Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology

by Michelle Diener

  She reached out and put her hand flat on his chest, seeking his heart. It might never be hers, but she would have the memory of it beating hard to her touch.

  "Take me to bed, Jean-Paul."

  Chapter 17

  He kissed her then. Wild and free and as greedy in his seeking of her as she was for him. Imogene fell into his touch, all else melting away as she tasted him, a sensation like coming home after a long absence, the sense of rightness almost shocking before it was burned away by desire. After that, he seemed more storm than man. A force of nature near overwhelming, blinding her to anything but him. She didn't know where the rest of her clothes went or how he had managed to divest himself of his. She didn't know how she got to the bed. All she knew was the need for him, the ache of it between her legs and at her breasts and spiraling through every inch of her.

  There was no gentleness to it, and for that she was thankful. She didn't want gentle. Didn't want him to crack her defenses any more than he already had. No, she just needed him to be hers, to drown her in pleasure for a time.

  She urged him on with eager hands, pulling him down to her, spreading her legs and catching them around his hips as he kissed her again. He was large, the sheer size and weight of him making her feel delicate in comparison. His cock, as it slipped over her, was large, too. The sensation of hard over soft only fed her need. She arched up to him, but he put one hand on her hip, strong enough to hold her where he wanted her as he feasted on her, making her mindless with him.

  Just when she was close to cursing his name for the delicious torture of it, he relented. Moved up over her again and slid home with one certain thrust that had her bowing beneath him with delight. She rode the storm then, let him take her as he willed, too caught up in the pleasure of him to do more than follow his lead. It was wild and fast and noise and fury as they moved together, until finally the pleasure burst and the lightning spiked behind her eyes and she came with his name on her lips like a revelation.

  Afterward, as they lay panting and replete, side by side on Jean-Paul's huge bed, it took Imogene a few minutes to fight her way clear of the fog of satisfaction and be able to think again. And all she could think was that it would be near impossible to leave his bed when the sun rose and resume being sensible Imogene Carvelle.

  She turned onto her side so she could watch him as he lay staring at the ceiling, a smile playing over his face.

  "Do you have a question, Lieutenant?" he asked, not moving.

  "No. Just looking." There was plenty to see. Naked, he was all grace and muscle. She wanted to run her hands over that body. To get to know it even better. To burn it into her memory.

  "I hope you like what you see. Though you may have to grant me a few moments’ rest before I can satisfy your urges again." He turned his head on the pillow, eyes alight with amusement.

  "My urges are well satisfied," she said softly. "For now." Her heart twinged. Now was all they could have. This night. Perhaps another, though she knew it would be safer if they did not. He was too much. Too overwhelming. Too good at what he did with those big hands and that clever mouth and the rest of him. Too...right.

  When he could only be wrong.

  Another taste and she might become fatally addicted to something she could never truly have.

  He frowned at her then, as if he had some inkling of what she was thinking. "You look overly thoughtful for a woman whose urges have been satisfied," he said, his voice light but cautious.

  "Should a woman not think?" she said.

  "A woman should do whatever she chooses to do," he said. "And she should not waste a quick mind or clever hands or whatever other skills the goddess may have granted her. But I'd prefer if she looked as though her thoughts were happy ones when she's in my bed. And I thought we took care of your worries back in the palace." He rolled to face her. "Is something wrong?"

  "No." She had to catch her breath a second before she could continue the sentence. The pang of anticipated loss grew stronger with that lying “No.” Just as well that Jean-Paul wasn't a Truth Seeker, to know lie from honesty when he heard it. She turned her attention to his body again, worried he could read her too clearly if she met his gaze. The light in his bedroom was dim, only two earth-lights above the bed shining down on them. But that soft light gleamed over his skin and played over the muscled planes of his body almost lovingly.

  A pretty sight.

  As was the elaborate silk embroidery that covered the paneled hangings above the bed and the heavy quilt now half tumbled to the floor. Shades of blue and golds and green in fantastical sea creatures and flowers that didn't belong together but combined into something as glorious as the man himself.

  The pale linen sheets set off his olive skin admirably and highlighted the sheer size of the bed itself. Undeniably the bedroom of a rich man. A powerful one. One who would, by happenstance of his birth, come to wield only more power and play the games of politics throughout his life. Unless he did something catastrophically stupid—after all, nobles did occasionally fall into disgrace—his place was certain. A place his family had fought and striven for over centuries, no doubt. But part of the machinery of the empire. What would he do to protect it?

  "You're not still worrying about Andalyssians, are you? I told you I spoke to the emperor. Nothing will happen."

  Was it nice to have such certainty? Was that also a by-product of his sure knowledge of who he was in the world? It could easily turn to arrogance, perhaps, but in Jean-Paul, it felt more like solidity. Like there was a foundation under his feet that couldn't be shaken, that let him just be who he was.

  It almost certainly wasn't that simple, of course. No one had a perfect life. The lands that belonged to the du Laqs were large, almost a small kingdom of their own. Eventually the lives of thousands of people would be impacted by every decision Jean-Paul made. That wasn't an easy thing to come to terms with. Power. She remembered when her magic had first manifested. How her life had been uprooted and reformed in an instant. Even though she'd been raised in the hope that that moment would come for her, she hadn't been ready for just how different she would feel. Would she be remade once more if she bonded with a sanctii?

