by Ann Aguirre
Before today, Joss had never seen Callum in his official attire, somberly robed in midnight blue, a belt of silver cord tied around his waist. His hair was tamed, caught in a topknot, and his beard sported two braids, doubtless symbolic of something. Ceremonial significance aside, it was also sexy as hell. Stormy eyes, thick and sullen brows, and a sensual mouth that he tried to hide.
It was immoral that she still found him fucking irresistible, even wearing full monk regalia. As he led the service and lit the candles for the memorial, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. This fixation felt like the start of a fetish. Why couldn’t she feel the same about someone else, some more attainable?
She was so involved in her thoughts that she almost missed her cue. Quickly, she got up and rushed to the front to offer musical tribute to the fallen. Despite a rocky start, she poured herself into the music, singing with a pure torrent of emotion, and when she came back to herself, over half of the mourners were weeping, some silently, others in gasping sobs. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe; it was like seeing her father’s body all over again, the smell of cordite and crumbling plaster choking her.
I can’t do this.
It cut too close, and she stepped off the stage, hoping it wasn’t obvious how much she was trembling. Joss clung to the railing and paced herself to the wall. Now that her part was done, she could escape and hide in her room until she felt steadier.
Just one more. Only one.
In the crowd, she lost track of Callum, surrounded by a congregation in need of consolation. Shuffling her feet, she nearly made it to the door, when suddenly Garven was beside her, offering his arm.
“You look peaked,” he said. “Know how you feel. I hate funerals too.”
That wasn’t why. Joss didn’t want to accept his assistance, but if she didn’t, it might cause greater drama. After a short hesitation, she set her hand on his arm and let him lead her out of the chapel.
Outside, away from the press of the crowd and the intense smell of candles and incense, the fresh air braced her. Enough that she let go at once and said, “I’m fine now. Thanks.”
“I’ll walk you—”
“Garven.” Somehow, Callum was there, arms folded across his broad chest. He radiated a barely-leashed menace, like a tornado in human form.
“Yes, boss?” Garven seemed to think he was quite the irresistible lady’s man, but not so much while wearing that peevish expression.
He doesn’t seriously think he has a shot? Joss had been shooting down self-absorbed sods for more than ten years.
“Could you help Sarai Jessup? She wants to invite Eloise’s friends from the guard over as a sort of farewell party, but she isn’t sure who to ask. I haven’t been around long enough to know.”
It was a reasonable excuse for the interruption, and Garven nodded, his irritation fading. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Thanks.” Even that simple word held an edge, a hint of a snarl.
I’m not imagining this, right? She hadn’t hallucinated the encounter yesterday, even if it was all but impossible to look straight at Callum’s face, after her incredibly vivid dream about him eating her pussy like a champion, and then fucking her until she went boneless.
Damn my dirty mind.
Garven didn’t seem to notice the tension or the nuance as he turned to Joss. “Give me a few, okay? You still don’t look good.”
Like hell.
The minute his back was turned, she tried to head the other way, only to find a big hand on her arm, firmly controlling but not painful. With a demand that wouldn’t be denied, Callum led her around the chapel to where the shadows fell thick and deep.
“Are you sick?” he demanded. “If I gave you what I had last night—”
“It’s not like that,” she cut in.
“Tell me what it’s like then.”
There were no words.
Her entire body still felt weak, an inevitable result of the panic attack she’d barely fought off. Even now, she might still shake to pieces and go back in her head to the worst day of her life. To the explosions and the darkness, the soot in her lungs, and the sound of children screaming—
“Whoa, kit.”
She didn’t realize she was swaying until he caught her, for once not seeming to consider what people would think if they caught him cradling her against his chest. Oh gods, this is perfect. He felt huge, but exactly in the way she’d imagined—that nobody could ever hurt her if she stayed close to this man. Callum was like a defense tower with a warmly beating heart.
Then the world spun when he swung her up in his arms, carrying her in great strides toward their building. With some rational part of her brain, she acknowledged that this was a bad idea. Someone could see him carting her off like a prize, but instead of fighting, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
It’s so fucking hard to be happy.
What most people never realized was that she faked it about half the time. That sunshine was what people expected from her, and they didn’t want to peer past the shining surface to the murky depths. Better to give the audience what it wants, right? Nobody comes to see a crying clown.
She marveled at how easily he carried her, taking the stairs two at a time, not pausing until he stepped into her room and kicked the door shut behind him. Then he took her to the armchair and sat in a smooth movement. This was exactly the sort of thing she’d fantasized about, long before she spent any time with him. Now, she could hardly believe that she was sitting on his lap, his monk’s robe smooth against her thighs, making her all too aware of how big he was, the thickness of his legs supporting her. Now, Callum was comforting her, nothing more, but she couldn’t be this close to him, breathe in his scent, without wanting more.
A big hand smoothed her hair, weaving through the waves in a soft, tender gesture. “Talk to me, kit. It’s quiet and safe.”
In a small voice, she whispered the truth about her flashbacks. He hadn’t been there when the bombs went off, only seen the aftermath. Maybe he wouldn’t understand. Hell, most people would think she was wildly off target, expecting comfort from a man like Callum.
