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He pinched his lips together. Nausea swirled in his gut.
He focused on her. She looked like a goddess with her long blond hair streaming in ringlets all the way to her waist. She wore a long gown, somewhat nubby and rough in appearance, perhaps handwoven, very beige. Her eyes were large and a light goldish green. Her eyelashes were light-colored as well, which added to her almost angelic look. Her chin had a faint dimple, just as he remembered.
And her scent was much stronger now that he stood beside her. His body reacted, wholly inappropriately, and as he turned to face her, as her meadow and wildflower scent continued to pummel his senses, he began to grow aroused. The muscles of his thighs, abdomen, and chest flexed and relaxed, then trembled in need. But all that sudden physical sensation, like he needed to take her to bed now, caused a new wave of nausea to flow.
What was he going to do? He’d never seen such a spare room with so little he could use.
“You’re going to be ill.”
He felt the clamping of his cheeks. He nodded.
She held out her hand and a wooden bowl appeared. “I’ll get into trouble for this.”
He took the bowl, turned away from her, and puked his guts out. Great, just great.
I have heard it said that freedom is the ability to do what you want, when you want to do it. But I have come to believe that true freedom is the ability to help other people do what they want, when they want to do it. But then, I am a hopeless idealist.
—Memoirs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 7
Marguerite was alone in the cabin and had been for a while. Thorne was out hunting down Diallo, that tall gorgeous black man.
Now, there was a fine piece of …
Okay, she needed to keep her thoughts pure, at least while she was sharing a bed with Thorne.
She sat on the brown leather couch, cradling a cup of hot, hot coffee, wondering whether she should just take off. Everything about being here felt like another cell into which she was being shoved one push at a time and without a say.
She’d awakened to Thorne spooning her, which of course had led to an early-morning romp. All those wonderful chemicals were still jumping around in her veins, shouting in alternate fits of air-boxing, Yippee! and Stay with Thorne, you f**king idiot!
And yes, she’d enjoyed it, but she had this really bad feeling that the longer she stayed shacked up with Thorne, the harder it would be to leave and get on with her real life.
She sipped her coffee and stared through the bank of windows out at some beautiful tall fir trees. But that didn’t help. The sight reminded her that she wasn’t where she wanted to be.
She lowered her chin and scowled as she took another sip. The cabin had a small kitchen with a decent coffeemaker and cupboard stocked with Seattle’s Best. Apparently, the colony had generators or something, which supplied the homes with some electricity. So yeah, she’d turned on the coffeemaker and sighed when it lit up.
She didn’t need more than coffee, not first thing, although her stomach seemed a little more rumbly than usual. Probably nerves. She’d always had coffee in the Convent. Sister Quena had at least given her devotiates a big cup to start off the morning. Come to think of it, coffee at breakfast was about the only nice thing the woman had ever done.
Whatever.
The trouble was, she had the willies again, irritating little shivers that kept climbing all over her back and down her sides, bugging the shit out of her wing-locks.
Ever since Thorne had related his belief that Owen Stannett was behind last night’s attack, he’d been on her mind big-time. If he’d hired some death vampire mercenaries to get his job done, would he recruit another couple of teams and try again?
As she rolled the warm mug between her palms, she tried to figure out exactly what she was feeling, why she was so uneasy. Yes, she had reasons—Stannett being on the hoof, was one—but something more was going on, something inexplicable, something big, something within her. She rubbed her itchy back against the couch.
Maybe Thorne was right. Maybe she needed to just settle down for a minute and confront the fact that she was obsidian flame, whatever the hell that might mean for her in the coming days, weeks, and months.
Her power was emerging, vibrating deep into her bones, making her wing-locks swell and retract and, yes, itch.
She took a deep breath. It was either take deep breaths or throw the coffee cup against the window. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want any of it. She didn’t want obsidian flame or her Seers power or any of her advanced powers.
She could even go into the darkening like Havily and Endelle, something Thorne didn’t know she could do. She was a smelter of preternatural power. Maybe it was a good thing for the world she lacked ambition as well, because sometimes she had the sense she had as much power as Endelle. Aw, shit.
She had to get out of this cabin, leave this colony. She had to get rid of her association with Thorne. She wanted a new life, a simpler life, a life with one goal: shagging a bunch of hunky men.
There was just one problem—that stupid Seers gift of hers had started crashing down on her and leaving her wide open to who the hell knew what. And Thorne had been right: If the enemy had been around last night … Stannett, for instance … she’d be locked up right now, a new ankle guard around her leg, trapped in a cell probably forever.
She took a few more deep breaths until she calmed down.
She set her mug on the massive coffee table in front of her and fluffed her damp hair. Well, that was something positive she could focus on. She loved this cut. If she wore it loose, it clung to her neck and face in nice wisps. If she wanted to go clubbing, she could use a curling iron and create a nice sexy cloud of white. A heap of dark red lipstick and she was good to go.
But when the hell could she go clubbing? Especially since she’d looked up and down the lane of this colony and all she’d found were rustic cabins, a few nice houses, and a whole bunch of farms. Maybe this was some kind of ascended Amish colony. There were vegetable and flower gardens everywhere, and she could hear kids out there playing, yelling, crying, all of which supported her theory. A few dogs barked. This was mountain-based suburbia. It didn’t exactly lead her to the conclusion she could continue her forays into freedom here.
Unless there was a bar somewhere down the road.
A girl could only hope.
A knock on the door put her on her feet. Thorne wouldn’t have knocked—or death vampires, either, for that matter. Yeah, she was jumpy, even with all that mossy mist keeping the colony hidden. But the attack last night meant the lid was already blown off this little piece of Eden.