  Perhaps. But this time she would be a little more ready for the change.

  She hadn't been ready to meet Jean-Paul. Wasn't ready to acknowledge the true depth of loss she was feeling, knowing she would be gone from his life again in the morning.

  In another life, it would have been nice to stand with him on such solid ground and feel such certainty. But looking at him now, she knew, regrets or no regrets, that she had to find solid ground of her own before she could think about sharing it with another. And that other would have to be willing to accept her for who she was. Including accepting her sanctii, should she succeed. And try as she might, she couldn't remember any of her history classes mentioning a duquesse who had a sanctii.

  So. Her ground was not his, and he was not to be hers. She would slip away out of his life again. Leave him to find another with that same sense of their place in the world to stand beside him and guard the responsibilities he held. To wield that shared power for good.

  She should. And she would. But she could steal a few more hours of him first.

  "I hope not."

  He smiled at her. "Trust me. All will be well." His hand drifted to her shoulder, skimmed down an arm. "Stay the night," he said. "Or two."

  Her foolish heart twinged again. "I can stay tonight. But only that. I have an assignment out of town." She didn't want to tell him what it was. A sanctii was her choice. No one else's opinion mattered.

  "So soon?"

  "Only for a few weeks."

  "When you return, perhaps?" he said. His voice was light, but there was a hopefulness to his tone that only deepened the knife pricking her emotions.

  "Oh, you will have met some other pretty face by then." She tried to keep her tone light in return though the words were not easy to say.

  "Lieutenant, I think you underestim
ate your charms."

  Damn it. She had underestimated him, that much she couldn't deny. "Maybe. But I cannot ignore the reality of who you are. You're a duq to be, Jean-Paul. I'm a nobody. There's no happy ending to this story."

  His expression darkened. "You're not nobody. Don't say that. I—"

  She stopped his words with a finger to his lips. "Don't. You can't change my mind. I knew this before I agreed to come here with you tonight. You knew it, too. Neither of us has to like it, but we have to accept it. We are...only what we can be. And what we can be ends when I leave in the morning. So, my lord, you can storm and be angry at me, and I'll leave now and save us the aggravation. Or you can kiss me again and we can take what we've been given and enjoy it a little longer. Your choice."

  She could fairly feel the frustration rising off him, the need to argue, to talk her around, to shape the world to how he wanted it to be. She tensed, waiting for the argument. But then she saw him make a choice. Saw him let it go. Let her go, perhaps.

  "As my lady wishes," he said in a tone not completely free of regret. Then he drew her back down to him and she went, trying to focus only on the joy of his touch and not the dawn that was coming too fast.

  Chapter 18

  Just one more step.

  Imogene stared at the salt circle ringing her and the second circle she'd painstakingly drawn opposite it.

  One more step and she would call a familiaris sanctii and bond the creature to her. A goal achieved. A step forward in the life she wanted for herself.

  A success.

  After two unending weeks of study and preparation for this moment. Hours she'd thrown herself into, both fascinated by the sanctii with each piece of new information she had gained and simultaneously aware she was using that fascination, using her bone-deep certainty that this was what she should do to cloak the equal bone-deep certainty that she missed Jean-Paul like fire every second she let herself think about him.

  It didn't matter that she knew it was ridiculous. Didn't matter that she barely knew him. Didn't matter one whit what perfectly rational and logical arguments she came up with to convince herself she’d done the right thing when she'd had crept out of his bed at dawn, gone home to change and pack, and then reported to Colonel Ferritine to tell him she wanted to take part in the training—and, what was more, she could leave Lumia early if that would be useful.

  The captain had looked at her oddly for a moment, and she'd wondered if he could somehow tell where she’d spent the night. Or that she was so eager to leave the city for reasons other than the allure of a sanctii. But he had nodded and agreed in the end, and she'd come here to Cylienne, a small village in the middle of nowhere. East of Lumia by several days’ carriage ride. Only important in the scheme of things because of the barracks here that was used for various training activities. The sanctii school being one of them. Of course, she hadn't had to endure several days in a carriage. She'd been given permission to use the portal at the Cylienne barracks to make her journey. The others chosen to attempt a bonding had followed over the next two days, seven other officers of various ages, though most, like her, were still only lieutenants. She was the only woman among them this time. Somehow that made her only more determined to succeed.

  She'd buried herself in the books they told her to read and practiced everything she had been taught. She knew the ritual she was about to perform forward and backward and, quite possibly, could have recited it in her sleep. But that didn't change the fact that just then, when she should be focused only on the ritual and the fact that she was about to summon a sanctii, there was a small part of her mind wondering what Jean-Paul would think if he could see her now.

  Would he murmur a proud "Well done, Lieutenant," or would he be shocked? Or worse, indifferent, having already forgotten her?

  No.

  No time to pine over something out of reach. She needed to think about the sanctii. Once they made their bond, he would be hers for life—or until she released him. A far more important moment in her life than a night in the bed of a man she still wanted but couldn't have.

