Eversworn: Daughters of Askara, Book 3 (7 page)

No wonder they’d stuck together so long. Who understood better that Saturday nights were always free than a guy with the same hole in his schedule? One taste of Isabeau had Dillon ready to pen her in, permanently, but he couldn’t risk it. He’d be all but stamping her name on his ass.

“How can you tell all these tents apart?” Isabeau asked. “They all look the same.”

Pulled from his thoughts, he forced his makeshift tour back on track. “I used to count the steps. It’s all about location.” When they reached the hush tent, he lifted the entrance flap. “Huh.” The bottom laces hung loose, the seams gaping from the increased tension. Worn or cut?

Someone had helped the wear and tear along. He’d been here earlier and the tent was secure, the flap sealed shut. He remembered because he’d cut his hand on the sled and bled on the laces.

“Is something wrong?” She leaned too close for comfort.

“I can’t tell without something stronger than moonlight.” He fingered the rough fabric and grimaced. Not good. Wind had swept footprints from this side of the aisle, making their direction impossible to retrace. He glanced skyward. That sandstorm sure was taking its time getting here.

Returning his attention to the ground, he skimmed, for what it was worth. Nothing struck him as unusual. The converted dune sled had been parked inside before sundown. The remaining tracks belonged to the miners who had shoved it through the larger exit flap on the opposite side of the tent in preparation for going to market. He inspected that and found no signs of tampering.

“Stay here.” He left Isabeau waiting as he ducked inside the tent. Front and center, a bulky sled squatted beneath its load. He peeled back the tarp and inspected the cargo. Silver bars glinted dull beneath a spell-crafted light fixture overhead. In the center sat a chest filled with salt.

Caravans had gotten slimmer since the raider problem cropped up. A single sled posed fewer problems than their earlier attempts at lengthier caravans. Single sleds were easier to guard too.

“Interesting.” Isabeau’s voice made him whirl at the sound. “Who’s responsible for that?”

Standing beside a sled full of the most valuable mineral in Askara, and she was asking about light fixtures? He liked her for that. “Aldrich made several of them for the mine. After the explosion, Harper wanted something safer than torchlight. The fumes were making miners sick.”

Balanced on her tiptoes, Isabeau brushed her fingertips against the suspended light’s tip. “It’s cold.”

“Want a closer look?” The words took him by surprise.
Smart.
His arms wrapped around her waist, face nestled between her breasts, her skimpy top the only barrier, easily nuzzled aside…

Swaying off balance, she pushed hair from her eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

If she kept smiling at him that way, he’d give her the damn thing. “It comes in handy.”

“You say Aldrich created it?” Her face fell, and he wondered at the cause.

“I forgot you’d met him.” Aldrich had been the one who delivered Dillon to the consulate’s doorstep and into the arms of its resident healer. His leg had been shredded by the blast at the mine, but he’d been infection-free until escorting Harper and Emma to Rihos, right into a trap. Their extended stay in the summer castle’s dungeon, courtesy of Roland Bernhard, had sealed it.

She considered the light rather than him. “You trust his work?”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “If you’re asking if I trust Sereians, I don’t.”

Manipulating glamour was one thing. All demons and most crossbreeds did to some extent. Evanti used glamour to alter their appearances, to better hide among Askarans or humans, depending on the realm. Even spell crafters used the core of their glamour, their magic, to fuel their work fortifying cities and roads against the relentless sandstorms and even foreign invasion.

Sereians, though, manipulated minds for sport and personal gain by robbing their victims of freewill. And there was no capping their power. Priests who were born with more ambition than power? No problem. Beg, borrow or steal a grimoire. Aldrich had escaped Rihos with seven. Of course, like all magic, there was a trade-off. Use the book and the book used you. Over time, the tomes became sentient. All living things required a food source, and they weren’t picky. The person holding the book would do as easily as the body bound on the floor, ready for sacrifice.

The line between white magic and black magic was all gray to him, and he liked it that way.

