Chapter 20

Sorcha stood on a hill. A gentle breeze blew through her hair, rustling the grass around her knees, and brought the scents of the sun-warmed plains. Overhead, a sun shone in a clear sky, high and around midday. In the distance stood a city.

The Golden Citadel.

It was familiar but different. Smaller. Not as many towers. There were no walls yet. No high defenses. But it was her city. The one she’d last seen burning. The one Adrian had killed.

Was it new? Was this the rebuilding—triumphant and rising from the ashes?

“No.”

She turned in a circle, searching for the speaker. There was no one. She was completely alone on the hilltop.

“This is how it was,” the voice continued. “Long ago, when the Saint was born.”

As she watched, the city began to change. It happened quickly, between blinks and breaths—towers rising, walls appearing. It grew and grew, becoming what she’d always been familiar with.

“It became this because of the Saint. This beautiful place. Your home would not have been here without him. This place would never have been born.”

A traitorous thought skipped through her mind. He wouldn’t be here without me.

The voice chuckled. “Maybe,” it agreed. “But there would be someone else. There is nothing special about you, temple girl. You are merely the vessel. Your blood will resurrect him, but anyone’s blood could.”

Anyone’s. Sorcha’s heart twisted, gut clenching. She wanted to deny him, this mocking voice, but something at the back of her mind stopped her. A question. A doubt. She’d been raised to believe her place in this world was fate—an ordained occurrence. She was chosen by the Saint himself, born at a certain time and place, under the right stars.

A reincarnation of the original savior. Kahina Kira had promised that Sorcha was special and raised her to believe it was true. The voice chuckled again, grating against her nerves.

“Special? Maybe,” it said. “Unique? No. There have been others. There would have been others. It would not only come down to you. You are replaceable. Would it have been now? Probably not. In a few years? Twenty? A hundred? His resurrection makes no difference. It is inevitable.”

Now her city was burning before her eyes, and she knew that somewhere within the walls, she ran for her life. Her friends were dead. Brothers. Sisters. Priests. Priestesses. Her family lay dead by their own hands.

By Adrian’s hands.

The monster she’d somehow come to accept.

“There is no shame in loving a monster,” the voice said. “We all love monsters.”

A puff of delicate air caressed her cheek—tender and gentle.

“You will be loved,” the voice promised, tone softening, growing kinder. “The Saint will cherish you. Yes, there could have been others. Yes, you are replaceable, but still appreciated.”

There was a pause, her chest constricting with the promise.

“And who knows? Maybe your monster loves you in return. Maybe the Saint will have a place in his new world for this monster of yours. The Saint loves monsters too.”

In the city, towers were falling, stones were tumbling free, and walls were crumbling. Thick smoke curled into the sky, billowing higher and higher, drifting across the sun and casting a shadow where she stood on the hillside.

Out of the dark smoke and flames, a figure uncurled like a fire god rising out of the ashes of destruction. A giant golden skeleton towered over the landscape. It stood as tall as any of the toppled towers, taller than the vanished city walls. It turned its hollow sockets to the sky, moving in a circle just as she’d done, taking the whole world in. Gold glimmered in the sunshine, faceted gems catching rays and reflecting them back in a myriad of intense colors. The creature sparkled—a jewel, a precious thing, a treasure. And so terrible.

Then the Saint saw her.

Fear seized Sorcha’s heart, the terror of being seen and the urge to curl in on herself painfully strong. She wanted to pull back into her shell like a snail, make herself small in the knee-high grass. She wanted to close her eyes like she had as a child, when she’d thought it would make her invisible during a game of hide-and-seek.

But she wasn’t a child any longer. She could not hide from the Saint.

He stepped out of the city, great strides eating up the landscape, coming toward her with a terrible purpose.

“He comes,” the voice spoke softly. “He comes for you.”

Then the Saint was towering above her, so massive that she had to tilt her head far back to see him. Sorcha shaded her eyes against the sun and glare, staring into the skeletal face. He was beautiful in the intricacies of jewels and gold—the clean lines of skull and bare bones. Something in the hollow eye sockets locked on her—seeing her, knowing her. The Saint crouched, joint by joint, until he was closer but still so far away.

Slowly, gently, he reached out, a finger extended and hovering in front of her chest. She was gasping, as if she was once again fighting for air in the sunken city—mouth open and waiting for the contact she could not prevent. She thought he would push her down, pin her to the earth, and keep pressing until she was dead and buried. She would be nothing but worm food here in this strange place—a woman decomposing and forgotten.

