Deadly Secrets: Paranormal Reverse Harem (Dark Realms Book 1)

by Abby James

  The true masters of craftsmanship lived to the east. The best were sold to the highest bidder, which, in the western territory, meant people in prominent positions. Sometimes, however, their blades made it onto the streets, although not of superior quality, unlike the sword Sargon held now, but they were still a lethal weapon.

  A good sword was one thing, a master at handling it was another. The best could be placed in the hands of the inept and they would still be defeated. No matter the craftsmanship, it could still be destroyed. You needed a master for a supreme blade. The two married were unconquerable.

  After loosening his muscles with the one sword, he moved over to the other he’d left lying in the dirt. He slipped a foot under the blade close to the hilt and flicked it into the air. The blade turned in a long arc to head hilt first downward. Sargon grabbed the hilt on its fall and swung it wide to the right. The Dark Sisters were united with a clang of one blade smashing against the other.

  Sargon chose duel wielding during training to strengthen his muscles, sharpen his left- and right-hand ability and hone his balance. Only a true master was able to maintain their center of gravity while using both weapons. The two swords required separate and distinct actions, one for attack and one for defense, if they were to be used almost simultaneously and it was a rare wielder who could maintain the momentum of the swing and focus on the movements of the other hand.

  This was Sargon’s specialty. The swords became him once in his hand. But he wouldn’t use two in combat. There was little point since none came close to matching with only one.

  Sargon began by swinging both in steady arcs on either side, reacquainting and loosening before he began more technical movements. Target bags hung along the far length of the dungeon waiting for the jabs and slices that would shred them to the ground when Sargon unleashed his energy. His veins carried the sweet drug of his adrenaline, now greatly enhanced. His focus funneled. Power fed down into his limbs.

  With the power of the swing, Sargon pivoted, allowing his body to flow with the momentum, feeling like he’d returned home. To him the movements were like a dance and the swish of the blades as they sliced through the air the music. Down here was the place he would come when his dark thoughts threatened to cave in on him.

  His strong body responded well to the heavy training. However, this was not physical alone. Sargon used the time to harness his mind, draw it under tight discipline. To him the importance of mental control was almost as great as the ability to wield a weapon with skill. Each step and swing became a form of meditation.

  He moved forward as if to block a blow with one, almost simultaneously bringing the second around and forward, a lethal spear. With a large sweep of his arm, the sword swung up while he pivoted around to crash it down and spied Chett emerging from the rear of the room.

  “You’re getting sloppy in your old age. She nearly had you off center.”

  “Come closer and I’ll determine the extent of my weakness.”

  Chett snorted a chuckle before moving into the light.

  “Sorry to disturb, but you’re needed elsewhere.”

  “Not something you can handle?”

  “This is for you to see.”

  Sargon exhaled a sharp shot of anger at being disturbed. Seeing Chett enter was bad news, of course. No one disturbed his training unless necessary. He used another exhale to rid the residual anger and relaxed his position, standing tall. He crossed the room and threw one of the Dark Sisters Chett’s way, who caught it by the hilt, and just as quick threw the other, which met its mark, Chett’s palm.

  “This had better be good.”

  Chett walked beside, stopping to leave the Dark Sisters resting against the wall as they departed the dungeon for a dark corridor lit by a row of orbs, glowing enough to reveal the dirt at their feet and casting shadows behind.

  Sargon led the way around the stone wall, along more stretching passages and into a large chamber, with marginally better light than his own private chamber. A perpetual dampness hung in the air, providing the cooling everyone needed while training.

  At the far corner, a small group was standing around in a huddle. This was a training session and training sessions meant everyone should be moving, swinging weapons, learning hand-to-hand combat, not standing around wasting precious time.

  Sargon had selected each one of these young men after brutal bouts in the Arena. This lot was three years into their training, so moved with the agility of the inexperienced but held the promise of superb fighters once the skills were honed.

  But there was a fine line between creating a man you wanted in battle and a man who would find his way into the second level of combat in the Arena, never to make it out the other side. The code was clear and the instructors were drilled on the requirements before they were given a group to work with. So when Sargon saw abuse of his code, his retribution was harsh.

  A quilblain rested in one hand, its metal links extended on the floor next to Walcott. The young man at his feet lay hunched, his face hung low. Running down the side of his left flank, blood, a line a hand’s length long.

  Sargon approached, his fists clenching, blood pounding in his ears, his anger turning to steel. This was the point of his meditative moves. The point of learning to claw back control of fury and center the mind to make wise decisions. The room was not large enough for him to manage it. He mastered enough of his anger to focus on the thud of his boots across the dirt floor, the steps it took to reach Walcott, the amount of power needed in his muscles to complete his task. But the final decision of what he would do when he reached Walcott was flung out of his grasp as Walcott raised the quilblain. The sight of Walcott’s actions tore Sargon’s fragile hold.

