Deacon

by Kit Rocha

  “Don’t let any of the others hear you say that. You’ll ruin my hard-ass image.”

  Ana’s laughter tickled his cheek as she kissed her way back down his jaw. “Small chance of that.” She settled her head on his shoulder and her hand over his heart, but her fingertip traced in a slow, restless circle against his skin. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “For the longest time I felt like...” She hesitated, something so out of character that he tensed in anticipation of her words. “I was sure you disapproved of me. That you didn’t want me to be a Rider. Because I was a girl, or because...I don’t even know why.”

  “What? No.” It hadn’t been that long, but it was already hard to remember back before the end of the war, when the barracks had overflowed with Riders, but Ana wasn’t among them. “Your dad and I, we didn’t see eye to eye on some things. He trained you, you know? Not just to fight. He trained you for the Riders.”

  Her nervous finger stilled. “Is that...bad?”

  “It’s not fair to you.” Christ, he wasn’t making any sense. “This isn’t a job, Ana. We trade our lives for this--give our lives for it. You know that now, but did you know it when you were eight? Ten? He should have given you a chance to figure out if there was something else you wanted more.”

  “I knew that. I’ve always known that.” She spread her fingers wide on his chest, over his heart. “The sacrifice of it, at least. I always knew the moments he had with me were stolen. I knew every time he left that he might not come back. But my dad didn’t have to give up his life outside being a Rider. We all made the sacrifice together, because it was worth it.”

  That was part of the problem, the fact that her tiny, not-quite-fractured family was the exception. The reason for the rule. “I don’t know if joining the Riders should be a legacy.”

  “Maybe not.” She sighed. “I’m not Ivan, you know. No one ever told me this was my path. My dad gave me a choice, but he never sugarcoated shit. And it’s not...”

  “Not what?”

  “Being what I am? The first? It’s not something that happens to you. Every day of my life since I decided to try, the world’s been pushing back. Sometimes it’s obvious. Sometimes it’s so subtle, people act like I’m crazy if I call them on it. Sometimes people pretend they’re trying to help me. Maybe they really are. But it adds up. If I had any doubts, if I ever wanted out...”

  Her voice drifted off before returning, softer. “This is the path of most resistance. Maybe my dad wanted it for me, but if it wasn’t my dream, too, I would have quit years ago. Sometimes I want to quit anyway, because it’s so fucking hard. But I can’t now. If I flame out...I won’t just be the first woman. I’ll be the last.”

  She sounded so worried, so full of doubt--and that much, at least, he could fix. “That’s bullshit. You’re good, Ana. Better than you realize. You belong here. But even if you didn’t, if you felt like you wanted to go, you wouldn’t be the last woman in the Riders. Gideon wouldn’t shut that door, and neither would I.”

  Ana turned her face to brush a kiss to his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “Shit, thank me for anything but that. It’s just the truth.”

  “Maybe.” She snuggled back down against him and closed her eyes. “Still feels like a fantasy. Maybe it would be easier to believe if I wasn’t the only one.”

  That would take time. “If you know anyone who wants to sign up, let Gideon know.”

  “Mmm. I’ll think.”

  But not right now. She was falling asleep in his arms, which was as strangely moving as it was adorable. Intimate, something he might not have asked for--

  But it felt right. God help him, it felt right.

  Ivan

  Maricela’s sitting room was nineteen feet across and twenty-seven feet wide. There were three windows that overlooked the courtyard, floor-to-ceiling glass that made Ivan nervous, even though he knew the royal guard would be doing regular patrols around every interior courtyard tonight and every night until the threat of the Suicide Kings had been neutralized.

  The sitting room had only one interior door. It opened to the antechamber where Ivan waited, pacing off the width of the long, narrow space. Eight feet across. Fifteen long. One end had been transformed into a cozy nook with a soft chair and footstool, a side table, and a pretty stained-glass lamp. A quiet place to curl up with a book.

  Or a good place for a guard to get lazy.

  Ivan frowned at the chair before pivoting on his heel and starting back in the other direction. As he reached the double doors to Maricela’s bedroom, the breathy sighs coming from within turned to giggling moans, and he hastened his stride.

