by Bec McMaster
"I'm fairly certain it's not as innocent as it looks."
Cleo clapped a hand over her eyes, her cheeks scarlet. "I cannot believe…. Oh, my goodness!"
"I’ve wanted to do this for a very long time," he whispered, nuzzling his face against her gown. It slipped from her shoulder, the lace of her corset clinging to the rosy tip of her nipple. Sebastian tugged it down, licking the gentle slope of her breast, his tongue darting over that pert nipple.
"Sebastian!"
He slid a second finger slowly inside her, an assault on two different territories as his heated mouth captured her nipple and he suckled.
Cleo clutched his shoulders, her eyes going very wide, and her mouth parting in ecstasy. The clench of her body around his fingers told him how close to the edge she was, and he speared his thumb over her clitoris, earning a helpless thrust from her hips, and a muffled scream she captured with her hand.
Yes! Please…. Oh, please. She was open entirely to him now, any separation between the two of them vanishing in the maelstrom of her pleasure. The room faded. The world vanished. All he could feel was Cleo, her pleasure and her thoughts overwhelming him in the moment as lightning swept along her veins.
Capturing her mouth, he swallowed her cries, working her through the orgasm. It was a miracle he didn’t spill himself, crushing his erection against her thigh, and gritting his teeth at the pressure.
And then it was over, and both of them could breathe again, their tangled thoughts separating just enough for him to come back to himself.
Cleo's fists curled in his collar, and she pressed her forehead to his shoulder, aftershocks milking his fingers. Embarrassment blazed through her as he curled the tips of his fingers slightly, finding the slightly softer pad of pure sensation within her. She trembled again, lashes stirring against her cheeks, and one hand capturing his wrist as if to say it was too much.
"I love hearing you scream," he whispered, kissing the sensitive skin below her ear, then nuzzling the fleshy pad of her earlobe. He withdrew his fingers slowly, then lifted them to his lips and suckled her wetness from them.
A helpless laugh shook her shoulders. "You love twisting me in knots."
"That too." Sebastian dragged her drawers slowly down her thighs, giving her a hot, silky-lashed look. He went to his knees before her, sliding his hands behind the back of her thighs and dragging her to the edge of the desk.
Cleo's breath caught. She swallowed. "What are you about now?"
"Can't you tell?" He slid his thumbs up the inside of her thighs, pushing them wider, deliberately picturing himself lapping at her flesh.
She saw it through the bond, and pressed her cool hands to her hot cheeks. "My goodness," she blurted, and it was such a lovely, very Cleo moment that he laughed.
"Lie back," he teased, "and let me ruin you."
"You've already ruined me."
He buried his face in the tuft of blonde curls between her thighs, breathing her in. Cleo cried out as his tongue lapped at her, fingers sinking into his hair, and her hips thrust up, up, desperate for more. He circled her clitoris teasingly, suckling it into his mouth when she was close to the edge, wringing every scream from her that he could.
It was different to seek her pleasure. He knew how a woman's body worked—he'd been taught where to touch, where to stroke—and he'd always kept himself disconnected from the action. It was a means to an end.
But the feeling inside his chest right now was too large for his ribs. Cleo threw her head back and screamed in pleasure, and something proud reared within him. Something utterly masculine and possessive.
He was her first.
And in so many ways, she was his.
"You do realize what comes next?" he murmured, standing and looking down at his lovely, soft and disheveled wife as they both gasped.
"Next?" she murmured sleepily.
Sebastian deliberately thought of sinking his way inside her, picturing the soft cry of surprise on her face as he took her virginity. A hand curled in his collar. Her eyes softened beneath the dark fan of her lashes, and she bit her lower lip again.
"Yes," she whispered, a little saucily. "Please."
Tugging at the flaps on his breeches, he let his cock spill free, stroking the firm length of it with a shudder. He wanted inside her. Now.
"Can I see you?" she whispered, sliding her hands up over his shoulders, but there were limits to what he could handle, and he shook his head, nibbling on one of her questing fingers.
"One day, maybe." When the past no longer haunted him. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," she blurted.
Sebastian pressed forward. Heated flesh parted, Cleo’s nails digging into his back as he slowly worked his way inside her. He’d never taken such care before, but he didn’t wish to hurt her more than necessary. He could feel the slight sting through their bond, feel the burning intrusion, and Sebastian rested there, waiting for her body to grow used to him.
He could barely hold himself back.
God, it felt so good. Home. Finally home.
And then his mouth met hers, and he was thrusting, slowly at first, still trying to make it good for her. He needed to be in control, but it was slipping through his fingers. His cock had a mind of its own, and he thrust hard, earning a soft cry from her lips.
"Yes," she breathed, biting his lower lip. "Like that."
Harder.
He had permission, and now there was no point in fighting for control over his body.
It felt glorious to pin her wrists to the desk, to fuck his way into her. Their eyes met again, hers wide in shock, and then he was kissing her again, their tongues tangling together with delicious intent.
Cleo. It had always been Cleo, from the moment he met her.
Of all the plots his mother had orchestrated, binding him to Lord Tremayne’s daughter in a marriage of convenience had turned out to be the greatest gift Morgana had ever given him.
