Beloved Sacrifice: Trinity Masters, book 9

by Mari Carr

  Tentatively, she went to the first door in the hall, knocking once before opening it.

  It was a narrow sitting room, roughly a third of the size of the remaining upstairs square footage. There was a fireplace in one wall, and leather tufted furniture—couch, chaise, armchair. A soft white blanket was thrown casually over the back of the couch, inviting someone to sit down and tuck the blanket over their legs. A small cart in the corner held a discreet single-serve coffee machine and a kettle for tea. In front of the windows was a small square table, one side pushed against the wall, chairs pulled up to each of the remaining three sides.

  She closed that door and went to the next—opening it to find a room-sized closet. At this size, it should probably be called a dressing room instead of a closet. One wall was lined with clothes bars, built-in drawers, and slanted shelves for shoes. The other wall had a vanity, complete with a mirror surrounded by round-bulb lights and a small chair. Beside the vanity were three dressers. A long, narrow padded bench was placed in the center of the room, the perfect place to sit to put on a pair of shoes.

  She stepped back, closing the door, belatedly realizing that she should have poked around to see if there was anything she could wear. But something about the room unnerved her.

  Something about the whole place unnerved her. And maybe even scared her.

  The final door opened and Weston appeared. Behind him she could see a massive, elegant bathroom. He met her gaze briefly, then looked away, only his left eye moving. Silence hung heavy and awkward between them.

  You’re Rose Hancock, the woman he is stupidly in love with.

  Not that he was in love with. Tristan had used the present tense.

  I’ve seen your picture. It’s the bloody wallpaper on his phone.

  Rose started to say something, but stopped. The half-formed sound was enough to make him meet her gaze.

  You’re the reason he kept bouncing around looking at different cottages, until we finally found ‘your’ cottage.

  “The cottage?” she asked quietly.

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t know what it was. We’ve been over this.”

  “Why, Wes?”

  “I don’t need your pity,” he said.

  Marek’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. Rose’s back was to the staircase, so she couldn’t see him, but she heard his steps stop, felt the pressure of his gaze.

  “It’s late,” Marek said quietly. “Perhaps we should get some sleep.”

  “There’s only one bed,” Rose replied, not turning.

  “This house is set up for trinities.”

  “We’re not a trinity,” Weston said. “Who are you, Lee?”

  Marek was silent for a moment, as if crafting his words before he spoke. “I am technically a legacy to the Trinity Masters.”

  Rose turned until she could see both men.

  “Technically?” Wes asked.

  “My mother’s parents, my grandparents, were members. My mother declined her membership.”

  “Why?” Weston’s voice was colored with suspicion.

  “Because she fell in love. She chose to marry for love, rather than accept the trinity marriage.”

  Rose tried to make a derisive sound, but it came out weak—more a sound of longing than derision.

  “I am also a legacy to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

  At that, Weston’s head snapped up. Rose’s shoulder muscles tensed into hard knots, more in response to Weston’s reaction than to Marek’s words.

  “My father’s parents are members of the Admiralty. He too declined his membership and chose to marry for love.”

  “Tristan mentioned your grandmother.” Weston’s voice was quiet. “I thought it was some sort of code.”

  “No.” Marek flashed smile. “He means my grandmother. When I was trying to find you, I reached out to my grandmother for help. She called contacts in Sussex.”

  “I was careful. Covered our tracks.”

  Marek inclined his head to Weston. “You did. But an American who has one bad eye is distinctive. People in the area remember you.”

  Weston clenched his teeth, speaking through them. “All that work, for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing,” Marek insisted, but he didn’t elaborate further.

  When the silence stretched on, Rose decided it was time to get some answers. “What is the Masters’ Admiralty?”

  Marek looked at her. “It’s late, why don’t we each shower? I’ll check with Tristan to see if there’s any food in the house.”

  “You’re acting like this is a vacation,” Weston snapped. “We’re prisoners.”

