Soulbound

by Bec McMaster

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  The shadowy shape of his face dipped toward hers, but only to rest near her shoulder. For a second.... She quenched her sudden hope, toying with the sheets.

  "I keep thinking Morgana can't hurt me anymore," he admitted. "But the truth is... she can." His hand curled tightly over her hip, as if he sought to reassure himself. "She knows you're my weakness, Cleo. And seeing you there, the only thing standing between her and me.... And I couldn't move in time, I couldn't do anything.... That moment was the longest moment of my life. I thought she was going to kill you, and then all of a sudden you warded."

  Cleo relaxed into the blankets. "You were worried about me."

  "Of course I was," he suddenly growled. "Do you think I don't care about you?"

  She had no answer to that. "I know you care. You would never have traded yourself in my place when your mother kidnapped me, if you hadn't."

  "But...?"

  But.

  "You've been distant," she whispered quietly. "You never wrote me back, you never visited, and you were never 'at home' when I called."

  Frustration echoed in his throat in a sound that was purely primeval. "I couldn't handle the thought of you. Not on top of... of Drake's sacrifice." He shuddered. "I had my freedom, finally. But at such a cost. I didn't know what to do. I didn't deserve freedom. Not like that." His voice broke. "I didn't deserve you."

  Oh.

  She stroked her fingers down his arm gently, her mind reeling. "You fool. You deserve more than you can ever know. Your father sacrificed himself because he loves you." She bit down on the words that wanted to come next, trying to rearrange them carefully. He wasn't ready for them. And nor was she ready to speak them. "And you're more than deserving of my affections. I thought you didn't want them."

  "I'm sorry," he whispered, stroking his hand down her side so faintly she barely felt the ripple of her nightgown. "I'm trying."

  Silence fell, but this one was full of a thousand unspoken words. Her heart swelled, and she felt the first soft stirrings of hope, along with a flush of heat behind her eyes. All she'd ever wanted was for Sebastian to try to love her.

  His questing hand became firmer, stirring her nightgown now. Cleo sucked in a sharp breath, her fist clenching with need. She didn't dare touch him, especially in the wake of such momentous words.

  But their first true kiss sprang to mind, the heat of his body pressing against hers. This was a purer longing, untainted by the incubus's touch, and somehow far more painful. Sweet torture.

  For she didn't know if he would take another step down this fated path.

  "I want you," Sebastian murmured into the stillness of the night. "I want you so badly I ache, but to take this step scares the hell out of me." His voice became very small. "I've never made love to a woman. I don't know if I'd even know how to begin."

  Her heart broke a little. She hadn't known. "I wish you'd told me."

  A shudder went through that hard body. "I've never been very good with words."

  She thought she understood. It wasn't his words that failed him, but the emotions behind them. Sebastian had never known love, nor kindness, nor true friendship. She'd been mired in doubt, thinking of her own inadequacies, thinking them the reason for his distance.

  And she'd been horribly wrong.

  Cleo held her breath. Did she dare? "Then show me."

  Lips grazed the back of her neck. Little goose pimples erupted all over her body. Cleo gasped, holding a fistful of the sheet for dear life. She couldn't see a thing. Her world narrowed down to the rasp of his stubble against her nape, and those soft lips, so tender, barely brushing against her skin....

  The wet tip of his tongue traced the hardened nubbin of her spine. Oh, mercy. Mother of night. Cleo sucked in a sharp gasp.

  And then his fingers stirred, tracing small circles on her shoulder. "Sometimes I cannot bear to be touched, but it's growing easier with every kiss. Easier to forget, easier to remind myself I'm with you, and not trapped beneath someone else. If we could take it slowly...."

  What was he trying to say?

  "Would you let me?" he whispered. "Let me try to make love to you?"

  She nodded desperately.

  "I would have to be in control." That hand stroked down over the lawn of her nightgown, as if he soaked in the sensation of the fine fabric. "Don't move."

  Cleo's nipples pebbled. The ache between her thighs grew hotter, wetter. But she didn't dare move.

