Captive

by A. D. Robertson

  Her laugh crackled with delight. “Waiting for you, of course.” Her eyes grazed over Sarah. “I didn’t know you’d be bringing company. Though your little pet is welcome to join us. I know we talked about a threesome—this is a fabulous opportunity, don’t you think?”

  Tristan took a step toward the bed but stopped because of the sound that slipped from Sarah’s throat. It was a sort of cry, terribly soft and cracking.

  “Sarah.” Tristan turned, reaching for her.

  Sarah jumped back to avoid his touch. Her eyes were fixed on his face, and the look Tristan found there robbed his blood of its heat. All the color had drained from Sarah’s face. Her green eyes were wide with disbelief and a desperate hope. She stared at him, waiting for the denial he couldn’t offer.

  When Tristan didn’t speak, Sarah’s gaze left him and settled on Lana once more. After a moment, Sarah closed her eyes. Tristan watched her shoulders begin to tremble. He took a step forward, but she backed away without looking up.

  “No.” He barely heard her whisper.

  Without warning Sarah bolted from the room, and Tristan heard the slamming of her bedroom door from across the hall.

  A throaty laugh glided across the room. Lana slouched onto the pillows, running her hands over her bare skin.

  “Mmmmmmm. That was perfect. Just perfect.”

  Tristan went to the door and closed it. He wanted to go after Sarah, but this disaster had to be dealt with first.

  Lana rolled onto her side as Tristan crossed the room. She stretched her hand toward him. “Come here, lover. That little scene has left me in the perfect mood to please you. I’ll do whatever you like.”

  “I don’t want you here, Lana,” Tristan said. “Get dressed and get out. You aren’t welcome in this room or my bed without an invitation.”

  “So formal.” Lana twirled her fingers through her ebony curls. “Don’t you like surprises anymore?”

  “I said, get out.”

  Lana sat up, her playfulness vanishing. “I came to take what was owed me. You said the Searcher would suffer for my pleasure. Instead you act as if . . .” Her eyes narrowed and she drew a hissing breath. “You’re in love with her.”

  “I see jealousy addles your mind, Lana,” Tristan said, ignoring the thud of his pulse. “Love? You know that’s a child’s game.”

  “But you are a child, Tristan.” The rage in Lana’s face gave way to a cool smile. “Do you think she belongs to you? That she could love you?”

  Tristan returned her gaze steadily. “That’s not a concern of mine.”

  “I think it is.” The growing pleasure in her voice made Tristan’s fists clench. “And I wonder how Bosque will take the news. His progeny ensnared by the charms of not only a simple human, but a Searcher.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve grown so bored that you need to spin these mad tales,” Tristan said. “And I doubt that Bosque will appreciate being so misled.”

  “That stoic façade of yours doesn’t fool me, Tristan.” Lana rolled off the bed. She walked toward him, naked and uncaring.

  Tristan went very still as Lana gripped his shoulders and leaned in, whispering, “Do you think he’ll approve? Do you dream that he’ll elevate her when you ask? You know that will never happen. Not after Marise.”

  Tristan hunted for a cutting retort but could find none. Lana’s verbal blow struck true and its pain lingered. Marise Bane, like Tristan, had been a direct descendant of Eira—the first Keeper. Matriarch of all Bosque Mar’s followers. And just as what would one day be expected of Tristan, Marise’s marriage and her production of further heirs of the original Keeper line should have been overseen by Bosque himself. But that was not what had happened.

  Cloaked in rumor and speculation, the tale of Marise’s rebellion was considered a blatant lie by some Keepers and storied truth by others. If the gossip was true, Marise had won the love of a fellow Keeper—another direct descendant of Eira, in fact—but Marise’s paramour had been a woman: Lumine Nightshade. Unwilling to tolerate their relationship, Bosque commanded that the lovers be separated. Though Marise couldn’t defy Bosque’s direct order, she retaliated by quickly engaging in a sordid affair with a human. A rakish gambler brought to the American West by the Colorado Gold Rush, Efron LaSalle bore no resemblance to the type of mate Bosque would have picked for Marise. By the time Marise’s act of retribution came to light, she was carrying Efron’s child. Though Bosque held only disdain for Efron, Marise’s pregnancy kept the Harbinger from ridding his house of the undesirable rogue. Thus, Efron the gambler had been elevated from shiftless wanderer of the frontier to husband of one of the most powerful Keepers alive. Marise’s vengeance cut deeper still upon her death in childbirth, leaving Efron alone to raise the new heir to Bosque’s legacy.