  “Really? Not even a hint of irony as you say that?” Rose replied with the same snapping irritation that had been present in Weston’s words.

  Weston hung his head, rubbing his good eye with the heel on his left hand. “I was so close,” he murmured.

  “Perhaps we should talk first,” Marek said. “It’s late, but I have a feeling no one will rest easy until we talk.”

  Rose looked at Marek. He was strong, handsome, somehow noble.

  In comparison, she was covered in filth, tainted by years spent obeying the purists. Years of feeling her soul and heart first wither, then dry to husks, then flake off, leaving her hollow inside.

  And Weston was…dedicated. He’d spent years preparing, working behind the curtain and in the shadows.

  If this were a western, Marek would be the new sheriff in town, clean and well groomed, with a white hat, and his spurs would sparkle in the sunlight. Weston would be the dusty, battered gun slinger who rode into town just as everything was going to hell, his once white hat gone gray, with a black band, his morals murky at best. And she’d be the jaded, haggard hooker, too-red lips pulled up in a sneer.

  “Whose side are you on, Marek?” Weston asked.

  “I’m not on anyone’s side.” He relaxed his posture, resting one hand on the post at the top of the stairs. “I’m here to save Rose. And, if what Tristan said is—”

  “Tristan is an ass,” Weston cut in sharply.

  Rose flinched, her body reacting to the words almost as fast as her mind processed them.

  Weston must have seen her move, because he took a half step forward. “Rose, I’m…”

  “You’re what, Weston?” She meant it as a snarl, a challenge, but the words came out pleading.

  He took another half step. “It’s okay, Brown Eyes.”

  “No.” She slashed her hand through the air. “It’s not okay. It hasn’t been ‘okay’ in a long fucking time.”

  “You’re going to hyperventilate,” he said.

  He’d said that before, when she first woke up. Had that been only this morning? Yesterday? She flashed back to that heartbreaking moment of realization. That he was alive. That he’d been alive.

  And that he hadn’t come for her.

  She retreated until her back hit the wall. It felt like she was choking. The effort of holding back words that wouldn’t help, that wouldn’t matter, was strangling her.

  Warm, sure hands cupped hers. Rose tore her gaze from Weston to look at Marek.

  “Rose, if you’d like, I’ll start the shower for you and look for some clothes.”

  There was nothing she could do about the trembling that shook her so hard her teeth nearly chattered. “Why are you being kind to me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Weston loomed over Marek’s shoulder. “She’s grieving, leave her alone.”

  Marek frowned, still facing Rose. He met her gaze, trying to communicate something with his eyes. Rose wasn’t sure what it was, but Marek turned to Weston. They were all standing too closely together for it to be casual. Weston and Marek faced each other, their shoulders barely a foot away from her chest.

  Rose relaxed. It took her a moment to figure out why she was relaxed. Having them so close to her should have either fucked with her head enough to make her respond as a submissive or frightened her. She had good reason and real-life experience that
taught her that might makes right.

  But she relaxed. She relaxed because she felt safe.

  “Grieving?” Marek asked.

  “Yes,” Weston ground out. “The man she loved died.”

  “The man she loved?”

  Weston’s eye flicked to her then back to Marek. “He’s only been gone a week.”

  But I never loved Caden.

  “How do you know she loved him?”

  “I was…keeping an eye on her. And him, Caden, the guy she loved.”

  “But you love her, too?” Marek’s question was quiet but firm. No hint of pity in his voice.

  Weston’s eyelids slid down, covering both his remaining good eye and his false one.

  “He doesn’t love me.” Rose’s words were strangled. Though she’d relaxed, her throat felt rough, as if holding back her earlier words had actually damaged her esophagus.

  “Don’t,” Weston snarled. His chest heaved once, twice. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. “You let me hold you.”

  “Because I needed to pretend.” She wanted to cry, felt the need to cry, but there were no tears left in her.

  “Pretend what?” Weston asked.