His silence meant he was listening intently. As she spoke, she wanted to touch his beard, to rub her cheek against his, and finally fucking find out how he tasted.
“Crowds and candles,” he said softly.
“And funeral incense. I thought I’d be all right this time. You abandoned everyone because of me. I’m sorry—”
He set a rough fingertip on her lips, and it took all her resolve not to kiss it. Or to suck it into her mouth to see if she could make his eyes look like they had in her dream, so intense they practically glowed as he pleasured her. In this light, they were intense, a complicated weave of brown and green, and he wore such a grave look, eyes locked on hers as if blinking might mean the end of them both.
“Don’t apologize. I did everything I needed to.”
She swallowed hard and nuzzled her cheek against his chest, utterly unable to resist that impulse. “Don’t feel sorry for me, please. Every time you show up for me unexpectedly, I want a little more. What am I supposed to do about that?”
Callum had no fucking idea, distracted by how divine she felt in his arms. Divine was a dangerous word since he’d vowed to spend his life serving Saint Casimir and the goddess. Yet the smell of raspberries wafted from Joss’s hair, maddening and wholesome at the same time.
He closed his eyes, more agonized than if the abbot was whipping him for his transgressions. The order didn’t much go for flagellation, but Callum suspected they might make an exception in his case.
Finally he said, “You think pity made me chase you out of the chapel? That I sent Garven back inside because I’ve such a tender heart?”
“No?”
She knew the answer already; she must. But the words tore out of him anyway, low and aching. “I wanted to kill him when you touched his arm. I wanted to kill everyone when I realized how scared you were.”
That smothering he
lplessness, when he saw her face, pale and wan, across the altar, moving away from him without a second look. He had no right to these feelings, but he fucking well wanted to catch Joss when she stumbled, for her to run to him when she most needed refuge. For the first time, he wished he hadn’t joined the order.
If I’d been there, if I’d been with my uncle at the conclave, not only might he still be alive, but I’d be free. Free to want her. Free to have her. She might not have these fears, either.
Yet regrets were futile. He hadn’t been there for Joss or his uncle, and Saint Casimir taught that it was vanity to believe in one’s own importance, as if he could’ve changed certain events just with his presence.
Please forgive me this vanity. Forgive me for this desire. He whispered the prayer in the silence of his head, but he didn’t move. She was calm now; he should move her off his lap, but letting go of her might end him. Each time he passed a test where she was concerned, the universe doubled down and offered even more temptation.
She studied his face for so long in silence that he started to get self-conscious, wondering just how he looked to her eyes. Then she reached out ever so slowly, giving him every chance to pull back. He held still, craving her slightest caress like a dying man wanted another breath.
Joss touched his nose, running a light fingertip down to the edge, then she skimmed her thumb along his cheekbones, hovering like she wanted to do more. Ever so slightly, he angled his cheek, inviting her. This was nothing sexual, he told himself. Never mind that she was perched atop his straining erection, and neither one of them were in any hurry to change that.
Smiling, she touched his beard delicately, fluttering down his jaw until she could explore the braid on the left side. Normally he didn’t fiddle with such formalities, but the dead deserved all the ceremony he could offer. Joss smoothed the plait and her finger brushed his mouth. His breath caught, and a tremor shook through him. It shouldn’t be this intense with such slight contact, but already his skull throbbed with imperfectly strangled impulses.
“You were born to bedevil me,” he whispered.
Her lashes fluttered, her cheeks flushing, not from his words, but from the physical reaction she couldn’t conceal. When she leaned forward, he thought she would kiss him, and damn his soul, he didn’t pull back.
But Joss surprised him again, rubbing her cheek against his like a cat, so his bearded jaw scraped over her soft skin. Their mouths were close, so very close, and he could taste each little puff of breath as she tried to get herself under control.
“I’m sorry.”
“This is none of your doing, kit. No one forced me to carry you off.”
“You make it sound so…” Her soft voice faltered as she shifted, jarring a groan from him.
His robes weren’t particularly thick, a much thinner barrier between them than usual. He had been able to bear her weight, but motion? That was too much. He had been hard since the moment he picked her up, as if that hold was a precursor to all the dirty things he’d dreamt.
His impulses were scrambled, fuck and protect, cherish and ravish. If he didn’t get his shit together, he’d soon be snapping his teeth mindlessly at anyone who got close to her.
“Make no mistake, it is so…” To finish the sentence, he moved her on his lap, and the hold became even less innocent.
Her cheeks burned bright as war banners, her breath coming quick and shallow. “I have never wanted anyone so much.”
Longing is pain, and—
The litany literally vanished from his head as she touched his hair, hands hesitant and fluttering. She was trying so hard to keep this innocent, but it was far too late. As she petted his head, he imagined her hands on his cock.
Somehow, with supernatural effort, she pulled back and tumbled off his lap. Joss landed on the floor, then she inched away from him like he was about to ravage her. Callum clenched his hands on the chair armrest to keep from going after her. There was a beast in the back of his head snarling that she belonged to him, that he had only to take her, and all the suffering would stop.