Sere was Askara’s neighbor to the east. Askara’s queen, Nesvia, had married the second son of Sere, Rideal Bernhard. Sere’s heir apparent, Roland Bernhard, had apparently been nursing a grudge since the queen made her preference for his brother known. His answer? Use Emma to lure Harper into a trap and blackmail him into granting Roland exclusive salt rights to the Feriana mine. When that failed, they discovered he’d used a trick learned from his family’s horse-breeding operation. By forcing Nesvia to consume progesaline, he managed to induce her heat cycle. Instead of waiting five years for her natural fertility cycle to roll around, Roland gave her the supplement, and she became fertile within days. If Aldrich hadn’t helped them escape, and if Harper and Emma hadn’t found where Roland had hidden the kidnapped queen—chained beneath their colony, in their mine—the Evanti’s brief taste of freedom would have died with her.

Roland was pissed Harper had escaped before signing over those salt rights. The spike of raider-on-colonist violence confirmed as much before Nesvia intervened and Roland either called them off or revealed he was bankrolling the raiders. As it was, things were quieter around here.

“You don’t care for Sereians, do you?” Isabeau peered up at him.

The female had a gift for understatement. “I don’t care for abuses of power.”

Her voice faltered. “Not all Sereians are abusive.”

He studied her for a moment. “The ones who aren’t are rare as rain in the desert.”

Her gaze lowered. “You sound as if you have personal experience.”

“Any
sthudai
in Eliya’s menagerie did.” His tone hardened. “The second we showed signs of independent thought or, God forbid, we refused to perform, we were palmed off on one of her Sereian pets for reconditioning.” His gut churned. “Has a Sereian used glamour on you before?”

She nodded, and he hated her affirmation.

“Then you know how they make you think you want to do whatever depraved thing they’ve asked of you. Or worse, sometimes they let you remember why you don’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t stop you from following their orders. You’re trapped inside your body. Things I did then…”
Eliya gasped when he cut off her oxygen. His cock stirred.
“That’s not who I am.”

God he hoped that wasn’t him.

“Dillon—”

Shame thickened his voice. “The old queen has fallen.” Too bad his memory hadn’t toppled with her. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” He’d never spoken of his time with Eliya, not even to Harper. Knowing Dillon had been hand-picked to sire a child and sate the queen’s curiosity? To answer the question of what do you get when you cross a purebred Evanti and an Askaran royal?

The answer was the Princess Madelyn DeGray.

If not for Dillon’s attempt on Eliya’s life, he would have fathered her child, and her consort, Emma’s father, Archer, would have gutted him instead of Zehiel, the male who had taken his place in Eliya’s bed. Talk about family trees growing twisted as hell. Harper would have been his in-law since Harper’s brother, Clayton, had married Madelyn. Seeing her on Earth during the five years they’d both called the Dempsey colony home had caused the old sore to fester and rot.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Madelyn. He just couldn’t stomach being near her, or Emma.

Isabeau touched his arm. “I’m glad you confided in me.”

Pinpricks stung his cheeks. “Yeah, well, I didn’t mean to.”

Her fingertips trailed the hottest part of his cheek. “You’re such a contradiction.”

He cleared his throat. “I’ve been called worse.”

“With your temper, and your mouth, I can imagine.” Her thumb swiped across his bottom lip, pressed inside his mouth to wet the tip of her finger before she painted damp swirls on his skin.

He nipped her thumb. “I didn’t hear any complaints about my mouth earlier.”

Her smile twisted his insides. “That’s because you were putting it to good use.”

That twinkle in her eyes was what did it. He warned her, “I’m going to kiss you.”

Leaning into him, she was soft and willing, and for the moment, his. “All right.”

