Shadows and Shade Box Set

by Amanda Cashure

  The guy launches himself over the back of the nearest couch and straightens in front of me.

  “Yours?” he asks, holding the box out.

  “Never seen it before,” I say.

  “Is this why you were under my bed?”

  “Nope,” I shake my head.

  “It was,” he begins, a lopsided little smile filling his features. “Very entertaining.”

  He sits down on the edge of the table, putting himself at eye-level with me.

  “I wouldn’t have made you do anything. You know that, right?” he asks.

  “We’ve had this conversation,” I say, because I’m pretty sure he’s apologized twice and one of those times wasn’t because Pax had ordered him to say sorry.

  “This,” he says, waving at the bowl. “Stinks. You score zero points in the art of leaving no evidence at the scene of the crime.”

  “You distracted me,” I counter.

  “I only played with you that day because you were resisting me. Silvari like to try to resist me. Sabers like to think they can, but even the other Elite fall to me if I want them too.”

  “Thinking pretty big of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “No, he’s telling the truth, lass. There’s only a handful of people in the world that he can’t influence. The Crown’s one of them. The position gives him immunity,” Pax says, coming back into the room with a shirt in his hand and a pair of sleep pants over his shoulder.

  He drops them both on the edge of the bench, right beside a jug of fresh water.

  “Shade,” Roarke says, his voice pulling my gaze away from Pax.

  I swallow hard, twice. Roarke’s hand lifts, as if he’s going to cup my cheek, but when his hand is about to brush against my skin, he hesitates.

  “Just because I won’t allure you into doing things doesn’t mean I don’t want to,” he says softly. Each word feels like a spark of electricity just under my skin.

  Something hits Roarke in the back of the head, hard.

  A boot.

  Pax threw his boot.

  Mr. Allure lets out a hiss of pain and rubs his crown.

  “Go have a shower,” Pax growls.

  Roarke stands up, stretching out the muscles in his arms.

  “And take your box with you,” Pax adds, before his brother can move.

  “Wait,” I say, grabbing Roarke’s arm before he can move.

  Roarke looks at the spot where my fingers wrap around his skin, and I pull my hand back before he has a chance to pull away – or not. With Roarke, I’m never sure.

  “What do you mean I was resisting you but other people can’t?”

  “Don’t go thinking highly of yourself, Kitten. It was just a little bit,” he says, highlighting how little by creating a gap between his thumb and forefinger.

  A tiny sliver of a gap.

  Then he leaves and it’s just me, Pax, and the gentle crackle of the fire.

  “Wait, the fire’s going,” I say.

  “Those servants you were trying to murder would have lit it,” Pax says.

  “They’ve been in here?” I demand, and I should regret that instantly, but I’ve got a feeling that the regret part’s going to kick in after I say some more stupid shit.

  “Unless you want to start cleaning our rooms, washing our laundry, polishing our windows, then yes – servants do have to come in here. We weren’t here, the wards were down, but now that we’re back they’ll have to get permission to enter.”

  “But not girls...” Yep – that’s stupid thing number two.

  “Always girls.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “You’d rather more guys? You’ve already got four of us.”

  “Clean your own damned rooms then,” I demand, and he shakes his head.

  “Until we get an assignment, we work on a rotation of training, classes, tournaments, and duties. We don’t have time to be washing sheets.”

  “What about me? What am I going to do while you guys are being Elite Sabers?”

  “We’ve been talking about that –”

  “Of course you have. It’s annoying that you guys do a lot of talking while I’m asleep.”

  He flashes me a grin.

  “When we can, one of us will stay here with you. When we can’t, you’ll come with us as our servant.”

  The last time I was following them as a servant, people died. That scream still echoes in my soul.

  Shrill and desperate.

  Killian lets himself back into the suite.

  No knocking.

  No hesitation.

  No clothes.

  He stops mid-stride, giving me a cursory glance before setting his eyes on Pax.

  “What did you say to her?” Killian asks.