  The opposite side of the anteroom was more to his taste. A utilitarian table held the weapons he wasn’t wearing, as well as a walkie-talkie he could use to raise an alarm within moments. A simple cot was folded up in the far corner.

  When the time came to rest, he’d lay it out in front of Maricela’s door. Anyone who wanted to get into her bedroom would have to go through him.

  Satisfied, he paused and picked up the walkie. “All clear?” he asked, just as he’d asked once every fifteen minutes since Maricela had disappeared into her bedroom with her...guest.

  “All clear,” came the immediate response. Johan’s voice was unmistakable, and unmistakably exasperated. But the captain of the guard would hold his tongue and tolerate Ivan’s check-ins, because an enemy had walked up to a Rios under the oblivious eye of the royal guard, and the shame of that wouldn’t wash away overnight.

  With his check-in complete, Ivan set the walkie-talkie back down and resumed his pacing. The muscles in his shoulders tightened as he drew closer to Maricela’s door. Two steps away from it, Maricela’s voice drifted out to him. “Wait--”

  Ivan froze, his fingers flexing. She didn’t sound distressed, but if he could say he thought she’d sounded distressed, he’d have an excuse to kick in the door and haul Colin Visscher out of the royal bed by the scruff of his neck.

  Maricela’s tone turned into husky, liquid command. “Use your tongue.”

  The low, masculine laughter in response grated on Ivan’s nerves.

  There was nothing wrong with Visscher. On paper, he was an ideal dalliance for a member of the royal family. His father was a competent and loyal member of the royal guard. His grandfather had served the Prophet as a personal bodyguard. He was young, personable, trustworthy--and, Del had assured him, possessed of a rather formidable reputation amongst the acolytes as a considerate and enthusiastic sexual partner.

  Ivan regretted asking.

  Pivoting sharply, Ivan retreated to the table and picked up one of his new throwing knives. The blacksmith had copied the design of Ashwin’s to produce these sleek, expertly balanced beauties. Over ten inches long, it still rested lightly on the tips of his fingers, thanks to generous cut-outs along the blade and in the handle.

  Of course, the blacksmith hadn’t left it there. Whereas Ashwin’s knives were plain, utilitarian steel, Ivan’s had been delicately engraved with climbing vines and elegant flourishes. The crafters of Sector One appreciated function, but they worshipped form. Nothing that passed through their hands remained unetched, ungilded, undecorated, or unadorned for long.

  As a weapon, Ivan related more to that cold, utilitarian steel.

  The radio crackled, and Johan’s tense voice filled the silence. “We have movement at the south wall. Stand by.”

  Ivan moved.

  The handle on Maricela’s door liked to stick. Ivan slammed it down and threw his weight against the solid wood. It sprang open, crashing against the wall and rebounding to bounce off Ivan’s shoulder as he strode through. “Maricela--”

  He caught sight of the bed and stopped abruptly, spinning on his heel so fast he wobbled. But even with his back to the bed, he could still see her in perfect, snapshot clarity--

  Her head thrown back, face flushed with pleasure. The bodice of her dress pulled low enough to bare her breasts, a
nd her fingers clenched in Visscher’s hair as he obediently made use of his tongue.

  Ivan had to force out the words between gritted teeth. “Visscher, get dressed and go home.”

  Fabric rustled, and Maricela swore. “Ivan, what the hell are you doing?”

  He reached for his belt and realized that, in his haste, he’d left the walkie-talkie out in the antechamber. “There’s been movement outside. For your safety, I need to secure this room.”

  He chanced a glance over his shoulder in time to see Maricela slip from the bed. She’d fixed her clothes in record time, and her bare feet whispered over the rug as she approached. “If something’s going on, he should stay here.”

  Ivan shot the boy a commanding look that had him scrambling out of the sheets and back into his clothes. Then he returned his attention to the far-less-biddable princess. “He’ll be fine. Nobody’s after him.”

