Deacon

by Kit Rocha

  His hands trembled as they slid up her body to cup her breasts. He squeezed them too roughly, a delicious slip in his unending self-control. She shuddered and threw her head back, thrusting her breasts into his hands and moaning when he pinched her nipples.

  She had come too hard to rebound into another orgasm. But riding him still felt good, and the noises he made and the way his body tensed beneath her felt better. But the roughness of his touch, the crack in his rigid demeanor--that twisted her up again.

  Shameless now, she caught one of his hands and dragged it down her body. She felt the first brush of his thumb all the way to her toes, and her rhythm faltered as she realized how close she was. So close the blood roared in her ears, so close his name fell from her lips--a tortured moan, and then a plea, and then a chant as he lifted his hips to meet each thrust, slamming into her roughly enough to send her hurtling over the edge.

  He flipped her over onto her back, grinding her into the mattress as he fucked her through the pleasure, through the violent waves of it crashing over her. He rode her orgasm to his own, every muscle shaking as he went rigid, threw his head back--

  And for a moment, he was utterly naked.

  Ana struggled through the haze, scrambling to fix his expression in her memory. Deacon, unguarded. His lips parted, his eyes closed, his face contorted with pleasure so raw it looked like pain.

  Then he slumped on top of her, his face buried in the hollow of her neck, his ragged breaths hot on her damp skin.

  The tenderness she thought she’d banished roared up again, and she knew it was mostly whatever chemical cocktail took over your brain when you’d been well and truly fucked. But she still wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him close enough to feel the rapid thump of his heart against her breast.

  With one last groan, Deacon rolled away and blinked up at the ceiling. “I’m still wearing my boots.”

  “And your pants.” Her muscles had liquefied, but somehow she managed to roll onto her side and prop her head up on her hand--the same positions they’d found themselves in on the mats the other night.

  Except this time she didn’t have to squint--they were in her bed and it was impossibly intimate.

  She reached up and brushed her fingers through his spiky hair. At the temples, the tiniest smattering of silver dusted the dark strands, like stars in a night sky. She smoothed her thumb over them and ignored the funny flip in her stomach. “Want me to take them off?”

  “I shouldn’t stay,” he rasped. “Training ceremony’s tomorrow. You need your rest.”

  “I’m not the one who got hit in the head,” she retorted, though she dropped her hand to his chest. “But you’re right. You probably shouldn’t stay, either way. If people see you coming out of my room in the morning...”

  “They’ll talk,” he agreed, then turned his head to meet her gaze. “It bothers you.”

  She shrugged and rolled to her back so she wouldn’t have to look into his too-understanding eyes. “It wouldn’t bother me if no one would make a big deal out of it. But people watch me. They watch to see if I really deserve to be here, or if you let me in for...other reasons.”

  He snorted. “I didn’t let you in. I don’t choose the Riders, I only comm--” He bit off the words. “I don’t choose the Riders.”

  “But Gideon listens to you.” She nudged him with her elbow. “And you’ll command the Riders again.”

  “I don’t know that, and neither do you.”

  “I know it.” Ana rolled upright, found her discarded underwear tossed across her desk, and pulled them on. “You need to stop hiding from everyone else. I know you think you’re giving them space, but I know what it feels like from this side, too.” She glanced back at him. “It feels like you don’t trust us.”

  “Ana,” he chided softly.

  “Hey, I get it now.” She arched an eyebrow. “But that’s because you talk to me.”

  “I’ll handle it.” He stretched slowly, then buttoned his pants and swung his legs over the side of her bed. “I told you I would, and I intend to.”

  “Good.” Her shirt was in a puddle on the floor. Ana swept it up and hauled it over her head, wincing when her hands encountered the disheveled tangle of curls on the top of her head.

  Just the memory of Deacon’s fingers tugging through the strands, destroying the sloppy bun, brought the tingles back, and she banished them with an irritated shake of her head as she retrieved Deacon’s shirt. But when she turned, she was struck by the image of him perched on the edge of her bed, shirtless and mussed and more relaxed than she’d seen him in...

