by Zoë Archer
“No,” her mother said once more.
“It must be, Mam. If I remain, more of these creatures will come. I can’t let them hurt you. Hurt the tribe.”
“But they will hurt you,” her mother wailed.
“They will not, madam,” said Whit.
“How do you know?” Wester had dropped his fist but had not uncurled his hand, ready to use it in an instant.
“Because I will be with her,” answered Whit. He inhaled deeply, the scent of burnt demon flesh acrid in his nostrils, enforcing how very close he and Zora danced on the edge of catastrophe. “I swear to you, sir, madam, I swear to everyone here.” Whit raised his voice so that he could be heard. “I shall do everything in my power to protect her.”
“Protect her?” Zora’s father snorted in disbelief. “This, from the gorgio who kept her like a beast in a cage.”
Whit wondered what, exactly, Zora had told her parents and tribe about her captivity. About the complicated push-pull of attraction and defiance. He deduced that she did not mention the kiss they had shared. If she had, Zora’s mother would not have prevented her father from beating him senseless. Yet Whit’s face and gut burned with deep, abiding shame. It was uncharted territory, especially for a man who had lived every one of his days with concern for no one, not even himself.
Yet she had said she had not intended to remain with her family. Did that mean she was returning to him? Could he hope for that?
He stared at Zora, who impassively watched the interplay between him and her parents. He suspected that she had retreated far within herself as a means of self-protection. Only her eyes betrayed emotion, an intricate mingling of fury, determination, sorrow.
Zora turned away. “I’ll need to gather some things to take with me.” She strode off toward one of the tents, her mother and several other women following, leaving Whit alone with the rest of the band and Zora’s male relatives. A tight, weighted silence descended.
“You ought to burn those,” Whit said, gesturing to the demons’ strewn bodies.
Someone piped, “They will come back to life?”
“No idea,” Whit answered. “But let us not take chances.”
A man barked out orders in Romani, and men began to gather up the carcasses. The creatures were big and ungainly, particularly in death. Whit helped, hauling bodies to the bonfire. It was tough, unsavory work, for the demons had already begun to decay. They stank in life and smelled even worse in death. Whit hoped the fire might cleanse the air, but fed by so much fuel, it blazed and poured thick, caustic smoke into the dark gray sky.
A week ago, perhaps less, the Gypsy camp had been a scene of revelry. It had rung with the sounds of laughter and song. Now it was a charnel house. And Zora voluntarily exiled herself from her home, her people.
His doing.
How did saints manage it? Sin and atonement? Carrying with them the leaden weight of remorse? It seemed an impossible task, a cannibalizing of self as one gnawed upon one’s own bones. Of a certain, Whit was no saint. Yet he would find a way to make right the wrongs he had done.
Responsibility. This, too, was new.
A humorless smile tugged at his lips. Thirty-one years old, and he was finally growing up. All it took was making a bargain with the Devil and preventing a horde of demons from killing a woman he ... he what?
Zora reappeared carrying a battered satchel. She had washed the blood and soot from her face, plaited her hair, and changed into fresh clothing, including a thick, warm cloak. She looked much as she had when Whit first met her except for the new vigilance in her expression. Both of them were profoundly altered. He had always thought himself incapable of change. Or, if it did come, it would be a slow, gradual process that happened by incremental degrees. Never in a single night.
Zora strode to her horse; it had been John’s, but Whit doubted if the animal would ever be returned. John could easily afford the loss. Whit only hoped that his friend would choose not to prosecute her for theft. Whit planned to speak with John on her behalf, then stopped the thought.
There would be no speaking with John. Nor attempts by John to entice Whit into a scholarly debate. Whit would not play billiards with Edmund as they discussed horse racing. He would never again sit across from Leo at the coffeehouse debating the latest intelligence and scandals. And Bram ... When had Whit done anything in the last few years that did not involve Bram? When had more than two days gone by without them speaking with one another?
