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Sighing, Jared settled down and closed his eyes.
My father would say you haven’t grown into your skin yet.
He’d barely had time to get used to the feel of his Red strength when he’d been tricked into slavery. So maybe Blaed’s father was right about that. And if thatwas true . . .
Had being enslaved somehow frozen him in that transition between youth and man? If he’d remained in Ranon’s Wood, would he have eased into the more aggressive nature of an adult Red-Jeweled male, the change happening slowly so that what he felt inside was justmore instead ofother ?
Jared opened his eyes and stared at the dark ceiling above him.
Other. Like the wild stranger. The part of himself that had been suppressed for nine years, until rage had let it burst free. Theadult Warlord who kept pushing at him to embrace it, accept it.
He would have to embrace it, would have to accept it, no matter how much he feared it. He needed that strength and aggression if he was going to keep Lia safe.
Two nights from now, the full moon after the autumn equinox would rise. For a Shalador male, it was the night of the dance.
And the dance would be the right time to call the Warlord back to himself.
Chapter Twelve
Settled into one of the dainty chairs that were scattered around her sitting room, Dorothea SaDiablo sipped her morning coffee while she studied her Master of the Guard. She had one leg tucked under her, which made her red-silk dressing gown split enticingly high. Her hair flowed over her shoulders, creating a sleek, black frame for her half-bared br**sts. She looked more like a whore in the most expensive Red Moon house than a High Priestess.
Then again, Krelis thought, all women were whores. Some were just honest about it.
“Have you any news?” Dorothea asked, setting her cup on the low table in front of her. She picked up a warm breakfast pastry shaped like a crescent, broke it in half, then delicately licked the torn edge. And all the time, she watched him.
It took effort not to shift his weight from foot to foot, but he reminded himself that he was no longer a Third Circle guard who didn’t understand the dangers of accepting an aristo witch’s sexual lures.
“Well?” Dorothea put .the half crescent in her mouth, closed her lips around it, pulled it out again. Slowly. While she watched him.
Krelis had to clear his throat before he found his voice. “No, Priestess, I have no news. But even riding the Winds, it takes time to reach Hayll,” he added quickly.
“Of course,” Dorothea purred. “I’m simply concerned that the more time it takes to complete this little task, the more chances she’ll have to slip away.”
He understood the threat beneath the pleasantly spoken words. “She won’t escape, Priestess. I swear it on my life.”
Dorothea smiled brilliantly. “I’m sure you do.”
Krelis’s legs turned to jelly. Before he could think of some way to respond, the door between the bedroom and sitting room opened.
The Warlord toy-boy didn’t look sulky or defiant this morning. And he didn’t have the sated look of a man who had spent a hot night in bed. He looked haunted, numb, as if he’d passed beyond fear sometime in the early hours and was only beginning to feel the tingle of reawakened emotions. The hunger in his eyes was focused on the coffeepot and basket of pastries, not on the barely dressed woman.
Krelis watched Dorothea’s expression change. She reminded him of a satisfied cat who had just remembered the mouse beneath her paw.
“It’s still early, darling,” Dorothea purred. “Go back to bed.”
Flinching, the Warlord obeyed.
After tossing the half crescent back into the basket, Dorothea raised her arms and stretched luxuriously. “There’s nothing quite like staying in bed on a rainy morning, don’t you think?”
For a moment, just a moment, Krelis pictured the three of them tangled in satin sheets and wasn’t sure if he felt revolted or aroused. Then common sense—and a healthy dose of fear—grounded him. Hoping she’d overlook his hesitation, he tried to smile. “It’s a necessary indulgence for Ladies. Unfortunately, the mundane tasks we males perform don’t disappear in rainy weather.”
“And I’ve kept you from your tasks long enough,” Dorothea said with a knowing smile. “I imagine your mother enjoys rainy mornings.”
The verbal knife slipped past all his defenses and left him bleeding. “I imagine so, Priestess,” he said weakly.
A muffled, pitiful weeping came from behind the bedroom door.
Turning toward the sound, Dorothea stroked her br**sts.
Krelis fled.
He walked back to the guards’ quarters, completely unaware that he was getting soaked to the skin.
Aristo word games. Sentences with layers of meaning.
He remembered the mother of his childhood as a lovely woman content with her life; a woman who filled the house with her laughter and singing; a woman whose eyes lit up when his father was in the room.
He remembered the woman who fought with a witch’s passion when the Healer tried to refuse to help Olvan; the woman whose pride and courage had shamed the merchants when they tried to insist that she pay immediately instead of sending her a monthly account as was customary; the woman who looked her neighbors in the eye until they avoided her.
He remembered the woman whose courage finally crumbled after so many years of isolation; the woman who became emotionally bitter and brittle; the woman whose eyes were full of contempt for the man she’d loved; the woman who kept her distance from her son, as if he, too, would place a burden on her that was past bearing.
He remembered the woman who crept back to her family, leaving him to deal with the merchants and face the neighbors, leaving him with that soul-withered husk of a man who spent his days rereading beloved books and never going beyond the garden gate, leaving him to share in his father’s shame for no other reason than because he was male.
And he remembered the woman who brought him back into her family once he’d severed all ties with Olvan; the woman who had looked at him out of dead eyes; the woman who flaunted a string of lovers, who spread her legs for any male who had some position and power.
Oh, yes, he imagined his mother stayed in bed on rainy mornings.
Krelis reached his rooms and stripped out of his wet clothes.
Aristo games. Witches’ games. He still didn’t really know the rules. Despite having ties with the Hundred Families, his people had been countryfolk. He hadn’t been raised to play these games. Dorothea must have known that.
Which made him wonder, for the first time, why she had chosen him to be her Master of the Guard.
