“I will give you the punishment you are asking for, Zion,” Gedeon vowed, his tone one with ice, as biting as winter and as heavenly as the stars. “And trust me, you will beg me for it.”
The whole roomtracked our trio as we strode toward the three empty seats at the head of the long oak table.
The sea of gazes washed over me like rain, bouncing off of Zion hooking his thumbs in the loops of his ripped-by-time jeans, and lingered on Gedeon. The set of his back, as straight as a rod, betrayed how the attention was bothering him.
The bastard deserved it.
Early morning sunlight swirled in the softly colored space, the walls painted in hues of coffee, the paintbrush strokes as messy as the damp strands tickling Gedeon’s ears.
My nails dug into the meat of my palms, but I barked at the need to run my fingers through his hair to shove it. The arrogant prick loved it when I scratched his scalp, and his pleasure currently held a spot at the bottom of the list of things I longed to do to him.
Gedeon pulled a chair out for me. “Sit.”
“When you ask so nicely.” I plopped down on the cream cushion. “How could I say no?” I sneered to somehow banish the boiling ire from the lie he’d fed me—his supposed death.
Standing at my back, he leaned down to my ear. “Keep it up, and I will put your mouth to better use. I believe I had offered to spread you out on a table on your first night at my compound, but I’m sure Conall would not mind me desecrating his furniture either.”
His hand snaked to rest low on my throat, his pinkie dipping under the high neckline of my knitted sweater. “I’m a man of actions, Kali, and displays of pettiness are not something I will tolerate in front of our friends. We are here to discuss the lives and deaths of our people.” He squeezed, not so much to cut my oxygen off as to issue a warning. “So do not give me the incentive to turn the offer into an order.”
My toes curled at his threat, and I cursed myself for the physical reaction. Though I’d learned to loathe authority at a young age, Gedeon’s didn’t evoke repulsion.
The Head of Ilasall, the man whose name contained the most abhorrent five letters in existence—Peter—held the city in an iron fist, whipping his reins over the backs of citizens daring to look up instead of keeping their eyes on the beaten path and blindly following his edicts. Who dared to dream instead of sinking to the bottom of the cesspool the city had become. Who had the audacity to question the government instead of allowing them to be manipulated like puppets. Whose minds were capable of discovering the truth—that a person’s value shouldn’t be determined by their ability to reproduce.
But Gedeon ruled differently. He cared for his people. Had sacrificed himself for them. And always, as hard as it was to admit it, put Zion and me before him, even if he did it with an unhealthy dose of arrogance.
He exuded dominance.
And the way he expressed his starvation for control made my thighs clench.
Because I felt safe. I knew he would stop if it ever became too much.
Punishments were playtime for him, not an opportunity to exert his leverage over someone else, not like Peter and his bi-annual prisoner parades. The poor, shackled sinners were forced to march across the city, serving as a walking exhibition of what awaited those entertaining the idea of infringing the laws and defying Peter’s reign.
But if Gedeon thought I was acting petty, he had a long way to go to earn my forgiveness. Years spent in Ilasall had taught me that there were three currencies.
The first, commonly known as money, depended on the shape of your genitalia and its functionality. If your balls or uterus worked, luxury was a given. If not, well, you were lucky to reach the age of fifty.
The second currency was the act itself—sex. A primal instinct that had afforded me the opportunity to establish a trade offavors, supplying myself with the black-market merchandise and information.
And the third? This one’s value couldn’t be measured. The faith in someone, so complete you let your guard down around them, tore the lid off your vulnerabilities, and trusted them to safeguard them, to heal them.
And Gedeon had shattered my jar with his fake death.
Sitting to my right, Gedeon pulled Zion’s chair closer right as he lowered. As expected, Zion preened from the affection, or what he would probably call an achievement. But for some reason, that little action of playfulness became the pill absorbing my bitterness and returning my clarity.
We had lots to talk about, but now was not the time. We had more important matters to discuss.
I scanned the room as I reclined in my seat, concentrating on the leaders of the three compounds. Damia and her second-in-command nodded from the other end of the table, Damia as collected as Greyn was restless. His leg was clearly bouncing from how the solid piece of furniture occasionally rattled.
“I think we can start.” Damia disturbed the hush. “After all, you asked for no one else but us eleven to be present for this meeting. It’s beyond time you explain why, Gedeon.”
“Before we begin, is no one going to ask?” Nara gestured at Gedeon. Ignoring Damia’s scolding look, she repeated the action in a more dramatic manner. “Really?”
I’d run into the leader’s daughter months ago, when we’d taken a little trip to Damia’s compound, and the young woman didn’t disappoint me then, nor now. She was a duplicate of Jayla in the making.
Conall bit his fist, and his three partners—Nissa, Dain, and Aanya—followed his example, pressing their lips together and looking everywhere but at Gedeon.
“Seriously?” Nara tousled her light brown hair, revealing a shaved semicircle above her ear. Ink curved around the shell, the linear pattern of an abstract tattoo snaking into her red leather jacket. Truly, she and Jayla had to share the same wardrobe or shop in the same stores. “For gods’ sake, Gedeon’s wearingcolor.”
