by Jan Delima
“I could manage a dinner party,” Sophie offered. “As well as feeding the guards . . . if you need me to.”
“You’re not a servant,” he reminded her.
“Oh, please,” Sophie scoffed. “If I don’t have something to do, I’ll go crazy. Besides, if I cover Enid’s vacation, it will make things easier for the poor person who has to work with her in the future.”
“We have several guards and their immediate families that we normally provide for during the week,” he warned her.
And potentially a hundred more if other leaders brought their own assembly of guards, but he kept that information to himself for the moment.
She hedged for a number. “I need to know how many, if I’m to prepare enough food.”
Dylan knew her inquiry about the people who lived in his home, who guarded his family, had an ulterior motive. He found it difficult to be annoyed, however, after overhearing her confession to her mother.
I love him so much that when I look at him it hurts.
He could forgive a great deal, he realized, knowing he still had a place in her heart. “Sixty-two.”
“What about the people who live in the village?”
“They care for themselves, as can those who live within Rhuddin Hall, if needed.”
“If you can provide the supplies,” she said without pause, “I can manage the preparations.”
“Fine,” he conceded, warming to the idea of having his wife occupied with a productive task rather than planning her escape. “The kitchen is at your disposal. And I’ll introduce you to the butcher this afternoon.”
Dylan walked ahead once they reached the upper landing. The scent of lemon oil lingered from a recent polishing of woodwork and pine floors. Joshua and his mother-in-law seemed pleased as he showed them to their apartments. He waited in the hallway as Sophie fussed and stalled in each room. Eventually, she did emerge, but with obvious resignation.
“I know you and Joshua conspired together for this move,” she said once they were alone. “Please don’t make me regret my decision to cooperate.”
“Can you not have faith in me, Sophie?” He made sure his voice held warmth and not ire, a promise of sorts, and a plea. “Just this once? You might find that I’ve done everything within reason to make you comfortable here. You might find that I am worthy of your trust.”
* * *
TRUST? SHE ALMOST LAUGHED AT SUCH AN IMPOSSIBLE outcome to their broken history—which was partially her fault—but kept her cynicism to herself. Not an easy task as he opened the door to the adjoining bedroom next to his (assuming he still resided in the master suite) and held his arm out for her to enter.
Surprise overrode caution as Sophie walked around the double bed with an unfinished child’s quilt folded neatly across the footboard, a project she’d been working on during those last few months before leaving this place.
The room remained exactly as she remembered it: pine floors scattered with Oriental rugs, cream wallpaper and a four-poster bed with blue velvet curtains tied back. She opened the top drawer of the tall mahogany bureau. Tiny cotton shirts and infant socks were folded neatly in two rows—just as she’d left them sixteen years ago. Because of the connecting doors that led to the master bedroom, she and Dylan had planned to make this smaller room into a nursery.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the broken pieces of a wooden cradle stacked under the window. The cradle had been a gift from Luc, the first given to their unborn child. It had also been intact when she left.
“Porter was supposed to remove that,” Dylan said with discontent heavy in his voice. He didn’t deny he had been the one to destroy it, nor did he offer an excuse.
Sophie knew full well why Porter had kept it there—to remind her of what she’d taken from Dylan, and to show her the stark evidence of the anguish her leaving had caused.
She didn’t need the reminder.
Moving the shattered wood with her foot, she stood in front of the window, her gaze unfocused; the gardener below was a blur of brown color, and the thud of his shovel a distant sound, although she stood only one story above.
Dylan could hate her for leaving, if he wanted. They all could hate her and she wouldn’t care, because her actions had kept her son alive until he was old enough to defend himself.
Her decision to stay away, Sophie reminded herself, as she always did when guilt poisoned her conscience, had been justified.
Run, human. Run far away and never return . . . because if you do, I’ll kill you and that bastard child you carry in your womb.
Dylan’s steps were almost silent as he approached, not that it mattered; she sensed his presence more than she felt the racing of her own heart. He leaned down, his chin brushing the side of her cheek, smooth from a recent shave. “What are you thinking about?”
Cool air radiated off the window and she let her forehead rest against the glass. “That I never thought I’d be standing here again . . . in this room . . . with you.”
“You belong with me.” A soft statement filled with quiet conviction.
She sighed, not so sure. “Before I agree to stay, I feel I must be frank with you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I have come to accept a few things about myself. My instinct to protect our son is not rational or reasonable, and sometimes . . . it’s even cowardly and selfish. But it will never change. I will always put Joshua’s welfare before all others, even my own, by any means necessary.”
“You should save your breath, if you’re trying to warn me away.” His hands lifted to her shoulders, warm and gentle as he turned her. The glare from the window reflected off his black gaze; a glint of hunger moved from within before he pushed it back. “I have begun to realize why the Goddess has chosen to favor you, my human wife, who not only accepts both the dark and light aspects of herself, but also embraces them—in order to protect our child.”
My human wife? “You’re not going to stop calling me that, are you?”
“No.” His hands tightened on her shoulders briefly before trailing down her arms.
“You act as if we can just forget the past.”