  Lana’s questions struck at the heart of Tristan’s predicament. Even if Sarah could be persuaded to stay at Tristan’s side, Bosque would never brook a Searcher for his heir’s wife. At best Tristan’s master would tolerate Sarah as a mistress, but even that small mercy seemed uncharacteristic of the Harbinger.

  Tristan had no choice but to glare at Lana and remain silent while she smirked.

  After kissing his cheek, Lana walked away from Tristan and opened the door.

  “Don’t leave your clothes here,” Tristan called after her. “I don’t want you or anything of yours in this room.”

  “I didn’t wear any when I came,” she answered, and paused to look over her shoulder at him. “You should remember something, Tristan, or you might get yourself into real trouble.”

  “What’s that?” Tristan asked stiffly.

  “Keepers aren’t meant to love, they’re meant to rule.”

  Tristan waited until she was gone, then he dropped into a crouch and buried his face in his hands. He’d broken into a cold sweat and he was dizzy to the point of not being certain he’d stay on his feet if he stood up.

  He had to go to Sarah, but what could he say to her? How could he explain?

  Gritting his teeth, Tristan realized he couldn’t justify, apologize, or rationalize anything. Not until he knew what Sarah was feeling, what she thought of him after . . .

  He shuddered and forced himself to stand. Quivering on the floor like a coward accomplished nothing. He stumbled into the bathroom and splashed icy water on his face until his mind cleared and the trembling of his limbs ceased.

  The trepidation Tristan experienced as he crossed the hall and knocked on Sarah’s door was damn near paralyzing. When she didn’t answer, Tristan knocked again.

  “Sarah?” he called.

  No response.

  Tentatively, Tristan turned the doorknob. At least she hadn’t locked him out. Tristan entered the room and closed the door behind him. Sarah wasn’t immediately in sight.

  “Sarah?”

  “Go away!” Her voice was slightly muffled behind the half-open door to the alcove bathroom.

  “We need to talk.” Tristan paused outside the alcove. “May I come in?”

  “No!” A violent retching sound from the other side of the door alarmed Tristan enough that he pushed into the bathroom.

  Sarah was kneeling beside the toilet. Sweat had matted her hair to her forehead and temples. She averted her eyes from Tristan, but not before he saw how bloodshot they were. Tears streaked her cheeks.

  “I don’t remember inviting you in,” she said, scooting along the floor so she could lean against the alcove wall.

  “You’re sick.” Tristan bent on one knee, peering at her.

  “Something like that.” Sarah turned her face away from him. “Stop it.”

  “Stop what?” Tristan asked. “Stop looking at you?”

  “Stop pretending you care whether I’m sick or not,” Sarah replied. “Stop acting like you have any regard for how I feel at all.”

 
; “Sarah—”

  Her head snapped up. “Do not say my name like that.”

  Tristan frowned as he stood up. “I don’t understand.”

  “You have no right to speak to me as if there’s something between us,” Sarah said.

  “There is,” Tristan said. “If you just let me explain—”

  “Explain that you prefer fucking monsters?”

  “I don’t.” Tristan bristled at her tone.

  “Then you haven’t fucked her?”

  He didn’t answer. Sarah drew up against the wall, shrinking farther from him.

  “Things were different before you came here. I didn’t know—” he began, then sighed. “Sarah, it’s not—”

  “I told you not to say my name like that,” she said. “And I don’t care what it is or is not. I know all that I need to. Now, get out.”

  The derision in her voice was so similar to his own toward Lana that Tristan balked despite his desire to argue. Had Sarah’s perception of him changed so drastically?

  Do you think that she belongs to you? That she could love you?