  “That everything would be okay, but it won’t be. I never will be.” The hooker died tragically as motivation for the sheriff. That’s all she was, a bit part, a secondary character in so many others’ stories.

  “Then why didn’t you run?” Marek asked softly.

  “Because I have nowhere to go. I have nothing. I am nothing.”

  * * *

  Rose’s words made Marek’s chest hurt. These two were so broken, so wounded, and, he suspected, so utterly ignorant of how the other one felt.

  He was going to fix it. Fix them.

  He felt…loyal to them. As if they were his. Ridiculous though it may be, that was how he felt. Protect others—that was his life’s work. He’d always done that in the most literal sense. But these two—they needed protection not from external sources, but from their own demons, and in some ways, from each other. Staying close to Rose was a good excuse for coming upstairs rather than taking the downstairs bed Tristan had offered, but it wasn’t the only reason. He wanted to be close to them, wanted to be near them.

  Rose’s words hung in the air, and Weston’s face crumpled with pain.

  “No, Brown Eyes, don’t say that. I’m sorry he’s dead, but don’t—”

  She bolted. Weston reached out to stop her, but Marek grabbed his arm, preventing him from touching her. Marek expected him to pull away, maybe even throw a punch. But instead Weston dropped his arm, his head slowly bowing forward—a man defeated. A man lost.

  A man with a broken heart.

  Marek was now sure that Rose and Weston were both operating with incorrect information. Maybe he was too much a romantic, seeing them as star-crossed lovers when they were really two damaged people whose pasts would drag them down and drown them.

  Marek softened his hold on Weston’s arm and tugged the other man toward him, acting on instinct. The touch was light, an invitation more than a command.

  To Marek’s surprise, Weston turned into him, grabbing Marek in a fierce—no, desperate—hug. Marek felt the roughness of the other man’s stubbled cheek against his jaw and neck. Weston’s hands fisted the thin fabric of the undershirt Marek wore, and he felt the warmth of tears against his shoulder.

  Marek returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around Weston’s back, hugging him firmly, but not too tight. Marek’s heart thumped harder than it had a moment ago. Pain radiated off Weston, and in that moment, Marek wanted nothing more to comfort the other man, not just with words, but with his body.

  “I’ve got you,” Marek whispered. “I’m here.”

  Weston’s shaking subsided, his hands loosening their hold on Marek’s shirt. But he didn’t let go.

  Chapter Twelve

  She scrubbed her skin until she no longer felt gritty and sticky, then let hot water beat against her head and shoulders. The water made her literal road rash burn, but she simply grimaced and stayed under the water. There was no soap or shampoo in the shower, so she had to settle for the hot water, and then finger-comb her wet hair when she got out. The towel was massive and fluffy, decadent after days of discomfort.

  The bathroom was tiled in white marble with pale gray veins. The tiling continued halfway up the wall, and above that was wallpaper with a muted dove-gray on pearl floral pattern. The overall effect was bright, airy, and elegant.

  Rose stared at herself in the mirror over the sink. Her hair was naturally straight, but without a brush it looked tousled even when wet. There were dark bruise-colored circles under her eyes. She dropped the towel and stepped back, examining her naked body.

  She had a love-hate relationship with her body. Not due to her physical appearance, but because so often her body had been used against her—her female anatomy a chief reason why she’d been treated the way she had. But it was her body, the home her battered mind and soul inhabited. She was not looking her best—the days she’d slept at the cottage were like a forgotten dream, but her body showed her that they had been all too real. Her collarbones stuck out a bit more than they should, and her skin was dry—both symptoms of having not eaten much. She needed lotion, a brush, and a razor in the worst way.

  When she’d first come into the bathroom she’d yanked open the top drawers of the elegant wood basin that supported the marble counter. Now she made a more thorough investigation. In the back of the under-the-sink cupboard, behind a square container of cleaning supplies, she found a small toiletry bag, apparently lost and forgotten. In it were travel bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a collapsible brush, a small zippered box of makeup, a razor, perfume, lotion, tampons, and a nail clipper.