Loss hit him. He didn’t know himself without the measure of his four friends. His identity bound up in how they saw him, how he saw himself with them. Gone now. Now, he must learn who he truly was.
As Zora must learn who she was, away from the shelter of her family. She affixed her satchel to the saddle, her shaken mother beside her.
“You will come back?” her mother pleaded. “When the trouble is over?”
The satchel secured, Zora turned to the older woman and put her hands upon her shoulders. “As soon as it is over,” she said. “But you must pack everything and move the camp at once.”
“We can move to—”
“Don’t tell me. It’s safer if I do not know.”
“But how will you find us?”
“Nothing can keep me from my family.”
She looked past her mother to hold Whit’s gaze. The shared look told him everything. When Zora left her family and Gypsy band, she did so knowing she would never see any of them again.
From his observations, Whit understood that Gypsies were a close-knit group. It seemed as though they stayed together for the whole of their lives. Aside from the few days Zora had spent—held captive—in London, Whit did not know if she had ever been apart from her family. Forcibly removing herself from them must cause her unbearable pain. Yet she bore it with remarkable stoicism, a bravery Whit respected in anyone, man or woman.
Zora and her mother embraced tightly. Then, one by one, every member of the tribe came forward to bid Zora farewell. Their sadness at losing Zora was redoubled by the fact that she had returned to them less than an hour earlier. Though Whit had played savior moments earlier, many people in the camp shot him glares, effectively deducing that somehow he was responsible for everything. Including Zora’s self-imposed banishment.
Christ. Whit did not think he could feel worse. Every moment was an education.
After each man, woman, and child had bid her farewell, Zora swung up fluidly into the saddle. Whit immediately went to his own horse and mounted up. As he rode slowly through the camp, some called out thanks. Others muttered curses. Champion and pariah—he played both roles.
He caught up with Zora just beyond the edge of the camp. They rode in silence for a few moments. She did not once turn around for a final look, her shoulders straight, her chin upraised. Whit did look, however. He saw the Gypsies gradually disperse back into the camp, righting collapsed tents, tending to their wounded. Zora’s father stood with her mother at the periphery of the encampment. After wrapping a consoling arm around her waist, he let go and drifted back to help the others repair their damaged homes. Zora’s mother did not move. She stared after her daughter and continued to do so until Whit and Zora rounded a bend and the Gypsy camp disappeared from view.
Zora’s shoulders finally slumped. As daylight faded the sky from black to gray like a fading bruise, he saw exhaustion inscribed plainly on her face.
“Did you come to drag me back to London? For I’ll fight you if you think to imprison me again.”
“Some gamblers are cheats,” he said. “Mostly, we’re honorable men. I own that my own ethics have been ... variable.”
She snorted.
He reached over and grabbed hold of her horse’s reins, stopping both his mount and her own. She made a shocked, angry sound.
“But I seldom give vows,” he continued, “and with good reason. When I swear something, I hold true to my vow. I swore I would never take you by force or through magic, and I did not. I shall not. I vowed that I would do ever
ything in my power to protect you. And I will, Zora. You have my word, my blood, on this oath.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. He felt her gaze resonate deep within him, primal and strong. It was still there, the connection between them. Now made even stronger since they fought side by side. It was a connection she resented. He saw this. But he could not regret it.
“You took everything from me,” she said.
Such simple words, yet so wounding. They burned far more than the demon-inflicted cut on his shoulder. “I’ll kill anything and anyone that seeks to harm you. Drown the world in blood.” He had never meant words more.
“I will help in your fight against Wafodu guero, but I can’t give you forgiveness.” Her eyes blazed.
Her refusal to capitulate did not surprise him. He would have to work for absolution, the first time he had ever truly worked for anything.
Whit let go of her horse’s reins. She blinked at him in surprise.
“You have turned from him, haven’t you? Finally.”
“I’ve learned things,” he said. “My own blindness, for one.”
She exhaled, but the tension between them did not lesson.
