by Carrie Lofty
Hesitation made lead of his muscles, numb and heavy. "You deserve all I can mete."
"Yes, I do. And for both of our sakes, it needs to be done."
Understanding blossomed in his mind. Whoever had induced Fernan to give Ada the poppies likely expected Gavriel to retaliate. To do otherwise could offer proof that Fernan had confided.
They expect me to behave like an animal.
But he had been ready to. For Ada. And because that animal lurked inside him, awaiting any excuse.
"Whoever does this to us—they know us well," Gavriel said quietly.
"And why not?" He seemed to force a shrug. "We're the imbeciles who offer him confession. Might as well dictate a list of our faults and the means of best manipulating us."
Pacheco.
The taste of copper tainted his tongue.
Fernan nodded only once. His blue gaze, a pale pretender to Ada's deeper blue, followed Gavriel with unnerving clarity. "Now, are you the sort of man who can convincingly beat another without provocation?"
Images of Ada sprawled on the floor of her chambers jumped to the fore. Looking into her eyes had been like staring into a thick fog, obscuring all she was. She had cried against his chest, the defenses they painstakingly rebuilt—destroyed.
"No, Fernan. The question is, are you the sort of man who can endure such a beating?"
The tapping of Ada's boot heels on the flagstones matched the spiky anxiety of her heartbeat. She paced along the corridor in front of Gavriel's room. Evening shadows penetrated the dry quiet of the western wing. After enduring a sleepless day in her room, body aching, bruised from the inside out, she fought to regain control of her life, herself, for just a single moment.
A persistent itch lodged just under her skin and at the back of her throat. That one taste...
She had slipped. Now, finding another taste dominated her attention, except for thoughts of Gavriel and what he had done to Fernan. Blanc a had come to her, furious and confused. Ada's own confusion had done little to provide them with answers.
Pieces fell into place like rain. His solitude, his need for discipline and answers, and his uncanny understanding of her suffering. Gavriel hurt himself as deeply and as terribly as she did with opium, only his release was physical pain. No wonder he flinched whenever she touched him and why gentleness set him on edge.
She collapsed against the wall, the tiny, isolated world of the monastery spinning around her. This was a realm of Hell, surely, a place in which she was trapped, perhaps forever. If she managed to leave when Jacob returned, she would never escape the strangling blackness of her own mind. To cure the nightmares, she had found opium. To cure the opium, she had relied on Gavriel. But the three tortures converged until every wisp of herself had gone missing.
Forehead pressed against the cool stones of the wall, she breathed through her mouth to stem the rising bile. Excuses that sounded perfectly logical sided with an infant's wailing cry for satisfaction, working in tandem against her better judgment. This was her life. This was her future, until her mind collapsed and she succumbed again.
But first she lost the fight against her nausea. She retched, thankful at least she had not yet taken her evening meal.
"Ada?"
The door to Gavriel's room was open and he stood at the threshold. She breathed his name. He came to her and knelt in the corridor, his arm around her, protective. She remembered their morning by the river, lying safely in his embrace.
Never again. He had made that clear in words, yet he insisted on behaving as her champion. No matter his initial motives, his attention and care held the rich flavor of caring. Genuine caring. And she was a fool for thinking as much.
"Inglesa, what happened?"
She caught the censorious look on his face and thought better of trying to lie. "I'm unwell. The tincture, I'm afraid."
"Ada, have you taken anything more?"
The heat and wood smoke scent of him could soften the hardest souls, and she had no such strength. Only anger. "I've taken nothing, which is the difficulty. I—I want more. You knew I would. I knew."
His eyes, filled as always with the hunger he would rather deny than indulge, lingered on her mouth. "You struggle with this," he said. "In your mind, you know what is right."
She spat against the wall, another wave of nausea boiling in her stomach. "Do not lecture me, novice."
"But your struggle is a welcome one. At least you know the right way, even if you don't want to follow it."
"Is that what you tell yourself?"
