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

by Abby James

  “Is he?”

  “Someone else within Fortescue is doing that. Sargon is responding to protect our territory. Tell me, what sort of man is your brother?”

  A dozen descriptives raced through my head. I sieved through them all trying to find the ones that would put him in the best light. “Loyal, determined, courageous.”

  Ryker hitched an eyebrow. “All good traits, but I’m talking about the other side of him.”

  “What other side? Seb was a good brother and son.”

  “Perhaps some of the time. But not everyone is good all the time. Determined can become pigheaded, loyal can become obsessive, courageous can become maniacal. He’s seventeen, right?”

  “Too young to be here.”

  Ryker flashed a smile, then said, “A lot of teenage boys around that age can become rebellious.”

  “Only because he was bored.”

  “He felt chained?”

  “I guess.”

  “It must have made him angry.”

  “No, restless.”

  “Did he act out occasionally?”

  “Why are you doing this? It seems to me like you want to see nothing but bad in him.”

  “I want you to realize that even the good can turn bad. Your brother is safe under Sargon’s watchful eye, but the tentacles of the council’s reach are long. It wouldn’t take much to poison a young mind. Especially one driven by a need to prove himself.”

  “That’s not Seb.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  “You’ve condemned him already. Why are you bothering to train him?”

  “How do you think he will react when he knows the truth of his heritage?”

  “The same way I am?”

  “How do you feel?”

  I turned from him, but he touched my shoulder before I managed halfway around. “Malachi.” He turned me back. “You’re no longer in Ladec. It’s time you woke from your slumber as there are many dangers in Fortescue for you. Those who wished to see you dead all those years ago still live here. That is why Sargon had Miss Tule accept you as a student.”

  “He did?”

  “It’s the only way you could possibly be safe.”

  “Is that why you’re training me to fight?”

  “The most important reason, yes. But I also think Sargon would like to see what Rayce’s daughter is capable of.”

  “I’m grateful, but why would Sargon care so much about my safety?”

  “That’s something you’ll have to ask him.”

  The heavy fall of boots stomping down the tunnel toward our chamber drew Ryker’s attention. Chett poked his head through the arching doorway. “Bring her up,” was all he said before he headed back the way he’d come from.

  “Up where?”

  Ryker flashed a smile. “To the Arena.”

  “I thought we were training.”

  “Now you want to train, hey?”

  “It’s not to watch a fight, is it?”

  “An important one. Sargon’s fighting.”

  “Oh, what makes it so important?”

  “It’s a fight to the death.”

  “I don’t want to watch that.”

  “Maybe not, but you must. It’s time you saw beneath the facade of this city. Fortescue has a violent past, one that lives on today seething below the surface of its colonnades and open-air baths, opulence and beauty. The people may look civil in the streets but in their hearts beats a thirst for blood. You must see the real face of the people.”

  Chapter 19

  The roar of the crowd grew as we followed the passages through the dungeons, climbing upward toward the Arena. I’d turn around and head back down if I could, but I didn’t want Ryker to think I was a coward.

  “Why must it be a fight to the death?”

  “Sargon challenged Walcott. When the commander-in-chief enters the Arena, it’s a fight to the death.”

  “Why?”

  “If Sargon wants to keep his position, then it must be so. Combat alone is the way the commander is chosen.”

  “If he shows mercy, won’t that put him in the good books with the people?”

  “These fights are the most popular. The stakes are extreme. That’s what the people love. The Arena will be full.”

  “And the council hopes for Seb to challenge him in such a fight? Bastards.”

  “Sargon cannot control who challenges him. He must accept each challenge or lose his position. Once dethroned, he would be forced to fight anyhow.”

  “But I thought he challenged this guy.”

  “He did.”

  “That hardly sounds fair.”

  “It is if you knew the circumstances.”

  And judging by his silence, Ryker was not about to tell me.

