by Jory Strong
"If I find he's behind the hit on Geneva and her lover."
Rapp knocked back his own drink. "Why do you care? She took her lover's ink days after the two of you were supposed to get married. It's ancient history, but betrayal such as hers? I'd have thought you'd kill her yourself if you found her."
"She's the mother of my son."
Rapp's eyebrows lifted, the closest he could safely come to questioning the boy's parentage.
"I've claimed him. The boy is mine."
"So you want permission to take a force through my territory?"
"If Krish is responsible for the hit."
"And you'll install your own man as warlord, squeezing me between the two of you?"
"Worried, amigo?"
Rapp spun the empty glass on the table. "Maybe you'll create a vacuum and one of my men will take over."
"That's also a possibility."
Rapp spread his arms along the back of the bench seat. "So you'll walk away?"
"I have other concerns."
"Merati? It's true that your new wife came from the city?"
"It's true."
"Following Jax's lead?"
Josiah laughed. "Hardly."
"I'll give you thirty rags and allow you to pass through on your motorcycles. But if you do, my men will join the rumble." Rapp glanced at his second. "Isaac will lead them."
"Done."
Rapp flicked his hand toward a pair of women, brunettes this time, and they came to the table. "Take your pick. Or take them both."
Josiah's cock didn't stir until he thought of the kiss he'd exchanged with his wife, the shy glance she'd given him in the bedroom when he'd removed the tie. "Tempting, but I'll pass."
"That's right. You're a married man now."
A look from Rapp and one of the women dropped onto the bench next to him while the other disappeared beneath the table. The brunette at Rapp's side rolled a joint from weed piled on the scarred table, lit and touched it to his lips.
He took a long draw, held it, slowly exhaled. "Since you turned down my offer of a woman and didn't ask for another drink, I'll assume you're anxious to get back to your new wife. A wedding gift is surely in order and I have just the thing, a man taken from Krish's territory. Isaac will hand him off to you along with the rags."
Josiah stood. "Until business brings us together again, amigo."
"Until then," Rapp said, eyes hooding as the whore beneath the table got to work.
Josiah left the clubhouse with Saul at his side rather than covering his back. Outside, his men formed a loose guard as they followed Rapp's second to a windowless building.
"Wait here," Isaac said.
He disappeared into the building, came out a few minutes later with bundled black-and-red rags. They bore Rapp's graffiti, along with the common symbols of support for a rumble on another warlord's turf.
Josiah took the bundle. Two soldiers emerged from the building carrying a stretcher. They put it on the ground at his feet.
The man lying on it wore clothes crusted with dried blood. He was young, but he had the look of a man who already had a foot in the grave.
"He was in a cell with a couple of men we recovered from Krish's territory," Isaac said. "Healer hasn't had time to deal with him yet."
It was possible he wouldn't make it to the warren alive. And if he did, it was equally possible he'd never regain consciousness.
"Hector. Mick."
The men lifted the stretcher.
Isaac said. "He's one of Merati's."
Josiah shrugged. "The spies Merati sends into the warrens are disposable as far as he's concerned."
"True enough."
They began the slow return to the warren.
As soon as they crossed into his territory, Josiah said, "Take the prisoner to the stronghold. Put him in one of the bedrooms and put a guard on him."
Saul shook his head. "A guard? So we can haul the corpse out sooner rather than later?"
"If it comes to that. Time will tell." Josiah tossed the bundled rags to Saul. "We got what we were after."
Saul snagged the bundle. "The better gift was a woman spreading her legs or opening her mouth."
"Not your choice, amigo. See to the prisoner and the rags then find a woman to take the edge off your tongue."
"Guard yourself against the one you married."
"Easy enough." Josiah separated from Saul, and then from the soldiers who accompanied him to one of the maze doorways.
When his footsteps might have quickened, he held steady, proving to himself that he wasn't anxious to reach his bride.
The glow of a dimmed lantern drew him to the family room. Ella and Jacob were on the couch.
Guilt returned, this time with teeth as long and sharp as one of Ciro's stiletto blades. To open himself to the boy was one thing, but the woman…
His heart knew better than to care for a lover. But still he went closer, stopped at the end of the couch.
The boy's precious book lay on the coffee table next to a well-worn card deck. Josiah picked up the book, flipped through the pages, wondering how many times she'd read the story during his absence.
Placing the book on the table, he sat next to it, studied Jacob's face as he lay with his head on Ella's lap. It held a peace that hadn't been there before.
My son.
When the boy had called him Papa after meeting his new mother…
Dios. Jacob's soft voice had turned that single word into a bullet.
Papa. It felt truer today than it had yesterday. Because of Ella.
Josiah's gaze moved to her face and his guilt deepened.
Tears had dried on her cheeks. And beneath her dark lashes, her skin had a hurt, bruised look.
The vulnerability only made her more beautiful to him. More dangerous.
If she was what she appeared to be, he could lose his heart to her. If she was what she appeared to be, she was nothing like Geneva, nothing like the whores he'd been with since Geneva—and maybe that was how Ella had been able to invade his fantasies.