Head bowed, she didn’t look at him for a long moment. Then she raised her chin and mustered a smile. “I’m not freaking out anymore at least.”
That makes one of us.
Though he didn’t think this shit was funny in the least, he tried to match her tone. “That’s one thing I did right today.”
He didn’t mean to sound quite so grim, but his tone brought her back, knee-walking toward him to take his hand tentatively, as if he might slap her away. Hell, rebuffing her had become unimaginable. Callum craved every little touch she chose to bestow, even while knowing that such softness was chiseling away at his resolve to keep his vows.
The world’s going to hell anyway. I’m probably going to die soon enough. Does it matter if I fall, as long as I land in her arms?
She was talking and he’d missed part of it, too focused on her small hands holding one of his. “—don’t think you did anything wrong. You didn’t fail today.”
“I left my people grieving because I couldn’t stand the thought of Garven spending a minute alone with you,” he said flatly. “Hardly my finest hour.”
Callum wondered what she’d think of him if he admitted that most of his impetus to protect Burnt Amber came from duty, not devotion. Most people felt like shadows, not real somehow, echoes and air. He strived to say the right things; he emulated empathy, but always, always he struggled to connect and even those flashes came crosswise, frightening the object of his obsession.
The brothers didn’t expect emotional intimacy from him in the order. It was expected that every monk would find his own path to the goddess, if he followed the tenets of Saint Casimir. There, nobody noticed that he was strange or deficient. They only thought he was another curmudgeon who had chosen the stark and silent path to enlightenment.
Only with her did the pieces click into place and he understood how other people felt. Or imagined he did, anyway.
Joss edged a little closer, still holding his hand. “Maybe this is why I’m here,” she said.
“What?” Such a blank response, but he had no idea what she was talking about.
“To restore your faith in yourself. If you could see yourself as I do, you’d never have these terrible doubts.”
Seeing himself through her eyes—how fucking seductive. Conscious of primal instincts surging, he gazed down at her and that was it. No more fighting.
She’s fucking mine.
He tilted his head down and she rose to meet him, eyes closing before the kiss they’d both wanted for so damn long.
And someone pounded on the door, not a knock but a double-fisted thumping demand.
“What is it?” Callum snarled, ready to kill whoever was on the side.
Jere spoke through the heavy wood panels, sounding excited. “The order has come, sir. They’ve declared in defense of Burnt Amber, and for the first time in history, the brothers are going to war. For you.”
11.
Joss didn’t get that kiss.
Callum swore and said, “I’m sorry, kit. I must go. Wait five minutes, then go back to your room.”
He didn’t linger to see how she’d respond to the request to turn their friendship into something clandestine. Left on her own in his quarters, she tracked the time precisely and checked the hallway before slipping out. Nobody was around, likely driven by curiosity about the new arrivals from the Order of Saint Casimir. Joss was too, so she ignored his second instruction and headed for the courtyard.
Wonder how they got past the defensive grid and all the Golgoth.
She joined Trini and Emilia as if she’d always been there. Emilia glanced over with a welcoming smile. “This is unprecedented.”
Joss nodded as the brothers kept coming, a slow march of monks forming up around Callum like a wall of flesh she could never breach. And it was plain to see how glad he was to greet each of them, clasps of arm and shoulder, thumps on the back. All told, at least fifty monks h
ad arrived to lend aid as needed, some with topknots, some who were bald, and some in robes, others in secular attire.
The leader of the group was venerable with lined, golden skin and a bare pate and the sight of him prompted Callum to dip into a deep obeisance. Though the older man didn’t smile, he pulled Callum upright with gentle hands. “I should not have sent you away in anger. That broke the tenets as much as I accused you of doing when you responded to those tragic events.”
He had to be talking about the bombing of Ash Valley and Beren’s death, among other things. The spectators were quiet, respectful of the exchange between the Burnt Amber leader and the head of the order. At least that was Joss’s best guess.
“You don’t know glad I am to have your blessing, abbot. What changed your mind?”
“I prayed a lot after you left and communed with Saint Casimir. He came to me in a dream and asked if I meant to let you fight alone. ‘There is a season for all things. In the spring, we till the earth and plant the seeds.’ Sometimes, farmers must lay down their sickles and take up the sword. If we refuse to fight evil, then in passivity, we become what we adjure others against.”
Callum sucked in a sharp breath, audible even where Joss stood. “Thank you. I am honored to have the order here. But—”
“I am not here to take command from you, my son. We will offer support, as the volunteers have many skills that may prove useful.”
“Then let’s get you settled in the residential building and we’ll confer afterward regarding placement.”
The abbot inclined his head and beckoned the rest of the monks forward. Callum led his brothers personally, leaving the interested onlookers to disperse. Trini and Emilia headed off with a wave and Joss slid through the crowd to take refuge in her room. She shouldn’t be disappointed over the arrival of the order; he needed their support. Yet she knew everything would change with such close oversight. Small intimacies they had gotten away with before wouldn’t be possible with the sharp-eyed abbot observing their interactions.