  And maybe in not daring, it became somewhat more indecent indeed. Denial became a fierce ache, until she could barely breathe for the need to reach her hand between her thighs.

  How far would he take this?

  Sebastian was barely touching her, his fingertips skating lazily over her hip and up the side of her ribs. Her breasts felt heavy and full, desperately aching for his touch, but she was not in control here. He was.

  "I dream of you sometimes," he murmured, brushing the backs of his knuckles over the side of her breast. "I think of the taste of your mouth." He caught her chin, tilting it back toward his for a kiss. "And how sweet the sounds you made were...."

  Their lips brushed against each other’s. Sebastian lazily traced her tongue with his, a slow seduction that grew deeper, and deeper.... Heat stirred deep in her belly as the kiss turned hungrier. All her attention was focused on the teasing circle of his thumb as it grew closer and closer to her nipple.

  Cleo shuddered as his hot mouth moved down the column of her throat, his hand finding the fullness of her breast and palming it firmly. She couldn't help noting the practiced way he manipulated her. He knew her body better than she ever could. And it would have bothered her a little, if it weren't for the soft noises he made, and the rasp of his teeth against her shoulder.

  She wanted to touch him too.

  To drive him half wild with lust, the way he was doing to her.

  "What is it?" he murmured.

  She lifted her shoulder off the bed, dragging his arm beneath her, and curling her fingers through his. "May I touch you too?"

  "Later," he breathed. "It's not the touching that bothers me, so much as the being touched. I would need a lantern there, so I could see your face."

  Those fingers brushed down her hip, leaving her gasping in great ragged breaths. She turned her face into the pillow as he began to stroke upward, skimming her nightgown out of the way, until she could feel his callused fingertips tracing those small, teasing circles up her thigh.

  "Part your thighs," he breathed, hot breath caressing her ear, and his body pressed tightly behind hers.

  Heat burned in her cheeks, but there was no place for embarrassment here. Cleo complied. "What are you doing?"

  Grabbing a fistful of her nightgown, he dragged it slowly up, leaving her bare beneath the sheets. His hips gave a small thrust, and she felt something hard press against her bottom. His erection, no doubt.

  "What do you think I'm doing?" he whispered.

  His fingertips circled her bare hip, leaving her twitchy and restless, but she sensed the question they asked: Yes? Or no?

  "I think you're trying to torture me," she whispered back, capturing his hand. Their fingers twined together, and then he was kissing her neck again, breathing in the scent of her hair as if it anchored him.

  His hand slid beneath hers, curling over her thigh, and nudging them apart a little. Cleo died a thousand little deaths as she let him guide her hand lower.

  Fingers dipped between her thighs, stroking idly through the soft curls there. Cleo's eyes widened, and Sebastian captured her gasp in his other hand, his breath stirring the curls behind her ear again. "Shhh," he whispered, almost as if he enjoyed forcing her to be silent and still while he mastered her body.

  Shhh? She cried out as his questing fingertips found her wet and swollen. Sensation speared through her as he located the precise spot where she needed to be touched. A jerk went through her. Oh, God.

  He toyed with her lightly, and suddenly she could
barely breathe. There was heat beneath her skin, dark and delicious. And a rush of feeling stirred through her, almost like the sensation of her predictions, only within her, not on top of her skin.

  The darkness within her stretched and awoke. She didn't want to be a young woman anymore, uncertain of her welcome and shy beneath his touch. She wanted to own him. Heart and soul.

  "You're so wet," he murmured. "So fucking wet."

  Two fingers stretched her, as he buried them up to the first knuckle. Despite her inexperience, her body parted easily, slick and moist to the touch. Cleo writhed. "More. Please."

  The sharp bite of teeth bit into the sensitive skin between her shoulder and her neck. "But you're not in control here, my love."

  His fingers slipped from her body as if to remind her of this fact, and he circled that sensitive spot again, leaving her crying out into his palm. Cleo's entire body shivered.

  "That's it," he breathed, bringing her right to the edge. "I can feel it rushing through you. Are you ready?"

  For what?

