Harsh, softly barking sounds of grief broke away from her body, tears landing on food she could not eat.
Philip strode around the table, lifted Calia up from her seat, and pulled her into his arms.
“I am so tired, Philip,” she whispered. Her body, so thin he could count every rib, was war-torn, with its small litter of scars that spoke of her trials. Her eyes were so ghosted by living in years of fear they held that edge of vacant hunger, so much like Matthew's had been.
But to see it in a female was heartbreaking.
Philip had no understanding of why Calia, so broken and so needy yet so independent it was scathing to his senses, was his. Somehow, she was that missing piece of who he was.
His mind skimmed across his infatuation for Sarah, who had not a drop of select in her perfect sphere veins, and he almost laughed. Having Calia breathing, warm, and alive in front of him was like an ocean compared to the stream of Sarah.
There was simply no comparison. He had been searching too hard.
When the female that was made for him was near, her perfection was so clear it shattered his senses.
“I know, Calia,” Philip said. He loved saying her name, for the flower it stood for, for the wonderful female he knew was beneath all those hard layers of defense that had been built so she could survive.
He sucked in a deep breath and pressed her light body against his own.
She shuddered and cried harder. Being with Philip made her feel as though she needed nothing else. He was her home. Her food. Her everything. She ached with the realization of it all.
That was why she was so desperate to leave. The terror was like none Calia had never encountered.
The horror of the select had come home to tie her to a male. Her biology had taken the lead and would force her.
Calia could feel their bodies knitting together even as she stood there.
Philip stoked her hair. “Please, let me take care of you, female.”
Calia lowered her head. “I do not know that I am able, Philip.”
He kept her body against his own, warming it with his heat. Her head was tucked beneath his chin. Though she was tall for a female, nearly a foot taller than Clara, she was tiny to him as he held her.
“You must try, Calia. We are meant to be joined. Can you not feel it?”
She could, and it was terrifying: the yearning to belong to him, heart, soul, and body.
“Yes.” Then she said the final truth. “I am scared.”
Philip pulled away and put a blunt fingertip under her soft chin, lifting it until he met her golden eyes. He swallowed against his raw emotions from being so close to her. “I am as well.”
Calia's lips parted. His eyes went to that soft mouth, his going dry.
“You?” She shook her head with a small smile of surprise.
His heart bled a little when he saw that timid moment of happiness.
He nodded.
“I am anxious in all things that might harm you, Calia.” Or mend you.
“Oh.” Calia exhaled shakily.
“Look at me,” Philip said.
Calia glanced around at the shocked faces of the people of Clara's sphere and hissed in acute shame.
They should not see that private moment of her sadness and of Philip's obvious regard for her. It was terrible. It was true. She hated their witness of it.
“Calia,” Philip commanded.
She turned back and latched onto him like a lifeline. She had been blind before she knew him, and now she could see.
It cannot be real.
His smile widened. “Trust in me.”
Her fear made her mouth dry. Her palms became damp, her eyes stinging with the bite of fresh tears. Calia opened her mouth to say no, that she would be better without him. What came out instead was not of her mind but of her heart.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Those dark eyes moved to her lips again.
“Let me taste of you, Calia. Please.”
Calia rose on her tiptoes, her palms resting on his broad chest, and closed her eyes.
He moved his arm farther around her. He did not crush her lips with his own but sipped at them with a reverence that was feather-light in its pass of skin.
A flame burned so beneath the soft press that Calia intuited what it could be if it were to go further.
Philip emitted a soft moan against her mouth, and she arched against the hardness of his body. His fingers spread at the small of her back.
“Take your hands off my sister,” Edwin growled from across the Gathering Hall.
Philip's eyes went hard, and he moved to stand between Calia and her brother. “No.”
“Why?” she asked, trying to step around Philip.
Philip tightened his grip on her. “Do you not see it?”
She peeked around Philip's arm and blanched. Where warmth and good humor had been, Edwin’s face held only anger and a sick sort of blame, with a lick of hatred for good measure.
“What has happened?” Calia asked with confusion and, for the first time in her life, standing behind another in protection.
Philip thought nothing of her remaining at his side. It was as it should be.
It was an unprecedented sign of trust from Calia.
“I do not know. However, I do not like it,” Philip replied, as perplexed by Edwin's reaction as she.
“Calia,” Edwin said, “let us go now, and journey as we ought to the Clan of Cape Cod, your true home.”
Calia did not move.
The very reason she had left the sphere to begin with was that she had not wanted to be forced to be somewhere she did not know, where she had no friends, as she finally did here.
Calia wished desperately to reunite with her family but not under the yoke of control that Edwin had outlined.
He made no move toward discussions, compromise.
“You deny your lineage?”
“No,” Calia murmured, not liking the accusations.
“I am not daft enough not to realize our kinship, Edwin.” She took in his battle and journey-haggard appearance.
“Then what is it?” His fevered eyes pressed Calia for the answer he wished for her to give.
Calia looked at Philip. He stood by her and said nothing.