"Come inside " he said, pulling her none-too-gently to her feet. "You'll upset everyone."
She tried to glare at him, but her attention caught on the smooth, corded length of his neck. "My first consideration, of course."
He closed the heavy oaken door behind them, the air in his room cool and still. All evidence of the scene she had encountered the night before—the dim candlelight, Gavriel bared and bleeding—was gone. The sun dipped low beyond the narrow window. Pure, clean breezes from the spring evening blew in with the shadows.
And the flogger lay cut into pieces at the foot of his cot.
She rinsed her mouth with clean water from his washstand and sat heavily, watching that flogger as she would a snake. Gavriel remained by the door, his arms crossed and his body swathed in white.
"I'm glad you came to me."
She laughed sharply. "I do not seek your counsel, not after last night. I came to find out why you beat Fernan."
He blinked. Nothing more. She sat on her hands, sat on the desire to beat him until he felt something, anything. But the image of his scarred, ruined back changed her mind. She only wanted him to admit to the pain and fear she knew lurked inside.
"His face," she said clearly. "I saw him at the noontide meal. Someone thrashed him. I can only imagine what the rest of him looks like."
He lifted an eyebrow. "I know nothing about it."
"God hears you when you lie."
"Yes." He stepped away from the door and sat on the floor in front of the cot. Head bowed slightly, he seemed to be watching the toes of her boots. "And He saw me when I beat a man this morning."
"He didn't deserve it, Gavriel."
His head jerked up and his dark eyes snapped, that veneer of serenity stripped away. "We came here to retreat from the temptations of the world. He brought that poison and gave it to you purposefully. For that, he deserved the punishment I meted. And more."
Chapter 24
Ada's shock and confusion were palpable, and Gavriel could not hide from her scrutiny. His gut still churned at the memory of bloodying Fernan’s face, beating a man who had submitted to his blows even before they began. Yet a more ancient instinct had found satisfaction—a satisfaction that extended even beyond protecting Ada. That beast had been freed, the one he found within himself in times of battle, the one that had been dragged into existence at the hands of his father.
Two caballeros had been needed to pull him clear of Fernan's limp body.
"Does the Trecenezago know what you've done?" she asked.
"No, but Pacheco does." His head throbbed, unsure whether he was more disgusted with himself for relishing his violence against Fernan or for handing their novice master control over his life, his very soul. And now representatives from the Thecenezago—the Council of Thirteen that governed Jacobean life—would punish him. "Grand Master Rodriquez is absent, touring the Order's territorial holdings. My sentence will be decided when he returns."
Blue eyes opened wide. "What will happen to you?"
"Beating another member of the Order, even for novices, is an appalling crime. Punishment will last for six months, during which I'll have my cross taken," he said, glancing at the glare of red on the left side of his chest. "I'll take my meals on the floor, and endure floggings and solitude if I do not comply."
The soft lines of her mouth tightened. She shook her head, dark curls shaking loose from a hasty arrangement of plaits. "You'll be mad at its end."
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Slavery had been the mark of his childhood, but he would no longer submit. Pacheco did not work alone; that much seemed obvious. His plots involved Gavriel but likely at the behest of a higher hand. Bleak forces worked against him, and he would not meekly bow his head and leave Ada alone.
He would be forced to choose between protecting Ada and obeying the tenets of the Order. Again. Only now that the Order suddenly seemed an unholy place filled with untrustworthy masters and spying eyes, his choice would be a simple one.
But he refused to decide until he knew where her addiction would take them.
She picked at the hem of one sleeve, the fine embroidery beginning to fray beneath her ragged fingernails. "Why did you do it?"
"He hurt you."
Her eyes glistened. "I brought this on myself."
"Fernan set back all our progress," he said, his voice barely more than a growl. "I showed him that such actions are not without penalty."
"I've made no progress, Gavriel."
"I'm afraid I have to agree with you."
Ada's head jerked up, her expression wounded "You agree?"