A bird began to sing. A meadowlark trilling, notes rising. A bee buzzed by, and a breeze ruffled her hair and sighed through the grass. Vessel and Saint remained frozen together—a silent tableau. The moment stretched so far she was sure she’d shatter with the tension.

The Saint closed the distance between them finally—as if reading her thoughts—and pressed his giant finger to her chest. She’d thought he would be cold, a dead thing, but he was warm and gentle. His head tilted to one side at the contact, an unspoken question she could not understand or answer.

Then the images began to come. One right after another, blurring together and speeding up. A succession of things that could be or had been. Things happening right now, just beyond her reach. The Saint moved through the world, controlling life and death, each held in one golden palm.

She’d seen some of the story—his story—on temple walls. Paintings and mosaics, careful brushstrokes and gilt, the horror made beautiful. Those were remnants of his history, the dry and removed remains pulled from pages and stone. Now, she saw them differently. A terrible foreboding crept into her body and grew, a physical force threatening to tear her apart. Briefly, Lacus’s words crossed her mind. It would be a mistake to bring him back.

Then the vision changed. She was no longer watching the Saint cross a landscape, towering above it all and wreaking havoc, rebuilding the world in his image through blood and death. Now she was seeing it as he would have seen it. Towns and cities, small villages, lone homesteads, and little bits of civilization. People ran and kneeled. They raised their hands to the sky and praised him. People screamed, and fierce, joyful cheers echoed. There were oceans of tears and people throwing flowers.

Sorcha saw them all from a great height, removed from it—a silent witness. In the vision was this sense of rightness. The world had aligned and become the place it should have always been.

Years raced past, a quick succession of temples rising across the continent. Cities were built as others fell. Fashions changed, the Saint’s worshippers changing as old ones died and new were born. How many years? They rolled by, but she had no sense of time. A hundred years? A thousand? She witnessed it all, an unending stream, a spool of thread sent rolling out, a ribbon unfurling.

Then it was gone. All of it. Everything.

The past. Present. Future.

The hill and the Saint vanished.

Sorcha was back in the meadow with Adrian.

The storm had vanished, the summer world gone. An illusion conjured by the creature or the Saint. A vision. The rain had stopped, but the cold remained, the sky no longer blue and the flowers sagging and browning with the biting frost. Winter had followed them through the arched stone fingers, and Adrian was shaking her. His hands framed her face, fear radiating outward in a palpable cloud. Fear for her.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded and pressed her hands to his, feeling how cold they both were.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I met the Saint,” she rasped, her throat dry.

She wanted cool water and hot tea, furs and a fire, a swift dip in an icy stream. She wanted sweet wine and something warm to eat. Things to drive away what had happened, to soothe not only her raw throat but also the horrible feeling blooming in her chest like a poisonous flower.

“The Saint,” Adrian echoed. Surprise and curiosity colored his words.

“Yes.” Sorcha moved, stepping beyond his grasp.

She needed to move, restless with knowledge, wanting to ride away from this place, wanting to take the relic and go. It weighed on her, everything she’d seen—intense and heavy, unforgettable.

Sorcha wanted to forget it all.

But this was coming. It was rushing toward her and inescapable.

The relic called to her, beckoning—willing her to fulfill her promise.

“We need to take the relic and go,” Sorcha said, striding toward the gilded bone and lifting the heavy weight of it with a grunt. “I don’t want to stay in this place.”

As soon as she touched it, a wind began to howl, flattening the grasses that still stood, whistling in her ears. Out of the trees beyond the altar, a creature appeared. It stood as tall as Adrian but twice as broad, covered in thick white fur. But it did not resemble the werewolves. This was something else—something far stranger. Throwing back its head, it let out a long, mournful call filled with the promise of pain. Fear crystallized in her blood.

Sorcha stumbled under the weight of the femur. The Saint needed her—these creatures wanted her—but it made no sense that he would not make it easy. Adrian pulled out his sword and faced the creature determinedly. Snow fell from the sky, a blizzard obscuring their vision. It was impossible to see, blinded by snow and stinging ice.

The creature howled, and then the howls became words, undulating and drawn out.

“Mine. He is mine.”

Sorcha shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold.

“Get back to Nox!” Adrian urged Sorcha toward the trees.

She stumbled, managing to keep upright and moving. Returning to the stone hands took less time—distance covered in seconds. The creature’s howls followed, but it appeared to let them go. They stumbled through the arched fingers—snow following, wind screaming.