  Walcott brought the whip down for another strike. As the fine wrought iron links whipped up and then curled down, Sargon snapped out his arm and caught the chain whip in his hand. The speed of his tug pulled the quilblain from Walcott’s hand and with his other arm he latched on to Walcott’s throat. Something dark and hungry burst loose inside. So powerful was the lure, but so shockingly sudden and unexpected, Sargon flung Walcott backward. He hit the wall behind with force and crumpled to the dirt. Sargon stood square on to Walcott, his eyes fixated on the small seep of blood that ran from Walcott’s temple down to his cheek. Sargon’s nostrils flared, his muscles bunched to pounce.

  “Sargon.” It was Chett.

  Sargon summoned every meditative trick to wrestle his mind back under control, while his pulse raged with a wild and greedy desire. In a harsh, ragged breath, he said, “We settle this in the Arena.”

  He turned and, with the quilblain in his hand, marched back the way he’d come. “Get someone else to finish their training,” he barked.

  His legs pounded his rage through the dirt as he wound his way back in the direction he’d come from.

  The military brought out the worst in all men. It was an inevitable fact that could not be overlooked. The temperament that made a good soldier required a certain amount of brutality and a certain amount of desire for destruction or a man could not face his commitment when the time came.

  The challenge was to nurture both without destroying his humanity. A solider who operated with rage alone became a sloppy target, unable to focus, make smart decisions. It was why he looked for traits other than sheer strength in the arena. A man who could hold the storm of his madness and still see clearly was the type Sargon coveted. Intimidation and violence during training nurtured brutality without tempering it with control, developing a man flung loose from restraint. And men flung loose from restraint were sent to the Arena, combats at the third level. Destined to die.

  As he entered, Sargon threw the quilblain onto the floor and collected the Dark Sisters, swinging both over his shoulder and back in front. His muscles strained with the power required to match the velocity of his will. This was his way of allaying his rage when the power to contain it became too great. There was only so much control he could exert before cracks began to sho
w. Any good solider knew the risks in suppressing strong emotions without a release valve.

  Chett followed Sargon back into his private chamber and waited by the wall, giving Sargon the space he needed to release that valve. His movements became blinding flurries, the targets shredded in seconds. The air couldn’t make it to his lungs in time, but he kept on regardless.

  Finally, his muscles broke through his passion, screaming their protest. He lifted both the Sisters and threw them with the force of a catapult across the room, where they embedded in the wall.

  It was done. The adrenaline ceased its calling—his muscles refused to listen anymore. He followed the trail the Sisters made through the air and slammed his palms onto the cool dungeon wall.

  Sargon turned back to the wall and rested his forehead within the barrier made by his arms. The cold soothed the heat. He’d made a mistake back there. He’d let the cracks open and the anger lace his words. Now Walcott must face him in the Arena.

  “What was that all about?” Chett edged closer.

  Sargon let his hands drop and slowly turned to face Chett. “A dark pit in my mind. Maybe deeper, maybe in my soul.”

  Chett came closer. “No, nothing can touch that deep.”

  “Are you so sure? We don’t know what we’ve let loose.”

  “I know you, brother. Remember that. Since we were babies. I know what sort of man you are. There is nothing that can change you.”

  He jabbed a finger into Sargon’s chest.

  Sargon moved away from him. “You can’t say that for certain.”

  “What did you experience back there?”

  “A blinding fury that almost broke through my usual control.”

  “I’ve seen that before.”

  “It wasn’t that.” He turned to pace. “There was something else. Darker, hungrier. I was consumed by greed.”

  “Greed for what?”

  Sargon turned to face Chett. “His blood.”

  Chapter 18

  Ryker paced to and fro across the floor. The rhythm of his boots smacking on the stone did nothing to distract my attention to his agile yet powerful strides. Sargon, Chett and Ryker looked similar in their military outfits and buzz haircuts, but while Chett had blond hair, both Sargon and Ryker were dark. Ryker’s black eyes were a tunnel of no escape and Sargon’s deep purple were nothing but poison, but poison in a seductive way—the sort that infected you with a disease that made your rational self forget the dangers involved in succumbing to a powerful stranger.

  “We’ll try it again.” With a flick of his wrist, Ryker spun the sword in an arc and pivoted it before him, ready to strike.

  “I still don’t understand why I am learning this.”

  “I thought Miss Tule explained it.”

  “In a hazy sort of fashion.”

  Ryker stepped forward and jabbed too quick for me to see. The tip of his blade lay at my throat just below my chin. “Then it is up to me to clear the haze”

  “By killing me.”

  “Only if you’re too slow.”

  I batted his sword away with my own. “Conversation works better, I find, in teaching lessons.”

  “Is that so?”

  I didn’t like the smile on his face. Actually, I kind of did, in a tingly-feelings-stirred-in-good-places sort of way, but it also sparked a shot of adrenaline that tensed my muscles for action. My eyes roamed over his strong thighs encased behind his fitted training suit, crawled across his broad chest concealed beneath the black fabric, which snuggled enough to bare the outline of his muscular frame without needing any imagination. But my eyes also marked the agile way he moved, the loose but determined grip of his sword, the unwavering, calculating probe of his eyes. I didn’t know these guys, nor their purpose for steamrolling over Miss Tule’s training by demanding they would conduct it themselves in a place where only the military trained. Did they think because Seb showed promise they would get the same out of me? No way was I joining the military. No way would I be at the helm of a harvest vehicle. But spending time around these guys would be no hardship.

