Evie searched his face and saw no anger, only contentment.
“I have been the fool.”
Maddoc chuckled.
“Aye.”
Evie stiffened, but he added, “A fool that I love, Evelyn.”
“You love me?” Evie asked in a meek voice, knowing she did not deserve him yet wanting him.
He nodded.
Evie leaned up, gripping his shoulders, and kissed him on the mouth.
Maddoc was hyper-aware as her naked breasts pressed against him, and he felt himself get hard. There was no hiding it. She was select, and he was Band. It was simple biology.
And above all else, Evie was a beautiful female for whom he deeply cared.
Maddoc struggled. He knew that she was untried, as was he, though he be certain he could figure it through like a champion.
He began to set her away from him, but she clung to his much larger frame.
“Do not leave me, Maddoc. Give this to me,” she said, asking for more than she should.
Maddoc stilled.
“You know that you ask something I should not give you…”
“Do you not want me?” Evie asked, looking up through soaked eyelashes stuck together with tears and spring water.
Maddoc growled and jerked her against him.
“You know that I do.”
She gasped. “Then take me, Maddoc.”
Maddoc groaned, dipping his head to lay his forehead against hers.
“I do so want you, Evie, but we are unjoined.”
Evie sighed and hung her head. She did not want to be with anyone else. She knew this now.
The past days away from Maddoc had been a torment, a life lesson.
Evie lifted her face and placed her knees on his as he held her crouched and floating in the heated water. She kissed his forehead then each eyelid that held those sparkling turquoise eyes.
“Please… join with me, Maddoc. Unless you want another.”
Maddoc's eyes sprang open.
“There is no other, Evelyn. Only you. I knew from the moment you stepped foot into the Clan of Cape Cod.”
Evie smiled shyly.
Maddoc asked, “Would you join with me?”
In response, Evie brushed her lips across his full mouth, and when he parted his lips to receive her tongue, she melted against his hardness. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and Maddoc lost the fight. Her answer was in her kiss and in the press of her most intimate part against his hardness.
He could not wait until they were joined. Every instinct told Maddoc to make Evie his.
He rose, and the water rushed off their nakedness, the rivulets like crystal tears. He carried her out of the spring and into the coolness of the forest.
Maddoc was not worried about keeping her warm. He would cover her with his body so the chill did not reach her.
He shifted her onto one arm and used his other hand to jerk a blanket out of his rucksack. He spread it on a semi-damp patch of moss on the forest floor. He laid Evie down before him and drank in her beauty.
Her nakedness was all for him.
Her breasts fell large and perfect, the pale pink of her nipples hardening in the cold air.
His future mate lay bare before him, high color suffusing her body.
“I have never been with a male,” she said, her lip trembling.
He lay beside her in one fluid motion.
“Nor I with a female, save you… in this moment.”
She bit her lip at his admission and smiled.
He ran his hand down her naked side. When he hesitated at her breast, she gave a small nod. He took the large mound of exquisitely silky flesh and kneaded it softly as he rolled halfway on top of her.
He lowered his head and sucked her pink nipple into his mouth.
Evie gave a soft gasp and fisted the material of the blanket beside her as she clenched her eyes shut.
“Have I hurt you?” Maddoc asked, though he did not cease his attention, since she seemed to pant from pleasure, not pain.
“No,” she whispered. “It does not hurt.” It was sublime to see Evie so enamored with his small ministrations.
He was glad to do it and felt rewarded by her addition of “More.”
Maddoc took Evie at her word and suckled her breasts most thoroughly.
When his hand crept down between her legs, she said breathlessly, “I am scared.”
“I will not hurt you, Evie.”
Evie replied, “I have been told the first time will burn.”
“Not if the female is ready,” Maddoc said, having been an avid pupil in the art of listening as males discussed the secrets of lovemaking.
There were so few females that their pleasure was of the highest importance. All males of the Band and greater Clans had been schooled thusly.
Evie held his wrist and could have done nothing if he wished to go further.
Yet, it would never be his way to take from her.
He waited for her decision, even as his member throbbed for her, ached for her.
Finally, Evie guided his hand down to her silken heat. They both sighed when he slipped a finger deep inside of her. The tip reached a slim barrier, and he rose up to look at her.
“Do you be sure, Evie?” he asked, driven half mad with lust.
Evie raised her eyes and focused somewhere over his shoulder. He recognized her expression immediately, and it filled him with a surge of adrenaline so complete and instant it wiped the chemicals of his raging lust completely from his system.
He grabbed his dagger and rolled off of her, slashing at whoever, or whatever, was behind him.
“Maddoc!” Evie yelled.
He forced himself to ignore her screams. Five of the Fragment were but feet away from where he crouched in front of his naked mate.
His nudity was irrelevant. All males of the Band were sure of battle, clothed or no.
He lunged and slashed two of them before they could move nearer. He spun and plunged his knife into a third, twisting the blade before pulling it out. Evie's moans made him to turn to check on her.
He was so intent on the scene before him he barely felt the knife in his back.