Sorcha dropped to her knees, clutching the bone to her chest.

I’ve got you, she promised.

No, the relic replied, filling her head. I have you.

She cried out, shocked, and thrust the relic toward Adrian. “Take it!” she pleaded, not wanting to hold it a moment longer and keep the connection open. There would be enough of that in the future, the certainty rushing toward her like an arrow aimed at her heart.

But Adrian didn’t. Instead, he dropped to his knees beside her and reached out, cupping her face in his cold hands.

She trembled at his touch, cheeks reddening beneath his intense gaze. He leaned in, one hand smoothing across her shoulder, wrapping around her lower back to pull her close against him.

“Sorcha, I?—”

A voice interrupted him, calling his name, searching and closing in. Adrian dropped his hands. Tilting away from her, he pushed to his feet.

“Here!” he shouted, steel in his tone—hard enough to break the world.

Where had the softness gone? Vanished. Shoved down. And what of it? He wouldn’t have kissed her, wouldn’t have caressed her.

Sorcha studied the earth she knelt in. Dead leaves dusted with snow, bare trees rising around them. A normal winter. A softer place than the one they’d escaped. She got to her feet, not waiting for him or expecting he would help her. But he caught her arm halfway up, coming close again.

This time she saw it in his face, a promise in his dark eyes. He would have kissed her, had wanted to there in the leaves and winking rubies, surrounded by dead trees.

Sorcha leaned toward him, wanting him to keep his promise, and reached out to place a hand on his chest.

“Do it,” she whispered. “Kiss me.”

It was her own promise, her own dare. He focused on her mouth—hungry and wanting. If he kissed her here, it would all change. Would it be a change she could handle? She wasn’t sure. But she wanted it anyway.

Adrian covered her hand with his own, staring into her eyes.

And that was how Thompson found them, locked in a private moment, a scene that made them look like lovers. But the hard truth was that they were far from it—captive and captor, monster and temple girl. Despite her desire, despite the wish to change it.

Sorcha could feel Thompson’s sharp surprise and heavy suspicion—anger glowed in his eyes. Adrian took Sorcha’s hand and carefully, deliberately, removed it from his chest. She let it fall limp at her side.

“Coward,” she whispered.

* * *

The creature’s howls had reached the men waiting above the sinkhole. Revenant, Thompson, and Domenico had ridden down to search for Adrian. They’d found Nox waiting calmly at the bottom and then split up to search the woods.

Domenico had come forward to claim the relic and wrap it in velvet. His eyes briefly met Sorcha’s, an expression of understanding in them. It vanished as Revenant approached, flipping the velvet back to glance at the bone.

“A femur.” He turned to Adrian. “How many more?”

“Two more,” Thompson replied. “Then we meet Prince Eine in the Wastes.”

Sorcha snapped her head around, searching the man’s face for more information. This was the first time he’d said where they would end up. Where they might be taking the relics. The wastes? What wastes? Where?

“We should go,” Domenico said, taking the bone to his horse and securing it to the saddle.

“Yes,” Adrian agreed.

He motioned for Sorcha to follow him and accepted Nox’s reins from Revenant. The two stared at each other for a long moment, some silent communication happening that Sorcha could not understand. Then Adrian grabbed her, shoving her into the saddle before she could protest, and mounted up behind her.

* * *

They rode well past dusk. The horses picking their way slowly through scraggly trees. In the distance, a wild dog yelped, and one nearby answered. Nox turned his head toward the sound and snorted. It was obvious the horses needed rest, but Adrian wanted to put as much distance between themselves and the sinkhole. He wasn’t in a hurry to meet whatever lived at the bottom of it again.

Sorcha hunched over Epona, exhausted but without protesting the pace he set. She’d been more than willing to relinquish the relic to Domenico. She’d practically forced it into his arms. What had she seen that had frightened her so badly? He wanted to ask, and maybe he would.

The afternoon played through his mind. Sorcha in the meadow beyond the hands, wading through a field of flowers—red dress, white lacy flowers, blue sky. Then the moment in the winter wood, on their knees in the dirt, rubies glimmering around them. Her hand on his chest, heat in her gaze.

Kiss me.

Coward.

Adrian had almost kissed her. But there couldn’t be a repeat of the other night. It had been a mistake. He couldn’t allow emotion to cloud his judgment. His role in the empire was set. For now. That traitorous voice slipped through again. But he couldn’t let himself consider what might come after this was over.