  “What did I say?” Pax asks, and both of them turn to me.

  I try to keep my eyes on Pax, because Killian is only wearing a towel. The guy hasn’t even bothered to dry his hair, and water drops trace his forehead, some getting redirected along the length of the scar on his face and an equally nasty scar that crosses in the opposite direction from almost shoulder to hip. The man is all muscle, right down to the ‘v’ that vanishes into his towel. Not lean like Roarke, who I’ve only woken once to catch in his braies. That guy’s got the kind of muscle mass that makes me think his best weapon is his brain. Muscle – yes. Bulk – no. And definitely not the kind of bulk Seth has, and that guy made sure I woke up to his ass every morning. When you look at Seth, it’s hard to believe he can jump and swing off anything, never mind everything.

  Killian chuckles. Whatever he sensed on me when he walked in, he seems to be over it now.

  As he walks into his bedroom, I manage to find my tongue.

  “Is the…” I swallow hard. “Is he still here?” I ask.

  “Nope, the Crown lives in the Black Castle. Two days solid ride.”

  “Then why was he here last week? He rode for two days just to be in my life the minute I arrive.”

  “He was here for us,” Pax says. “And he always gets here quicker than should be possible. That has nothing to do with you.”

  I take a slow, measured breath, because of course the Crown wasn’t here for me. He was here for them. I should feel relieved about that.

  “He came to put us into tournament,” Roarke says, wandering in with only a towel on and his long hair roughed up.

  He doesn’t stop to chat though, bee-lining to his own bedroom. Which gives me a rather long view of his passing ass. I mean, it’s covered by a towel but it’s still…

  Yum.

  He even has back dimples, just above his towel line.

  We all showered in the stables, but clearly, stable-showers are nothing compared to Elite Saber showers. These guys are even making the suite smell good, taking over some of the moldy taco smell.

  “And how’d that work out?” I ask.

  “He enjoys the pain and the blood, on a level deeper than his Seed goes. Ours, theirs, doesn’t matter who gets hurt, he always wins,” Pax says.

  Seth arrives last, and before the front door has even closed, Pax motions for me to follow him. Not that I move.

  “Do you need us to come?” Seth asks, a bounce in his step and a grin on his face.

  I haven’t put together where it is Pax is going yet, so I am completely missing the joke.

  “No, they’ll listen to me,” Pax says, pointing back at me. “You need to come too, unless you don’t want a shower tonight?”

  I jump to my feet and hurry to catch up, because you don’t have to ask me twice when a shower is involved. I’m already imagining hot water – something the stables didn’t have – and soap. The guys scrubbed down fine, taking it in their stride as they lived a little rough for a week. And they still smelled good. I mean, I can make just plain water do its job on me too – but nothing beats smelling like soap.

  “Wait,” Pax says at the bathroom door, pushing the thing open and filling the space. “Out,” he booms, just a touch of Alpha in his tone.


  Out is exactly what every single Saber inside does. All guys – apparently Saber showers aren’t a male-female share deal. And apparently if an AlphaSeed says ‘out’, you obey. Even if you’re wet, naked, lacking a towel, or half dressed. Six men stream past Pax and vanish around the corner, with me trying to look anywhere but at them. These are Elite showers, and from memory there was only one Elite team in the castle. Another must have returned, and showering must be a social activity for them.

  Sabers are weird.

  “In,” Pax says to me, none of the Alpha-ness in his tone.

  “Yes, boss.” I obey.

  The first notable thing is the steam. Delicious, smells like cedar and sage, steam. There are no shelves for standardized clothing, but there are towels. Three of them stacked next to each shower cubicle. I wouldn’t even call these things cubicles – they’re almost rooms all on their own.

  Someone clears their throat.

  Standing at attention on the other side of the room is a rather exhausted looking servant. A guy.

  “Out,” Pax repeats and the guy drops the bar of soap with a loud clatter and vanishes out the door.

  “You know you can use full sentences, right?”

  “Shower,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling.

  Does the guy enjoy the effect he has?

