War and Wind: TIDES Book 2

by Alex Lidell

  “It is possible that the twins’ magics reacted to each other in a way that allowed Nile to temporarily absorb some of the strain on Clay’s mind, though the strain on her own mind and body increased exponentially.” Quinn rubs his upper lip, pacing the room as if it were a quarterdeck. A thousand thoughts race in his intelligent eyes as he weighs me with them. “One of the Institute’s theories suggests that magics might influence each other, and I’ve seen evidence of it to a much lesser extent with siblings before.” He pauses. “There is a generous commission for anyone who safely delivers Gifted siblings to the Institute. They’ve never been able to acquire twins, as far as I know, though the reward offered for that is astronomical.”

  A growl escapes Domenic’s throat, and he steps toward Quinn with enough menace to have Aaron shifting himself between them.

  Quinn drapes his hands calmly behind his back. Despite being smaller, he manages to address Domenic as if speaking down to a wayward lieutenant. “I will not apologize for my nation’s attempt to find a way for Gifted to live normal lives, Mr. Dana. The Diante think them Gods touched, who should humbly accept anything fate throws, and you in the Lyron League kingdoms hide your Gifted away and pretend the problem is absent. The Institute’s methods are deplorable, though the intent is humane.”

  “That summarizes most of the Republic’s agenda,” I mumble. “Deplorable means for noble goals.”

  “Debate politics later,” Tamiath snaps at all of us, pacing the room from wall to wall several times before stopping. “What happened, this magical tantrum, is as dangerous as it is irresponsible. The objectives now are safety, secrecy, and prevention, in that order. To Mr. Quinn’s point, pretending that Nile’s magic simply doesn’t exist suits no one.”

  Domenic opens his mouth, but Tam yields nothing to him.

  “Mr. Dana,” says Tam, “we will not overlook information vital to Nile’s life so we can protest the means by which that information was collected.” Tam turns to me. “Nile, stay the hell away from other Gifted until you understand your body. You almost got yourself killed, never mind discovered. Mr. Quinn.” Tam turns once more, examining the ex-Tirik officer. “Given your experience—however you’ve come about obtaining it—how thorough is your understanding of the Gifted?”

  Quinn cocks his head, considering the question. “Perhaps at a midshipman’s level, if we were to use a naval analogy. The Hope’s mission was humanitarian, and I made it a point to know as much as possible about the patients’ needs, but my primary function remained captaining the ship.”

  “In the world of landsmen, that takes the crown,” Tam says darkly. “All right. Between now and the time we reach Felielle, I need the three of you to eat, breathe, and sleep magic. Get this bloody thing under control before someone is hurt.” Tam’s gaze returns to me and softens. “I’m pushing you, I know. I wish there was time to take things slow, to let you rest.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell him, hoping that to be at least half true. I don’t think I can lift my arms over my head, much less stand.

  Tam kisses my forehead. “I’m returning to organizing our departure, then. Let Aaron know if you need anything.”

  Left alone, Quinn, Domenic, and I stare at each other in silence. I sit in bed, cross-legged and flushed, Domenic hovers nearby with his arms crossed, and Quinn leans with one hand against the wall. The air between Domenic and Quinn crackles.

  “Please don’t kill each other,” I say wearily. “And if you want to yell at me for being reckless, can you do it now and get it over with?”

  Domenic glowers. “I’ll yell at you in private.”

  “Wonderful.” I rub my face and cut my attention to Quinn.

  “Mr. Dana is welcome to take charge of the yelling,” Quinn says practically. “I’ll focus on the training. In my experience, that route tends to bring about better results.”

  Domenic rolls his eyes, and Quinn wisely decides he needs to be elsewhere.

  Left alone with Domenic, I shimmy myself to sit more comfortably on the bed and eye Domenic wearily. Quinn may have considered Tam’s lecture enough, but I rather doubt Domenic will let the episode rest that easily. If my aching from head to toe and facing a week of punishing training can be called easily.

  “All right,” I say, spreading my arms. “I know you’d still like to lecture me, so go ahead.”