Josiah carefully lifted Jacob and carried him upstairs.
Rosa's bedroom door opened.
She stepped into the hallway wearing an old-fashioned robe, her hair captured in a net at the back of her head rather than in a tight bun.
Another man would turn tail and run at the expression she directed his way. He ignored it and carried Jacob into the bedroom.
Rosa followed him. Stood with hands on her hips as he laid Jacob down on the bed.
"I'll tend to him," she said, and he nodded, turned away, relieved to be spared the reprimand trying to escape past lips so tightly pressed together that they nearly disappeared.
He didn't need her sharp words to drive the unwelcome guilt deeper. Believed he'd escaped them until he got to the doorway and she said, "Was your business really so important that it required you to leave your bride alone on her wedding night?"
"I'm warlord."
She snorted. "Next you'll be telling me not to forget my place."
Amusement came at remembering the feel of her wooden spoons against his back and hands as a boy. "I'm not so brave as that."
He returned to his wife, amusement dying beneath the swirl of confusing desires when it came to her. Wake her? Take her?
His cock said yes, but his mind warned against it and his heart argued that she deserved better. Fuck! She had already managed to twist him up inside, brought guilt to a man who rarely allowed that emotion.
Rapp had probably asked for the meeting tonight as a way of determining just how vulnerable she made him. A man besotted by his new wife wouldn't leave her on his wedding night, especially on the hope of gaining vengeance for a past lover.
Agreeing to the meet was the right thing, the smart thing. It sent a message of strength. He wasn't a man controlled by either his bride or his dick.
Only he knew that a man afraid might also have agree on his wedding night. Mierda. Shit.
Maybe he should have t
aken one of the women Rapp offered. He couldn't afford to let this one become a weakness just because he wanted her, just because she was doing what he'd brought her to the warrens to do, mother Jacob.
But here he stood, looking at her. Wanting her. Feeling guilty for his actions.
She deserved better than to be used like a whore, awakened and taken because she was there. He turned away from his bride and left the house.
* * * * *
Chapter 11
Tito Merati stood at the window. His office was on the top floor of the tallest skyscraper. It squatted above the chambers where the city's ruling council met. Above the offices where the elite made their deals. Above the private apartments were all manner of activity that had been made illegal for common citizens—crimes that would get them executed or banished—took place.
Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed him to look out in every direction, ostensibly so he could monitor the great wall that separated the descendants of those who'd been judged worthy from the descendants of those who'd managed to survive despite the culling that had taken place during The Civilizing. From his vantage point, the boroughs were brown smudges at the edge of New San Jose while the estates of the elite were carpets of color, the green of well-kept lawns accented by extensive flower gardens.
Between brown smudge and ecstatic color were the factories belching smoke, the homes of those who could afford to plant for beauty instead of survival, and the fields and farms where laborers toiled away their health.
He'd sacrificed his soul, and some would argue, his heart—if he'd been born with either—to become Commander of the Peace Force. And having reached that position of power, he'd rain terror down on the warrens, he'd send battalions of soldiers to their deaths to get his brother back, even if it meant he had to fabricate a threat to justify the invasion.
He hadn't wanted Egan to work in the warrens. He'd have preferred his brother infiltrate another of the walled cities. But damned if Egan wasn't every bit as stubborn and tenacious as he himself was, and in the end he'd allowed Egan to do the work he felt compelled to do.
Egan's loyalty was unquestioned. And he was immensely talented when it came to seeding turmoil so the warlords didn't ally along the wall and become a threat.
A knock on the door had Merati turning from the window. "Enter."
Hayden entered, his suit the khaki color currently favored by the elite, his tie narrow and dark blue, bearing the insignia of the Peace Force. Sandy blond hair was worn longer on top, leaving bangs sure to draw feminine hands and make him a favorite with women. He was attractive, and put that attractiveness to good use.
Merati approved. He appreciated Hayden's ambitiousness, his pragmatism.
"One of my informants claims Rapp handed Egan off to Josiah last night," Hayden said.
"What shape was Egan in?" Merati asked, hiding any show of emotion.
"He was on a stretcher. My informant couldn't get close enough to view the damage. The warlord was accompanied by nine heavily armed soldiers."
"So the transfer was planned?"
"Unlikely."
Merati returned to his desk and sat. A slight nod and Hayden dropped into the seat across from him.
"As it happens," Hayden said, "yesterday Josiah married a woman from the city."
"Who?"
"Her name is Ella Rust. Her father is Elliott Rust. Both are from Borough Y."
"That borough sits along the wall of Jax's territory, with a portion of it alongside Elias's. How would she come to marry Josiah?"
"Her father is an apothecary. In all likelihood, he's seen patients in Josiah's warren or done business directly with the warlord. She's accompanied him into the warrens. She wouldn't be the first woman to spread her legs for a man in a position of power and get knocked-up."
Merati steepled his hands. "The warlord has only recently claimed a son. Marrying the next whore he got pregnant gains him a mother for the boy."
