by Jen Colly
“Because where Maeryn is concerned, you do not think. You act,” he said, and Jovan opened his mouth to protest, but Rollin refused to hear him out. “No! What was the first thing that crossed your mind?”
Jovan’s upper lip twitched, the left side curling in disgust. Rollin pointed to the dead giveaway. “Right there. That is why I didn’t tell you.”
“Because I hate demons?” Jovan opened his arms wide, palms up, turning slightly to his right, then left. “Look around. We all hate them.”
“You would have gone after that demon, killed it inside Balinese. You’re itching to do it now. You can’t do that, Jovan. You can’t be that.” Rollin took a breath, then said more gently, “I waited, because even when Maeryn is in your line of sight, she eases your temper.”
Suddenly still, Jovan’s eyes narrowed on him. “She does not.”
“Think of her face,” Rollin said. “Think of your Maeryn and her smile, her eyes. Hear her laughter.”
Jovan was suddenly unfocused, his eyebrows flickered as some memory crossed his mind, and as the fight left him, his confrontational posturing wilted. Jovan whispered, “I have to see her.”
With nothing else in his mind but Maeryn, Jovan walked away.
“Jovan!” Rollin called after him. “She needs time.”
Rollin let out a frustrated sigh. Jovan had been able to take Spirit for at least three years. If he truly wanted to see Maeryn, no one could stop him. Jovan gave her plenty of anxiety with his reckless and often thoughtless behavior, but he would never intentionally cause Maeryn pain. He loved her too much.
Rollin locked his fingers together on top of his head as he watched Jovan disappear around the corner. With his family, interruptions to their lives were rarely anything less than tragic. He’d grown accustomed to that, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing, but after the execution things would return to their version of normal.
He was used to dealing with their neurotic behavior. Which was, in a way, why plucking Bette from the corridor floor hadn’t struck him as completely bizarre. It was certainly unexpected, but not the strangest rescue. The commotion Jovan had caused would be more than enough to wake Bette, and when Rollin entered his home, he made certain to lock the door behind him.
He poked his head into his bedroom and found her sitting in the middle of his bed, her legs curled behind her, and his pillow clutched before her like a shield. Eyes wide and her hair wild and tangled around her, she asked, “Is everything all right?”
Rollin leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, trying to look less intimidating than his size often portrayed. He wanted her to know he was staying where he was. “Absolutely.”
She sent him a curious look, her eyebrows scrunched together. “Was that your brother?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about him showing up like that. Jovan is…” His brother was self-destructive, cunning, defiant, unstable, and unfailingly loyal. Also, not technically his brother. “Hard to explain.”
Bette nodded, then promptly asked, “Are you all right?”
Had anyone ever taken the time to show concern for his personal well-being, or been interested in what was going on in his life enough to worry about him for a change? Not that he could recall. And the part of him that doubted he’d heard her right, asked, “Me?”
“Yes, you,” she said, staring at him with open curiosity. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and your brother, but I’m sure it can’t be easy on you.”
“Nothing is easy with Jovan.”
“I believe you. You’re tense.”
He was still leaning on the doorframe in what he felt was a relaxed pose. “You think so?”
She nodded, a sly smile curling one side of her lips. “Drop your shoulders.”
He did, releasing the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been hanging on to.
“I guess I am. I’m sorry he woke you, but it’s for the best. You slept past breakfast,” he said, and at her shocked face, he added the second bit of information. “And lunch. Come on out and sit down. I’ll start you off with some tea.”
By the time he’d heated the water, she was already on the couch, her feet curled under her. Rollin offered her a large, thick mug and when she reached out, a thrilling jolt raced over his skin as her fingers brushed his. Rollin cleared his throat and stepped back, but she held on, squeezing his hand.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, but she wasn’t able to look him in the eye. “I mean it. Thank you.”
Rollin was taken aback. She wasn’t talking about the tea. He sat down beside her on the couch, keeping her hand in his.
“What happened?”
“I thought someone had got inside, that I…” She paused and shook her head, almost as if giving herself a reset. “I’ve been better, but it seems as if when I wake, my mind hasn’t adjusted to being in a new place.”
“To being safe?” he asked, and the look on her face said it all. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done in the past. As long as you don’t commit a crime in Balinese, you’ll be allowed stay. There is no reason to look over your shoulder.”
“I’ll be fine, now that I know the source of the sound,” she said, her smile unsteady. “If I could spend some time there tonight with you before retiring, I might become accustomed to the room’s character.”
A lie. Easily spotted. Rollin had no intention of pulling her off the corridor floor again. “I see no reason why you couldn’t stay here with me. It won’t take more than a few days to get a permanent residence sorted out. No need to get used to a place you won’t be able to keep.”
“Really?” Her voice broke.
“Of course.” Rollin stood. “Besides, they’ve already delivered most of your things.”
He flashed her a quick smile, then turned his focus to sorting through the boxes, giving her the space to sit on his couch and sip the piping-hot tea. She watched him work, occasionally giggling when he’d read a label with what must have been a look of sheer bewilderment on his face. Still, he soldiered on, transferring armloads of boxes into his bedroom.