If she wished to go with Edwin, he would not stop her. When every thread in the fibers of their beings cried out to each other, he would sacrifice all so she could think and do freely.
Philip realized the connection with the select was more than ownership and manipulation, but one of stewardship, protection, and eventual love.
Calia lifted his heavy hand to her face and pressed it to her cheek. She heard him exhale softly.
“I do not wish to leave here.”
Edwin's eyes narrowed on Philip.
“He is not the one for you. There are too many of the Band of our own Clan who would be worthy of you.”
Calia's anger reared its head, lashing against his criticism of Philip.
“I wish to remain here and explore… this”—she hunted around for the word and lit upon it like a hammer to glass—“bond that we have.”
Edwin's fists clenched. “No.”
Calia raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You are not the ward of me, Edwin.”
“As your elder brother, I am very much in charge of your welfare.”
Calia turned to Philip. “Is what he speaks the truth?”
His face was serious as a snowstorm, the swirling intensity of his emotions a terrible thing to see.
Slowly, Philip nodded. “Aye.”
He hated the truth of it.
Calia clapped a hand over her mouth. “No, I will not go back with you. You cannot make me mate with some male who is not the chosen for me.”
Edwin gave her a sad smile. “You will come with me and have the Rite of the Select, like all other eligible females of pure blood.”
“You cannot exclude me,” Philip said.
Calia grasped at the slim straw of h
ope he tossed her way.
“Tell me,” she told Philip.
Philip's lips twitched.
“I can be a part of the Rite. He cannot stop my inclusion.”
Edwin said, “However, you know the chances that you are the chosen of her blood is not high. Not with a clan she hails from.”
Philip did not bother to deny it. “Aye.”
“What?” Calia yelled, backing away from him. “I thought I could trust you.”
Edwin smirked.
Philip wanted to flatten the other man’s face with a fist. Instead, he stared at Calia.
“You can. It is the way all the Clans work.”
Defeated, Calia fled, skirting past Edwin as he grinned in triumph, as though he always knew the victory would be owned by him.
“I hate you,” Calia grated out as she strode by him.
His smile faded as he watched her leave the room. Why could she not believe that all was for her benefit?
Philip approached. “You make an enemy of your blood this day.”
Edwin had murder on his face. “You are not worthy.”
Philip pointed at Edwin. “Then let the Rite of the Select decide.”
He stabbed his finger into Edwin’s chest. “Not you.”
The fight became the talk of the Kingdom of Ohio. Unusual customs of the Clans were whispered from one end of the sphere and to the other.
No one considered Calia, who felt like a prisoner once again. The Fragment was but a memory, but somehow, their hold remained.
CHAPTER 15
“Evie,” Maddoc called softly.
He could not hope to escape without her help. He thought of using her to incite the men’s lust as a distraction tactic, but he feared wounding her further.
“Aye,” she replied, her voice muffled by the cradle of her arms.
He hung his chin to his chest, hating what he must ask of her.
“I need you….” Maddoc could feel the weight of her silence, and he wanted to cry for her, though he had not shed a tear in his life.
“You must take off your clothes.”
She sat up and faced him, fire in her eyes.
Maddoc was glad of it. He would do anything never to see that empty sadness in those lovely cornflower blue spheres that usually brimmed with the fire of her personality.
“I shall not!” she whispered fiercely.
“Why, after what has happened, would you ask that I do such a thing?”
He ignored her question. “Can you push your body through the hole of your tied arms then bring them around to your front?”
Evie narrowed her eyes at him then gave a brief nod.
“Do it,” Maddoc said. “Quickly.”
Evie lay on her side, wiggling her rear into position. She began the laborious process of pushing her torso and rear backward, while shoving her arms forward from their painful position behind her back. Her arms became stuck beneath her body.
“I cannot,” she gasped. The pins and needles were excruciating stabs of wakefulness as her blood tried to reestablish pathways prevented through the bindings.
“Try!” Maddoc said, hating being hard on her but knowing that her indignant anger would be the only avenue to freedom and his subsequent protection of her.
She glared at him, rocking forward and wiggling. “Ah!” Tears rolled down her face as full circulation was restored with intense numbing pain. She groaned, sounding so wounded Maddoc had to grit his teeth.
“Hop to me, Evie.”
Evie could hardly breathe through the nerves of her shoulder, arms and back.
She placed her bound hands on the floor and pushed herself to her knees. She almost fell backward on her rear and staggered for a moment, balancing herself.
Her eyes met Maddoc's. She blew air out in a forced exhalation, her pale blonde hair floating around her face like a cobweb. She was thankful that her hair had been bound before they were taken.
Evie got a good look at Maddoc. His hair was matted with blood. She found another pocket of anger to absorb.
She knew what it was to wake from unconsciousness and realize she was nothing more than a possession stored like a discarded piece of food.
Evie was so angry at Maddoc, herself, and the Fragment that she could not reason. Yet she must. She saw the wheels of a plan turning in that face that she loved, battered though it was. She was his to use so they might escape.