He tried not to watch her as they rode, aware that his men were paying attention. Thompson would have told them how he’d discovered Adrian and Sorcha by now. Adrian had no doubt how the Tomeis’ would feel about the situation.

When they’d reached the top of the sinkhole, Sorcha had slid from Nox before Adrian could help her down. She’d crossed to Epona in quick, sure strides and threw herself into the saddle without a backward glance. Her anger and frustration had been palpable. But between then and now, she’d grown cold toward him. He should be grateful. Sorcha was a temptation he must resist.

Who was he?Adrian returned to this question again and again. Prince Eine would be furious to learn that his heartless monster had retained a shred of his heart. Sorcha was to serve one purpose for the Empire.

But... the thought began. Stop. He couldn’t let himself think of it.

* * *

Adrian finally called a halt, and they set up camp, pitching the simplest form of their tents—narrow and low to the ground, quick to go up and come down. Magnus and Bran had built a fire and were cooking while Cas and Domenico had begun to dig for water.

There was none above ground here, but if they dug down far enough, the hole would begin to fill. They pulled bucket after bucket out, painstakingly straining and boiling it. The horses drank first after it had cooled—guzzling noisily—and then the men.

Adrian gave his water to Sorcha, and she accepted silently, lips pursed around whatever sharp word she wished to use. It didn’t matter. She could have said whatever she wanted, and he wouldn’t have cared.

He hoped there would be cleaner water to be found ahead—anything that didn’t leave his mouth gritty even after being strained and boiled. Their dry provisions were running low, but so far, they’d been able to supplement them with hunting.

It was hard to know how much longer they would last. But hopefully, he wouldn’t have to move them to strict rationing. As disciplined as the Tomeis were, and as many times as they’d been forced to travel and fight on quarter rations, it was something none of them enjoyed. He was positive Sorcha would enjoy it even less. She might even come to miss the gummy porridge if they were starving.

Thompson and Domenico were studying the maps near the fire—avoiding the flames and the rotating roasting rabbits. Firelight danced over the parchment, the ink seeming to move with the flicker of flames, as if it might leap from the page to return to the source.

“We’re here,” Thompson said, pointing to a nondescript location.

“And the next relic is there,” Domenico said, pointing to what appeared to be a marsh or bog of some kind.

“It’s very close,” Thompson continued. “Less than a day if we ride hard. We’d be there tomorrow afternoon.”

“From there?” Adrian asked.

“The mountains. There’s a temple of some kind. It’s clearly marked, well known. The Androphagoi.” Thompson looked from Domenico to Adrian. “It has a reputation.”

“The cannibal temple,” Domenico nodded.

“I’ve heard about it,” Adrian said. “Are the stories true?”

“Who can say?” Domenico shrugged. “I’ve never been. But from what I know of the woman’s cult, I don’t doubt it.”

“I met a soldier who had been through there,” Thompson said. “He told me they walled priests into cells so they could slowly starve and live their last days worshipping that god of theirs.”

It would be a slow and painful death—starving and dying of thirst, knowing relief was just beyond an impassable wall. Did the sounds from the rest of the temple reach them there? What would it be like to have nothing but the sound of your own body slowly eating itself alive?

“Which piece is at the temple?” Adrian asked.

Thompson turned the map around so Adrian could see it clearly, tapping the temple’s location. A skull. Adrian nodded once. How many other pieces had Prince Eine been able to collect? How complete did the skeleton need to be for resurrection? Or would Adrian and Sorcha be sent back into the world to find the others? But he doubted that would happen. The empress was dying—her time was running out even as they sat around the fire—and the prince would make a resurrection happen with or without each relic.

“Show me this one.” Adrian tapped the other map, waiting as Thompson unfurled it and held it open.

He compared it to the cult’s map, noting the distance between relics. The distance between the mountains and the wastelands. Volcanoes rose along a distant coast, smoke artfully drawn. The rumored Red Tower would be there, somewhere along a broken road.

“Don’t those death worshippers know there are literally hundreds of other colors?” Thompson sneered. “Everything. Red. It’s an obsession.”

“It’s part of the religion,” Domenico said.

“They’re fools,” Thompsons said.

Domenico snorted. “Just because you have no faith doesn’t mean they’re fools. We’ve all seen enough to know that nothing is what it seems in this life.”

