by Sally Slater
“No matter, you can keep your clothes on if you’d like,” said Lucy with a sigh, and for the briefest of moments Sam thought she’d won.
The whore gave her a coy smile, running her fingers across Sam’s exposed collar bone and trailing them down her chest. “Let’s undo a few more of those buttons of yours. It’s only fair.”
Sam took hold of Lucy’s wrist, praying that her binding had done its job. “Stop it. I mean it.”
Lucy ignored her, her free hand wandering lower, massaging between Sam’s legs. “You’re big for a small lad, I can tell,” she murmured. Her hand snaked under Sam’s tunic and dipped beneath the waistband of her trousers.
Sam grabbed for her errant hand, but too late. Lucy’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. “There’s naught but air in your codpiece,” she said slowly.
“You’re mistaken,” Sam said flatly. What else was she to say?
“I felt what I felt.” Lucy’s eyes rounded. “You’re a woman.”
Gods damn it. Sam hadn’t been sure if Lucy would be able to put two and two together. “That’s an insult. I’m—”
“Don’t bother denying it. I may be a whore, but I’m not stupid.” Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “Where are your breasts?”
“I’m telling you, I’m a—”
With the ferocity of a wildcat, Lucy tore open the buttons of Sam’s tunic, exposing the linen bandage underneath. Her eyes gleamed with triumph. “There they are.” She walked a circle around her, regarding her with careful interest. “So you’re a woman.”
There was no more point in denying it. “Aye.”
“Who else knows?”
Sam looked down at her feet. “No one,” she whispered. “No one but you.”
“What about the men you came with?”
“They know nothing.”
Lucy tapped her lower lip with a manicured nail. Her cold eyes were bright with calculation. “What’s it worth to you to keep me quiet?”
Anything and everything.
CHAPTER 19
Braeden wasn’t sure who was more relieved when a knock came at his door, he or his whore. He hadn’t touched her, the terror in her eyes as repulsive to him as his crimson stare was to her. When she’d reached for the tie at his waist with unsteady fingers, he’d enveloped her hands with his own, stopping her. He’d meant to reassure her, to tell her she needn’t bother continuing, but even this small amount of physical contact frightened her. He’d known men who got off on fear, but he wasn’t one of them.
He and the prostitute both went to answer the door, nearly colliding, but she recoiled immediately. Braeden ground his teeth. He wasn’t a fragile fifteen-year old boy anymore, and he had no patience for the prostitute’s antics.
“What?” he snarled, swinging the door open.
Sam blinked up at him. “Am I interrupting?”
Braeden glanced back at the cowering girl. “Trust me, you weren’t interrupting anything.” He took in Sam’s appearance. His short hair was mussed, and his right cheek sported a raw scratch. He had thrown on his cloak over his clothes in spite of the warm air. The ripped collar of his tunic peeked out of the top of the cloak. “What happened to you?”
Sam hugged his cloak closer. “I’m in trouble, Braeden.”
“Of what nature?”
Sam’s gaze darted to the trembling prostitute behind Braeden. “I promise I’ll explain, but not here. Will you help me?”
“Do you even need to ask?”
Sam nodded. “I do. And let me say in advance, I’m sorry for getting you involved. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Braeden shuffled his feet. “You’re my friend, Sam. I haven’t had many.”
Sam’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “I hope you still will be, after.” He brushed his cheekbones with the back of his hands and gestured for Braeden to follow him. Braeden followed Sam to a room a little ways down the corridor. “I’m sorry,” Sam said again and pushed the door open.
Braeden was seldom surprised by anything, but the sight that greeted him on the other side of the door was fairly shocking. Sam’s whore sat on her knees in the middle of the bed, her hands and ankles bound behind her, her mouth gagged. She wore only her chemise; her bindings and gag appeared to have been fashioned from the white fabric of what used to be her dress.
“Gods, Sam.”
“It’s not what you think!” Sam said quickly.
“What is it you believe I think?”