  His thumb speared flat over that sensitive little nubbin of flesh between her thighs, his teeth sinking into her shoulder. Cleo cried out as everything within her turned molten.

  "Come," he whispered down the bond. "Now."

  And she screamed into the cup of his hand.

  * * *

  He'd never experienced anything like this in his life. It went beyond the earthy thrust and pull of flesh. Sinking into Cleo's arms felt like coming home, to a place he'd never known. It was powerful. Defining. Soul-shaking.

  Each kiss felt momentous. To kiss her like this was strangely freeing. His choice. His desire, unfettered and furious. For all his vast experience with a woman's body, he was ridiculously naïve when it came to this sweeter seduction. Kissing Cleo was the simplest, purest task he'd ever committed himself to, and nothing could tarnish it. Not even the blunt demand of his cock, heavy and aching against her hip.

  He wanted to take her.

  Sweet goddess, how he ached.

  But fear lived in his heart too. Fear that he'd break, and forget where he was, or whom he was with. Fear he couldn't live up to her expectations. Fear that this untarnished moment would somehow be consumed by more blatant desires.

  It was perfect. Utterly perfect. Like an arrow straight to the heart. Sebastian drew back from her mouth with a gasp, shaking slightly. The evidence of his arousal jutted between them, bolstering his nightshirt like a mast on a ship.

  Cleo's night-dark gaze slid between them, and he sensed her sudden nervousness. "Do you wish me to—"

  "No."

  Cleo cupped his face with her palms, and he could just make out her eyes in the dark. He could sense her mind stroking his through the bond, an unusual feeling, almost as if she were trying to tell him she knew. That it didn't matter.

  "We'll take it slow," she whispered, as her palm slid over his nape, dragging him toward her.

  He sank into her trembling embrace, closing his eyes as she gently stroked her palms over the back of his nightshirt. Burying his face against her throat, he tried to think of other things to still his pulsing desire.

  "I've been in many beds," he whispered. "But the only one I've ever truly wanted to be in is yours."

  And he closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to her cheek, one so sweet it ached.

  Chapter 17

  THE NEXT DAY Sebastian went hunting with Bishop, trying to track down the demon, Julia Camden, or even Morgana. His expression had been cool and locked down over breakfast, but as Cleo reached for the jam, their eyes met, and he smiled the faintest smile. Suddenly she was blushing.

  He'd been there in her bed this morning, gently stroking her arm. She didn't know if he'd gotten any sleep—to fall asleep beside her and not know her seemed to be his greatest fear, and she knew something horrible had happened in his past—but he'd stayed the night and her heart felt strangely light this morning.

  Until she turned to the book again.

  Madrigal Brown arrived for a sparring session in Lady Rathbourne's salon. Cleo wasn't ready to even attempt to future-walk again, as her mind still ached, but she watched as Madrigal showed her how it was done, and went through the theory of the process. No matter the walk of life, every sorcerer she'd ever known loved to speak on the theory of sorcerous gifts, and assassin or not, Madrigal was no different. It was clearly the first time the woman had ever come across anyone with a skill set even remotely similar to her own, and though she'd been wary at first, as Madrigal opened up, there was a hunger there to connect that she hadn't expected to find.

  If Farshaw's theory was correct, then Madrigal had to have a demon's blood somewhere within her veins too.

  She didn't ask. She couldn't. But it was all she could think about.

  Did the gift pass down through child after child? Was that why some sorcerers were strong in the divination arts, but others were barely amateurs? How many generations could the gift sustain itself?

  And if she was considering strength as a particular pinpoint of how far in the past the demon had mated with a female in her bloodline, then she shouldn't be looking too far. A shiver of dread ran through her at the thought. Her mother had died when she was very young, and she couldn't even recall her, but Cleo knew she was the strongest seer in the Empire.

  Her father—sweet heavens, was he even truly her father?—had seen that she was named Cassandra of the Order at the age of twelve, when her Foresight truly bloomed. It was an honor at the time, and it made him so happy he even threw a party for her, but the memory felt warped now.

  She had to know the truth.

