A Curse of Blood & Stone (Fate & Flame 2)

Romeria

“Who were you?” I examine the stranger’s reflection staring back at me in the small vanity mirror. Her blue eyes are as pale as an early-morning sky, her cheekbones high and jutting, her lips plump, the top curved like a heart. She appeared the moment I removed my ring and has watched quietly as the uncomfortable pins-and-needles buzz of these caster affinities vibrates along every limb of her body.

Learn to compartmentalize? It’s taking every ounce of my determination just to tolerate it, and several breaks in between.

Slipping my ring back on, I breathe a sigh of relief as the unpleasantness dissolves into silence and the familiar face appears again. This face—mine—is a welcomed illusion in a world where I feel more alone than I did as Korsakov’s thief.

The sun set many hours ago, and Gesine hasn’t yet returned. I venture over to the window to search for her. The warriors have quieted, many settling down wherever they can find a snug space, sated by ale and meat and mortal blood. The ones on watch lurk in shadows somewhere unseen. Elisaf hasn’t returned. He must still be on that task Zander mentioned.

Where Zander is … I have no idea. My chest tightens, thinking about what he might be doing with that tributary right now.

The other window in my room shows a different angle of the stables.

I spot Gesine right away and slap a hand over my mouth to stifle my giggle. She’s perched on a wooden barrel in front of a red-haired warrior whose pants are pushed down to his thighs, her delicate hands hovering over his bare ass.

I remember that one griping on the way here about taking an arrow. His injury hadn’t been deemed severe last night, but I guess a day in the saddle must have changed that.

A soft feminine moan pulls my attention away from Gesine and the injured warrior. There’s no mistaking that sound for what it is.

Oh God, please no.My blood rushes to my ears as dread builds, coaxing me farther out my window, desperate to know whether Zander will finish breaking my heart tonight.

A couple sits in an empty wagon. I can only see the tops of their heads from here, but the nearby lantern casts enough light to show Jarek’s telltale braids as he buries his face in the crook of the woman’s neck.

The wave of relief that hits almost buckles my knees. Wherever Zander is and whatever he’s doing, at least he isn’t doing it right below my room.

I should move away, but my curiosity keeps me anchored. I’ve seen these Islorians feed on numerous occasions now—Zander, the night I discovered what he was, at the Goat’s Knoll when we rushed past cubbies and corners of various salacious acts, at the horrifying royal repast where they demonstrated the savagery they are capable of.

In truth, I expected something akin to the last with these legionaries, who seem so cold and abrasive. But Jarek is surprisingly tender, one hand collecting the tributary’s lengthy hair, the other splayed across her lower back, holding her in place as she straddles his lap. Everything about his demeanor is calm and gentle.

The bodice of her dress is unfastened and sits low, exposing her chest. She sighs, her hands wandering over his broad shoulders, along his cut arms, around his lengthy braids.

Much like the tributary that night with Zander.

Jarek shifts away from her neck with feathered kisses along her exposed shoulder. I can’t see the bite marks from here, but I know they’ll be nothing more than pinpricks, these Islorian fangs so much more delicate and needlelike than the daaknar’s. Unintelligible whispers carry, along with her soft giggle and his—a sensual, deep chuckle that, for once, carries no derision—and then their lips find each other’s in an intimate kiss that is almost … sweet.

Her hands disappear between them where they fumble—with buttons, material, and body parts—before their forms double over into the wagon, shifting and wriggling. They both release deep groans.

My cheeks flush as they rock against each other, Jarek’s hands seizing her hips to guide her movements.

The Legion won’t take what isn’t offered, but if it is offered …

I’m on the verge of ducking away from the window when the tributary sits up, leaving Jarek lying below her as she rides him with enthusiasm. But Jarek’s eyes are not on her. They’re locked on me, leaning out my window. He shows no hint of surprise. It’s as if he knew I was here all along.

I jump out of view.

A deep, mocking chuckle curls into my room.

It’s well after midnight when I give up on sleep and venture downstairs to find Gesine.

The interior of Lord and Lady Danthrin’s manor presents hospitality that its owners do not. The stone walls are lined with heavy velvet drapery, flickering candle sconces that cast a romantic light, and a gallery of colorful oil-painted canvasses. Most are of landscapes, but a few offer portraits in surreal likeness, including two sizable images of the manor’s owners.

I glower at Lord Danthrin’s beady eyes as they watch me descend the stairs into the foyer.

The young woman who escorted Lady Danthrin sits in a chair knitting at the bottom of the stairs. She scrambles out of her seat when she sees me, setting the needles and wool on a side table. “Your Highness.” She curtsies. “Is there a problem? Were you calling for me?” Panic fills her face as she glances at the panel of bells.

“There’s no problem.” Not that she can help me with, anyway. I hesitate. “Has the king come in?” Maybe he’s asleep in the bedroom next door, and I somehow missed the creaky wooden floor announcing his approach?

“Not since I’ve settled here, and I’ve been here for hours. He would have passed had he come in.”