  Tristan took a step forward, reaching for Sarah. “You know who I am. The past doesn’t matter.”

  “The hell it doesn’t!” She knocked his hand back. “I hate myself for letting you near me. You will never, ever touch me again.”

  It felt as if the floor suddenly heaved beneath him, and Tristan grabbed the doorknob to steady himself. Sarah was on the bathroom floor, vomiting, not because she was sick but because of her revulsion—revulsion toward him.

  “Leave,” Sarah said. “If you’re going to kill me, kill me. Otherwise, stay away.”

  With a nod Tristan pushed himself out of the alcove. Unsteady steps carried him across the room and into the hall, where he stumbled into Seamus.

  “Is everything all right, Tristan?”

  You are a child.

  Something splintered inside Tristan. Something old and long-buried. He collapsed against the wolf, his body quaking with silent sobs.

  “Ah, lad.” Seamus shouldered Tristan’s weight, helping him across the hall and into his room. “It was bound to happen. There’s no shame now. No shame.”

  But it wasn’t shame that wrung sorrow from Tristan’s body. It was fear, a slow spread of horror through his limbs, for he knew that he’d found something he desperately needed. Something he hadn’t known he was searching for but that he’d just as likely lost forever.

  23

  SARAH DIDN’T REMEMBER when she’d dragged herself out of the alcove and into bed. She must have fallen asleep at some point, because a knocking at her door woke her. Her head throbbed and her body felt bruised and knotted. She rolled over, willing the interruption away. All Sarah wanted was to forget everything that had happened the night before, to hide from the world as long as she could. But whoever was at the door refused to give her respite and the loud banging persisted.

  When it became clear that the knocker wouldn’t be giving up, Sarah forced herself out of bed and went to the door. Her hands were shaking. It could only be Tristan, and she didn’t know how to face him. Her chest cramped, full of pain and longing. She didn’t understand how it could be possible to want someone so much and yet hate him with equal vigor.

  Leaning her forehead against the hard surface, she spoke into the solid wood. “Tristan, I’m sorry. I just . . . I can’t . . . not yet.”

  “It’s Seamus, miss,” a gruff voice answered.

  Sarah straightened, suddenly more alert than she’d felt all night. The wolf was at her door and fear began to cool her blood.

  “Is Tristan all right?” Sarah cracked open the door. If Seamus was there and not Tristan, did that mean something had happened to him in the few hours since she’d banished him from her room?

  “That’s what I’d like to speak with you about,” Seamus replied. “May I come in?”

  Nodding, Sarah stepped back to let him through the door. They regarded each other warily. Searcher and Guardian both knew that in most situations their encounter could only result in a fight to the death. Yet nothing that had taken place in Castle Tierney seemed to follow the rules that Sarah had learned about her world and this war.

  “Would you like to sit?” Sarah gestured to the high-backed chairs near the bedroom’s fireplace.

  Seamus shrugged and took a seat while Sarah settled into the chair opposite him.

  Clearing his throat, Seamus said, “I understand you and Tristan had a falling-out.”

  Sarah stared at the wolf for a long moment and then laughed harshly. “I don’t know that a ‘falling-out’ is how I’d describe it.”

  “How would you describe it?” Seamus asked, unruffled by her irreverent reaction.

  “I believed Tristan was something other than what he truly is.” Sarah straightened in her chair, defensive under the wolf’s judgmental gaze. “I blame myself for ignoring the fact that he’s a Keeper. And my enemy.”

  She added, with a glare, “Like you.”

  Seamus nodded, one corner of his mouth tilting up. “And yet, we’re sitting here peacefully, not fighting.”

  “I don’t have any weapons,” Sarah told him.

  “So you’d just attack me if you did?” Seamus countered. When Sarah didn’t reply, he said, “Things are not as they seem in this place. You know that. You’ve lived it.”

  “I’ve been a fool.” Her voice was low and accusatory, but only toward herself.

  Seamus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “You’re not a fool. You’re young. So is Tristan. And there are greater things at work here than what side of a war you’re fighting on.”

  “What’s greater than a war?” Sarah asked.