After the last box had been relocated, he emerged from the bedroom, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders now that everything had been organized.
“I took your shoes from the boxes and lined them up along the wall. I left your undergarments in the boxes.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck as he stared at the carpet. “Your new gowns will arrive in a day or two, but at least you have one of them.”
“Rollin,” she said, and after what felt like an eternity, he looked her in the eye. Bette set down the mug, walked right up to him, and curled her finger, beckoning him closer. He leaned down stiffly, uncertain of what was happening. Bette kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
He straightened. “Uh, yeah. No problem.”
A sharp double rap at the door made Bette jump, and Rollin laid a hand on her shoulder to steady her. She sent him a jolting nod, and said, “I’m all right.”
Rollin went to the door, not knowing who to expect now that the clothes had been delivered. When he opened the door to Graydon, he was a little confused.
“What’s going on?”
“Personal invite,” he said, handing an envelope over to Rollin. Then he looked inside the room to where Bette waited, standing awkwardly in Rollin’s shirt. “Hey. Nice to see you, you know…standing.”
“Thank you,” Bette murmured.
Never one to stick around for small talk, Graydon sent them a quick wave, then left.
Bette caught sight of the red wax seal on the envelope. “Is that…”
“The royal seal.” Rollin opened the envelope and read it before handing it to her.
“You’ve been invited to sit with Lord Navarre Casteel at the last meal of the night.”
Bette took the crisp paper and read it herself. “Bu
t why? I don’t know the lord, nor have I requested an audience. Rollin, I don’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t worry. Lord Navarre is… Honestly, he’s nosy. I’m sure he only wants to meet you,” Rollin said.
“I suppose I don’t have much of a choice,” Bette said, her words mumbled. “Is your lord a kind man?”
“He’s a good man,” Rollin said.
Bette nodded, but suddenly seemed concerned, and Rollin stepped in front of her. Taking both her hands in his, Rollin uncurled her fingers from against her palm.
“Now who’s tense? Whatever you’re getting worked up over, don’t. I’ll be there.” Rollin smiled, then pointed to the pile of boxes stacked and organized against the wall. Her black and champagne gown hung on a rack to the side. “Look at it as a great opportunity to show off your new gown.”
“I can do that,” she said, then straightened her shoulders as if she was gearing up for a challenge. “I can do this.”
Chapter 15
Balinese
Dulcina dropped out of Spirit high in the arena overlooking the sands below. Though she was much too far away to see the fight clearly, from here she could watch every seat, and had a broader scope of the arena floor. She’d come early to the execution.
Her family would want her with them, perched high in the royal box, but being on display wasn’t her thing. Well, yes it was. Dulcina tipped her head back and ruffled her short black curls. Wearing her favorite low-rise cargo pants, a Bowie knife on her hip, and tank top tight enough to show off every bra-less curve, she was a sight not to be missed. Truly, she loved the attention. It was being a royal that wasn’t her thing.
Apparently, Jovan had no interest in sitting inside the royal box either. He sat a few rows down, his eyes focused on the sands, hands joined beneath his chin.
She slipped back into Spirit long enough to drop down to Jovan’s side, returning to flesh and blood less than two feet from him. He never flinched. Jovan had become adept at keeping tabs on his surroundings, the subtle changes most people missed. He also had the ability to blend with the night, morph into the shadows, his movements so quiet you’d swear he was only the whisper of the wind at your back. Jovan was like her.
Jovan said nothing, made no gesture of acknowledgement, and she sat with him in silence as the people slowly gathered into the arena seating. She liked watching them scurry around in their own little world. What would these people think if they knew how closely the Stalkers above in Paris kept tabs on not just the demons and their pattern of movements throughout the city, but each vampire city within France? Would they feel safer? Or controlled?
In Paris, the Guardians within the centralized city of Talvane worked with the Stalkers, their unified goal to regulate and minimize exposure of the human population to both demons and vampires. Talvane was pleased to have a partner in the effort, though she was sure the more remote cities such as Galbraith and Balinese might see the watchful eye of the Stalker Lord as an intrusion. As a woman who enjoyed her personal space and freedom, she could understand why this would unsettle some. Which was precisely why they didn’t know.
The seating had slowly filled, but when the prison doors opened and the Guardians, Titus and Graydon, brought the demon— the one Dulcina had stabbed—to the center of the arena and shackled it in place, she understood why the crowd was sparse. This execution would be unlike what Cat had once brought to this arena, and the lack of spectators proved it wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining.
Dulcina didn’t particularly care if the demon died by her hand or not. Dead was dead, and the new High Justice was more than capable. Caradoc might be soft spoken, patient, and kind outside the arena, but within these walls he was a different man.
He hadn’t even taken up a sword when Savard had called for all with Guardian training to return to duty, but the moment Navarre requested his service, Caradoc fully committed to serving his city.
Were Caradoc not mated, she would venture to guess more women would have attended the execution. Though he was older and had a weathered look about him, he was handsome in his own way. What Dulcina got a kick out of was his hair. Caradoc had separated his hair into small sections, each one twisted back and away from his face, the ends curling at the nape of his neck. Sexy.
