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“Well. No worries, Brother,” Ander said with a sad, bloody smile. “Can’t change what’s been written. We can only play our parts out until the end.”
Fadon’s breaths came hard as he willed himself to lower the blood rage his brother had triggered. He kept his lips tightly pressed, lest he say anything.
“Goodnight, Fadon.” Ander saluted him and tossed the corkscrew in the air like a jester, catching it perfectly at the pointed end with two fingers before leaving the room.
“Fuck!” Fadon hissed. His mind felt like it had been raked through with a pitchfork. Days of hard traveling, the mysterious note made in his name, Mari’s reaction to Sierra, Demos’ blasted never-ending presence, a rogue Owl faction, and a morose dolt-headed brother.
Fadon rubbed his face. He didn’t know whether to go visit Jon, who he’d been told was on the mend and who he could share his frustrations with, or go to bed.
Either way, both his room and Jon’s were in the same hall, and he figured his feet would make the decision for him.
Two guards stood on the landing at the stairs of the third floor. Fadon nodded at them. Another two stood sentry a few feet by the door next to his brother’s. But when he passed the doorway, he paused. The door was open.
Inside, Sierra was speaking with one of Mari’s maids at the foot of the bed. She was dressed in a dove-gray dressing gown, its silk length hugging her curves, sweeping the floor. He could make out her bare toes. His eyes traveled up to the mass of silver and white waves of hair that reached her ample ass.
He swallowed, his mouth thick with saliva. He could smell her from where he stood. There was no mistaking her scent, even though the smell of lilac oil, rose hips, and vanilla mingled prominently.
She turned her head and noticed him.
Ongar, he’d have to acknowledge her now.
Her smile was polite, but he knew she was tired. “Captain. Was there something you needed?”
She had no idea, he thought.
The maid curtsied, leaving the room. Fadon made room for her to leave, then braced a hand on the door jam, the oak feeling substantial, anchoring him.
“No, my lady. Just wish to say goodnight.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, thank you. And you. It will be nice to sleep in a bed again.” Her smile went right through him, setting his blood on fire while simultaneously making him feel as small as a boy, vulnerable and shy.
That. That right there, Fadon thought, had to be the Omega effect, as he called it now. He made a note to speak with Orion about it. But then he remembered his promise to Sierra about arranging a meeting with the man, the House Healer, and remembered what had prompted Fadon to do so. She’d wanted to know what Claiming meant, for fuck’s sake. He was glad he had interrupted his sister’s explanation back in the parlor. Gods knew what would have come out of her mouth.
“Indeed,” Fadon answered tightly. “Well, goodnight, Princess.”
He quietly shut the door, exhaled his held breath, and went straight to his room, where he threw off his clothes and, for the first time in years it seemed, fucked his hand with a fury, Sierra’s name on his lips. After the fourth time, when all trace of want had left and his seed was spent, he felt like himself again, and only then did he fall onto his bed, where sleep took him under.
Chapter 31
Sierra
I made sure I had plenty of time to spare before our meeting with the Mor’s physician, Orion. Over breakfast, I’d asked Fadon about Jon. He told me his Second had been injured and was now recovering, having recently been moved to his room. When I asked if we could visit him before our meeting with the healer, he agreed.
I couldn’t help but blame myself for Jon’s condition, not to mention the loss of Fadon’s men. As much as I wished it, I’d never gotten to know the men in the envoy, since they always held themselves apart from me on our journey, but I remembered their names and had recited them aloud last night in bed, asking the gods to watch over them in death.
But it was Lucinda who I’d shed my tears for night after night, last night especially. The pain of her death and the why of it was a constant, sharp ache in my heart. Lucinda, who hadn’t wanted to come, who’d had some kind of prophetic knowing that something would go wrong, and me, waving her fear away.
I knew I would blame myself for the rest of my days at having abandoned her, leaving her amongst strangers who, even though they had been under the influence of something stronger themselves, had ultimately been the cause of her death. There were moments where I couldn’t possibly bear the thought of what she had gone through.
On our journey from Syrus Crossing, Fadon had been merciful in answering my questions, had patiently reassured me that she hadn’t suffered as much as my imagination could conjure. He’d told me she had died instantly from hitting her head near the cave’s rocky entrance, having slipped in the snow in her effort to escape.
Knowing she was even outside, with all that chaos around her, because she needed to escape… it didn’t matter how she had died. It was more the reason why.
Because of me. Because of my stupid blood. Because of this body I had been fated to have. I felt like a dangerous, walking poison. I had been the cause of six deaths and almost the death of Jon and myself.
I had cried when Fadon told me what had happened and cried harder when he got to the part of burying her. The Ongahri didn’t keep their dead in the ground, he’d said. It wasn’t their way. But he’d known that Lucinda, being like most of the population of Titus, was a believer in the Owl Order’s creed that the body was a temple, even in death. He had buried her himself once the ground had allowed it and had said a prayer over her grave, marking it with white holly.
Fadon had been more than respectful in his telling, his words sincere. I knew that Lucinda’s death had affected him, knew how much it troubled him. When he had finished, I wanted to throw myself in his arms in gratitude, but instead I simply grabbed his hand. He was a good man, I’d told him. And I thanked him for his kindness and for the consideration he had shown her in death.
