In the vast emptiness he’d traversed, there had been some comfort in liberating the Wolf. He’d given his rage free rein, a step closer to making peace. When the Wolf had finally exhausted himself, he’d begun to plan.
Since all three Houses were pleasure houses, the best course was rather simple: visit and request fair-haired slaves. Unless she was someone’s private concubine, he would find her—and even then, he would smell her on her master.
A growl rumbled deep in his throat, and he tongued the edges of his teeth. Yes, he had something special in mind for that possible circumstance.
He would make use of Father’s reputation and rely on the Houses’ certain desire to please Duke Faolan Auvray Marcel. That would gain him entry and impeccable service. If all went well, no one would be alive to tell the tale; it was an unfortunate circumstance, but he was willing to do far more.
First, however, Brennan headed to the one place in Xir where he could set the stage for his plan: Father’s villa. After sidling through Xir’s narrow streets in the dying twilight, he ignored the villa’s massive, metal-studded, wooden door. Instead, he listened for the guards within, crept around to the back, and once he’d exposed his claws, scaled the wall.
The villa’s garden was just as he’d remembered. Among the heavy-laden lemon trees, myrtle shrubs grew everywhere, their five-petaled white flowers star-shaped pops of light in the gathering dark. As he stalked toward the shade of the lemon tree pergola, he breathed in the strong, resinous scent of terebinth shrubs—with their tiny, reddish-purple flowers—that overpowered all the others but that of the white rockroses.
Kehani had brought them from her village and planted them in the garden herself when Father had moved her in. Over the years, the white blooms—bearing a conspicuous, dark red spot at the base of each petal—had conquered the garden, growing everywhere light could find. Labdanum, the highly aromatic resin coating the rockroses’ leaves, dominated the air.
At last, he ducked under the pergola, making his way to Father’s room. Just below the window to his quarters, he climbed the wall, opened the window’s lattice, and sneaked into the room. Inside, the heady scent of ambergris stirred him, but it was solitary; there were no humans within.
Quietly, he shut the lattice and moved aside the satin and velvet brocade drapes. The room was dark; it hadn’t been used since the year before. Father would be arriving soon, as he always did, to winter with Kehani.
The room was preened in grand furnishings—typical of Father—and featured a tented canvas ceiling, carved wooden chests, ornate statues, and a massive bed swathed in fine, white linens. Plush, tasseled pillows decorated in deep blues, yellows, and white added the woman’s touch that could only be Kehani’s.
Above the bed—he grimaced—was a massive portrait: Father, Mother, Nora, Una, Caitlin, and he. Father had commissioned two of them three years ago. So this was where he’d shipped the second one. Brennan scrutinized his own image—it was remarkably close, although the artist had given him an unusually devious expression.
Across from the window and through the interior latticework was an open-air inner courtyard, its formal sitting room on the ground floor. Brennan caught the tease of mint tea being served somewhere close. He moved to a nearby room with water to drink, wash, and shave, then returned to his father’s room to dress. Although he’d needed to pack light—very light—Father’s similarity in size would ameliorate that circumstance. Striding naked to the wardrobe, he threw it open and perused his options.
Delicate footsteps came from afar. Brennan knew Kehani’s gait well. Grinning, he chose a luxurious white shirt, a black velvet doublet, and leather trousers, then tossed them onto the bed. It seemed that, like him, Father preferred Emaurrian attire over Sonbaharan, even if his wardrobe contained a small section of thiyawb.
Kehani walked in, flanked by guards, and gasped. Brennan turned to glance at her, flashing a sly smile.
“Brennan,” she whispered, waving off the guards. As they left, she took a few steps closer, her eyes darting from him to the portrait and back again. “Is it really you?” she asked, in Standard Nad’i. Her black-as-night eyes traveled over his body.
Her interest perfumed the air, low, heady.
“Who else would dare raid Faolan Auvray Marcel’s closet?” he asked in reply, in High Nad’i. Leisurely, he dressed while she watched.