“I have also learned that it is much more satisfying to wield a saber against a demon than a hay bale. And that Gypsy women with whips of fire are fearsome, indeed.” He urged his horse forward. When she did not move to follow him, he brought his horse back around until they were beside each other. “You’re nigh dead with fatigue. I’ll find you someplace safe to sleep.”
She only stared at him.
“Once I make a vow,” he said, “nothing shall break it.”
“Not even death?”
“That has yet to be tested,” he conceded.
She kicked her horse forward. “Let’s put you to the test.”
Warmth and softness enveloped Zora. She drifted through filmy states of waking and consciousness, allowing herself these unburdened moments when she was neither fully alert nor entirely asleep. Dreams had plagued her. Dreams of hideous, hellish creatures with insect wings and animal claws and giant mouths that shredded apart the fabric of her family. Everything was left in bloody tatters. Fire, too, scoured her dreams, and she gladly escaped them into partial wakefulness.
She felt the bed cradling her as she lay on her back. A true bed, not the pallet she had fashioned for her imprisonment, yet this was far too luxurious for her simple, portable bed she used at home. Lavender scented the abundant linens.
Languorous, she stretched, lifting her arms up and then out. Her hand met solid, warm flesh. Someone lay beside her. Curious, eyes still closed, Zora’s hand explored. It found a man’s corded arm, a broad-capped shoulder, the rise of a bicep and taut forearm. Moving past the arm, her hand discovered a tightly muscled torso. Firm pectorals lightly covered by hair, then lower, ridged abdominal muscles as hard as Spanish mahogany yet heated and satiny. Rather miraculous, those muscles, and she allowed herself the luxury of running her fingers over them, feeling the twitch of response at her touch. Like a prized stallion’s flank, she thought with an inward smile.
Eager to explore more of the delicious male specimen next to her, Zora rolled onto her side. She stroked up and down the man’s torso with her palm. Dimly, she heard a masculine groan of pleasure. She made her own sound of contentment, almost a purr. It had been so long since she had touched a man. Felt his heat and virility, and desired it. Yes, desire. It crept up through her on velvet paws, weighting her limbs, stirring sensitivity back to life after ... months ... years? She did not know. She knew only that she was a woman too long denied her own passions, and a perfectly delectable man lay beside her, gladly accepting—and enjoying—her caresses. For days now, she had been sharpened against the whetstone of need for Whit, honing her into a blade of wanting. Wanting, and denying, for there was always an impediment between them.
She had been denying herself, but she would no longer. Her explorations of the man beside her continued, and she allowed herself the indulgence of pretending this man was Whit, that she could yield at last to the beast of her desire.
A fine trail of hair wended its way down his flat stomach, and her fingertips followed it until it disappeared beneath the waistband of doeskin breeches. The leather was supple, soft, and it clung to the man’s body like another skin. Her hand moved lower. And now she truly purred, for she encountered the thick length of the man’s cock pressing tightly against the doeskin. The man sucked in a breath and rocked up into her touch.
A gorgeous cock, even if her knowledge was gained through touch and not sight. She traced her fingertips over the head and the ridge just beneath it. Then down the broad shaft. Oh, it would fill her most wonderfully, almost to the point of pain. Hot slickness gathered between her legs at the thought of taking this cock into her, stretching herself to accommodate its length and thickness. She wanted that. She tugged at the breeches’ fastenings.
“God, Zora. Yes.”
Her eyes flew open. Whit’s bright blue gaze burned into her.
For a moment, her hand paused in its work. They stared at one another. His bristled jaw was tight, his nostrils were flared. He was shirtless, clad only in his doeskin breeches. Zora wore her chemise—she must have stripped before collapsing into bed. Shadows suffused the room in which they lay. It was dusk. She had slept all day. And now she was fully awake. As was Whit.