“Faith and reality are two different things,” Thompson scoffed. “If their god is real, I don’t worship him. And I won’t, even if the prince demands it. Do you think he will?” Thompson’s eyes found Adrian’s.

“I can’t give you an answer for that,” Adrian replied.

“He will make it our new religion,” Domenico said softly, eyes on Sorcha’s map. He reached forward, tapping the skull. “If this dead god heals the empress, wouldn’t you make it your religion?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Thompson said.

They were quiet for a moment, contemplating what lay ahead.

Thompson sighed, rolling up the maps. “When do we leave?”

“First light,” Adrian said. “We’ll collect these last two pieces and send a messenger to Prince Eine telling him to meet us in the Wastes.”

“How far south is the Traveling City coming?” Domenico asked.

“As far as it can get. But with time running out, they might come by ship. It’s quicker by sea, and the remains of a city and port are along the coast.”

“Who will take the message to the prince once we have the skull?”

“Wes. He has the fastest horse. It will still take a while, but he’s the best option. You two get some rest.”

Adrian stood and turned away, his back aching, muscles sore. He wanted to sleep without dreams—without any doubt creeping into his mind, no second guesses lodging in his gut. He caught sight of Sorcha across the campfire, light playing across her delicate features, shadows gathering behind her. She stood wordlessly and moved to the tent they shared, avoiding the relic tent as if it were alive and hungry for her.

With one more glance to make sure everything was organized—Revenant was nowhere in sight, Cas and Magnus were keeping the first watch, and there was a line of water buckets waiting to be boiled in the morning—the only thing he could do now was sleep.

The tents they’d set up were small and compact versions of what they traveled with before. There was just enough room to crawl in and sleep. He paused outside his tent, wondering if Sorcha would feign sleep or if he’d find her facing him in the dark.

What did he want to find when he went inside?

With an internal sigh, he knelt and parted the tent flap, then crawled inside and removed his boots. He placed them beside Sorcha’s, keeping his back to her for as long as possible. When he turned, he saw that she was a lump in the dark, facing away from him on her side.

But she wasn’t asleep. He could tell by the way she breathed, the tenseness in the space around them, that she was waiting for him to say something. Quietly, he moved to his bedroll beside her and lay flat on his back, keeping his eyes closed. He fought the urge to speak, counting silently until he fell asleep.

* * *

Sorcha awoke abruptly, throat sore and ears ringing. The dream—the vision—had been vivid, clearer than the others. The Saint had been seated on a throne in a red room, surrounded by creatures. Lacus had been there. A werewolf. The white beast from the meadow. There had been others as well—horrible figures and beautiful demons. Ahigh-pitched hum, not unpleasant but insistent, filled the space. And Sorcha had been covered in rubies standing beside the Saint.

The vision released her, fading even as she fought to remember the exact details. But what would she do with them? Who would she tell? A rustle caught her attention. Adrian was awake, sitting up across from her, but she couldn’t make out his features in the dimness. He didn’t speak. Neither did she. The tent was cold. The only warmth here came from them.

So many nights, he’d woken her without speaking—a gentle nudge on her shoulder or leg. So impersonal even as he touched her. Sorcha wanted the warmth of his hands, his skin to her skin—body to body. She wanted whatever comfort he might offer in the dark. If any. What did it mean for her soul, for her, that she’d made room for this man in her life? A killer. A monster. Yet she’d stopped thinking of him that way weeks ago now. Even as she watched him maim and kill. Even understanding that he served the empire and it would always come first.

But Adrian was different with her. She hadn’t seen it at first. But he displayed a softness she never could have imagined. The Tomeis were careful to keep their expressions flat. But they saw it as well.

Sorcha went to him. It was like crossing the world and falling joyfully into hell. With a shaky breath, she reached for the hem of the dress she’d fallen asleep in and began to pull it upward.

* * *

Sorcha dropped her furs and began to remove her clothing. In the dim tent, the colors were muted, but in daylight, they would be a deep red. A color he would associate with her for the rest of his life. Not as a follower of the dead Saint. Only and forever, Sorcha.

He knew what was expected of him, understood what he should do. Accepting what she offered now would be a betrayal. It couldn’t happen. If he touched her now, it would change everything. In the morning, in the revealing light of day, things would be clear, and they would both be thankful if he stopped this now.

The dress fell to the ground, and Sorcha paused, breathing rapidly, as she waited to see what he would do.