  And she needed to know if this was why the demon had singled her out and begun to invade her dreams.

  Did it know her in some intimate sense? Was there a connection there between them? Was that why she was the white queen?

  And if she was the white queen, then who was the black queen? Two sides to a coin.... What if the black queen bore demon blood in her veins too?

  Her mother? There had to be a reason her quest for the black queen drew her back to that particular point in time.

  But then of course, there was Julia Camden.

  Who had no ties to her past.

  It gave her a headache, and she finally set the book aside, but the questions didn't vanish, and deep in her heart she knew why.

  * * *

  Cleo rapped hesitantly on the door.

  "Come in," Lady Eberhardt barked.

  She slipped inside Lady E's parlor and closed the door. Lady E looked up from where she was meticulously placing her tarot cards. The old woman sighed and gathered her tarot cards into a pile. "Well, your arrival makes my petty divinations obsolete."

  "A month or so ago, perhaps." Cleo smiled wanly.

  "Nonsense." The snort that accompanied the word made Cleo's lips twitch. Lady E owned the ability to communicate entire sentences in a single lip curl or tsk. "The second you stop believing that rubbish is the second your mind disavows its stranglehold on your gifts. Belief in oneself is the most important aspect a sorcerer can learn."

  "Perhaps it is belief that holds me back. I prophesized I would lose the ability of Foresight the day I saw the world again through my own eyes, and so far that has held true." She took a seat across from Lady E. "But if I believe my Visions are true, then how do I disbelieve the very first Vision I ever had?"

  Lady E made a harrumphing sound, but she had no articulate answer to that. She scooped the pack of tarot cards into her hands, and held one card up, the back of it directed toward Cleo. "What card is it?"

  Cleo hesitated. Reached out and held her hand up to the card. "Six of Pentacles."

  "And this one?" Another card.

  "The Empress." Cleo sighed. "I've been doing this since I was three."

  Lady E put her cards down and leaned forward. "You, young lady, are an utter fool. I hear you've been future-walking and dream-walking. Gifts you didn't own before your blindfold was removed. Perhaps the blindfold wasn't safe
guarding your Foresight abilities? Perhaps it was holding you back from exploring your other gifts?"

  Cleo looked down into her lap.

  "I've been speaking to Madrigal Brown. Did you know, you're already future-walking better than she can? Her outer limit is a minute in advance at her absolute best. She tells me she thinks you were predicting almost half a minute in advance in your first attempt at it. You're still the Order's Cassandra, Cleo. Nobody can take that away from you."

  Tears pricked at her eyes. "I know. I just.... A part of me feels like it failed my father. All he ever prized in me were my gifts of Foresight. And he was the one who tore my blindfold from my eyes. He wanted to destroy my gifts. He hated me so much in the end, because I betrayed him."

  She pressed her face into her hands. Lady E shifted to the cushion beside her, patting her shoulder. "Your father deserved his fate. He didn't respect the gift that he had, right beneath his nose."

  A barrage of tears suddenly overwhelmed her. She'd known her father never loved her. It was all she'd ever longed for, and she'd tried—so hard—to make him proud of her. Cleo furiously dried her eyes. He didn't deserve her tears.

  "Something else is bothering you," Lady E said, watching her hawkishly. "Spit it out. Reticence never suits anybody."

  "Is there any chance we can send for tea?" She wasn't stalling, but she needed a moment to gather herself.

  Lady E arched a brow, then sent down to the kitchen for tea. Considering the woman's penchant for nosiness, Cleo was almost surprised she waited until the tea actually came up before she turned that demanding look upon Cleo.

  "I want your oath that what I am about to tell you doesn't go any further," Cleo said. "A blood oath."

  Arching a very pointed brow, Lady E cut her finger, dripping blood into a spare teacup. "I solemnly swear on my power, and my blood, that I will not reveal the contents of this discussion to anyone... until you grant me leave to do so."

  Her sorcery flared, and Lady E gasped as the oath bit through her.

  "I saw something in my dreams the night of the Ascension Ball," Cleo admitted. "You knew my father. Did you know my mother?"