Six years his senior, she was still as beautiful as Brennan remembered. At home, she wore her hair loose, in cascading black waves. She was small, so very small, slender and, he guessed, light as a feather. She moved to light an oil lamp. Her flowing white gown trailed her every movement.
Her puzzled face gave away the words her position didn’t allow her to ask. Although she lived in the villa, it belonged to Faolan, and Brennan was his heir. She could scarcely ask why he had come and why he hadn’t used the front door. Brennan sighed.
“I’m meeting a friend to take in the city for a few days,” he explained. If he had to bring Rielle back to the villa, then at least his story would make sense. “I would have come by the front, but you know I dislike fanfare.”
Kehani smiled. When he was a child, they’d often grumbled to one another about the ostentatious displays Father insisted upon. “I welcome you,” she said, and when he finished fastening his doublet, approached. She glanced down between them and back at his face. “Come. You must be ravenous.”
Brennan wanted to raise an eyebrow but allowed himself only a tilt of the head and a mischievous smile. “Voracious.”
Kehani held his gaze for a moment, then donning a pleasant expression, gave a nod and led the way to the inner courtyard’s sitting room. He savored her scent, topped lavender and her own personal, comforting smell. It had been long, too long, since he’d visited. The last time he’d come, he’d been fourteen.
The servants brought wine and a salad of shredded carrots, chopped parsley, fresh garlic, and lemon juice, seasoned with oil, cumin, cinnamon, paprika, and cayenne. As the spice bloomed on his tongue, so did memories of his boyhood years. How he’d missed the place.
“The resemblance is uncanny.” She watched him eat. Stared.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Brennan moved on to the chicken couscous, isolating the flavors of saffron, turmeric, and ginger. “I’m not my father.”
Kehani grinned. “I met your father when he was just a few years older than you are now. You look so much like him.” Her gaze lingered.
Brennan shrugged. “What he and I share in common is a very short list.”
“Not as short of a list as you’d think.” She smiled.
The smell of the pastilla, an elaborate meat pie of shredded squab in crisp layers of werqa dough, wouldn’t go ignored any longer. Brennan helped himself. The savory lemon-onion sauce married with the cinnamon sugar sprinkled on top in delicious harmony.
“No wonder Father returns heavy every year,” Brennan commented before his last bite. “You should hear what the Maerleth Tainn weapon-master barks at him while sparring in the spring.”
As she prepared a pot of mint tea in her elegant fashion, she chuckled. “Faolan says the same, but it never curbs his appetite.”
Reclining to rest on an elbow, Brennan eyed Kehani’s delicate hands as she served him tea. “Perhaps he and I do share… a lot more than I thought.”
“Would that please you?” A dark look in her eyes.
“As much as it would please you.” He sipped his mint tea, relishing the stiffening of her posture and the gentle flush of her cheeks. “Kehani…”
She cleared her throat. “Yes?”
“Would you”—he smiled briefly at her, raked his gaze over her form—“do something for me?”
Her throat bobbed. “What is your desire?”
Brennan let out a lengthy exhale, then took another sip of tea. “House Afzal.”
Her perfectly shaped dark brows drew together. “I’m sorry?”
“A reservation. For tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened, t
hen she bowed her head and nodded. “If that is your wish.”
“And House Fakhri, and House Hazael.”
“When?”
He grinned broadly. “Tomorrow.” So many pleasure houses in one visit would be tight, but he wouldn’t be there for the entertainment.
“Three Houses? All in one night?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “That’s an ambitious night.” She batted her eyelashes.
“I’m an ambitious man.”
Her breath caught. “And tonight?”
He drank his tea, letting his heavy eyelids drape his gaze. “I’m open to suggestion.”
“Perhaps it’s time to retire. I find when I blow out the lamp, the night answers.”
“Does it?”
“If you leave the drapes drawn, keeping the light out, yes.”
The drapes drawn? The lights out? He could have swallowed his tongue.