Adrian reached for her, fingers digging into her hips—the contact shuddering through him. He ran his hands up her waist, enjoying the way she closed her eyes and shivered, and jerked her into his lap. She straddled him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

She was so beautiful, it made his heart ache. Did he still have one?

Slowly, he caressed her face, sliding his fingers down her throat and over her collarbones. Her eyes were wide, mouth parted with expectation—desire and trepidation. He wanted to touch her everywhere. Every inch of skin. He wanted everything she was, all she would be, in his bed and inside his soul.

The thought startled him, and he stopped before reaching her breasts, listening to the rush of blood in his ears.

A mistake. He’d already let so much of her in, bending his world to contain this woman. He was already damned. If this happened now, how much worse could it be?

“Adrian,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire.

Sorcha reached for the hem of his tunic, helping him pull it over his head. She hummed in satisfaction as she ran her hands over his bare shoulders and chest, sliding down his muscled abdomen to the hard ridge of his cock. Palming him, rocking forward slowly, she moaned softly and rested her forehead against his shoulder.

Adrian buried his face in her neck, breathing her in—a mix of citrus soap and the sweetness of her skin. Pulling her closer, tight against his body, he wove his fingers into her hair and tugged, tilting her face to his.

She smiled—the curve of her perfect mouth stealing his breath.

“What do you want, Sorcha?” he asked, voice rough.

She gasped, back arching as she pressed down against his cock, rolling her hips forward.

He groaned, gripping her waist with his other hand, desperate to take everything from her. Every shudder and moan, each panting breath, the slickness at the center of her body, he wanted to thrust into her and swallow each scream. He wanted to ruin her for any other man.

But only if she asked.

“You.” Her eyes were dilated and half-lidded when she looked at him, stroking up and down slowly with one hand. “I want you inside me.”

Adrian adjusted his grip on her, one hand cupping her ass, the other moving to her pussy to trace the outer lips, parting her slowly. She was wet for him, slick and hot, trembling as he barely touched her. He wanted her riding his cock, sweating as he told her how beautiful she was. With a low noise of satisfaction, he brushed against her clit, watching her face and continuing to touch her.

“Here?” he asked, circling her clit with his thumb.

He dipped one finger in her wetness and stroked slowly.

Her expression changed as he added another finger, curling upward to touch a swollen, inner part of her. He groaned as she shuddered.

“Adrian,” she pleaded, her hands going to her breasts, squeezing the soft flesh.

Leaning forward, he nuzzled one of her hands aside and took a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard on the hard bud as her inner muscles tightened around his fingers. She tasted better than anything he could have imagined. He was desperate to bury his face between her thighs and feel her on his tongue. But that could wait. Right now, he needed her to come with his fingers inside her. She whimpered, meeting his thrusts as he rubbed. He increased the pace, rocking beneath her now. Adrian wanted her, but he wanted this more.

“Kiss me,” he demanded.

Sorcha placed her hands on both sides of his face and kissed him. She wasn’t tender or shy. Her tongue boldly caressed his, and she nipped at his lower lip as she took what she wanted. Hips twitching, his fingers stroking and applying the perfect amount of pressure, she came—shattering apart in his arms. Adrian swallowed her scream, their mouths locked as his tongue and fingers worked, drawing out the shuddering contraction of her inner muscles.

He stood, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, head against his shoulder and almost boneless in his arms. She gripped his shoulders as he eased her onto the pile of furs, and she curled languidly into them, eyes dreamy. Kneeling between her legs, Adrian touched her small, perfect breasts, massaging their delicious weight, tweaking a nipple between thumb and forefinger.

She gasped and bit down on her lip, fighting to keep quiet.

Sorcha reached for his breeches, pulling at the laces, silent but insistent. He removed them, his heavy erection slipping free, and she took him in her hand, stroking his length. She moved confidently, adjusting her grip and rubbing her palm over the head of his cock.

He twitched, and she smiled, eyes flashing up to his.

“Lie down.” He pushed her down, taking her hands and sliding them above her head, pinning her in place. “Don’t take your eyes off me,” he commanded, pulling her leg over his shoulder and kissing her inner thigh.

Taking his time, he committed each inch of her skin to memory, every quiver of her body. He paused at her center, breathing over her clit, smiling as her hips twitched.

“Are you watching, Priestess?”

“Yes,” she whispered, eyes barely open but locked on him as she lifted her hips impatiently.

Adrian lapped at her center, teasing her clit and groaning against her when her body tensed. Slowly, he ran his tongue over her before sucking at her soft flesh and thrusting two fingers into her. She came again, body arching up, eyes squeezed shut.