“Not forget.” He turned her wrist and pushed something cold and jagged into her palm. “But we can learn from it and move forward.”
Avoiding his hardened glare, she unfurled her fingers and stared down at a modern brass key. “What does it open?”
“Both doors to this room. It’s the only copy,” he added. “So don’t lose it.”
“You changed the locks?”
“You stole the master,” he reminded her.
Not trusting her voice, she closed her fingers around the key. One of the first skills she’d acquired after escaping was how to pick a lock. But Dylan wouldn’t have known that.
“I need to do a few things,” he said, turning toward the outer door. “You know where my office is. Meet me there when you’re ready. I’ll show you around the kitchen and larder.” His hand rested on the doorknob, and he watched her with hooded eyes, as if he expected her to renege on her offer to cook, or run for dear life.
She didn’t intend to do either. “Just give me fifteen minutes to wash up and change my clothes.”
It was time to stop running, as her mother had irritatingly, and rightly, suggested. And perhaps . . . her belly gave a little flip at the mere thought . . . perhaps she may even fight for what her heart wanted.
In response, his features stilled, darkened, as if he sensed her thoughts. The effect was disquieting, reminding her—and maybe him as well—that not all their memories in this room were unhappy ones. Her gaze lingered on his mouth, feeling as if the pine wood floors had just given way under her feet.
“Sophie . . .” His knuckles turned white around the doorknob, and the wooden door gave a groan as if too much pressure had been applied. He released his hand and stepped into the hallway. “This room is yours,” he said through the open doorway, putting space between them. “I want you to feel safe here. I’l
l not disturb you, or come to you at night. But you need to remember that I’ve been sixteen years without my mate. I’ll do my best to keep my distance until you’re ready to accept your future here . . . until you’re ready to accept me.” His voice took on a sensual timbre, full of dark promise. “However, the next time you stare at my mouth as you’ve just done . . . I will use it upon you.”
Nineteen
DYLAN WAS QUITE CERTAIN HIS WIFE WAS GOING TO BE the death of him before this was over. Leaving Sophie in the kitchens had not been an easy task; her innocent excitement over inane objects, like an industrial bread mixer (of all the bloody things to get excited over), had almost driven him mad.
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure her proximity without claiming what was rightfully his. His body ached; his skin felt like strung leather over taut nerves and his temper ran short. Luc and most of the guards had begun to avoid him. Not that he blamed them. He was in no mood for companionship other than that of the one who could ease this torture.
Francine’s lecture on how not to smother her daughter had prompted him to get some fresh air, and much-needed distance. Well aware of his tenuous limits, he took a walk around the back of his home, moving away from the more visible trails and into a dense section of his woods, and, more important, away from his beautiful wife. He wanted nothing other than to carry her up to his bedroom where she belonged, and do exactly what his mother-in-law had warned him not to.
As he traveled farther into the forest, his instincts heightened to alert. He stepped onto a small, winding trail, where branches and knotted roots formed a tangled path, and listened. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he felt something was amiss.
Malsum and Porter had this area firmly secured, he knew, and yet he continued to have a distinct feeling of being watched—of a powerful presence that didn’t belong.
Were the Guardians getting closer? Had they already arrived? Or was this someone connected to the gathering?
So many possibilities, none of them reassuring.
The sound of footsteps, four-legged and aggressive, warned of his visitor’s approach. Dylan tensed, ready to shift. The white hound that came crashing through the barren brush was unexpected, as was the man with golden hair who stepped out of the shadows and whistled a sharp command. The creature heeled, teeth bared, eyeing Dylan with malicious distrust.
“Taliesin,” Dylan acknowledged with a sharp nod. It was customary to kneel; he remained standing. “You look like shit.”
Resembling a vagabond, Taliesin wore plaid pants and a ragged shirt—sleeping garments perhaps?—stained and wrinkled, as if he’d worn them for days, or at least since Sophie’s departure from his home.
“Be careful, warrior,” Taliesin said, “I might actually think you care.”
“You kept my family.” Dylan held back a growl, not an easy task when anger was like acid on his tongue. “I should challenge you for what you’ve done.”
“You would lose,” he said simply.
“Are you so sure?” A searing pain shot down his spine as his wolf rose to the challenge and was denied release.
“Calm your wolf, warrior.” White heat filled the air, a warning to behave, and a promise to retaliate. “Your jealousy is vile and unwarranted. If not for my protection, you would have lost your family.”
The hound let out a soft whine, letting Dylan know he wasn’t the only animal who felt fire invade his skin. “Why do you care? More to the point, what has my wife done to deserve your attention?”
Taliesin gave a nonchalant shrug, and a cool breeze brushed through the clearing as if the forest began to breathe. “Sophie’s devotion to Joshua intrigues me.” He walked up beside the creature and ran a soothing hand over its rust-tipped ears. “I kept her until she was ready for what will come.”
“Your riddles annoy me.”
Taliesin turned; an arrogant tawny eyebrow rose in question. “Annoy you or frighten you?”
“Both,” Dylan said without pretense.