The opposite door opened and Caradoc emerged to a flurry of cheers and waves, his name shouted across the sands in a chant. Hefting his large sword, Caradoc made his way to the royal box to await his lord’s command.
Jovan tensed at her side, muscles strained, primed. He stared at the demon and its red eyes, the dried black blood on both sides of its neck. His fists were clenched tight, and the muscles along his jaw twitched.
“What is it, brother? Do you know this one?” she asked, missing Navarre’s words as Jovan became more important in that moment.
“It almost touched Maeryn,” Jovan growled out the words through his teeth.
Ah, Maeryn. She’d always owned a generous chunk of his heart, but at what cost to Jovan? He was volatile, always had been, and there were few people he could be himself around. Dulcina was one.
“How is she?” Dulcina asked.
“I watched her. I stood in her room like a ghost and watched her sleep. I couldn’t even look away. I needed to know she was alive, needed to watch her breathe.”
Jovan abruptly stopped, turned to face her, his eyes wild. “I wanted to touch her, to make sure her flesh was still warm, but I couldn’t wake her. She’d only wake up frightened. I can’t take that look on her face.”
Ah, God, the anguish in his eyes, the pain in his voice. In that brief moment, she saw the young boy who still lived somewhere deep inside him shining through the eyes and face of a grown man. He was on the edge, and Maeryn put him there. Dulcina needed to fix him, redirect this monstrous rage inside him before he destroyed himself. Or Maeryn.
“What can I do, Jovan?” Dulcina said softly. “How can I make your anger and pain go away?”
“You can’t. No one can. Every time I see one of them, I hate,” he said through clenched teeth as Caradoc approached the demon. “I hate enough to kill.”
Dulcina sent him a knowing smile. “Come with me.”
“To find your precious Jericho?” he scoffed. “No. I won’t chase a myth.”
“I’m not asking you for Jericho,” she said. “You’re meant to walk this world as a Stalker and you well know it. Stop denying who you are because she wouldn’t want you to kill.”
Jovan sent her a sharp look, but couldn’t mask the surprise in his steady stare. All he had to do was acknowledge the truth lingering between them and he would follow her.
“If I leave…” Jovan shook his head.
“Then she will remain safely cocooned in Balinese, as she is now,” Dulcina said, her gaze drifting back to the sands for confirmation of the demon’s death. It lay on the arena floor, a hole the size of Caradoc’s blade in the center of its chest. The High Justice raised his sword, the beautiful down stroke taking the demon’s head. “My job here is done. I leave at first dark, with or without you.”
Dulcina walked away, giving Jovan the solitude to ponder this new option. She doubted he would join her, though she vehemently hoped to have him at her side when she headed for Paris.
He was drowning here, losing himself piece by piece to the city, the confinement. Maeryn. If Jovan could let go of what had become familiar and bravely take that step toward freedom, he may yet have a chance at truly living.
* * * *
The moment Rollin announced Bette had about an hour to get ready, she dove into the boxes he’d set inside his room. As focused as she was, he wasn’t sure if she would have noticed if he’d remained in the room or not. Rollin had quickly shut the door, giving her privacy to dress. He chuckled. The woman certainly did commit once she set her mind on something.
“Oh!” he heard Bette gasp from inside his bedro
om.
Rollin was on his feet and inside the room within seconds. He scanned her quickly from head to toe, then glanced around the room. Nothing. “What happened?”
“I think I have a run in my stocking,” she said, plumping out her bottom lip in a pout. She smiled sweetly, then asked, “Would you check? I can’t quite see the back of my leg.”
“Um, yeah,” was the closest he could come to words.
Bette lifted her skirts, giving him a full view of her shapely legs. Rollin could hardly breathe as he drank in the sight of her from ankle to mid-thigh where the stockings stopped, held up by little straps. Nope. No words.
“Did you find it?” she asked, hopeful and expectant.
Did he ever. Not one experience in his life compared to this. Every movement, every word from her was breathtaking, robbing him of his senses.
“Rollin?” she said his name again in that sultry, sexy voice. “Did you find it?”
“No, there’s no snag. Everything is…fine,” he said, his eyes still transfixed on the tops of her thigh-high stockings.
“Are you sure?” she asked, trying to look over her shoulder, the movement causing her back to arch wantonly as her lips parted.
Rollin couldn’t take much more. Trying to look for herself exposed her legs to his hungry eyes… He was going to snap any second now.
“Bette, put your skirts down,” Rollin said, his voice rougher than he’d intended.
“Why?” she asked, turning to face him as she examined her gown. “What’s the matter with my skirts?”
“I… If you…” Rollin took a deep, centering breath. He wanted to warn her that she was tempting him beyond his limits, that if she didn’t stop flashing him bits of her flesh, he was going to toss her on his bed and make certain he not only saw all her skin, but tasted it as well. But he couldn’t say that to her. She was a guest in his home. An aristocrat. “If you’re wearing that gown tonight, it won’t even matter if you wear stockings. No one can see anything but your shoes.”
Her eyes widened and she smiled delightedly, lifting the front of her skirts to mid-thigh, fingers poised at the top of one stocking. “Should I remove them?”