Sam’s cheeks burned red. “That I’m some sort of pervert.”
Braeden felt a smile tug at his lips, in spite of the oddness of the situation. “That actually hadn’t crossed my mind, but there’s a thought. Is that what this is?”
Sam started. “No! Gods, no.” He covered his face with his hands. “She found out something. A secret. A secret no one can know.”
Braeden folded his arms over his chest. “You’re going to have to give me more than that.”
Sam walked over to the bed and loosened the whore’s gag. “You tell him. I can’t bear to.”
She spat the cloth out of her mouth. “Bitch,” she sneered. She turned cold, hate-filled eyes to his. “You’re traveling with a bitch.”
“Watch your mouth, whore,” Braeden said icily.
The prostitute laughed, the sound high and brittle. “I may be a whore but at least I’m honest about what I am. I don’t think you understand me.” She leaned forward, her hands straining against her bindings. “Your companion is a woman.”
Now it was Braeden’s turn to laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Braeden.” Sam’s voice was pleading. He unbuttoned the fastenings at his neck, his heavy cloak sliding to the floor. Now, Braeden could see the extent of damage to Sam’s tunic, which was torn to his navel. Pale skin peeked through the gaping fabric, along with . . . linen bandages?
“I don’t understand. Are you hurt?”
The prostitute looked heavenward. “She bound her chest, you idiot.”
“It’s true,” Sam said sadly. “Lucy found out and was going to tell Tristan, and . . . and you, and I don’t know who else. I panicked.” His voice—no, her voice—cracked. “I just wanted to be a Paladin.”
A thousand chaotic thoughts ran through his head, threatening to overwhelm him. Sam—his Sam, his friend—was a woman? A woman and a Paladin trainee? How much had she seen that she shouldn’t have these past few weeks? What had he told her that he shouldn’t have? How could she have so blatantly lied to him?
“Braeden, I’m—”
He didn’t have time for an existential crisis, not right now. Tucking away the magnitude of this revelation for later, Braeden held up a hand, silencing her. He turned to the prostitute. “Lucy, is it?”
“Aye. You believe me now, I take it,” the prostitute said, smirking.
“So I do. Are you planning to talk?”
Lucy lowered her lids to half-mast. “What’s it to you if I do?”
“Answer the question.”
Lucy ran her tongue over her lips. “Interesting.” Her face lit with avarice. “I’ll repeat myself then. What’s it worth to you—to both of you—to hold my tongue?”
“Wrong answer,” Braeden said. He pulled a dagger from the folds of his robes, brandishing it menacingly.
Lucy sneered. “You think I’m frightened by a butter knife and those funny eyes of yours? You’re little more than a boy. You don’t have the guts to carry out your threat.”
Foolish woman. If she had any sense, she’d be terrified. He’d seen far bigger and stronger men tremble at just the sight of him. He wondered if it were greed or a complete disregard for her own life that made her fearless.
But every human had their limits; it was only a matter of finding hers.
“Turn around,” he growled at Sam. He didn’t want her to watch him do this. Bracing himself for the pain, he impaled himself through the heart.
Someone screamed—Lucy, he thought, or maybe Sam—but Braeden was too absorbed in the change
s overtaking his body to care. Red crossed his vision as his muscles swelled, his spine curved and reformed, and his nails lengthened into claws. His jaw elongated, fangs springing forth from his gums. He needed no mirror to know he’d become a living nightmare. He saw it in Lucy’s face.
And Sam’s, but that was an unavoidable consequence.
“Demon!” Lucy shrieked, her body shaking with fright. She’d finally reached her limits.
And he’d almost reached his. A thirst for violence surged through his veins as his human side warred with his demon instincts. For once, Braeden was grateful for the fear his abilities incited. “Aye,” he growled, allowing his bloodlust to show in his face. “Demon.”
He moved to her side with inhuman speed, raising his dagger, still dripping with his heart’s blood. A pathetic mewl escaped Lucy’s lips. Braeden brought the blade down, tearing through the fabric that bound her wrists.