  Rose turned to the large tub and started it filling with water. Hoping the hot water would hold out, she jumped back into the shower even as the tub filled, wetted her hair, and gave it a thorough scrub with shampoo and then conditioner. She got out of the shower for the second time, combed out her hair then put it up in a towel before sliding into the steaming water of the tub. She settled back into the warm water and focused on relaxing her muscle groups one at a time, starting with her toes and working her way up. When she reached her shoulders, she had to fight to release the tension she’d stored there before moving on to her neck, and then up again to her jaw muscles.

  It was a technique she’d used time and again to keep herself calm and focused. Once the relaxation portion was done, she focused on her current situation.

  Marek had been right about one thing. They needed to talk. All three of them. It was time to call it and put the cards on the table. But to do that meant trusting them, both of them.

  She picked up the razor and, lacking shaving cream, used a bit of lotion along with the hot water to carefully shave any of the non-abraded skin on her legs.

  She’d told Marek more than she’d told anyone in a long time. In the past, there had been nights when it was all too much. When she thought she’d choke on the emotions and memories. Usually when she needed an outlet, she chose strangers, and hoped they thought she was lying. Without knowing about the Trinity Masters, her stories made less sense. In essence, the time to decide to trust Marek had passed—because she did trust him.

  And Weston…

  Tristan had said Weston still loved her, but then Weston had basically denied it.

  And then Weston told Marek that she was grieving the man she loved. Maybe she’d been wrong to think Weston was different than his brother. If what had been between Caden and herself was what Weston thought of as love, then he’d ended up just as screwed up as Caden had been.

  Out of habit, she shaved her whole leg, right up to the hip, and then carefully removed all the hair from her sex, arching her hips out of the water to do it.

  Losing the image of Weston as the boy who’d loved her, really loved her, not wanted to own or control her, was a terrible blow. When she’d felt like nothing more than an object, a
pawn, she’d reminded herself that Weston had loved her.

  It was her grandmother—her mother’s mother—who had taught her what love was. Grammy hadn’t known anything about the Trinity Masters, so when Rose’s mother had come home pregnant, and then said only that the father was named John Hancock and wouldn’t be involved in Rose’s life, Grammy had stepped in.

  Those first years had been wonderful. Grammy’s house was small, the outside yellow, and almost all of the rooms inside painted a shade of blue. Grammy had helped Rose paint her room a sky-blue color above the chair rail, and grass green below. Then they’d spent many idle hours drawing or painting birds and flowers and clouds and sticking them to the walls with the museum putty her mother seemed to always leave lying around during her infrequent visits. Grammy had been religious—not terribly devout, but rather committed to being a good person. She’d done Christianity right, focusing on the parts of the religion that preached tolerance and kindness. Sitting cross-legged in front of her grandmother’s chair, eyes closed as she got her hair brushed, Rose listened to her grandmother repeat what Rose had thought was a poem her grandmother made up, but had in fact been snippets of 1 Corinthians interspersed with her own wisdom.

  “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love is hard work. Love is accepting people for who they are, my sweet Rose.”

  That love, love the way her grandmother had described, was not what she’d had with Caden. That kind of love wasn’t something she’d ever have now. Grammy had loved her. Without Grammy, Rose wouldn’t have even the faintest idea what love was.

  In her darkest moments, she’d reassured herself that if Weston had lived, he would have loved her like that. Reassured herself that she did deserve to be loved that way.

  But that wasn’t true, and maybe that was why she felt so lost right now. Caden was gone, Tabby was safe.

  Weston was alive, and hadn’t loved her enough to come back for her.

  The water was cold. Rose stood and drained the bath, then toweled off yet again. She propped her leg on the counter and smoothed lotion from knee to toes on the unhurt skin. Her ribs ached, but it was a dull feeling. Tucking the towel around herself, Rose lifted her chin, mentally gathering her defenses, and went in search of clothes and the men.