  Before we reached the top of our climb and the sunlight, Ryker took a narrow side tunnel and we followed a bend, which was no doubt contouring the rim of the Arena. We moved in single file for long enough, before Ryker stopped at a wooden door. “We’ll come out on the northern side.”

  “Which is good because?”

  “We couldn’t exit the way we’d come, unless you wanted to end up in the Arena yourself.”

  We exited behind a large wall, which created another tunnel of sorts for us to get through before we saw the arena. Laughter and rowdy chatter came through the wooden paneling. It seemed Ryker was right in saying the people loved to watch Sargon kill if the excited babble was any indication.

  Ryker took my hand and drew me left along the wooden corridor. At the end, we exited through another door, into the bright day. I shielded my eyes from the sun after having been in the dungeons for so long. Once my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I glanced around, over the heads of those sitting on wooden benches and into the arena tens of meters below, which was nothing more than an expansive dust bowl, surrounded by row upon row of tiered bench seats that ringed the circumference.

  “Who sits in that area?” I pointed to a section cordoned off by semi-high walls on either side. Instead of bench seats, there were large, comfortable-looking chairs.

  “The council. And other important dignitaries.”

  “Everyone really does come to see Sargon fight.”

  “The council is keen to see him defeated.”

  “Because he is too popular?

  Ryker glanced down at me with a grin. “Precisely. It wouldn’t take much for Sargon to oust the council. The military would back him without hesitation. And many of the wealthy would fund the war.”

  “But he won’t, right?”

  “He will not follow in the footsteps of his predecessor, Renus. Renus was a bloodthirsty fool, with a heart blacker than ink. His greed and desire for destruction almost destroyed the city. It would’ve if Sargon had not challenged him.”

  “You’re his friend. Aren’t you afraid he will be defeated?”

  “No.”

  “He’s only human. Every human is fallible at some stage.”

  Ryker leaned down to level our eyes. “Sargon is undefeatable.”

  “Nice sentiment, but now who’s being naïve?”

  Ryker leaned closer, if that was at all possible, so close he looked about to kiss me. My pulse did double-quick time as my breath hitched. Instead, he sniffed the nape of my neck. “Trust me, I know what I’m saying.” His breath tickled my skin.

  The arena dissolved for the seconds he remained close. The exquisite tension snapped as he straightened, leaving me with the hollowness that usually follows a major letdown.

  “We need to find ourselves some good seats.”

  “Aren’t you an important dignitary?”

  “Yes, but you’re not. Besides, Miss Tule would perhaps like us to remain incognito.”

  “Is that possible, being a man so close to Sargon?”

  Ryker chuckled. “Miss Tule has her hands full with you.”

  “Should I take that as a compliment?”

  “Take everything I say as a compliment.”

  Thankfully, Ryker was
too busy finding us seats to catch the smile I tried my hardest to suppress. My lips quivered as I failed to keep my face somber.

  The best seats were lower down, but Ryker scanned the ones at the back row. Malachi wouldn’t appreciate being so close to the action, and the lower seats were the first to go. He led her along the back, conscious of her small, warm hand in his.

  A young woman came toward them, dressed in the flowing robes of the courtesans, followed by a male bodyguard. This one was an initiate, easily distinguishable by the red sash tied around the waist of her white robe. This close, a woman’s eyes usually focused on him, but to Ryker’s surprise, the young woman stared at Malachi. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She lifted her chin in disdain. The red sash marked her as a first-level initiate, too new for her to have developed the haughty attitude most courtesans were renowned for.

  Malachi stopped, pulling Ryker’s hand backward. The initiate’s eyes darted to their linked hands and only then did she glance at Ryker. Again her eyes widened as her disdainful expression slipped. Her mouth dropped into a surprised gape.

  “Norella,” Malachi said.

  “Malachi.” Her voice dripped acid.

  Her bodyguard vibed unease as he glanced at Ryker.