  “What I’d like to do,” Domenic snaps, “is set you to scrubbing decks for however long it takes you to work out just how much you scared me back there. It was as if—” He cuts off mid-sentence and strides to the door, which Quinn had left open. Domenic closes it with a single swipe of his hand, the latch clicking into place on a hidden spring. That quickly, the spacious bedroom is too small, the air stifling. The silken sheets tickle my bare feet as I shift beneath Domenic’s stare.

  He shakes his head, his jaw tight. “It was as if you weren’t there anymore, Nile. The very fire in your eyes dimmed. Then your body arched up so tight and high, I thought you might snap your own spine. And you know what else?” He stalks toward me, a storm howling in his eyes while the wooden floor creaks beneath each heavy step. Stopping at the edge of the wooden bed, Domenic presses both palms into the edge of the mattress. He leans onto his hands, his shirt shifting in deference to the coiling muscles, and brings his face within a foot of mine. At eye level now, he pins me with his gaze.

  I swallow.

  “And you know what else,” Domenic repeats so calmly that I squirm beneath the intensity of his words. I wish he’d yell or shout, but Domenic refuses to so much as raise his voice. “I am willing to bet my life that you felt your control slipping. You felt it, but you were too intent on doing what you wanted, on getting through to your brother, that you damned the consequences to hell.”

  The silence that follows his words presses in on me from all sides. I had felt the coming danger, had heard Domenic’s shout of warning, seen the shards of a window shattered beneath a rogue wind. Yes, I’d sensed—and ignored—it all.

  Of course Domenic is angry. He has every right to be.

  And I have every right to ignore it.

  Except I can’t. The force of his fury pins me in place. My mouth dries; my head turns away from his glare.

  I shuffle myself to relieve the pressure, bringing my knees up and wrapping my aching arms around them. The large mirror hanging on the wall opposite the dresser shadows my movements. At least I know why I’m so damn sore. Why even my chest muscles hurt if I breathe too deeply. “If it makes you feel better, I feel like I’ve been scrubbing decks. For a very long time.”

  “Good,” Domenic says.

  The memory of that particular task from my initial days on the Aurora, my first taste of a low seaman’s work, won’t be fading in the foreseeable future. Neither will the one of Domenic watching me struggle, waiting for me to quit as the sanding stone split my skin and the bosun’s mate lay his rope’s end across my shoulders.

  My body betrays me, and I flinch at the memory. Storms and hail. It is as if Domenic’s mere presence is enough to shatter my self-control, stone by stone. Face heating, I lower my forehead atop my knees.

  The bed shifts as Domenic pulls back to sit sideways on its edge, granting me a measure of breathing room. When my head remains bent over my drawn-up knees, he sighs and brushes the exposed nape of my neck with his fingers.

  A jolt of awareness races through me, and I must draw a breath before I can turn my head to the right to look at him through half-lidded eyes.

  “Yes, I’m still furious with you,” he says, though his fingers rub light circles on my neck. One of his legs tucks under him so he can watch me more easily. “But stern lecture over. All right?”

  “Thank the waves,” I mutter, trying for a half smile and failing. I wonder whether Domenic knows how easily he could shatter me just now, how stupidly open I’ve left myself to him.

  Domenic’s fingers on my neck splay to a full calloused palm, its warmth seeping into me through tender skin. “I was so afraid I�
��d lose you back there,” he whispers quietly.

  The heat of his touch rushes through my veins like wildfire, and my stomach twists. It’s wrong, how much I want that touch, how my body explodes with the longing for it. Friends. Domenic and I are just friends because that is all we can be. The only way to be fair to Domenic, who can never know the secret Tam, Aaron, and I share. No matter how much it kills me to keep it from him.

  I can’t move for fear of losing whatever touch he is willing to grant me, not even to nod. Instead, I close my eyes and savor each brush of familiar calloused fingers that coax my aching muscles to release.

  Domenic’s hand slides from my neck to the top of my shoulder and sweeps down my back.

  My stomach clenches, a small gasp escaping my lips as I jerk away.

  The hand freezes. “Does your back still hurt?” The concern in Domenic’s voice speeds his words. “It should have healed, unless—did the wounds get infected?”

  “No.” I shift forward slightly, away from his hand. Despite the chilled room, my skin heats like flame. “It’s fine. No infection. No pain. Not anymore.”

