closed, feeling the sharp prick of tears against them. “Will I see you again?” He sounded just like that boy in a run-down castle, with his parents the twin pillars of his world.
“Of course.” She stood at the door, shadow hiding her round belly. “Onika has many questions for you and your partner—I will try and get him to keep you here as long as I can.” Then she blew him a kiss, glanced once out the door and slipped into the corridor.
Merrick stayed where he was, seated on the floor, uncertain what to make of this revelation. He would soon have a half sibling in line for the throne of Chioma—but that was nothing compared to the emotional stomach punch of his own guilt. Tonight he feared would be a restless one.
Sorcha sat on the wide, luxurious bed and felt her nervousness sink its teeth into her. Keeping her arms wrapped around her knees, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been rejected by both men: the Bond was silent, and Raed was nowhere to be seen.
She jerked her Gauntlets out from her belt and stared down at them. Once she had thought all the answers lay in those Runes—that the Order was the great protector. No longer. It had been years since Deacon Sorcha Faris had cried with despair, but now she was perilously close. She had never felt so out of her depth, plunged into a principality that was unlike any of the ones she knew. Floundering was not a sensation she enjoyed in any capacity. And yet she was doing it twice over.
While Sorcha had not thrown herself into his arms, a portion of her was rather upset that he had not done the same to her. Ridiculous, but she would have known what he was thinking.
From her pocket she pulled out the ring he had given her. It remained unknown if it were a promise or just a keepsake that he had boxes of and cast to women who lay down with him throughout all of Arkaym.
Not for the first time did Sorcha think that she was too old for so much turmoil.
With an aggravated groan, she stripped off her cloak and flung it over a chair. At least she could get some sleep tonight. This separate and guarded wing of rooms only for the women was a strange idea, but she would be grateful for an undisturbed rest. These thick mud walls ate up sound even more completely than they swallowed the heat.
Sorcha was just unbuckling her belt when she heard a scraping at the window. Snatching up her knife, the Deacon padded to the shutters. They were three stories up, but assassins were always a possibility in any Court.
The shutter moved a little, and as Sorcha slipped into the shadows, she saw the tip of a knife work its way between them to lift the latch. Then they were flung open, and only the flare of the Bond stopped her from plunging the knife into the back of Raed Syndar Rossin.
“Hello there.” He swung his legs over the lip of the window and smiled as if he’d happened upon her in the street and not climbed three stories into a sealed harem.
A thousand possible answers to his jaunty greeting flashed across Sorcha’s mind, but none of them mattered as much as the fact that he was there—in the room. Instead, she dropped the knife to the floor, stepped forward and grabbed him by the tunic. Heips were on his immediately, and they were sweeter and better than she remembered. He tasted of leather, cigars and sex. All other concerns and fears evaporated.
Raed kissed her back and pulled her in tightly against him so she could feel his sudden rush of excitement. For a long, heady moment the Deacon indulged her pent-up frustrations and desires.
Then Sorcha shoved him back—though taking her lips from his felt incredibly wrong. Trapped in contrary emotions, she fell back on what she knew—outrage. “What are you doing here?”
Raed cocked his head with a grin on his bruised lips. “What am
“
He sighed. “I have no choice—I got word that my sister has been taken—and the trail led us here.”
“To Orinthal?”
“To Orinthal.” Raed picked up her hand and kissed her palm. The feel of his lips and the brush of his beard on her skin sent shudders running into Sorcha’s core.
“I am sorry to hear it.” The anger was melting out of her. “Can I help?”
“I am sure you can.” Now Raed pressed her hand against his chest, so she could feel that his heart was racing. “But not tonight.”
Sorcha could tell him about the spectyr, the visions and everything—but it would make no difference—not to this moment.
The Deacon ran her thumb over the line of his lips, feeling them curve upward under the delicate touch. Something about him was so beautiful to her.
“You make such a fool of me.” It was the truth, but she was half laughing.
His smile, the secret smile she only saw when he was alone with her, struck her through. His hazel eyes gleamed in the candlelight.
“As you do me, Deacon Sorcha Faris.” Then he kissed her again, slower this time, but full of the same hunger.
Raed was alive and so was she—there was nothing wrong with remembering that. Under her fingers his skin felt so exquisite that she wanted more. She wanted it all. They stumbled, fumbled with clothes; it had been so long, so many weeks, so many months. Sorcha was hungry, and she could feel that hunger in him too. Need would have to be satisfied before anything else.
“No swinging bed this time.” Raed’s laugh was low and throaty and set all the deep places inside her on fire.
“We’ll make do,” she replied before fastening her mouth on the warm, soft spot on his neck.
He groaned when she nipped him there. “I am glad these walls are thick,” she went on, her hands tugging on his belt buckle. The jingle of it hitting the ground was deeply erotic.
Raed’s hands buried in her hair, tugging her tightly against his mouth—the sting of it was sweet. In return, she raked her fingers down his back. The most basic part of her wanted to mark him, claim him, make him say that he was hers, just as he had taken all of her without so much as a by-your-leave.