"I do."
He stood from the floor and massaged the small of his back. The sharp snap of pain beneath his fingers, his lacerations throbbing, made him stop. Over the past year, that echo of pain as the cuts healed assured him of his spiritual improvement. He was conquering the beasts and expunging the blackness from his soul. Now that he doubted Pacheco's cruel advice, the reminder only amplified his anger and strengthened his resolve to unravel the man's motives.
He removed a small leather pouch from beneath his pillow, its contents surprisingly light for all the damage they wrought "And because we've made no progress, I brought something for you."
Gavriel sat on the cot, his bent knee barely brushing the softness of Ada's upper thigh. They both glanced at that spot, a small moment of connection, and then at one another. What would she read in his eyes? Did she see the shift that had taken place in him? Or just the anger—no longer directed at her, the source of his temptation, but at the wickedness and the vice that worked to keep them apart. His own included.
Without explanation or ceremony, he dumped the contents of the small leather sack on the bed. Four poppy pods tumbled onto his coarse woolen blanket.
Ada's gasp filled the room. Eyes wide, she scrambled away as if burned by fire. "What are you doing?"
He shrugged and lifted one of the poppies, the location of which Fernan had disclosed. Pacheco had given him six, enough to have stolen Ada for days rather than hours. That Fernan had only offered a third of his supply had kept Gavriel from doing him permanent harm.
Just.
"Can't you see? I've decided you are a hopeless case, Ada. Denying you is even harder than keeping my own vows, and we both know how wretched I've been at that."
He drew the washing stand near to the cot and retrieved a flask and the mortar he had taken from her room. Layers of resin coated the head of the hardened clay pestle, making it sticky. Using the washing stand as a table, he mashed the green pod to release its milky juices and added a splash of wine. He strained the liquid to another bowl and repeated the process until all four poppies had released their devilish essence.
"That's how to do it, si?" He waved a hand over his offering where it waited on the stand. "I must apologize for the wine. It's new and bitter, and I'm at a loss as to what spices you prefer."
Ada had backed against the wall, as far from the opium as she could manage without leaving the bed. Face pale, eyes wild, she looked just as he had found her in the hallway— alight with struggle and fear and the knowledge that what she wanted would be the end of her.
"This isn't fair," she whispered, licking her lips once, again, until they began to redden. "You know I... you know I can't..."
"Face this? Look temptation in the face and say no?" He leaned across the space between them and touched her cheek. "Because you will not be well until you can do that on your own."
She slapped his hand, a stinging crack like the whip across his back. "Is that what you're doing with me? Keeping temptation within reach for weeks so you can practice and say no and say no again? It's not fair to me. This game of yours— I don't want anything to do with it."
"I've never played games," he said, throat raw. "But let me assure you, the rules I live by are changing "
Her eyes burned hot and angry. Anything but the numbness. Anything but the vacancy he had once mistaken for peace. "How opportune for you," she said. "Now you think to have me join you in falling?"
He nodded to the bowl. "Take it, inglesa."
"What do you want for it?"
"I said it was a gift."
Doubt spread over her face. Doubt and desperation. "Fernan said the same to me, and you made his face a plate of meat as thanks. You've fought me like a cat in a bag, trying to keep me from it. Why this change?"
"I don't require anything of you," he said. "But I do have a condition."
She exhaled. Her shoulders sagged. "I knew it."
"For every swallow you take, I shall take three."
Trembling fingers covered her open mouth. She seemed incapable of stopping the rocking rhythm of her body, her eyes never leaving his. That crazed stare clung to him. "Are you mad? You must be! Haven't you seen? Haven't you seen what I've been through? And you would bring that on yourself?"
"I've seen what you've endured, yes." He edged nearer. One of her plaits had fallen loose, and he stroked the ragged ends of her dark chestnut hair. "But I've also seen your joy. Why shouldn't I have a taste?"
"You're scheming."