  “Ivan--”

  The radio crackled out on the table, and Johan sighed across the channel. “False alarm. One of the kitchen staff was sneaking off to a secret rendezvous in the orchard. The perimeter’s secure. All clear.”

  Dammit. With his pants on but unbuttoned, Colin froze, as if unsure of what to do, and somehow even that irritated Ivan. If the boy had given him attitude, he could have booted him out of the room, guilt-free.

  Now he’d just look like an asshole.

  His displeasure must have shown on his face, because Colin hastily did up the button and dragged his shirt over his head. “I should go anyway.”

  Maricela pressed her lips together and nodded. Her expression stayed fixed in a polite mask, but as Colin pressed a fleeting kiss to her cheek and retreated toward the antechamber, Ivan caught a telling glimmer in her eyes.

  Anyone who hadn’t spent years watching her would have missed it, but Maricela was on the verge of tears.

  The door snapped shut behind Colin, and Maricela flinched. Tiny, barely perceptible, but guilt settled like lead in Ivan’s gut. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she answered immediately. Automatically.

  He’d never dealt well with other people’s emotions. He’d never had any reason to. Growing up, he’d had trainers and teachers instead of friends. And after he joined the Riders... Well, they accepted his taciturn silences and idiosyncrasies without question or judgment. No one made him guess what they wanted from him.

  But Maricela was hiding her needs, and he had to try to figure out how to fix this. “I’m sorry I ruined your...” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say the word dalliance, not about the Rios princess. “Your evening. I can’t take any chances with your safety right now.”

  “No, it’s not your fault. I just...” Her shoulders slumped. “I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

  Of course she didn’t. That mercenary had stepped up to her and slid his threat right into her hand. He’d probably touched her. Smiled. He’d been close enough to hurt her, and if the thought made Ivan tremble, he had no idea what it was doing to her.

  “Get back in bed,” he told her gruffly. It was seven long steps to the door, even with his ground-eating stride, and seven steps was too far tonight.

  In the antechamber, he retrieved the walkie-talkie and his spare knives. Then he hefted the folded cot on one shoulder and hauled it back into Maricela’s room. She turned at the sound, surprised, as if she’d expected him to abandon her after her confession.

  Even Ashwin was better at soothing scared women than he was, and Ivan didn’t have the Makhai soldier’s excuses.

  “Look,” he said, snapping the cot open. He dragged it to the foot of her bed and pointed. “I’ll be right here. No one can get past me.”

  “I know that.” She sank to the bed, her dress tangling around her legs as she drew her knees up under her chin. “No one could get past you out there, either. That’s not exactly what I meant.”

  “So tell me what you need.” He crouched next to the bed, bracing one hand beside her. Her rumpled dress brushed his thumb, the expensive silk soft against his skin. “I can’t read your mind, but if you need something, I’ll make it happen.”

  She worried her lower lip between her teeth for so long he thought she might not answer. But eventually she said, “Will you talk to me? It doesn’t have to be about anything important.”

  If only she’d asked him for something easy. Build something, destroy something. Kill someone. Find a rare fruit she craved. Hell, as blasphemous as putting his hands on her would be, crawling into her bed to take Colin Visscher’s place would be preferable.

  He knew a lot of ways to make women happy with his mouth. Talking had never been one of them.

  But she looked so vulnerable like this. Hunched and small and nothing like the proud, fearless princess who walked among her people, easing their fears with a gentle touch and a kind word.

  “Okay.” He slid his hand over hers, hoping the contact would reassure her. “Deacon and I have been working on a cottage for George Cook and his wife. Now that she’s pregnant, he wants to move into someplace big enough for a family.”

  Maricela lay down on her side, still curled up, smiling as her cheek nestled into her pillow. “I’m happy for them. They’ve been trying for a long time.”

  “They have.” Ivan twisted to sit next to the bed, stretching out his legs in front of him. Her side table made for a suitable backrest, and the thick carpet was probably more comfortable than the cot. “We may have to clear some of the pine trees on the north side of the property to make room for more cottages, at this rate. Seems like now that the war’s past, everyone’s pregnant.”

