The candle flames all flickered, then flared higher in a singular wave. The pull of power became a warm, tugging knot in her abdomen, a gentle pressure between her thighs. Sorcery had always felt slightly sexual in nature for her. It wasn't always, depending on the person and the elements of power that attuned more strongly to them. Some preferred the stir of blood, the anticipation of cutting the magic from their skin. Some found their link in the grave and the power of death.
From the feel of the pull between them, she knew precisely which aspect Rathbourne attuned to. The muscle in his thighs clenched as he leaned over her, dipping a finger into the mixture of ink, saliva, and blood. His erection strained against the cambric of his trousers, and she swiftly glanced away as he straddled her hips.
"That's hardly necessary," she protested.
Soft fingers stroked a loose strand of her hair out of the way. "Shush." The moment he touched his blood-wetted finger to her chest, Ianthe felt it, as though he'd plucked the strings of a lute. Sorcery shivered through her; vibrations that set her blood on fire and forced her to bite her lip. She pressed her knees tightly together. Merciful heavens.
Magic of the most intimate kind glimmered to life with the bond between them, leaving her wet and aching, trapped beneath him, the press of his knees on either side of her hips pinning her skirts.
When the power faded, Rathbourne was straddling her, the press of his body pinning her hips to the stone slab. Breathing hard, his dark hair tumbling over those shocked eyes, he looked down at her. One hand splayed over the stone near her head, the other was resting lightly on the rune he'd drawn on her skin, fingertips barely grazing her.
All it would take would be one move.
Hers.
A fist curling in his cravat as she dragged his weight down atop her... A perfectly legitimate way to finish this ritual, but if this were the result of a single rune, then what would happen if she let free all her inhibitions and took this to a conclusion they both desired? Just how powerful would their spell craft be?
And what would be the result?
There were three types of bonds that two sorcerers could use; a wellspring bond, where one sorcerer gave control of their power over to another; the bond between Anchor and Shield, which was somewhat more reciprocal, though the Anchor typically held control; and a soul-bond, that rare bond that could be created between lovers and could never be broken.
Ianthe wasn't quite romantic enough to believe in it.
At least this Anchor bond could be broken by choice when the time came.
Even if the desolate ache between her thighs left her feeling strangely unsatisfied.
Tonight, that ache would be assuaged. She'd given her word for it.
"Are you done?" she demanded, both frightened and titillated by the idea of being in this man's bed, under his control, his power.
"Of course." Rathbourne traced his fingertips across her collarbone, eliciting a shiver, then stood and began unbuttoning his shirt, golden candle flame highlighting the stark line of sinew in his shoulders and muscle. "Now it's my turn."
Chapter Three
The Prime’s residence was a far cry from Miss Martin's, which had been located in the heart of the theatre district. Not too far from the Rathbourne family manor, actually, though Lucien had no reason to go there whilst the courts held his case. Surely the Prime could afford to put her up in a more affluent section of town?
"I assume the Prime has had the manor searched?" Lucien asked, as the carriage began to slow as it pulled into the circular driveway, the jingle of the bit ringing and the horse's hooves crunching over the gravel.
"Of course he did. Discreetly." Not a sign of concern showed in Miss Martin's comportment, though her foot tapped with restless ease, her fingers scrunching the corners of the newspaper she'd been perusing.
"Is it safe to presume that the theft has gone unnoticed by others?"
"We've managed to contain the spread of rumor so far. The butler alerted Drake to the empty case sometime this morning, and he sent to wake me at dawn. The few servants who know are under a suppression rune, and there were only two guests for the evening, neither of them suspect."
...sent to wake me at dawn... Where precisely? It sounded as though she hadn't been in the duke's bed. "Were you staying at the manor?"
"Yes. I only returned from the north yesterday afternoon, and Drake asked me to stay and dine with the Ross's. By the time we'd retired to the sitting room, it was late and I had no desire to venture out into the rain." She put the paper down and sighed.
"Who are the Ross's?" The stamp of her own magic was lanced into his chest, pulsing with quiet discord. If he didn't know any better, he'd suspect Miss Martin was a mess of steadily growing nerves.
"Mrs. Ross and her niece, Adeline, are old friends of Drake's."
"That means nothing. Either could have done it."
"Addie is barely fifteen and considered a wallflower. Her aunt, Eleanor Ross, was accounted for at the time of the disappearance. You might as well accuse me, whilst you're at it."
"No." His smile was grim. "It’s exceedingly clear where your loyalties lie. You're the only one I don't consider to be guilty."
