and wear his gold ring and maybe dance with some of the high-bred, unmated females. In the glittering crowd of the aristocracy, he wanted to be acknowledged as a citizen, as one among them, as a male, not a genetic embarrassment.
Only thing missing was a collar, he thought, as he dematerialized to Blay’s.
Chapter Four
Over to the east, in the Brotherhood’s mansion, Cormia waited in the library for the Primale and whoever it was he thought she should spend time with. As she paced from couch to club chair and back, she heard the Brothers talking in the foyer, discussing some upcoming fete of the
The Brother Rhage’s voice boomed. “That bunch of self-serving, prejudicial, light-in-the-loafer-”
“Watch the loafer references,” the Brother Butch cut in. “I have some on.”
“-parasitic, shortsighted motherfuckers-”
“Tell us how you really feel,” someone else said.
“-can take their
The king’s laugh was low. “Good thing you’re not a diplomat, Hollywood.”
“Oh, you gotta let me send a message. Better yet, let’s have my beast go as an emissary. I’ll have him rip up the place. Serve those bastards right for how they’ve treated Marissa.”
“You know,” Butch announced, “I’ve always thought you had half a brain. In spite of what everyone else has said.”
Cormia stopped pacing as the Primale appeared in the library ’s entrance, a glass of port in his hand. He was dressed in what he usually wore to First Meal when he wasn’t teaching: a pair of perfectly tailored slacks, cream tonight; a silk shirt, black per normal; and a black belt, the buckle of which was an elongated, golden H. His square-toed shoes were buffed to a shine and bore the same H as the belt.
Hermes, she thought she’d overheard him say at one meal.
His hair was loose, the waves breaking on his heavy shoulders, some in the front, some down the back. He smelled of what the Brothers called aftershave, as well as the coffee-scented smoke that lingered in his bedroom.
She knew precisely how his bedroom smelled. She had spent a single day lying beside him in his room, and everything about the experience had been unforgettable.
Although now was not the time to remember what had happened between them in that big bed of his when he’d been asleep. Hard enough to be in his company with a whole room between them and people out in the foyer. To add those moments when he’d pressed his naked body to hers-
'Did you enjoy your dinner?” he asked, taking a sip from his glass.
“Yes, indeed. And you, your grace?”
He was about to reply when John Matthew appeared behind him.
The Primale turned to the young male and smiled. “Hey, my man. Glad you’re here.”
John Matthew looked across the library at her and lifted his hand in greeting.
She was relieved by the choice. She didn’t know John any more than she knew the others, but he was quiet during meals. Which made his size not quite as intimidating as it would have been if he’d been loud.
She bowed to him. “Your grace.”
As she straightened, she felt his eyes on her and she wondered what he saw. Female or Chosen?
What an odd thought.
“Well, you two visit.” The Primale’s brilliant golden eyes shifted her way. “I’m on duty tonight, so I’ll be out.”
Fighting, she thought, with a stab of fear.
She wanted to rush over to him and tell him to be safe, but that was not her place, was it? She was barely his First Mate, for one thing. For another, he was the strength of the race and hardly needed her concern.
The Primale clapped John Matthew on the shoulder, nodded at her, and left.
Cormia leaned to the side so she could watch the Primale going up the staircase. His gait was smooth as he went along, in spite of his missing limb and his prosthesis. He was so tall and proud and lovely, and she hated that it would be hours before he would return.
When she glanced back, John Matthew was over at the desk, taking out a small pad and a pen. As he wrote, he held the paper close to his chest, his big hands curling up. He looked much younger than the size of his body suggested while he labored over his letters.
She’d seen him communicate with his hands on those rare occasions he had something to say at the table, and it dawned on her that perhaps he was a mute.
He turned the pad to her with a wince, as if he were not impressed with what he’d written.
She looked up into his eyes. What a lovely blue color they were. “What is the difficulty of your voice? If I may ask.”
Ah… she remembered. The Chosen Layla had said he’d taken such a pledge.
“I see you using your hands to talk,” she said.
“It’s an elegant way of communicating.”
She lifted the skirting of her robe as if to give an example of what is was like where she was from. “Yes. White is all we have.” She frowned. “All we need, rather.”
“We have candles, and we do things by hand.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “Is that bad?”
He shook his head.
She knew the term from the dinner table, but still didn’t understand why temperature would have anything to do with an apparently positive value judgment.
“It’s all I know.” She went over to one of the tall, narrow doors that had glass panes. “Well, until now.”
Her roses were so close, she thought.
John whistled, and she looked over her shoulder at the pad he was holding face-out.
She fingered her robe. “I feel so different from everyone. I am lost in the conversations, though I speak the language.”
There was a long silence. When she glanced back at John, he was writing, his hand pausing every once in a while, as if he were choosing a word. He crossed something out. Wrote some more. When he was finished, he gave the pad to her.
She read the paragraph twice. She wasn’t sure how to respond to the last part. She’d assumed she was tolerated because the Primale had brought her in.
“But… your grace, I thought you had assumed the mantle of silence?” As he flushed, she said, “I’m sorry, that’s not my concern.”
He wrote and then showed her his words.