It had been months since he’d bedded a woman. But this one… This one… presented distinct advantages. If he could control Kehani, he’d be free to do as he pleased here. Whatever was necessary. If she objected, he had only to tell Father, who had an abundance of mistresses but only one son.
He took a deep, relaxing breath. “I’ll have to remember that.”
“I hope that you do,” she said, inclining her head. “Goodnight, Brennan.”
“Goodnight, Kehani.” He watched her leave, finished his tea, then headed upstairs to his father’s quarters. The room was still dark but for the one oil lamp. Tomorrow would be a long day, but if fortune favored him, he’d find Rielle. He drew the drapes.
As he undressed, he hoped the fair-haired woman the Harifan slave trader had mentioned was indeed Rielle. It destroyed him to hope for such a thing, but when the alternative was no lead on Rielle whatsoever, it was the better of two terrible options.
I will find you.
He sat at the desk to write a quick letter to Nora about his whereabouts, sealed it, and marked it as outgoing for when the servants cleaned the quarters tomorrow.
At last, he blew out the lamp and went to bed, his mind still racing with thoughts of the next day.
Less than an hour later, the door creaked open, and when he smelled Kehani, he didn’t stir. Dropping a thin garment on the floor, she approached the bed and, with a feather-light touch, pulled the cover from his naked body. Her mouth trailed needy kisses from his chest down.
He’d seen it in her eyes earlier—desire. Wilting in the desert alone had ill-suited her, and even days away from Father’s arrival, she yearned for connection. The longing spoke through her eager fingers, her anxious lips. The heavenly sound—it teased the wolf within, flirted with danger, maddened him.
She did as she pleased and then dismounted him.
Afterward, the Wolf’s madness faded. He didn’t say a word as Kehani found shaky footing on the floor, leaned against the bed for a moment, then gathered her garment and staggered out of the room. She closed the door softly behind her.
She hadn’t lit a lamp, nor said a single word. Perhaps she’d thought it an anonymous encounter, just a woman, just a man, that he’d never be able to say with certainty it had been her and not a servant. A grin broke free. Being a werewolf had its advantages.
Spent, he melted into a sated relaxation, rolled onto his side, and drifted off to sleep.
Rielle stirred awake. Farrad’s quarters were still dark, and she glanced next to her, feeling the bed with her hand. His warmth was still there, but he wasn’t in bed. The stars shone through the lattices, and their familiar warmth flowed into her.
Quick steps came from the doorway to the hall, and she squinted to see through the sheer bed curtain. Farrad’s strong form strode past the bed and to the desk.
He threw a piece of parchment onto its polished surface, thumped his palms down, and leaned over it, taking deep, calming breaths. The starlight illuminated the hard muscles of his bare back, rigid in stark relief.
She’d never seen him frustrated like this; few things unsettled him. As her mind wandered to Ihsan’s request, Rielle swallowed. Had he somehow found out?
She lay still, unmoving, her pulse quickening as the quiet lengthened. If he meant to kill her, bound in arcanir as she was, her only choice seemed death. She tried to slow her breaths, her gaze darting about the room for something, anything, she could use to defend herself. His rapier hung, sheathed, over the chair by his desk, too far for her to hope reaching, and requiring too much skill for her to successfully wield. On the bedside sat the near empty bottle of wine—of everything, it seemed her only option.
She glanced over at him. Although he’d beat the desk in frustration at first, now he hung his head and his shoulders slumped. Disappointed?
If he knew about the plan to kill him, he would act. A duelist, a swordsman, his fighting instincts were sharp. If he were threatened, he wouldn’t keep his blade sheathed.
What was it, then?
It had to be something else. Something that had caused him grief, not anger.
Gambling on her guess, she slipped from the bed, her feet cushioned by the thick rug beneath, and padded toward him, shivering at the night’s coolness against her bare skin. When she reached the far side of the desk, he turned his head slightly but didn’t look up. He hung it again, weighed down completely.
She extended a hand and let it rest between his shoulder blades, firming her touch to rub him gently.