  “I think you know.”

  Sarah looked away from the wolf. Her fingers curled tight around the chair arms. “I can’t love him.”

  “You do love him.”

  “It doesn’t . . . How I feel is . . .” Sarah hated how her voice was shaking. She couldn’t stop seeing Lana’s bare flesh tangled in Tristan’s sheets.

  Seamus’s nose crinkled up. “I know what you saw last night, and you shouldn’t dwell on it. Lana did it to provoke you.”

  “She succeeded,” Sarah murmured.

  “She’s very good at it,” Seamus replied. “But don’t blame Tristan for Lana’s cruelty.”

  “But—” Sarah couldn’t finish the sentence. It was too humiliating. Maybe Tristan hadn’t intended for Sarah to know about his trysts with Lana, but that couldn’t erase the fact that they’d happened.

  “He hasn’t been taking the succubus to his bed,” Seamus said, surmising the direction of Sarah’s thoughts.

  “Since I’ve been here,” Sarah replied, her glance challenging the wolf to argue with her. Tristan had told her the same, but that knowledge did little to assuage her injured feelings.

  Seamus shook his head. “You can believe what you want, but I swear to you it stopped well before you showed up. He never had much of a taste for the hell bitch. He was fucking her because it was expected.”

  “How would fucking a succubus ever be something that’s expected of a person?” Sarah half laughed, half choked in disbelief.

  “You’re not a Keeper. You haven’t lived in his world,” Seamus said. “Who Tristan is meant to be weighs heavily on him. He’s been trying to fill that role, but his nature isn’t suited to it. Even so, when Bosque Mar sends you a toy, you play with it and offer your gratitude.”

  Sarah shuddered at the implications, feeling a wave of nausea course through her. When she’d taken a few breaths to calm her roiling stomach, she paused, considering the wolf’s words, and asked, “Who is Tristan meant to be?”

  Seamus’s lip curled back, revealing sharp canines, and Sarah rose from her chair, taking a step back.
>
  “You started this,” she said. “If you don’t want to tell me, why did you come here?”

  The wolf growled at her but didn’t move to attack. “I probably shouldn’t have come to you. But the lad deserves better than this fate, and as far as I can see you’re the only thing that might save him from it.”

  Sarah stared at Seamus, barely able to breathe. What fate?

  Reading the question in her eyes, Seamus said, “I think it’s best for you to find out for yourself. Ask Tristan about his parents. I think he’ll be ready to tell you now . . . if you’re ready to let go of what came to pass before you were in his life.”

  “And if I’m not?”

  “Then you’ve condemned the both of you, and you have my pity.” Seamus stood up and gave a slight bow. “Miss.”

  He paused at the door, saying over his shoulder, “If you do decide to speak with Tristan, you’ll find him in the stables.”

  When he was gone, Sarah went to the alcove and splashed cold water on her face.

  The lad deserves better than this fate.

  Sarah gripped the sides of the basin, letting water drip down her cheeks and into the sink.

  What was happening within these cold stone walls? More was at play than her unwelcome attachment to Tristan. Much more. And Seamus—who should show an interest in Sarah only as far as ripping her throat out—had just urged her to delve deeper into the castle’s secrets.

  They both manage to escape.

  Did Tristan want to escape his fate as much as Seamus hoped the Keeper could avoid it?

  Sarah made up her mind and quickly dried her face with a towel. The wolf had played his cards wisely; Sarah’s curiosity was piqued. She wanted to know what was keeping Tristan in this place and, more than that, she hoped the answer to that riddle would offer her a way to justify her feelings for him.

  After dressing in a simple cotton shirt and jeans, Sarah went in search of Tristan. Warm spring air suffused the courtyard as she arrived at the stables. The sun peeked through a light veil of clouds, muting the colors of an otherwise fine morning.

  She found Tristan fully consumed by his labors. His shoulders flexed as he forked hay into the stall, his skin glistening with a soft sheen of sweat. Sarah watched him work, taking in the fluid lines of his body. Even the brief glimpse of his taut arms and back heated Sarah’s blood.