To think of how he’d dreaded that day, not knowing what Cleo would be like, and picturing a miniature Lord Tremayne in his mind, a woman with thick, beetled brows and a defined nose.
She’d been nothing like her father. Blindfolded, curious, sunny-natured, and prone to prattling. Sebastian’s hands slid up her sides, as he let her feel how much that moment in time had changed his life.
Their thoughts tangled together, the bond swelling between them. He knew what was coming. A soul-bond was like a marriage, and needed to be consummated for the connection to form completely.
Heat soared through his cock, and he ground his teeth together, trying to prolong the rush of pleasure. The soul-bond began to tingle. It was all coming together. Sebastian cried out as he came, burying his face in her throat as he pumped his seed within her.
There was a new sensation within his mind. No longer two joined together, but one.
Hers forever.
Until death did them part....
He collapsed atop her, both of them slick with sweat and panting. He wanted to spend an eternity in this moment, clasped between her thighs, his seed spilling between them.
"That sounds lovely," Cleo whispered with a laugh, "but I think you’d start to crush me after a while."
He couldn't speak—heart pounding so hard it felt like it was lodged in his throat—and the words he wanted to say wouldn't form. Instead, he captured her mouth, hard and intense, pouring everything he felt into that kiss.
Much simpler than finding the words.
* * *
He couldn't get enough of her.
Taking her back to his bedchamber like some Viking lord with his plunder, he stripped them both bare and rolled her onto her back, capturing Cleo's mouth as his hips slid between her thighs. He'd worried once that he might hurt her in his sleep if she moved and he didn't know who she was, but that concern was long gone. With the bond between them there was no mistaking who was in bed with him, and the bond wrapped around him like a silk glove. A cocooning presence. A warm body pressed against his. Never alone.
Ever again.
Everything coalesced into one single thought: this was worth fighting for.
Sebastian took his time with her this time, gentle and torturously slow. Both of them bore bruises from the encounter in the library, and yet his shuddering, scarred heart felt like it had finally healed. Losing himself in their bond, he thrust and rocked within her, hooking her knee up between them so it was crushed to her chest, and his cock rode over that exquisite little region within her until she cried out.
Not done. Not yet. But he stilled within her, rubbing his palms up her thighs and lean flanks. This had become less about his pleasure, and more about hers.
Soft hands stroked up his back, a finger caressing the hard knobs of his spine. He drew back, unable to look away from her beloved face. He'd never been able to bear her touch before, but he suddenly found he wanted her hands all over him.
He pressed inside her, moving in one smooth glide as Cleo gasped. And he watched her throw her head back beneath him, firelight gilding the smooth column of her throat as he lowered his face to press his lips there.
She was worth fighting for. Worth dying for.
And Sebastian lost himself in the promise of their future as he buried his need within her slender body.
* * *
She was finally a wife.
Cleo lay curled in Sebastian’s arms, as her husband slept, his breath stirring her nape. Her body ached in several places, but she was fairly certain she wanted to do this again. Many times.
Her cheeks ached, but her smile slowly faded as the grim reality of the situation crept in. They'd captured Morgana, and now they had all three relics. She and Sebastian couldn't hide in here forever.
And then of course....
She stared up at the ceiling, nerves twisting within her. Curse Farshaw's book.
Sebastian stirred, drawing her into his arms with a sleepy murmur. "Care to tell me what's bothering you?"
"Bothering me?"
He traced a finger between her breasts. "There's a darkness in your heart. A shadow. I don't know what it means, but I know you're scared about something."
Enjoyment flooded from her like a shroud someone tore from her skin. She sat up, raking her hair back from her face. It wasn't as though she could hide things from him anymore, but if she didn't think about it too strongly, then he wouldn't know.
But was that fair?
He'd given her all his secrets. They were in this together, no matter how nervous her latest suspicion made her. She couldn't stop thinking about her flash into the past and what she'd seen there.
...the demon is in me.
She was almost absolutely certain she knew where her divination gifts had come from, but there were other implications she'd only recently begun to dwell on.
Her mother was dead. No matter how much she tried, she couldn't find any trace of her blood out there when she scried. There was only one other possible candidate in that scene who could have been the nemesis she'd been preparing to meet.
"Cleo." He watched her making her decision, his silver eyes patient, but narrowing. "Who is the black queen?"
Chapter 23
CLEO SAT UP abruptly, the soft languidness of the prior moment washing off her as if it had never happened. "How did you know that name?"
Sebastian rolled onto his back, slinging his arm above his head. "I sensed it through the bond. You were thinking about it as we lay there."
Cleo threw the sheets back, slipping from the bed, a nervous exhilaration suddenly running through her veins. "I n-need something to drink."
Finding her robe, she slipped it on, feeling far too naked all of a sudden. There was a flagon of wine on the sideboard. Two glasses. A celebration for two that she’d prepared earlier, and needed now.
The rustling of sheets behind her told her he’d shifted to watch her. Cleo gulped her first mouthful of wine, clinging to the sideboard. What was she going to tell him?
"The truth, preferably," he murmured.