  We’d been at this for three days now. Sargon had pummeled me the first day with his unrelenting demands and attention to detail. Of the three, his cast of armor ricocheted any humor I tried to throw into the moment to relieve the tension and lighten the stern frown that occupied his brow for the whole session I was with him. He was intense when we were sparring, surly when I was clumsy and dogmatic when I demanded a break. It didn’t help that his dark mood and good looks made him an alluring distraction.

  Sargon submerged me in a dark realm of lethal possibilities, where my nerves jittered and strained from the hint of a foreboding mystery that lay out of reach, but which hovered on my horizon as a masked threat. This understanding rose as an unconscious knowing that settled deep within my gut. Chett was a welcome change. He worked me just as hard, but the dark intensity that shrouded my time with Sargon had vanished. While just as focused and determined in his teachings, he took the time to explain and encourage. His face was a painting in concentration minus the frown. He listened to me, at times, with a private smile, which turned his blue eyes into a brilliant sky I felt drawn to disappear into. By the end of our time, my gut remained knot free, although my limbs quivered from the strain, and something else more attractive—the delicious spark from the touch of his hand on the bare skin of my upper arm when he congratulated my training.

  As if sensing my lapse in concentration, Ryker struck again, but instead of finding another part of my body to mock stab, he sliced my sword from my hand and grabbed my wrist. Before I could breathe, I was spun, then Ryker came up close behind me. The contours of his body pressed against mine. “Talk is overrated,” he whispered into my ear. “Demonstration is more powerful.”

  I closed my eyes and inhaled the peppery spice of his scent as a powerful charge warmed between my legs.

  He let go of my wrist so he could rest his hand on my stomach, fingers splayed.

  “And where does this maneuver fit into your combat repertoire?” Oh, god, he would not miss the hitch of my desire by the husky near whisper of my voice.

  “This comes after the combat training.”

  A war flared inside my mind. This close, feeling every muscle and bulge of his body, which caressed along my partially clothed skin, I wanted to remain zipped to him. On the other hand, he would think me a walkover. Shacks had wanted a limpet, easily bedded without much fuss. My experience with him showed me I was not that kind of girl. Mum stayed quiet. I didn’t. So, as much as I savored Ryker’s proximity, I walked forward out of his embrace.

  He let me go but, as I moved away, allowed his hand to slide across my stomach, a sensual touch that ignited a yearning for both of his hands to caress my body. It had been long enough since Shacks touched me, and thrown in with these three, my body was waking up from its slumber. Distance was what I needed. “I absorb lessons better when I see a point to them. Miss Tule said war was coming, but she wasn’t clear on whether she was talking about war from neighboring territories or war from within or whether she was just being dramatic.”

  “There was a reason for that. She meant both. King Idrus is moving across our northern borders. And when that war starts, the other territories will follow. The council refuses to act because they are afraid Sargon is using this as an excuse to oust them. Our sources tell us King Idrus is aided by people within Turmenian, likely members of the council. Not to mention, a rebellion is forming in the poorer quarters of the city from those unhappy with the unfair distribution of wealth. They’re restless and losing faith in Sargon to make a difference. The rebels hope to destabilize the council and force Sargon to act. A conflict within Fortescue is not something Sargon can deal with right now.”

  “Okay, that’s big, but what has it got to do with me? I know I’m part of this city now, but surely you have more important things to do than train a girl.”

  I prickled under his gaze, which stretched on in silence for longer than it shou
ld. “How much do you know of your history?”

  “That I was from Fortescue. My father died and we moved.”

  “Do you know who your father was?”

  “I have little memory of him. Mum says I’ve blanked out a lot because I was devastated when he died. I cried for days apparently.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Hamish.”

  “That’s what your mum told you?”

  Huh? Strange thing to say. “Why would I doubt her?”

  “Because your birth name wasn’t Malachi.”

  “You’re talking crazy.”

  Ryker erased the distance between us, stopping too close for comfort. “I thought Miss Tule would extend her lessons to your own personal history. She must have a reason, but I think you have a right to know.”

  I stepped back, needing space, but stayed silent, placing responsibility for the conversation on him.

  “Your father’s real name was Rayce, commander-in-chief before Renus, who was defeated by Sargon.”

  The shock turned me to stone. Perhaps noticing this, Ryker closed the distance again and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Your family was taken from Fortescue for protection and hidden in the desert.”

  “Why?” was nothing but a whisper.

  “Your father was murdered. With him gone, no one could protect you. There were some in the city who wanted to see your mother and Rayce’s offspring dead. The threat is still very real.”

  “Then why bring us back?”

  “Some on the council wished to see your brother trained to fight.”

  “But why?”

  “Sargon is a popular CIC. Too popular as far as the council is concerned. There are few who can challenge him and even fewer who would prove as popular with the people. Rayce was equally popular with the people.”

  “They hope for him to challenge Sargon.”

  “If he is schooled right, he would make a fitting puppet for the council.”

  “But why?”

  “They fear Sargon is dragging Turmenian into war with the north.”