  He flicks the lock on the main door and claims the first shower in the row. I head to the last one, hesitating until it’s clear he’s comfortable where he is.

  Nope – not entirely true. I’m hesitating, trying to convince myself that I’m comfortable where I am. An uncomfortable twist in my stomach suggests that my cubicle is far too far away, and that the cubicle right next to his would be the better option.

  Or his actual cubicle.

  Not going into his shower with him, Shade. I shake my head to try and clear the idea.

  Bad idea. Pretty sure he’d push me right back out, and he wouldn’t be gentle about it either.

  I step inside my own cubicle and strip down; everything except the bandage on my arm. It’s been changed, but never when Pax was around. So taking it off now would probably be a bad idea. Not sure why, but I’m also not up for this particular argument right now.

  So I leave that on as I explore my shower cubicle, and order myself not to describe the space as lonely. A shelf has been built into the smooth stonework at the back and is lined with stuff. There’s no other way to describe it – just stuff. Round stuff, little square stuff, a bowl with liquid stuff in it. It all smells great – so, not bad stuff.

  On the scale of every shower I’ve ever had, I’d give the estate washhouse a three: warm water, privacy, and soap on the first day of every month. The stables was only a three-and-a-half, as the lack of hot water and towels was only balanced out by the bodyguard at the door. The servants’ showers hit a four, warm water – that was strangely laced with something nasty – but the addition of clean clothing was worth the extra half-point.

  And this shower, reserved for the Elite, just lifted the bar from out of ten to out of a hundred, and I’d still give it a one-hundred-and-fifty.

  When I do turn the water off, every part of me feels shiny and smooth.

  I reach around outside the shower for a towel, which doesn’t actually cover much given they’re designed for the distance between a guy’s hips and their knees and not the distance between a girl’s chest and preferably also her knees. My knees.

  Nope – this just covers enough to leave the color of my ass a mystery.

  Pax tactfully avoids looking at anything as I step out of the shower. He’s leaning back against the wall, his own towel on. He has his shirt and sleep shorts in his hand – meaning they’re not for him at all. They’re for me.

  “Here,” he says, holding them out.

  “Because I can’t wear my own clothes?”

  “All of yours would be dirty.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I can count. Put these on,” he orders.

  So, I leave the bathroom.

  Just walk out before he can get to the door and stop me. The hall’s empty, and I stride purposefully toward the suite. Trying to channel the calm and confident movements that all four of them have, all different but all strong.

  Where’s the part of me that’s strong?

  Straightening my back, I take a few deep breaths and slam into a wall.

  A damn bubble wall.

  I groan in pain, the bathroom door opening behind me. Pax wasn’t following me. He let me walk off because he knew I couldn’t bloody get far.

  He’s chuckling. I managed to make the commander chuckle. Great start to my newly discovered self-confidence. He has his clothes in his hand as he strides past, and I have to jog to keep the wall from smacking into my back. Holding my towel in place and pinching my nose against the pain.

  And that’s how I walk into the suite.

  Immediately getting Roarke’s attention as the guy steps out of his bedroom.

  “What happened to her?” Roarke asks, a thread of concern in his voice.

  Just a thread though, because the guy’s smiling at me.

  Killian puts a hand on his shoulder and shoves him back into his room.

  “You didn’t take her some clothes?” Seth asks.

  Pax throws his handful of clothes at Seth before saying, “She thought she’d be a rebel.”

  “I don’t mind,” Roarke says from in his room.

  I don’t have a room. It’s pretty obvious, but still a fact that had evaded me. Now where the bralls am I going to get dressed?

  “Use my room,” Seth says, tossing the clothes at me. “If you want. You can stay in the towel though. It’s definitely your choice.”

  Damned right. Where I get dressed should be my choice. What I wear and how it smells should also be my choice.

  I drop my towel right where I’m standing and pull Pax’s shirt on. When the thing falls into place, and it’s Pax’s so it hangs low over my ass, Pax is standing right behind me. Moved like a ghost, didn’t make a sound, whole castle has taken an inhale and gone dead still – nothing moving except the hair near my ear as he exhales sharply.