  Ever. She’d never seen Deacon relaxed.

  The urge to crawl into his lap and kiss him until relaxed turned into hungry again nearly overwhelmed her. So much for fucking him out of her system. He was lodged under her skin more deeply than ever, which wasn’t a surprise. She’d known going into this that it was stupid, just like she’d known every time she talked back to him that the smarter path was silence.

  She always knew what she should do around Deacon. But she could never seem to do it.

  Irritated with herself, she tossed the shirt at him--mostly to avoid getting close enough to touch him. “You should eat with us tomorrow morning, too.”

  A wide grin curved his lips as he caught his shirt. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Oh, God. Now he was being charming. Relaxed Deacon was bad enough. But charming, teasing, sweet Deacon?

  It was like she had put her foot down on what she thought was solid ground only to discover ice. Slippery, treacherous ice that could crack under her weight at any moment. She struggled to summon a scowl, but the dancing warmth in his usually chilly eyes had her stomach doing backflips. “Oh, get out of here. You’re old and you need your sleep.”

  His low laugh rocked her, but not as strongly as his hands on her shoulders. He spun her around and kissed her--nothing as simple or straightforward as a good night or a thank you or even a who are you calling old? It was pure promise, that kiss, slow and hot and sure, and Ana stopped caring if she plunged through the ice--the deep, dark depths of whatever lay beneath it could claim her as long as Deacon kept kissing her.

  He finally pulled away, his eyes twinkling. “See you in the morning.”

  Then he was gone.

  Ana shut the door behind him and leaned against it, her body a riot of conflicting emotions. Lazy satisfaction, bone-deep weariness--along with the tiniest hint of freshly stirred arousal.

  They had fucked so hard she’d feel it tomorrow, which wasn’t ideal considering the circumstances. She’d have to spar in front of the Rios family, with Deacon watching, and every twinge would remind her just how hot it was to climb on and ride him.

  Groaning, she thumped her head against the door once. Another stray curl escaped her scrunchie and slipped into her eyes, and she blew out an exasperated breath.

  Maybe it was good that the training ceremony was tomorrow. The ritual could serve as a much-needed reminder of just how high the stakes were. All those little girls, and all their dreams.

  If that couldn’t anchor her to solid ground, nothing could.

  Maricela

  There were times that hearkened back to Maricela’s childhood so strongly that it almost hurt. She clung to that pain, because it made the memories real. Some people preferred memories like pearls--precious, rare, smooth to the touch. Maricela had her share of those, but what she treasured most were the imperfect ones. The ones you knew had to be true because they were too complicated to be fantasies.

  The ceremonial training days in the palace courtyard evoked that nostalgia more easily than anything else. They had begun in the days of the Prophet’s rule, when his children had trained alongside the volunteer guard. As he had gained more power, the purpose had slowly shifted, evolving into a demonstration of the guards’ skills, a show for the Prophet’s benefit.

  By the time Maricela had come along, the guards had abandoned the ceremony entirely. Gideon had picked it up for his Riders
as a way for them to display their talents to the family they’d sworn to protect--and, in return, receive their sincerest gratitude.

  As a child, she’d spent those days in rapt fascination, sitting between her mother and her sister Isabela, watching blades flash and trick shots split arrows as Gideon commanded his men. It was half battle and half exhibition, all of the excitement of war with none of the danger.

  The ceremony had taught her the value of spectacle. And then it taught her about death.

  His name was Radek. He wasn’t one of the first Riders, or the most well-known. He was never sainted, and there were no monuments dedicated to him, just a single, smiling portrait on the wall in the Riders’ inner sanctum. But Maricela still remembered him, his laugh and his flashing eyes and his broad, easy grin.

  Mostly, she remembered settling down on a blanket one warm spring day, ice pop in hand, to watch the training--only to realize that she hadn’t seen Radek in months. But when she asked her mother about it, all she would say was, “He’s no longer with us, Mari.”