  “Mmm. The war was hard on everyone.” Maricela spoke slowly, her words slightly dreamy. When he glanced over at her, her eyes were closed, and the rise and fall of her chest had slowed.

  However inane, the talking was working. “It was. But it’s behind us now. And we’ll do whatever we have to do to keep the peace.”

  She made a sleepy noise of agreement. Then, “Ivan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  It was a soft, sweet confession, and it warmed something in his chest. From the time he’d been old enough to understand words, his mother had made it clear that the greatest honor available on this earth was service to the Rios family, and an eventual glorious death in their name.

  Growing up, Gideon had been an ideal to Ivan. Larger than life, especially when hazy childhood memories painted him in a heroic glow. The day that Gideon had come to take them to a safe home with solid walls and a roof that didn’t leak had sealed Ivan’s devotion. He trained every day of his life, willing and eager to walk into fire for the Rios clan.

  But it was different, living here amongst them. Gideon and Isabela had presences that seemed almost otherworldly, but Maricela was young, untested. Still growing into her power and her position, harboring a streak of idealistic vulnerability that ran deep--a weakness her elder siblings didn’t share.

  Dying in a blaze of glory might bring Ivan honor, but a dead Rider--even a sainted one--would be of no use to Maricela.

  If he wanted to keep his princess safe, Ivan was going to have to stay alive.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The blare of the Riders’ emergency alarm shattered the most blissful sleep Ana had enjoyed in months. Groggy and disoriented, she tried to bolt upright but found herself pinned to an unfamiliar bed by a heavy arm.

  In the next moment Deacon rolled over, freeing her. He rubbed both hands over his face, then sat up. “Shit. Clothes.”

  “I think yours are at the end of the bed.” Enough early dawn light filtered through the windows that Ana didn’t knock into anything as she rolled to her feet and went hunting for the underwear she’d kicked off last night. “Fuck, I’m usually smarter about this.”

  “Here.” He tossed her bra and shirt to her, then stepped into his pants and jerked them up.

  She knew how to dress fast. But the tickle of her braids against her skin was new--it had been over a y
ear since she let Naomi do anything but braid her hair tightly to her scalp in a carefully strategic attempt to deprive an enemy of a convenient handhold. It had seemed important to live in that tiny box. To minimize anything that made her different, that could be pointed to as a vulnerability.

  Ana was over living inside other people’s boxes. If anyone wanted to make a try for her hair, she’d be happy to remove their hand for their trouble. She’d fucking do it, too. Because Deacon was right. She’d earned her place.

  And she was damn good at her job.

  Deacon already had the door open, so Ana scooped up her socks and boots and followed him into the hallway. Zeke was in the common room, standing over the big table and staring mournfully at a mangled pile of tech parts.

  He glanced up when they entered. “Ashwin’s going to murder me.”

  Deacon glowered at the table. “Is that...?”

  “The drone,” he said sourly as Ana slid into a seat and started to pull on her socks. “I got a ping that it was on its way back and opened the door and...” He waved at the mess on the table as Reyes and Hunter arrived, looking rumpled but awake. “And I’m not saying it crash-landed. Someone fucked this thing up and left it for us like a disemboweled squirrel.”

  Deacon’s glower deepened into a scowl. “Can you pull anything off of it?”

  “I’m trying.” He waved his hand at his tablet, which had a cord coming off one side leading to a flat box about an inch tall. Some sort of tech chip was resting on top of it. “I jumped the gun and called Gideon. If it turns out to be nothing and he gets mad, you can blame me.”

  “Doesn’t look like nothing.” Hunter nudged the shattered edge of the drone’s exterior shell.

  No, it really didn’t. Ana pulled her other boot up onto the edge of her chair and focused on tying the laces securely. Lucio arrived looking serenely composed, followed closely by Gabe, whose hair was unusually mussed and face sported three days’ worth of scruff.

  Ana had straightened her clothes and tied her front braids back from her face by the time Gideon arrived. The leader of Sector One had clearly rolled out of bed, into his boots, and out the door. His belt was undone and his shirt buttoned only halfway, revealing light-brown skin covered in vividly colorful ink.