The funeral procession entered a courtyard lined with row upon row of pristine white chairs untouched by the ugliness of war. Out of place, it was a grotesque show of wealth that left rot bubbling in my stomach.
There was a pause before the ceremony began. A few moments of mingling amongst the grievers that reeked of political flirting. Of games and careful maneuvering that brought a fetching glow to Carina’s cheeks as she accepted condolences on Asher’s behalf and played her part to a degree that left me shaken. In awe of a woman who held no power, except for what she might manufacture from her own vicious cunning.
She was more than the treacherous organ between her legs.
She was…betterat this than me.
By a margin so utterly out of my reach, I’d assumed her to be just another whore owned by the empire, and failed to see her for the player she really was.
“Tragic,” she said, quiet and demure. “And to blame his dear cousin, just because Asher’s priestess is one of rare power?” She sniffed, leaning into the captain, one elegant hand spread over his heart, toying with the buttons. “It wasawful,” she whispered, injecting a little tremor into her lilting voice. “Even the suggestion that my beloved couldn’t control the girl? Absurd slander.” She laughed, high and tinkling. At home in her element as she worked to repair the captain’s reputation. Painting him as untouchable.
The captain left her to it. Jaw tight as Carina moved through the well-wishers at a pace that made my head spin.
But when a wraith appeared at Asher’s elbow, he softened immediately. Turning to embrace the Tilcot widow with a gentle murmured, “Tyra. How are you?”
“Asher,” she choked, and that was all before she was sobbing into his shoulder.
“How is he?” the captain asked, retreating so he might lay a hand on the infant’s ruddy brow, where he was swaddled in dark silks.
“Fatherless,” Tyra hissed, knuckles white. Her red-rimmed scowl darting from face to face to face—anywhere but the bundle slung over her arm. “But he thrives,” he muttered, distracted. “Quiet. Sleeps most of the time. The wet nurse tells me he’s eating well enough.”
At this, the captain made a happy sound at the back of his throat.
Tyra’s chin snapped back, her attention sharp for just an instant when she barked, “I cannotbelievethey wouldn’t let you out to see him! Fucking barbaric. Believe me, Killion Hastings will think twice before he dares to bring charges against a member ofmyfamily ever again.”
“Yes,” the captain drawled. “It’s been a trying few days, hasn’t it?” One hand on her mid back, he guided her from the throng and left Carina to her political games. “What’s they boy’s name?”
The widow’s smile was watery, though she didn’t turn that smile down. Couldn’t so much as glance at her son. “Samuel Harper Tilcot. My mother picked it. Convinced me he should have his own name. So he wouldn’t be made to walk in the shadow of his father.” She pressed one delicate, trembling hand to her lips, swallowed her grief, then added, “So he could be his own man.”
“Wise woman,” the captain murmured, and claimed their seats in the front row. Letting Tyra sit with a grimace, her weight balanced on her right buttock, the infant shifted to her left—closest to me.
Curious, I peered into his macabre swaddle. The tiny, mushy face didn’t look as corrupt as the father, despite the clear resemblance to the man. And I reached for my power, meaning to test the boy’s energy. To see if he’d inherited his father’s status as an elite, or if he’d favor his mother’s mundane energies.
“What are you staring at, slave?”
It was an ugly snarl. One that sent me stumbling back with a shocked gasp, my hamstrings striking one of the pristine chairs with a clatter that drew more than one curious set of eyes my way.
The captain reached for me, an instant too late.
Big hands cinched tight about my ribs.
Hands that did not belong to the captain.
The touch was unfamiliar and repulsive all at once, and when I flinched toward the captain, that grip only grew tighter. Forcing me to stay in place as warm digits slipped beneath the edges of my dress, teasing the hem of the fabric. Where I was naked and exposed.
I went still, nauseated when I dragged my eyes off the ground and found the captain staring at me with an equal measure of frozen horror.
It was a man.
One I recognized by touch alone, a man whose energy was familiar enough that I knew just how deadly the trap without needing to see his face.
Nevertheless, a warning exploded in my blood, freezing me in place as my wrists and throat burned with the captain’s power.
But more than that, it was the look on the Asher’s face. The stony fear he allowed to spill over his wall, seething through my veins.
And then, from behind, a low, soothing hum I knew to dread. “Rawlings.” It was a greeting as much as it was a summons. A quiet murmur that didn’t suit the presence of the man whose heat enveloped me from tailbone to nape.
“Lieutenant General Hastings,” Asher returned, inclining his head without daring to take a step.