  Not the clearest answer to give a child. But the day Maricela figured out what it meant was the day she finally understood the Riders--even with his death portrait already outlined on the temple wall, Radek had smiled, laughed, fought. Lived.

  Every day as if it was his last, because it very well might be. And, eventually, it was.

  The training ceremony looked different now. A casual gathering more than anything, because there weren’t enough Riders left to fall into anything resembling a formation. The war had taken its toll on every sector, and in One, the price had been exacted on the Riders.

  “Maricela.” Her sister swatted her lightly on the thigh with the fan she held in one hand. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you?”

  “Mmm, no.” A blithe admission that most wouldn’t have dared to make. “I was watching Lucio go through his kata. Is that judo or aikido? I think I’d like to learn.”

  Isabela heaved a put-upon sigh, and Maricela hid a smile behind her own fan. Her oldest sister was the religious leader of their sector, the most powerful woman among them. But to Maricela, she would always simply be Bela, the person who had taught her how to braid her own hair and covered for her when she broke their mother’s favorite vase.

  She could be a little self-important sometimes. And since so few people in the sector were at liberty to poke and tease Isabela Rios, Maricela considered the job hers, by right and responsibility.

  Unfortunately, no amount of teasing could distract Isabela when she was on a mission. “I said,” she repeated archly, “that I had lunch with Estela Reyes yesterday. And she was very eager to open negotiations for a betrothal between you and Nita.”

  Maricela should have expected it, honestly. Ever since Reyes had joined the Riders instead of marrying her, his appalled parents had been very eager to find an acceptable alternative that would still ally their family with the Rios clan.

  But Nita? Maricela dismissed the idea with a swish of her fan. “She’s one of my best friends, and completely uninterested in marrying me. You may as well forget it.”

  “Maricela...” This time, Isabela’s sigh was long-suffering. “Sweetheart, in our position, marriage isn’t always about interest. Especially not your first marriage. A convenient arrangement could allow Nita substantial freedom, and give you both plenty of time to yourselves before anyone begins to wonder about children.”

  Kora was so lucky she’d already settled down with Ashwin, so she didn’t have to listen to these lectures. “Children? Really?”

  “Plenty of time,” Isabela repeated. “You’re still young. But I was only nineteen when I chose my first husband.”

  “Well, it’s not like you did that out of some keen sense of duty. You married John because you were desperately in love with him.”

  “I loved John,” her sister conceded. “But not as much then as I do now. Love blossoms in a relationship. Leo came to us through a pragmatic arrangement with his family, and I love him just as much.” She reached out. “You’re so fond of Nita, Mari--I wish you’d at least consider it.”

  “I don’t doubt how much you love your husbands and wives, Isabela.” No one with eyes could. “But I’m not ready to settle down yet. I’ve never even had a proper lover, for Christ’s sake.”

  That silenced Isabela for a moment. She frowned slightly while absently fanning herself. The resulting breeze stirring her long, loose brown hair. “Well,” she said finally. “If that’s an obstacle, perhaps you should remedy it.”

  Maricela laughed.

  Isabela swatted her again. “I’m serious. Obviously, certain precautions must be taken to ensure your safety, but any of the royal guard can be trusted.” A flick of Isabela’s wrist waved the fan toward the men currently demonstrating their skills with swords. “Or the Riders. You could do far worse in a first lover. And with the Riders, there’s no danger of...complicated attachments.”

  She did sound serious. Maricela’s cheeks flamed. “Every single one of the Riders looks at me and sees a little sister. There’s no way one of them would climb into my bed.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Reyes couldn’t bring himself to do it, and he’ll fuck anything that moves.”

  “Maricela.” Isabela cast her eyes heavenward. “If you’d given that boy any encouragement at all, he would have done his duty, and we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  When Maricela opened her mouth, Isabela held up a finger. “Listen to me. This is a volatile time. You know that the noble families have always maneuvered for position and influence amongst themselves, but with new trade opportunities springing up since the end of the war, it’s more important than ever that we ensure all of their interests are aligned with ours. We need a tie to the Reyes family. Soon.”

