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But time peeled away in a great rush and as had happened a thousand times since his ascension so many centuries ago, the image of his wife in his arms, bleeding her life away, beat the shit out of him.
He understood then what haunted him about Parisa, about how protective he felt toward her, about how the breh-hedden had f**ked him over. He’d lived a relatively secure life in his Italian world. His family had owned a small country house for over a century and had worked their vineyards and olive groves for multiple centuries before that.
So when the enemy came, he’d been unprepared. He wasn’t responsible in the sense that he had failed to do a soldier’s duty. He’d failed because he was a man, not a soldier, and overtaken by superior numbers and weaponry.
But now he was a warrior, seasoned and powerful, and he’d already lost Parisa once while under his protection.
She had been returned to him and in the overwhelming aftermath, the pure heady relief of having her under his roof once more, he’d been unable to stay away from her. He’d needed her in his bed, needed to bury himself inside her, to feel that she was truly alive and safe in his care.
In his care.
She didn’t want to be in his care.
She wanted to be as free of the breh-hedden as he did. She wanted her freedom. He wanted to be free of the guilt of keeping her safe when he knew damn well that was an impossible task. He’d already failed once. He would again.
So … shit.
He could train her, though. He could continue to layer skill upon self-defense skill. He could help her with flying, with the dagger and sword. He could teach her more about her shields and how to withstand Rith’s attempts to enthrall her.
Yes, he could do that.
But would it be enough?
This was a world at war.
Nothing would ever be enough until Greaves was dead and buried and his emerging empire crushed.
But how the hell would that ever happen?
The first path seduces by promise,
The second appeals to pride,
But the worthy path demands surrender.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 16
When Parisa left Antony’s bedroom, she made her way to her original guest room because it was familiar, most of her clothes were still there, and she was really upset.
She got dressed in jeans and a cherry-red silk tank top as her mind spun in circle after circle trying to make sense of the stupid breh-hedden, and the hunky man naked in bed at the end of the villa, and how her body kept crying out for him.
She was reeling and she knew it. She also knew something else. If she didn’t let this out, she’d go crazy. But who could she talk to? Right now, it couldn’t be Antony. The truth was, the whole time he’d been sitting up in bed, he’d shed his sage like a spice grinder; leaving his room had been a supreme act of will.
Her thoughts turned to Havily. Yes, Havily.
She left the guest room and headed to the leather-and-book haven to make her phone call.
Havily, bless her, said she’d be at the villa in five minutes and she’d bring coffee.
While Parisa waited, she opened her voyeur window, thought of Fiona, and made a swift check of the room. The windows were still really light. She closed the window and as before with just a sneak-peek, no pain. Well, at least that was something.
She made her way to the foyer, barefoot, and waited. A few minutes later, there she was, the red-headed beauty, and Parisa’s first ascended girlfriend.
The relief she felt was surprising but if anyone might know what she was going through, it was Havily. Three months ago, Havily had walked through her own private breh-hedden heaven-and-hell combo.
With a mug of coffee in hand, Havily suggested a walk through the formal garden. It was still hot for September, but Parisa didn’t care. It was just great to be with a friend, to be outdoors, to be chatting about the weather, about the flowers, about nothing important.
Parisa walked on as many of the grassy portions of the garden as she could find. Sometimes she had to step onto gravel, but mostly she found lawn to cross.
Havily asked to hear her version of what happened at the Toulouse farmhouse. Parisa told her from beginning to end.
“To have come so close to rescuing Fiona, to have seen her, and to have watched Rith drag her away, you must be really upset.”
“I am. Jean-Pierre almost had him but Rith blocked the trace.”
Havily whistled. “That is a lot of power. As far as I know, none of the Warriors of the Blood can block a trace.” She was quiet for a moment then asked, “How did Jean-Pierre take it? I mean none of the warriors likes to fail … at anything.”
Parisa glanced at her, uncertain what she should say. “I’m not sure if I should tell you, but I have a feeling Marcus will know by the end of the day anyway.”
Havily stopped her with a gentle hand pressed to the inside of her elbow. “What happened?”
Parisa shook her head. “It was the breh-hedden.”
“What?” Havily cried. “You mean, Jean-Pierre?”
Parisa nodded. She let her friend figure the rest out.
Havily gasped. “Fiona? The blood slave?”
“Exactly. Do you remember when I was first voyeuring Fiona in the library? You were there and you were standing next to Jean-Pierre.”
“Yes. Oh, now I remember. He asked if someone was baking something.”
Parisa nodded. “He said he smelled croissants.”
Havily bit her lip. “Croissants?” She chuckled. “Oh, I know it isn’t funny. The breh-hedden has its truly horrible moments, but these scents are ridiculous and so…” She waved her hand in the air.
Erotic. That’s what Parisa thought but she didn’t want to say it aloud. She knew by the faint flush on Havily’s usually creamy cheeks that her thoughts had taken a similar turn. Parisa knew that Marcus, for Havily, smelled of fennel, which Parisa couldn’t imagine being in the least seductive. But then until she’d caught Medichi’s sage scent, never would she have thought to experience such terrible need from a spice reminiscent of poultry and Thanksgiving, for God’s sake.
“Wow,” Havily murmured. “So, the breh-hedden strikes again. Do you realize that makes four warriors? Four!”
Parisa shook her head. She let Havily move into the next garden room beneath an arch bearing a vine covered with lavender flowers that were a unique shape, sort of curled in on themselves.
The next room bore white flowers on varying shrubs and smaller plants: roses, white lantana, even star jasmine that climbed a half dozen trellises at evenly spaced intervals.