“Ah.” His mouth twitched with a hint of amusement. “I find your honesty refreshing.” Then he quieted. “You must wait another night before attempting a transformation with Joshua . . . His mother needs some time to adjust.”
“Are you giving me advice on how to handle my wife?” Dylan sneered; it galled him that this man knew more about her than he did.
“Soon, your son will run as a wolf.” His voice was impatient but firm. “The transformation will go easier for her, and for Josh, if Sophie learns to trust you first.”
As a father, Dylan could not ignore such a warning, or the promise of an almost unbelievable gift. The lure of gaining his wife’s trust would have been enough, but to ease the effect of the change on his son . . . “If one more night will help achieve that goal, then consider your request granted.” Then he allowed himself a moment of weakness; his shoulders sagged with relief over his son’s affirmed ability, until he thought of all the others, like Cormack, who had endured the dark side of their gift for centuries. “Why has my son been chosen? And why now?”
Taliesin let out a crass snort. “Fuck if I know. You think the gods converse with me regarding their plans?” His voice held a cold edge, and once again the forest responded with a shudder, sending droplets of rain to the ground. “I’m not allowed to play with their toys, as you’re well aware. My sight is contained to this world.”
Taliesin’s crudeness came as no surprise; after the Middle Ages, he had chosen to live amongst the basest of humans, preferring the company of commoners over royalty, a trait Dylan grudgingly admired.
As Taliesin lingered without cause, given that his request had been easily granted, Dylan sighed, quite sure he wasn’t going to like the answer to his next question. “What is your true purpose for being here?”
Deep blue eyes looked up and held his, haunted with a knowledge no being should carry. “Sophie’s not wearing the Serpent.”
“I know.” The warning was like a punch to the gut, confirming what Dylan had already surmised. “You know what will happen if the Guardians learn she has possession—”
“Who do you think I’m protecting her from?” Taliesin snarled. “Your eyes are open, warrior, and still you’re blind. You must convince Sophie to wear the Serpent or you will lose everything you love most.”
His anger deflated under the dire warning; Dylan began to pace, agitated by fear and frustrated by what he could not control. “As you’re well aware, I’ve had little influence over my wife’s decisions in the past. What makes you think she’ll listen to me now?”
“Just try. Wait until morning . . . She’ll be more inclined to cooperate.” His gaze became unfocused, as if plagued by memories, past or future, Dylan wasn’t sure which. Not that it mattered with Taliesin because he had lived one and foresaw the other.
“Why? What have you seen?” Unlike some, Dylan had never asked Taliesin to share his divine sight. He had never loved something enough to risk the consequences. Until now.
A pained expression pinched his features. “Just convince her to wear the Serpent.”
“Convince her yourself.”
Tawny eyebrows rose in what seemed like genuine surprise. “Are you inviting me into your home, warrior?”
For Sophie and his son, his generosity, it seemed, had a higher limit. “I am.”
“Your offer tempts me more than you know.” Taliesin shifted from side to side, chewing his bottom lip. “She’s making pizza tonight,” he said in the tone of a petulant boy.
“Who?” Dylan frowned. “Sophie?” He cocked his head to one side, beginning to realize, with gratifying relief, that the nature of Sophie’s relationship with Taliesin was maternal. “Maybe, I don’t know.”
“She is,” he said with slumped shoulders, his eyes downcast, shaking his head as if to clear a forbidden thought. “I can’t. I’ve already interfered more than I should.” His words were laden with guilt, and he turned on his heels and took to the woods. “Tucker will help your cause.”
But there was no spoken reply, only an offended huff as the beast lifted its head, snout up, and walked along the path that would take it directly to Sophie.
* * *
ENID’S CHEEKS TURNED FLORID AS SHE STOOD IN THE kitchen glaring at Sophie, as if half her blood had just risen to her face. “You’re making Roman fare in my kitchen,” she spat. “Sweet Mother, I’ll never get the stench out!”
“Since you’ve decided to stop by,” Sophie said calmly, “will you tell me where the pasta is?” A blank stare prompted further explanation. “Spaghetti . . . Macaroni . . . You know, it comes in a box. You put it in boiling water.”
“I don’t keep dried pasta.” A smug smile turned her lips. “I make everything fresh.”
Sophie bit back a smart reply as she leaned against the counter. She didn’t have time to make fresh pasta, but remembering seeing yeast starter in the fridge, she disappeared into the pantry and returned with honey and oil. She had discovered a large bin of white flour earlier, stored in a closet next to the lovely Hobart mixer. “We’ll have pizza instead.”
“Porter,” Enid ordered hysterically, “do something about this . . . This woman is contaminating my kitchen.”
“You forget yourself, Enid.” Porter stood with his back to the farthest door. His biceps bulged as he crossed his arms, guarding the exit like a demented gargoyle on steroids. “Dylan was born of a Roman and this is his house. I believe pizza is a fine meal for his people. Though,” he added, “I’m hoping it’s the American version.”
Sophie raised her eyebrows, surprised by his support. “Thank you, Porter. It will be, once I find the cheese.” She pinned Enid with a challenging stare. “I assume you have cheese.”