Whit, the man who had cut through her life like that curved sword he wielded. Who had been her captor, her tormentor. Yet he had been respectful, in his way. In the moments when she forgot the nature of their relationship, she had found in him a kindred spirit, a clever man with a hunger for understanding. Though swathed in darkness and often hidden, his soul was good. Worthy. She and Whit had desired each other. He had wanted to give her things, anything she wanted. But the terms ... the terms had been terrible.
He had ridden to her rescue before she could ride to his. However, he had helped save her from creatures that he had unwittingly unleashed.
Lying beside him now, in this inn, sharing a bed ... a maelstrom of emotions crashed through her. Desire, yes, always that between them. Gratitude for his courageous strength against the demons. But there was anger, too.
She wanted to take from him. As he had taken from her, leaving a smoldering ruin in his wake. Strip him of everything, even gentleness, even mercy. Until, like her, he had nothing left.
Her hand cupped him through the snug fabric of his breeches. His cock jerked beneath her hand, and she squeezed. Hard.
He groaned hoarsely, the sound midway between ecstasy and pain. Yet he did not push her away or stop her. His broad hand actually came up to cover hers, pressing her even closer.
Power roared through her. She wanted more.
Zora levered herself up on one elbow and leaned over him. They continued to stare at one another as she stroked him roughly, pleasuring and punishing him.
“Ask me a question,” she demanded.
His gaze was hooded. “Do you want me?”
No magic pressured a truthful answer from her. She could say whatever she wanted now. His hold over her had been broken when she escaped.
“No,” she answered.
She lowered her head as he raised his own, and their mouths met. Their last—and only—kiss had been a slow, deliberate seduction, an exploration of each other’s tastes and textures that had left her breathless with wanting. This kiss was not slow. It was not deliberate. It was ... animal. Ravenous.
She plundered his mouth, just as he savaged hers. They let slip the tether that bound their basest feral natures. Tongues tangled, stroked. His lips were full, firm, devastating. He nipped at her and she bit back, like two wolves locked in a mating battle. They growled.
With one hand, Whit continued to hold her tightly to his thick erection, his hips moving against her. His other hand came up, tangling in her hair, tugging just enough to sting. The sensation traveled from her scalp all the way through her body, to gleam brightly in her breasts and her quim. Nev
er before had she linked pain with pleasure, but now, the subtle fire of it heated her already burning body. She could feel her wetness, her need for him in her innermost place.
She maneuvered her free hand up onto his chest. Her fingers brushed against something small and cool, metallic. A ring, hanging from a cord around his neck. Her ring. The one she had flung out the gaming room door to test the magical prison. All this time, he had been wearing it close to him. Proof of his ownership? Or something more, something deeper?
Her nails raked a path, not enough to draw blood, but they would mark him for a while, her anger and desire leaving red trails on his flesh. The thought excited her mightily. And it excited Whit, too, for he rumbled like a wild creature at her scratch.
His fingers loosened from her hair, and he trailed his hand down her throat, over her collarbones. She gasped into his mouth as he cupped her breast through the thin chemise. Pleasure shot through her in hot, sharp jolts. His clever gambler’s hands stroked and rubbed, the heat of his palm burning through the fine fabric. With his thumb, he teased her nipple into a firm point. Then he took her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pinched.
Zora moaned. Again, they tread on the narrow boundary between pain and ecstasy. One fueled the other, just as anger fed lust. And something more. Something beyond the need to punish and take. Beneath the complex web between them, something glimmered, bright and true, free from the darkness that ensnared them.
She did not want to know what that glimmering thing was. She wanted only to exorcise the rage pulsing through her, and hopefully banish her desire for him.
As Whit rolled her nipple between his fingers, she fumbled for the fastenings on his breeches. Their hands tangled as he helped her. His cock was freed and she took its naked length in her hand, gripping it tightly. He was velvety and hard. She scraped her nails down the shaft, and he shuddered in ecstasy. A bead of moisture gleamed at the very tip. She rubbed the tip in hard, small circles.
“Keep doing that,” he grated, “and I’ll spend in seconds.”