“What would you have of me?” Evie asked. Try as she might, she could not contain the rich shame that rose to the surface of her like cream atop milk.
Maddoc smiled. Or tried to, his pain made it a grimace.
“Hop here then reach into the ankle of my boot.”
Evie's eyes snapped to his. “Do ye have a dagger, like Calia?”
He looked surprised. “Aye, I do.”
Evie almost squealed in joy. Calia had also carried a secret dagger. Why the Fragment had not thought to search more thoroughly, Evie did not know. It could be they thought that Maddoc hanging, bound both foot and hand, would be enough.
Evie hopped toward him, but had to stop every few feet to rest.
“That is it,” Maddoc encouraged. “Keep coming. Do not stop.”
When Evie stood before him, he said, “Tear your blouse away from your… your bosom.”
“Why?” Evie cried.
Maddoc breathed through his clenched teeth. “If they come in, I wish the seconds of distraction the sight of you will offer so that I might kill them quicker.”
Evie paused then said with a grim smile, “Or more slowly.”
Maddoc inclined his head. “If there be time, it would be my greatest desire.”
The tearing cloth sounded strange in the soft acoustics of the tent. Her breasts pushed against an undergarment not too dissimilar to that of the women of the sphere yet not nearly as restrictive—a hybrid of sorts. Maddoc stared at the exposed creamy flesh.
Evie asked, “Why do you look at me thus? When we are under siege and imprisoned?”
His eyes met hers, and he licked his parched lips.
“Your beauty levels me,” Maddoc said. “Get the dagger from my boot… the left.”
Evie did as he asked.
“Cut the bindings from your feet.”
She clutched the knife in her bound hands and sawed at the rope as sweat began to trickle down her back.
Worry edged in as she used the unfamiliar tool.
When her legs were free, Maddoc said, “Now do the same to mine.”
She cut the bindings from his legs.
Evie wrapped her arms around his lower body, never possessed with a stronger need to cry in her life.
“Evie,” Maddoc moaned. Her mouth was at the level of his waistband, her fear like touchable heat against his body. She looked up at him, and he gave a small shake of his head.
“Climb me and cut the bindings at my wrists.”
“How?” she whispered, clutching him.
He bent his knees to provide a stool of sorts, and she got up on his thighs, straddling him.
Maddoc hung there, his legs stationary and his bound hands holding both their weight. Evie reached up and began to saw his bindings.
One twine cut and began to unravel then the second. Halfway through the third, Evie heard the slapping sound of the cloth door hitting the exterior of the large tent. A Fragment came through, a cold breeze following his entrance.
She jumped down, accidentally dropping the dagger. Her bosom flew out of the trappings of the strange new underwear.
The guard gaped at her then headed straight for what he assumed she offered. When the Fragment passed, Maddoc hooked his neck with his strong thighs. He had to guess at the pressure, as full feeling had not been restored to his legs. Strangling the man would have been simple if the twine had not elected to break at that moment.
Evie held in a scream when Maddoc dropped from his hanging perch.
Maddoc had felt the twine give way. So he leaned forward as he fell, keeping his the death grip
on the guard. Maddoc twisted to his left, jerking his legs in the opposite direction. He landed hard on his side, making a spectacular bruise on his ribs.
But Maddoc could breathe, and he could move. And the Fragment was dead of a broken neck.
Life was good.
Evie rushed forward, her bound hands bobbing in front of her. Maddoc rose to his feet, and she barreled into his arms.
He jerked his wrists apart, and the last remnants of rope floated to the ground. He wrapped his arms around Evie, her naked breasts crushed against his chest.
There was a heartbeat of absolute peace that he relished before he let her go.
Picking up his blade, he indicated her bound wrists. Evie put them out before her, turning her head to the side as he sliced through the bindings.
Maddoc’s arms were a singing nightmare of returning feeling. The pain was an inferno of awakening nerves, and it tore down his limbs, lashing at his spine and shoulders.
He groaned softly and hoped that his body restored itself quickly.
Evie stood shaking, her hands clutching the odd garment across her chest as silent tears tracked hot lines down her face.
Maddoc lifted her chin. “Mourn later,” he instructed in a hard voice.
Tenderness would come, for at present, all that mattered was surviving, so there would be a future for them both.
Evie hitched a few more sobs and nodded as she swiped at her tears.
She pushed her breasts into the undergarment and slid the remains of her blouse onto her arms.
Maddoc turned his back to allow her a shred of modesty.
Evie loved him and was acutely ashamed of how she had handled things. She was to blame for their current predicament.
Maddoc left her and strode to the tent opening. He used two fingers to spread the seam and peek out. Fragment around a fire in a loose circle, laughing and bantering about whatever those vagrants communed over.
He searched the area for his weapons. The glint of his long sword was unmistakable.
A breath he did not realize he had been holding slid out of him. He turned to find Evie standing behind him, her large eyes watery, like a shimmering fountain threatening to overflow.
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