  “You two know each other?” His question drew Norella’s focus back to him. She swallowed, her cheeks flushing a soft pink, as her eyes flicked again to their joined hands.

  “We came on the same harvest truck,” Malachi said.

  “I’ve been told you are a student of Miss Tule’s. As in a servant.” She stressed the word servant, then looked at Ryker again, with the smallest quirk of her lips. Her smile more triumphant than mirthful.

  “You heard right.”

  “Are you here to hand out snacks during the entertainment, or help people to their seats?”

  Malachi straightened. “Neither.” That was all she offered in her defense.

  A woman who refused to be dragged down by pettiness and spite was an interesting woman to Ryker. The fact Malachi saw no need to raise her status in her friend’s eyes by blurting out that she was training to fight with the CIC and his two closest advisors magnified his interest in her.

  “I can’t think what you are doing here then.”

  “The same as you. Watching the fight.” She looked up at Ryker. “Perhaps we should find our seats.”

  “Oh…you came with…him?”

  “As a servant, of course.” Malachi’s lips twitched into a small smile.

  “You’re right,” Ryker said, bringing her hand up to meet his lips. In his periphery, he caught the open shock on Norella’s face.

  Enough goading. They had to find seats before the fight began.

  “That was naughty of you,” Malachi said once they were out of earshot.

  “I thought you would’ve appreciated it.”

  “Thanks, but what she thinks makes no difference to me. I guess you gathered she hates me.”

  “And I can guess why.”

  “I don’t think you can.”

  “She’s very attractive. As are you. I smell rivalry on her part.”

  “She landed in the right place.”

  “And what about you, Malachi? Did you land in the right place?”

  She glanced up at him, leaving a few heartbeats before replying. “Ask me that once I finish your punishing training schedule.”

  He snorted a laugh, holding her in his gaze long after she looked away.

  For the first time since they’d made their fateful decision, the strange darkness that now inhabited him—all three of them—and which grew stronger every day, swelled within him. Sargon had mentioned feeling this force, this darkness, when he challenged Walcott in front of his students. He’d said it was a blinding impulse that took all his mental strength and training to resist yielding to.

  Ryker’s experience was different, but then, he was not fighting as Sargon had been. Strange then that the darkness should swell now, when, at the moment, he was feeling anything but aggression. But what was he feeling? His senses couldn’t help but heighten at the beginning of a fight. The building excitement of everyone around him seeped the adrenaline through his veins. But an element of tension threaded its way through the adrenaline. This was the first time Sargon had fought in the Arena since that fateful night. There was no telling what he would do.

  This other self—Ryker had yet to see the change he was going through as anything other than separate from himself—at this moment, it did not rage through his body as a destructive force hungry for violence or craving blood. It was all too new to him, so he had no idea what the sudden stirrings meant or what had aroused them. But the one thing he couldn’t ignore was his intense awareness of the small woman beside him. Her presence bound his concentration until the noise of the baying crowd sunk into oblivion, and he almost missed the narrow space in front of him, which would seat the two of them at a squeeze.

  “We’ll sit here.”

  “Are you expecting me to sit on your lap?”

  “If you like.”

  She eyed him with a twitch at the corner of her mouth, which of course drew his attention to her mouth. After enough seconds had passed and his eyes were still on her lips, she looked away. He would’ve thought she wasn’t interested or felt uncomfortable if not for the sudden spark of her pulse. What the hell? He wasn’t hearing her pulse. He couldn’t be, because that was impossible. His own pulse thudded through his ears, but this was a different rhythm, racing at a different tune to his own.

  Ryker had to break the weird funk he was in. He tapped the guy closest to him on the arm and motioned for him to shift over. The guy’s eyes narrowed as he looked ready to say something smart. One swift flick up and down Ryker’s body, he slapped his mouth closed and shuffled over.