He waited, drawing out the last few shudders before pulling back to settle his hips between her thighs, cock pressing against her pussy. He lifted her leg and grasped his cock to tease her, closing his eyes as skin met skin.

“Sorcha.” Her name was a prayer, a request for redemption as he ran the head of his cock over her opening.

She trembled, fingers digging into his waist, as she wrapped one leg around him.

He opened his eyes, staring down at her, barely able to control his voice. “You’re going to come on my cock, and you’re going to be quiet. Understand?”

She nodded and reached down to touch herself, running her fingers through her slickness. He grabbed her hand and brought her wet fingers to his mouth, sucking hard. She gasped, and he thrust into her. She was stretched around him so tight his head dropped forward with a groan.

He saw stars, her body so soft beneath him as he pumped into her, gaze fixed on her mouth open in a silent scream.

He pulled back, leaving her warmth, before snapping his hips forward and filling her with a grunt. She shuddered, clenching around him, hands tangled in the furs beneath her. Closing her eyes, she threw her head back, exposing the long, pale line of her throat, back arching. He pounded into her, driving her toward a cliff edge, focused on her inner muscles tensing and her legs trembling.

She moaned his name, biting her lip and struggling to keep her voice down. Hot triumph swept through him. He wanted to pull that sound from her again and again—he wanted her to scream his name and swear no one else would ever touch her like this again.

* * *

“You’re mine,” he said, voice low and thick. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” Sorcha whispered, pressing against him, desperate for everything he was giving her and wanting more. “All yours.”

He ground against her, changing the angle—going deeper—hitting that inner part of her that throbbed, the friction on her clit intensifying.

She was blind with pleasure, not seeing the tent around them, unable to see him clearly through the haze of desire—only aware of his hands on her hips and his cock stretching her wide. She whispered his name, wanting all of him in her mouth and in her body. Wanting him everywhere.

The orgasm crashed through her again, white heat sweeping her body, leaving her weak and fighting to breathe.

Adrian didn’t give her time to recover before he flipped her over and pulled her hips up, slamming into her from behind relentlessly.

She fumbled a hand between her legs, desperate for pressure and friction against her clit. Biting the furs and squeezing her eyes tight, she panted as she circled the spot. Painful pleasure built yet again, the delicious fullness of his cock stretching her, his hands demanding on her body. She moved faster, release so close she whimpered.

“Mine.” Adrian’s voice was hard, but his hands were gentle as reached around her and moved her fingers. She choked on a sob, her pussy aching. “Ask for what you want.”

“Touch me,” she pleaded, hands fisted in the bedding. Adrian stroked her clit, slowing to draw out each long thrust. She shook her head. “More. I need more.”

Adrian pressed down with the fingers of his right hand, increasing the speed of his thrusts. The fingers of his left dug into her hip, holding her in place under the demanding pace.

Sorcha sucked in a breath, on the verge of crying out, and buried her face in the furs to stifle her moans. She couldn’t take the spiraling tension in her body—the way he demanded more from her, relentlessly moving inside her. It was too much. So much.

Sorcha sucked in a harsh breath, body trembling uncontrollably. Tears filled her eyes as the orgasm ripped through her. Her body worked his cock, throbbing around him, and she heard the sharp intake of his breath. Harder, deeper than she could have thought possible, he thrust into her and then went rigid, a low groan tearing from him as his cock pulsed with release. She felt warm and so full, his orgasm sending another shiver through her as she bit her lip and pressed backward into him.

Adrian collapsed on her, easing his weight to the side so she wasn’t crushed beneath him. She lay flat on her stomach as they breathed heavily, sweat glossing their skin, and Sorcha’s heart thundered so loud she was sure he could hear it. Before she could move, he reached over her, picking up the discarded tunic beside the cot.

“Lift your hips,” he said softly.

Without ceremony, he cleaned her—moving slowly, pressing kisses to the side of her face. Sorcha gasped as the smooth fabric touched her, the soft cotton harsh on her swollen flesh. Adrian pressed a kiss to her shoulder, squeezing her gently before releasing her and dropping the tunic back on the ground.

Adrian rolled, taking her with him, adjusting her beside him until she lay with her head on his shoulder and one leg over his waist. He tightened his embrace, kissing the top of her head. It was sweet, not at all what she’d expected after he’d wrecked her so thoroughly. One hand trailed up her bare back, tracing the curve of her spine, following the line of her shoulder. He took his time, gently touching each part of her that he could reach.