And she realized the bond between them was wide open. Cleo slid her shield neatly back into place and turned to look at him, her heart seizing in her chest.
He was beautiful. Intelligent. Everything she’d ever wanted. And he was finally in her bed, their marriage consummated. It should have been a dream come true, and yet the first cold tendrils of fear slid through her.
"I told you about my prophecy," she whispered. "London’s doom."
"Me," he murmured.
Cleo’s throat locked tight. "You were always there. The dark clouds swirled around you, seeming to overwhelm you, and you screamed a cry of such loss and fell to your knees and the entire sky ripped open, destroying London. And the only thing that seems to offer any hope is a flurry of white lights, beating back the tide of darkness." She paused. "I thought it was you. I thought you were the creator of such destruction, the wielder of the portal. I thought every light represented a person who might be able to hold you back. Me. Drake. Bishop. Lady E… all of them. But I misread the Vision."
That brought his gaze to hers, a sudden predatory intensity highlighting the hard lines of his face.
"It’s not you," she whispered, setting the wine aside and pacing to the windows, staring sightlessly through the glass. "The night we bonded—just before your mother kidnapped me—I awoke in a dream. It was the first time I’ve dream-walked, and I don’t think it was of my own volition. The demon was there, sitting across a chessboard from me. It told me to make a move, that I was the white queen, the one who directs the play. The one who could see the future. And so I made a move. I set Bishop into play, and the demon moved his own rook—Verity. The night Drake sacrificed himself to the demon, I received a second dream. My father was dead, which meant I’d taken one of the demon’s major players. Verity was now wearing a white sash, and I’d won her over to my side, but… the demon had taken Drake. The game ended in a stalemate."
"We’re all chess pieces?"
"To the demon, yes," she replied.
"And what color am I?"
"You were black," she whispered, "but now you have a white sash, and you’re my king."
The tension in his shoulders dissolved as he began to think. "Can you recognize the other pieces the demon is wielding?"
"Yes."
Sebastian sat up, the sheet concealing his lap. "Then there's a way to discover who's working for the demon. You might recognize them."
There was a horrible feeling deep inside her; the thought that she could let him distract himself from the original question. "Sebastian," she whispered, and he seemed to realize there was something more she hadn’t told him.
His mercurial gaze sharpened. "That's why you asked me about my past. About Julia Camden. Who is the black queen?"
She didn’t want to answer. Doing so unleashed her fears into a world she’d just begun to claim as her own. It would turn him against her, perhaps bring about everything she’d seen.
And yet she needed someone else to know. She needed him to be there for her, to hopefully help her fight her terrible prophecy. "At first I assumed it was Morgana. But when it became clear it wasn't... I needed to go back into the past to find her. I began to suspect it was my mother, but in questioning Lady E about my mother's death, I learned it couldn't be. My mother died in childbirth. There was a sister, and for a moment I thought perhaps she'd lived. Perhaps my father spirited her away for some reason..." She wrapped her arms around her waist. "But I have been scrying, and scrying, and I can't find even a trace of her existence. And Lady E said something to me that day, about reading the Vision correctly. If I... if I assume the reason I can't find a trace of a blood relative out there is because there is none, that leaves me only one other possibility. One that makes sense in so many ways."
Especially the demon's interest in her, and Quentin Farshaw's insistence she was going to have to make a choice very shortly, toward the Light, or the Dark.
"Which is?"
"I think the black queen is also me."
*
* *
"How can you be both white and black queens?"
It made no sense. But Cleo seemed to wilt under his regard, her misery and fear plain to see. She sank onto the windowsill, her arms wrapped around her, and her eyes shining within unshed tears.
"I’ve been reading about Quentin Farshaw," she replied.
"The first true seer."
"The only sorcerer who’s ever ascended to the tenth level," she corrected.
"You thought you saw a man pretending to be him in Balthazar's Labyrinth."
"I think that truly was Quentin Farshaw. He dabbled in demonology and he was obsessed with seeing through time. He thought there was a connection between being able to See the past or the future—and the ability to slip into the time stream physically."
"He also died in the middle of one of his experiments," he pointed out.
"Did he?" Cleo’s voice was a monotone. "There was no body. No blood. No viscera. Nothing human left in his laboratory once they broke the doors down. So did he die? Or did he finally achieve what he’d been trying to do all along?"
Sebastian flung the covers back, dragging his trousers up his legs and buttoning them. Her line of thought was troubling. "You think he finally learned how to walk through time."
"I think he’s out there somewhere," she admitted. "In some different time. I think he gave me the book deliberately, because he could sense what was coming and he wanted me to stop it."
"Then why doesn't he stop it?"
"I don't know." She threw her arms wide. "I could only fathom what it would be like to even try and change the future. It's difficult enough to see it, and to make minute changes. Every step you take down a different path opens up a different future. Visions constantly change. But to slip through time, into a period not your own, and shift even a single thing could potentially.... I don't even know what it could do. Perhaps we can stop the demon because we're in the here and now, so he gave us the clues to do so."
"It could have been one of the demon's allies, trying to distract you. To walk through time.... That's impossible, Cleo."