  They had a little more room, but not enough to prevent the sides of their bodies from pressing close together. With each slide of time, her proximity funneled his attention into a tight embrace that wrapped around her like a second skin. He was unable to focus elsewhere, as her thumping heart grew louder in his ears. Other sounds, which should be impossible for him to hear, flowed into his awareness—the churning of her stomach and the slide of her saliva as she swallowed. He shouldn’t be able to hear these bodily mysteries. But before his alarm rose at what he was hearing, Ryker was ensnared by something compelling. He closed his eyes and inhaled her scent, not just the fruity blend wafting toward him from all the oils and creams she applied, but a deeper, more organic smell, something rich and raw, exquisitely exotic and tempting. The saliva in his mouth forced him to swallow.

  A shiver waved through his body, surging a sting of lust. Ryker’s body tensed, his eyes flicked open as his awareness filled with his arousal. Sure, arousal on its own was not something he would normally become alarmed about. It wasn’t his arousal that flashed a cold sweat across his skin. It was the sudden understanding of what had him balancing on the edge of his desire. He was smelling her blood.

  Ryker lurched to his feet, drawing the eyes of those around him. Beside him, Malachi stood, dragging her enticing aroma with her.

  “What is it?”

  “You cannot stay.”

  “Wow…that’s a head spin.”

  Ryker grabbed her hand and pulled her over the seat with him as he headed back the way they had come. She stumbled, unable to get her feet over quick enough. Before she hit the wood floor, Ryker swooped an arm around her and yanked her close.

  “What the hell is going on with you?” she panted.

  Ryker inhaled, only for his nose to be filled with her aroma, smells from the outside but also from within. Something snapped inside his mind, a restraint? Some invisible bind that had kept him together? He tightened his hold on her waist and ducked his head toward her flesh.

  “Ouch? Ryker that hurts.”

  Like a punch to the face, Ryker drew back from the dizzy oblivion threatening to claim him. He dropped his hands and jerked away from her. She lifted her black, close-fitting top,
a training outfit the three had agreed she should wear—none were prepared to spend so much time with her while she wore the small leather outfits the military women usually wore when sparring in the dungeons. Dark red marks spread across her hips, imprints of his fingers. Even worse was the deep indents of his fingernails. All of this through the fabric of her top.

  “I’ve got to get you back to the academy.”

  “What happened to my education in the realities of Fortescue life?”

  “Another time. You can’t stay now.” You can’t stay with me. What was he going to do to her? Lost in the wilds of the emotions flooding his body, burying his mind in a muddled mess, Ryker struggled to make sense of his thoughts or desires. What the hell was happening to him? All he could focus on was how much he wanted her. But his tremoring limbs and twisted gut stemmed from one big question. What did he want more, to bed her or kill her?

  Chapter 20

  Sargon sat on the bench seat below the arena. His head was bowed, his focus spanning inward. He slowed his breathing, concentrating on the inhale, forcing it down to the pit of his diaphragm. Next his mind switched to the exhale, emptying till there was nothing left before taking another breath. The action calmed him and centered his mind. The meditation was vital to his preparation. Now was not the time for his swords. Closer to the fight, he would take the Dark Sisters and limber his muscles. But not now.

  Everyone held a kernel of darkness in their soul. Some welcomed it in, wearing it like a shroud, cloaking themselves in the ink of hatred, their choices forever governed from this empty pit.

  Sargon had descended into the pit himself on many occasions. All men did—it was inevitable when you faced your own death. No one serving the military escaped the hold of violence, but whether you allowed it to sink to your marrow or struggled to break free from its insidious destruction of your soul, the choice was always there—for a strong man. The weak sucked it in like it was air. That was its power. Many confused it with strength and that was their undoing.

  Sargon had a choice. One he wished wasn’t his to make. But as commander-in-chief, it was his alone. By the end of the day, rather than darkness clouding his heart, it would be heavy, weighted by death. It was his duty to atone for every life he took. His atonement was a head full of memories for all the lives cut short by his hand. A night spent in torture so he could stave the loss of his soul.