  “Let me see.” His fingers reach for the hem of my too-large shirt, stopping again when I fail to suppress a shudder, my instinctual drive to keep the scars concealed winning over common sense.

  “Who changed my clothes?” I stammer.

  Domenic pulls back his hand and blinks. “Who changed your clothes?”

  My face burns hotter still, and I bring my eyes back to the bedspread. It’s blue and green, like the ocean. “I wore a dress when I went to see Clay. Who took it off? Who…saw me without it?”

  He frowns. “Does it matter? Nile, you—” He stops, his eyes darkening as he answers his own question before forming the next. “Your back. That’s what worries you, isn’t it?”

  I turn my face away.

  Domenic swears softly, his profile sharp against the setting sun’s silhouette. “Nile.” His voice is quiet. “Look at me. Please.”

  I turn my face back to him, laying my ear and cheek against my knee.

  Domenic’s gaze cuts through to my heart. “Why specifically?” he asks. “Is it the sight or the memories?”

  I shrug. “Both. I don’t know. I’ve never seen them. It’s easier to pretend none of it happened.”

  A muscle in Domenic’s jaw flickers. “It did happen. I know because it haunts me each time I close my eyes.” He surveys me, the room, the locked door. Reaching out, Domenic traces his thumb around my chin before holding out his hand to me, palm up. “Come.”

  “Where?”

  “Not far.”

  The sea-and-brine scent fills me as I let Domenic draw me off the bed. The stone floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and I hiss softly before I realize Domenic has led me to stand beside the mirror. My heart pauses for a moment, then sprints into a gallop. “No,” I say, twisting away from the reflection. “No. No. No.”

  Chapter 35

  Stepping back from the mirror, I hit the solid wall of Domenic’s body behind me.

  “Easy,” he says softly, the heat of his body warming mine despite the room’s chill. The rise and fall of Domenic’s chest pushes against my shoulders with each breath.

  “What happened…” Domenic’s throat bobs as he swallows. “What I did to you, it is quite horrid enough without letting its ghost haunt and shun you from your own body. I won’t let it.”

  I shake my head vigorously. “Not now. Later. When… Just later.”

  Standing behind me, Dominic turns me slightly to catch my gaze in the mirror. “You are getting married, Nile,” he says dryly. “That involves activity not usually done with a shirt on.”

  My face heats. “Yes, well, I’ll sort that one out. Let it go.”

  “No.” Domenic’s voice hardens. “I couldn’t protect you from the pain when it happened, but Goddess help me if I let you fear looking at your own body.” Taking hold of my shoulders, he angles me gently to open my back to the mirror’s reflection.

  My mouth is dry, my legs ready to sprint.

  “It’s all right.” Domenic’s voice is soothing as I press my face into his chest. He blows out a long breath. “Come on. You survived the doing of it, you’ll survive the seeing too. We both will.” The last comes out in a whisper that flickers with vulnerability.

  “All right,” I say, letting Domenic draw the back of the shirt up and over my head while keeping my arms still in the sleeves. The fabric hangs forward from my shoulders and neck, covering my breasts while exposing the scars to light.

  I flinch at the first brush of air on naked skin and shut my eyes. My fingers dig into Domenic’s biceps, pressing hard enough to bruise.

  Our bodies are flush and Domenic’s hand comes to cover my own. We stand like that, angled diagonally before the mirror I refuse to look into. Then his cheek, slightly rough despite his morning shave, scrapes along the side of my neck until his lips hover beside my earlobe. “You look like a warrior.” His warm breath fills the inside of my ear. “Honed and strong and feminine. Open your eyes.”

  The note of command has me obeying, but though my eyes are no longer veiled, it is him I examine in the mirror. Domenic stands beside me, his legs shoulder width apart, his back straight as always. The loose purple shirt of his guardsman uniform tapers to a taut waist, wrapped with a wide swath of golden fabric, its loops ready for weapons. Domenic’s eyes meet mine in the reflection.