  “Then maybe Gideon should marry Nita.” Maricela barely managed to keep a straight face. Isabela would swallow her own tongue before she tried to pressure him into something like that.

  Shockingly, Isabela just shrugged. “Don’t think I haven’t tried to convince him, but he’s being...obstinate about her age. He says he’s not interested in a wife whose christening he attended.”

  “So you’re stuck with nothing but stubborn siblings.” Maricela reached past her sister to retrieve a beer from the ice bucket on the bench beside her. “Sucks to be you.”

  “You’re impossible.” But there was a fondness to her tone, and she smoothed a few strands of Maricela’s hair back into place. “Fine, I’ll play politics with Estela Reyes. But you should think about finding yourself a lover. A patient, generous one. You know, Gabe has quite a reputation with the initiates.”

  “Oh, I know.” The only difference between Gabe and Reyes was that Gabe was more discreet. But the initiates still talked, and Maricela had spent more than one evening being regaled by blushing tales of Gabe’s prowess.

  But she couldn’t take a lover who would be related to any of her potential future spouses--it didn’t bother everyone, but it would bother her--so that left out all the Riders from noble families. Maricela screwed off the cap of her beer and took a long drink as she perused the courtyard.

  Lucio had abandoned his forms and was examining a gleaming rifle that Bishop had just commissioned from the gunsmith. Either of them would be a fine choice, except that Lucio had never shown the slightest bit of sexual interest in anyone that she could remember. And Bishop liked to ruffle her hair sometimes, like she was still ten years old.

  Ana was sparring with Hunter near one of the fountains, and Deacon was deep in conversation with Reyes. Ana and Deacon had potential, but they’d spent the entire morning so far sneaking secret glances at one another, and the message couldn’t have been plainer if they’d shouted it from the roof of the palace--if she wanted Ana or Deacon as a lover, she’d have to take Ana and Deacon.

  She was not ready for that.

  Zeke was in the middle of the courtyard, with most of Isabela’s children literally climbing him lik
e a piece of play equipment. He growled and roared as they clung to his arms, laughing and screaming with glee, only to be flipped upside-down a moment later.

  Isabela adored Zeke, and she would approve wholeheartedly of her baby sister forming a temporary attachment to him. But there was something deceptive about Zeke--he seemed nice and easy and simple on the surface, but beneath that...

  He’d been running at a fever pitch for months, and just looking at him exhausted Maricela.

  The thud of a knife driving into wood caught her attention. Ivan was practicing his throws off in a corner of the courtyard, away from everyone else. He wore his usual severe expression, but that did nothing to diminish his appeal. If anything, it only made her want to clear his stormy frown with a smile, perhaps even a laugh. If she was lucky.

  Maricela moved without thinking, muttering an apology to Isabela as she snagged a second beer from the bucket.

  He glanced up at her approach. The final knife left his fingers without him looking, yet somehow still sank into the target near its painted center. Ivan drove his fingers through his short blond hair to smooth it down before turning to nod at her. “Maricela.”

  He was wearing a blue-gray shirt that made his eyes look ridiculously bright. But she was burning up in light colors and no sleeves, so he had to be sweltering. “It’s hot,” she breathed, then immediately fought a wince. “I brought you a beer.”

  “Thank you.” He accepted the frosty bottle from her hand and held it to the strong column of his neck.

  Her throat went dry. She would have rolled her eyes if he’d been trying to make her think filthy thoughts, but somehow the fact that it didn’t even occur to him, it just happened--

  She swallowed a whimper. “Do you have a date yet? To the midsummer festival, I mean.”

  One of his eyebrows rose marginally. “A date?”

  “Someone to go with,” she elaborated. “You talk, laugh, have fun. Go home together afterwards.”