He pointed at her freed hands with his blade. “Untie your feet.”
“W-why?” she stuttered. “Why are you letting me go?”
He fixed her with his most terrifying glare. “Because you won’t tell anyone what you saw this evening. Right?”
Lucy jerked her head up and down.
“Good,” he said. “Because if you do, I’ll kill you and everyone you care about.” The threat tasted vile on his tongue, but he’d done far worse before and for less reason.
“I won’t say anything. I swear it,” she babbled.
He nodded once. “Here’s what’s going to happen now. I want you to go to the room four doors down from here. It’s unlocked. There’s a girl in the room called Minnie. You’re to spend the night in the room, and you can tell her I told you to do so. Do we understand each other?”
Lucy nodded frantically.
“Then go.”
She scrambled to untie her feet and fled from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Braeden inhaled a long breath, allowing his boiling blood to cool to a simmer. His fangs and claws retracted, and his body returned to its normal state. Then, taking a moment to collect himself, he turned to face Sam. “So you’re a woman.”
“Aye.”
“Sam—is that even your real name?”
“It’s Sam. Samantha, really.”
“You told me you were the bastard son of the Duke of Haywood.” His voice sharpened. “You lied to me.”
Sam sunk down onto the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry, Braeden. You don’t know how sorry I am. But what should I have said?”
“The truth, damn it!” he shouted. He massaged his temples. Gods, he never lost his temper. “I don’t even know you. Who are you, Sam of Haywood?”
CHAPTER 20
“Who are you, Sam of Haywood?”
Sam opened her mouth to weave another lie. She could tell Braeden that she was just another girl, perhaps a servant to a high born lady, or maybe the daughter of a knight. Yes, she could convince him of that latter fiction, she was certain. She was a more than proficient liar; in the years since her mother died, she had honed it into an art form. She’d been lying for so long—what was one more falsehood added to her already black slate? He knew that she was a woman. Wasn’t that enough?
But as she looked at Braeden—Braeden, who had rallied to her defense on the flimsiest of explanations, Braeden, who had saved her without expecting anything in return, Braeden, who was her friend, or had been—she couldn’t say the words. He might hate her for who she was, but the unmistakable hurt in his eyes was her doing, and she’d be damned if she put it there again.
She closed her eyes and braced for the fallout. “Lady Samantha Haywood, daughter of His Grace, the seventeenth Duke of Haywood.”
Braeden dropped to the floor in a crouch and buried his head in his arms. “Gods damn it, Sam. Samantha. Lady Samantha. I don’t even know what to call you anymore.”
“I’m just Sam,” she said in a small voice.
Braeden lifted his head to glare at her. “You were never ‘just Sam.’ Your father is one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. And you’re Tristan’s—” He paused, shaking his head. “Faith in blood, this is messy.”
“I didn’t know,” Sam said. “About Tristan, I didn’t know.”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters!” she cried. “I’m not a bad person, Braeden. I didn’t intentionally set out to hurt Tristan, or you, or anyone! I just wanted to be a Paladin more than anything.”
Braeden swore under his breath. “You’re a woman, Sam.”
“And you’re a demon!” she shot back.
Emotion flashed across Braeden’s face, but he hid it quickly. “What of it?”
“I’m not trying to be cruel, Braeden. I don’t care who your father was. But you and I both know that there are people who would deny you the right to fight with the Paladins because of some accident of birth. Well, by some accident of birth I was born a woman. I can’t change that any more than you can change your parentage.”
“It’s not the same. We’re not the same,” Braeden said, his nostrils flaring. “You were born with a purpose.”
“A purpose decided by my father! You haven’t allowed your father to dictate how you live your life. Why should I let mine?”
“My father is a demon!” Braeden shouted, rising from his crouched position. “Your father is a duke who wanted to see his daughter married. How can you even make a comparison?”