  “You are beautiful,” Domenic says quietly, reaching around me to run his fingers fearlessly over mutilated flesh. My body trembles beneath his touch, and he puts his free hand on my hip to steady me. His hand flows down to caress the groove of my spine and the valley of scars. “You deserve to wear these battle marks as badges of pride. That’s what the other seamen do, you know.” He forces a smile. “On the lower decks, half the men will say you aren’t a true sailor until you’ve survived the grating.”

  Yes. I’ve heard that too. And the shame turns my gut. “I fell apart.” I whisper my confession quickly, before the words catch up with me. “At the grating. Afterwards. I wanted to be brave and stoic, but I couldn’t. I was terrified.”

  Domenic makes a guttural sound. “I heard you could have given up Catsper and avoided the whole unpleasant business.” He snarls softly. “You chose. You survived. And then you saved us all. The Aurora never deserved you, Nile. I never deserved you.”

  I swallow.

  Shaking his head, Domenic traces the marks one by one.

  Sensitive, I realize with detached surprise. My back with its ridges and marks is oddly sensitive now, numbness and awareness exploding together into a bouquet of forever changing, unexpected sensations.

  My eyes now following the progress of Domenic’s hands across puckered flesh, I let myself lean against him, savoring his touch. “Doesn’t it….” I hesitate, forcing the words past my defenses. “Does it not repulse you?”

  Domenic’s hand freezes in midmotion. I start to pull away, but he shakes his head and walks around me instead. In the mirror, I see him stop behind me. Wordlessly, deliberately, and very slowly, Domenic lower his head and presses a kiss to the nape of my neck, just where healthy smooth skin meets jagged marks. “No,” he says, meeting my eyes in the reflection. “I’d kiss every one of those scars if I could.”

  My whole body goes taut at that, but this time it’s desire, not fear, that heats my blood. In the mirror, I can see nothing beyond Domenic’s gaze, the speckles of light reflecting in his irises. Even on land Domenic smells of the sea and stands as tall as if commanding a ship.

  A need low inside me flares to life, and I press my thighs together to suppress it.

  Domenic tenses and draws a short hard breath. “Nile.” His voice is no longer soothing, my name a warning on his lips. He steps back and away.

  I twist to face him, even as the wrongness of it screams its warnings. The air between us crackles. Domenic’s body is coiled tightly, and he flinches when I press my palms against his chest.

  Domenic’s
large hands brace my hips, holding me away from him. His chest heaves. “Nile,” he says again. A caution and a warning and a plea all wrapped into one. “This isn’t where—”

  He cuts off with a gasp as I push him backward, more and more until his calves thump the bed’s wooden frame. My hands slide over the cool silk of Domenic’s shirt and the hard muscles beneath it.

  “Don’t do that,” he hisses between clenched teeth. “Please.”

  A tattoo, my memory murmurs. Domenic has a tattoo sneaking between his pectorals, and I want to see it. Now. I shove him, pressing until he falls back onto the bed behind him, catching his weight on outstretched arms.

  We stare at each other. Me, standing between his legs, my shirt draped loosely over my breasts, which peak in the room’s chill. Domenic sitting on the mattress, his arms trembling with more than his body weight can account for.

  Back. I should be stepping back now. To think. To reason.

  The magic stirs in my blood. And I don’t know whether the need comes from it or something deep in my chest, but I call my wind and flatten Domenic beneath its force. I’m atop him with the next heartbeat, straddling his hips. His hands rise and tangle themselves in my hair, his own still ruffling in the lingering wisps of my preternatural breeze.

  Domenic’s eyes widen, and, as if some tether inside him snaps, he pulls my shirt free from my body. He bucks beneath me and turns us over, until it is me on my back and him looming atop me. Domenic’s mouth dives toward mine, pressing into my lips faster than they can part for him. After the gentle touch on my back, his tongue inside my mouth is hard and demanding, as if determined to taste everything that I am. Domenic growls softly into my mouth, his voice rumbling against my tongue.

  A bonfire flares low inside me. My hips rise up, undulating, rubbing against his hardness.

  Domenic’s hand slides down to grip my breast in reply. His thumb brushes over a taut nipple. The ache inside grows unbearable. I hiss through my teeth and fumble toward the laces of his breeches, pulling the cloth hard enough to rip.