His head lowered as her lips parted. Forcing her head back, he claimed her mouth until they both panted. Grasping her hips, he lifted her, carried her to the rear of the sled and set her on the edge. While their kiss heated, his hands slid beneath her skirt. Damn filmy thing had so many layers he couldn’t find skin to touch it. He cursed. She laughed. He groaned as his fingers made that contact, gliding past the apex of her thighs and finding her bare. His lungs froze. His hand dropped. He hadn’t expected that. Arching her hips, she closed the gap. His eyes closed. “Fuck.”

Isabeau tensed beneath him.

His chin brushed her cheek. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He shouldn’t have done that.

Her response was to cup him through his pants, coaxing him to painful fullness.

Fabric ripped, or maybe it was his sanity that tore. Mated. Claimed. Hers.
Too dangerous
.

Isabeau’s exploration halted. “Did you hear that?”

“No.” He rocked into her hand, but those talented fingers of hers weren’t moving. “It’s probably—” Then he saw the flicker of shadows creeping around the tent’s perimeter. “Damn.”

Chapter Four

Dillon adjusted Isabeau’s skirt and eased his throbbing cock from her grip. “Stay still.” More shadows scurried to form a ring around the tent. A quick glance cast over his shoulder told him someone was making fast work of slicing the thick ties securing the rear flap, the sled exit.

“Perfect timing.” His exhale was equal parts relief and frustration. “We’ve got company.”

A familiar voice called, “Exit the tent and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Dillon answered gruffly. Isabeau had him so hard walking might break something.

“Dillon?” Mason’s shaggy blond head popped in the tent. “What are you two doing here?”

Isabeau slipped to her feet and stood behind Dillon with her face buried against his back.

“I was making my rounds. I saw the tent had been tampered with, so I investigated.”

After clearing his throat, Mason said, “Same here. Russ reported unusual activity, so I came to check it out.” His face glowed red. “I heard…well, I could tell someone was in here.” He tipped his chin toward Isabeau. “I’m sorry for the disturbance, ma’am. I was just doing my job.”

“Wait—wasn’t Russ patrolling the perimeter of the mines? When did he report in?”

“About ten minutes ago, I guess.” Mason frowned. “How long have you been here?”

“Less than five,” Dillon said. “We must have just missed them.” Glancing over his shoulder to ensure Isabeau was covered, he stroked her arm in silent order to remain still. “We might have spooked them, but there’s a cut the width of my thumb opposite the flap. Big enough the seams bulged where the canvas pulled, but not big enough for a body to squeeze through to the inside.”

Now that his head was clearing, his blood pressure rose. Trust had never been an issue. As far as he knew all the colonists were on the level. So who would try and enter the tent, and why?

“That’s good news at least.” Mason glanced past Isabeau to the sled. “Nothing was taken?”

“Nothing I noticed.” Ignoring how he kept shifting to keep himself between her and Mason, he forced himself to focus. “I still had to work the laces to get in. I doubt someone we interrupted would have stopped and tied it up on their way out. So they must have bailed when we arrived.”

“Okay, next question.” Mason tapped the sled. “You want me to take care of this for you?”

“I’ve got it.” He faced Isabeau, pretending this wasn’t an escape. “I’ve got to handle this.”

“Of course.” Her swollen lips curved in a temping smile. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

He grabbed her shirtfront as she passed and dragged her close. He didn’t have to, but he kissed her, hard, refreshing the memories of all the males present that she was his. “Be careful.”

She nodded. “Does your invitation stand, or would my waiting in your tent be a
mistake
?”

“It’s a mistake.” Resisting the urge to kiss away her frown, he played his part. “But if I get there and you’re not there, then you better hope like hell you can outrun me twice in one night.”

Her eyes glittered. “Don’t tempt me.” Her hips swayed in sweet invitation as she passed.

“And, Isabeau?”

She hesitated before turning. “Yes?”

“Lose the shirt.” His voice turned hoarse without even trying. “Leave the rest.”

Laughter trailed her from the tent. Dillon followed two steps before Mason chuckled.

“Emma will skin you alive if you hurt her.” He sounded amused. “You know that, right?”