"That thought also occurred to me. I visited the borough captain this morning. Ella Rust surrendered her citizenship ID the day before yesterday. More telling is that there were rumors her mother once frequented the dancehalls and was briefly involved with one of the elite."
"So loose morals run in the family?"
"More likely, ambition. When the mother became pregnant, she thought it would gain her a position in society. She was sent to the boroughs in disgrace and married off to the apothecary."
Merati tapped his steepled fingers against his lips. "Given the history, the parents of Josiah's new wife may not value their daughter. And she may not care about their fate. Still, it would be worth questioning them."
"There's an alternative plan."
"Go on."
"There's another daughter, Victoria. She's said to be every bit as ambitious as the mother. I believe Victoria could be used. She could be sent into the warrens. She could gain her sister's cooperation, and possibly, assuming Egan isn't as badly injured as I fear, facilitate his escape. Or the more likely scenario, Victoria could take the warlord's son."
"Exchange a hostage for a hostage. If the warlord cares enough about the boy to claim him and marry because of him, he'd care enough about the boy to make the exchange."
Hayden leaned forward. "Exactly. If Victoria won't cooperate, we can apply pressure to the parents. Easy enough to plant illicit drugs on an apothecary and bring him up on charges."
"True. It's a good plan, Hayden. Make contact with the sister and report back."
Hayden stood, snapped off a salute and left.
Merati swiveled his chair, looked through the window toward Josiah's territory. If my brother dies while he's in your possession, I will find a reason to raze your warren.
* * *
Ella looked at herself in the mirror of Josiah's bathroom, her bathroom now, she supposed, though the room didn't feel as if it belonged to her, as if it would ever belong to her. She smoothed her hands over the dark green dress, her second-best dress, the least damaged of those she'd brought with her into the warrens.
There was a small stain at the waist, where a potion had spilled at the marketplace and she hadn't been able to apply a cleaning solution quickly enough. There was a small mended tear at the shoulder, where a patient she'd been helping her father tend had grabbed and ripped in a fit of pain.
She pulled her hair away from her face, quickly braided then twisted the braid into a knot, though neither the braid nor the knot would hide the fact that her hair wasn't black like Jacob's mother's or blonde like Victoria's.
Her face stared back at her, pale and somber, a bruised look beneath the eyes because she didn't own makeup to cover the evidence of the pain that still lingered. She turned away from the mirror and went into the bedroom.
She'd repacked her things, put them back into the crates rather than trespass by looking for space in Josiah's dresser and closet. A small satchel sat on the bed, containing some medicines along with some coin, left there with the intention of going to the marketplace.
She couldn't bear the thought of putting on the dress she'd have to wear tomorrow, the first of the shapeless, stained and patched garments, or of asking the man who hadn't bothered to bed his wife to provide her with new clothing.
He hadn't come home. She wanted to believe it had taken him all night to meet with Rapp, but couldn't. Which left her tormenting herself with thoughts of him going to his club, spending what remained of their wedding night with one of the whores.
If the pain in her chest weren't so sharp, she'd think of those women as perritas. It sounded less harsh, less like a judgement. And who was she to judge?
She was her mother's bastard.
Her stomach cramped at imagining the glances that'd be sent her way in the marketplace if he'd been with another woman last night. Scorn and pity.
Was one woman as good as another when the heart wasn't involved?
Yes. Of course the answer was yes.
That was true on either side of the wall.
He was the warlord. She'd known he could have anyone he wanted but—
Foolish. Naïve. To catch him looking in her direction and think—
But it's done, I'm his wife. Until death.
She shivered. Death was easily arranged in the warrens.
"It can't matter where he was last night, or who he was with," she whispered, the words burning her throat, stinging her eyes.
Ella took a deep breath, a second one. She'd shed what tears she was going to shed.
The tightness of her chest and throat proclaimed her a liar.
"Breakfast!" Jacob yelled from the bottom of the stairs.
Ella took another deep breath, one filled with resolve. She would face this day as she'd faced each day at home.
She went downstairs. Entered the dining room to have pain slash through her heart.
Josiah was there, wearing a dark blue shirt and navy jeans instead of the light blue shirt and black jeans of the day before, making it clear that he'd showered and changed somewhere else since he hadn't done it at home.
After that first quick glance, she couldn't bring herself to look at him again though she wanted to drink him in, wanted to cherish the moments he'd looked at her with desire.
Don't, she thought, don't. Pride needed to become her armor against further hurt.
What good would it do to reveal her heart? What good would it do to point out the obvious, that he hadn't made love to his wife?
But then, it wouldn't be love, would it? It would just be sex between strangers, one of whom had pledged a vow to the other.
Having heard and accepted her vow, I acknowledge Ella Rust as my wife and affirm that she is the mother of Jacob, the son I have claimed.
What had he promised her? Nothing.
What vow had he given in return for hers? None.
But he had given her a son.
Jacob rushed to her, threw his arms around her and gave her a fierce hug.
She returned the hug, kissed his cheek. Then did it again and again, each kiss quicker than the next, until he was giggling and squirming and finally pulling away, his joy easing the tightness in her chest so her heart could swell.
She went to the chair she'd taken the night before and sat.