Braeden’s chest expanded and contracted in quick, uneven breaths, his fists clenched by his sides. Sam had never seen him so enraged. Somehow, she had to make him understand her side. She’d done what she’d done because she’d had no other choice.
She closed the distance between them till a scant inch separated their bodies and placed a hand over his heart. “Our hearts beat to the same drum,” Sam said fiercely. “We hear the same calling, you and I.”
Braeden stared silently at the spot where her palm met his chest. She removed her hand self-consciously. “Why do you want to be a Paladin, Braeden?”
Braeden shook his head as though waking from a daze. “It’s complicated,” he said finally. “In part in penance, I suppose. I owe humanity a debt, for what I am and what I’ve done.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected, nor the one she’d been looking for. “I joined the Paladins because I’m meant to fight for the people of Thule. Just as you are. That’s my Gods-given purpose.” She raised her chin. “I’m sorry for many things, but I won’t apologize for following my heart. I don’t feel I should have to ask for permission, though I find myself begging for yours.”
“You’re asking me to lie to Tristan. To let him continue grieving for a betrothed who isn’t dead.”
She flinched, but pressed on. “I’m asking a lot of you, I know.”
Braeden turned his back to her, hiding his thoughts. An eternity passed before he spoke again. “I’ll do it.”
A tentative hope blossomed within her. “Are you certain?”
He nodded once. “Aye.”
On impulse, Sam threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Don’t do that in public,” Braeden said gruffly. “People will suspect.”
Sam dropped her arms immediately, her cheeks heating. “Sorry.” She returned to the canopied bed and flopped backward onto the mattress, shielding her face with her hand. Gods help her, she was on the brink of tears.
Braeden hovered over her from the foot of the bed. “In retrospect, I should have guessed that you were a woman. I knew there was something off about you from the start.”
She removed her hand from her face. “Something off about me? What a flattering turn of phrase.”
Braeden shrugged. “My skin tingles whenever I touch you. And you smell funny.”
“I smell funny?”
The right corner of his mouth quirked upwards, releasing some of the tension between them. “You smell a good deal better than Tristan, I’ll tell you that much.”
“A high comp
liment,” Sam said wryly.
Braeden sat down on the bed beside her. “I hope you’re prepared with a story to tell Tristan in the morning. He had very specific expectations as to how you were going to spend the night.”
“I’ll invent something when the time comes.”
“Should be easy enough for you.”
Sam winced at the bite in his tone. “I really am sorry for lying to you. I want to regain your trust. Will you forgive me some day?”
Braeden propped himself on his elbows and looked at her. “I need some time,” he said after a pause. “But I’d like for us to be friends again.”
“Me too,” Sam said. “I’d like that very much.”
Sam woke in the morning with a terrible headache and a mouth so parched she tasted sand. Groggily, she forced herself upright, stumbling as the floor lurched beneath her. Once the contents of her stomach no longer threatened upheaval, she sought out Braeden, who still slept in an armchair, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. If he was uncomfortable, the fault was entirely his own. Sam had offered to share the bed—which could have easily accommodated four people, let alone two—but Braeden had adamantly refused.
Dark circles shadowed the skin beneath his sooty lashes, and she was reluctant to rouse him. But they needed to be dressed and coherent before Tristan emerged from wherever he had disappeared to. Gods knew what he would think if he caught the two of them coming from the same room.
She tapped on his collarbone with her knuckles. “Braeden, time to wake up.” He jerked awake, flailing his arms as his hips skated forward out of the seat. “You should have slept in the bed,” she scolded.
He blinked at her blearily. “It wouldn’t have been proper.”
Sam sighed in frustration. “Confound proper. If you start treating me like a woman, I’m done for.”
“I promised I’d help you hide your secret, didn’t I?” he said, retying the bow at his waist before attacking the laces on his boots. “What does it matter how I treat you when we’re alone?”
“You’re bound to slip up, eventually. I’m still the same person—deal with me as you always have. Forget that I’m a woman.”