He wished he could deny her accusation, but in truth, the tincture called to him. How easy would it be to succumb, as she did, to the release that drug offered? No more pain and bitter memories. No more conscience to war with his impulses. No more obstacles in his search for peace.
Gavriel lifted the bowl and inhaled its sickly sweetness. "Take a sip. Let's find out."
"No!"
She jumped off the cot. The skirts of her gown caught beneath her boots. With a curse, she fought free of the entangling fabric. Standing with her back pressed against the door, she pushed frantic breaths in and out of her open mouth. Her hysterical eyes never touched the bowl in his hands.
"Do what you will, but I'll not be party to it"
He brought the burgundy tincture to his lips and smiled. "More for me."
* * *
"Gavriel, no!"
Ada bridged the span between them with one leap. She swatted the bowl from his hands and watched with grim satisfaction as the tincture spilled over the washstand, dripping to the floor. The earthenware bowl cracked into half a dozen chunks against the wall.
She stood silent before him, breathing fast, neither of them moving. No matter how her body yearned for the debilitating bliss of that sweet poison, she could not allow him to become like her. Yes, she had known moments of sweetness, but so too had she known mindless craving and the deepest despair. In her mind, she knew the release was not worth the pain. She knew she would endure any deprivation to keep Gavriel from suffering what she did.
So the tincture gathered in sticky burgundy pools around the wooden feet of the washing stand. It coated the floor, not her tongue. But for all her craving, she felt no regret. Only a profound sense of triumph.
Her gaze covered Gavriel's angular, unreadable face in search of his mood. Had he been bluffing? Had he really intended to drink the poison? Would he be angered or relieved at her actions?
He arose from the bed and stepped over the sticky mess. She smelled what remained of the concoction and her mouth watered, but then he stood near, very near. The spicy male scent of him mingled with the opium, overtaking her completely. She wanted him—whole and safe and hers. Whether she was simply replacing one craving for another hardly mattered when he loomed near enough to touch, to kiss.
"Say something," she whispered.
The warm tingle of his fingers along the side of her neck cove
red her in shivers. His eyes darkened to the purest black, his pupils and irises bottomless. "I'm proud of you, mi inglesa."
She inhaled and closed her eyes, hoarding the sound of his deep voice, his praise, and that familiar endearment— possessive now. Every fiber of her body yearned for satisfaction. With the opium tincture spilled across the floor, he remained as her pleasure of choice.
"What do I do?" she asked, feeling hollow and limp.
He slid her into an embrace. Their bodies touched, thigh to chest. "I've been telling you what to do since we met"
His voluntary closeness and droll teasing set her off balance. All she knew was that he held her. He had saved her yet again. "Yes, you have."
"Now it's your turn to give the orders."
An unexpected smile lifted one corner of her mouth. Warm, wet heat pooled in her stomach. What would it be to have this man at her command?
"Is that an order?"
The darkness in his eyes turned to pleading. "A request," he said. "For I'm as lost as you. No matter what I've insisted or denied, I am lost."
Expecting him to retreat with every passing breath, she gingerly slid a hand around his ribs, to his spine, down the length of his muscled back. Where smooth flesh should be, he had only scars and pain.
But he did not retreat. His eyes slid closed and his head angled back, just a little, as if savoring the feel of her hands on him, her body pressed to his. Impossible. Even when they had lain together by the river, he had never succumbed, never enjoyed her touch—not entirely. The barrier of his vows had stood between them. Even with the deed done and his promise of chastity a broken one, he had resisted.
Her limbs stiffened, limbs that wanted to fall into him, made molten by him. "What has changed?" He began to shake his head, denying her yet again. "This is my command," she said, "Tell me."
Gavriel watched her for a long, lingering moment, his lips parted as if the words waited just inside, sitting atop his tongue. She would dive in after them if she could, enjoying his taste along the way.
"I cannot," he said at last He stepped out of their embrace and placed the softest kiss on the back of her hand. "But believe me, I'll know. Soon. And then we will..."