He exhaled a relieved sigh, leaning into her touch. A night breeze swept in through the lattices, and he straightened, turned, and gathered her in a warm embrace. His fingers threaded through her hair, soothing her more than she liked; it reminded her too much of Jon.
She pushed the thought aside. She couldn’t muster the ferocity to fight for her survival while drowning in guilt. There’d be time enough for that later.
“What is it, Zahib?” She rested her chilled cheek against the heat of his chest.
His fingers tugged gently, teasing a shiver from her.
“The burden of being Grandfather’s heir weighs heavily tonight, upon me and upon you.” He hesitated, but did not continue.
She glanced up at him. “I don’t understand, Zahib.”
He cupped one of her cheeks in his hand and searched her eyes in the dim ambient light of the stars. “You call me Zahib, golden one, but I have no power here. I am no more than the palm, and my grandfather the wind.”
A tremor shook her. What burden weighed heavily upon him, and upon her? Her mind presented a dozen terrifying possibilities. Was she to be sold? Was Sylvie? Did Imtiyaz want her working as a House pleasure slave?
She shuddered and dared not entertain these thoughts any longer.
“Please, Zahib.” She pressed her fingertips into the hard flesh of his upper arms. “Unburden yourself to me.”
He raised her chin and kissed her, a light brush of his lips against hers, so soft it felt like a parting kiss.
Was it?
He pulled away but held her chin raised. “The son of a very important shafi here in Xir is coming to this House tomorrow. Grandfather has made it clear that no expenses be spared to please this man. His father’s influence, in no small part, keeps this House rich.”
What was the problem? She shook her head.
“He enjoys young, exotic women—fair skinned, fair-haired, fair-eyed women among them, and I am looking at the only one of age in this House.”
Her knees buckled. She staggered away until she hit the bed. She reached out to feel for the bedding before settling into it. “I am to be... given to him?”
Like some favor, she’d be presented to a stranger, for his amusement, for his pleasure. An object, reduced to three qualities—fair skin, fair hair, fair eyes.
Perhaps she’d evaded a night of violence in the slave quarters that night, but it had finally caught up to her. One more sacrifice to bear before she and Sylvie would be free.
She gazed up at Farrad, struggling to keep the tears from her eyes. He bridged the distance between them and kne
lt at her feet, then took her hands in his on her lap.
“If I could spare you this indignity, this suffering, I swear upon the Divine that I would.”
She licked her lips and shook her head, looking away from him. The man for whose protection she had betrayed Jon couldn’t protect her at all, and she’d been a fool to believe he could. Few could be trusted to truly place another’s interests above their own when it mattered. And Farrad, heir to the slave-owning empire, could never be trusted to place anyone’s interests above his own.
“You think I wish to share you with any other man?” he asked, his voice firm, deep, biting, as he squeezed her hands.
She snapped her gaze to his. “Then why are you doing this?”
“This order comes from above, from Grandfather. My hands are bound.”
Her gaze descended to her own wrists, cuffed in arcanir.
“Poor choice of words.” He rose and smoothed the hair on her head. “Were I truly the Zahib of this house, this would never happen. I would see you—”
“But it is happening.” She brought her feet up onto the bed and gathered her knees to her chest, bending her head to hide her face from him.
“Yes,” he said softly, distantly, “as long as Grandfather lives, I can do nothing to stop it.” He put an arm around her, and as much as she wanted to push him away, she gave in and pressed her face into his neck, taking what solace she could.
Two days. If she could hold out for two more days, all of this would become a memory, a distant memory, one she could forget after some weeks, months, years in her own bed, and the Emaurrian Tower, among all she knew and perhaps even friends. She would love her child, raise the next Marquise of Laurentine, and these few months would be no more than sand carried away on the whispering winds.
Farrad climbed into bed with her, and she curled into him, watching the stars as she always did, and allowed herself to selfishly steal comfort from this man she would, in two short days, kill.
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 25