Ebony Rising (The Raven Queen's Harem 2)

“So then what?”

“We were brought up here, to The Nead. We worked and studied, refining our skills until we found you again.” He takes my hand. “To answer your question about how we feel about this; we’ve known this day was coming for a long time. We’ve prepared for it. We’ve trained for it. We will do anything for you, Morgan. Anything. Jealousy isn’t an option.”

His words are sweet. Heartbreaking really, but something else bothers me and I finally just ask. “I know I’m supposed to choose my true mate. But what about you all? Is it just an obligation? A duty? Or does love not matter in all of this?”

He laughs and shakes his head. Lifting my hand to his mouth, he kisses my palm. “You own our hearts, dear Queen. Our minds and our souls. The guardians not chosen will break into a thousand pieces when you finally pick the one, but it’s a risk we are willing to take. It’s a risk we must take.”

“This is just so freaking weird.”

The sky is fully dark now and the city casts a glow over the garden. I take a deep breath, absorbing the flowers and trees. Absorbing Sam. Even though our time together has been chaste—nothing more than a few kisses--I feel a sense of peace from our talk. Our bond is more than sex. My release comes from my mind as well as my body. I look at the handsome, sweet man next to me and for the first time since I learned about needing a mate, I think I feel a little closer to a decision than ever before.

Chapter 13

Clinton

The sliver blade glints when I hand it to Morgan. Her eyes widen and the surprise that graced her lips shifts into something different—the curve of a small smile.

“Damien made this for me?”

“Yes. For your training.”

She looks up from the sword, her eyebrow lifting in question over her dark, curious eyes. “You want me to fight with a sword. Like a knight or something? Wouldn’t it look a little weird for me to carry a weapon like this?”

“When—if—the Darkness succeeds, Morgan, the ways of the present will fall away.” I press my hands over hers, feeling the magic in the sword rush from the hilt through her skin and then mine. “The enemies you’ll fight won’t go down easily. This will help you win.”

“So to beat the Darkness, which we don’t even know exactly how that will present itself, I need physical training, runes painted on my body, magical charms,” she glances at the ring on her finger, “and now this? You’re scaring me, Clinton.”

“Good.”

I slip behind her and maneuver my hands around her hips and back onto the blade. Her body molds to mine and I inhale her sweet scent. “You’ll want to hold it like this.”

I show her but it quickly becomes apparent that her innate abilities are strong. She holds it perfectly, cutting through the air with precision. Her hair is pulled back but wild tendrils curl around her face, and her cheeks are bright with excitement.

“How does it feel?” I ask, taking a step back.

“Good,” she says with a hint of surprise.

I walk across the room and grab my own weapon, a similar sword off the rack on the wall. When I return to the mat, we square off. “Are you ready for this?”

“Strangely,” she says, gripping the handle, “I think I am.”

I’m skilled in the art of warfare. The gods created me from the ash of the strongest, most cunning soldiers in the Morrigan’s war. I know her moves as well as I know my own. I’ve shadowed her from the sky and the ground. I’ve slept next to her soul. But today I have height and weight on her. I have experience she hasn’t even begun to unravel—yet she stands before me with the darkest glint in her eye and I know I should be careful.

The tip of her sword shines against the light and she smiles wickedly before lunging to the left and then spinning, throwing me off balance. I straighten and tilt my head.

“It’s like that then?” I feel the surge of adrenaline between us and can’t take my eyes off the way her chest heaves with excitement.

Her only reply is to lick her lips before she goes on the attack once again, her blade slicing toward me.

I bring down my sword and we duel.

Chapter 14

Morgan

The tip of the blade points at Clinton’s throat. In a blink, he could be dead. One slice and his blood would spill. I’m reveling in my skills when he moves beneath me, sweeping my legs, sending me tumbling to the ground. He moves fast—quick as lightning—and before I can think he towers over me, clasping a hand around my wrist. The sword stays tight in my grip, the magic coursing from the metal, but Clinton squeezes with a mighty force. I grunt bitterly before finally dropping the blade.

The heavy metal is replaced by Clinton’s hand and fingers and in seconds I’m pinned to the ground, not with a sharp sword but by the overpowering man.