One male had trapped Evie, her breasts mashed between his forearms as they wrapped her body, her naked sex vulnerable to the inspection of all.
Maddoc roared as the male beside the one who held her began to grope at where Maddoc had just tenderly explored.
Evie chocked out cries, trying to kick those filthy searching fingers away.
Maddoc could not think. He had never known a rage like the one that descended.
Maddoc swung his dagger across the second male so brutally there was no blood at first nick. Then, he kicked the male in the chest, which sent him flying into a tree trunk. The male’s head fell back, and blood flowed. He would be dead in moments.
Maddoc turned his attention back to the one who held Evie. Before he could move, someone struck him from behind. Maddoc fell, his dagger clutched in his hand.
Still more Fragment came, and his vision wavered like water upon a pane of glass Maddoc slashed yet again and met his mark, severing the critical artery of the upper thigh of one of his attackers.
Thick, hot blood sprayed in a spitting arc as another of the Fragment climbed over his comrade, who was bleeding over Maddoc. Blows rained down on him. Evie yelled until her voice became too hoarse for sound.
Too mournful to bear.
Maddoc lay unconscious as the beating continued.
Eventually, the eight Fragment left Maddoc for dead, stealing Evie for the prize she was.
A lone Fragment stole a last glance at the valiant male lying on the ground and almost felt bad for his plight. He had been young and vibrant and now lay broken and bleeding.
The male looked at the squirming fighting woman as they tore her away from her lover.
Her naked beauty made his mouth water.
He decided he didn't feel too bad after all.
CHAPTER 10
Damn.
Matthew circled around, not liking the tracks.
He liked the absence of Maddoc even less.
The rash young one had bolted at the first opportunity. And how clever Matthew had thought himself for keeping silent on how dangerous it would be for Maddoc to go after Evie without a Bandmate. That would have incited Maddoc to do as he had done.
Now Maddoc, Edwin, and Evie were lost.
Mayhap not with one another. A worse predicament.
Matthew scanned the grounds outside the sphere. He lifted his gaze to the milky walls of the dome-shaped structure, following the arc as it met the sky, then farther to where the little pods of secondary domes spread from the main structure over the lakes the oysters were farmed in.
Matthew turned when he heard voices raised in excitement.
“Bracus?” Matthew called out.
“Aye?” Bracus said from the ground, his fingers lingering over distinctive tracks.
Matthew dismounted, ran over, and knelt next to Bracus. “What say you?”
“He has been here.”
Matthew looked at the hoof print in the icy snow.
Jonathan of the Clan possessed definitive shoeing practices, and they were simple to identify.
The traitor of the Band had been here.
And on the heels of that thought: It was trading day.
Matthew prayed that Clara had elected to remain inside the sphere with that dolt Charles. Though he be a pest of unmitigated proportions, Charles did care for her.
“Go,” Bracus said, watching emotions skate across Matthew's face.
Matthew stood and sprinted to the portal door. He inserted the key and turned it. The lock did not move.
He whipped around to face his Band.
They drew nearer, and Matthew recited what had happened as calmly as he could manage: the hoof marks, the blood, the tracks of the many people—far more than mere trading allowed.
“Who of the people therein have a key to the portal?” Philip asked with quiet logic.
Matthew's head spun. For the sphere be locked from the inside and he knew that Clara would not have locked him out of where he would rule.
*
Clara awoke and knew exactly the tenor of injury she had suffered, having felt it more than a few times in her former life.
She dared to crack an eyelid and gaze about her familiar room. Clara had a fleeting shift of consciousness where she thought for a moment everything was as it should be.
Then the memories of the strange Band, King Otto, and Cyril's fist rushed in unabated.
She closed her eyes again and did not open them, even when she felt Olive's familiar presence.
“Your highness,” Olive greeted, putting a cool slab of meat over Clara’s temple.
Clara could smell the rawness of it, and the memory triggered by the smell was so real that nausea threatened.
Yet she knew from grim experience where that would leave her throbbing head.
She opened her eyes.
“What say you?” Clara asked softly.
Olive put her index finger over her lips then used the same finger to point at the door of the chamber. “They be right outside the door, my Queen. The one of the Band who is foe.” Olive's throat convulsed. “And King Otto's guard, Cyril.”
Oh dear Guardian. “Where is King Otto?” Clara asked, feeling more sure-headed as the moments ticked by.
She pulled the meat away from her head.
Olive gasped, her hand cupping her mouth.
“What?” Clara asked, concerned by the awestruck fright on Olive's face.
“You heal,” Olive said in wonder.
“Aye.” Clara nodded, relief threading through her.
Had it been such when the queen's abuse rained down upon her, it would have been so much less to bear. Only after Clara became fully select did the recuperative powers come about.
“The king is in the throne room, Your Highness.”
They looked at each other for a heartbeat.
Then Clara laughed from her guts, her anger greater than her anxiety. That oaf thought to be the king of her sphere?
Cyril burst into the room.
He smiled in seeing Clara awake and shut the door behind him.