  She wrenched her thoughts back to the circle and the chamber where she stood. Looked down at the brazier floating in the channel of water between the two circles.

  So. A choice. One she could make for herself. One that was hers and hers alone.

  She stepped a little closer to the edge of the circle, careful that her boots didn't brush the salt. She wore black breeches with her uniform. A skirt in a circle where one had to move could cause unforeseen accidents.

  A breath to center. Another to focus her attention down to nothing but here and now. Then she drew the silver dagger from her belt, lifted her hand to hover over the brazier, then pricked her finger to drip blood into the flames. It was rare to use blood in water magic, but it was water of a kind. And bonds needed to be sealed.

  As the drops hit the coals, the tiny sizzle each impact made thrumming through her, she began to speak the words. A steady stream of complex precise commands. At least they were in Illvyan, not the sanctii tongue. That sounded like gravel and ash given voice, and though she had learned more of it in her time at Cylienne, she wasn't adept enough to speak it now while also pouring her power out over the flame and the blood and into the circle beyond.

  It took less time than she expected. She was still repeating the words of the ritual for only the second time when a sanctii appeared in the circle beyond her.

  She didn't stop talking, didn't so much as allow herself to flinch. The way the sanctii appeared was always startling to a degree. As though human minds could never quite get used to another living being just stepping out of thin air.

  The sanctii stood quietly, making no attempt to break the circle. She had been warned that some resisted, but he seemed ...attentive rather than reluctant. The linen—or something near to it—pants and tunic he wore were black, making him appear almost part of the shadows not entirely chased away by the fire. But only almost. He was too solid to be a dream, his body, tall and strong. The arms bared by the tunic were heavily muscled, the skin mottled gray and black that reflected the glow of the brazier coals, the red gleaming over the near silver lines that cut through parts of the gray. The gray tones of his face were broken by a bold slash of black across his eyes, shadowing them even more than usual. A sanctii's eyes were inky black, no whites visible. His reflected the firelight, too, the flashes of red in their depths almost mesmerizing.

  But she couldn't afford distraction. She had to complete the ritual.

  "What shall I call you?" she asked carefully. The summons should compel him to answer truthfully. To make him give her a name to use to complete the bond. But some sanctii chose not to answer at all. Without the name, there could be no bond. They knew that as well as the mages did. Those who chose to speak were choosing to be bound. No one quite knew why they agreed. Access to the human world seemed to please them in some way they didn’t choose to explain.

  "Ikarus," the sanctii said. His voice did indeed sound like his throat might be made of rock, but Imogene detected no hesitation in it.

  "Ikarus," she repeated. "I am Imogene."

  He tilted his head at her. "Female."

  "Yes." She had been told to speak truth in the circle. "Does that matter?"

  Ikarus shrugged, muscles rolling under his skin. "No difference. Strong magic." That time his voice sounded almost approving.

  Satisfaction swept through her. She nodded at the sanctii. "You know what I will ask next?"

  That wasn't exactly sticking to the script. Perhaps she would regret it, but he had made no move to attempt to break her magic yet. And she would rather their bond be forged as she meant to continue. With him as a partner to her magic, not just a servant to fetch and carry and perform magical tasks to order as a servant might sweep her room or wash her clothes. He would need to follow orders sometimes, as she herself did, but she wanted an ally, not an enemy compelled.

  "Yes," Ikarus replied.

  Her hand was s
till dripping blood into the brazier. She needed to finish this before she did something foolish like grow faint. She straightened her shoulders. Held the sanctii's gaze unflinching. And spoke the words to bind him to her.

  Chapter 19

  Imogene had only been back in her new quarters in the Lumia barracks for an hour when a knock on the door interrupted her packing. She hauled herself up from the floor near the chest of drawers she had been filling, wondering if her mother had sent another parcel from Imogene's room at home.

  It was expected that those who had newly bonded with a sanctii would live at the barracks for some time. A way of providing breathing space whilst they adjusted to the bond and learning to work with a sanctii. Her parents, who she had visited as soon as she had returned from Cylienne, had reacted much as she had expected they would to her announcement that she had bonded with Ikarus. Her father had looked surprised, then proud. Her mother surprised, then alarmed. Then annoyed. A daughter with a sanctii was a very different kettle of fish when it came to the marriage mart.

  Imogene had almost been able to see the wheels turning behind her mother's narrowed eyes—no doubt reforming her plans for Imogene's social life for the next few months. Her mother had been no more pleased by the news that Imogene would be living in the barracks for the foreseeable future. Imogene hoped devoutly that she would be sent on another assignment before she had to return home to live. That might give her mother time enough to calm down. Or Imogene time enough to find a home of her own if her mother couldn't reconcile herself to this new reality.

  Her mother had insisted on helping Imogene pack, and then there had already been an additional package of embroidered wall hangings waiting when Imogene had arrived with her trunks far later in the day than she had expected to return. Why her mother thought she might want to hang a delicate floral embroidery in an army barracks was beyond her. But she recognized the gift as the beginning of a peace offering perhaps, even if it was one she had little use for.