  In the background, Roarke is saying, “I didn’t make her do it.”

  And someone else’s door slams shut.

  “You do know we’re male, right?” Pax asks in a low, husky voice. It’s his I’m-holding-back-my-growl voice. “You do know how attractive you are, right?”

  I don’t answer, because my attractiveness, or lack of, isn’t up for debate… and maybe because my whole being is too busy cataloguing the various sensations running through my body, notably the parts of me that he’s pressing into. The parts of him that are still naked or only covered by his towel.

  “You wouldn’t survive.”

  “Who says?” I manage to whisper.

  “I say. Keep your clothes on,” his words are accompanied by the low growl emanating from somewhere deep within his chest.

  “My clothes, my choice,” I say. The words feel strong, but they sound fragile.

  He hooks his arm around my waist and lifts me off my feet. I don’t even get to look around and gauge the expressions on the other three – or even where they are right now – before Pax has me in his room and the door shut.

  The room is dark, barely a glow from the lamp on the wall over the bed. A low chest sits in one corner, clothes spilling out of it. Several swords are hanging on the wall, as well as some kind of spear, a bow, and various other weapons, just piled in the corner. The bed’s huge, not four posted like Roarke’s, but huge, and it’s made with servant perfection – until Pax dumps me onto it.

  I don’t mean dump, let me go, and continue to lecture me. Nope – he keeps his arm wrapped around my waist. Lifting and sliding me up the length of the bed. His golden eyes literally glowing in the darkness. I press my palms to his chest, but he grabs both my wrists in one hand and pulls them away. I’m not even sure whether I was trying to keep the distance between us or get more of me close
r to more of him.

  He’s only in a towel and I’m not even wearing chuckin’ underwear. Just his shirt and him. I feel like I’m wearing him.

  “You need to put your sexuality back in the bottle, servant. We have a rule, and if we break it, you will die.”

  His eyes flash brighter, if that’s even possible. The coffee color of his hair taking on dark ash depths.

  “Sorry,” he says softly, as power slams into me. “But you need to understand.”

  I gasp, my back arching. Blood pumping through my body so hard that my ears begin to ring. His power, heavy with demand and control, threatens to knock me unconscious. Static and bolts of heat sear through me.

  Pax is off me instantly. Taking the warmth away with him.

  Which shouldn’t be the way my body responds. The guy literally just hit me with the kind of energy that could have killed me in a display of power meant to scare me away – and my whole being wants to chase him for more.

  I suck in a deep breath. Then another, my jaw tensed so tightly that the air has trouble getting past my teeth. Which is a good thing. If I could talk right now I’d be telling myself what an idiot I am for provoking this guy. Getting myself killed is not on my to-do list!

  He’s rummaging through the box of clothes in the corner, then getting himself dressed, while the ringing in my ears lessens, replaced by little tremors pulsing through me. My hand twitches uncontrollably, and my knees are doing the same thing. I pull myself upright and get smacked in the face by a flying pair of Pax’s bed shorts.

  “Clothes on,” he says, but I’m too busy shaking and pouting to even pick the shorts up from where they’ve landed.

  My jaw relaxes enough for words to form, “I can’t do this.”

  “I can’t do this,” I repeat, my throat so scratchy that I’m still not sure he can hear me.

  Except that he stops, his hand on the doorknob and his back to me.

  “I just scrub things. That’s all I do. I scrub things and avoid trouble, and when I get into trouble, I make jokes and wait for it to be over. I can’t do…” I trail off.

  The list of things I can’t do is so long I’d need a horse to get to the end of it. I can’t avoid a bubble wall I can’t see. I can’t forget the screams of people I got killed. I can’t get used to servants who really piss me off. I can’t keep these four guys content when each of them has their own separate issue with my existence – or at least the bubble that’s making my existence so very, very much a part of their existence.