Something had broken apart in her soul. The shards of past and present flying free, leaving only her wish that things were different. Reality was creeping back too soon. She wanted to banish it, refuse it, demand that it leave.

“Do you—” Sorcha stopped, the word she’d wanted to say stuck in her throat.

What? Love me? Is that really what I was going to ask?

* * *

The unsaid word hung between them, chasing up his spine and clawing through his mind. Something had been growing there, taking tentative shape as weeks rolled by—as he watched her walk fearlessly into danger again and again. But he’d been dreaming of another kind of life, glimpsing it in her face. Sorcha had shown him acceptance in the way she spoke to him separately from his actions and history that colored every waking moment.

He wanted this woman. Her body, her soul, her heart, her mind. He wanted each piece of her that she’d ever given away and all the pieces she’d kept to herself. Sorcha was everything he’d never let himself dream about.

If she were no longer a map and the Saint was in one piece, the creature wouldn’t need her anymore. And Prince Eine wouldn’t need the Wolf if the Saint could accomplish everything Adrian could but better.

Eine had promised Adrian he could eventually withdraw from the army and endless battles. Rewards had been promised. When the Empire of the White Snake had been expanded and established, when the fighting stopped and the farthest reaches of the Empire couldn’t be reached in a matter of days or weeks, but months or years, Adrian could walk away from it all. They were getting closer to that goal each day. Then he could fade into obscurity, claim the land that had been promised, and vanish.

His mind raced with possibility. There would be nothing for Sorcha to return to, and as they’d traveled, he’d seen her faith in the Saint waver. If not exactly in the god, but in serving him.

She could come with him.

Adrian knew if he extended his hand and whispered her name, she would take it, would accept him. And they could vanish into obscurity together—forgotten at the edges of the empire. Maybe Prince Eine would let them remain forgotten.

“What happens after the Saint has returned?” he asked. “Will you be needed?”

“I don’t know.” One shoulder lifted in a halfhearted shrug.

“What if you came with me?”

The question crystallized around them.

Sorcha’s eyes flashed up, filled with an expression he couldn’t read but longed to understand.

“What do you mean?” she asked quietly.

He spoke slowly, careful with each word. “Come with me.”

Her eyes were glued to his face, pupils wide, taking everything in.

“I have land to the east, a gift from the prince for expanding his empire. It’s beyond everything. We can leave for it as soon as things are finished.”

We.

The word buzzed and vibrated in his head, shooting along each nerve. He’d never once felt the desire to say we to anyone. Not in this way, not with the idea of running away from it all and pretending the world didn’t exist if it meant this woman would accept all his darkness.

“We,” she repeated.

He didn’t nod, didn’t move, couldn’t bring himself to show any kind of emotion as he gave her space to consider the offer. If she refused, they would go on as they had been—killer and priestess. A pair of fools collecting the relics of a mythical saint so a prince might be pleased with their service and spare their lives. And when it was all over, Adrian would continue to burn cities to the ground. Would do whatever it took to forget her.

Her silence was killing him. He wanted answers, he wanted a reaction, he wanted anything from her other than that flat look she was giving him. He wanted to make as deep an impression on her as she had him. He thought he had. Sometimes, when she looked at him, he caught something else in her gaze. But he couldn’t be sure she would act on it even now. He couldn’t be sure she would trade everything she knew for a monster.

He knew what he wanted her answer to be.

“Adrian,” she began but stopped. His heart twisted. “I don’t know what will happen when all the relics come together. The things I see...”

He waited for her to say more, but she remained silent. She didn’t speak about her visions, and he hadn’t pressed for information. Each night, she woke screaming, following memories of the past or visions of the future, shivering in the dark. When they arrived tomorrow night, would she come to him then? Would she slip into his bed as easily a second night? Or was this it?

Sorcha took his face in her hands, smoothing back his hair, and curled her arm around his neck. She kissed him gently, brushing her tongue against his. Sorrow tainted her kiss, bitter on his lips. But he held her close, as if holding her might be enough to keep her with him.

“Sleep,” he urged.

She could make no promises, and he could ask for none.

She nodded, rolling over onto her side. Adrian tucked her against his body—her back to his chest, his arms around her—and listened as her breathing slowed. Dawn was only a few hours away. In the morning, they would find another relic. Soon, he would hand her over to Prince Eine, and whatever he hoped for would change.