Olive looked between the two and said bravely, “It is unseemly that you be in the queen's chamber, Cyril.”
He lifted his lip in a parody of a dog showing its teeth.
“She will be queen for a time, then the rightful king shall rule.”
Clara shook her head, and a warning lurch of pain shot through her skull. That would have sent her spinning and retching before, but now, it was an annoyance.
Cyril seemed to notice how unaffected she was by his abuse, and his smile became genuine. “You seem well for the fist I gave you.”
Clara was reminded of how Ada would have fit so well within the sphere, where everyone was a sadist.
Was there no one who was about his right mind?
“You are a shameful representation of your gender, Cyril.”
He went on as if she had not spoken. “You have been given to me as concubine the instant my king becomes the ruler of this sphere.”
Olive gasped, her shoulders rounding like those of a beaten dog.
Clara responded calmly, “I am no one's to trade and use. And even if that were true, I am betrothed to another. He, and only he, will be the true ruler of the Kingdom of Ohio.”
Cyril took a step closer.
“You injured my wrist, Queen.”
Clara held her ground, though she watched him warily. She knew better than to take her eyes off anyone who hailed from that sphere.
“And I would do thus again. You attacked me, Cyril. I have a right to defend my person.”
“You smell like meat, Queen Clara. Why do you not tell your maidservant to draw your bath? I want my whore to smell of vanilla, not beef.”
Clara searched his hard features, finding no trace of mercy or compassion, ignoring his insult and speaking the truth, “I smell of meat because of your fist. I am the daughter of King Raymond and rightful ruler to this kingdom. I offered assistance to King Otto no less than three times, yet he never replied. How is it Otto decides that this sphere is now his?”
“The couriers never made the messages known to the king.”
Clara put it together quickly.
“You…”
Cyril gave her a feral grin. “Yes, 'tis I!” He paced away, joyful in his deceit. “It was I who fed the royal staff with tales of keeping the one sane sphere free of King Otto's tyranny.”
The fervent gleam made his eyes appear like hard diamonds of zealotry.
My Guardian, he is quite mad. “You planned for this.”
But Cyril was quick to shake his head. “No, I could not have anticipated how rapidly you would dismiss your own safety. Once that brute left you by yourself, you were wont to leave the security of your sphere and mingle amongst the commoners.” He snorted, folding his arms.
Clara's fear settled into the pit of her stomach and remained there in a cold lump of anxiety.
“We loved to make fun of you, Queen Clara,” he said, watching her face. “Caesar and the prince would talk endlessly of your high ideals.” He cackled.
“Princess Clara, the 'people's princess.'”
A shadow of broad shoulders and hulking height filled the doorway. Clara’s fear moved to terror. Olive paled and trembled.
The one of the Band had entered her chamber, and Clara knew there was no reasoning with the Band. But he was also Fragment.
Clara studied him closely and saw nothing but Band. It must have been frightful—as it had been for Matthew—to be raised pure-blooded Band within the Fragment.
She backed away at his entrance and took Olive's hand without looking.
“Theodore,” Cyril said without turning, “the queen wishes to smell like meat for the king's coronation.”
The male of the Band stared at Clara.
Sh
e would not beg. If she were to die and not see Matthew again, it would not be without a fight.
Cyril sneered with his self-ascribed wisdom. “I say, strip her of her offensive clothing and throw her in the tub. King Otto has told you what his expectations are. And the people of this miserable sphere will cooperate as long as they think their precious queen is in harm's way. Just the threat of it has kept them compliant thus far.”
Clara was too busy staring at Theodore of the Band to notice that Cyril had come too close. Suddenly, his hands were at her bodice, jerking it down to her waist.
Clara did as Matthew had taught her and slammed her palm into his nose.
It was a surprise lucky strike, since she was so much shorter that her vantage point had been perfect for just such a thing.
Cyril howled, bending over at the waist. Clara dragged Olive around him.
He stuck out his foot, and Clara tripped. Before she hit the floor, strong arms caught her. Theodore swung her up against his body, tearing her hand from Olive's grasp.
Cyril bellowed, “Get the ungrateful shrew! She broke my nose!”
Blood poured out of both his nostrils. His dark eyes blazed at her with anger and loathing.
“I shall not, Cyril,” Theodore said in almost conversational tones.
Cyril's face was as thunder. “You shall, you brutish thug.”
Clara twisted to look up at the Band. His eyes were like the skies of Outside before the snow fell. He wore a gentle smile.
“You will not have this female, for she is select.” He stroked the hair back from Clara's face and gazed down at her. “She is not meant for those who are not Band.”
He set Clara on her feet and commanded, “Go!”
Clara hesitated when every instinct told her to run far and away.
“Do not worry for me, female,” he said, but his eyes were tender, reading her open face like the proverbial book.
“What will you do?” Olive asked.
“I will free the queen, of course,” Theo said, moving toward Cyril.
“You would not dare,” Cyril said, straightening. His hands fell away, oozing blood trickling from his nose
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